One younger brother, one older brother, two sisters-in-law, one family friend, one family of friends (two adults and three children),and one family of the family of friends (two adults and two children).
As it turns out, it actually requires two houses to cook for one full house. Who knew?
I was recently tasked with cobbling together a list of frequently asked questions. I was supposed to answer them and to put both question and answer up for the world to see. As a team, we spent some time brainstorming and collecting all of the questions we knew to be important and frequent. The “how do I do this” questions were the easiest to generate. The ones that we did not end up asking, nor answering, where “why” questions. We did not get into the purpose, only the process.
The ones that we immediately jumped on were ones that needed the least effort. They were the easiest answers, the most concrete answers. We could literally point at the solutions on the screen. And perhaps they are the most frequent. But, they are not the most important.
Any FAQ should not be a mere list of features or facts. It should not be only about the process of clicking through steps. It should not simply outline what exists. It should reveal the questions that are most frequently under the surface. It should be about the questions that you didn’t know you have. The ones that will lead to more sophisticated and fulfilled uses.
Questions like:
How does this fit into my workflow?
How do I convince my boss to let me try something new?
Where can I go to connect with others who are trying to figure this out?
How can I trust that you and your product will be around for the long haul?
Am I ready to take the next step?
These are the types of questions that are truly frequent, even if they aren’t the most commonly emailed to support. They do not generate trouble tickets nor do they awaken great user uprisings. But, if these questions go unanswered for too long, they will become barriers to entry for many and we will lose out on their capacity to connect and collaborate.
These questions cannot be answered with a few words or with a series of screenshots. These answers will take time, they will take differentiation. The answers will not be the same for everyone, and we shouldn’t force them to be. We want each person who comes with these questions to receive something that they couldn’t have gotten elsewhere: a human connection to someone who is actively trying to help them figure it out. They need a partner, a brainstormer that is willing to understand their situation and think through all of the possibilities. In the end, the FAQ should not just be a list of questions and answers. It should be a first step in creating a relationship of trust. It should be an olive branch reaching out to anyone who would like to take hold. It should say, “You are safe, you are important. And all of the things you are thinking about, we are thinking about them too.”
Fortunately, I am not done with my little project. My list and my olive branches aren’t fully constructed yet.
It feels like nothing else. Like pursuing a truth for so long and finding your every move validated.
It feels like seeing the lifetime of your ideas every day. You see them be born, grow into their awkwardness and then retire into a comfortable home.
Every day I see the changes I am making. I am not taking meetings, I am changing the way people connect with one another. I see the difference. It is me.
And there is nothing like it.
My wife got me four beautiful lowball (Old Fashioned) glasses yesterday. They have spiral lines and large circle patterns that match our wine glasses perfectly. It was a conscious attempt to bring my love for an occasional scotch into the fold. It makes it more acceptable to pass out drinks if you feel as though you aren’t just picking glassware out of the back of the cupboard. If there is some theme, some design to the glasses, it makes it feel as though you are purposeful, as if you aren’t trying to hide what you are drinking. And I most definitely am not.
It has taken me years to finally find something that is worthy of drinking slowly and pondering with others. It has taken me just as long to finally appreciate the complexity of alcohol and a disinterest with feeling the affects of it. I would rather feel the heavy based glass in my hand and hear the good conversation around me than stumble up the stairs at the end of the night. So, sometimes I use these glasses for egg nog. Sometimes they are for a little bit of orange juice. Sometimes, the Old Fashioned glasses are the perfect amount of water to soothe my palette.
It is the heavy base that makes it for me. You know that it isn’t going anywhere and that no child passing by is going to knock it over. You know as you hold it in your hand that the words you say are extra weighty and you choose them with purpose. You use the glass as a part of your gestures because it makes your point all the more. The heavy base makes the most satisfying sound as it hits the table for the last time and the ice settles against the side of the glass. The clink of putting your glasses together to toast a friend is even more pronounced because of how comfortable it is in your hand. It isn’t overgrown or awkward as a Tom Collins or wine glass can be. You don’t have to make up new ways to hold it as you might a snifter. There is a but a single comforting way of gripping a lowball and it feels like returning home every time that you do.
