Category: Life as I know it

The Kids May Just Be Okay

by Allie P., posted in Life as I know it
Header image with a pencil and a background that says senior. Text reads as The Kids May Be Okay

The blank page is a scary thing. When I first started this blog, I wasn’t sure what I wanted to say. I only knew there were words in me and that limiting myself to writing only sales slicks and technical process workflows wasn’t enough. As the saying goes, I had an itch to scratch. But like a bug bite on your back you just can’t reach, I struggled to find relief.

The general advice then was to start by writing what you know. Okay, that’s all well and good, but I doubted my stories about international conference calls gone long over what epoxy should be used in production weren’t exactly going to help me gain an audience. At least, they weren’t likely to gain an audience that would also enjoy reading my fiction.

It turned then instead to the only other thing that I could think of that I, alone, was uniquely qualified to write about—my kids. Did I just use an em dash there? Why yes, I did. Guess what, human writers use them too and have used them for yeeeeeaaaaarrrrrsss. Not just AIs. But I digress…

My earliest posts were about my eldest child’s first days of day care and primary school. I dubbed him Kiddo then and have referred to him as such on this site ever since. However, as he started to grow and gain more independence, I cut back on his stories—not because I loved him any less or was any less proud of him, but because I recognized that his stories were no longer mine to tell. They were his own. And so I pivoted to more content focused on the actual business of writing.

Some would say that pivot allowed me to provide more focused, reader-facing value. This is all well and good from a content marketing and discovery perspective (some might even say it was a critical SEO strategy for business success), but it turns out that unlike the characters in my book, my kid didn’t stop growing just because I stopped writing about him. Go figure.

Kiddo sent out his first college application.

I wasn’t prepared for the emotional hit from that simple act.

A friend of mine in the field of behavioral science introduced me to the concepts of the arrival and destination fallacies in our talks on perfectionism and happiness. She’s called me out in the past when I would make grand statements like, “I’ll start working out more once the kids are out of the house” after bemoaning my current weight. Statements like that made it seem as if I was somehow trapped by these not-so-small-anymore humans. Admittedly, I could have far worse captors, but eventually, I had to admit they weren’t holding me back. They were just my latest excuse.

The person holding me back has almost always been me.

I, in many ways, am the source of my own complaints, but I also like to think by recognizing what I am, I am also a constant source of progress.

During the peak of the pandemic, I’d become focused on doing what a “good mom should.” I grew accustomed to waiting life out and to sacrifice. Afterward, as our lives opened back up, I convinced myself I needed to compensate for all the things these offspring of mine missed out on (whether they asked for it or not). I didn’t realize what was happening at the time. It was likely just a series of small chips here and there. However, five-ish years later, it has dawned on me that somehow, some way, a large chunk of the person I once was had gone missing (but apparently not the chunk of person around my waist).

I told myself, this simply would not do. Since that conversation, I consciously made an effort to do the things I wanted to do as a person rather than as a mom. It’s been a year or so. This meant I stopped waiting for “better” timing to do the things I enjoy. I made plans with friends. I went out to dinner on a school night. And if these excursions resulted in the kids having to make their own dinners or find their own rides from A to B every now and then, so be it. They were old enough now to handle it, and if I was being honest with myself, had been for some time.

More importantly, I stopped allowing myself to feel guilty about it. They adapted without understanding and without complaint. To be honest, their lack of reaction stung a bit at first. Did they not miss me? Was what I’d done for them over the years truly ‘invisible work?’ The thoughts gave me pause, but I realized that those thoughts were just the latest offering from my internal excuse-making machine. Putting the self-doubts to the side, it was plain to see that by pulling back, I’d actually given them more. I’d given them the tools to become more capable people. I’d given them more responsibility. I’d demonstrated my trust in them and now they were thriving.

You might think, then, after this warm fuzzy of a realization, I would be more emotionally prepared to accept this recent milestone—Kiddo’s latest step toward discovering his own independent self. Yeah, I thought I would be too. Instead, all I can think of is his face turning to us with a smile as he boarded the school bus that first time. I can still picture his little wave and feel my heart once again in my throat as the bus drove away.

