Coffee heat rising

aging

Sauna City!

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It is hotter than a two-dollar cookstove outside — as my father used to say. Feels like Ras Tanura out there. That’s Aramco’s crummy little company town, perched on the shore of the Persian Gulf, about 40 miles out of Dhahran.

Horrible place. Horrible horrible place!

Damn glad I don’t live there anymore.  But sometimes I do wonder if there’s much difference…at least, at some times of year.

This is one of those seasons: hot, still, and wet. Just walked in the house from the morning doggy-walk, drenched in sweat.

Oh well: a morning like this is short on doggy-walkers. That means fewer encounters, fewer near-fights (or full-on fights), fewer morons to ask to puh-leeeze keep their dogs back. That’s something I guess.

Something else: today is NOT a day when my son is dragging me out to the damn Mayo Clinic. Thank goodness! 

What a waste of time: An hour’s drive through nasty traffic. They put me in these stupid workshop meetings where a dozen old buzzards sit around and bitch about how they can’t remember things. Is any advice offered on how you might keep track of things that you used to be able to manage?

Nooooooo. It’s just whine whine whine wine….I can’t remember where I put my shoes…. Not one person in the room — fellow whiner or medical/psychological professional — says “Well, then: get in the habit of always putting your shoes in the same place!”

Duhhhhhh!

My patience with that clap-trap is, shall we say, long gone.

Well, anywho…that frees up the day for my favorite activity: loafing. Ruby and the human are are now well-walked, and so we can loaf without guilt.

LOL! Sentimental-journeying through websites picturing Ras Tanura, the horrid company town where I grew up on the shore of the Persian Gulf. Claustrophobic. Hot. Small-town mentality. Horrible place.

Mercifully, my father retired from Aramco when I was at the end of the 6th grade. My mother and I came back to the states six months ahead of him and settled in San Francisco…just in time for the big earthquake at the end of the 1950s.

My mother was absolutely terrorized by earthquakes. To capitalize on that, they stupidly rented a high-rise apartment — a very nice one — in a tony development called Parkmerced. He had gone back to sea, and so was floating around the ocean on a tanker most of the time.

Yeah: in a real earthquake, that swell Parkmerced building would sway back and forth! “How to terrorize your wife even more,” eh?

We hadn’t been there long when, during a school day, a major quake struck. I was in school — sixth grade. The teachers paraded us all out onto the playground, where flying debris and collapsing ceilings were unlikely to kill us.

Meanwhile, my mother totally freaked out. So much so, that she lost consciousness of her experience that day. Her first memory of it is finding herself in the middle of a street in front of our building, running around in circles! My father had gone back to sea at the time, so he wasn’t there to calm her down.

Ahhh, the good ole’ days, hm?

So…despite the gawdawful heat and the bat-brained right-wing politics, Arizona has a lot to recommend it. High on the list: no earthquakes. 

😀

I stay here because there really isn’t anyplace that I know of that’s any better. But primarily because my son is here. He stays here because his dad is here. And because he grew up here. And because he has a decent job here.

Actually, I can think of a number of better places. If M’hijito weren’t in Phoenix, where would I go?

* Berkeley, California
* San Diego, California
* San Francisco, California
* Paris (yeah: the one in France)
* Santa Fe, New Mexico
* Seattle, Washington
* Mexico City

I dunno. There really aren’t all that many places in the world that are much better than where I am. What would be the point of moving?

Except, maybe, to get away from the summer heat. Then you get…what? Winter cold?

Welp…the dog is walked. The human is hungry. Better get off my duff and fix some breakfast. Outta here!

How Did They Live That Long?

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Old age is creepin’ up, y’know. Where the heck did THAT come from, eh????

Welp…as I get older, I do find myself wondering…

* How DID I get this old?
* How much older will I get? and
* Do I care?
* What can I do to stay in my home until I croak over: to avoid being locked up in an old-age prison?

My father thought old-age homes were The Business. He tried to persuade my mother to move out of their pretty little house in Sun City to enter an institution called Orangewood, here in north Central Phoenix.

She would have none of it. And she succeeded in resisting until she croaked over from the cancer brought on by her incessant tobacco-puffing: right at about the age of 65. The minute he got her urnful of ashes installed in the local mortuary, he was out the door! 

Sold their sweet Sun City house and moved himself into that Orangewood prison and felt mighty proud that he’d done so.

His best friend there shot himself in the head. You’d think that might have told him something, wouldn’t you? Maybe it did, but he had the sense not to articulate the lesson out loud.

He married the Wicked Witch of the West there…apparently in an effort to revive his reasonably content life built, over 32 years, with my mother.