This small but undeniable comfort is overly sentimental. It is taking an inanimate object and placing emotions on top of it that are clearly more meaningful to me because of the experiences I have had while the glass is in my hand. I have found deeper friends and started new endeavors. I have thought about my future and wrestled with my past. They are inconsequential for everyone else in the room, but for me they are essential.
These glasses are the prop that I would like to use to advance the plot of my story. It isn’t what is in them that matters. It is their use that beckons the story forward. They are the ones begging the question, “What’s next?” They are the ones giving courage to tackle the conversations that we must have. Not because they are magical, but because they are mine.
My wife gave me glasses yesterday. Today, I thank her for all of the conversations I will have with them.
Fruit snacks are one of the most incredible treats to a child. The molded gelatinous fruit juice in the shapes of favorite cartoon characters or objects is treasured almost beyond understanding. They are toys, they are dolls, and they are food. You can get them stuck in your teeth for hours and while you try to push them around with your tongue, you taste the grape goodness with each attempt. You can line them up on the table and watch as they dwindle down to nothing, each one flying into your mouth with joy and intrigue for the forthcoming flavor.
My favorite fruit snack was a child was called Thunder Jets. It wasn’t that I wanted to be a pilot or that I particularly couldn’t get enough of flying them through the air on the way to my mouth. It was the fact that the stealth bomber, the most secret weapon of 1980’s boyhood didn’t come in every pack. It was the one fruit snack that you searched for over any other. You wanted to know if you had been chosen by the snack gods to have the sweet taste of the elusive black airplane.
If I was so lucky as to have received a bomber, I would always put it aside and let it watch all of the other planes as they dive bombed into my mouth. I would always save the most special treat for last. I would treat it with respect and play with it longer than any sticky foodstuff should be played with before reaching its final destination. It would do barrel rolls and it would make rescue runs at the imaginary people on the table. I would show it off to my friends who had to go without the pleasure of knowing the bomber on that day. I would taunt them as I lifted it high into the air and let it drop casually into my mouth, as if it were nothing that I had the envy of everyone at the snack table.
This was why I loved Thunder Jets. I was attached to them because of their exclusive and differentiating influence. The stealth bomber represented, if for only a few minutes, the feeling of winning at a game that we all wanted to play. I came out ahead and everything was put right for just a moment. And it was delicious.
I wonder what my stealth bomber is now. I feel as though owning an iPad is no longer something that sets us apart. You aren’t really winning when everyone else has their “magical” device of choice. It isn’t a particular watch or handbag or house or car, either. None of those things really seem like you were chosen for something bigger and better. The honor of having a stealth bomber is so much more significant because it wasn’t a choice.
It’s possible that the stealth bomber of today is the “like” button. It is the validation that through merely being yourself, others will promote you. It is the fact that because you shared that link or single wonderful quip that you will be showered with praise and others will look on in envy. It is the differentiating factor between the events that have significance and those that do not. It is in knowing that everything you do will not be liked and commented on that lets you know just how valuable the moments of being “liked” are.
While the moment of opening a Thunder Jets pack and finding a bomber is gone for me forever (the RIP facebook group has already been set up), I know that I can still feel the sensation of holding up a little piece of aspiration and flying it around for the world to see as they all “like” it. I can still internalize that feeling and savor and swallow the moment until I can unwrap a new thought worthy of showing off.
The more I think about it, perhaps my whole life is a big bag of Thunder Jets now. Is that a good thing?
I don’t know that I will ever get very good at shaking hands.