It has made me realize that while I may have wandered off for a while, if given the choice, I would have done it all the same.

There is a quote attributed to Robin Sharma that goes like this, “Getting lost along your path is a part of finding the path you are meant to be on,” and another from Tricia Goyer, who stated, “I suppose sometimes it takes getting lost to enjoy the joy of being found.”

I am proud of the young men who, sooner than I might like, will be leaving the nest, but I am proud of myself too. I may not be the person I was once, but I filled that missing chunk with memories rather than regrets. Apparently, I’m still growing up. And maybe, just maybe, the kids are going to be okay.

The Bigger Question: An AI, But Not AI Story

by Allie P., posted in Life as I know it

Mom sat on the couch across the room from me. A mug filled with coffee rested on the windowsill next to her as she regaled me with the latest news. Our most recent addition, a full-sized puppy—part Tasmanian devil, part wanna-be throw-blanket, had decided mom was no longer interesting. She’d taken herself and her chew toy elsewhere. But she’d be back. She’d always be back…

Watching for the inevitable return of the destruct-o-mutt out of the corner of my eye while mom talked has become a bit of a sport in and of itself over the last several months. Sure, the dog is a ball of cuteness, but if one didn’t pay attention to what was going on in the other room, if you were just a second too slow to adjust your position or to take action—well, you might just find yourself with a steaming puddle of coffee in your lap when she came back at full sprint.

Mom leaned forward. “So, I’ve been hearing a lot about AI… Should I be worried?”

There’s a story about Joe Kennedy, the father of the future president, and an encounter with a shoeshine boy. Supposedly, this happened back in 1929. I’m reminded of this story for no particular reason, but thought I’d share it anyway. Anyway, the story goes that almost 100 years ago, the stock market was going crazy. Joe had already been making money in the market for a while by then, but now so was everyone else. Everyone had opinions on potential trades and investments—many based only on secondhand information—including the lowly shoeshine kid.

One day, Joe goes to get his footwear cleaned up. While sitting on the bench, the boy offered up some stock tips.

It was likely just the kid’s way of making conversation in an attempt to earn an extra tip for his trouble. He probably thought nothing of it. However, Joe viewed the conversation differently. From his perspective, when kids who’d likely never seen the inside of a boardroom started to believe they knew enough about the markets to offer financial advice to random people they just met off the street, dumb, reckless decisions were bound to happen.

Joe took it as a sign. At a time when everyone else was betting on Wall Street’s continued boom, Joe took the opposite approach. He bet the other way. He took his money out. As a result, his money stayed safely in his pockets when the bubble finally burst. His family thrived through the Great Depression and is now in the various positions they serve today.

Interpret the Kennedy shoeshine story however you see fit, but back to mine…

“You want to know if I think AIs could kill us?”

She nodded. It’s worth noting that no one wanted my opinion about AIs and killer robots while Battlestar Galactica was on.

I’ll spare you the direct quotes, but the short answer is yes, I do believe these systems have the capability to inflict great harm. I believe this in the same way that I believe the destruct-o-mutt could break a mug and scald my lap with hot coffee. My dog loves to run. To jump. To be all up in your personal space. I recognize she has powerful jaws and an unstoppable wall of muscles that, once launched at you, just don’t quit. She’s a force to be reckoned with.

And yet…

It comes down to nature vs. nurture, opportunity vs. intent, program vs. programmer. My girl is the wussiest fur baby you’ve ever met. She’s afraid of fly swatters and things that go ‘pop!’ We’ve had to move her food dish around because the corner of the kitchen suddenly spooked her. She cowers in fear at the sound of these four letters: “B,” “A,” “T,” “H,” and high-tails it out of the room if she so much as gets a glance of the nail trimmers. The question, therefore, isn’t whether I believe she is capable of causing destruction—she is; it’s more like: do I believe causing full-scale destruction is the only option?