That didn’t work.

The evil bitch made him utterly miserable. But he was afraid to divorce her, because, he moaned, she’ll get all my money.

The idea that some things may be more important than money was beyond him. Besides, he apparently was afraid to make a move in that direction, partly because the new wife was extremely popular at the Institution and divorcing her would have made him a pile of sh!t in the other inmates’ estimation. He didn’t feel he could afford to move someplace else…and he probably was right.

So he stayed horribly married to her.

At any rate, my mother died fairly young, partly because of her incessant cigarette-huffing; partly because of malnutrition while she was growing up; and  no doubt because of the amoebic dysentery she caught while we were in  Saudi Arabia and the unholy treatment for it that she was subjected to.

This left him alone in Sun City…and for a guy who had spent his entire adult life in institutional settings, “alone” did NOT make it. So he moved out of the house and into the old-folkery within weeks of her death.

What a nightmare!

Well, I”m not up for rehearsing all that here. Just bear in mind: when your spouse dies, don’t be in any hurry to find a replacement!

My mother died within days of turning 65. He was 84 when he died — not bad for a male who had a bitch of a hard life. But…that left him with some 20 years without the the love of his life.

Rather promptly after moving into the Old Folkery, he married the Dragon Lady. Big mistake. She was one of the great Bitches of the 20th Century, and she made him utterly miserable.

But he refused to divorce her, because “she’ll get all my money!”

Arrrrghhhh! Daddy, some things are more important than money. 

But as a practical matter, that old saw did not apply, where he was concerned. He’d worked like an animal all his life to accrue that money, and as a practical matter, there really wasn’t anything more important to him than his money.

Nor did he seem to understand that, with my husband a partner in one of the Southwest’s most powerful law firms, the Dragon Lady was not about to get all his precious money. He never did get that message, so between what he perceived as social pressure and his fear of losing his savings, he stayed in what can best be described as a nightmarish marriage.

I wish I’d had the nerve to tell him that the witch was not gonna get all his beloved money, because his daughter — moi — was married to a lawyer who would crush the old bat like a cockroach. But I didn’t.

So he stayed married, miserably. Died, miserably. Left me with about half the money he had come away with at my mother’s death. That precious money.

/eyeroll/

None o’ my bidness, eh?

Well, anyhow… Sometimes I do wonder how, given the gawdawful stress my father faced at the end of his life, how on earth he survived into his 80s. Poor man! How he must have suffered…

I, thanks to him and thanks to good luck, am not suffering. And hope not to, between now and the looming end of my life. Keep the hassles away from my son, and leave all the cash and property to him as his inheritance. Just let me live out the last few years, weeks, and days of my life in peace.

If there is any such thing….

And…you thought “hotter than the hubs” was hot?

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Hah! we say to that…

{chortle!}  7:19 a.m.: Just back from the morning Dawg Walk.

It seems hotter than the Hubs of Hades. But in fact…it’s not. In fact, it’s only 90 degrees out on the patio.

That seeming, I expect, is occasioned by the fact that it’s a bit damp out there. The air is hazy: not overcast, but…kinda fuzzy-looking.

Ruby and I circumnavigated the neighborhood, from the upper reaches of Richistan to the humbler, Sun City-style bungalows that characterize our parts. Indeed, my house was built by the same developer who brought us that sylvan ghetto for old folks. And once you know that, you can see the resemblance. Kinda.

WhatEVER. Even though it’s not hot outside by Arizona standards, it’s mighty cozy by ordinary human standards. Yes: Hubs of Hades.

And what have we here? A wind seems to be coming up. Rain in the offing maybe, later today?  Innaresting.

Thinking, whilst hiking, about how I”m going to contrive to stay in my house until the last cat is hanged. My son wants to consign me to the Beatitudes, a prison for olde folkes.

I just HATE institutional living — hated living in the dorms, and know very well that being locked up in an old-folkerie will quickly drive me to suicide.

Which ain’t the way I wanna go out…

Recently I learned that Wonder Cleaning Lady used to take care of old bats in their homes. Whether she stayed with them overnight, I do not know…but with all the gadgets we have these days, it wouldn’t be hard to equip oneself with a call button to summon your caretaker or the EMTs. If said caretaker surfaced around 7 or 8 a.m. and stayed until after dinner, you’d be OK.

By and large.

And given what it costs to stay in one of those horrible places, you’d probably come out ahead financially.

A-a-n-n-d interestingly, I seem to be getting by just fine without a car! Dear son, who kiped mine and locked it in his garage, has driven me to a few places that I need to go, and has made it clear he has no intention of returning the chariot. But….