Try as I might, I seem to foul it up somewhere along the way. Whether it is in the firmness of the handshake or reaching out too soon. I always seem to be the one waiting around for the reciprocation of intention. I’ve got nothing wrong with the custom, and I definitely see its importance for starting the introduction process. The issue I have is that it represents an awkward exchange of contact info, a hideously inefficient way to remember names and faces. Plus, I’m no good at the act itself.
After I leave my hand out far too long and either squeeze the new contact’s hand off or apply the wet fish experience to them, I state my name, listen for theirs and then promptly forget it. I have no context for the meeting as of this point and I don’t know who this player is at all. I find myself making a crib sheet of all of the new people that I have met in my Google Docs notes or on a napkin if I’m to be without devices at this meeting. The handshakes have meant nothing because the rest of the info was still waiting to be said.
I wrestle with the notion that we should all just put Bump on our phones and do that instead of shaking hands. But then, of course, we would lose that human touch and everything would be about your identity and importance rather than just looking someone in the eyes and knowing them as the person standing in front of you.
And yet, I look into those eyes as I meet someone for the first time and I don’t know what to think. I don’t know if you are someone I can trust or if you are someone who has ulterior motives. I don’t know where your allegiance lies or whether you are the type to reflect and write. If I shake your hand, am I saying that I am starting something that I can’t finish.? Am I saying that you are someone that I would like to become acquainted with, even though I have no frame of reference except for the fates have conspired to bring us together? Are you the type of person that I would like to hang out with after work? Are you going to provide me with a wealth of resources and ideas down the line? My mind races to come up with all of the possible scenarios of how this relationship will play out. And none of them are done justice by the unorthodox hand holding I just gave you.
I can’t refuse to shake hands either. I can’t reserve judgment and then introduce myself at the end of a lovely conversation. I tried this once with a woman at a dinner party. I had been talking with her all evening and we had shared quite a bit about ourselves. At the end of the dinner with The Royal Fondue Society, I shook her hand and told her my name. She looked at me with a mix of disgust and surprise. She said, “I know who you are.” I felt as though I had insulter her intelligence when all I wanted to confirm was that we were going to know each other for longer and that she was going to remember me beyond the evening. I botched the whole thing and I haven’t had another direct conversation with her since.
The handshake is a double edged sword. If you do it as you are supposed to, the only thing gained is saving face. You do not gain the information you need to construct an understanding of what will transpire. You certainly do not seal any deals upon just meeting someone. If you do it wrong (i.e, too late in the relationship or with too littler/not enough gusto), you may gain more understanding about the relationship or show just how little you think of the ritual, but odds are that you will be relegated to the heap of people that simply do not understand social customs and you will therefore be unusable to the vast majority of the people you meet.
So, I will shake your hand. I will leave the conclusions and context for a later time. I will make nice with the custom that haunts me. I will do this because I know that once I get beyond this silly little ritual, I can get to the good stuff. I can talk and listen and create a community around the table. Those are the things I am good at. And so if I must submit to the shaking of hands, so be it.
My father had a fantastic beard when I was born. He kept it for years, always handsomely groomed. I remember its scratchy texture against my childhood skin. It was like a character in our lives that no one really talked about but that we could depend on just to be there. And then one day, he shaved it off. He said that it was time, and he hasn’t looked back since.
On the other hand, I have never been able to grow facial hair. This flaw, while not fatal, is a source of contention whenever my wife brings up the college gotee I tried to sport. It was one of the most hideous accessories I could have tried on, and I kept it for months because my wife said that she liked it (she later confessed that she wanted to see how long I would keep it). Admitting defeat, I shaved it off in my 3rd year of College and I have never made another attempt.
Until now.
Two weeks ago, I was given an opportunity to grow a mustache to raise money for teachers in need of supplies and resources. While this is incredibly counterintuitive, here is the idea: If one person (me) makes a fool out of himself for a month, others will take pity on him and shower the projects of his choice with money. It with a project called mustaches for kids, which has to be one of the most ridiculous phrases that I have ever had to explain.
