For years I’ve looked for ways of saving time. And paper, and even effort.
Reluctantly entering the computer-acquisition crowd, I got my first computer — not for me personally but for the office where I worked — on the advice of a Highlands colleague, Ron Maestas.
Maestas was light years ahead of me, his having delved into the then-new invention when the first models arrived. Some were Radio Shack TRS-80 models, lacking a hard drive and surrendering all the data once the machine was unplugged.
What convinced me that I should buy a computer and thus relegate my electric typewriter solely to addressing envelopes was Ron’s insistence that it would save on paper. Looking around my cluttered work space and seeing how many wastebaskets remained stuffed with wadded up paper, I acquiesced.
And how have things changed in the almost-20 years since I joined the computer generation? Well, take a peek into my home office and see whether even Lawrence of Arabia could make it through all the paper, clutter and sand. My use of a computer has in fact increased the paper consumption, as anything I type on the screen just has to be backed up with a hard copy. Even though computer crashes, in which data simply disappear, have become rare, one still wants to play it safe.
It should to be the other way around: If we have important papers, we back them up with the computer. The computer backup presumably protects us from losing files due to fire or flood, and the paper backup protects us from computer crashes. A safe-deposit box protects even more.
But not only were computers supposed to save on paper, they were designed to save us hours each day. Now while I admit that typing a letter on a computer, for example, is much easier than a typewriter, I don’t find that the computer has provided me the five extra hours a day I’d hoped for, to luxuriate. Not even one extra hour to spend on the local boardwalk and beach.
In fact, I spend more time doing clerical duties than before.
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An indication of a supposed time saver is the acronym. An acronym is a word or phrase that we use in lieu of a longer expression. Sometimes there’s a single word, such as ACTION, which represents American Council To Improve Our Neighborhoods. In many cases acronyms do save time: Imagine trying to sound out every syllable of what FBI or MESA stand for.
And there are terms, not necessarily acronyms, like Fanny Mae and Freddie Mac to represent more complex verbal arrangements.
A term only a few people — people like the Ron Maestases of the world — even recall is what refers to the ability to see exactly how the document we’re preparing will look.
There actually was a time when we typed onto a computer screen and needed several extra steps to make some of the letters bold, some italic. Until we printed the document, we didn’t know exactly how it would look.
Soon after, computers came around that showed on the screen how the final product would look when printed. We were now able to attempt different fonts, sizes and styles and be assured that’s how it would look when finished.
Thus came the term “What You See Is What You Get.” But rather than turn the first letters into an unrecognizable term, “WYSIWYG,” techies began calling it wizzywig.
Convenient enough, but remember, this three-syllable word was intended to shorten the seven-word term. It did for some, but today, for example, when all computers are wizzywig, there’s no need any more to explain what it means, in the same way we no longer talk about operating systems or central processing units.
Trouble is, nobody has ever said simply, “My machine is wizzywig.” No, without fail, we say wizzywig but then feel compelled to explain what it means. In the same way that computers generate more effort and paper work, the mere explanation of wizzywig can be daunting.
So on one hand, we use a time-saving term, and on the other, we take the time to explain what that term means, which takes even longer. I found “wizzywig” a number of times in the letters section of a recent computer magazine.
What does the term mean to people who never needed to know it? My 12-year-old computer-using grandson and namesake said he had no clue but added that it reminded him of the “Fuzzy Wuzzy Was a Bear” bit of doggerel.
Computer terminology doesn’t necessarily have the monopoly on shortened terms that still need explaining.
There are other terms, especially in the courtroom, that can never stand alone. My favorites are “dismissed with (or without) prejudice” and “the Alford Plea.”
What do these terms mean?
The first one refers to civil court matters. When a judge dismisses a civil case with prejudice, the person filing the suit is barred from re-filing it. And “without prejudice” allows the claimant to re-file it later. I still can’t figure out what “prejudice” has to do with it.
The Alford Plea in criminal court is simply a pleading in which the defendant does not admit the criminal act but concedes there’s enough evidence to lead to a conviction.
The Alford Plea has been around since 1970. It seldom appears in print without an explanation. So, even given it’s 38-year existence, it’s unlikely we’ll see the day when Alford Plea can stand alone.
The Alford Plea and Dismissed With (or without) Prejudice — and their accompanying explanations — will doubtless endure as long as wizzywig, which means, “What you see is. …”
But let’s not go there.