Coffee heat rising

funny

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Freedom’s Just Another Word…

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…for NEVER HAVING TO PUMP ANOTHER GALLON OF GAS into a hole in the ground into which to pour money.

Seriously.

Folks nearby seem to think I’m going to be stricken, heart-broken, ripped-off, and agonized at my son’s making off with my Toyota Venza, and at the (amazingly short-sighted) docs at the Mayo Clinic issuing an edict that I must not be allowed to drive anymore.

Heh. If only, folks. If only! 

This afternoon Mijito and I took an informal inventory of all the places I can reach on foot, without ever having to turn an ignition key, pump a gallon of gas, or dodge a fellow homicidal driver. Let’s see…

1. Albertson’s
2. Sprouts
3. Walgreen’s
4. Bookstore/video library
5. Computer store
6. Hair salon
7. Bus stop
8. Lightrail stop
9. Asian restaurant
10. Mexican restaurant
11. Church
12. Liquor store
13. Another hair salon
14. Vacuum cleaner shop
15. Variety store
16. El Rancho supermarket
17. QT store
18. Circle K
19. Auto repair and maintenance shop
20. Boston Market
21. Cricket Wireless
22. UPS store
23. Doctor’s office
24. Regional hospital, with emergency room

It goes on and on. There are more…I just can’t remember them all. Add the lightrail and the bus stops, and the marketing potential is endless!!

Seriously: Today we decided, after an eye-opening experiment, that the smartest thing we could do with that $34,000 rolling hole in the ground into which to pour money IS….to get rid of it.

No kidding. Today we reached the point where we agree that this old lady doesn’t need a car. 

Nope. I live smack in the middle of Commercial Paradise. And right next to a lightrail line and bus lines that swoop down the city’s central corridor connecting the west-side bedroom communities with the mid-and downtown commercial districts and onward to Tempe, home of the vast Arizona State University. Thanks to transportation upgrades the city has installed over the past ten years, I no longer need a car at all! 

Jeez. What does this place think it is? San Francisco? 😀

That’s what it was like to live in San Francisco after we came back from our ten-year sojourn in Saudi Arabia: you could go anywhere you wanted or needed to go and get any product or services you needed simply by using the public transit. 

Well, amazingly, the central parts of Phoenix have evolved along those lines, too.

The Mayo docs want me to quit driving. Not because I’m any more of a menace on the road than my fellow homicidal drivers. But because I’m older than the hills and they’re scared of what I can do these days. 😀  Consequently — did you know doctors could do this?? — they have told the State of Arizona to nullify my driver’s license!

Can you imagine?

Well…what I can’t imagine just now is that I don’t give one thin damn about their arrogant little order. Because I can go wherever I want to go and get to whatever I want to do by train, bus, or taxi…for, ultimately speaking, one HELL of a lot less than it costs to own and maintain a car with a gasoline engine.

Over the past couple of weeks, the kid and I have run a de facto experiment: stashing the car at his place and leaving my garage empty. And to our astonishment, I’m getting everywhere I want to go or need to go in about the same time, without having to pour money into a car!

Wow! 

If this continues for another two or three weeks, we’ll be selling the tank, and I’ll be getting around as though I were a real, live big-city girl.

 

Lovely Morning in Uptown Phoenix…again

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<snark!>  Wunderground tells us our humidity is a mere 22%. Shoot! You can’t even swim in that!

Hot. Wet. Gray. Boring.

Waiting for my son to pick me up and take me to see a new-to-me doc, one whose practice is way to Hell and Gone out near Sun City.

Stupidly, eagerly…I picked this guy off the Internet because he has good reviews and he’s NOT way to Hell and Gone halfway to Payson.

The august Mayo Clinic is just that: on the road to Payson, a good hour’s drive from the Funny Farm.

Afraid the guy’s office is just about that far in the other direction, so this is gonna be a futile trip.

…

I sit here un-enjoying this balmy day and think…how miserable my mother must have been, living by the sea in Saudi Arabia. It was like this about 80% of the time: hot and humid. 

It’s also not surprising that my mother, a girl from Upstate New York, would not survive 10 years on the shore of the Persian Gulf. The accursed place was hot and humid: most of the time just like today’s gray and sticky weather in this place and in this time.

