Coffee heat rising

Grrrrr! Rich People’s Problems….

F’r Godsake. Okay, I realize that if I can afford a cleaning lady, I shouldn’t be bellyaching about the stupid things she does. After all, if she owned a competent brain, she wouldn’t be cleaning house for other wymmen, would she?

But…but…godDAMit!!!!! Is there a reason that just because you’re a cleaning lady, you have to wreck everything you touch in the customer’s house???????

It takes skill to do that, y’know — wreck everything you touch, that is. I wonder if she had to go to trade school to learn how to do it?

Yesterday while she was here, C.L. apparently dropped the plastic salt grinder that resides on the dining room table. And broke it.

Thank you so much, dear.

Then she tried to put it back together. When she got it to where you couldn’t see it was busted by looking at it, she carefully set it back on the dining-room table. The nicely cleaned dining-room table, we might add.

So this morning when I go to fix breakfast, I pick up the salt grinder and — you saw this coming, didn’tcha? — it promptly FALLS APART.

Goddammit.

No, I can’t fix it. I can cobble it together so it looks deceptively normal. But it’s still busted. It still doesn’t work. I still have to go out today and buy a new salt grinder.

And…I really can’t afford to replace it with one like it. That salt grinder came from Crate and Barrel, where I bought it when I had — you remember? — a job. Surprising that they even make the gadgets anymore…but that notwithstanding, I surely can’t afford to buy another one like it.

Oh, it just mkes me so damn mad! Why couldn’t she do me the small courtesy of TELLING me she broke it, so I wouldn’t find out in the middle of my next meal? Natcherly, I wouldn’t have been happy. But I don’t bite. And at least I could’ve gone to the store and charged up another one before the next meal went on the table.

WHY are people so fukkin’ stupid???????

So today I’ll have to traipse to Target to see if I can find another salt grinder. Or…hmmm…. I bought that at Crate & Barrel.

Yeah: Here ’tis. NINETEEN BUCKS. For a plastic salt grinder. Bought it when I had a job. Remember those?

Looks like they may or may not have it in stock locally. Hmmm…

Do I really want to blow nineteen dollah on a cheap plastic salt grinder?

Grrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr…..  I guess so.

After this, though, I’ll have to remember to stash the salt & pepper in a kitchen cabinet, where she can’t get her busy little hands on them.

WHY

SO

FUKKIN’

STUPID????

Ooops! Speakin’ of fukkin’ stupid, LOOKEE HERE! Bestir yourself away from Crate & Barrel, stumble over to Amazon, and here’s the very same damned salt grinder! Seven to twelve bucks apiece.

Grrrrrrrrrrrrr……  Now for the BIG decision of the day:

Order the damn thing from Amazon?
or
Get in the car, traipse to Target, and get one in hand right this minute?

What to do, what to do?

😀

Renovations

The young(ish) couple who bought my neighbor Sally’s house are over there madly renovating. Sounds like a buzz saw — or maybe a floor sander — whirring away.

Hm. While we think of it…let’s go on a li’l doggy walk and poke our nosy schnozz into their business as we stroll by…

****

So we’re ARF! ARF!  out the door. Around the park. through the south side of Lower Richistan. Ruby: beside her canid self with doggy joy.

And it’s ROAR! ROAR!! ROAR!!! from Luke Air Force, off to the southwest side of Our Fair City. Holy mackerel, what a racket!

That racket is one of the several reasons you couldn’t pay me to live in Sun City: the melody of jet fighter planes soaring overhead, taking off from an Air Force Base just down the road from one’s backyard. That’s about as far from what I wanna hear over morning coffee and evening cocktails as you can get.

Hilariously, my mother claimed to love it. She would sit on her screened back porch, swill her coffee, and listen to those blasting jets’ engines as the sun came up.

ohhhh, she would coo. It’s the sound of freedom!

ahhhh…no, Mom. It’s the sound of World War III, comin’ your way….

WHY are humans so fukkin stupid?????

Ohhh well…

The pair who bought the Beloved Sally’s house behind me: nicest neighbors you could hope to have. A yardful of screaming kids: maybe not so much. But only a  couple of kids in sight just now…and that makes for a reasonably QUIET occupancy.

They may have bought the place on spec, though. We shall see. I hope they last a good long while.  But whatever: for the nonce, they’re about as ideal as you can get.

Secretly, I even enjoy and am happy to have Tony the (Amazing!) Romanian Landlord as a neighbor. Forgodsake don’t tell him, though! Who knows what shenanigans he’ll get up to if he hears that bit of apostasy! 😀

Meanwhile, the young people behind us are  busy fancifying Sally’s shack.

* On the one hand, I hope they spiff it up and extract a nice profit from it.
* On the other hand: I rather like that bunch and would  be pleased if they hung around a few years.
* On the third hand, soon it will be time for me to move into an old-folkerie or some such horror. And I surely would like either to leave this house to my son as a fine investment or to be able to sell it and add the proceeds to the pile of dough I hope to leave to him.

Please, God: let me exit, stage left before that third exigency comes to pass.

ROOOOARRRR!

