Coffee heat rising

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Delivery? HOT diggety!

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Eight o’clock in the morning and already hotter than the Hubs of Hades outside. Without a car, I need to get going RIGHT NOW to hit the Sprouts, the Albertson’s or the Fry’s to buy the groceries I need.

But…but…I also want breakfast. More than I want to go grocery shopping. By far…

The coffee is steeping. What passes for breakfast is ready to come out of the microwave. So…noooooo. Nope: not traipsing to a grocery store at crack of dawn.

And…LO!!!  Here’s a REAL good excuse not to do any traipsing at any time.

Albertson’s, Safeway, and Sprouts will deliver groceries!

Who knew??? 

Now that I know…we’ll be trying that out.

I’m dubious, though. My diet tends to be heavy on fresh produce. And in my experience, Americans know amazingly little about selecting and preparing fresh fruits and vegetables. So whatever those stores deliver is likely to be catch-as-catch-can.

But it’s worth a try.

Imagine! Never having to trudge to the store again!!!  

Woweee!

If one or more of those fine establishments can manage to deliver decent produce, I actually might not need a car. My son could be right!

Even if their staff can’t select decent produce, an Uber guy lives right across the street. He can deliver me over there, maybe for an extra fee help me gather the groceries, and haul the stuff back here. I mean…WOW!

Talk about the lap of luxury, eh?

An alternative might be to pay the Cleaning Lady Par Excellence to drive me to the store. That would work better, because then I could select my own groceries. But it would add to her workload and probably not ingratiate her. Not one…little…bit… 😮

Y’know… When we lived in England, we didn’t own a car. 

In London, a car wasn’t necessary. An unholy number of locals had them and trudged around in them…but…even more rode the Underground or the surface-street busses or…hang onto your hat..walked. 

What if…what if you thought like a Londoner? and behaved like one?

  • You wouldn’t own a car, partly because you couldn’t afford it and partly because you wouldn’t need one.
  • You would ride the busses and trains to and from work.
  • You would stop by a lovely little grocery store on the way home from the transit station; there, you would buy the makings for dinner, plus a bottle of wine.
  • You would eat like royalty, because virtually all of the food you bought would be sterling FRESH.

Well…o’course, we have no Underground. But we DO have the new fancy-dan streetcars, Hot diggety!

And we DO have Uber. The whole damn city is infested with Uber drivers. Hot diggett dawg!

Hmmmmm….. Intriguing!

The only time this would be impractical would be right now: in the dead of summer. Hiking around in 110-degree heat is not the best of all possible strategies.

However, the stores in question open as dawn cracks and stay open until well after dark. You could either start out at six or seven in the morning, or simply ride Ubers during the summer and shift to healthier (and cheaper!) walking when the weather cools.

Huh.

Today, I think, I’ll try the Albertson’s or the Sprouts delivery services. Let’s see how they do.

If they can select decent produce (and I’ll betcha Sprouts can)…well…

If they can, mirabilis! I’ll have groceries delivered here. Once in a blue moon I’ll visit the stores, explore their current offerings, and adjust my delivery lists accordingly.

First, though…I believe I’ll go back to bed for a nap. Was sleepy when I woke up at dawn’s first crack, and now am zombified.

Beloved Contract Workers….

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Bein’ an old lady alone with a 25-pound dog in lovely Phoenix, well…natcherly I have a swimming pool, right? And natcherly it takes up about a third of the back yard.  And, it bein’ a swimming pool, natcherly it has to be kept clean.

In lovely Arizona, maintaining a pool involves much more than a weekly brush-down and a slug of chemicals.

Much, much more.

It really needs to be swept down every day. And it certainly needs to have its chemicals kept current…that would be acid, chlorine, and whatnot.

It’s not very hard, and as a matter of fact this ole’ lady can do the job just fine.

Problem is, a pool requires daily maintenance, not — as some would think — weekly maintenance.

And that causes the ole’ lady to become surprisingly bored with the job. 😀

Just in from the backyard, about five minutes ago. Looks good out there. Thanks to Pool Dude, the guy who comes around once a week and beats back the algae, the water is just plain pristine. No kidding: downright crystal-clear.

Everything else is crystalline, too: the equipment is in good shape, the system’s working fine…nary a glitch in sight or hearing. YAY!

This state of affairs is not because of a busy ole’ lady but because of the Beloved Pool Dude.

Lemme tellya: THAT is a guy who earns his keep. In spades! 

