Coffee heat rising

aging

GET’em!!!

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Boyoboy, would I love to be able to GET them: the bastards who start blitzing me with phone soliciting around 7 a.m., and on into the morning.

Phone soliciting should be illegal.

Yeah, I know: freedom of speech and all that. Sure… But you can be free of speech at a decent hour of the morning.

Yeah, I know: they’re trying to catch you before you leave for work.

But freedom to hustle people is no excuse for driving the marks nuts. I am so sick of the phone soliciting harassment, I’ve seriously thought of disconnecting the phone service. Who the Hell needs a phone if all it’s going to be used for is to pester you?

Yeah, I know: turn off the phone during periods when you don’t want to be hassled.

But…my son uses that phone to get in touch with me. What if something happens that he needs to get ahold of me RIGHT NOW…and I’ve disconnected all the phones?

The bastards have got you coming and got you going!

***

Gorgeous morning! Sunny and balmy at once. 

Ruby and I circumambulated a route that SDXB and I used to take every day, back when he lived here. Goes through a neighborhood of tidy middle-class homes, probably dating back to the 1960s. All green and grassy and tree-shaded now: a very pretty route to walk in the mornings.

One of our favorite neighbors, The Ole Guy, lived on this route. He would be out puttering in the yard every morning — we would pause and chat with him.

No sign of him today. Probably moved into the Beatitudes when he had to consign his wife to the place, a prison for the decrepit. She refused to go, when he realized she had reached a point where he could no longer take care of her. Finally, it became clear that the only way he could shove her into that place would be to go there with her.

The Beatitudes is a terrifying old-folkerie, one that’s been in Phoenix for years. Sooner or later, most of us who survive into old age will be forced to move into such a place. But oh, my!  The horror!!

Institutional living is not my Thing, that’s for sure. I hated living in the dorms at the university, and you can be sure a prison for old folks isn’t anywhere near as tame as a college dormitory. Sincerely do I hope I will die before I can be carted off to one of those places…but there’s not much hope for that, given the longevity in my family and my own vigorous health.

My father had himself locked up in a similar place, one called Orangewood — now called the Terraces. My mother had refused to go. Upshot: he had to take care of her at home as she lay dying of the cancer brought on by her rabid smoking habit. But the minute she died — frankly, I think that’s no exaggeration — he put the house on the market and signed himself into the old-folks’ prison.

He didn’t mind that lifestyle. Having gone to sea all of his adult life, he was used to crowded, institutional living and bad food.

I, however, would far, FAR rather be dead than locked up in one of those horrid places. And you may be sure that if I have to do so, I will engineer exactly that. No way in Hell am I gonna spend my “golden years” (har har!) in Decrepitude Hell.

For what those places cost, though, I do believe you can hire people to come into your home and babysit you into the Next World. They’re horribly expensive institutions. And really: if you’re not a stroke-induced vegetable — if you can still hobble around your house and bathe yourself and lift a fork to your mouth — you can make exactly that kind of hire.

Well…there are better fates. One could instantly drop dead of a stroke, for example.

Let us hope for that!

Reminiscing…

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Dear GOD, how I hated living in Saudi Arabia!

I grew up there, in an American oil camp called Ras Tanura. That means “Cape Brazier”…and they ain’t kiddin’!  It was a horrible place, hot and humid all summer long (add the spring and fall to that, to get the total length of the season…). Some days, it was so humid that rain would start to pour out of a clear blue sky!

This jolly memory was spurred by a moment of reminiscence: was remembering some of the kids I went to school with, what our lives were like (ugh!!), some of the teachers (double-ugh, to most of them!).

Well…hold that thought for a second or so.  I was very lucky to have had an utterly brilliant first-grade teacher (no kindergarten out there). Her name was Miss Woods, and that lady DID know how to teach the urchins to read. The astonishing result was that by the time I walked out of her class at the end of the first year, I could read and I could write — fluently.

When we got back to the States a few years later, I was even more astonished to find kids who could barely read. No joke: that is NOT an exaggeration. This was at the end of the sixth grade. And no, they were not learning disabled or special-ed types: they were the normal kids in the normal classrooms.

In Arabia, the teachers ranged from decent to excellent — with the exception of one nitwit who must have been some executive’s girlfriend. By and large, by the time we students got back to the US, we were well ahead of our respective grade levels. Kids who had been in stateside schools all that time often struggled to read a grammar-school book.

