Oh literate millennial, where art thou?

Whatever you think about Kim Kardashian (and Kanye West) naming their infant boy Psalm West, something else is truly troubling:

the number of people who do not know how to pronounce Psalm.


You don’t hafta be religious, Christian or some Biblical scholar to know the word psalm.

You just hafta to be SEMI-literate!!

Emphasis for a reason. Not even literate! Merely semi!

Because psalm is a simple word that’s found in BASIC vocabulary.

How fucking STUPID has our American culture become that psalm is, what, now a word of the highest echelon of education?!


StupidStupidStupid millennials.

Have said it a thousand times and will at least another few thousand before my time’s up:

Thank god we don’t live forever. Would hate to be here when these millennials become leaders / “leaders” and, nightmare of nightmares, reproduce and “raise” their own kids.

Stupid on Steroids.

Or should that read: Pstupid on Psteoroids.

Because, you grand ol’ illiterate nitwits, the “p” is silent in psalm.

Which you would know if you took your brain outta social media (with its literacy-defying ridiculous shorthand) and put into a book … a dictionary … a classroom!

To close on an upbeat note, a random Bible verse off the Internet:

“When I am afraid, I put my trust in you.”

Psalm 56:3

Haha, perfect! I do fear profoundly for humankind for this generation of Illiterates.

As for where I put my trust … in my god, good ol’ Merriam-Webster!


Where’s Silent Night when ya need it?

Merry Christmas to all!

And how’s your holidays? More peaceful than mine, I hope (haha).

I’m at a Starbucks (since both my jobs are closed today; otherwise I’d be working ..working and alcohol — best salves to forget it’s Christmas!).

It’s busy here but not unruly.

Until apparently a family of 10 entered. Took 3-4 tables and chairs just down from me.

A group with 2-3 kids, boys, probably brothers or cousins, ages around 5-7.

Are they hyped up on Christmas treats?

Or simply the result of shitty parenting?

Either way, they’re obnoxious loud misbehaving B-R-A-T-S! Punching each other, playing, doing what kids do. *In their own homes.*

Not in public. Certainly not if you’re a good parent.

So these rambunctious boys are screaming up a storm. Rolling around on the floor.

Yes, you read that right. ROLLING AROUND ON THE FLOOR. At Starbucks.

Not a damn adult in the group doing a damn thing about it. Well, one guy, probably the father, “told” them to behave.

As effective as telling the Pope to go hang out in a brothel.

Bad example. It’s been done. But you get the point.

Passing by, I shot them a look. An expressionless detached on-point look. A look that shouted: “Completely unacceptable.”

Put another way: “You’re the fucking assholes. And the rest of us here in Starbucks trying to have a jolly relaxing Christmas: Not.”

At my table, I stuffed in earbuds far as they’d go without damaging ear canals. Cranked Pandora as loud as it could go.

Still not loud enough to drown the Boy Monsters and their shitty parents.

Shot a few more direct looks.


Don’t answer that.

In today’s American society, it is. Dare point it out to a parent, ask them to quiet ’em own, put a leash on them puppies, consider the patrons … all falls on deaf and attacking ears.

I know. Because I politely but firmly SPEAK UP. And the response is NEVER good! As if I’d just announced I’d run over their dog.

(cancel cancel)

Finally, The OBNOXIOUS level of the Brant Tumbling Boy grew too much even for the (apparent) father.

He escorted them outside for a brief “talking to.”

Now, I did send direct messages nonverbally with dead-on glances that communicated in no uncertain terms that they were OUT OF LINE.

And they caught those looks.

So I’d LIKE to think that those messages had an effect. Maybe awoke them from the stupor of their self-importance. Reminded them for a fleeting moment that this is a public cafe, not their private living room.

I’d like to think that my direct but silent looks made an impact.

Truth is, it’s certain I did.

On this late Christmas afternoon, I’d like to think I contributed my small part to Peace for All.

Or at least those at this here Starbucks.

Merry Christmas, all. Peaceful may it be.

Move over, Elmer Fudd!

You’ve got company.

Would you date a girl with an obnoxious laugh?

(Or a guy? But let’s stay real. Males generally don’t produce annoying sounds that females do.)