Within the rules for this program is probably the best support system for mustaches ever devised:
For the duration of four to five weeks, sweet Mustaches will be grown for the world to behold. Within that time, there will be weekly MUSTACHE CHECKPOINT DAYS. These events are not mandatory–we do, after all, believe in the honor system–but they are a great opportunity to meet and encourage your brothers-in-stache during the growing period. Representatives of Mustaches for Kids will be available at each checkpoint to discuss any and all Mustache issues.
Today is my first Mustache checkpoint day, and I definitely have a mustache issue. Mine won’t grow. It is stuck at half stubble. The rest of my face has grown twice what my upper lip has. I look like a 7th grader who doesn’t know that it is uncool to leave those hairs untidy. In fact, I probably look exactly like I did in 7th grade before I got my first mach 3 in the mail with a tester amount of shaving cream.
So, at this point I would like to direct the issue to my mustache:
Why? Why will you not grow? Why do you haunt my upper lip as if you alone are in control of my appearance. Why do you make it so I have to walk around self-conscious of my mouth at all hours of the day? Why do I subconsciously play with you only to find that my follicles hurt after a few minutes? Is it not enough that I waited years to attempt such a feat? Is it not enough that I watched my father grow a full beard without trouble? You are taunting me now. You are going out of your way to stick out but not grow. I think that each of your mocking hair angles is preposterous. You are a disgrace. I am only giving you another 3 weeks, and if you don’t shape up in that time I will shave you off and never think twice about it.
For verification, here is the mustache now:
If you would like to take part in giving this weak attempt at facial hair some meaning, would you please go to our Donor’s choose page and give some money to the deserving teachers there. Otherwise, all of this humiliation and self-doubt will be for naught.
I used to walk a mile and a half each night with my wife no matter what the weather. We were like the postal service. We would bundle up and just walk as fast as we could. We wouldn’t run because it was supposedly better for us. At least that is what we told ourselves. When we got a dog, we walked with him. When his feet got too cold on a few select nights we would pick him up and carry him along the way. We walked and talked every day, and it was wonderful.
On one such night in 2004, I told her that I was starting a blog.
For the rest of the walk she proceded to tell me (after a rather lengthy explanation of what a blog was) that no one was ever going to read such a thing. Every time that I got out the computer to write, she would ask if I was blarbing again. I told her that I was and I continued to write.
I’m glad that I did.
Today I wrote my first blog post as a part of my job. I am now writing and communicating for a living. I am now taking screenshots and framing ideas for a living. This is something that simply boggles my mind. I went from blarbing six years ago to coming up with new ideas and writing them out for a global audience on a daily basis.
So, when your husband comes to you with an idea for a new platform for communication and creation, don’t mock him. Tell him to blarb and twooter and fakebook and blinkin and skybe. Tell him to do the things that he is passionate about because odds are, if he gets good at it, someone will pay him for it.
One of my earliest memories of the ocean was with my grandparents. I was on a trip to an Elder-hostel with my brother and we stopped by the beach to swim and play in the sand. Up until this point, I don’t remember having a particular aversion to sand or the beach.
The salt water was completely unexpected. I knew that the ocean was salt water. I wasn’t completely uninformed. But, I expected it to be along the lines of the only ratio I knew up until that point: the kosher salt and water that my grandfather mixed up for his passover ceremony. It was nothing like that. One gulp and I was done. I headed back to the beach.
On our way to the beach, my grandparents had gotten us long sticks of rock candy. I was a fan of anything with that much sugar and so I started working on it almost immediately. It was a big enough piece, though, that I had to put it aside when I went in the water. I left it on the towel and wrapped it up for safe keeping. It did not keep safe. Somehow, sand made its way into the towel and onto my candy. I was devastated upon my return. I tried to eat around the sand but it kept on getting in my mouth. I wasn’t going to give up on my candy so quickly, so I worked with alternating sucking on the candy and spitting out the sand. It was a terrible idea. Before long, I felt sick from having chewed on sand and feeling it grind in my teeth.
