Coffee heat rising

funny

This post may be a paid guest contribution.

Soggy Doggy Day

by

Just back from a morning doggy-walk, waiting for the water to heat up enough to make coffee. Wunderground says it’s 93 degrees out there; 15% humidity; expected high: 113.

Wouldn’tcha know it: M’hijito and I have to traipse to the FAR SIDE of north Scottsdale to go to another brain-numbing, BOOOORING get-together of the mentally challenged. Since everyone but me has decided that I’m now non compos mentis, I have to drag out there and listen to these people go on about how they forgot to pull up their underwear or forgot to eat their breakfast…on and on and endlessly on.

What an agonizing waste of time. Two hours trudging back and forth, and then a good three hours listening to old buzzards tell us what they forgot. Forgodsake. I know, already, that I forget things!

  • I know, already, that it’s normal for old people to forget stuff that they never would have spaced ten years ago.
  • I know, already, that there’s precious little anyone can do about it.
  • I know, already, to keep lists of upcoming appointments and to-do’s.
  • I know, already, to make notes on important tasks and meetings and events.
  • I KNOW, ALREADY, GODDAMMIT!!!!!!!

And I do NOT need to kill five hours traipsing back and forth to listen to a bunch of old folks complain about being old. That’s five hours of time I need to spend on a client’s current book project.

Well, speaking of killing time: I’d better quit bellyaching and fix some food and coffee, so as to be fortified before the kid gets here. Ugh!

This is gonna be a bi!ch of a day!

112 degrees and…and…

by

FOGGY?????

Great Galloping Gods! No kidding: it’s 112 in the shade of the back porch, and lurking to north of us is a low cloud bank that looks for all the world like fog.

W?

T?

F?

Just got back from galloping around town in the heat. Dropped by the mechanic’s to describe the car’s latest eccentricity. She (yep: she ) wasn’t unduly concerned. She described what to watch for. Explained if and when to come back.

Over to Sprouts. Of COURSE they didn’t have what I wanted.

Through the heat to the Albertson’s. If the air is 112, what is the temperature of a parking lot’s asphalt?

Wunderground says the ambient air is 114º; predicted low tonight: 92º. Balmy.

This would not be an out-of-the-ordinary summer temperature…except…the real problem is, it’s humid out there. Hence: the fog-like stuff. It feels like effing Saudi Arabia.

How on earth my harbor-pilot father managed to work 8-hour shifts on those docks just mystifies me. How did ANY of those guys survive?

Frazzling up some chicken and some French fries on the grill. Hope the damn thing cools off enough to throw the plastic cover over it before that storm comes rolling in.

Must feed dog, so she’ll be wrung out (with any luck) before said storm comes rolling in.

 

Hot Day, Hot Stove, Hot Dog….

by

Out the door at the crack of dawn: get Ruby her shot at a doggy-walk before it gets seriously hot.

Not much chance of that, though. At 6:30 this morning, it was muggy as an Alabama day:  27% humidity a “dry heat” does NOT make. And it’s supposed to hit 117 today.

By that hour, the crazy-making Dog Parade was well under way. Everybody who has a dog AND a job shoots outdoors at dawn in an effort to get their pooch walked before they have to go to work. So the park and its surrounding sidewalks are mobbed by dogs and their dog-loving humans…and many of the latter are — dare we say it? — just not very smart.

They can’t seem to get the concept that dogs are not kids. Dogs do not think like children, because dogs are NOT children, because dogs are a different freakin’ species. I can’t count the number of idiots who could not grasp the idea that Anna the German Shepherd did NOT “just wanna pwayyyy” with their pooch. What she “just wanted” to do was remove their dog’s idiot head. After that, she probably would have mopped up the mess with the idiot human’s remains.

So…I do try to evade the mobs of dog-infested humanity that swarm through the neighborhood in the hour or two before work starts. Evade: often without much luck.

Today was OK enough in that department, probably because it truly is hotter than the Hubs out there. Wish I lived in SDXB’s former neighborhood. The houses are no better than mine, and the noise level couldn’t possibly be any better. But the entire area is mid- to upper-middle class, making it at least feel a little safer for walking around.