He comes around early in the week to clean, service the pump and filter, and apply chemicals. Today, incredibly, is Saturday and that thing is still crystal-clear. He is making it possible for this ole’ lady to stay in her house. Because at this age? NOT A CHANCE would I be able to keep that hole in the ground even half as clean as he does. To say nothing of keeping the equipment running as though it were brand-new.

The pool and the backyard are, taken together, a main reason I absolutely do not want to move into an old-folkerie like the Beatitudes.

That water out there? It doesn’t have anyone else’s germs in it but mine. Well…and a few birds’. 😀

That fencing out there? It keeps the Ruby Doo out of the drink. (Ever had to jump in the pool to rescue a dog? Innaresting experience…) And it serves nicely for the occasional bird to perch on.

That equipment out there? It runs seven days a week, nooo problem no trouble no hassle. Once a week, Pool Dude checks it and administers whatever maintenance is needed.

He’s not the only guy who comes around to keep this place running. We have Gerardo and his crew, about whom you read every couple of weeks. Those guys…ohhhhh Lordie! WHO would want their jobs? Talk about working like horses…  They not only beat back the weeds and maintain the desert landscaping in 110-degree heat, they keep the watering system working, trim the voracious trees and shrubs, and control the vines that pile up along the back and east walls. The thorny vines… The ones that keep the prowlers, peeping Toms, and cats out. There’s a reason they’re called cat’s claw vines.

Then we have the watering system guy, who (along with Gerardo) keeps that large and complicated system running. Properly.

And Wonder-Cleaning Lady, who kindly absolves me from housework. Just about all housework, short of dropping the dinner dishes in the dishwasher.

And the electrician, who is certifiably smarter than the average cat. By about 1000 percent…

And the plumber, who understands products and systems that date back to the early 1970s…

How do I love Gerardo and his colleagues? Let me count the ways…  WAIT! I can’t count that high! 

😀  <3  😀

Hotter than a three-dollar cookstove…

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…as my father used to say about the lovely weather in the garden spot that was Saudi Arabia.

As we scribble, the back-porch thermometer claims the temperature is 108 in the shade.

Yeah. That’s degrees Fahrenheit.

Ye gawds! It makes Arabia look balmy.

But…but…seriously: it’s 12:30 in the afternoon. Earlier in the day — shortly after the local grocers and farmacias opened, our li’l thermometer was already registering 102.

And yes, that does make Arabia look pretty balmy.

Fortunately, we have actual air-conditioning, rather than the gummy swamp-cooling that Aramco installed in its residents’ homes in Ras Tanura. Even then, it’s damn hot and sticky in here.

Nevertheless, the brain continues to run on overdrive. 

All sorts of original, clever, and…uhm..weird ideas are drifting through my overheated little mind. And in particular, the most significant ones have to do with my son’s adventurous liberation of my car.

Yes.

The garage remains empty.

And y’know what?

I’m finding I just…don’t…give…a…damn. 

This neighborhood is overrun with guys who wanna get rich quick driving for Uber. A nearly brand-new train runs down Main Drag West, one that would drop me off six safe and quiet residential blocks from my son’s house, if I chose to ride it. And the city busses cruise right past the intersection of the nearest feeder street and Central Avenue, which would take me to the front door of the beloved AJ’s market. Or let me off a block from the kid’s house.

Personally, I’d choose Uber if I knew they would show up reliably.

That doesn’t appear to be the case…but…but…yeah. I haven’t tested any such thesis. I will, in the future…probably the slightly cooler future. But if I do find they show up when they say they will, then…well…

Wanna buy a nice used Toyota Venza?

Yeah. Y’know what I think about this caper? That kid did me a huge favor. He’s helping me to get rid of a tank that needs to be serviced (expensively) every six months, that needs to have $3.00/gallon gas pumped into it every time you turn around, that takes up space in a garage that could be used for any number of better purposes, that pollutes the air, that….

Uhm…and how am I gonna get the dog to the vet, in an emergency?

Uber.

Or the kid. He still has his car. If Ruby has to be rushed to a veterinarian, he can come up here and collect her.

Or on foot. A 24-hour veterinary hospital is right down the road: about six or eight blocks, on foot. She weighs all of 25 pounds: I can easily pick her up and carry her there.

Meanwhile, check out these contraptions! I happen to have one of these. As we scribble, it’s now all tricked out with cardboard panels, the easier to haul stuff without dropping anything.