The answer to that second question is a resounding no. I can write this with great confidence. I love my dog. She’s a menace to society, sure, but she’s my menace. I recognize that she’s like Jessica Rabbit. She’s not intrinsically bad; she’s just drawn that way.

An AI generated picture of a white and brown mixed breed dog that is standing beside an incident sign. The dog is wearing a superdog costume on and there are torn up toys all over the floor
Image generated by AI

My goofy girl is intelligent and yet childlike in her innocence and eager to please. This combination has made her highly trainable (to an extent). It took her a few months, but she’s figured out the rules of our household and contributes in her own way. She understands a basic command (whether she listens to them every time is another story). She helps us stay healthier by keeping us active; she brings us joy and provides a needed snuggle or a bit of comical relief. She’s my office assistant and a sweet and loving companion. In short, she makes our lives easier or more difficult depending on the angle you look at it from, but always better by being a part of them.

A day without her knocking something over, slipping out of the gate, or ripping up one of her toys is never guaranteed, but I am not living in fear of what she might do. Why? Because I’ve made it a point to understand her. I’ve made it a point to anticipate how she’ll react, to establish boundaries and guardrails, and to do my best to limit her exposure to potentially dangerous environments. I check the gate latch. I put her on a leash on walks. I’ve listened to experts. I’ve been a responsible pet parent. I’ve been the adult in the room.

We need to listen to those raising the alarm. They know what these tools can do better than anyone. They saw it. They understand what’s going on behind the scenes. They trained these systems firsthand.

We’ve given these software systems access to our financial records and healthcare information. We’ve asked the tools to map out entire genetic sequences—they now have better access to the data about what makes us tick than we do. We’ve given autonomous software control of traffic lights and over our food storage. So the question isn’t: can AIs wreak irrevocable havoc on the human race? The question is: what can we do to mitigate this potential outcome? And that’s a decidedly more complicated answer.

I guess it just comes down to whether or not we are willing to be the adult in the room about it.

Senior dog with tongue partially extended. Dog appears happy

You’re Still With Us – A Dog Letter

by Allie P., posted in Life as I know it, Personal Favorites

At the time of this writing, you’re still with us. You’re sleepier than you were before, which is somewhat hard to believe, and quieter too, but you are just as sweet. It’s funny to think of how we’ve grown together and what you’ve helped me accomplish. Considering how often we called you lazy, thinking back to those early years, it is impressive how much we experienced together.

Remember how you broke through the fence to explore the neighborhood. Not once, but multiple times no matter how we tried to fix it? How you’d disappear into the woods behind our house only to show up later on someone else’s porch? But how you would stop in your tracks if out on a walk and run back home if you recognized your dad’s truck. How our lives have changed.

In those early years, do you recall how you’d always find someone else to snuggle with other than me if given the option? You’re by my side, now, like there’s no place you’d rather be. There’s no place I’d rather you be either.

I know I wasn’t your person when we first brought you home. You made it clear how much you preferred your boys and oh, how your boys loved you. Do you remember the first time they stayed away overnight; how you spent the evening on the stairs looking out the window waiting to spot them coming home to you? Do you remember how you paced in their rooms sure that they must just be hiding from you? If you could just catch their scent, there wasn’t a doubt in your mind that they would jump out to give you a hug, the way they always did.

I do.

And here we are, faced with the knowledge that when this letter is made public, the reverse will be true. It will be us missing you.

It’s a terribly short time now, and yet, it’s been terrible long months coming.

To think, it all started with a bump on your cheek and the words, “mom, I think she’s been stung by a bee,” though it was January and bees far from flying. How that evil bump grew and grew while the ice and snow melted away as if once spotted it consciously went on the offensive.

There were days I wasn’t sure we’d even have time to be seen by the doctor. But you kept on. You were a rescue, a stray, a survivor. You were always good at finding a way forward, even in the toughest conditions.

Remember that time we attempted to keep you in a crate while on vacation and you bent the bars until the door was open? I do.

Remember how you figured out how to open the wooden shutters so you could see the street? I do.