Yeah. Ten years in Saudi Arabia killed her. Shortly before we were to come home for good, an idiot neighbor invited us over for a farewell dinner.

Understand: the company trained employees to sanitize all the produce they ate. Fresh vegetables were to be soaked in Clorox before you washed and ate them.

But there, as here, morons held forth: the type who imagines that if an authority says something, it must be manipulative and false.

So this stupid woman, our neighbor and the wife of a guy who worked on the docks with my father, had us over. I — then an 11-year-old — was dorking around in the kitchen with her and her son while she was preparing the meal. Several times, she sliced off a piece of cabbage and handed it to me as a snack…without sanitizing it. 

I must have been strong as a little horse, because I never got sick from it. But…my mother sure as hell did.

She almost died. She spent weeks in the company hospital as they dosed her with whatever poisons they had to try to beat back amoebic dysentery. More weeks in bed after we got back to the States. And really: she never was right again. She died of a gastric cancer shortly after my father retired and betook them to Sun City.

Ugh.

Anyway. Doctors are not my favorite people. No fault of their own, you understand: I just don’t like being reminded, vividly, of the gawdawful occasions when we needed to make use of their skills.

***

hmmmm…. 10:30 and my son’s not here. Could he have forgotten?

awwww…what a shame!

Do I have the wrong day?

* * * * * *

oh!!!! Yaaayyyyy!  YES , I DO!!!!!!

Today is Tuesday. Our appointment with New Quack isn’t until tomorrow: Wednesday!!!!

Joy joy joy!  Dance to spring! 

Well. Dance to mid-summer, anyhow.

*** *** ***

So! NOW what?????

What I’d like now is a fresh bottle of wine. We’re about out of booze here at the Funny Farm. But on the other hand…if M’hijito spots any such prize, he will have a sh!t-f!t that won’t quit. He imagines he’s heaving me onto the wagon.

{chortle!}

At any rate, to replenish the supply, I’d have to march through the humidity to the Sprouts…or down to the Albertson’s. And you wanna know what I DON’T want to do?

Yeah…tromp around Phoenix on a humid, hot day.

All the stores around here have announced that they’re taking to delivering groceries to your house. Nice, eh?

Except…I haven’t set that up with any of our fine emporia yet. To do so would require me to walk over to Main Drag West and up to Main Drag North, visit three or four stores, and dork around with making them understand where to bring the loot.

And good luck with that, eh?…

Seriously, I am enthusiastic about trying this new service…and, I sincerely hope, using it regularly. I do hate grocery shopping, that’s for sure.

But first off, I’m too lazy to get my butt over to the stores and dork with this stuff.

And second off (third off, fourth off, fifth off, and so on…), most Americans haven’t a clue about the nature and uses of fresh produce. Which is to say, they couldn’t pick out a decent head of lettuce if their life depended on it.

So, I expect that once I do get this system up and running here, the results will be less than sylvan.

Hmmmm…. Another frenzy of sirens echoing across the lands. Must be another wrecky-poo down on Main Drag South…no, sounds like the ambulance is on its way northward on M.D. West.

Ambulance driver. Now there’s a job I don’t envy anyone. What a hair-raising experience that must be…day after day after day…

Daydreaming

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Daydreaming about moving away from the creeping urbanization of North Central: creeping like a fungus.  Where would I go if I were gonna move away from here?

This sounds monstrously complacent, but… Truth to tell, I can’t think of many places I would want to go.

Sun City: a ghetto for old folks, serenaded every morning by jets blasting from the nearby airbase.

Fountain Hills: a ghetto for the upper-middle class. Also serenaded on a daily basis by blasting jet airplanes.

Tucson: been there, done that. Enough, already!

California: where in California?

Bay Area: couldn’t even begin to afford it
Back to Southern California: hated the smog, hated the third-rate schools, hated the cheesy construction:  hated living there, don’t wanna go back
Palm Springs and waypoints: too hot, too faddish too touristy, not my cuppa tea

Truth to tell, the North Central district of lovely uptown Phoenix is about the best I’m gonna do. It fits my tastes. It offers all the shopping I need and like. I fit its demographics. I can afford it. Why move?

Day-dreaming.

 

Staying Home; Getting Safe

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So as I advance into my dotage, I do worry — more and more — about falls or confusion or strokes or Gawd Knows What could happen while I’m here alone. Between you’n’me, I happen to know my son worries about this issue, too.

