Amanda Farough is a web rock-star, currently peddling her wares in web design and development; in a previous incarnation, she was a bad-ass software developer. On her off hours, she designs (and plays) video games, writes novels that may never be published, and dances in the rain.
So, you need a website. You've been looking for that special someone to share your vision but no one seems to get
what you're after.
You've tried agencies: too expensive. You've tried craigslist: somewhat shady. Hell, you've even tried straight-up advertising: not enough results. No one gets you.
I get you.
We're probably destined to work together. My designs are clean and minimalist with a touch of whimsy. But hey,
I'm flexible. Let's sit down and have a coffee together to make your web design dreams come true.
Who can bring together a design and code it up as quick as a kid on a sugar high? Why, that'd be me!
Now, I know what you're thinking. "Amanda, you can't really consider yourself a designer and a developer, can you? I mean, that's splitting your time! Stick to what you're best at!"
I tell you, friends, I do have a specialty: finding creative solutions to your design and development qualms.
Maybe you're a designer who's fed up with the irritations of writing code. You just want to design. Or perhaps you're a dev that's looking for a designer. Let's be partners. In crime. In code and creativity.
Or maybe you're a creative professional looking to start your own business and you really don't want to shop around for just a designer and/or just a developer.
Specifically, I'm a generalist. If you're looking for a one-stop shop, I'm your woman. Let's talk happy, shiny solutions.
I had a conversation with my father back in December about the strength of woman. He told me that behind misogyny is fear: fear of the strength of woman; fear that women will stand up and put our stake in the sand; fear that everything they know about the world is completely wrong and backwards. My father — the man who taught me to be a warrior princess — was raised by a man who didn’t believe or acknowledge the power of woman. He thought himself to be better than women because he possessed the right chromosomes. As soon as my father was old enough to make up his own mind, he chose to bask in the strength of woman; specifically, the strength of his mother.
My grandfather had no daughters to temper his disposition. He had three sons.
When I was small, my father didn’t turn his back on me like so many fathers do when they have first-born daughters. Instead, he embraced his sassy daughter and taught me to think for myself. To be strong. To yield but never break. To stand my ground. He taught me the magic and beauty of logic. He showed me how to separate myself from my emotions to take better task of the situation. He told (and tells me) that he loves me.
As a teenager, my father and I clashed in every way. The women in our family — the Hoffmans — are outspoken, intense, and opinionated. I am tempered steel; I am all these things and more. Teenage Amanda was brash and irrational, ruled by a hormonal emotional response to every situation, regardless of its nature. I failed my first math test. I raged. I seethed. I cried. I threw the test in the garbage, instead of learning from my mistakes. I failed several more math tests as a consequence.
As a consequence of tunnels and responsibility, I tried to distance myself from my emotions. I tried to be cold and logical. No one taught me to be that way. No one told me, “Amanda, detach from your emotions. You are now required to attain the emotional discipline of a Vulcan.”
Aside: it’s not a violetminded post without a geek reference.
It didn’t work. It was too much work to go against my code. I needed my emotions to survive and cope and compute. I needed to attach myself to people because that’s what I do best. Heart met sleeve. Sleeve met defeat many times. Heart met other hearts. I was stronger for it. I was more complete with my connection the great macrocosm of the universe.
I’ve often described my love of people as my great tragedy.
I love everyone in this world, in spite (and sometimes because of) their many flaws. And yet, I am so disgusted by the atrocities of people that it makes me sick to be around them. I want to hate them for what they do to each other. But I can’t. I sincerely believe that I’m completely incapable of truly hating a person. I may be able to hate their behaviour but I cannot hate the person.
“People are inherently good. You’ve got to give them the benefit of the doubt.” My husband has drilled that into my head during the five years that we’ve been together. Everyone deserves a second chance. Everyone is worth it.
I’ve seen that we cut girls and control them and keep them illiterate. Or we make them feel bad about being too smart.We silence them. We make them feel guilty about being too smart. We get them to behave, to tone it down, to not be too intense. Eve Ensler
To behave is to show respect to the people around you. We can’t go around and be completely wild and out of control. Restraint is an intrinsic part of the social contract that we must acknowledge as we step out of our homes and tread the same sidewalk as the rest of the inhabitants of this world. Intense, on the other hand, is the only way I know how to be. Those that know me, know that everything I do is done with fierce conviction and an intensity that has a tendency to freak me out.