Nevertheless…

Our ‘Hood is bordered on the north by a dangerous slum, and anchored on the west by a decrepit apartment-house development that was nice when it opened, graced by a lovely golf course, but that declined rapidly. Now that area is just plain crummy, full of low-end types. Not so long ago, a cop was shot as he knocked on a door in one of those dumps. The golf course, once a point of pride, has gone to rack & ruin. The school over there…ugh! A few weeks ago, kids going to that school were greeted by a dead body — a murder victim — laying on the sidewalk outside the campus’s entrance.

My son has asked me not to sell this house, because…he wants to inherit it.

While it is newer and better constructed (in some ways) than his place, and it does have a pool (which you, too, can take care of 12 months a year so  that you can swim during three months), it does have some serious disadvantages compared to his place.

One is the proximity to Sunnyslope — said dangerous slum. Where my son lives, he can sit in his living room or front-of-the-house office with his front door hanging wide open. No need for a steel security screen; no need for a hardened heavy-duty deadbolt lock. I wouldn’t leave a door open without a locked security screen here, not on a bet! And no, there’s no chance in Hell I’d leave a window open.

So…because I don’t quack about that fact all the time, it’s unclear that he understands how risky this area is.

***

In other sylvan fields: Checking out the market for pr0pane stoves.  Our honored civic leaders want to force Maricopa County residents to replace gas stoves with electric models. To that end, they’re jacking up the cost of natural gas…through the stratosphere.

I probably can afford it…but highly resent it. The main reason is that I like to eat (well!!) and I like to cook. And an electric stove decidedly does NOT make it in the “like to cook” department.

You can get a propane grill with one (count it, one) cooking hob, but they’re not very efficient. It’s hard to regulate the heat on one of those things. And yes, ONE is the operative word. If you really cook, you normally will have a couple of burners in play when you’re making a decent meal.

On the ranch, we had a propane stove. The burners and the oven ran on propane. Come to think of it…I think the fridge was powered by propane, too. WhatEVER: the stove worked just like a natural gas stove. If you had that installed, none of our nosey city parents would have a clue that you weren’t running your whole kitchen on gas.

My house has a countertop stove with four gas burners. The oven is not part of it: that thing is built-in to a set of cabinetry. And it is electric.

I hardly ever use the oven, though: most of the time it serves as a storage cabinet.

So…hmmmm… I’m thinking now is the time to look in to the availability of propane stovetops here in the (un)Lovely Valley of the sun. Turns out even Home Depot has the things…and the price is reasonable. In fact, it looks like most, if not all of these things will run on propane. That suggests that maybe my beloved existing gas stovetop will run on propane, too.

So then the question would be…how do I get propane installed, and by whom? And how the hell much is THAT gonna cost?

Apparently a gas stove can be converted to use propane. It looks like a hassle — possibly an expensive hassle. May be cheaper and smarter to just replace the stove I’ve got with a propane model.

Now is the time to look into that, I’m afraid. Because you know what’s gonna happen, right? The instant the county forces this change, EVERYBODY AND THEIR LITTLE BROTHER is gonna be hiring workmen to convert their gas stovetops to propane. And that will mean a huge traffic jam…and a wait of Gawd Only Know how long before you can get your stove working again.

Never a dull moment, eh?

Such Good Pay…

by

Ah, yes. I remember it well: My mother landing a job at the business office of the apartment development where we lived in San Francisco: Park Merced. It was a pretty place to live — even a beautiful place: upper-middle class, with handsome, modernistic high-rise apartments and sweet little garden apartments. Priced on the high side of San Francisco’s ever-pricey middle range. My father agreed to let us live there while he went back to sea, pretty much as a reward to my mother for spending ten years in the Hell-hole that was Saudi Arabia.

He was a cheapskate of the first water, though. Resented having to spend any of his (truly!) hard-earned cash on much of anything. And so, though I never heard them arguing about it (they didn’t argue in front of the brat), I’m sure he objected to the cost of the rent there.

No doubt feeling guilty (if not bored), my mother took a job in the development’s rental office, as a receptionist.

She earned $300 a month…and was downright awed! “Such good pay for a woman!” she crowed.

My father was less impressed. As a sea captain, he earned a living wage and then some. There really was no need for her to go to work, and the peanuts they paid her made little or no difference to our living standard. That, in general, was true of what most women were paid, back in the Day.

But y’know…this afternoon I had cause to reflect that even today I would have serious trouble living on what I could earn, with a Ph.D., a string of published books, and a track record of university-level academic jobs.

