Coffee heat rising

Aging in place

Seven Kinds o’ Hell

by

Yech!!!!!!!  It’s lightly over-cast this afternoon and a chilly 85 degrees on the back porch. Mildly humid. And that translates, in Arizona lingo, to hotter than Hell. 

Seriously: it’s a freakin’ sauna out there. Just got back from a hike to and around my favorite local stores. And when we say “hike,” we ain’t kiddin’. I’d say the total came to a good three miles. At least. Down to the ‘Hood’s south border, past the church, downward ever downward to Main Drag South. Through the shopping center parking lot, around and around and around the HUGE supermarket. Finally out the door. Northerly northerly northerly back up to our part of the ‘Hood. Through the church parking lot. Past the apartments where my mother once wanted me to rent, northerly northerly northerly…finally reaching our street. Hiking, hiking, hiking…oh my GAWD!  

Hot? Lemme tellya hot.

About to faint by the time we reach our street, hiking easterly easterly until AT LAST we reach our north-south access road. Northerly northerly northerly, past houses with beautiful young kids playing in the yards <3, past the fine young neighbors’ places, up to the WonderAccountants’ place: straight across the street from the Funny Farm.

Damn near pass out as we reach the front door. Wrestle with two deadbolts. FINALLY get into the (mercifully!!!) air-conditioned house.

Ruby is waiting. She seems OK…uhm…I think. But the Human isn’t: the Human is about to fukkin’ die of heat exhaustion.

Stagger into the kitchen. Fill up a wine glass with ice and…and…oh what the Hell! pour a slug of white wine over it. Serve up half a can of dawg food. Turn on every fan in the room and collapse in front of one of them thar fans.

Thinking how much I miss San Francisco. How much I miss my relatives’ place in Berkeley. Why, dear God, WHY do I live in this Hell?

Oh. Because my son is here!

And oh: because I can’t afford to live in Berkeley. Or Sausalito. Or Richmond. Or most certainly not San Francisco. All the places I came from. All places I imagine I belong.

My gawd, I hate Arizona. Especially at this time of (the overheated!!) year. And this time of year — April — will extend through the end of September. Six richly hate-worthy months. 

What. A. Horrible. Place.

Wow! What Luck….

by

Y’know…Amazon is saving my tail. Seriously: without the comprehensive delivery service that outfit provides, I would be in the old-folkerie by now.

Without a car — as you know, my son contrived to have mine taken away from me — there’s no way I could contrive to get groceries, to take the dog to the vet, or…helle’s belles, just to survive at all in our car-centric society.

Just ordered a case of canned food for Ruby the Corgi. Six count: that’s about 12 days’ worth. Price is outrageous (that’s for sure!). However…the price of owning a car exceeds outrageous, by the time you add up the gasoline and the regular service and the repairs. I’d have to buy dog food anyway — not at Amazon prices, but if you figure Amazon is keeping that car out of my garage, overall the cost probably evens out. That is, what I’m not spending on the car, I’m freeing up to have stuff delivered to my door.

And that is keeping me in my home.

How much longer that will hold forth remains to be seen.

I’m not going to be able to live here much longer, I’m afraid. By this point in his life, my father had moved himself into an old-folkerie, where he lived miserably ever after. (Not the institution’s fault: he stupidly married a woman he met there, little understanding that he could not replace my mother with some broad he met in the dining hall.) Personally, I loathe hate and despise communal living, and I sincerely hope I die before I reach the point that I can’t stay in my home.

But that’s not likely. Women in my family who didn’t smoke and didn’t drink routinely lived into their late 90s. And none of them were locked up in institutions…no, I take that back: one aunt was institutionalized by her son.

I’m sure I’ll end up in a prison for old folks, myself. There’s really no other practical way to care for me if I really do live into my late dotage. My son can’t take off his job to babysit me, and there are no other relatives who could help care for me. Horrible prospect.

