Coffee heat rising

Scared in Your Living Room…

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Egad! Get up and close that damn back door!  

Ruby and I are loafing in the family room…while the kitchen door hangs open.

And while the news is full of reports about the guy who walked in a woman’s door as she was enjoying the beautiful weather around her house, out in a tony suburb…. LUV-leeee!

We live in an upper-middle-class slab of north central Phoenix, where you ought to feel safe and smug and snug. But truth to tell, it’s NOT safe. No part of the Valley of the Sun is safe. Wherever you are, you run a risk of some sh!thead breaking into your home or your car and coming after you.

This, of course, is why we have big dogs and guns.

But y’know…. Doesn’t it strike you that you shouldn’t have to be armed to the teeth to be safe in your own home? You shouldn’t have to board and feed a four-legged alarm system?

Gosh, but I’m tired of this.

Don’t know what can be done about it, other than sealing my house and yard inside an impermeable plastic dome.

But y’know…I don’t recall feeling antsy like this all the time when I was a kid and a teenager. My mother was scared — but she had good reason, having enjoyed the unwelcome attention of some guy who found her alone out on her grandparents’ upstate New York farm. But I’ve never had any such misadventure. So why am I…scared? 

Ohhhh well…

Make

My 

Day!

Spavined!!

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Actually, the spavined hip is beginning to feel noticeably better. Doesn’t mean it’s healed…matter of facts it still hurts. And hurts. And hurts…hurts…hurts…hurts.  But: doesn’t hurt as much as it did.

Whatever our grand physical therapist tried to do the other day, that didn’t help.  If anything, it made it hurt WORSE.

By this evening, the pain is back to normal: hurts, hurts, hurts…. 

Maybe, with any luck, in a few days it will recede back to something in the vague vicinity of normal. Not holding my breath…but hope springs eternal, eh?

Ain’t this nice? Our fine city leaders plan to jack the garbage collection rates by nigh unto 50%. Then to keep raising them every time we turn around. Makes life on a ranch in the middle of nowhere look better and better.

Seriously: if I were 10 or 15 years younger, that’s exactly where I’d be headed: back to the Gold Bar Ranch, out on the far end of the freakin’ Mogollon Rim.

I’m coming to hate this Los-Angelized city.

Seriously: I loathed living in L.A. Was sooooo relieved, all those years ago when my father retired and dragged us to Arizona. But now: WTF. Might as well be back in Southern California.

At any rate: what else is new?  

Our honored City Parents are getting set to gouge the bejayzus out of us again: a FORTY-SIX PERCENT INCREASE in garbage pickup rates!!!!!

Bastards.

Well. It makes moving to some other city look better and better. The only reason I haven’t done so is that M’Hijito is here.

And it’s safe to assume that will continue to be the case. As long as he lives in Phoenix, I’ll be here, too.

One of my friends installed a little house in her back yard for her parent. So…thereby they each had their own place and their privacy, but all the costs for utilities and trash pickup and yard care were shared.

Can’t imagine M’Hijito would put up with that. Too bad: it’s definitely a Thought!!

Ruminations on Ruination

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Egad! Get up and close that damn back door…NOW!

Seriously: the Dawg and the Human just sat down to take in the morning slack — coffee mug in hand, computer atop lap — and it dawns on the Human: Do not sit there with the back door hanging open, dammit!!!  Nay verily, not even if the screen door is closed and locked.

‘Cause, as we know, any clown and his/her little brother can kick or yank that screen open.

Sounds paranoid, eh? But I do hafta say: it feels more and more unsafe to me, living here in lovely Arizona. Especially in its (un)lovely cities.

Day or two ago, a Tucson woman was murdered at her home, apparently by a nut case. So…sitting around your house or patio taking in the morning air is decidedly NOT advised. Surely not around here.

So many of our fellow citizens are off the rails here in this crazy-making 21st Century — and it’s so easy for them (and us) to stock up on firearms — that really: You’d be nuts to loaf in your family room with the back door hanging open.

I never used to feel especially unsafe in my home, certainly not in the daylight hours. But lately that has changed…and I don’t think the change is a function of age.

No. It’s a function of the steadily growing insanity and violence around us. Not that humans haven’t always been crazy…but really, it does seem a lot more pronounced than it was, say, 20 or 30 years ago.

Sometimes I think I should move out of uptown Phoenix — surely the suburbs would be safer. When I mentioned that to a cop during the great home invasion adventure, he remarked that there aren’t any places in the Phoenix metropolitan area that can be regarded as safe.

Really…when you re-read the post I put up at Funny after that little adventure, you hafta ask yourself: Why am I still living here???

What the HELL is the matter with me that I haven’t moved somewhere else? Somewhere far, far from here! Really: this house should have been on the market the next day after that episode…

But…but…WHERE would I go that’s any better?

Sun City, that fine mausoleum on the west side? 

Well, no: this kind of stuff happens out there. My mother lived in white-lipped terror all the time she and my father owned their Sun City manse. And I’m not interested in living in a ghetto for the aged and the cranky. No, thanks.

