Coffee heat rising

Aging in place

Smoke Alarm Hell

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Just about all the smoke alarms in the house are conkering out at the same time. It’s beep! to the left of you and beep! to the right of you and new beeps every time you turn around.

That’s not surprising. We installed these alarms when I moved in, so they’re…what? Eight or ten years old.

Replaced one. Didn’t do any good. the newer alarms are kinda junky. And getting the damn things up on the ceiling is a MAJOR hassle.l

They’re still beeping. A-A-A-A-L-L-L  N-N-I-I-I-I-G-H-T  L-O-N-G!

What a racket!

And I can’t reach them to pull them off the ceiling. Climbing up on a ladder at this age, as a scarecrow of osteoporotic bones, is NOT a good idea. And my son is too busy to come trotting down here and fart around with a bunch of fire alarms.

So I didn’t get any sleep last night, not to speak of.

Ruby and I are back from the park, but no food has been served up to the Human. Hmmm…

What I’m thinking is that when the shops open — which will be very soon — I’ll go up to the hardware store and buy a whole new bunch of smoke alarms, along with as many new expensive 9-volt batteries.

Instead of sticking them on the ceilings, I’ll put them on top of the bookcases — which in three rooms reach almost to the ceiling. And on top of the refrigerator, and atop the old TV cabinet that now serves as a linen closet in the spare bedroom.

We have one in the hallway, which I believe is relatively new. And the one here in the office is newer. The one in the kitchen…middling newish. The others — (former) TV room, family room, living room — are getting old. They could stand to be replaced, I reckon.

The house was equipped, when I bought it, with a hard-wired fire alarm in the garage. It’s still out there…and I have NO idea whether it works. Nor do I see a way to test it. So…it might be a good idea to put another of these chintzy little battery-run numbers out there. Just in case.

Y’know…the whole Home-Ownership thing is getting kinda old. I’m beginning to see why the idea of moving into Orangewood — a life-care community — appealed to my father. He must have been getting real tired of doing maintenance and repairs on that house in Sun City.

Well, I don’t wanna consign myself to a prison for old folks. BUT…this city has some high-rise apartments that are fairly swell. I’m thinking it might be good to move to one of those.

My son opposes that scheme. I suspect that’s because he wants this house. And I would have to sell it to get myself into a fancy condominium.

On the other hand, when I croak over — which shouldn’t be that much longer — he’ll inherit enough to buy three of these houses.

Hmmmm….  Maybe what I should do is just give this house to him and spend half my savings to move into a high-rise.

Doesn’t sound wise, does it.

Nope. Not wise.

There’s gotta be a way….

Struggling Along…

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Wow! When they say the Land of Old Age ain’t for kids, they aren’t kidding! What a horror show the past few weeks have been.

And…no end seems to be in sight, except for the obvious one.

It’s not like gettin’ old isn’t bad enough in itself: you’re sick all the time, under siege from doctors who want to inflict treatments that are probably pointless, and the ordinary tasks of daily life come to feel like more than you can cope with.

And, speaking of “under siege,” you literally are under siege from every scam artist on the planet.

Apparently they figure that as your faculties fade, so does your skill at dodging crooks. And…they’re probably right. These lists appear to be pretty readily available to anyone who’s willing to pay a few bucks for them. There’s this, for example: for $325 cash on the barrelhead, any scammer on the planet can get access to phone numbers from some 52 million old folks. Conveniently organized by categories such as “pet owners,” “religion,” “gender,” “auto owners,” “new movers” — on and on and on — these things hand you over to the hustlers. No wonder the phone jangles every day!

I’ve had to block numbers from entire area codes. This is fine (sorta) when the area codes are in Los Angeles and waypoints, where I don’t know anyone and don’t do business. But the ba*tards spoof local area codes, trying to trick you into thinking their noxious advertising and scamming calls are from neighbors or local businesses. The Phoenix area, which prides itself in aping LA’s endless sprawl, has three area codes. Since I no longer work in the East Valley nor do I still have much of a social life, I’ve blocked two of them.