But the really horrible part of it is that those places take everything you have. If I have to go into one of those jails, NOTHING will be left for my son. My savings, the value of my home…it all will be gone. And I want my son to have those things.

It may be best to arrange an early exit. How exactly one does that in a pain-free way escapes me…but clearly, finding the exit door by natural means ain’t pain-free, either. Ideally, one would like to just go to sleep and not wake up. But I don’t see how to engineer that in any sane or reliable way, nor does it appear likely to happen in the natural course of events.

There’s gotta be a way…now’s the time to engage those PhD-level research skills!

Where Are Ya Gonna Go?

by

So the question of the day is…AM I gonna stay here, in my middle-upscale house in moderately affluent North Phoenix? Or am I gonna sell the house and move into some dreary old-folkerie?

Once again, this morning some sh!thead vandalized a hummingbird feeder in front.

REALLY??? You seriously have nothing to do but sneak onto a neighbor’s front porch and dork with her bird feeders?

Sheee-ut!  What IS the matter with people?

I love my home and I love my neighborhood — by and large love my neighbors, too — and I do NOT want to move into a holding pen for old folks waiting to die.

Yeah, I know: I’m an old folk myself, and yes, I’m just sittin’ here waiting to die, myself. But at least I’m doing those things on MY terms, not according to some institution’s rules.

Speaking of the’Hood, my GAWD, what a gorgeous day! And how do I not want to sit on a 5’x12′ balcony overlooking a parking lot while I sip my morning coffee? Nooooo thankee!

And ohhhh, that little dog! Sitting there with her funny corgi ears upright, soaking in the splendid morning…why would one live where one could not enjoy corgi company?

LOL! What an outrageously gorgeous day!  I should get off my duff, walk over to the Sprouts, and load up on some more edible loot.

But y’know, I’m just too plug-lazy! Seriously: right this moment I can’t work up any enthusiasm for springing to my feet and hiking over to the store. Or for calling the Uber-driving neighbor and putting him up to schlepping me over there.

No. The important order of the day is to loaf. Loafing, loafing, serious loafing!

And y’know: we now have a mechanism that makes that important chore possible. It’s called AMAZON. 😀  Truth to tell, I don’t have to trudge or to taxi to a grocery store or a drugstore. All I have to do is call up Amazon on the laptop, pick out whatever loot I desire, and have it delivered to my front door.

Amazon — seriously — has saved my tail when it comes to living in my home through my dotage. Time after time, now, they’ve sent stuff to me that I would have had to hire a cab to buy, or that I probably couldn’t have found in any store anywhere near my house, here in (un)lovely North Phoenix. Hardly a week goes by anymore that I don’t order something from Amazon.

So the question is: “Where are you gonna go”?  

And the answer is: Right here. 

I’m gonna stay right here in my shack until I keel over face-first, dead as the proverbial doornail. Until that day, if I need someone to help me day-to-day, I’ll hire someone to come in to the house.

Matter of fact, it develops that Wonder Cleaning-Lady has done that in the past. So…I may even be able to hire her! No one new to get used to…no poor soul having to figure out my eccentricities…what could be better?

ARF! we say….and GLUB!

by

Loafing on the front porch this gorgeous morning…waiting for a workman to confront the day’s catastrophe.

Boyoboy, am I tired of catastrophes. This stuff makes a box in the sky down on Central Avenue look good! Nice aspect of apartment living: someone else takes care of the damned repairs.

This morning the irrigation system sprang a leak. I found out about it only because the neighbor across the street, one of the WonderAccountants, came over to tell me the road between our houses was flooded from curb to curb.

Looovvveeeleeeeee….

So now we’re waiting for an irrigation plumber to show up. And waiting. And waiting. And waiting.

He probably has several other jobs to attend to this morning. So it’ll be half the day before I can go on about my business. And by then, waaayyyy too hot for Ruby the Corgi’s morning walk.