Obnoxious meaning high-pitched, squirrel-y gunfire bursts of sound somewhere between giggles and laughter . That rapid-fire rat-a-tat-tat-tat ear-bleeding pitch that only dogs should be able to hear.

You see the “Seinfeld” episode where Jerry’s dating a girl, Naomi, with a laugh like”Elmer Fudd sitting on a juicer”? Classic line, that!

Obnoxious Laugher on Seinfeld

Naomi, Obnoxious Laugher on “Seinfeld”

Just so happens that Naomi’s Twin Flame is at the cafe where I like to write in peace. So much for serenity tonight.

Naomi’s Twin Flame looks about 24. She’s chatting with a gal-pal around the same age.

Her gal-pal is sane, judging by her way of speaking and laughing.

Naomi’s Twin Flame however is not.

First, she laughs way too often. Like Russell’s dating interest on “Rules of Engagement.” The LOL Girl laughs at EVERYTHING. Every text Russell sends, everything he or anyone says.

“How’s the weather?” laughlaughlaugh.  “I went to the market today.” laughlaughlaugh. “I love your shirt!” laughlaughlaugh.

She’s so annoying that he actually dumps her rather than sleep with her. Rare for the Hound that he is!

So Naomi’s Twin Flame laughs too much. You can tell by watching. Her gal-pal doesn’t look THAT funny or their interchanges that entertaining.

Naomi’s Twin Flame laughs are piercing staccato rapid-fire high-pitched ear-bleeding bursts of hysteria. Audible from one end of the cafe to the other.

So fucking annoying — nee, painful — to listen to over and over and over that I packed up my stuff and relocated to the furtherest table away.

Still ain’t far enough!

“Put in earbuds,” you might suggest.

Guess what. Already in! Volume cranked to the max on both earbuds and Pandora.

BFD as the acronym goes.

Naomi’s Twin Flame is a Siren.  Siren not as in the woman or or winged creature whose singing lures unwary sailors onto rocks. Siren as in the blazing song emanating from a police car.

Honestly, I came here for a nice relaxing light dinner and an Americano with inarguably the best espresso in town. A treat I allow myself a time or two a week.

It’s been about 1-1/2 hours listening to her and I am exhausted. Exhausted.

So for the second time I packed up. And bolted to the furtherest seat away. OUTSIDE!

Ahhhhhh. Bliss! Blissful relaxation on the patio. The sounds of cars. The QUIET conversation of three patrons. The water spilling in the fountain.

It’s cool out here and breezy. I’ve got goosebumps. I need a jacket. But I’ll take frostbite over one more second of that laugh!

Even the sound of jackhammers would be soothing compared to laughs of Naomi’s Twin Flame!

Some people shouldn’t be allowed in public. Ear-Bleeders especially. She needs someone to tell her to either shut the fuck up or dial it down. WAAAAAY down. Like from 100 to 10 down.

To my opening question, I absolutely would NOT date a girl or a guy with an obnoxious Elmer-Fudd-sitting-on-a-juicer laugh.

Not even if I’m wearing these. In pure black. To go with my classic black dress and string of pearls of course.

Hearing Protection_Correct




Get that boy a drink x 10!

Are you sensitive to others and your environment?

Then perhaps you’ll know what I’m talkin’ about!

I’m a regular at this cafe. So’s this other guy. Young. Bookish in appearance. Likely a university student. Tall, wiry.

Always on his laptop.

Always moving.


Nervous energy. Never stops moving. His motor’s always running.

Once my little table was next to his. I too was on my laptop.

He wore earplugs. His foot went tap taptaptaptaptaptaptap taptaptaptaptap striking the floor in apparent rhythm with his music.

Never stopped! Taptaptaptaptaptap. Like Chinese water torture. Dripdripdripdripdrip.

Finally I spoke up. I had to. He was driving. me. crazy. Politely requested could you not do that. It’s annoying. Distracting. Something to that effect.

He glared as if I’d said I’d stolen $5 from his wallet. But he stopped. Thank god!

Well, Na-na-na Nervous Nick is at the cafe again. At a table in my peripheral vision clear as day.  No earplugs this time. Legs crossed. Foot moving. Updownupdownupdownupdownupdown.