Is that another F-15? Or is it Cosmic laughter?

Can’t Go Home Again…

Remembering Berkeley: wish I was still there. Or could go back.

Gree and Gertrude — my mother’s grandmother and aunt — lived into their late 90s…problem-free. Partly because they were tee-totaling Christian Scientists and so never were challenged by a doctor. But I suspect more likely because they lived on a rather steep hill in Berkeley. Gertrude had to walk up that hill five days a week to board the train for San Francisco, where she worked at Crocker-Anglo National Bank. Gree walked up there every day or two to visit the charming little neighborhood grocery store. She would also mount a steep concrete staircase and then climb a steep paved road to get to her grandson Berwick’s place.

Steady up- and downhill walking. Hardly any place they went was on the flat.

Hereabouts, there’s hardly any place you can go that isn’t on the flat. There are a couple of so-called “mountain parks” — we’d call those breathtaking heights “hills” — and a ritzy-titzy neighborhood built on gently rolling terrain below one of those alleged “mountains.” But most populated parts of the Valley are decidedly un-hilly.

Gree and Gertrude’s neighborhood was a hill. Hereabouts, for me to get to rolling terrain, I’d have to drive 20 minutes (one-way!) through homicidal traffic. There: it was right outside the front door.

So basically what was happening: to go about their ordinary daily routines, they had to indulge in some hefty gymnastics. Up a steep hill to reach the grocery store; then down a steep hill. Up a set of concrete steps to reach another hillside road. Up that road to get to their kids’ house. And o’course, on the other side of the Bay just about any place you chose to venture in the city was going to take up you up and down an incline.

It was such a pretty place, Berkeley. I really do miss it.

My father decided that nothing would do but what he had to retire to Sun City, Arizona. Not a bad move, exactly: real estate prices were cheap enough that he could quit his job early, and once we’d been in the state for a year, my tuition at the University of Arizona was next to nil. My mother, after a brain-banging hard upbringing and a challenging adulthood, could accommodate herself to just about anything. She thought the place was just too, too wonderful.

How you could imagine that about flat, monochromatic, mono-ethnic Sun City escapes me. But whatever rings your bell, I guess. How you could imagine the University of Arizona was any match, for your Phi Beta Kappa kid, to Cal Berkeley (or any of the California universities) escapes me. I was set to go to Berkeley, but ohhh mirabilis! Ended up in Tucson. My father, not even having graduated from high school, had no clue what this meant for me career-wise. Nor, I suppose, did he care.

Because, after all, what was a woman’s career? To marry, bear children, cook, and clean house. Yeah.

I very much doubt he understood what difference a college degree would make for me — to say nothing of a graduate degree or two. Because after all…what was I gonna do? Become a secretary somewhere: that was about the highest and best use of your National Honor Society girl child’s little brain.

So, that’s what I see, what I remember when I visit Sun City. As you can imagine, it’s about the last place on this planet where I wanna live.

In an instant, I’d go back to Berkeley, if I could afford it. But of course, I can’t. Not even my father could afford it, on his handsome Merchant Mariner’s salary.

So here we are in lovely Arizona: Southern California redux seasoned with too damn much heat and a handsome dose of public stupidity. What a place!

Beloved Pool Dude!

Dogs know.

HOW they know escapes me. Can they read a calendar? It appears not. Do they have Dog Telepathy? That must be it.

Ruby the Corgi loves, adores, and worships Pool Dude. Seriously: she thinks that guy is the best thing that has ever walked across the surface of the planet.

Pool Dude comes around on Tuesday. And I’ll be damned if she does not know when it’s Tuesday.

Can she read a calendar? One would think not: she’s a DOG, after all. Besides which, the only calendar in the house hangs on a wall in my office, halfway to the ceiling. Even if she could read it, she couldn’t see it well enough to parse out the day of the week.

But come any Tuesday morning, that dog is standing at the door waiting for him.

And OH! The joy when she spots him.

My joy, too: the man keeps that pool sparkling clean. He’s amazing…and he does it with just one visit a week. When I tried to keep it clean, I’d be dorking with it every day…and I sure never got it to look like it does now. Not one day a week, to say nothing of seven days a week. But one weekly trip from Pool Dude keeps the thing looking pristine: every day!

Arf!!!

Real Estate Dreamin’…

Ever entertaining: I just wasted half the afternoon cruising through neighborhoods in Moon Valley and North Central Phoenix, ogling real estate. By dayum! Saw house after house after overpriced house, marveling every inch of the way. Prices here are making their way through the cosmic roof, with no indication of any slow-down.

{chortle!} I love looking at real estate. Must be in the genes: my mother became a Realtor when we lived in Southern California. She got caught up in the Salton Sea boondoggle when she went into partnership with a woman who was selling property (such as it was) in those parts. Didn’t do too well there…I think if she’d gone into home sales in Long Beach, where we lived, and if she’d hooked up with a decent Realtor as a partner, she might have had some success. She had an ingratiating personality and people tended to like her — making her a natural for sales.

But…it takes more than personality and dutiful work to succeed in real estate.