Be bold. Be intense. Don’t tone it down just because someone tells you that it’s inappropriate. Are you hurting anyone by the look in your eyes? Is your passion killing the people around you? If it is, then it’s time to put the knife down and pick up a paintbrush.
Boys are taught that emotions are wrong. That compassion clouds judgment and sound decision making. They grow into men that are cold and unfeeling, unaware of the fact that they are hurting on the inside. They become violent monsters to compensate, somehow thinking that this is strength and not weakness. They kill and hurt other people — usually women — because they have failed to acknowledge their vulnerability and tears.They teach their detachment to their daughters and wives because it’s the only thing they know.
The strongest men and women in the world are those that acknowledge their fears, tears, and emotional needs.
Value the girl in us. Value the part that cries. Value the part that’s emotional. Value the part that’s vulnerable.
Eve Ensler
My husband has embraced his Girl Self. My father is discovering his Girl Self. My mother and her capacity for goodness and forgiveness has never known any other way to be: she is the embodiment of Girl Self.
Let’s spread the word to every woman and man: your emotions make you strong. They allow you to see things humanely. They allow you to love fully and wholly and without fear. Your Girl Self is important. Your daughters need you to teach them that. Your sons need you to show them how. Your husbands and fathers and brothers need re-education. Your wives and mothers and sisters need to know that they are not crazy. They are whole and perfect in their capacity to love and forgive.
Ronna got me thinking, as she often does, about the nature of things. Her words screamed at me from the laptop screen, exciting and terrifying me all at once.
In silence, a literal breaking occurs. I AM BROKEN. Acknowledge it. Name it. Ouch.
I didn’t roar today. I sat in silence for close to an hour, whittling away at a project for a friend. My head was alive. My heart felt empty. I felt lost. Not right. The more I tried to put my finger on it, the more I detached. The emptiness clung to me like a second skin.
Ride it out. It will happen periodically for years and years to come. Just remember, these times are great for growth. Even when they feel like you’ve slipped through a crevasse into Bizarroworld.
I sat back and thought about growth. I’d done an impressive amount of growing lately, especially considering that I draw the Tower at least a few times a week. For those of you unfamiliar with Tarot, the Tower card signifies big change. Like, cataclysmic change. To draw this card more than once in a month, let alone a few times a week, means that big things are coming and have come to pass. I was am unsure of the root of the growth.
Growth took a back seat for a while.
Christopher talked about the nature of geekdom, which spurred him into asking the question: “What’s so wrong with being an Average Joe?”
Mediocrity. My own special version of Hell: where everyone is cookie cutter average and everything is a bloody suburb. I grew up in a suburb. It wasn’t horrible but it was decidedly medicore. And, like Ronna, it got me thinking. Why is mediocrity so bad? After all, we’re nothing average to the people who love us.
The thinking continued.
The emptiness persisted.
The silence remained unbroken.
The darkness lapped at my toes as I dipped them in the abyssal water.
And then it hit me. Or bit me. I don’t know which. Ouch.
I was thinking too damn much; paying too much attention to the emptiness, the silence, and the darkness, trying to will it away instead of accepting it. Not everyone is going to like me or what I write about. Not everyone is going to be interested in my company. It’s not a slight. You’d think I’d have learned that when I was a teenager. Apparently, I’m slow on the uptake.
Embracing the dark is difficult. It’s not a forever state. It’s just for now.
N.B: I wrote this sometime in November when I supposed to be writing for Nanowrimo. There’s something about speculative fiction that makes me smile.
The past is my playground, where I’m free to ride the merry-go-round as many times as I please without being scared of the monsters beneath. I like the swings best. I’m poised to jump as I pump my legs to shoot myself higher and higher; I’m reaching a place where I used to be queen of the castle. Or, at the very least, a duchess with a lot of pull with the rest of the nobility. After the swings, I go to the slide and ride the slick surface to its end, raising my arms in the air. The slides are joy. It is the highest and lowest point in my life.