Doesn’t stop. Updownupdownupdown. Sandaled foot always moving. Nervous energy spilling onto the floor into a puddle intruding into my own space a short 5 feet away.

I couldn’t take it any more!

I turn my table and chair from 12 o’clock to 10 o’clock to rotate him out of peripheral vision.

It helps. Still, I know he’s there. Can feel it.  I’m uber-sensitive. I glance over my shoulder time to time just to see whether his foot’s still updownupdownupdownupdown.

It is.


Na-na-na Nervous Nick just now stands, packs up his laptop and goes!

Where does a young man with soooo much drippy nervous energy go? God let it be to the gym for an exhausting workout!

A Zen garden!

A saloon! Certain folks, only a drunken stupor will dial down that energy.

Heck, with all his nervous energy, a few jolts o’ the whiskey might do me good too.

One word. Five letters. Says it all.


There. It’s said. Written. In black and white for the world, nee universe, to hear. See. Know.

An open letter to the subject. Name’s spelling tweaked. Not to protect the not-so-innocent. It’s me in my integrity.

Dear Karrie:

You had two days to post an invitation to members of the Meetup group. YOUR members and YOUR group may I remind you.

Two days is plenty of time to post an event. It takes 2 or 3 minutes to post it.

Not only that, I make it simple as pie. I write the event description. Spell it out along with the location, time and date to a T. There is no confusion. I could not make this ANY EASIER FOR YOU. For any Meetup facilitator.

I kindly request that you post it.

You don’t. Perhaps you didn’t get the message?

So I send a kind reminder.


So I send it again.

I eventually get:

“I will get this posted as soon as possible.” One day before the deadline for posting!

No. You didn’t. And you won’t.

Karrie, it takes all of TWO MINUTES — if THAT — to post an event. An event that again MAY I REMIND YOU is for the enjoyment of the people in YOUR GROUP.

Or did you lose sight of that?

Are you so fucking busy 24 hours a day that you haven’t a minute to spare for posting an event. In YOUR group. For YOUR members?!

Thanks to YOUR attitude, your inaction, your bitchiness, time runs out. There’s not enough time to post the party event that I’ve created. For the community of women. That you allegedly serve.

Because of you, I have 4 people coming. When there should’ve and would’ve been twice that. HAD YOU DONE THE RIGHT THING.

Listen, Karrie. I know you’re young. I know you’re busy — or seem to be. Every moment is obviously occupied round the clock. 24/7. I know you’re not the embodiment of sage woman, wise old soul.

But can’t you fucking see that this isn’t about YOU. Or about me. It’s about YOUR group and YOUR members being invited to a fun party event.

And BECAUSE of you, they won’t be. They can’t be. Because you couldn’t spare two precious minutes in your round-the-clock busy schedule, apparently, to DO THE RIGHT THING.

I hate you right now. I hate you not as a whole person. But because interactions past and to the present strongly tell me: you are a bitch. A selfish young self-centered bitch. Who has NO clue about what hosting a party in the home means.

Who has no clue about what it means to do things for others. Selflessly. Altruistically. Out of kindness. Out of goodness. Out of the sheer joy of doing for others.

I’m sorry you have to be in my life at all. Unfortunately, because you do facilitate a large group of women, I’m stuck with you. I’m stuck with your being INCONSIDERATE and selfish and BITCHY.

There are sisters. And there are bitches. You are in the latter. I am not and never have been but boy oh boy can I spot ’em 20 miles away. Bitches have a distinctive smell. Did you know that? Of course not. You’re one of ’em. I bet in high school, you were hated by a lotta girls. Girls of the Sisterhood.

So Karrie, if I could, I’d write you out of my life. Unfortunately, as I said, because you “facilitate” a large group of women in the Meetup universe, I’m stuck with you and your Bitchhood.

Can’t escape it. Can’t avoid it. Can’t live with it. P.S. I pity your new husband. I’d like to buy him a night of drinks in 5 years to see just how happy he is being your husband.

Neither here nor there.

BECAUSE of you, I’m in a predicament. YOU put me in this predicament. Your INACTION. Your excuse that you’re sooooo busy that you can’t afford 2 minutes to go online to post a party event is BULLSHIT. BULLSHIT. BULLSHIT. BULLSHIT.

