Coffee heat rising

Annals of the Floored & Flabbergasted

Kids in an Overheated Age

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What ARE they up to?

The story of the 11-year-old boy who killed himself when his 13-year-old amour posted on Facebook that she was offing herself has been afloat in the news for the past several days. We’re told authorities are pressing charges against the girl, who somehow was supposed to have known that her childish joke would drive the kid to suicide.

Honest to God. They’re children, for cryin’ out loud. Where were their parents? And why were the kids on Facebook at all? More to the point, why were they pretending to be a romantic item?

Whoever’s at fault here, it’s not a barely adolescent girl.

Even though American children experience puberty at a much earlier age than used to be normal (one of my friends said her daughter got her first period at age nine!), they’re still children.

An 11-year-old is not psychologically prepared to deal with the ups and downs of romantic engagement. Neither, IMHO, is a 13-year-old. Yet these two kids were said to be “boyfriend” and “girlfriend.”

Really?

Where were their parents? What kind of adults let two young kids decide they’re in a romantic relationship? And for that matter, what kind of adults allow their children to surf Facebook (and presumably the rest of the Internet) unsupervised?

The business of letting little kids decide that they’re “boyfriend” and “girlfriend” — as opposed to playmates — is not new. When I was in the fifth and sixth grades, I had classmates who dubbed themselves “boyfriend and girlfriend.” Amazingly, their parents thought this was cute and actually encouraged it. The kids went on little dates and exchanged tokens of their undying love.

It was stupid then. And it’s probably even stupider today, with the superheated atmosphere stoked by social media and the accelerated physical maturation created by the hormone-like and pharmaceutical hormones that contaminate our food and water. The fact that a nine-year-old has her period or that a six-year-old can get it up does not mean either of them is capable of the complex grasp of human relationships demanded by romance.

The whole thing just makes me want to bite someone — especially the mother who’s trying to blame a 13-year-old child for her own irresponsibility and the small-town prosecutors who are charging the 13-year-old over a stupid but noncriminal act whose consequences she could not possibly have predicted.

Failing to keep tabs on what your kids are up to in the social media should be regarded as child neglect. Letting your 11-year-old “date” should be classed as a type of child abuse. The consequences, as we see, can be dire.

What say you? Am I crazy? Or are the adults involved in this sorrowful fiasco the real culprits?

Image: DepositPhotos, © vizualni

General Business Frustrations

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So this was an aggravating day of general business frustration. (Notice how skillfully, not to say clunkily, I include the title’s main words — yea, verily: all the words — for the pointless benefit of Google’s search engines? Thank you, oh, thank you, dear Lord Google, for improving our writing style and making us all sound like talking bots.)

High on today’s list of tasks to accomplish was to post the writing tome’s body copy and cover copy to the printer’s website and order up a set of page proofs. This chore, I expected, would occupy an hour, maybe at the outside two hours.

No.

It consumed the entire frigging day! Started on that around 10 a.m., having returned from this morning’s bidness meeting (does Google’s search-bot perceive “bidness” as a synonym for “business”?) and having completed a few chores so small they don’t rank high enough to get on the Whiteboard List, I loaded up the PoD guy’s site and began the rather simple task of uploading content.

1. Convert the Wyrd file to PDF (already done) and upload the file to the order page.

2. Go through the file for one last proofread.

3. Fix the few remaining issues.

4. Convert the Wyrd file again to PDF and re-upload the PDF.

5. Go through the file for one last, last proofread.

6.Convert the Wyrd file again to PDF and re-upload the PDF. Shirk the duty of proofing it again.

7. Upload a PDF (or is it a JPEG??) of the wrap-around cover. Make minor adjustments in size and position.

8. Submit; pay money.

9. Order one (1) set of page proofs.

Does this look hard?

Well, no. It doesn’t LOOK hard. And I don’t suppose it would be hard, if things went according to plan.

1. Go through the file for one last proofread…

Discover that in a paragraph urging readers to be sure to hire a copyeditor before inflicting their golden words upon the world, the word “your” appears as “you r.”

Far more annoying, several diagrams that came across just fine from Wyrd into the PDFs have somehow corrupted. Three of the five graphics are fucking trashed.

Fix the typo and a couple of other small issues. Then try to figure out what’s wrong with the artwork. After several re-conversions to PDF and then several hours spent rebuilding the (damned complicated!) diagrams, there is no way on God’s green earth I can figure out why the images are corrupted and what I can do to fix them. The new, upgraded versions come across even MORE distorted than the originals.

2. Giving up on this effort, along about three in the afternoon I decide at least to upload the cover.

Can’t remember whether they require a PDF (think so) or a JPEG (which of course would make sense). Upload a PDF. Result: a wide white border all around the painfully, tediously constructed, elaborate wrap-around cover.