But…I don’t need it! 

The guy across the street is an Uber driver! He can schlep me just about anyplace I need to go. And if I can’t snab him, I can…hold onto your hat! This is radical stuff!…just call a taxi.

Yes. Phoenix still has taxi cabs. If you can imagine.

It’s interesting to think….  That you could get by without a car in a major city, I mean. Back when my mother and I lived in San Francisco, we mostly did without the car. My father’s car, that is: most of the time it was locked up in an underground garage, while he went to sea. She and I took the bus, the streetcar, or a cab. And we got around just fine.

The presence of Uber’s amateur cab drivers would hugely enhance that. With those guys on stand-by all the time…really…you wouldn’t need to own a car.

Truth to tell, though…once the weather cools a bit, I probably won’t have much use for the Uber dudes, anyway.

The Funny Farm is within walking distance of three fine shopping centers. Taken together, they house…

> an Albertson’s (giant supermarket)
> a Walgreen’s
> a computer store (new gear and repairs!)
> a Fry’s (supermarket!)
> a Sprouts (hippy-dippy supermarket!)
> an El Rancho (another supermarket!)
> a music store
> a beauty parlor
> a liquor store
> a doctor’s office
> a couple of clothing stores
…and several others that offhand I don’t recall.

Soooo…I lucked out when I bought this house here at the top end of North Central.

What it means is that I can reach any of those stores in a ten-minute walk. And with the roller-cart that I tricked out, I can carry a freaking ton of goods from place to place to home.

And what THAT means is: no need for a car!

Seriously: if I need a car, all I have to do is go rent one.

And…if Luz is representative, I can rent a caretaker, too! 😀

Idle Reverie of the Day

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Hotter than the Hubs outside. No car…not that I would go anywhere if one was sitting out there in the garage. Wasting time on the Internet.

One of my fave time-wasters: real estate ads. Another fave: reminiscing about growing up, and our time in the San Francisco Bay Area.

This little place looks kinda like my relatives’ home in Berkeley. Pretty li’l bungalow, early 20th century. Gosh, I miss that place, that neighborhood…my aunt, my great-grandmother. If I could move back there right now, I’d be outta here like a rocket.

It was sooooo pretty! Had a pie-shaped lot with a lovely little backyard. Its own garage (!!!!). Sat on a hillside street that took you right up to the stop for the train that ran directly into San Francisco. Overall, in this genre…

My great-aunt worked at Crocker-Anglo National Bank — one of the highest-ranking female staffers ever to come along — and so would walk up that hill every morning, five days a week and ride that train across the Bay.

She stayed in this sweet little house after my great-grandmother — her mother — passed away. Then eventually her son talked her into moving to an apartment in downtown Berkeley — I think she’d quit her (very!) longstanding job at the bank by then. And finally he put her in an old-folkery — uhm, an assisted-living facility — in the East Bay. She was at the end of her 90s when she kicked off. Just as her mother was: longevity runs in my family.

This reverie brings me back to the question of the day, which is will I be able to stay in my beloved home here until I die?

And I’m awfully afraid the answer is gonna be NO.

Not a chance, Duckie!

By way of background: I want my son to have this house. Given the family trend toward living a century or so, I probably will have to give it to him well before I croak over.

A hopeless lone wolf, I truly LOATHE living in communal settings. So the prospect of having to move into an old-folkerie makes me cringe. But short of jumping on a bus and heading away into the hinterlands, I don’t really see how I’m going to avoid it.

* I have no family to take care of me in my dotage.
* If I do live into old age, I may not even be able to care for an apartment, to say nothing of a house, a yard, and a pool.
* My son has…you know: a life. Remember those? It’s hardly fair to ask him to take the time when he’s not laboring at his job and devote it to caring for a crippled-up old lady.
* And, logically enough, the answer to these little challenges is simply to move into an institution whose whole purpose is to babysit elders until they topple over into the grave.

Our culture has changed, over the past 20 years or so, in ways that make it a lot easier to stay in your own home without having to gad about the city. Without having to drive.

Consider Amazon and its ilk, for example. You can buy almost anything your beady little heart desires online…and have it delivered to your door. Even prescription drugs can be dropped at your house or in a mailbox.

And THAT…yes: that is HUGE. It relieves you of hours of driving, piles of risk on the city streets…hot dayum.

But it still may not be enough to keep you out of the old-folkerie.

It occurs to me that one might be able to hire a helper — such as my cleaning-lady extraordinare — to stay with you during the waking hours, keep an eye on you, be sure your kitchen is stocked and your laundry is clean, be sure you get fed. Yea verily: Luz (the C-L extraordinare) says she has done exactly that.

