Hasta La Gadget!

 On this week’s Droidcast, Chris Velazco joins us from a bathroom, Kyle Russell contributes from New Hampshire, Greg Kumparak rises from his sick bed, and Darrell Etherington hosts from the permanent midnight of Canada. Up for discussion are two new Android Wear devices, the LG G Watch R and the Asus ZenWatch, as well as Nvidia’s Grid streamed gaming service, and fashion… Read More

I am a man and I am a proud feminist.

I support and defend the notion that people of all genders should have their fair share of opportunities to succeed. Whether it is eliminating the gender wage gap or debunking the sexist and ignorant biases that divide both sexes, I support the equality of both genders in sexual expression, employment and contribution to society.

What sometimes sucks about being a male feminist in America is constantly being left out of the conversation when body politics and sexual expression enters. And this is fair — I should have no equal input to dictate what a woman should wear or how she chooses to have sex.

However, recently, I think the feminist movement and dialogue has been focused so much on sexual expression and beauty that it overlooks other (more important, in my opinion) aspects of female liberation.

I became a feminist when I saw many women, including my mother, who worked hard raising me as a single parent, constantly face a glass ceiling because of their gender. She was smarter than many of her fellow male co-workers and yet, saw them advance in the workplace faster than her.

Being a feminist is about being fair to everyone, plain and simple. However, mass media and influential celebrities in Hollywood are ignoring and deferring the focus to their own personal interests.

I personally did not care much for Kim Kardashian’s naked cover for Paper Magazine. No, not because she was a mother or because she was a woman showcasing her curves or her own desire — but because it was just nothing surprising or appealing about it. It was just simply Kim doing another topless cover.

Those such as myself who were critical automatically had a sector of feminists who felt they needed to chastise and defend the cover. The same slogan, “Women should have the right to sexually express themselves,” “Male chauvinism won’t allow a woman to value her body,” and many other similar comments plagued the discussion of the cover.

And what could have been a great opportunity to shift the focus on to other aspects of the magazine cover was limited to the same basic call for action that has dominated feminist discourse in pop culture: sex and beauty.

OK, yes, sex and beauty are important. However, when I looked at that Paper Magazine cover, I saw something more. I saw a woman who was topless of her own free will, yes, but on the cover of a magazine that is part of an industry that hardly has any women-owned publications. And when you look at the publishers and financiers… they are mostly men, too. So, who really has the power? Is there really equality throughout?

I personally find it a coincidence that only in times where sex is being explored in Hollywood do most women entertainers discuss feminist ideals to defend it. What about the lack of female-driven comedies or leads? How about discussing the lack of women who have a piece of the corporate pie when it comes to directing or running these agencies?

Pop culture has reduced feminism to a fight for body politics and sexual liberation only. It makes us forget about equal employment opportunities, equal access to medical health protection and benefits, sharing parenting responsibilities and sexual assault and abuse prevention. Simply focusing on buying or consuming content that makes us feel pretty and able to pleasure ourselves sexually.

That was not what I just signed up for and I’m tired of celebrities using the feminist title as a way to pitch their brands and market their sex. When we start seeing these entertainers truly advocate and bring more women to the table to run boardrooms and those who are currently on board able to make the same pay as their male co-worker while being able to take a maternity leave without penalty, then that is when feminism is truly being showed on a spectrum.

This is important, because for too long, the wrong messaging has been transported to everyday Americans who read headlines depicting the most recognizable faces using the term ‘feminist,’ and thus the confusion begins.

Ask most young adults how much they understand what feminism truly is and they will cite famous faces that are currently using the term. When you ask them what makes those celebrities a feminist, you will be surprised by what they say.

I’m sorry, but simply being beautiful and liking how you look in the mirror doesn’t make you a feminist. Taking your clothes off and having sex the way you want without being judged isn’t the only benefit of feminism.

We need to start holding the media and our public figures more accountable for actually showcasing what feminism truly is, in all spectrums. There should be more conversations that can include everyday women in the discussion, women who don’t make money from magazine covers and music videos, but actually need their supervisor to give them a well-deserved raise or more days off or allow for better birth control access.