Contemplating: Maybe SDXB was right to sell up and move to Sun City. 

Even though he still ends up with a free-standing house to take care of…a gravel yard presents almost zero maintenance issues. Taxes out there are lower. Burglars are pretty much uninterested in you. Two hospitals — neither of them very good, but neither of them much worse than most of the others in the Valley — await your next stroke or heart attack. Not a bad deal, overall.

If M’hijto weren’t here in town — conveniently located to both me and to his father & stepmother — I might very well have followed SDXB back out to the far, noisy west side.

Or not.

I did hate living there when my parents owned their end-of-life home…ah…here’s our plumber!!!!!  Awayyyyyy…..

****

A-a-a-n-d… Now the plumbers are here. They’ve dug up the yard around the side gate. Hevvin only knows how much they’ll charge for this little adventure!

I sure don’t wanna know.

Ohhhhhh man! What a job! Wayyyy up there in the Department of Jobs You’re Glad You Don’t Have!!

Seriously, though, these guys have amazing skills. Not only did they figure out the problem within a few minutes of attacking the watering contraption, now they’ve taken it apart and are merrily (uhm…welll…) reconstructing it.

****

JAYZUZ! Two hundred and seventy bucks!  To repair a leaking pipe!

Sheeeee-ut!

Well…to be fair, they had to dig up a corner of the yard. Excavate the equipment that regulates the water flow on the west side. Install new parts…in the mud…

Gawd only knows how much this little cavort will run up the water bill. Literally: the road was flooded curb to curb before Tom (neighbor) noticed  and called me.

Honestly, sometimes I do think a box in the sky would be a better habitation for an old bat. But…then I remember living in one.

My parents and I lived in a box in the sky in San Francisco, in a tract called ParkMerced. It actually was a cool place to live: I loved both of the apartments we occupied successively: first a high-rise and then a pleasant little two-story garden apartment.

But…y’know… Apartment developments are crowded. They can be noisy. And expensive: monthly rental can add up. And add up. And add up. Here the only payments I make — on four bedrooms plus a diving pool and two patios and four citrus trees — are for taxes and utilities. This house really is about as ideal as it can get, for an old bat and her dawg.

Hmmm…. Yep! Count up the blessings of a high-rise apartment, the blessings of a cheaply built tract house out in Sun City, and the blessings of this house…and this house wins, paws down.

  • Decent neighborhood
  • Low-maintenance landscaping
  • Block walls around the back & side yards
  • Orange trees
  • Lemon tree
  • Lime tree
  • Climbing roses
  • Cute little kids living all around in the neighborhood
  • Lightrail train running up and down Main Drag West
  • Two major regional hospitals — one of them within walking distance
  • One of the best public school districts in the city
  • Three middle- to upscale shopping centers within walking distance

I’m sure one could ask for more…but personally, I can’t imagine what that would be. 

Time to Move to the Old Folks’ Home?

by

Stay? or flee?

Do Ruby and I want to sell up, pack up, and move? Shift our base of operations to an institution for the elderly, where staff babysit you 24/7? Or…well…stay here, keep dodging the burglars and the sh!t-heads, keep managing crews of yard guys, housecleaners, pool dudes, repairmen…on and on and endlessly on?

One advantage of living in an old-folkerie: someone else rides herd on the hired help.

Here, I do have a cleaning lady who does an excellent job. Most of them don’t: they appear not to know how to clean house, at least not to middle-class American standards. So the presence of Wonder Cleaning-Lady is a huge privilege…and very possibly a rarity.

You shouldn’t have to ride herd on a worker doing a job that your mommy taught you to do when you were nine years old. In Wonder Cleaning-Lady’s case, I don’t have to…but too dam many of them don’t even seem to know how to use a dustrag.

Move into one of those old folks’ warehouses, and (in theory, anyway) you have an employee riding the herd.