One expects she’d still be doing it, if that were what she wanted to do. But if she’s around when the time comes, I surely will ask if she’d like to alter her job to become a care-taker for me instead of a cleaning lady for half-a-dozen gringos. We shall see.

But failing Luz, there may be some other candidate. Yea verily: we shall see. 

Hotter Than the Hubs

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Now, waitaminit here. How do we know the Hubs of Hades are hot?

Some cultures picture the domain of the afterlife as colder than a by-gawd. Could be, I suppose.

Oh well. Dawg and I are back from an hour’s perambulation of the ‘Hood. And yes, it IS damn hot out there. Worse, though: it’s humid. Sticky. Icky. But we did make it to the front door without melting. Just.

Still fretting about the “social workers” (uh huh…) or whatever they were who showed up at the door yesterday. Godlmighty!!!

It was just raw luck that Wonder-Cleaning Lady was here in the morning. And that she’d finished her job and left. Those two busybodies must have thought I keep the house spotlessly clean as a routine matter…an illusion that threw them off the track. They sat around making small talk and then (finally!!) wandered off into the afternoon heat. If they were as stupid as they looked, they must have thought all my little housewifely marbles were intact and I keep my house all clean and dusted and vacuumed and mopped al the time… Jayzuz!

What incredible luck. Seriously.

Wonder-Cleaning Lady paid for her wages, year after year of them, right there in that one afternoon!

At any rate, I have an idea who sicced them on me. We won’t be socializing with that one again!!

But the question is, will this unsuccessful foray bring a stop to any more efforts to protect me from my senile little self? And what else might they do to herd me into an old-folkerie?

Honestly. I will die if I get locked up in one of those awful places. And no, that is NOT an exaggeration.

Back in college, I hated, loathed, and despised every goddamn moment of living in the dorms. And I sure as hell don’t want to end my life in that predicament!!!

Mercifully, my roommate’s mother found a way to get us out. Girls were required to live in the grody dormitories at the University of Arizona, unless they were living with their families. But her mom had a cousin who lived in Tucson.

!!!

We told the Authorities that we would be living with this woman, and our mothers signed off on that little fib.

Forthwith, we rented an apartment, moved in, and lived happily ever after. Till we both graduated, that is.

Who will tell Big Mommy and Daddy that I’m living with some relative this time? I dunno. Unless I can hire somebody, I have no idea how I can evade the old-folkerie, short of moving out of town.

Which, if forced to it, is exactly what I’ll do.

oooo

But I’d druther NOT be forced to it. I love this house and this neighborhood. I love the yard. I love the pool. I love the neighbors. (Well…most of ’em 😀 ) How exactly to escape some societal dictate about where and how you will live kinda escapes me.

Better engage that issue now and have things set up to make my escape. 

Outta Here?

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Hmmmm…. IS it time to get outta here?

I’m thinking, the more I contemplate events of the past week or so, that it surely is time: that I need to get on the road NOW, not later. Hire a Realtor to unload the palace. Pack up the chariot. Toss the dawg in and jump in after her. And take off in a cloud of dust and exhaust fumes.

This situation is NOT good. At best, we’re looking at weeks or months or — gawd forfend, more(!) — of harassment and hassle from the Authorities. Having to hire a lawyer. Putting up a fight while pretending to be on my best behavior.

At worst, we’re looking at my son being prosecuted, me being adjudicated, my home being lost to pay lawyers’ fees…holeeee shit!

Dayum.

Where would I go?

I dunno. La Maya and La Bethulia took up residence in a trailer on the Pacific Coast. I might make my way to their trailer park and try to buy a place there.

Colorado, maybe? I rather like DXH’s home town, Grand Junction. It’s a little hickish for my taste. But still…it does have its rustic appeal. With any luck, maybe it’s too far out in the sticks to attract nosy social workers.

Where else?

Mexico. Low cost of living. Balmy (often hot) weather. Awesome Mexican food! 😀

Deeper into Latin America?  Hmmm…a bit more of a Learning Experience than I care to take on at this age. But…ya gotta do what ya gotta do. I guess.

Great Britain?  Been there, done that. Not fond of being that cold. Or damp.

Moving: it really doesn’t appeal to me. Especially not moving out of the country. So that leaves, as a choice, hanging in here and taking my chances with Big Brother and his social workers.

And that DOES leave me not knowing which way to jump. Common sense tells me to get the Hell out of here while I can. But inertia tells me to lean back, prop my feet on the hassock, and relax.