The future is the challenge of swinging myself up to the top of the monkey bars to perch and dangle my legs between the bars. At seven, I was limber, agile, and energetic. At twenty three, I am ponchy, cumbersome, and no less energetic. So I scramble, trying to reach the top of the bars so I can look over the other houses in the neighbourhood. My surburbia. My kingdom. I just know that somehow the top of the monkey bars is where all of dreams will come true. But, here I am, staring at the monkey bars, paralyzed by fear that I won’t be able to get up there. The pebbles pay the price as I scatter them with a flick of my ankle.
The present seems to be someone’s idea of a drunken one night stand: it seemed like a great idea when both parties were intoxicated but the morning after is always a bitch. So I drink a fifth of the vodka I had stashed in my purse in one tough swig. It burns going down. Seemed like a good idea at the time. I’m still afraid of those stupid fucking monkey bars. Another bunch of pebbles are punished for their insolence. I’m alone on the playground when my mom calls at me from across the street; it’s getting dark and she made me dinner.
But I can’t go in. Not yet. I need to best those monkey bars.
Another fifth of the vodka downed before I toss my purse unceremoniously to the side. The bars are low enough that I don’t have to jump to catch them. My arms always burn in protest.
Too much work, they moan. Let’s just go back down to the ground and the pebbles and our mom.
I won’t take no for an answer. I’m so sick and fucking tired of being on the ground when it seems like everyone else can get to the top of the monkey bars. I hate them for being better than me. I hate being second best. I hate waiting. I ignore the pain in my arms and attempt to swing my legs up to catch the other bars with my heels. Several tries later and I’m still swinging with my legs half bent.
I hate these monkey bars.
After another stiff swallow of vodka, I’m tipsy. Angry. Upset at my failures. I rode the merry-go-round four times without falling off. I even closed my eyes, in spite of my brain reminding me of the monsters beneath that steal and eat unlucky little girls who don’t pay attention. No monsters ate me. My past loved me, relished my presence. So why didn’t the future welcome me with the same reverence?
Fucking monkey bars.
I try a few more times, but am met with the same failures. When my mom finds me three hours later, I’m sopping drunk from polishing off the bottle of vodka and crying from not being able to get where I know I need to be. Those monkey bars will solve all my problems. I know they will. Mama, why can’t I get to the top of the stupid monkey bars? Why am I such a fucking failure?
She soothes me, placing a calming hand on my clammy forehead, and holds me close to her sweet smelling blouse. Oscar de la Renta swims through my senses and suddenly I don’t want to get to the top of the monkey bars, as long as I’m safe on the ground. I have so much to be thankful for on the ground: my pretty mother, the pebbles, the grass, the terrifying merry-go-round, and the simplicity of knowing that my feet would always find their way.
You can reach the top of those monkey bars, my sweet, she murmurs into my lank black hair. Just believe in yourself. Try something else. Don’t be stuck on one method. Do everything. Try everything. Be spontaneous. Attack them. You are the maker of your design. But don’t run too fast. The present is a gift.
Yeah, the sort of gift that a mean aunt would give me on Christmas, I retort, burying my head between my knees. It’s not spinning down there; this weird chasm between my legs.
But it is a gift all the same, she says, smoothing my hair with a wise hand. Do not be so quick to judge yourself or others. We can help you reach the top of the monkey bars, you know. We love you.
Just like so many times before, I shrug off her help and protest that I’m a big girl who can take care of herself. I don’t need anyone to help me. I got up there once. I can get up there again. You should see if Dad needs you. I’ll be in soon. I promise.
I had promised it before.
I hadn’t been home in five years. I slept on the playground, curled around my empty bottles as though I gave birth them. But I didn’t want to leave without reaching the top. I would take as many tries as I needed in order to get up there.
There are countless more attempts before I collapse on myself underneath the stars and clouds. I am alone in this, I think to myself as I weep bitter tears. I am alone. These stupid monkey bars are going to be the end of me. I can’t get where I need to be. What if this is all there is? What if I never reach the top? The monkey bars cast frightening shadows across the playground as I drift into an uneasy sleep, full of empty dreams and sad nightmares. My unconscious doesn’t bother trying to scare me anymore. The loneliness scares me enough.