Remember how you could convince your dad you could do no wrong simply by wagging your tail though you’d brought in mud from a hole dug in the yard? I do.

I’ve been keeping a running list of the things you love ever since your diagnosis. There was swimming and sunning. Remember the times we went to the beach and how you’d never fail to steal my chair. There were car rides and cuddles next to your brother in bed at night. You could never have enough blankets and pillows. Nor would you ever let us forget to give you the collection of treats at the end of a good day we affectionately referred to as your value pack.

I wish this list would never end. I wish there was more I could do.

We knew the prognosis was grim from the start, but we never once considered not trying, and for a while it seemed effective. But the treatment made you tired and unsteady on your feet. You were still with us, but it was no longer safe to allow you to sleep on the bed with the boy. I saw how you flinched at anything other than a gentle touch. And so your sleeping arrangement changed. There was no more rough-housing, no more tough play. Cuddles were crossed off the list–or at least strictly limited.

I hated that you didn’t seem to mind. To be fair, I’ve hated every part of this. But I’ve never hated one minute extra we’ve spent with you.

Car rides were the next passion to go. I don’t blame you. Your appointments were an all day, every other week event. We’d have to battle through traffic to get across town, only for you to wake up sore and very disoriented. Who would have enjoyed car rides after that? Even with the window open. It made me start to wonder, was it even worth it?

But then you’d smile a post-op drunken smile, come to my side, and I know I’d do it all again.

Remember how we celebrated the day of your last round of radiation with special treats, which I had to steam to soften enough for you to eat? You’d lost interest in the others. It was a far cry from how you used to run and jump to break sticks, or how you could tear up even the most “indestructible” chew. Oh, the damage you could do. You had a gift for destruction, but a gentleness too. You were always calm around children, allowing them to approach you first. You never lunged at anything but a squirrel, except on the rare occasion when food was involved.

That’s okay. I accepted this love for your daily indulgence had to be scratched off the list too. And so, we did our best find a way to keep up your appetite in spite of it all.

But then your teeth started chattering again in a way that had nothing to do the outside temperature. We learned the radiation had damaged the bone and there was little more than we could do. We were given more pills. You dealt with more challenges. Whatever it took. As long as you were still here with us, we were still here with you.

The weather warmed and we looked forward to swimming season. We brought your favorite floating toys out and to your credit, you chased after them once, but have not picked them up again. Remember that time at the lake, you wouldn’t stop fetching though the rest of us had long lost interest? I do.

It got warmer. You chose to stay in the shade rather than stake your claim on a deck cushion. A first. Another item crossed off the list.

Only during this time you weren’t the only one in the shadows. The lump returned, this time deeper in your throat and shoulder, where it couldn’t be as easily detected and we were finally forced to voice the truth we all knew, but no one wanted to say out loud. The time had come to address the one thing on the list of your loves which we’d never crossed out–your love for us and our love for you.

It hurts so very much, this mercy we’ve chosen. I know that you won’t understand, though there are times when you’ve looked at me with those big brown eyes and quivering lip, and I wonder if you do.

I worry that we held on too long. I wish we could have held on longer. The coming days, weeks, months will hurt for us. At least they will no longer hurt for you.

You will always be daddy’s princess. You are the boys’ comfort and source of pride. You know that, but know you will always be mommy’s sweet girl too, even if you’re also the toughest, most stubborn girl I’ve ever known. You’re still with us, if only in our hearts and memories, forever.

We love you, T.

black and white photo of a senior dog sleeping on a pillow and blanket
I’m sorry, I never did give you enough pillows

Tent For Seven: Totally Not A Book Review

by Allie P., posted in Indie book promotion, Life as I know it, Product, Service, and Software Reviews

Amazon has rules. Rules about who can and cannot post a review. Rules about what you, as an author, can and cannot say about another author’s book in your review—unless you don’t mind getting all your reviews taken down. The appeal process isn’t exactly biased toward forgiveness either. So when I say this post is not a review, believe me.