A box in the sky? One of the high-rise apartments along Central Avenue or in Scottsdale?

Well…I’ve lived in such a place. And…no thanks. Don’t wanna do that again. I’m just not in to communal living.

No communal living, eh? Well, then: how about back out to the ranch, just outside the wide spot in the road called Yarnell? Right up on the Rim…cool weather, lots of cows and sheep, plenty of room for the burglars to spread out comfortably?

Hm. Yeah, I did love the ranch. BUT: we didn’t live there 24/7. It was more of a weekend retreat for us. And y’know: I don’t think I would want to live out in the middle of nowhere 24/7. Besides, if a burglar/rapist/murderer can visit you in your city subdivision, what’s to keep him from visiting you on your remote ranch?

Basically…where there be humans, you be not safe.

Yeah: I’m afraid that’s a fact.

Or, alternatively:  I’m afraid. That’s a fact.

😀

 

 

Back Online! And Chariot-Free

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Hallelujah! Funny appears to be back online. Why, when, where? No idea. At any rate, we’ll soon see if this post goes up.

Meanwhile, our li’l world is toddling off to Hell on a handcart. (Can you toddle on a rolling thing?) Everybody that I know, just about, is sick as a dawg.

(Why are dogs thought to be sick, anyway?)

The purloined car is permanently gone. The Mayo/driver’s license issue is, I think (but am not sure) is still up in the proverbial air. I do have another doctor who says the Mayo doc is ridiculous and there’s no reason I can’t be driving…but truth to tell, I don’t feel much like barging into battle over the issue.

As more time passes, I find (more & more) that, given where I live and given the commerce all around here, I really don’t NEED a car to get by just fine. More than just fine, really.

Everything I need or crave, day-to-day, is available within easy walking distance. And for the stuff that’s not right around the corner, an Uber driver lives straight across the street!

Matter of fact, I’ve learned that at least half-a-dozen Uber drivers live right here in the ‘Hood. So as a practical matter, it really is true that you don’t need a car to live in this part of town, comfortably and conveniently.

That is a HUGE money suck that goes away forthwith! Riding on the lightrail, the busses, and the local Uber autos costs a tiny fraction of what owning a car costs. I’m now thinking I’m not going to bother to try to extract my license from those idiots at the Mayo or to retrieve my car from my son’s garage.

If he gives the car back or reimburses me for it, I’ll sell it and bank about 10 grand. That will buy a whole lotta Uber rides, eh?

Gosh. It’s almost like living in San Francisco. When my mother and I lived there, waaayyy back in the day, my father’s swell Oldsmobile remained parked in the apartment’s underground garage whenever he was off at work (he went to sea and was gone for weeks at a time). The only time my mother and I got that car out was to drive to Berkeley: there to visit the relatives. Most of the time, we rode the trains and busses. Or walked.

This, interestingly, changes the tenor of life in Phoenix.

Until recently, living here was more like living in Southern California than anything: hot, traffic-ridden, bourgeois, boring. But as commerce builds up and it becomes more feasible to get around on foot, it feels more like living in San Francisco, where you don’t bother with a car unless you have a long drive to make.

And y’know….since there’s a car rental place about three blocks from here, I may just get rid of the Dog Chariot altogether. Why own a hole in the pavement into which to pour money when someone else can own and maintain the thing, and you can rent one whenever you feel so inclined?

The nightmares never stop

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O Gawd!  There really IS a point when it’s time to hop off from the merry-go-round that is life!  WHAT a flickin’ nightmare just living has become.

My poor son — make that my HEROIC son — has been dragging me from pillar to post: doctors, therapists, thisses, thats, and whatnots. Seems to be no end to it: we just go on and on and ON.

This evening we’re back from the physical therapist,  where what I accomplished was to spavin the hip even worse than it was already spavined. Ohhh my GAWD does this stuff hurt. 

No kidding: I hurt; I hurt; I hurt; and then I hurt some more. And frankly: I ain’t gonna be able to handle a helluva lot more of this!

JAYZUZ!  Just get sat down, and ringie dingie dingie ringie dingie dingie… a clear and present phone solicitor.

But with all the sh!t that we’re going thru just now, there IS an outside chance that this could be a real call from a real person.

Human Answers: Hullo. How may I help you?

Scam Artist Answers: Hullo. May I speak to Mr. or Ms. Human.?

Human replies: GET THE F*** OFF MY PHONE, GODDAMN IT!!!! Shrieked as loud as humanly possible into the phone.

Dammit. 

Need to get an airhorn to blast at the bastard phone solicitors. Hmmm…wonder if those things can be had from Amazon?

****

Mwa ha hah!  Looks like I’m not the only one who’s thought of this. There’s a whole collection of “air horns loud” 😀

Ohhhh yeah! Gotta order up one of these.

Hmmmm… Wonder if there’s a way to blast the phone solicitor without deafening oneself…  Yeah…

Suppose you got a sturdy wooden or steel box, set the phone receiver down in that along with the air horn, closed the box, and then let the air horn have at the ba*tard.

Hmmmm…that doesn’t look very promising. There’s gotta be a way, though.

Let us think on this…