Here in the ‘Hood, we’ve got not one, not two, but three major supermarkets within walking distance: a Fry’s, a Sprouts, and an Albertson’s. I can do most or all of my grocery shopping on foot, without ever leaving the neighborhood. And right across the street dwells an Uber driver. Matter of fact, we’re told the ‘Hood is over-run with Uber drivers.

Heh! I haven’t tested that hypothesis. But it wouldn’t take a mob of wannabe cab drivers to provide plenty of transportation to the nearby shopping. 

Summertime, And the Livin’ Is…

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…the livin’ is sauna-like!

😀

You should be here to enjoy a fine, humid 102-degree day… Uhm…well, no…maybe you shouldn’t.

Seriously: it’s like a steam-bath outdoors just now. Hotter than the proverbial hubs, and SOGGY.

It puts the eefus on my plan to walk over to the nearby Sprouts and raid their fruit and veggie bins. I may hire the Uber guy across the street to schlep me over there…but…hmmmm…..  

Don’t think so. The hound and I have plenty of food. The fridge is more than adequately stocked. We surely can wait a day or two.

Besides, what I’m MOST interested in is learning about the new(ish) delivery services of late offered by most of the major grocery stores around here. By way of experiment, I may call the Albertson’s and order up some chow.

Main drawback to that scheme: Americans are not fresh-food folk. Most of us eat packaged or frozen chow. As a result, we have NO CLUE what a decent zucchini squash or head of lettuce or ripe peach is supposed to look like. And since I eat mostly fresh foods (I know how to cook! Isn’t that weird?!?), I’m reluctant to pay to have someone shop for me.

Hmmmm… Uber…Uber…Uber…  I’m beyond fascinated with the whole Uber phenomenon. It reminds me, richly, of our ten-year experience in Saudi Arabia, where Saudi drivers ran a fleet of taxis. They would come right up to your back gate (front yards were bounded by sidewalks and hedges), whisk you down to the commissary, then drive you home and help you haul your bags of groceries into the house.

Not that I would expect an American driver to help haul grocery purchases. But the experience would be similar in many other ways. If it could happen. 😀

And all these years I’ve been paying…for WHAT?

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Thanks to my son’s recent sh!tfit, I’ve made a huge discovery:

For lo! these many years, I’ve been paying through the schnozola for that damn car sitting out there in the garage, little guessing that in truth, I can get wherever I want to go in lovely uptown Phoenix for less than it costs to own a car… No, make that For one HELLUVA lot less than it costs to own a car!

Owning a car ain’t cheap, here in the Big City. Especially if you’re a person who does not know how to service your own car: change its oil, charge its battery, rotate its tires, whatnot whatnot and whatnot.

What if…yeah, what if? 

You rent a car only when you need it? Take it back to the rental agency when you’re done with it, and they change the oil and fill the gas tank and see that the windshield wipers work and test and fill the tires and…on and freakin’ ON. They pay for the licensing. They pay for the annual inspection…

Hmmmmmm…. What HAVE we been missing in this picture?

A lot. A whole lot, my friends. And the Kid’s recent revenge maneuver — kiping my car and locking it into his garage — has suddenly made those missing details blindingly clear.

Suddenly, if I want to go someplace right this minute, all I’ve got to do is tell the Uber driver who lives across the street that I need a ride. If he can’t take me where I need to go, he sure can make a ride materialize.

Huh. Think o’ that. Imagine not having to pony up a chunk of dough to have the car serviced. Or to register it with the state. Or to run it through the car wash. Or whatEVER.

I knew that kid was brilliant, but this is ridiculous!

😀

Seriously: What he’s done points in a VERY interesting direction.

What if you stopped driving your car and rode the bus or streetcar instead? Would that not leave you plenty of spare change to afford a taxicab for occasions when you need to be someplace reliably at a specific time? Like…PLENTY of spare change!

Yea verily: how much money have we wasted, you & I, on buying, owning, and running cars? 

How much more does a tank of gas cost than an Uber ride across the city, from (say) the ASU campus in Glendale, Arizona, to the main university campus in Tempe?

And…can a city kid get by without owning a car?

***

My mother and I lived in San Francisco for two or three years after we came back from Arabia. She rented us a place in an apartment development called Parkmerced.

My father would never have been without a car — it was one of the things the man lived for. But he went to sea: was regularly gone for weeks at a time. And…hmmmm…WHERE was his vaunted Chrysler?