You’ve been exposed.


And you blew it. You failed the VERY gals that you’re allegedly there to serve.


You’re not special, Karrie. Bitches are a dime a dozen. You being one is not news. Problem is, I pay the price. I and every woman of the Sisterhood.

Ugh. I hate women like you. I’m truly sorry that there are so MANY of you.

Last but not least, I’m gonna play Donald Trump for a moment, Karrie. To you and your “role” in “bringing women together”:




She’s a chip off the dictator’s shoulder, that one

Here’s a typical and telling tail, errr, tale of my controlling roommate.

Three dogs in the house (hers, both dogs and house). They’re beggars and really, what dog isn’t? They’re neither indulged frequently nor rewarded for their begging by the three humans.

Scene: One dog’s chillin’ in the living room and two in the adjoining kitchen.

I pull out a bag of tortilla chips and a coupla chips fall to the floor. Oops. Freebies for the dog first to the scene!

The dogs aren’t begging. They’re not watching me eat with drool hanging off their lips and that practiced pathetic look of “I’ve not tasted a morsel in a decade” in their eyes. They’re chillin’.

I’m a fair person. So that no dog’s left out, I give a chip — repeat: A CHIP — to each of the other two dogs who lucked out.

“DON’T FEED THE DOGS HUMAN FOOD!!!!!!” My bellowing roommate who, to my ill luck, is sitting there.

“It’s a chip. One chip. They fell and I was being fair.” — ironically, a practice she abides to as well.

“I DON’T WANT THEM BEGGING!” {yada yada yada} The caps aren’t accidental. She’s that loud. That dictatorial. That controlling. That infuriating.

“It’s one freaking chip! They weren’t begging! They’re chillin’ and chips happened to descend from heaven and out of fairness I ensured that each got one.”

I didn’t say that because it would’ve fallen on deaf and prejudicial ears. What J. says goes. There’s no discussing with her. More importantly, there’s very rarely even reasoning. She’s the queen. It’s her house. Her dogs. Yada yada. It’s her way or no way.

So I let it go. With her I’ve learned to pick my battles. A matter of survival. The best choice is no battle. To shut your trap and walk away, fuming, defeated but alive. You will never win a battle with J. Neither logic nor reasoning will advance your cause.

Submission — or the appearance of — and silence are the means to “peace” in the house that J. rules.

Fairness?! Haha. Fucking forget about fairness. AIN’T gonna happen. Not for me. Not for Jerry, the third roommate. Not for anyone under J.’s roof or in her domain.

So that’s how it went. Yelled at because I gave the dogs single chips.

And I’ll tell ya something. Much as her dictatorial and controlling and disregarding ways anger me, I’m more angered by how she suffocates and oppresses me around animals!! That’s special sacred territory.

It’s one friggin’ chip!!

One moment in time! For it, I’m denied the joy of a positive interaction with the animals. Yelled at for an act of kindness so minute in the big scheme of things. Had she displayed an ounce of grace, the interaction would’ve been very different.

What would that have looked like? Saying nothing. Letting it ride. Seeing the reality for what it was. By luck of position and timing, one dog got treated. So I ensured that the two others nearby did too. What the hell’s so wrong with that that it deserves a loud verbal spanking?!

Part of me just wants to scream: Get the fuck off of me and let ME and the dogs be!!

She’s a real killjoy, that J.

And the noose tightens another 3 notches.

Prior post is about a line drawn in the sand carpet.

Today’s is the end’s nearing.

You have to read the prior post to appreciate the thumb and restrictions I’m under at home the residence. Can’t really call it “my residence,” the mistress of the house is that dominating and controlling!

The past few days, I’ve been doing my laptopping at the kitchen table. The table’s in its own space adjoining the open kitchen and is rarely used save as a drop-off point for groceries or the like.

I’ve been sitting there for a good and valid reasons, none worth detailing. I much prefer that space by the window for the natural light than my “study” that I rent because it’s rather dark and depressing and unhealthy for my brain chemistry after years of suffering the Great Depression in the cold damp sunless gray Pacific Northwest.

You know the saying, “Children should be seen and not heard”? The house mistress view runs parallel: “Roommates should not be seen and not heard.”