This prevents people in the East Valley and the West Valley from calling me. Only problem: my dermatologist’s office is on the west side and the Mayo is on the east side. Neither of these worthy outfits can reach me on the phone.

Same is true for certain friends who use only cell phones. One of my dearest friends has canceled her land line and uses only a cell phone…which has a banned area code. To get in touch, she has to email me.

I did try the strategy of BLASTING phone solicitors with the loudest, most eardrum-shattering noise you can come up with. Rather than carry an airhorn around the house all the time, I’ve found that SCREAMING into the phone as loud as you can, at the top of your voice, seems to get you on the pests’ do-not-call lists.

You shriek:

G-A-A-A-A-A-A-A-A-A-A-A-A-A-A-A!!!!!!!!!!

It does seem to work, at least to a degree. In the weeks since I’ve started this li’l strategy, the nuisance calls have dropped from eight or ten a day — starting as dawn cracks! — to maybe one or two.

And speaking of BLASTING….

M’jito is dragging me to the Mayo next Monday, pretty much over my dead body, to be subjected to an MRI of my brain.

This entails sticking you inside a metal tube and BLASTING EXTREMELY LOUD NOISE into your ears. It sounds absolutely unholy. Apparently some people completely freak out from this “exam,” a procedure for which the term “torture” sounds a lot more appropriate.

And it also seems to me to be utterly unnecessary. Why subject a person to a test to prove…what? That you can barely remember your name, after you’ve told the dear doctors repeatedly that you can barely remember your name?

Well. You and I have a fair idea of why. It’s spelled $$$$$$$$$$$$$$$….

I do not want to be subjected to this. But he has threatened to have me declared incompetent if I refuse to submit.

Whether he could actually get away with this is unknown to me. But what IS known is that if he tries it, he will end our relationship forever and aye.

Since I don’t relish being permanently alienated from him, I’m going along with the torture scheme. But if I’m right and nothing is wrong with my brain (!!!!!), this will be the LAST time I go along to get along when someone demands that I subject myself to anything I don’t want to be subjected to.

Airplanes are roaring away outside: r-r-r-r-u-u-u-u-u-u-u-u-u-u-u-u-m-b-le …hour after hour of it. Apparently it’s coming from Sky Harbor: they must have changed the morning flight patterns. What a racket!

My mother actually used to enjoy the sound of fighter jets practicing take-offs and landings at Luke Air Force Base. The locals in Sun City got blasted with that gawdawful racket every morning. She would sit on the back porch, serenaded as she had her first coffee of the day. “The sound of freedom,” she called it.

Uh huh. And coming from Sky Harbor, what we call it is “the sound of cash.”

It pretty much obviates the scheme to move to Fountain Hills. Planes flying into Sky Harbor at dinner time and out of Sky Harbor at breakfast time BLAST YOU OUT OF YOUR SEAT if you dare to sit on the back porch to enjoy your coffee. And the houses out there are built so flimsily, that they barely block the noise even if you stay inside with all the doors and windows shut.

***********

And…speaking phones ringing at the crack of dawn: RINGY DINGY DINGY!

Pick up the phone, ready to blast the solicitor.

Nope: it’s the plumber. He’s sending his son over to dig up and repair the back yard’s leaking irrigation system.

Goodie. Nothing like a little chaos — preferably expensive chaos — to make your day.

The Californication of Urban Arizona

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Wow! What an afternoon!

M’jito, my wonderful son, kindly took his whole day off work to schlep me out to the Mayo Clinic in Scottsdale, there to enjoy a whole series of annoying, time-consuming tests. This journey seriously did consume the entire day!

No kidding. An hour to drive out there. The whole damn day sitting around there, waiting, talking to people, being subjected to tests, sitting around waiting some more…on and on. Then OVER an hour to drive back into town through the unholy rush-hour traffic.

My GAWD!!! You have never seen such ungodly traffic as the legions westbound out of Scottsdale! Just a fukkin’ horror show!