Yeah. On the sixth floor of Parkmerced’s underground garage, that’s where.

About the only things we used that car for were to drive to the docks to pick up my father when his ship was in, and to drive across the Bay Bridge to visit my mother’s family in Berkeley or Sausalito.

So…I think this history brings up the same question that M’hijito has raised:

  • DO you really need a car when you live in an urban setting?

And that question poses a whole slew of other interesting queries…

  • Could you not do just as well riding in Uber cabs or on busses and trains?
  • Do you really need to ride any conveyance when you’re going to a store three or four blocks from your front door? Why?
  • Over the course of, say, a month, how much does it cost to walk to a store or ride a bus, compared to maintaining a car during the same period?
  • How much are you paying in taxes to keep that rolling tin can in your garage?
  • And how much in insurance bills?
  • And in gasoline?

Maybe, just maybe, the kid has got something. Eh?

“Another Beautiful Day in Arizona…

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“…Leave us all enjoy it!”

LOL! That was the buzz-phrase of a long-time local radio personality here. He had a morning show, and every day he opened with that little theme-phrase.

“Beautiful” is not the word I’d use today…especially if you have to go outdoors in it! Yes, it’s clear and sunny. Yes, at this hour it’s pretty quiet. But… ugh!

It is soo humid!!! Wet and hot.

Back in the Day, most of the mornings were “beautiful days.” Not so much anymore. The place is no longer semi-rural: it’s all built up with commercial strips and vast oceans of ticky-tacky houses. Every one of those structures runs large air-conditioning systems that suck in the air, drain the moisture out of it, and emit it back into the atmosphere as hot, dry, stinky exhaust. This makes the developed areas even hotter (by far!) than they would have been in the absence of humanity.

It was sort of a pleasant place to live, back in the day. Now…?  Well…ick. If you like Southern California — crowds, noise, heat, insane traffic, smog — you’ll love this place. If you prefer a quieter mode of living…hmmmm…

Where would I go if I could escape?  Well…hmmm indeed…..

  • Santa Fe, New Mexico
  • Berkeley, California
  • Certain suburbs of Tucson, Arizona
  • San Francisco
  • Paris
  • Parts of Rome

Ohhhh well.

Ruby and I walked by our old (literally: elderly) friend Garnett’s place this morning. She’s long gone. The classic old ranch house is vacant, and has stood vacant for several months.

This morning we walked up and peered in the windows: looks like they’ve finally removed the furniture.

She told me she wanted to leave the house to her son — and so I expect she did. But he clearly has exactly ZERO interest in moving to Arizona. Certainly not in living a block from one of the busiest, loudest main drags in the city.

She loved that house. Loved the neighborhood. He? Not so much. He’d made his escape to California years ago. And clearly he has no desire to move into his mother’s manse.

Why he hasn’t sold it escapes me. I imagine she must still be living, locked up in one of those horrible old-folkeries. He’s probably waiting until she passes to get rid of her beloved home.

Either that or he’s too damn lazy to get off his duff and do something with the real estate she left him.

Who knows?

If I manage to hang onto this house until I croak over, my son will get the place. It will be a handy asset for him: either a pleasant venue to live in a fairly decent, in-town neighborhood, or something he can sell for a half-million bucks. Whichever he selects, he’ll profit nicely.

These days I feel like I must be the New Garnett of the ‘Hood: traipsing through the upscale realms behind a cute little dawg, every morning. Saying hello to the passers-by. A conspicuous landmark, hm?

But I’m not as friendly as Garnett was. At heart, I don’t like people, having been mistreated royally during the ten years we lived in Saudi Arabia. God, how I hated that place! And how I hated the kids and the idiot teachers and my father’s cruelty and the institutionalized ignorance…just about everything there.

It was in the nick of time when my parents decided to come back to the States. I had become almost hopelessly misanthropic by the end of the fifth grade, and come the sixth grade, simply hated people. Especially people in their “kid” phase. That changed when we got to San Francisco, where the new classmates didn’t know they were supposed to scorn me, and the teachers — some of them, anyway — possessed measurable IQ’s.

Heh! I can’t imagine what would have happened to me if we’d stayed out there even another year. Not that I would have brought a machine gun to school and shot up the place — though similar antics crossed my little mind. But that another year with no friends, another year as the butt of all the other little darlins’ scorn and hate, another year with a teacher who measured her IQ in the single digits…Jayzuz! If a kid could have a nervous breakdown, I sure would have.

😮