So it was no surprise — in fact, I sensed it was coming — when today she asked: “Is there a reason you’re using the kitchen table instead of your room?”

I don’t know why she bothered asking. She wasn’t interested in the answers one bit. It took all of 5 seconds for her to jump on me and boldly disregard any explanation.

What she WAS interested in is telling me that the kitchen table cannot be used for computer work. Yes, the kitchen area is a common area (for the three of us roommates). FOR COOKING. FOR COOKING. She shouted.

There will be NO laptops at the kitchen table that no one uses.

So the table’s off limits. The living room — which in most homes is shared space — is off limits. Because that’s HER space and where she and her friend/roommate and the dogs watch TV. I can go watch TV in my little study.

Oh, and the huge backyard’s off limits. I can pass through IF need be en route to the garage.

Yep, the noose just tightened 10 pulls.

Like I wrote: Roommates shouldn’t be seen and they shouldn’t be heard. And I’m paying for this. And I’m paying for this?

I’m so damn sick and tired of roommates. I go that route only because I HAVE TO. Believe me, if I could afford to live alone, I would.

However, for THAT to happen, I have to first have a job! And not just some crap shit lame job that pays minimum wage — been there done that for 10 years now! I need a REAL job with a REAL income! And the first thing I’ll do is slip outta the noose of my roommate’s making and go find a place where I can BREATHE.


Incidentally, as she barked her rules and demands at me while walking away from me down her hallway, I shouted in return: “OK, OK! You’re the boss!” — in a moment of levity.

“That’s right!” she returned, seriously.

Handwriting’s on the wall and it spells M-O-V-E.

So Angry, I’m Ready to Rip Someone’s Hair Out!

Not my own.

In the job market (“market”), nothing makes me feel more like a worthless POS than getting no response to applications for dishwasher jobs.

This is NOT a commentary on dishwashing work. Every job has value in my view, from the groddiest of the groddy to the cream of the crop. And I fulfill every job, from the lowest of the low to the highest of the high with impeccable work ethics, identical commitment to the highest standard of quality and achievement.

I am capable of so so so so much more than dishwashing. I know that. I lived, for example, some 10 years in Japan, working in INCREDIBLY challenging corporate, business, and media settings, among others.

Nothing but nothing challenged and proved my mettle as my career did. And I mean career. I had a career in my FIELD (writing, editing, publishing, journalism) there that I’ve not come close to mirroring in the United States, due largely to lack of opportunity and now a crashed Obama-led economy.

The pain I’m feeling is very real, the frustration is pushing me over the edge into a deepening depression that’s pulling me fast into its undertow. The pain and frustration of not finding work after 1-1/2 months — actually many more, when I include my job search from a pre-Prescott distance.

The despair and disappointments of not being worth even a dishwashing job are killing me.

Have I done dishwashing? YES!!! Since I was like 6 years old. It was just one of many chores in the slave-labor camp that was my childhood, which I didn’t really have. I had a workhood and a slavehood.

I’ve also done it “professionally” — meaning work for which I was paid. It was dirty work, hard work, work that sometimes exhausted me and made me feel really bad about myself and my life and had FAR I had fallen from my life purpose and path.

However, I did not let those feelings of self-loathing and -hatred and darkness in any way shape or form impair my performance. My impeccable work ethics demand that I put EVERYTHING connected to me, my purpose and happiness and everything else, aside and DO. THE. JOB.

{I can feel the sting of the master’s whip on my back, in this lifetime that was my father …}

Dishwashing is dirty grunt work. I excelled at it but that’s because I excell at most everything involving work and tasks. It does NOT mean that “I’m destined to be a dishwasher, neither that it’s my life calling and purpose.”

But damn!! I can fucking do the job. Do you hear me, universe?!? Employers!!??? I CAN FUCKING DO THE JOB. I HAVE DONE IT. I HAVE DONE SO MUCH MORE THAN IT TOO>

And yet …

All the applications put in for dishwashing… one callback and interview … and wasn’t called back for a second.

It kills me, it is killing me to be SOOOO employable … and so WILLING TO DO ANYTHING ANYTHING ANYTHING … and remain unemployed.

