Coming to a small screen near me

I hate people so glued to their mobile devices that they can’t go the space of one 60-minute presentation without messing with it. But I’m afraid that something has come over me at the Grace HopperCelebration of Women in Computing.

That chick tapping furiously during the keynote presentations? That’s me, live-tweeting what Fei-Fei Li or Mercedes Soria or Melinda Gates is saying. That’s also me in panel discussions live-tweeting tidbits of the conversation. That’s even me at the two breakfast meetings I went to yesterday morning, live-tweeting. (Yeah—I had two company-sponsored breakfasts, which means I’m saving my employer hotel/convention center prices for meals. This is also why I’ve signed up for every event that offers food. They can pay for my transportation.)

(As an aside, I once said to my manager that, as far as incentives go, I would kill relatives for a week’s vacation—although probably not close ones. Some time later I mentioned in passing that I’d live-tweeted an event I’d gone to, and he seemed surprised by that. I asked him why he accepted without question that I’d commit homicide, but was taken aback that I know how to tweet. He did not have a real answer to that.)

In my defense, I am not checking email, commenting on Facebook or playing Candy Crush Saga (is that what it’s called?). I’m only tweeting out the words of wisdom I’m hearing. That—along with volunteering to be a speed mentor at a session yesterday—is my way of paying some of the wealth of GHC17 forward.

At least I’ve not progressed to walking around inside and out with my nose buried in the device. So there’s that.

Hopping good time

As I write this post, I’ve spent more than 12 hours soaking up keynotes, panel discussions and workshops on various issues around women in tech, chatted with reps of organizations ranging from The Walt Disney Company to the Federal Reserve, evangelized an idea for gender diversity certifications and been to parties thrown by recruiting organizations from Cisco, Twitter, Facebook, EA and the Fed.

I have picked up surprisingly little swag, considering that this is one of the major features of the Grace Hopper Celebration of Women in Computing touted by everyone who’s ever been to one of these. So far, only one tee-shirt, a couple of totes, a mobile device charger and a few pens.

However, I’ve clocked more than 13K steps on my pedometer, and expect that I’ll only make it through the week by applications of Lidoderm patches and heavy doses of ibuprofen.

Tomorrow I have two breakfasts, a speed mentoring session, a couple of afternoon things, and six recruiter parties in the evening. One of them requires me to bluff my way through “Game of Thrones”. My plan is to wave my cocktail around and intone, “I drink, and I know things.” If pressed for how I feel about [plot point X] I’ll just grimace and say, “Intense.”

I expect someone will jump in to take over the conversation.

Broken hearted and gliding over Mulholland

After some confusion in the initial reports, it’s been confirmed that singer Tom Petty died on Monday, following a cardiac arrest. He was 66.

I don’t quite know what to say; Petty was one of my go-to rockers for so long.

Everyone has their favorites from him. “I Won’t Back Down” seems to be a popular choice, and of course it could be the hymn of the Resistance these days.

But I’ve got two different picks. “Refugee” is one I periodically turn to as a reminder that I don’t have to…well, you know.

There are many types of refugees, after all.

But my personal anthem is “Free Fallin’”.

There’s just something about that Valley vibe that takes me home every time.

Nonetheless, 2017, I am sick to death of you.

Writing on the door

I may not have written about it, but there’s something that’s puzzled me about my female colleagues. I need to preface this by noting that this is an employee set of highly educated (my guess is that—while there are a few people without a bachelor’s degree, there are so many with masters’ and doctoral degrees in rigorous scientific disciplines,  the average number of years of schooling would probably be around 17 years), and I’d have thought that basic hygiene practices would have gone without saying.

However, I’d be wrong, because every once in a while, I’ll be in one of the stalls in the ladies’ loo and I’ll hear the toilet in another stall flush, the door open…and then the exit door open. Meaning: no washing of hands.

I’d find this a little creepy at a dive bar at 11pm on a Saturday. In a building full of recovering research scientists it just leaves me gobsmacked.

However, it turns out there’s more. Because last week I began noticing used paper towels tossed on the floor—around the room, not even near the rubbish bin, where someone might have chucked them on her way out without noticing she’d missed. And, also: scraps of toilet paper.

Remember: not a dive bar on a Saturday, a professional workplace full of women who understand the relationship between litter and disease.

Well, interestingly, someone decided to Take Action, because when I went in yesterday morning, I found this message taped to the door of each stall:

Personally, I’d imagine that anyone who has to be asked not to trash the place probably isn’t going to pay any attention to the request, but I shall keep you apprised if this does the trick. 

Gratitude Monday: good neighbors

It doesn’t take a lot to keep me amused; toss out some birdseed and I’ll watch the wildlife for hours. Especially as they forage on the ground. Viz:

It’s not just the birds, either. Although I can do without the squirrels, I enjoy some of the other furry critters. Like the little chipmunk that occasionally shows up:

There’s one guy I’m not sure of. I was looking out one afternoon at a squirrel and thought, “Gee, that guy’s got problems. Something happened to his tail.”

Only it turned out to be a wood rat.

It’ll be very interesting to see which feathered and furred friends winter over here, lured by my largesse. But I’m grateful for them all.

Except the squirrels. Pretty much.