I happened to peruse real estate ads in our neighborhood. And…

hooooleee shee-ut!

Prices have gone through the proverbial roof!

The first place I bought here, about a block to the north and a block to the west of the present Funny Farm, cost a hundred grand. That amount equaled the my father’s lifetime goal for the savings he figured he would need to retire on. Just for the house alone!

  • Not for a car.
  • Not for living expenses.
  • Not for taxes.
  • Not for locking myself away in a nursing home when I get too decrepit to take care of myself.

My house is now paid off, over my financial advisor’s objections. And I think there’s enough left in savings to support me until they cart me off to a nursing home.

But…

But…….

Meanwhile, the alleged value of this house has gone SOOOO high that frankly, I’m not sure I can pay the taxes on it. Real estate prices have Californicated madly. Realtor.com thinks my house is worth $528,700. Redfin begs to differ, pegging the reasonable price at $629,873.

You understand: I paid an even $100,000 to get into this neighborhood — in a house that is the same model as this one. And thought that was ridiculous. It’s less than 1900 square feet. It’s magnificently crime-ridden, thanks to the slums just to the north of us. And if you give a damn about your  kids’ education — and would just as soon not have them tripping over a dead body on way into the local school (yes!!) — you would put your kid in a private or parochial school.

And supposedly this place is worth almost SIX TIMES what I paid for it????

SDXB moved to Sun City partly to get away from Tony the Romanian Landlord (a threat who lived right next-door to him at the time), but partly to escape the soaring property taxes in this area.

Prices have shot up over in Sun City, too, but not into the stratosphere….largely, I think, because most people in our generation don’t relish living in a ghetto for old folks. Plus it’s pretty remote from the central part of the city, where those things that are of interest in these parts take place.

If in fact this house is worth what the real estate sites claim, when I croak over my son will inherit assets totaling well over a million dollars. And that doesn’t count the value of his house. Or the amount his dad will leave him.

If he sells both places, he can move to Colorado and live like a king — secretly, he’d like to retire to Grand Junction, whence his grandparents came. He not only will get the value of my house and his, he also will get whatever remains in my investment accounts. Plus whatever his dad leaves him.

{chortle!} The kid will be a freakin’ millionaire.

Unfortunately, that doesn’t mean what it used to. It may not mean very much, come to think of it. But…better than a hit on the head, I guess.

Real estate values in Grand Junction aren’t much less than they are here. In fact, some of them by comparison are outright crazy. Right: to live out in the middle of fu**in’ nowhere!

Come to think of it, though…. Given a choice between Sun City and Grand Junction, I’d take Grand Junction any day.

Mercifully, that is not I choice I have to make. Not at the time being, anyway.

*****

July 4 Kaput

by

Gosh. A whole post was almost done here, dated July 4. And…egad! Apparently I never published it.

Out it goes.

Far as I recall, it wasn’t a truly horrible evening. Often July 4 is truly horrible here, with idiots setting off their bang-bangs way-y-y into the night.

The reason for this: Our honored civic leaders, in their Passionate Patriotism, legalized fireworks in Arizona, undoing a years-long ban on sales of the damn things. Of course, people used to smuggle them in across the Mexican border and over from neighboring states…but not every numbskull and his mentally retarded brother, sister and cat glommed the damn things every Fourth of July. Now, everybody can get them —  any kind of them — and so nitwits blast them off all over the city and the state. So we get BAM BAM BAM BAM WEEEEEEEUUUUUUUU  BAM BAM all. night. long.

Understand. It’s not that I hate fireworks. We had a friend — now a late friend — who used to get a license to shoot the things off. He would throw an annual party, and he had professionals who knew what they were doing fill the air over his neighborhood with lights and noise. That was fun. And it was OK, because the fireworks were overseen safely, and because his Paradise Valley home was not surrounded by flammable trees and grasses.

The people who put on that show DID know what they were doing. They weren’t putting people’s homes and yards and pets at risk.

What I hate is fireworks in the hands of flaming morons.

And that’s what we have now.

Last night I ended up standing on the street all evening, keeping an eye on the doings in the alley. To my amazement, two young gentlemen who have taken up residence across the street came out and kept me company!

Can you imagine?

I sure can’t. At any rate, we ended up socializing for the better part of an hour. After the loony toons settled down, we went back into our respective palaces, and that was that.