Try uploading a JPEG. Result: nothing.

Wrestle with the PDF. Can NOT get the uploaded image to quit appearing inside a wide white border.

Screw with this several times but have no luck.

Decide to try re-uploading the content PDF, in hopes that maybe refreshing that page will let it upload the rebuilt images.

No luck.

It was after 5:00 by the time I decided to give up wrangling this stuff. But along about then, as I was closing out of the PoD outfit’s page, I noticed the cover had mysteriously uploaded, as if on its own or by mental telepathy, in such a way as to look almost normal.

Must be Cox’s wondrously expensive new modem/router is SO DAMN SLOW that it takes not seconds, not minutes, but large fractions of an  hour to complete a transaction.

So that was a bit of a frustration.

This morning’s business breakfast in lovely mid-town Scottsdale was a bit of a frustration, too.

You know, I’ve never much cared for First Watch, not since the first bloom of the business faded. So it was not with much joy that I greeted news that our meetin’ place of lo! these many years, a dowdy Good Egg, was to be consumed by the not-much-less dowdy First Watch. Trepidation, indeed, you might say: not joy.

And those trepidations have proven prophetic. The new management has decided serving up a weekly breakfast to a group of 12 does not meet their definition of profitability. So they’ve been pressuring us to move on for quite some time. First thing they did was move our meeting table (which occupied a part of a semi-private back room) and stuff us into uncomfortable bench seating. Then they took our favorite waitress away and gave us airheads in her place. They changed the menu, but as one would expect, it’s no better than any other lovely American breakfast menu: oversalted, oversugared, and overgreased.

Yech.

While I was sick, the group tentatively tried out a Denny’s, a store whose location would add another two miles to my already annoying drive into the blinding early a.m. glare.

Really, I do not like Denny’s. I haven’t been back to Denny’s in years, not since the time that they served me a cup of coffee in a mug with some woman’s bright red lipstick print stuck to the rim. When I asked for a clean cup, they refused to give me one!!!!!

So I do not relish meeting at Denny’s.

But it probably doesn’t matter, because I rarely order anything at the Good Egg/First Watch. Eggs make me vomit instantly, and overall I don’t care for foods that are mushy and sweet or that are oversalted. That pretty much lets out…

• Bacon & eggs
• Ham and eggs
• Oatmeal as served in US restaurants
• Gooey sugary yogurt “parfaits”
• Pancakes made of undercooked commercial mix and topped with gooey sticky stuff
• Cottage fries drenched in salt
• And…you name it.

Their coffee’s so bad it’s undrinkable So that leaves one with…well…a glass of water.

Today’s service was so bad and the seating so uncomfortable that we decided enough was enough. We planned to meet at Denny’s next week.

This of course entailed my tracking down Denny’s management and confirming that our band of merry robbers could meet there next week, making a reservation, and sending out a notice to the membership. And that elicited a suggestion from the Boss Man that really, really despite my peevishness I should let First Watch let we would not be there next week.

That is because he is a nice man and I am not a nice woman. I personally feel that their not even bothering to have set up our table this morning is a perfectly fine reason not to bother to inform them that we will not be there next Thursday.

And therein lies the difference between a gentleman and the Wicked Bitch of the West…

Discussed the e-book with Wonder E-book Fomatter. The elaborate graphics have him pulling out what little remains of his hair, too. Not only do the images make him crazy (he’s actually got those down pat), he hates loathes and despises footnotes, which generate layer on layer on layer of extra work for him. He tortured himself by counting the damn things, leading him to point out — four or five times — that I’ve inserted 88 notes in the thing. I suggested he simply substitute links; this elicited a lengthy disquisition on what a PITA that is.

Life is a PITA.

It is now after dark. I haven’t walked the dogs. Yea verily, I haven’t walked the dogs in many days. They grow frustrated; I grow fat.

Oh well. Things could be worse. Our honored Clown in Chief could, for example, launch us into an open war with Syria, for example….

That oughta up his approval rating amongst the ones born every day…

 

 

Taking a Break from the First-World Problems…

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And now for a cuppa coffee (or two) out in the Leafy Bower, courtesy of some very balmy weather. It rained a little yesterday, out of a warm sky. Today is gorgeous, a few high mares-tailish clouds keeping the glare down, perfect for yard-loafing.

Yes, it’s absolutely true, you’re right: I should not make up another pot of coffee, not at the absurd prices I’m paying. If I indulge myself with a third & fourth mug of the perfect elixir (one French press pot holds two mugsful), it doesn’t take too long to go through a pound of beans.

First-World problem.