Workin’-class folks here in the Valley of the We-Do-Mean-Sun by and large live in the West Valley. Decently paying businesses hold forth in the easterly and north-easterly regions: Scottsdale and the East Valley. Result: as in hideous Southern California, thousands of commuters trudge across the city over packed, hot, ugly freeways. And what a horrible evening drive that makes, starting along about 4:00 p.m.

At least it wasn’t unduly hot this afternoon. Another two months, and the drive would have been splendidly hellish.

Ohhh well. Now I’m home, and (since I’ve heard nothing to the contrary) he presumably is home.

What.

A.

Place.

And this is why I daydream of moving to Prescott or the Oro Valley. He daydreams of moving to Grand Junction, Colorado, where his eccentric paternal grandmother lived, as did her extraordinarily obnoxious husband until he ran off with a woman who could put up with his toxic personality.  Moi…I have too many negative memories of DXH’s dear mother (whose personality was not lacking in a degree of toxicity) to go back to that place — ever again — and M’jito knows that.

And I suspect that like me, he may regard one of the midsize towns/cities in Arizona as an acceptable substitute.

I would move to Prescott in a minute.

Same for Sedona.

Same for Oro Valley.

Some friends took off for Payson to spend their retirement in an extraordinarily beautiful home in the forest.

So…Payson? Maybe, only because my friends are up there. But probably not: it’s too small, too remote. You have to drive all the way down into the Valley to go to a decent doctor. Or to go to a Costco. Or to enjoy any sort of cultural event this side of a rodeo.

Truth to tell, if I had my preference, I’d probably move to Carefree (north of town: $$$$), Cave Creek (on the road to Carefeee: almost affordable), or Wickenburg (out in the desert west of town).

Or…or…San Francisco, by damn!

It’s 18 minutes after 5:00 p.m. here in the Funny Farm’s back yard. Helicopter after helicopter has flown over. The roar of passenger jets emanates from Sky Harbor airport, miles from here.

Ohhhh well. I can’t complain: At least I don’t have to deal with that unholy traffic morning and evening, five unholy days a week.

But…if I still had to work, you can be sure I wouldn’t live in Phoenix.

Life in the Wild West…as it were…

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Welp, here we are, rounding out the first quarter of the 21st century in the (un)lovely Valley of the Sun.

It’s a nice city, a relatively safe one compared to some of the sootier venues spreading eastward across the country. But it’s still…a city. And…well…plus ça change….

Back in the dark ages, I used to walk home from school. In San Francisco, I could make about two-thirds the trip on foot or in a bus and a third in a streetcar. Either way, walking was safe and clean and an easy way to get back and forth without having to wait on and pay for the public bus.

Ah, nostalgia…

Today, I wouldn’t let a kid of mine walk to school here, not on a bet. Not even if it was the school three blocks to the west of us, right down the street.

It’s…

Just…

Not…

Safe.

Honestly, the schools seem to be under siege. Every time you turn around, here’s some new wacksh!t predator trying to snare a kid. Schools hire armed guards to patrol the place. Demented kids bring firearms and shoot up the school. Classes take place behind locked doors. And last week kids on their way to our neighborhood school had to step over a corpse on the sidewalk.

Makes home-schooling look good!

****

Here we are, a few hours later, after a raid on Costco’s tire shop and a trip hither and a trip thither and a goddamn car breakdown and a car repair and….yeah.

Mighty glad to get home, tha’ss all i can say!

See this?

https://www.fox10phoenix.com/news/woman-returns-couch-to-costco-after-two-years-sparks-viral-reaction-to-stores-generous-return-policy

This is why I shop at Costco.

Despite all the BS the general public is capable of delivering, Costco never gives you any BS.

Got something to whine about? Costco employees will listen patiently to your whining. If at all possible they’ll try to make the problem right. If they can’t, they’ll try to return your money to you.

Next week I’ll launch into battle with the Costco tire shop…not over anything so egregious, but still…

The thing is, I know they’ll listen to me. And I know they’ll do the best they can to make it right. If that costs Costco money, y’know what? It will MAKE more money for Costco, because every time they treat me like the Queen of England is a guarantee that I will be back, that I’ll buy more stuff there, that I’ll tell my friends how wonderful they are…on and on.