But…in Arabia, the social norm among the kiddies was Conformity with a Capital C.

Because I was a little girl who wanted to grow up to be an astronomer — not a secretary or a mommy or a grade-school teacher — I was The Weird One. Make that the Target. 

The little monsters teased and tormented and tortured me all the way through grade school…never was I so glad to get away from anyplace as I was when I left that horror show in the 6th grade. And THAT was why I hated living out there. With all my beady little heart…

When we got back to the States, I was years ahead of grade level. I loafed my way through junior high and a year or so of high school. Then was pulled out of school and sent off to a university. YAY!

That was a slice of heaven. 

For my father, too: it allowed him to retire a year early. We decamped to Southern California and they stuck me in a school there.

His “retirement” didn’t last long: Before long we hit a major recession, my father’s investments went down the drain, and he had to go back to work.

But by then he and my mother had fallen in love with Sun City, an Arizona tract for the elderly and the white, and I was at the University of Arizona. I managed to stay in school there, drifted into graduate school and into marriage with a lawyer who could support me in the manner…and now here I am. Not married any more, but comfortably ensconced, with a Ph.D in my résumé.

Life is strange, eh?

A Minor Miracle(???)

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Wow!  This morning the spavined hip hardly hurts at all. 

Well. Yeah: it does hurt. But NOTHING like it has!

So…jeez. Maybe there’s hope. Maybe this gawdawful thing will clear up.

Soon as I finish swilling a mug full of water (too lazy to fix coffee just this minute), the plan is to take Ruby out for a Doggy-Walk. If we can make it to the park (that’ll be a miracle…), she’ll be beside herself with doggy joy. She does LOVE the feel of grass under her little feet. So adorable!

Last time or two ago that we visited the park, some sh!thead pestered the bejayzus out of me. That’s why you need a German shepherd, not a corgi.

Unfortunately, I’m no longer strong enough or patient enough to handle a GerShep, so nowadays I have to take my chances with the f**king general public over there. That day I dodged around to the front of a neighbor’s home and leaned on their doorbell. Asked them to call the cops. That shed the sh!thead, anyway.

Godlmighty, but I’m sick of living in Phoenix. Don’t know where on earth we’d go, though, if we tried to move out of here. I’m afraid these little phenomena are characteristic of the society in general: America has become the Land of the Sh!thead. About the only way you can deal with that is either never to go out without a male in tow (a male human, not a male Chihuahua), or never to go out at all.

For the luvva gawd, I’m an old, ugly woman! It’s not like I was a nubile young thing. What about an old hag attracts sh!theads?

Ohhhh well. On the positive side, it sure is nice to be able to walk up the hallway without hurting like the dickens. For a change.

April 22, Continued!

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Gerardo the Lawn Dude’s crew just shot out the front gate, headed for their next customer. Good lord! Do those guys ever WORK. 

This house’s yard isn’t even that huge — much of it is occupied by the swimming pool, and another third of it by the paved front patio. It still takes them upwards of an hour (i lose track!) to rake and blower and rake some more and shovel and haul and clean and trim and shovel & haul some more and…on and freakin’ ON! That is not a job I could do even if I were male and healthy enough for it.

Forked over a hundred bucks to them….which is more than their usual fee. But IMHO what they did today was more than their usual ungawdly slug of labor. I sure couldn’t do it. Wouldn‘t do it. They are amazing gents. 

What now, for the rest of the day?

If I had any sense, I’d walk over to the Sprouts (remember: my son having purloined my car, if I can’t get somewhere on foot then I have to hire an Uber driver).

But…well…sense is not my strong suite this morning. Nope

Don’t feel like traipsing around in the heat, and so I ain’t a-gunna. Tomorrow morning I may stroll down to the Albertson’s (same distance, but don’t have to cross 7 lanes of homicidal traffic to get in the front door) and restock the supplies.

And “in the heat” is the operative term: It’s overcast and HOT and muggy out there. Just walking across the yard works up a sweat. The Albertson’s is open at the crack of proverbial dawn, so if I start the hike as soon as the dawg is fed (that IS at the crack of proverbial dawn!), I may be able to get down there and back without an attack of heat prostration.