By the time that we left, my aversion to swimming in the ocean, eating rock candy, or playing in the sand was so acute that I kept on wiping myself and the car seat down for any possible grains of sand that had made their way through my rigorous scrubbing session just outside of the car. I wanted nothing to do with sand for the rest of the trip, and when I saw the pool at our final destination, I practically hugged the water.
I recognize that sand is beautiful. I recognize the incredible sensation of walking along wet sand and dipping your toes in it and squishing them around. I also recognize that it is an irritent, that clams have to make enormous coverings for a single grain if it comes in contact with their soft flesh. The irritent is so absolute for me that I have a hard time watching my children sit down in the bathing suits and get sand into them. It is ruined for me.
It was the fact that it was my first experience that made it so potent. If I would have received some instruction about rock candy and sand or gotten a lesson in ocean swimming prior to taking a dip, I think I could have had a better time. But as it was, my first day of beach living was a disaster of childhood proportions. And it has made me much more cautious about first time experiences since.
Every time that I try a new product or idea out, I feel like I might be putting sand in my mouth. I carefully dip my toes in the water and then I ease in. I am aware that at any moment, I could be grinding it against my teeth, feeling the caustic squeak of unprocessed glass. And most of the time, my first experience is pretty grand. I have realizations for how to use the idea and I make it work for me. Quite often, it becomes something that I like and use frequently.
But, there are a few times that I get that use something or think through a possibility that turns me off to it for the rest of its existence. I may still be faced with it on occasion or even daily, but I never lose that taste. Here are some of the things that are sand in my mouth:
When someone is dead, they are dead to everyone. While this is crass, it is nonetheless true. It is something that I have accepted, even if it is hard to imagine. I make believe that I can fill the vacancy that others leave behind with pictures and memories and stories. I try to convince myself that the relationships are still exist on some plane, even if they are more one sided than they used to be. And yet, their absence continues to creep in even as I remember the best parts of my life with them. I am forced to acknowledge the loss, just as everyone must. It is healthy and right.
It is not the same with an idea.
Even if I have declared an idea to be dead and gone through all of the stages of grief, it will still continue on for some. It may even thrive with others at the helm. The death of an idea is not universal. We do not all have to simultaneously agree to let go. And the worst part of this is that sometimes even if we have proclaimed something to be dead it may iterate and come back to us as something once again worthy of our time. With enough support, an idea can come back from the dead with ease.
When it does, we have a choice. We can either reconsider the idea and work with it anew or we can continue to convince ourselves of its death. We can call it a death knell or final acts of desperation. But, we can only do that for so long. An idea that continues to present itself must be face head on. It must be brought back into the fold and given its rightful place among our daily workflows.
I left Instant Messages for dead. I left them in high school. I left them with AOL instant messenger. I left the instant communication of text when I started blogging. I left the transient communication of messages when everything on Twitter started getting chronicled and became searchable. I left Skype when I could embed video conferencing anywhere and it was no longer a novelty. I left the simple back and forth conversation along the side of the road. I thought everyone had too. I thought that everyone else had grown up with me. They had come forward and agreed that official communication would be the way that business is done. Years of seeing nothing in the way of instant gratification and collaboration had convinced me that I was right to hold a funeral for the IM.
Now though, I am being forced to reconsider. I have participated in no fewer than a few hundred messages per day for the last two weeks. If I want to engage, I must reconsider the Instant Message as having value. I must exhume my expectations for what communication looks like. I must reassess just how fast things can move. And I have.
This idea seems trivial. It isn’t.
I had buried what was possible because of what I saw all around. Because of those who denied the existence of continuous access to colleagues and relationships, I denied it too. It took a new group of people who saw the leaving and breathing ideal of constant contact as a virtue. I have now reconsidered the IM.
I am now back in my basement in high school, talking with my friends about what I find important. It just so happens that what I find important now is more than music and Saturday night.