Whaddaya bet, though, that you still end up with imperfect cleaning, dust still sitting on the bookcase shelves, dust still hiding behind the sofa, grease still sitting on the stove burners…on and on and on…  Y’know…if I have to deal with that, I’d rather deal with it in my own home,  not in some unholy institution.

But…Jeez!!

This morning Ruby and I repaired to the neighborhood park for our morning perambulation. And there was some guy out there, yelling suggestive obscenities at us. Yeah: at an 80-year-old bat!!! 

You can’t get away from the bastards!

Wait…isn’t that what the cop said after the Great Home Invasion Adventure?  😀

Seriously: you CAN’T get away from them.

If I’m going to stay here and if I imagine Ruby and I are going to continue our walking routine, maybe I ought to get us a pistol. One that’s small enough to fit inside a pocket.

On the other hand, I don’t want to shoot some jerk just because he asks me if I wanna f*ck. That wouldn’t be nice, would it?

😉

Home, (Not So…) Sweet Home

by

Ugh!  This is where my parents and I used to live, on the shore of the Persian Gulf.

Hard to describe how richly we were hated by the locals, who considered Americans to be emissaries of Satan. So, SOOO glad not be there anymore.

My father was paid some ludicrous amount of money to shepherd tankers and freighters out of the Ras Tanura harbor. He was an ocean-going pilot of some prominence, and when he hired on out there, he figured to earn enough to finance a spectacularly early retirement.

Didn’t quite work out that way. I was a weird little kid who couldn’t get along with my normal, very sosh’ classmates. Imagine: a girl child in the 1950s who wanted to grow up to be, of all things, an astronomer! 

😀
not to say
🙁

So the kids hated me and tormented me every day from the fourth grade on, day in and day out of awful misery.

My mother realized how horrible life had become for me out there, and she managed to maneuver my father into retiring from ARAMCO and coming back to the U.S., whither he shipped out of California for Standard Oil.

Whew! She saved my sanity with that. 

Didn’t do his career a whole lot of good, though…

So I was in the 6th grade when we landed back in San Francisco. Couple years later, he got a higher-paying job with Union Oil shipping out of Southern California, and that allowed him to retire permanently much earlier than planned.

Thence, it was off to Arizona, where he had discovered the phenomenon known as Sun City. They shoehorned me into the University of Arizona a year early (skipping my senior year in high school), bought a house in that dreary old folks’ suburb, shooed me off to Tucson, and lived happily ever after.

Well… Until my mother’s incessant goddam smoking habit caught up with her. After it had made me sick (and sick…and sicker) for several years, it gave her cancer and killed her.

My father was soon glommed by one of the predatory women in the old-folkerie to which he had recourse after my mother died. She maneuvered him into marrying her — one of the biggest mistakes of his life — and he lived miserably ever after with her, in that dreary retirement home in uptown Phoenix.

Hafta give him this: he was a far stronger human being than his daughter was or is. I would have picked up a pistol and blown out my brains if I’d been stuck with that lady in that hideously depressing prison for old folks. She was mean, meaner, and even meaner, and she openly hated me because my husband and I were traitorous LIBuhrals. (She was a right-wing crazy; my hubby was on the national board of the American Civil Liberties Union, if you can imagine anything so Communistic!). I soon learned to detest her, and so I stayed away from my father most of the time.

Grand way to wrap up a life of amazingly hard work, eh?

Poor man! His life should have been better than that…especially the last few years of it.

He spent those last few years in misery, because he refused to divorce the Dragon Lady. This, despite urging to do so from me and from my husband, one of the most prominent lawyers in the American Southwest. “She’ll get all my money!” wailed he. Forgodsake, Daddy: some things are more important than money. 

Well. He thought not, having toiled throughout his adult life to collect that retirement fund. So he stayed married to the witch, on and interminably on. He predeceased her, which meant the last few years of his much-coveted retirement were passed in glum, tedious depression.

Ugh! What that said to me is no matter how much you covet married bliss, NEVER remarry in old age!