Hmmmmmm….  When you spend this much time loafing, a lot of weird thoughts cross your mind. One of them, just now, is the idea that not owning that car is saving me so much money that I probably could afford to hire taxicabs to take me everyplace I go and still come out ahead financially.

No kidding.

Hiring someone to drive you hither, thither, and back may not cost as much as owning a car, paying taxes, insurance, and maintenance on it, keeping it filled with gas….paying to park it…hmmm, indeed….

No kidding, indeed: I’ve just about decided not to replace that vehicle at all. Why bother if I can get everyplace I need to go behind hired drivers? Without doubt for less than I’ve been spending on the Dog Chariot!

Within easy walking distance of the Funny Farm — just a few blocks, under a forest of shade trees — is a car rental place. Get in good with those guys, and…well…seriously, there WOULD be no reason to own another car. If they know me, they get paid on time, and they figure I’ll bring their heap back to them, very probably I could snare a vehicle whenever I feel in the mood.

Now, to add to that….  I do have to say that if I were my son and I had an 80-year-old mother, I do not think I’d want her driving around.

That sounds awful, eh?  But frankly, it would worry me.

As you age, your reflexes do slow. You lapse into — let’s admit it — a kind of fuzzy stupor. And you really should not be doing something where your life and the lives of people around you depend on the speed with which you react to the craziness around you.

And on Arizona’s roads? Yes, we are talking about craziness. Drivers around here are quite mad. As in dinga-donga!

Life is dinga-donga, that much is true…but there’s a limit to how much you have to engage it…

Time to Move Along?

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Things have started to happen….things that suggest it’s time to move along.

To start with, apparently some employee at the corner Albertson’s supermarket took it into their head that I’ve been shoplifting from that store.

Uh..noooo….  Got better things to steal than groceries and cheap junk. How exactly that happened escapes me. Either someone who is Not My Friend told management there that I’m a thief, or someone who looks like me has been ripping off the place. One way or the other: that lets out the largest and best-stocked supermarket in the neighborhood as a shopping venue for me.

Another large supermarket resides to the north of the Funny Farm, about the same distance away. It’s in a seedier neighborhood, though: I’m not very comfortable walking around up there.

This leaves as the only viable nearby grocery store a large Sprouts.

It’ll do…though I’m less than fond of Sprouts. It’s not as well stocked as the Albertson’s or the Safeway…and I’ve had some seriously creepy experiences in that store’s parking lot.

Sooo…I dunno. Now I’m starting to think maybe I should move away from here. 

But where?

Down to my son’s neighborhood?  It’s a pretty, older, and quaint little district. Houses were built before there was such a thing as air-conditioning, and so they’re hot in the summer and cold in the winter. And their power bills are hot, all right: sizzling hot. Crime level is relatively high, too.

On the other hand, his place is an easy walk to the beloved AJ’s Fancy-Dan gourmet supermarket. In more affordable realms, it’s also fairly close to a Fry’s market.

Still… another reason to stay in my present parts is the veterinarian. Within easy walking distance, we have what appears to be an excellent vet — I have yet to find a reason to complain, anyway. And his office is close enough that, if forced to it, I actually can carry Ruby down there.

Reasons to exit, stage left?

Well, we have a few of those, and their number is growing. The a$$-hole who has taken to raiding my front patio and stealing my hummingbird feeders, for example. He has won: all the surviving bird feeders have been moved to the back yard. Those that haven’t been thoroughly washed and put away in closets, that is.

Tony’s rentals, of course, remain a bit of a nuisance. He’s simmered down quite a bit, though. The other day he was actually friendly to me, and he’s moved the delinquents out of the house across the street. So that really is no longer much of an issue.

The racket from the ambulances and fire engines racing around the nearby hospitals: yeah. Still there. Not much of an issue for me: I’ve grown accustomed to their melody and am no longer bothered by it. Frankly, I’d rather hear an ambulance siren than the roar of a war jet blasting overhead…any day. And in Sun City you get that latter melody, all right…every day..

Really: Sun City is just not my style. I detested living there with my parents, and you can be sure I don’t wanna go back now that I’m in my dotage.

S000…not knowing which way to jump just now, I reckon the best bet is not to jump at all. And we shall see what we shall see…

Wow! What Luck….

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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!