And that, we must allow, is amazing.

***

And speaking of amazing: it was back to the ‘Hood via Unlovely Sunnyslope, an alarming slum a few blocks north of the ‘Hood.

How would I like not to drive through there?

Lemme count the ways. And yet…no.

No, I’m not gonna add another 15+ minutes to the trip to weasel my way around Dank Slum North.

So: lock the car doors. Choose the route that probably moves the fastest and the smoothest at this time of day. Pray for the best.

God’lmighty this place gets more and more like Southern California by the day. Lordie, how can I remember Watts? Lemme count the ways….

Is Phoenix as bad as that?

Well…ahem! Certain areas surely are. My neighborhood is OK…but…but…. We’re about a mile south of a strikingly Watts-ish district. Would I live here if I could afford better?

Not.

On.

Your.

Life.

But I can’t, very much as many Los Angelenos can’t. “Afford better,” that is. And so our taxes and our retail bills and the value of stuff people can steal from us sustains the dankness that is our neighborhood. Loverly.

So, so tired.

Beautiful evening…high cirrus clouds decorating the sky over North Mountain. Cool but not chilly. Birds cheeping. Wine pouring.

Soon I should get up  and take Ruby for a doggy walk.

At this rate, though, the walk is likely to be up the hall and onto the bed. 😀

          ***

Actually…we made it all the way around our usual route, about a mile.

Wouldn’tcha know it, on the homeward leg I tripped and fell. Bashed the sore left shoulder, bashed the previously OK hand.

Dayum!

ooooh well… C’est la vie.

Tempus Continues to Fidget

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Crimineee, here we are halfway through the first month of another year. Who’d’ve thunk it possible?

When you’re old, time shifts into the higher velocities. It passes with absurd speed.

Yesterday I had one of the strangest experiences I’ve enjoyed in quite some time. I happened to be driving around on the east side of the city’s venerable North Central district, and in a moment of idleness, I roamed into the neighborhood where one of my old friends grew up. He lives in Portland now, his parents are deceased, and I haven’t seen any of that crowd in years.

There’s a Weirdness to driving around places you haven’t visited in forever: It looks familiar, and yet it doesn’t look familiar. 😀  I recognized the neighborhood, but I didn’t recognize it. Exactly.

When that friendship was active, his parents lived there. It’s a pleasant little middle-class neighborhood of pleasant little middle-class homes. Dates back to the 1950s or 60s, I’d guess.

Surprisingly, it hasn’t run down. To the contrary! Apparently centrally located single-family homes are hot property! The place looked as good as or — IMHO — better than it did when Dear Friend lived there. The houses are maintained as well or better…actually, I’d say significantly better. That property, because of its central location, is now worth FAR more relative to the rest of the city’s going value. Yet amazingly, it was full of families with kids.

Presumably the kids of doctors and lawyers…there’s no way the average tract-house family could afford that location.

Hm.

If the houses were not significantly older than mine, I might consider moving into that area. But they ARE older…a LOT older. So they would require a lot more maintenance, much of it very expensive maintenance.

On the other hand…they’re a long way from the grim slum that borders my neighborhood to the north. And they’re nowhere near any piles of grim (indeed!), crime-infested apartments like the mess that borders us to the west.

But on the third hand…those older houses are not cheap to maintain. Plus because of its location, the taxes might be higher than mine or my son’s. They’re practically uninsulated, and so summer power bills are astronomical. How you would insulate such a place escapes me — we blew tons of insulation into M’hijito’s attic, and the AC bills on that place, which is similar to the houses I was admiring, simply defy belief. My house, which is larger but 30 years newer, has significantly lower power bills than his does…and his house is probably newer than the places I was coveting yesterday.

Heh! While all that tempus has been fidgeting, a whoooole lotta changes have happened.