Because feminism is more than just sex and beauty, it’s about giving women liberation across ALL sectors of society.

That’s why I’m a feminist and you might actually be one too.

Anyone who has been within a five-foot radius of me (or follows me on social media) knows that I love Taylor Swift. And it’s not just because we share the same name, birth year and penchant for red lipstick. We are kindred spirits. (But that is an entirely different post for another time, friends.)

What you might not know about me is that I am finicky when it comes to exercise. Historically, I’ve always been a Watch-Teen–Mom-While-on-the-Elliptical kind of girl and if I’m feeling particularly adventurous, I might partake in a Yoga to the People power vinyasa class in my neighborhood of Williamsburg, Brooklyn. The shirtless yogis with man-buns might be part of this motivation, but this is beside the point.

If you live in New York City as I have for over three years, you also probably know that SoulCycle has become A Thing here. But as a twentysomething who would rather spend $34ish on a night out with friends drinking whiskey gingers than sweating in a dark room while being yelled at, I’ve never found it all that enticing. Still, blame it on curiosity (or the knowledge that T-Swift herself is a frequent SoulCycler with BFF Karlie Kloss), I’ve always secretly wanted to try a class for myself. When I heard that SoulCycle was offering Taylor Swift-themed classes, I knew the time had come to pop my cherry.

So last Saturday, I called up the SoulCycle location in my neighborhood and reserved a bike for the following Monday. I was asked what seat I would like. When I told the receptionist that it was my first time, she recommended that I take a spot in the third row, so that I could see the instructor but it wouldn’t be too intimidating. Bike #47 would be mine.

By Sunday evening, I was feeling excited, but nervous. I was glad to have the support of SoulCycle, though.

@taylortrudon have a great ride!

— SoulCycle (@soulcycle) November 24, 2014

On Monday, the big day, I arrive 15 minutes early, as advised by a co-worker and SoulCycle enthusiast.

“Hi, this is my first time and I have no idea what to do,” I tell the front desk.

The front desk ladies don’t even bat an eyelash. Instead, they smile and introduce me to a bubbly redhead named Brooke. Brooke gives me a special pair of cycling shoes in my size and shows me to my locker, which happens to be #89. I am convinced that this is fate. Brooke then tells me that I can choose any four digits as my lock code, so naturally, I choose “1989” because duh. Once I have my snappy shoes on, I clickety-clack back to the front desk, where Brooke leads me into the dark studio and takes me to my bike.

“You’re petite like me!” comments Brooke, as she adjusts my bike. Brooke is officially my new favorite person. I hop on it and she patiently waits while I attempt to click my special shoes into the pedals. Once I’m set, Brooke leaves me and I immediately want to call after her, “Wait, don’t gooooooo.” But she does. I am ridin’ solo à la Jason Derulo in the third row. I am alone, but not lonely (because T-Swift is there in spirit, obviously).

Then our instructor enters the studio. Eve has washboard abs and is wearing tight, hot pink spandex leggings and a tie-dye sports bra. Her left arm is covered in tattoos. She looks like a badass DJ goddess who is ready to rave. I am wearing mismatched socks because they are the only clean ones I could find. Before we start, Eve prefaces our ride by joking that this Taylor Swift-themed class is “very out of character” for her, but that she’s doing it for us. Everyone cheers.

“I Knew You Were Trouble”: Our ride kicks off with a dub-step heavy remix from my beloved Red album. I am in a club and even though I do not like clubs (eff no I won’t pay a $20 cover to freeze my ass off and wait in a line outside), this is my kind of party.

