Transforming the world of Information with Information

I work with data. A table, a column, an attribute, metadata. How everything is connected to each other. Objects. Classes. Attributes. Primary Keys. Foreign Keys. Surrogate Keys. Dependencies.

One of my ultimate favorite people is Hans Rosling. Hans’ talk about The World’s population growth totally changed how I think about and look at the future. I now know to be hopeful and to look a little deeper before I go bonkers bananas in fear.

If a customer buys this product, would they really buy this other product? Quite similar but different?

I work with transforming one piece of data into information, combining pieces of information to create intelligence that becomes a basis for a decision. An action. This customer number, does it belong to a real person? Does this real person shop in the mornings or in the mornings? Do they like red or blue?

My mind runs wild with it sometimes. That old lady, customer number xxxxx, and the address yyyy, that calls Customer Service every Wednesday afternoon, does she live alone? Is she OK?

I would like to move on to combining and utilizing more data to solve more of the world’s challenges. To help. To solve. To open doors. To close doors. To reach out.

I believe that intelligence based on information, unaltered, non-manipulated, non-populist information is almost always the only way to understand the world. The only way to judge the world. The only way to be fair and demand fairness for others that otherwise wouldn’t have a chance.

When you meet that old woman in Libya many years after the war, ask her about her life before you write it for her. Let her tell it several times. Over time. Let her grandchildren tell about her. Several grandchildren. Several times. Several angles of the same event.

Go read about it. Newspaper clips. Books written by survivors. Photographs taken by daring Libyan journalist who dare.

Create a database. An excel sheet. A note book. Research. Compare the answers from each person you have spoken to. All that is said in the newspapers. What the photographs show and represent.

Then, only then can we tell other people’s stories honestly, respectfully & graciously. In a way that may alter the future.

 

Shopping Blues Caused by the Met Gala

The ways we torture ourselves are numerous.

Like when you buy that chocolate bar and place it on the dining table.staring at you. Mocking you. Calling your name while you sleep. Whispering how good it tastes.

“I will not eat the whole of that in one go!” You tell yourself before you go bananas bonkers on the chocolate bar in the middle of the night when no one is watching..

Or when you watch the angels, feel guilty because you are a feminist jaa, I am totally projecting! and swear to stop objectifying women. Until next year because you are totally hooked.

So, I watched the Met gala and had all these awful wonderful exhilarating depressing feels.

Should I get a new pair of sandals? You know, like Rihanna’s?

Should I get a new gala dress? For that gala I am invited to in 2031 when I am rich & famous? As if that would ever happen to me who cannot save if life depended on it.

Should I or should I?

So I went shopping today. For whatever.

While I shopped, I wrote this in my phone: Shouldn’t shopping effing make me temporarily happy?

You were sad, deeply miserable, before I had a chance to hurt a fly,

You were angry, constantly pissed, before I had the ability to create anger,

You were rolling down the stairs, down the hill, bumping your poor head before my hands could push a barrow,

You were weeping, heartbreaking sobs, disturbing wails, before I broke any heart,

You were fragile, almost broken, before I put my hands out for a hug,

You were disconnected, totally broken, before my looking straight at you was a demand for attention, for action, for approval, for love,

You were sleepless, nagging insomnia, before I started nagging,

You were without friends, unloved, before I started looking for elsewhere love,

You were stressed off your wits, depressed, before I was more than fetus,

You were depressed, untreated & suicidal before I saw the first boy I liked,

How is it then possible, that I felt like I caused it all?

The blues.

The violence.

The anger.

The cold.

The heat.

The storms.

The loveless-mess.

The laughter.

The separations.

The abandonment.

The pain.

The love.

The laughter.

The tears.

The sleeping.

How is it then possible, that I felt like I caused it all?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Do Feminists Need LOVE from Men?

I had been thinking.

Pulling my hair.

Gnashing my teeth.

Scratching my back.

Picking at the pimples on my face.

Scratching my scalp bloody.

Biting my nails.

Re-counting my years.

Checking the wrinkles that may or may not be showing up.

Checking my awaited grey hairs.

Learning new things.

Getting promoted.

Investing the savings.

Thinking. Choosing. Re-choosing.

What a luxury! To have choice. All these wonderful choices.

Some mornings, I woke up sad. Some nights, I slept close to tears.

 

I can afford the rent.

I can feed myself.

I can pay my ticket and hotel room in Paris.

I can buy my own shoes.

The thought hit me.

To choose; when you have everything else and the only thing left to choose is love; you have to choose the love you cannot live without.

The silent question: “how to choose?”

Pooh answered: “You cannot go through your feminist life looking back at the things you rejected and miss & regret when you are 50, 60, 70 years old.

If you cannot say the below to the rejected, the left behind, the discarded, the not-chosen, or to yourself, and really mean it; then you cannot reject. Anything. Anyone. Ever.

  1. I do not love you. I wish you well.
  2. I love someone else. I hope someone else will love you.
  3. I am not available for you. I am prioritizing someone else.
  4. You have to celebrate one more birthday without me. And many more in the future.
  5. Someone else’s feelings and happiness mean more to me than your feelings and happiness. I hope you will be happy anyway.
  6. I will not miss you.
  7. I will not miss your voice.
  8. I will not miss your wonderful face.
  9. I will not miss your smile.
  10. I will not miss your jokes.
  11. I will not miss your body.
  12. I will not miss your body odor. In fact, I will forget it.
  13. I will not your input when I need input.
  14. I will not miss your feedback when I need feedback.
  15. I will not miss taking a walk with you in the city.
  16. I will not miss your/our friends.
  17. I will not miss your family.
  18. I will not miss watching TV with you.
  19. I will not miss spooning with you in the mornings.
  20. When I think of love, when I dream of love, when I speak of love; I will not think of you.”

