Coffee heat rising

No Longer Even Bother….

BRRRIIIINGGGGGGG!

BRRRIIIINGGGGGGG!

BRRRIIIINGGGGGGG!

CALL FROM “V….[ETC ETC ETC]

Oh, hey!!!  Turns OUT

it’s from my pal VickyC!  She wants to go out for brunch…lunch…whatever it is!

Yahoo! Now I have less than an hour to get off my duff, wash up, and get dressed.

The heck with that noise: I’m drinkin’ the rest of this coffee, come what may! 😀  😀  😀

And how convenient: I need a new lawyer, my beloved guy having retired. And she DOES know a good one, I believe. I hope…she was hiring my guy, but I think she needed someone who had a slightly different specialty.

Well! We shall see in an hour or so.

Must review the piles of legalistic paper and be sure my will and other paperwork remain set up to cover my son, with the least possible degree of hassle, for when I croak over.

*****

Aaahhhhh SHEEE-UT! 

No, we won’t see any such thing. Turns out my son has made a goddamn appointment with the goddamn Mayo Clinic…on SUNDAY MORNING!!!!!!!

This is not the first time those idiots have done this.

It’s a hour’s drive out there, one-way.

That means if I have choir: cancel choir.

If I have anything else to do: cancel that.

Get in the car and drive and drive and drive and drive and drive and…  Find a place to park in their maze of an underground parking lot. Ride upstairs and wait and wait and wait and…GODDAMMIT!

Just what I wanna do on a Sunday morning. Choir or no choir.

****

And now here we are in one of their draped rooms, waiting for…Gawd only knows what new torture. Presumably something entailing a generous jabbing of needles.

How do I hate this place? Let me count the ways.

One nice thing about it, I guess: if you croak over, you don’t regret it so uch…it would be a bit of a relief.

1:54 p.m.

“Morning,” eh? 

Well, it’s comin’ on to two in the afternoon. We’ve been here for HOURS. I’m still lashed up to a needle and fukkin’ tubes and…HOW can I say how much I hate this?

Yeah, I do recognize and understand how amazing our medical system is and how astonishing all the stuff we can do is and…boyoboyoboy…  And how much I hate this stuff.

Cruising the Internet. Come across a notice of my nephew’s demise. Poor guy. He never was…well…quite right. Short a few IQ points, from the git-go. Just…really sad.

This was the grandson of the woman who became my stepsister when my father married her mother…

2:15 in the fukkin’ afternoon…

Tied down to a couch in the Mayo with a damned needle in my arm for…how long? I’ve lost track of the time. Feels like fukkin’ hours, though. Son is yelling at me..I can’t open my mouth without pi$$ing him off.

One

Bitch

of a

Day

* * *

And now we’re on the way home. My poor son’s mood is not improved by our escape. He’s yelling at me. I just want to get home, get in the house, and shut the door!

And maybe, with any luck, find something to eat. Without having to hike to the grocery store.

You Want Me to Pay WHAAAT?????

Statements arrive in the mail, claiming to show what is not covered by Medicare. Alarming, because they don’t really say you have to pay the vendor…these outfits often generate a Medicare bill, send it off, and then refrain from charging the amounts Big Brother declines to pay.  Then the vendor drops the amount the statement says they’re charging, so you don’t really owe that. Quite.

But meanwhile, you also have private insurance, which may (or may not) cover all (or some) of the amounts Medicare declines to cover.

You can’t tell from a given statement what part of that is what! You just have to wait — weeks or months! — until the vendor gets around to generating its most recent coherent bill.

Even then, you’re likely to have to guess what’s owed and what’s covered.

Right now Medicare says it’s billing me $1,057 and $658…for services that I wouldn’t have used if I’d known they weren’t covered.

IF they’re not covered. They actually may be covered, but you can’t tell it from these statements.

Ducky!

Awww, jeez! Guys!!!!

Dare to sit down to breakfast, and ARF!!!!

Get up to see what the Hound is arfing at, and see Gerardo’s wondrous gang of yard dudes out front.

Dayum!!!