At first, I’m having a good time doing my thing. But soon, I notice that the cyclists in front of me are bending their elbows and chest in a weird way. I am confused. I have flashbacks to pre-algebra freshman year, where I would look desperately around the room with a does-anybody-get-what’s-on? look. It is then I realize that we are supposed to be doing push-ups using the handlebars. OK. Right. I had heard about this push-ups business. I got this. However, I quickly learn that just as I cannot rub my stomach and pat my head at the same time, nor can I pedal 900 mph and do push-ups simultaneously with my arms. Not only does it seem like everyone else can do this movement seamlessly, but they are also pedaling on a beat. I look ahead at the mirror and I see myself grossly out of sync with everyone. In fact, it looks like I’m having a full-on body spasm. I should also mention that I am sweating profusely.

“Blank Space”: “OK, even I love this song,” Eve admits. Because we are in the dark and because I am obsessed with this music video, I take this opportunity to channel T-Swift and make as many ugly/insane/dramatic faces as possible. I hope there aren’t hidden cameras in here. I try and sing the words, but it is very challenging so I mouth them instead. “You can tell me when it’s over, if the high was worth the pain,” sings Taylor. I don’t know if this is worth the pain, but one of the Front Row Girls with long, blonde curly hair circa Fearless-era tosses her mane back and is straight-up smiling. [Side note: Who can SoulCycle with their hair down??] I am immediately suspicious of her.

“22”: Taylor sings, “It feels like the perfect night to dress up like hipsters.” One of the Front Row Girls lets out an enthusiastic “woo-hoo!” #williamsburg

“You’re Not Sorry”: I think. I can’t actually remember, because this may have been the point where I blacked out. Eve encourages us to take a sip of water. I look down and see my bottle of SmartWater has fallen out of the holder and has rolled away on the floor along with my sanity. I feel panicked. Should I stop and attempt to disconnect my feet from the pedals so I can retrieve it? That sounds dangerous. But before I can make a decision, Eve yells out, “Give it another full turn!” LOL.

“Clean”: Oh, good, a “slow” song. Plot twist! Eve tells us to increase our resistance. My legs feel like I’m moving through a swamp. I think about what I’m going to eat for dinner. I think about things that make me happy, like strawberry-frosted Pop-Tarts and laundry fresh out of the dryer and Harry Styles’ hair. I wonder if I’m hallucinating.

“Shake It Off”: It is time for the weights. “I see the dirty looks on your faces,” says Eve. I see my life flashing before my eyes, but I do not say this out loud. The way Eve is bouncing on her bike is akin to me having drunk two Four Lokos. A single bead of sweat rolls down my forehead and onto my nose but I can’t wipe it away because my arms are becoming numb from lifting two-pound dumbbells above my head, which feel like bricks. Does the “But my elbows are double-jointed!” excuse from elementary school still work in this scenario? This song must be some weird extended version, because it literally goes on forever. I hate these weights. I hate this class. I hate everything. But not Taylor. I could never hate her.

“This Love”: The room goes completely dark and Eve tells us to close our eyes. I obey. I think about Lena Dunham because this is the song Taylor supposedly wrote for Lena and her boyfriend, Jack Antonoff. I wonder if they will walk down the aisle to this song. I wonder if Lena will still have neon-green hair by then. Maybe Taylor will be a bridesmaid. I bet she’ll get teary-eyed a little. Eve continues to give what I assume to be positive affirmations, but for all I know, they could be Wiccan incantations because I am in such a daze.

“Welcome to New York”: “This is the end of our ride,” says Eve and my ears perk up. I guess that wasn’t so bad, I think to myself, the way I assume a pregnant woman who goes into labor and pops out a kid a million hours probably does. At this point, I give it my all, pedaling as hard as I can. My legs burn. I am Karlie Kloss. I am a supermodel. I am a Victoria’s Secret Angel and I HAVE WINGS DAMMIT.

It’s over. I whip my feet out of those pedals as if they’ve been set on fire. We stretch while listening to “Bad Blood.” I locate my runaway water bottle and chug it like a frat bro shotgunning a beer.

Eve then says that we should make this T-Swift-inspired class “a thing,” but alas she will be in the Hamptons next week. I will be in suburbia for the holiday weekend eating Chinese takeout and wearing flannel pajama pants, but that is neither here nor there.