One way to address it, once and for all, is to sell your home and move into one of those horrible old-folkeries…uhm, retirement homes.

I regard that option with horror. First, because I abhor communal living — just HATE it. That’s not the way I want to spend the last few months or years of my life.

Second, because the expense of those places is hair-raising. Horrendous! Everything I could get from the sale of my present home would have to go to buying myself into a “life-care community.” That was the upshot, with my father.

Sorry. No. That money is my son’s. It ain’t goin’to your old-folkerie, friends!

It looks to me like there could be another option, if you think it through and you’re willing to devise your own system.

Have someone who calls you every day at a certain time. And, ideally, a paid person who comes into your house or calls you every day or two to check on you.

Also, bear in mind that in Arizona, any cell phone will dial 911 in an emergency. This is probably true just about anywhere in the U.S. and Canada.

Any cell phone. Any place. Any time.

So: step number 1 will be to get several cell phones, and keep them all charged up. And ALWAYS keep one with you…at all times. 

All times, all places: no exceptions.

So: if you slip and fall; if you have a heart attack; if the burglar is coming in the back door; if you rear-end the car in front of you; if whateverthefuck, within a matter of seconds you’ll be able to call for help.

This, obviously, would not significantly reduce the risk of falls or heart attacks or rampaging burglars or whatEVER. But it would allow you to call for help easily and fast.

So, with at least one emergency cell phone on you at all times — maybe also keep several around your property, so there would be one in the car, one in the bathroom, one in the kitchen, one out in the backyard…and so on — you would be able to call for help quickly and easily.

Next: set up your exterior entrances so emergency workers can easily find ways to get in. Keys will have to be NOT obvious to your pet burglars. But they must be placed in spots that you can quickly and easily describe over the phone, so a rescuer can find them.

With these and any other emergency amenities in place, now fix up the place so you can live comfortably and safely in it, with a minimum of hassle to yourself.

For example: grocery stores are now delivering. GET USED TO THAT. Learn how to use delivery services, and set them up now, not later. Then, if you get too sick to drive or your car craps out and you can’t afford to replace it or you just don’t feel like doing battle with a grocery store parking lot, you can simply call or email to get a week’s worth of fresh food delivered.

If you’re going to stay in a house (as opposed to an apartment, for example), be sure a trusted neighbor, relative, or friend can get in, should they realize you may be in distress. More than one person should have keys, your phone number, and your emergency contacts. Now, not later

In an apartment, make it possible and easy for management, family members, and trusted friends to get in. Arrange for someone to check on you  if they haven’t seen you for a few days.

So…hmmmm….  I think the key to staying in your own place as long as possible is collaboration and cooperation. It seems contradictory — stay independent by depending on others. But it’s the only logical strategy.

* Yes, you stay in your own place with your own keys and whatnot.

* But yes, you have at least a couple of friends or relatives who can get into your place, too: with their own keys and whatnot.

* These folks, by the way, must be given emergency contact information, so they can call your friends, relatives, landlord, or…whomever.

* You always carry a device that can be used to call for help. Keep it in a pocket or next to where you’re lurking, at all times. Keep it charged up, too!

* While you’re at it, in addition to quick access to folks who can get into your home and help you, the house should be old-buzzard-proofed as best as possible. For example, every shower and bathtub should be equipped with grab bars. Any steps should be flanked by banisters or handrails, so you always have something to hold onto, going upstairs or going downstairs. And any throw rugs should either have rubber backing or a slip-proof under-mat, to keep them from sliding out from under your feet.

Look around your house and your yard and THINK SAFETY. Consider what might happen, and install whatever might prevent a little disaster or help you get out of one unhurt.

Think of your home as a system, not just as a dwelling. Who do you train to operate that system? How can you and they collaborate to make it work? How do you kick them into gear when you need them?

Yes, we do want to stay independent and in our homes as long as possible. But to do that…well, we’re going to have to depend on people!

😮

 

And now…DIS-dislocated?????

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So yesterday I was whining about the excruciatingly sore hip and speculating that it must be dislocating and figuring that dammit I was gonna have to go to ANOTHER doctor and gaaaaaaaahhhh!

…and…uhm…

now??? 

Now, as we scribble, I sit on the sofa without one twinge of pain.