This is harder on me than most people because I’m such a worker! My life mission IS work! I want to work. I don’t want no fucking Obama socialist Marxist regime “taking care of me.”

I’m past my wit’s end. I am losing it. I’m sinking fast into depression, the force of the spiral downward stronger than my hope, my optimism.

What is there to be optimistic about? I’m not deemed worthy enough of even a grunt-work dishwashing job.

Goddamn fucking crap economy.

DAMN the Obama-led Socialist Regime that is INTENTIONALLY destroying America and capitalism!

Fuck you to all Americans who voted this Dark Force in — not once but twice!! My dad used to say: “People get the government they deserve.” That’s true, with this important caveat: EXCEPT THE PEOPLE WHO ACTUALLY THINK AND USE THEIR BRAINS in the political arena. They NEVER get what they deserve. They get the shit chosen by the majority, the ignorant, the stupid, the morons. All the same.

Can’t get even a lowly dishwashing job. What does that say about me?

FabFitFun.com. — Edit to Flabby-UnFit-NoFun.com

Nothing ignites my ire like unresponsiveness.

Be it posters of job ads or housing (do NOT get me started on the hell that has become craigslist!), I think responding is essential as a courtesy and a respecting acknowledgment of the applicant.

America’s page overflow with lack of response. People think that simple manners aren’t necessary in their cars and behind their computer screens. They think the world begins and ends with them. They think that because they can’t see the faces of those sending emails, they don’t have to care. They get to be cold, inhuman, discourteous and get away with it.

It’s rude when anyone does it and in particular workplaces. I’m a rare breed, granted, because I still hold companies to standards. The bar’s set higher than with, say, posters of ads for housing. That is, responding to a job applicant is not only a human courtesy but a necessary display of professionalism. Take away both and that speaks volumes about that company. And for me, because I do hold companies to a basic standard of professionalism and responsiveness, my interest in working for them falls away.

That company today is FabFitFun.com

Under a theme of Life Lived Well, FabFitFun presents itself as a fun, loose, hip magazine focused on fitness, fashion, health and style. With articles like “4 Ways to Boost Your Brain Power,” “Best Outfits for your 2014 Workout” and “4 Delish Way to Dress Up Your Kale” — that’s “ways” by the way — FabFitFun is Cosmo meets Self magazines.

It’s  ironic I spotted the mistake in that hed on kale. Ironic because a month or two ago, I came across their online ad for copy editors. I’m a damn good editor. As a writer, I have not only such passion for the written word but a solid knowledge of and meticulous eye for the details, the nuts and bolts  of language. I’m a grammar nazi. From writing to editing, I hold myself to a very high standard in the craft of writing.

In that spirit, I took the FabFitFun editing test, which essentially was “find the 10 errors in this block of text.” There were more than 10, which I indicated in the test. Moreover, I went as far as to spot and correct the errors in their company introduction that accompanied the test! I’m just that committed to good writing.

Submitted the test AND the requested well-written cover letter. Waited. Waited. Waited and waited for an acknowledgment. Just a simple: “Thank you. We are in receipt of your test. We will get back to you in a week.”

Never arrived.

So I followed up.  Very important, to my standards, and woefully unappreciated by today’s employers. “Did you receive the editing test and cover letter? I’d appreciate a response” sorta message.

Again: Zip. Zero. Nada.

So after some time, I wrote AGAIN. By now, I wasn’t only frustrated, I was ticked off. I recounted the history of communications (or lack thereof). By this time, I was probing less for a response to the editing test and more for a HUMAN response.

What came back was an auto-reply “We’ve received your request (#XXXX) and will get back to you as soon as possible. Thanks for reaching out!”

That was two weeks ago.

So I wrote them one last time, informing them in carefully-crafted words what I thought of their responsiveness (not much) and their professionalism (even less).

I’m done with FabFitFun.com. They’ve revealed themselves to be unacceptably unprofessional and uncommunicative — oh, the twisted irony for a medium in the communications industry!

Moreover, I’d advise anyone looking to work for them to look elsewhere, unless your low standards allow you to work for a publication that evidently doesn’t give a shit about responding to emails. More precisely: responding.

Moral of the story: Run fast, run far from FabFitFun.com! Hey, it harkens to the very fitness they promote!