Feminists Having Children

We should all have the same opportunities and the same pay for same work.

What does this mean for child care when finally, they arrive in my life? Do children need 24 hours of care from parents (read mother) to turn out well? To feel stable, to feel loved, to feel acknowledged?

One of my favorite quotes on equality is by Thomas Jefferson regarding how to treat people un-equally.

“There is nothing more unequal than the equal treatment of unequal people.”

We are turning 30. Friends and acquaintances all round are turning 30. Turning 30 seems to come with babies or baby plans.

I meet people, even close acquaintances, colleagues & almost friends who have children and children have become enough of a life. I feel so impressed.

Often, it is the woman who has stopped working, has decided to stay at home and take care of the child or children. The man continues to work. It is a smart calculation because the man often (not always) earns more. So he can support the growing family.

It becomes a catch 22 situation because women continue to earn less if they are away from work for long periods. It also leaves the policy setting and rule making to the men for those years when women are away being good mothers.

I am not making this all up. There is data to show how the loop repeats itself.

Apparently, to be a good mother, you need to dedicate your whole life to the child/children. I haven’t understood yet if this is a matter of feeling, appearing or wishing to be considered & therefore treated as a good mother.

Rarely have I met a man who has completely given up work to be home with the kids. Once, I met a man who took 2 years leave from his work, to follow his wife and children to New York, where, the wife had gotten her dream assignment. He was to be home with the two kids for 2 years.

He was back to work, working 50% from home, after one year. The taking care of the kids became too tedious and monotonous for him. He is a very good father.

In Sweden, to be home means that you are not “saving” any money to pension. That could make a very miserable life after retirement in Sweden, especially if you should divorce or husband should die early.

Nevertheless, those women who choose to be home with children make it sound like the best decision they have made with their lives. During the years they are home with their children.

When I worked with old people during my studies, most women who had been housewives had so bad income, they were dependent on the state and/or on the children they stayed home to raise. Since not so many children become stinking rich, most adult children have very little money to spare to make their old parents’ lives comfortable.

So old parents feel cheated that they can’t have more income from anywhere, which keeps them stuck at home on low budget. This time, no children to take care of during all the day’s hours.

The bitterness from both sides is so toxic you can smell it at Easter lunch instead of eggs. The guilt. The pity. The loneliness. And the lack of money.

The parents who worked and contributed to the pension are off traveling or playing golf after retirement. They can also afford better housing and care during old age.

 

My Boobs Hurt

I have been on a bra hunt for over 10 years now. A constant desperate hunt.

bras

There are booklets about bras. Articles about bras. Books. Real books, about bras. Stand Up comedy about bras.

When the boobies first showed up, they hurt. They were perky tits. Pointed breasts. Fantastic.

I swear you could see the nipples from 3 kilometers away.

A late bloomer, my fun balloons showed up at between 15-16 years old. I was skinny; a boobies and bones kind of awkward.

The fun balls needed to be hidden. Concealed from all the neighborhood adolescent boys who were sniffing around. The nuns thought the boys could smell the nipples like the cat can smell a rat hidden in a ditch.

There were many helpers within the secret society of “African Aunts”. All the nuns, aunts, cousins & female friends were committed.

Over 10 years into this journey and the boobs are still one of the reasons I make those grand trips to the malls.

Recently, the pleasure bags hurt every month during the premenstrual days.

There is the far away headache.

There is the far away backache.

There is the moodiness and the claws barely sheathed.

premenstrual him: “love, did you put on the kettle?”

premenstrual Me: “don’t you call me love! it is patronizing! why would I put the kettle on?? because I am a woman??!”

Ovulating me: “yes dear. & the egg is boiling! kiss kiss”

Premenstrual him: “are you having your periods?”

Premenstrual me:screeEEEEeeeeEEEEEeeEEEEEEEK

.!

Premenstrual him: am off to work then! have a nice day. sorry, running late!

There is the huge torch of a pimple in my face. It leaves black mark which leaves me spotted like a giraffe after a few months of pimply periods.

There is the sleepiness. I want to sleep & sleep & sleep & sleep. not the regular 9-10hrs. I want 15-20hrs.

There is the occasional herpes attack. don’t judge me. All of us have Herpes virus in us. You know, the mouth sore when you have the horrible cold? THAT. IS. HERPES!

And then there is the hurting mammary glands. Rubbing my hand/arm on them while performing some other thoughtless result-less activity makes me screech with pain.

So I keep looking. And trying. And fixing. And buying. And reading. And now writing.

bras 3

And the checklists!

I have some favorites in my wardrobe. Nice colors. Beautiful lace.Wonderful cups. Fabrics that would make a queen pine. Silk. Cotton. Straps. Strapless. Brands. Brands whose names cost money without providing MORE support.

etc

Still, during these great days; when the uterus acts out in bloody anger after the realization that; yet again, no baby is going to come out of the poking fun & canoodling that has been going on week after week; every single one of my well selected bras make me grimace in pain.

I come home & before I open the door, I open the bra. And smile. And breath. And smile.

Shall I ever find this wonder bra that keeps them happy and calm through the stormy days?

When do I know I have found the bra?

We bought a bed though. Instead of a bra, we found a good comfy bed.

That should sort the back aches