The dawn breaks and I begin with making another attempt, falling on my back and knocking the wind out of me. Tears stream down my face as I curse the Divine for failing to notice that I was struggling. I gave everything I had for so many years, happy to feed the heartless, the soulless, and the aimless with my heart, soul, and ambition. All I asked for was to get to the top. So why am I still here at the bottom? Why am I, your raven daughter, the one to pay the price for mistakes I haven’t had the chance to make?
I throw more pebbles at the sky and curse the infernal Divine.
I sit on the swings, trying to be the queen, the duchess. A startling man wanders onto the playground and manages to catch up to my swinging, smiling warmly at me. He says his name is Michael. He has green eyes like spring leaves. I like him instantly. I ask him if he’d like to ride my merry-go-round and he says yes. The monsters raise their scary eyes above, curious about the man called Michael. Michael plays games with me and we are happy. Mama doesn’t call me inside this time, she just watches from the door to our house, smiling and content that someone is playing with me. I’ve had other boys play with me on the playground but they all left when it was time for dinner or when it got dark.
Michael stays with me and drinks the raspberry schnapps I buried underneath my slide a few years back. It is sweeter with company. He tells me that I’m pretty and that I should smile more. So I smile more to make him laugh. He laughs with every fiber of his being. He is a man and a child. I envy him his merriment but his smile is pretty, with the gaps between his teeth and a twinkle in his leaf-green eyes. I like him. He is pretty and handsome and perfect. I hope he stays with me forever.
The monkey bars loom in the growing dark.
Can you climb to the top of the monkey bars? I ask him, swigging the schnapps, feeling the alcohol warming my veins. I’ve been trying but I can’t get up.
Michael is very tall. Tall as a tree. Even taller than Dad.
When he stretches his arms, he can touch the clouds; he says that they tickle his fingers. He hops up to the top of the monkey bars and reaches for me but I can’t get up yet. I’m still stuck on the ground and in the pebbles.
I can’t make it, Michael, I sob, wracked with guilt and sadness. I want to come up.
I can lift you, he soothes. Lean on me. Let me save you.
I can’t.
I can’t.
I can’t.
It’s beautiful up here, he says as I sit on the ground, fists in my hair. Please let me help you.
I refuse. I want to be up where he is but I need to get up there myself. He doesn’t understand me. I am alone again. Michael is ahead of me. I am jealous of his ease. Why do I always struggle?
But he doesn’t want to be on top without me so, without another word, he lifts me on his shoulders. I protest loudly; I’m afraid of heights and of the monkey bars. I don’t want to go up, I tell him. It’s okay to be on the ground.
No, you belong up there, he grins. Go and I shall follow.
I grasp the top of the monkey bars and pull myself off his shoulders without a lot of fuss. He is so tall that I graze the clouds. They tickle my cheeks. Michael is so handsome and perfect. I love myself when we are together. I sit on the top of the monkey bars. The sky is peaceful. The neighbours wave as they walk their dogs. I am so happy that I wave back. But the great epiphany has not come and I find myself disappointed.
Michael sits with me and wraps his arms around me. I am still ponchy and cumbersome but he just squishes closer; he is unafraid of the external me. Smile more, he says as he rests his strong chin on the top of my head. We are on top.
We are together. Life is a miracle.
Mama calls to me from our front door. She is proud of me for reaching the top but she was proud of me no matter where I stood or sat or danced. The Divine still ignores me as I sit with Michael’s arms around me but it’s okay. I don’t need their approval or help anymore. I have Michael. He has me.
This is the first post in my series on thrifty shopping. Read on if you’re interested in learning about achieving Thrifty Nirvana.
I’ve always been a thrifty shopper. I’ve mastered the art of shopping on a tight budget. I’m an expert at making ten bucks stretch for two weeks. It’s a rarity for me to pay full price for anything outside of restaurant food and video games (but let’s get real: if it’s a game, I trade-in my old games for it anyway).
I went to the local bookstore this evening, just looking to kill time before I met up with a friend of mine. After I’d paid for my purchases, the cashier looked at me and said, “You’re really thrifty. You got some great deals here.”
I smiled and agreed.
“I’m a sucker for a good deal.”
Smiling back, she handed me the bag and said, “I never buy anything on sale. I don’t have the self control. I just want it now.”
Immediacy: the affliction of our generation (especially).