Naaaaahhhh…must be a hallucination.

Get off the (formerly pained) duff. Follow the dog around the house.

Nary a stab of pain.

WTF?  Visit Wonder Cleaning Lady, who’s mopping the floors preparatory to making her escape. Pick up a tiny scrap off the tiles that got missed as she vacuumed.

Nary a stab of pain.

WTF, indeed???

Seriously: All that ouch that hurt so much every time I took a deep breath…the wondrous pain that made me feel I need to drive across the city to visit yet another doctor: IT’S GONE!

As in completely gone.

Getting up off the sofa and walking around the house does NOT make it come back.

Picking up a tiny piece of litter off the soon-to-be incredibly clean floor does NOT make it come back.

Following the dawg around does NOT make it come back.

This is weird.

It hurt royally when I got out of the sack this morning: every bit as much as it was hurting yesterday. Enough that yes, I did figure to call the doc’ and arrange an appointment and probably have to put my son up to driving the car out to his place. Or hire someone to schlep me out there.

Wow.

If it stays gone…well…what kinda miracle will THAT be?

I figure it wouldn’t go away and stay quiescent for several hours if there weren’t at least a good chance that it’s gonna heal up.

Sure do hope so!!!

Huffa puffa…WOW

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Hotter than the Hubs of Hades out there. It’s only 11:15 in the morning, but the thermometer on the back porch reads 100 degrees. Objectively speaking, that ain’t very hot…for Arizona, we mean. But it’s a little humid out. So the heat…or whatever it is…strikes one as a shade (heh!) on the uncomfortable side.

But FUN!!!! I do love walking around the ‘Hood, which is…well, just one great hangout. No question of it.

On the way home from the U.S. Postal Services official mailbox — whither I’d gone to drop a can’t-wait-on-it piece of mail — I passed a couple attending to their BRAND-NEW, GORGEOUS, HUGE, FIRE-ENGINE RED MINIVAN. Parked in their driveway…to die for.

Seriously, I think the only reason they weren’t in the cooler reaches of Payson or Flagstaff or parked beside a Pacific Coast beach is that they had just bought the thing.

When I stopped to admire it, the woman owner who was tidying the thing up said they’d bought it for their road trips — soon to be a regular feature of retirement — and because it had a nice, safe place for their little dog.

You can be sure that if it were mine, it and I and the dawg would be ON THE ROAD, right this minute. 😀

Many years of grand fun to you, folks! <3

***

No grand fun here, just this minute. Well…unless grand pain is the same as grand fun… 😀

Seriously, the hip seems to be dislocated. At some points, you can almost feel that the femur doesn’t fit quite right into the hip socket. At other, the joint works smoothly and with very little pain.

I was gonna drive out to the far west side to try to snab a new doctor. But my son having snabbed my car put the eefus on that. Not far from here, we can rent cars…but…on reflection…how much DO we want to walk through 100-degree heat on a hip that hurts every time you move it? Hmmmmmm…..

So: called the proposed new quack and canceled that appointment. Not an easy trick: the guy apparently is too cheap to hire a receptionist/phone-answering lady, and I had a bitch of a time reaching a machine that would take a “won’t be there” message. I hope he doesn’t try to charge me for the missed meeting.

‘Cause he ain’t about to get paid for it…

*****

And now Wonder-Cleaning Lady is here, pushing dirt and dog hair around the tiled floors. What a fun way to make your living, eh?

Idle conversation about our predecessors. Hers, of course: largely Native American mixed with Spaniard types. Seemed unclear to her what tribes might have made up the native set…but if her people came from fairly deep in Mexico (as they probably did), you can be sure they weren’t Chocktaws and Chickasaws.

My father, as far as we can tell, was largely Chocktaw. Apparently his mother was a member of the tribe who married a gringo buffalo hunter. We know his family came out of the deep South, though they had landed in Texas by the time he was born.

What was my mother? The surprise gift of a spate of naughty adventuring on the part of her mother and…some guy. Raised by her paternal grandmother and, later, by my maternal great-grandmother, my mother was amazingly staid. One would never know the maternal line of the family was composed largely of March hares who subscribed to a crackpot religion called Christian Science. 😀

A lot of strangeness lurked in that branch of the family…but none of it had to do with being Native American.