Back in the locker room, my fellow cyclists (who are clearly regulars) talk about coming back on Thursday for the “Turkey Burn” class. They are brave women, but I am not one of them. Instead, I hobble outside into the abnormally warm November air feeling accomplished, slightly disoriented and extremely sweaty. At the same time.

Technology makes it easier than ever to work from anywhere, allowing you the opportunity to grow your small business. Not only can you run your small business from just about anywhere in the world, but you can also work with people all over the world.

Technology provides you with a way to connect to others and collaborate in your small business. In fact, it’s not uncommon for me to collaborate on projects with people from multiple locations. I have an agent in Canada who helps connect me with ghostwriting gigs with clients all over the world. My business partner also lives in Canada, and I’ve done work for clients in Taiwan and in the United Kingdom.

As long as I have access to the Internet, I can run my business from anywhere. There are a lot of tools out there that make long distance collaboration simple for small business owners. Here are five collaboration tools that can make your life easier:

1. ClickMeeting

Thanks to high-speed Internet, there is no need to be in the same room as someone when you have a meeting. Tools like ClickMeeting allow you to connect instantly, in real time, with business associates and collaborate to get things done. Video conferencing tools provide you with the ability to talk to multiple people, share screens, and even use Google to translate your meetings in real time so you can truly “go global.”

2. Oktopost

If you are looking to collaborate with your social media marketing, Oktopost is a great tool. Not only do you have access to B2B social management, and the ability to measure your success. Oktopost takes social media branding and marketing to the next level. You can invite members of your team from all over the world, and put together and execute a seamless plan with the help of this tool.

3. Asana

I first started working on Asana when I became involved in planning for the Plutus awards. While I’m still slow to adopt project management software programs like this, there is no denying their usefulness when it comes to business collaboration. It’s possible to assign tasks, set goals as a team, and encourage each other. The idea is to avoid email, and that appeals to many business owners as well.

4. Google Drive

If you want to share documents, videos, and other items, Google Drive is a great collaboration tool for small business owners. Not only can you share what you are working on, but you can watch other team members work on the project. You can both work on the project in real time, and see who is making changes. And, since you can upload audio and video, it makes it easy to share almost anything. I collaborate on an investing podcast, and we regularly use our shared folder in Google Drive to upload audio for the podcasts and share other items for our project.

5. Bitrix24

It’s also possible to use a private social network for collaboration within your small business. Bitrix24 provides a way for your team members to connect and collaborate quickly and easily. It’s possible to have chats, as well as set up projects and timelines that can aid in task management. It’s a good way to get your entire business on the same page.

With a little planning, and the right collaboration tools, it’s possible for your small business to save money on travel and meeting costs and still get a lot done.

This is my mother’s passport picture. She was pregnant with me when it was taken.

When I was a little girl, my mother used to send me out on errands. I loved any excuse to shop, even then, and I took it quite seriously.

I remember one time she gave me her list and a five-dollar bill and off I went. By the time I got to the A&P, I had the list, but no money.

I retraced my steps in a panic — every square inch from the store back to our apartment door. But no luck. I stood in the stairwell wondering how I was going to tell her. Five dollars then was a great deal of money. I went into the kitchen and stood there sheepishly.

“Lassie, where are my groceries?” she asked in her soft Scottish tones.

“I lost the money, Mom,” I blurted out, on the verge of tears.

She looked at me a moment, then came over and put her arm around me.

“Well, I hope the person who finds it really has need of it,” she said matter-of-factly.

My mother died 25 years ago — far too young — but memories of her come back effortlessly.

I think of her coming by ship, the Franconia, from Scotland to Canada in 1953 with my two sisters and me, just a babe in arms. My father had come ahead of us to find a job and a place for us to live. To give her children a chance at a better life than hers she left behind post-war Glasgow and her beloved Scotland. In many ways, it is where her heart remained.

Her name was Catherine. Her favorite song was “Imagine” by John Lennon. Her favorite color, yellow. She knew the words to just about any song you could name and would sing at the drop of a hat.