LOL! Truth to tell, I seriously did consider putting the dog in the car and heading out to the desert, there to camp until dawn. That was NOT the way I wanted to spend the night, but it sounded a lot better than dodging nitwits all evening.

But for a change, not too much nitwittery went on, at least not in the immediate vicinity. Probably, I think, because those two guys were standing out there.

Well, not too much nitwittery except for the drunk driving. Lushes killed one person and injured two on the accursed freeway up the road. Honestly.

It makes Sun City look good…if only that place weren’t such a mausoleum.

At any rate, today we’re back to normal: Hotter than the hubs of Hades. Just now we’re down to a chilly 111 degrees, according to Wunderground. And yea verily: that’s exactly what the thermometer on the back porch reads.

Pool Dude — the guy I hired to come around and take care of the Hole in the Ground Into Which to Pour Money — has about paid for himself in sheer labor savings. The damned pool is sparkling clean: not a sheet of green to be seen anywhere. He’s expensive, but IMHO paying for his service beats leaving the thing empty.

Because, after all, there is no “empty” with a swimming pool. It doesn’t have a drain that you leave open, like a bathtub. If you don’t actively keep it drained, it hosts a puddle in which to grow algae and breed mosquitoes. My next-door neighbor does that.

Other Daughter, who lives in the next house down from that neighbor, leaves her windows open at night. (Don’t ask!!) Result: the mosquitoes got into her house, chewed her up, and gave her a raving case of encephalitis. She almost died. For a while, the doctors thought that even if she survived, she would never walk again.

She’s one tough lady, though. Not only did she live through it, but yea verily, she’s trotting all over the ‘Hood again.

At any rate, this particular stupidity means, for me: keep the doors and windows closed. Keep screens on all the doors and windows. Do not leave a door open for the dog to come and go at will.

Isn’t having to make allowances for neighbors’ idiocy fun?

To my mind, this was the beauty of the ranch: living out in the boondocks, two or three miles from the nearest neighbor, meant you were pretty much out of reach of the idiot neighbors’ frolics.

Another Unholy Day in Lovely Arizona

by

Jeez. Ninety degrees in the shade, overcast, and raining.

Well. Sprinkling: more like threatening rain.

But the overall effect is Hotter’n The Hubs of Hades.

This is the way Arabia was most of the summer. Here, we only get a few days of it. There, we got three months of it.

How my father and his colleagues were able to work outdoors down on those docks escapes me. What a HORRIBLE way to make a living!

He subjected himself to it because he figured that between the more-than-decent pay and the fact that ARAMCO covered the cost of housing and transportation, he’d be able to retire about 10 years early.

And he did. Unfortunately, not bein’ the most sophisticated guy on the planet, he didn’t understand about inflation. So after he had “retired” (so he thought) and moved to Sun City, he had to go back to work. Ugh!

At least he was shipping out of Long Beach, not piloting tankers around Ras Tanura’s sauna-like harbor.

We didn’t have real air-conditioning out there. The company provided a kind of makeshift evaporative cooling: They pumped cold water through underground pipes that traversed the camp and came up into each home, where a whole-house blower would blast air over the relatively cool pipes and then into the house. This would work well if you were close to where the water came in to the housing tract. We, however, were not. 😀

Wouldncha know, eh?

My mother, who grew up in upstate New York and then later in Berkeley, California, suffered vocally in the heat. Me, I knew nothing any different, so most of the time it didn’t bother me.

But there on the shore of the Persian Gulf, the air was SOOO HUMID that it could rain out of a clear blue sky. You’d wake up in the morning — especially in the summers — to see water dripping off the eaves as though it had rained during the night. No…it had not rained.

We have no fake rain here this morning…but still. The air is thick.

Took Ruby for her morning perambulation around the park. What a zoo that place is when everybody and their little brother are out there tromping around — most of them walking dogs. It really is a nuisance to have to make your way around a dog every ten yards. I swear.

Often literally swear. The idiots who simper “ohhhh don’t worry! They just want to plaaaayyyy” are the ones that drive me craziest. That was a favorite line when they would bounce up to the German shepherd. Nooo, dear Moron. My dog doesn’t want to playyy with your dog. She wants to rip your dog’s throat out. 

Anyhow, this place is alarmingly like Ras Tanura this morning — weather-wise. Wunderground predicts a high of 106 today. Humidity is 54%. Chance of rain: 12%.

Garden spot…