In that vein, I happened to notice, as I was entering this week’s receipts into the budget spreadsheet, that the last time I bought a pound of the same dark-roast coffee, the charge was two dollars less. So, either The Little Guy (the shop’s proprietor) has jacked up the price by 12% or our friend the tip-begging counter clerk quietly inflated the bill. So I think we’ll be buying coffee somewhere else after this.

First-World problem.

Do you own a Cuisinart food processor? Did you know that  in some models the ultra-sharp blade has been recalled? Mine, which I use once every eight or ten days to concoct dog food, is one of the affected models. Since these things are known to fall apart and install ultra-sharp, mouth-slashing metal shards in the food, you might want to check your model number.

One of the tasks of the day was to call the number on the page at that link (the supposed form you can fill out is nonexistent). So after more hours, starting at 7 a.m., than I wish to reckon laboring over Chicana/Latina postmodern feminist theory, along about 10:30 I finally got around to that.

First-World problem.

This morning I read and tried to render more or less literate an essay by a junior-level tenure-track type who argued…  oh, God, it defies belief. This woman dragged a fussy baby to an academic conference. When the poor little infant made, as unhappy infants tend to do, a distracting racket, she was asked to take the baby out of the meeting room. She interpreted this outrage as clear and present evidence of White (always capitalized) privilege and anti-feminist, anti-Latina hegemonic discrimination.

It’s all about me, hm? Never seems to have occurred to her that maybe the woman giving the speech would have liked to be heard. Or that maybe, just maybe some people at the meeting would have liked to be able to hear the speaker.

First-World problem. With a vengeance.

Meanwhile, the lead author on the latest Chinese magnum opus e-mailed asking if I would please re-issue my statement with just her name and institution on it, since it’s her grant that’s funding the research and Nanyang Tech has to pay just her, not her and her co-author. No problem.

Does China have First-World problems? Hmmm… If you’re at Nanyang Tech, no doubt. It’s in Singapore, not China. As for her young co-author, recently escaped from that august institution with a Ph.D. in hand, now ensconced at what sounds very much like the equivalent of Yankton State College? Maybe not so much.

First-World problem. Qualified.

Yesterday I actually succeeded in getting through another 10,000 words of the client’s 89,000-word F&SF novel. Finished along about 8:30 or 9:00 p.m., in spite of not getting started before about 1:30 or 2:00 — thanks to church & grocery-store run.

It’s Monday, so I needed to deposit the (very nice!) check said client had mailed me, which didn’t arrive until Friday evening. In knee-jerk fashion, I put “drive to credit union, deposit check” on the to-do list. Finishing the Latina feminist rant and the very cheering and interesting artist’s statement for the Latina feminist journal (some people really are outstandingly wonderful…), there was nothing more for it but to haul myself to my feet and get dressed and drive to the credit union and…ugh.

I…do…not…want…to…drive…to…the…credit union. So much so that one delaying tactic entailed cleaning the bathroom and scrubbing the toilet. That’s how much I didn’t want to drive to the credit union.

But it was a useful delaying tactic, because while I was applying Clorox toilet bowl cleaner to the john in the middle bathroom, it occurred to me that I could avoid driving to the credit union by…yes…by electronically depositing the check. There’s a unique idea…

As usual, scanning the thing correctly was a bit of a hassle. But the CU has hugely upgraded its magical-digital-deposit function, so once a check is scanned, it takes all of about 30 seconds to deposit it.

First-World problem, on steroids.

This left me with having to actually sit down and…you know…work for that check the guy sent. I’d like to get through another 10,000 words today — unlikely, since it’s 2:30 now and my enthusiasm for work isn’t any better than it was an hour or two ago, when I sat down to this little squib.

Emptied the dishwasher, reloaded the dishwasher, cleaned the kitchen, scrubbed the tile countertops, put a load of laundry in the washer.

First-World Problem.

Cleaned up the back yard; hauled the dog shit and trash out to the garbage.

World-Wide problem.

Sprayed the weeds in the alley. Pissed because the young pups who moved into Sally’s house won’t do that, which means that by mid-summer yet another fire hazard will be piled up along their alley fence. Is there some part of “Fourth of July fireworks will set fire to that damn grass” that they can’t understand? Realized the rubber-tree plant is dying and will soon have to be replaced with something. Would like to haul the potted palm around to the west side but can’t budge it; need Mexican laborer to cart it over and put it in place. Hope to God Gerardo is here legally. Think he is. Better be.

World-Wide problem.

And, in the Annals of the Floored and Flabbergasted, every morning we awake to find we still have a grandstanding, egotistical, clown for a president… Every. single. day, some new antic!

World-Wide problem

Do You Tip Counter Staff?

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So…I go in to my favorite coffee house to buy a pound of their French roast beans, about the best coffee you can get anywhere.

Walk over to the shelves. Pick up a bag of “The Bold Truth!” (it is!), belly up to the checkout counter, and fork over the Visa card.