My friends divorced. Both have remarried. One lives in Portland, Oregon. The other in Seattle. DXH and I also divorced, though we both still live in lovely Phoenix, where our son also lives. Said son is now a middle-aged man with a highly responsible job and a house rather like the place pictured above.

I’m now retired and, freed from the joys of teaching college students, spend a great deal of time loafing around a pretty little North Central shack. I love my house but could do without the pool — and the house full of juvenile delinquents my bosom enemy installed across the street.

The hassle and expense involved in moving, however, outweigh the potential benefits. So far, I have yet to find a place that looks like its benefits would trump the hassles. The other day I did see a very pretty house within walking distance of my son’s place. But it was in the upscale neighborhood that borders Central Avenue: the price defied belief. Not only that, but because of its age and construction, the cost of running it would have been phenomenal.

Today, it’s highly unlikely that I could afford a house in an area where I would want to live — between about 7th Street and maybe 15th Avenue, from about Missouri to about Northern. The prices are so Californicated now that the cost of buying is in the stratosphere…and that doesn’t even include the cost of packing up and moving.

And so…time passes.

Grrrrrrrrrrrrr!!!!

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Seven in the frikkin’ morning. Gotta be outta here in less than an hour, on the road through wicked rush-hour traffic, headed for the dentist. Big lump on a gum. Cancer???? The way things have been going, I sure won’t be surprised.

So, soooooo tired! I’ve been up since two a.m.: never did get back to sleep.  All I wanna do is crawl back in bed and be miserable in peace. Instead, I’ve gotta put my life on the line to traipse to the dentist.

Gotta marshal some strength to fight back. I’m totally under siege here, between the busted arm and my son’s concern.

I forget things. This is not surprising, at the age of 78. But M’jito is all worried: he thinks I’m getting senile. From what I can tell, as you round on your 80th year, you forget stuff…and that is normal. It’s easy enough to compensate with a notebook and a spreadsheet.

***

Ohhhh…kayyyy…  Now I’m dressed…after a (non) fashion. The busted arm: still in a sling, still hurts. Almost all my shirts are pullovers — and o’course I can’t get one of those over my head, not in this condition. I have some three shirts that button up the front. And they’re not exactly gorgeous with a Velcro strap slung over my shoulder. In another 10 minutes, it’s off to the dentist to find out (I hope) what the lump on my gum is. It popped up a few days ago. From what I can tell in the Hypochondriac’s Treasure Chest, it’s unlikely to be cancer. Just hope it can be left to go away (or not) on its own. I’ve had enough with the slicing and dicing!

*******

And speaking of senility…

I get all the way over to 16th and Maryland — through cut-throat rush-hour traffic — go to turn in to the garden office complex’s parking lot…and…and…and I can’t find it!!!!!

WTF!?!?!????

It’s my regular dentist’s place…why isn’t it here?

Drove all around over there and STILL couldn’t find it!

Schlepped home through the hideous rush-hour traffic. On the way I stopped at the orthodontist’s…any chance that I mistook, in my senility, the place where I was supposed to go?

Nope.

So I missed an important appointment, put my life on the line to do it by venturing out in Lovely Phoenix’s homicidal rush-hour traffic, got myself all worked up, missed taking Ruby for her beloved doggy-walk..all for NOTHING.

*****

Something is to be said about living in a given city for several decades: You get very skilled at navigating rush-hour traffic.

One comes to know all the most-traveled and least-traveled routes. All the impossible traffic signals to avoid. And the most discreet parking lots to cut through to avoid a traffic jam…without attracting acop’s attention (it’s agin’ the law to do that).

***

10 a.m.

Yep. Just ten o’clock and it’s already  been an awful morning.

I should take the little dog for a walk. Really, despite the personal awfulness, it’s a beautiful morning. The rain has cooled things down. The before-work dog walkers have done their duty and cleared off the sidewalks.

So yeah…this is the time.

On the other hand…will venturing out just make things worse for the Walking Wounded? Maybe I should think twice.

On the other other hand…I’m in no shape to think at all..much less to do it twice.