But I want to talk about this book, and more importantly the authors behind it anyway.

Book cover for Tent For Seven featuring a tent, mountains, fire, and a smiling bear.

Full disclosure, the reason I cannot post an official review about Tent For Seven: A Camping Adventure Gone South Out West by Marty Ohlhaut and Grace Ly is because I am biased as heck. Their family is part of the village that raised me. Considering they were a family of seven at the time (they’ve since multiplied), one could say they were a large part of the village that raised me. I’m also biased, in part, because I knew the story behind the book before it was published, or at least, I thought I did.

Growing up, Marty Ohlhaut was Grace’s dad. He still is, but what I mean is I viewed him in the same way I viewed pretty much every one of my mom and stepdad’s friends—a grown-up. He was funny (also still is) but in the back of your mind you always knew that all it would take was one ill-thought-out leap down their sloped backyard, a broken planter, or similar misstep to get sent home with a call to your mother. In my case, those calls could result in a grounding (depending on the infraction) and a bye bye to my social life.

In other words, I didn’t know him outside of his parental persona. I certainly never guessed he was winging life as much as I was (am). The only hint I ever had of the person behind the parent was the time we were trying to make cookies and realized we needed maple syrup for the recipe, which we didn’t have. No problem, we’d go down the street and ask the neighbors for some.

The Ohlhaut children were happy enough to help (cookies were on the line!). They thought they had some extra syrup… somewhere. Where was it? Oh yes. Eventually, they handed us a bottle of brown liquid. Crisis averted! Cookies were in our future once again. Only, it turned out that bottle wasn’t filled with maple syrup at all. It was their father’s whiskey, cleverly disguised.

Our mistake was caught in time and no whiskey was wasted on children’s taste buds. We got a good laugh out of it, and I am sure that Mr. Ohlhaut gained a valuable life lesson from his children’s unquestioning generosity while also learning more about proper storage techniques for potent potables.

who needs a tent when a 1998 Coleman Mesa is available for rent?

Which brings me back to his book. If you have ever camped before (not glamped as I prefer to do, especially as I’ve grown older—actually camped) chances are you are already well aware that things often go sideways in spite of the best of planning.

Now imagine everything going wrong, in another country, without access to a cell phone, or really any civilization, for days. I can sense you shuddering from here. I know I did when I started reading their account.

Were you to cut your losses, pack it in, and go home while vowing to never step foot in the great outdoors again, no one would blame you. Instead, they pressed on, bolstered by the strength of their family. I say “they pressed on,” because while the book is Mr. Ohlhaut’s perspective, it is clear throughout the pages how much his wife’s support and his children’s positivity played a critical role in the decision to continue forward, no matter how much he tries to convince you it was purely about the logistics or finances.

This decision to keep traveling also puts them in the path of various people whose timely appearances will make you wonder how much can a person reasonably brush off as mere coincidence. As a result, even if I didn’t know the backstory, I would still highly recommend this humorous page-turner for anyone who enjoys inspirational, family-focused non-fiction, provided you are not triggered by bears or outdoor trauma.

Happy Camping!

Why AI Chatbots Won’t Help You Become a Thought Leader (Or Sell More)

by Allie P., posted in General Tips and Tricks, Life as I know it, Writing and Publishing Tips

Artificially intelligent (AI)-powered chatbot software programs like Open.AI’s ChatGPT, Microsoft’s Bing AI, and Google’s Bard all offer the promise of a quick and easy way to generate content. This might be great if your goal is simply to churn out as much content as you can hoping something might stick or go viral, but these platforms are not without flaws that can hurt you more than help if your goal is to become a trusted expert on a topic.

1. Chatbots Don’t Lead, They Follow

Chatbots aren’t new technology, but until recently worked best as a customer service widget embedded into company websites. Once embedded, they worked by identifying keywords in a user’s query and then sending a pre-programmed response from a list of options associated with that keyword.