The store uses a Square attached to an iPad to run your credit card. So she does this and then she shoves the tablet in my face and says, “How much do you want to leave for a tip?”

Choices are 15%, 20%, or 30%.

I think…

Are you kidding me? I walk into the shop; I walk across to the retail section; I search out, locate, and retrieve a pound of packaged French roast coffee; I carry it over to you and hand it across the counter along with a credit card; you pick up a device and stick my credit card in it. You haven’t moved two feet in this entire transaction!

Trying not to show (too extravagantly) how peeved this makes me, I say, “I should pay a 15% tip on a $15 bag of coffee? I don’t think so.”

Then of course I feel like a bitch. She emphasizes what wonderful coffee it is. I allow as how it’s probably the best coffee in town. But I’m not paying a tip on non-service. Or rather, on service that entails nothing more than collecting my money.

Ten percent of $15 is $1.50 [TYPO in the original post!! eeek…], bringing the total tab (not counting the aggravation cost) to almost $17 for enough coffee to last a week or, at the outside, maybe 10 days. At 20 percent — the amount I normally tip in restaurants, BTW — that bag of coffee would’ve cost me $18!

Well. The Little Guy (as SDXB and I call the proprietor) does sell great coffee. But I can buy a pound of perfectly fine espresso beans for $12 at AJ’s Highly Overpriced Grocery Store. Twelve ounces of Peet’s espresso will set you back $6.64 at Amazon, meaning that  a pound — 16 ounces — would cost you $8.85.

Grrrrrrrrrr….

It’s not really the $17 or $18 cost. The coffee is outstanding and undoubtedly worth that much. Even though I’m pinching pennies, I’m willing to pay for an indulgence that makes my life a little better. And morning coffee is a BFD around here. It’s one of the few small pleasures that make my solitary existence tolerable.

And I know that people who wait on counters don’t earn very much, and I know that if I were a decent human being, I would regard it as charity and pony up two or three bucks.

But…I also know that between the two of us, I’m the one who needs the charity. That lady earned noticeably more than I did today. Half my day was spent untangling an academic paper and reading the most brain-banging cant, cliché, and jargon disguised as academic writing…just gawdawful stuff.

At $4 a page, I earned $136 for that exercise in sado-masochism, which will be split 50/50 with my business partner: a net $68 for about eight hours of mildly annoying work (half of yesterday was occupied in preliminary work on the piece). It will be four to six months before we’re paid for the job we’re working on now.

If the coffee-house counter lady earns minimum wage (without tips) and hangs around the place for 8 hours, then she is paid $80 for the same number of hours, approximately, that I put in on the cant, cliché, and jargon. And she didn’t inflict any wear and tear on her own computer equipment to do it.

Think I could get away with asking my clients for a tip?

No. ‘Fraid not. About 90 percent of the time, when I quote our standard rate of about $4 a page to a prospective client, I never hear another word.

So, dear reader…

How do you feel about ponying up a tip to a counter clerk who does nothing more than take your money?

Image: Deposit Photos. © Shaiith79

Enough, already!

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Already!

One outrage after another:

Five-year-old child “detained” at airport, separated from his mother.

U.S. commando killed in Trump’s first anti-terrorism effort.

Trump’s impromptu orders may set the country back 70 years.

Even intransigent right-wing Republicans oppose Trump.

Trump chums up to Saudi Arabs, Abu Dhabi (need I remind you that I grew up in Saudi Arabia, I know something about the Saudi mentality, and I noticed — as you should have by now — that the Twin Towers attack was staffed by and funded by Saudis?)

Trumpites unrepentant about leaving Jews out of Holocaust statement (the mind boggles!)

Starbucks pledges to hire 10,000 refugees over next five years.

Tim Cook says Apple wouldn’t exist without immigration.

Politics “trump” science (the real kind, not the woo-woo kind)

Trump’s immigrant ban already harming scientists.

Trump’s immigrant ban fvcks over artists.

Markets fall in the wake of Trump travel ban, weak GDP.

Yes, and how many times must a man look up
Before he can see the sky? —Bob Dylan

TO THE BARRICADES, BROTHERS AND SISTERS!

DAMMIT, WRITE TO YOUR CONGRESSMEN. PICK UP A SIGN. GET OUT THERE IN THE STREETS AND MAKE YOUR VOICES HEARD.

This demented megalomaniac is going to destroy our country. That’s not a “maybe.” That’s not an “if.” That’s an is going to.

It’s got to stop before we all go down the drain. The only people who can stop it are Republican representatives sitting in Washington, D.C.  Turn on the light switch for them! Demand that they take action to stop the ruination of America and the true values of our founding fathers. We did not elect another George III.

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