Everything needs to be instantaneous or it’s not worth it. The web page must load immediately. If that skirt is fifty bucks, we try it on and just can’t wait. Or that book that we can’t live without? Just bought the hardcover for thirty dollars. Charge it, baby.
It’s become a badge of honour to be full price consumer.
Luxury is just that: a luxury.
Am I guilty of impulse buying? Damn straight. Happens to me all the time! The difference between my impulse buy and the girl ahead of me in line at The Bay is that I just dropped thirty dollars on an LBD while she dropped three hundred on a fashion forward dress that’s bound to be out of fashion by fall. But hell, if she can rock the dress well beyond its best before, good on her. Chances are that she’ll put the dress in her closet next to last season’s fashion forward dress and forget about it until she buys a new one for next season.
Even if you have millions to spend on clothes, shoes, and electronics, that doesn’t mean that you should. Celebrities go into debt trying to keep up their luxurious images. Many of them go bankrupt living a lifestyle that is well beyond their means. Regular, every day people go into debt and go bankrupt for the same reason. Debt is the condition of our culture. We’re all fighting to get the hell out of it, even Mike and me.
A little closer to home is the question I get asked fairly frequently:
“Amanda, can you teach me how to shop like you do?”
Take a knee, Padawan.
Five Steps to Your Thrifty Nirvana
That delightful woman I wrote about a little while ago (y’know, my mom) taught me everything I know about shopping on a budget. She gave me a discerning eye. I’d give my eyes to you but that’s kinda gross. Instead, let me share her wisdom with you.
One: Never, ever buy full price.
I was downtown Vancouver the other day, perusing my favourite shops on my way to the library. I came across three really beautiful blouses, all of which fit me amazingly (thank you, Urban Outfitters). Two of the blouses were new arrivals (read: not on sale) and the other was more than 50% off.
Guess which one I bought.
The other two went on my wish list. I wrote down the style and SKU in my BlackBerry so that I can keep an eye on the products over the coming months and wait to for a sale.
Two: Shop around for the best deal, especially on groceries.
That’s what those annoying flyers are for. Flip through the flyers to see who’s selling what and for how much. I know what you’re thinking:
“Amanda, I really don’t have the time to sit down and flip through flyers just to save thirty cents on a bag of frozen peas. Isn’t there an easier way?”
I’m glad you asked me, telepathic reader!
Head to the store and price check in the aisle. Honestly, that No Name rice is just as good as the expensive Basmati rice from the specialty shop down the street. Might even be tastier.
Goes the same for clothing, electronics, books, you name it. Get a second opinion from another store. Don’t be afraid to wait while you do your research.
Three: Exercise your waiting muscles.
I know the waiting game sucks. Buying the product right now is just as much fun as Hungry Hungry Hippos was is. Buying on a whim is a blast.
But, if everything you purchase is on a whim, you’re going to end up with stuff that you not only don’t need but you couldn’t really afford in the first place. Of course, some people see need fairly subjectively. For example, I really do need my computer(s). Other people could beg to differ that a computer is a need.
Four: Buy used. Trade-in. Swap.
Thrift stores are awesome for buying cheap, unique furniture that’s been gently used or restored.
If you’re a gamer like me, trade-in your old games in order to purchase new ones.
Trade-in your old consoles in order to buy new ones. Well, don’t trade in your NES or Sega. That’s just silly. But if you’re looking for a PS3, trade in your PS2; your XBox for an Xbox 360; your Gamecube for a Wii. Your new console is fairly backwards compatible.
Swap clothes, crafts/art supplies, and electronics with your friends. Tired of that blouse you bought last year? See if your best friend needs an addition to her wardrobe, as long as you’re the same size. See if you can snag that sweet dress she’s not wearing anymore.
Five: Figure out what a “good deal” is.
This was the most difficult part of learning how to shop. Originally, I thought that any kind of sale was a good deal. It must be, right? It’s on sale! All sales are made equal.
In fact, all sales are not made equal.
In British Columbia, a 15% off sale will pay for the taxes on the full price product.
Figure out what the mark-up is on the product you’re looking at. As an ex Best Buy sales associate, I knew which products were mostly mark-up and which ones were sold mostly at cost. Laptops and game consoles are sold barely above cost. DVDs, CDs, cables, and accessories are mostly mark-up; it’s where the store made its profit.