For example, when I tried to report an exposed fiber optics box to my local internet provider, I used the phrase ‘exposed wire,’ in my chat. This phrase triggered the chatbot to respond with a message that included the phone number for the tech support team responsible for managing unburied cable requests. If I had used the word ‘account,’ ‘bill’ or ‘payment’ in my query, I most likely would have gotten the number for the billing department.

AI chatbots essentially work much the same way, but instead of using a localized look-up table, they pull information from multiple sites. Their more advanced language processing capability also allows them to return a summarized response that is more customized to the query than relying on a message bank. That said, while their functionality is leaps and bounds better than the robotic interactions of old, they aren’t truly artificially intelligent.

At least they aren’t… yet.

In short, chatbots aren’t coming up with new ideas [yet]. Rather, they are summarizing ideas already out in the public domain. Sure, they can help you research a topic, but relying on them entirely won’t make you a thought leader, it will make you a thought follower.

2. Use of Chatbots Risks Trust & Credibility

Chatbots can automate tasks, help you solve equations, and outline the steps involved in a process, but chatbots don’t have first-hand experience overcoming adversity or identifying life hacks through trial and error. Most haven’t launched a multi-million dollar enterprise from their dorm room either.

This lack of first-hand experience makes it difficult, if not impossible, for the average chatbot to differentiate what is right versus what is simply popular belief. This is especially true when a chatbot is asked to report on topics related to emerging trends, modern science, or cutting-edge technology–all of which are central to positioning yourself as a thought leader on a topic.

Imagine if chatbots were around in the eighteen hundreds. If you were to ask how do I cure a sore throat, prevent a seizure, or treat a mental illness? a chatbot would recommend leeching, as that was one of the more well-known remedies for all those ailments. It likely would not include arguments made by less renowned physicians, as it wouldn’t understand their context or their merit. As a result, better, more effective treatments might never have gained traction—much to society’s detriment.

When you use a chatbot to generate your content, you are putting yourself at risk of potentially promoting out-of-date, harmful, or worse–completely false information. This can hurt your chances of gaining readers’ trust in your content in the future.

3. Chatbots Hurt Your Memorability

The natural language processing used by AI-powered chatbots, is, at its core, software developed around how the average person communicates in any given language. The important word here is ‘average.’ This means its responses, by default, are essentially written in a tone that can be described as the vanilla ice cream of the linguistic world.

You can ask a chatbot to provide a story in the voice of Ernest Hemingway or Thomas Wolfe. You might even ask a chatbot to write an article in the voice of Steve Jobs. The vast library of content written by and about these people makes it possible for the chatbot to provide a response that uses their favored word choices or sentence structures. However, most of us don’t have the same volume of work for chatbots to pull from as a reference point.

Unfortunately, it is hard to stand out when your articles provide generic takeaways. It’s also less memorable without a distinct voice. To be remembered, or more importantly, perceived as someone worth listening to, you need your personality to shine through and include anecdotes or examples that showcase your unique thoughts or expertise.

4. AI-Generated Content Impacts Your Organic Reach

Search engines, like Google, determine how high your article appears in their results based on proprietary algorithms. In Google’s case, it’s generally accepted that an article is more likely to rank if it possesses what Google deems to be expertise, authority, and trustworthiness or E-A-T.

Including insights that only you would know is a great signal that you have subject matter expertise. If you create a piece that offers unique value readers aren’t likely to find elsewhere, they’re more likely to link to your article. Links to your article signal that you are an authority on the subject.

Lastly, whether it’s intentional or not, repurposing someone else’s ideas without their consent or repeating out-of-date, unproven, or false information, can get your content flagged with a take-down notice. If not corrected, it can even open you up for legal issues. Unsurprisingly, this also sends a signal to readers and search engines that you aren’t a trustworthy source, which can result in your content getting pushed to the very bottom of search results.

We’re still in the relatively early stages of machine learning and AI-powered technology. It is easy to get caught up in their potential and exciting to speculate on how these tools might be able to revolutionize daily tasks. However, in terms of publishing, as it stands today, the risks prove the old adage:

Just because you can do something, doesn’t necessarily mean you should.