Get off duff. Trot around: pick up junk, put junk away; set up pool so guys can work around it; pick up more junk, put more junk away; pick up and discard mounds of dog sh!t… Finally get the place ready for the men.

Stumble back in the house. Look out front to see if they need me to go out there and unlock the side gate…

and…

and….

THEY’RE GONE!!!!!!!

WTF??????  Nary a sign of a yard dude! Or a yard dude’s truck!!

ohhhh…kayyyy…. So where’s the dog?????

Ruby!

RUBY!!

R-U-U-B-E-E-E-E!!!!!!

Nary a small fuzzy corgi!

Ohhhhh shee-ut! Did they open the gate and let her out?

Frantically search around and search around and call and call and search around and search around and call and call and…and…

Lo!
Here she is! 
Ambling out from underneath the toilet.

ggrrrrrr….  This is gonna be one of THOSE days, ain’t it?

Scam-a-Bat

My poor son was mightily peeved this morning when I interrupted his work by calling him to ask if some marvel of an offer that arrived in the mail was, as suspected, a scam.

Yes. Of course it’s a scam. Quit breaking into my workday with that stuff!

Uh  huh.

Well, what happens when you’re old is that it gets harder and harder for you to distinguish the Fake from the Real. That’s even when you know very well that about every third person you encounter wants to rip you off. 

Yes. Even when you know that 99% of what comes in the mail is a scam. Yes. Even now that virtually every phone call comes from a crook. I no longer even answer the phone. Leave me a message, and maybe I’ll call you back. If I know you personally…

Even ordinary adults in their working years get quite enough nuisance calls! Now add to that the calls for help from elder relatives who have been pestered by this, that, or the other scammer, and you get…overwhelming!

Today I got a snail-mail from what looked like a legitimate creditor telling me that I’d better pay up some late bill or it would be off to jail for me, by golly!

Uh huh.

Well, on some level I knew that was BS, because I don’t buy things on time. If  can’t afford to pay for it now, I don’t get it.

But that’s not 100%. Yes, of  course I do have some creditors. Don’t we all?

Well…yeah. That’s what the scammers are counting on.

My son was enraged when I broke into his work morning to ask if today’s telephoned demand for money was something real…or what. This made me feel like a sh!t, of course. But…what would I have felt like if I’d fallen for the caller’s scam?

Honestly. I think a person could make a living by hiring out to answer people’s phones and screen the incoming trash. No kidding: at this point, I would seriously consider hiring someone to answer my calls. MOST of the calls I get these days are hustles and scams. Hiring someone to screen incoming would relieve me of a fair amount of tooth-grinding!

Same with the mail. It’s getting to the point where I won’t open an envelope unless I recognize the sender’s name & address. ANY envelope. But that means that occasionally someone I do business with is not gonna be able to reach me by snail-mail. Or by phone. In other words: they can’t reach me at all. 

Probably the trick to that would be to insert some sort of code into your return address.

Jane 324 Doe, Esquire
1234 Erewhon Road
New York, N.Y. 23456

But these edited return addresses would, over time, be collected by the hustlers, so that eventually you would no longer be able to tell the difference between legit correspondence and hustles. And of course, to the extent that such a maneuver works, it will waste your time as you dork around with the coded addresses.

The older you get, the tiresomer it gets!

Arrghh! Home Sweet Home?

Just get yourself settled into the sack. Toss doggy’s Indian blanket atop the human’s bedding. Turn the fan on to get the bedroom air circulating. Pooch has claimed a patch of real estate at the foot of the mattress. Climb under your own covers…

…and…  Yeah.

RRR..rrr…oOAOarrr…rrrrrrr!

Cop copter circling over the roof. Again.

These cop chases have become so commonplace that one barely notices them.

Well. Except insofar as you know you damn well better notice them, at least to the extent of locking all the doors and windows and being sure the phone is on the nightstand next to the bed and fully functioning. Might be good to have the pistol next to the phone, too….

Occasionally I think the hound and I should move to some quieter part of the Valley, where we’re less likely to be buzzed by cops chasing perps.