If you figure out what the mark-up is, you can determine whether or not the sale is a “good deal”.
Practice Makes Perfect (Sense)
This isn’t something that you’re going to be able to master in one shopping trip. It’s going to take discipline, patience, and dedication. These tips are the culmination of fifteen years of watching a Thrift Master at work.
You’re my world
The shelter from the rain
You’re the pills
That take away my pain
You’re the light
That helps me find my way You’re the words
When I have nothing to say And in this world
Where nothing else is true
Here I am
Still tangled up in you
I’m still tangled up in you
Still tangled up in you
You’re the fire
That warms me when I’m cold You’re the hand
I have to hold as I grow old
You’re the shore
When I am lost at sea
You’re the only thing
That I like about me
And in this world
Where nothing else is true
Here I am
Still tangled up in you
I’m still tangled up in you How long has it been
Since this storyline began
And I hope it never ends
And goes like this forever
In this world
Where nothing else is true
Here I am
Still tangled up in you
Tangled up in you
I’m still tangled up in you
Still tangled up in you
Tangled Up in You – Staind (The Illusion of Progress)
I found you in the most unlikely place, almost five years ago. This love thing; there’s nothing quite like it.
People are generally surprised to hear that first part of my post-secondary education was focused on software. Sure, these days I’m more into the front-end UI than the back-end DB, but my heart is in language.
When folks think of software developers, they think of a person that fits into one of these categories:
Dude
Dilbert
Reclusive nerd with little to no sense of social skills
Left-brainer with little to no sense of creativity
“…in order to be able to interact effectively, we must have some idea of what people are likely to be like, which behaviors will be considered acceptable, and which not.”
Alright, I concede. Sometimes, I fall into the stereotype of the drooling nerd who does nothing but play video games for eight hours a day instead of getting my work done. It’s also fair to say that lots of software devs lack the social skills to be in sales or marketing. I can even admit that Dilbertisms exist for an equally important reason: all devs have had the dreaded PHB (Pointy Haired Boss) during their time in Cubicle Nation.
It’s the assumption – I’m a sometimes code monkey and that means that I can’t possibly be creative – that makes my nasty eye twitch come back.
Code Creates Things. Beautiful Things.
Look at your favourite piece of software. I’ve got mine running in the background while I write. Look at the way it’s laid out, the colours, how your eye moves across it, and even the mood it puts you in. UI experts put their souls into that. Designers lent their creative energies. But it was the developers that put all the pieces together.
It was the developers that flexed their fingers and made it all possible. The devs were the creators.
The best example of beautiful things created by code is: websites and web applications. Luscious layouts with exquisite typography that ooze creative juices. Don’t they make you want to crawl inside? Yeah, those are the product of a fellow code monkey taking the juicy Photoshop design and making it a reality for the web.
When I worked as an in-house software developer from 2006 to 2008, I was also the UI specialist. I took Excel spreadsheet mockups and made it scalable for both a handheld computer and a regular desktop in Photoshop and then implement the prototype in Visual Studio.
My job was to take the initial concepts and make them a reality; to create a product from scratch.
And yet, when I talked about my job to my friends, they would just chalk it up to another of my nerdy endeavours and ignore it. Software development didn’t affect them. Real software devs were science-fiction. After all, I didn’t work at Microsoft or IBM or Bioware. I worked for a 3PL warehousing company. I wasn’t creative; I was doing what I was told under my corporate leash.
Every project that I’ve worked on – both in-house and as an independent contractor/freelancer – has involved the combination of my right & left. My 1’s & 0’s. Working together. In tandem.
Code + Creativity = One Rockin’ Product
That’s what violetminded is all about: using both sides of the equation to balance the needs of project by exposing the creativity in code and diving into the logic of creative projects. When it comes to creating any kind of software solution – be it web-based or not — you can’t have one without the other, even if it looks as simple as words on a website or a text-based editor.
You need the creative chutzpah to generate the ideas and the technical skills to make the magic.
So the next time you hear someone knocking a software dev’s creative skills, tell ‘em this: you can’t have the code (or the solution) without the creativity.