Mom was famous for her turns of phrase. If I was depressed, she’d whisper to me, “Cheer up, love. It might never happen.” Whenever I’d protest about her doing too much for me, she’d say lightly, “It’s nothing to me.” “Don’t be a klipe” told us not to tattle-tale. “Haud yer wheesht!”meant be quiet.

She read everything she could get her hands on and was wonderfully au courant. Children gravitated toward her and her to them. At family get-togethers, you could always find my mother off with the kids somewhere, giggling and up to something.

My father and her taught us all what a good marriage should be. I used to tease her that theirs was an impossible act to follow. They were truly a team and weathered many storms together, particularly in their early years as immigrants. Dad was a reserved man, but if pressed, would recount the first night he met her at a dance in Glasgow and how he knew, within minutes, she was the one for him. And that never changed. “Would you put me on the straight and narrow?” he asked her the night they met.

Dad only outlived Mom by a year. This alone convinced me there is such a thing as a broken heart.

I loved Mom’s irreverence and how different she seemed from my friends’ mothers. She was a feminist long before the term was coined. Her four children could always tell her anything, no matter what it was. She’d married late and worked in a munitions factory during the war where she lost half of a middle finger in a punch press. On nights when we couldn’t sleep, we’d stay up late and watch old movies. She would let us sit quietly beside her. I remember those nights perfectly, snuggling up to her, watching the flickering black and white images on the small TV screen, and the marvellous scent of her Chantilly perfume.

“Who’s that?” I’d ask, repeatedly, of the faces on screen. “Well, that’s Vivien Leigh,” she’d answer. “She was born in India and died of TB. She always seemed so sad.” Her delivery always made it sound as if she was divulging a secret.

Come morning, our clothes would be hanging neatly on chairs, with Mom at the stove stirring porridge.

I don’t know where she learned how to do it: Her own mother was a stern, unforgiving woman from County Cavan in Ireland, who married my grandfather so he could teach her how to read and write. My grandmother signed her marriage license with an X. Although I don’t remember Mom speaking of her unkindly, I do remember her telling us she wanted to be the mother that she’d never had.

My mother encouraged our education above all else. She didn’t care if her girls or her one son knew how to turn out a gourmet meal; our studies were always more important. She hadn’t the chance of schooling in Glasgow. At the tender age of nine she was sent to work, sewing coats for furriers. Mom wanted more for us.

When I quit university halfway through to take a job in England, I’m sure she was disappointed, but never let on. At the airport before leaving she handed me a beautiful leather diary for recording all my “adventures.” That diary is long since crammed with my memories of those years overseas but I treasure her gift for another reason, because it showed me the faith my mother always had in me.

There are so many powerful memories. I remember coming to her, a scrawny, ugly child, wishing my world would end after a schoolmate’s callous remark.

“Never mind, Lassie,” she said. “You’ll shine. I have high hopes for you.”

My mother gave me my sense of who I was, who I could become. She made me feel valuable when no one else could. She told me I was beautiful. To her, I was.

I take comfort that she’ll never really be gone. Whenever I look at my face in the mirror, I see her eyes shining out through mine. She’s here when our house rocks with laughter — she was always so quick to laugh. She’s here when I feel compassion for others and every time I consider someone else’s feelings before our own. She’s with me each time I hear a Scots accent or see a mother and daughter enjoying one another.

Through her illness, I never saw her cry or heard her complain. “Don’t be sad, Hen,” she kept telling me toward the end. I consider myself privileged to have had her for the time I did. But she was gone too soon.

The last time I saw her I sang to her, one of her all-time favorite songs, “Misty Islands of the Highlands.” The room was dark and the hospital corridors hushed.

Then I bent over her and whispered in her ear, “I’ll remember you, Mom. And I’ll tell others about you.”

This is the telling.

This story appears in a slightly different version in Tricia McCallum’s book of poetry Nothing Gold Can Stay: A Mother and Father Remembered (2011).