But…but…where would that be? 

The crime levels in the lovely Valley of the Sun seem to be pretty constant, wherever you are. I think some walled condo developments tend to repel the rampaging perps. But by and large, wherever you are, you’re gonna have cops’ copters buzzing your house and criminals bouncing around the place.

***

Hmmmm… Our fellas have roamed off. Either they caught the perps forthwith, or whoever they were chasing got away.

Naturally, Ruby t..a..a..a..k…e..s  her fine time to do her Thing.

Hurry up, Ruby! 

sniff sniff sniff sniff…

RUUBEEE! 

RROAOARRR  They’re b-a-a-c-k!

sniff sniff sniff sniff…

GAAAAAAAHHHHH!!!!!!

Finally Ruby does her job and we dart back inside the house, having missed an encounter with a fleeing burglar.

Lock the doors. Retreat to the bedroom.

Whyagain, are we living in this garden spot?????

Traipsing to Pretoria….

Hot, wet morning!

Out the door as dawn cracked, wherewith to take an exercise walk before it gets unbearably hot.

“Gets”???? Seriously?

Ohhhh well. 

It was down to the Albertson’s shopping center, wherein (I imagined) to visit the shopping-lot doctor’s office and tell the staff to QUIT CALLING ME ON THE PHONE, DAMMIT!!!!!!!

Three guesses:

* They weren’t open
* They weren’t open
* Or, they weren’t open

Right. Nine a.m. of a mid-week day, and no one was there.

Brilliant white cumulus clouds climb through a radiant blue sky. They seem to be growing, thickening. Presumably we’ll get some rain this afternoon.

Passed the PILES of cheap apartments along Main Drag West. Years ago, incredibly, my mother wanted me to rent a place in those dumps. They were no worse, really, than they are now. And no better. Not a place where you’d want to live. Especially not if you were a 20-something college kid.

Well. Post-college kid. I’d finished the B.A. and was lurking, trying to decide what to do next.

One thing I did NOT want to do was continue my career as a phone-answering receptionist, working for something less than almost nothin’. 😀

In any event, I cannot even BEGIN to imagine why those dumps, even when they were 30 years newer, would have been a desirable place for a young woman to live. Chez Pitz!

What on earth was my mother thinking???? 

Now and again, I imagine I really ought to sell the Dog Palace and move either out into the suburbs or deeper into town. Rationality soon catches up, though: it’s expensive as hell to sell your house, buy another one, and move. Plus I love my house and I ain’t a-gunna move away from here.

So. There!

Handsome young black man, loafing in the covered bus stop. Ohhhh you gorgeous critter! Smile. He smiles back. He’s plainly stoned.

Damn.

Proceed northward, ever northward, along Main Drag West. This, to avoid being followed into the ‘Hood.

Mercifully, I’m now tooooo old to appeal to any man: young, old, black, white, purple, stoned or straight…. Thank goodness! 

After enough distance is passed, dodge into the ‘Hood. Come upon a fine young father, busily installing a basketball hoop for his preschool-age kid. Adorable! Despite its surroundings, our neighborhood still DOES have a lot to recommend it.

DO I want to stay here, now and evermore?

Well….I’m so ambiguous as to whether the answer is probably “yeah….” I incline to operate on the “When in Doubt, Don’t” principle. If you’re not dead sure that XXX is what you want to do, then don’t do XXX.

duh! Why does that not seem obvious?

And yet….when ambiguity lurks, it surely isn’t obvious.

If you don’t know how well the real estate will hold its value…

If you don’t know whether those slum apartments will continue to go downhill, or whether the Yup set will discover them and turn them into high-rent urban campgrounds…

If you don’t know whether your health is gonna hold out as you roam deeper into decrepitude…

If you don’t know if your son would like to inherit your shack, after you finally do croak over…

Well, Helle’s belles: then YOU DON’T KNOW. 

Personally, I’m averse to making any kind of decision or move when I don’t know. Knowing what I’m doing: that’s what I do. But sometimes, that’s just not possible.

{sigh}