Salton Sea was a stagnant puddle outside of Palm Springs, one of the Great Boondoggles of the American West. My father was off at sea when she became involved with the Realtor who enticed her into that scam — he was in the Merchant Marine. When he got home and discovered the nonsense she’d gotten up to, he…well, let us say he was NOT a happy camper!  By then she was fully entangled, though, and there was little or nothing he could do to get her out of it.

Eventually the Salton Sea scam collapsed, ô hallelujah, and that did get her out of it. I was still in high school at the time, and therefore did not have my nose in the parental financial affairs…soooo…have no idea how much she lost in that venture, if anything. She certainly didn’t make anything, though. WhatEVER: you may be sure my father was less than perfectly happy with that interlude.

She desisted from her real estate…uhm…career…after that. Took to selling cosmetics door-to-door. 😀 One gold mine after another, eh?

Briefly, I daydreamed of taking a job in real estate — not sales, but PR and journalism. Even went so far as to take the semester-long community college course that was supposed to get you through the state’s real-estate licensing exam. By the time I’d finished the course, though, I’d lost interest in that endeavor…never did sign up for the exam. Probably…more time NOT wasted. 😀

 

 

 

Murder by Microbe

She killed my mother. In my opinion, she did it on purpose. And she tried to do the same to me — a little girl at the time, about ten or twelve years old.

ARAMCO wives in Saudi Arabia, where I grew up in an American oil camp, received special training on how to prepare food safely. Trust me: there was no “safe” with the food out there. Everything was likely to be carrying one microbe or another. Some would only give you diarrhea. Others would kill you.

Anyway…we had been there ten years. My father was getting ready to retire from the company — partly because I was sick all the time out there, and partly because, reviled by my nasty little classmates, I dwelt in a continual state of depression. My mother announced that she and I would go back to the states ASAP, after the “Go Home” decision was made. My father would join us at the end of his current contract, a few months later.

So one of his colleagues from down on the docks — they were harbor pilots — invited us over for a good-bye dinner, concocted by his dear wife. My father regarded this guy as a bit of a moron. I was just a kid and so didn’t know from morons. But apparently that’s exactly what he and his wife were.

Actually, I suspect she was significantly worse than that…

They had us over to their house, there in Ras Tanura, for the farewell dinner. Isn’t that kind? Isn’t that gracious?

Uh huh.

So…I was there in the kitchen, playing with their son Bruce and tagging around after the lady of the house, Luella.

I’ve never been able to figure out whether she did this on purpose, or whether she was really so stupid she didn’t know what she was doing. Either way, she poisoned my mother: nearly killed her.

American wives in those days were advised — make that lectured, trained, harried — to sanitize every bite of any food that would be eaten raw. Thus anything that went into, say, a salad had to be soaked in Clorox water first.

For ten brain-banging years, my mother soaked every apple, every orange, every piece of lettuce, every leaf of cabbage, leaving it in a pot of dilute Clorox for upwards of an hour before we could eat it.

Luella…did not.

WTF? Was she really that stupid?

Certainly could have been. If my father was right that the man of the family was a moron, the mom sure might have just fit right in.

At any rate, as I was toddling around her kitchen getting under her feet, she was slipping me pieces of the cabbage she was putting into the salad. The unsanitized cabbage.

Oddly, it had no effect on me. But it did slam into my mother. Basically poisoned her. She came right down with amoebic dysentery. Landed in the hospital just hours before she and I were due to get on a  flight to New York.

She almost died from it. In fact, I believe the doctors thought she was going to die…but of course, no one told the 12-year-old that.

In those days, the treatment for amoebic dysentery was to put you through a half-dozen toxic — even life-threatening — courses of horrible medications. They locked you in the hospital and made you sick. And sicker…and sicker….

Mercifully (I guess…), my  mother survived. After weeks of poisonous drugs, she staggered out of the hospital, gathered up her belongings and her kid, and we flew to New York. From there, we boarded a train to San Francisco, where, in due course, my father joined us.

And so we return to the question: Was Luella really that stupid?

I tend to doubt it. Quite honestly…I think she did it on purpose. She intended to sicken us, and she succeeded, with my mother.

Consider: no way could my father’s opinion about her husband have been a secret. My father blabbed on about what a moron the guy was any time an opportunity arose. She must have known what my father was saying about the man. No way could she “accidentally” have failed to sanitize a head of parasite-hosting lettuce.

Ultimately, my mother died of a gastric cancer.

I can’t prove it…but I strongly suspect the cancer arose from the ferocious, gut-scouring treatment for the amoebic dysentery she picked up in the last week we spent in that horrid place.

Well…the last week we were supposed to spend there. She ended up in the camp hospital for weeks, being subjected to nasty treatments that made her baroquely ill. To this day, I truly do believe that woman deliberately sickened her, by serving up a salad made of untreated greens.

Was her husband in on the gambit? Dunno. Ras Tanura was a tiny, gossipy, horrid little place where everyone knew everyone else’s business. If Luella didn’t keep her own mouth shut, you can be sure her DH knew about it…along with half the other folks in camp. My guess is that she failed to mention that she hadn’t bothered to sanitize the salad greens. But one never knows…