Coffee heat rising

Angst

Too Silly for Words…

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Did I tell you folks this story?  I think not. It concerns a little incident that really WAS too silly for words.

So I’m loafing here at the Funny Farm, watching Wonder-Cleaning Lady work her butt off. While she’s thrashing around, two jerks….uhm…guys show up at the door, followed shortly by my son.

The pair, it develops, are from a grown-up baby-sitting agency whose mission is to ride herd on the elderly. And, when possible, consign them to institutions like the Beatitudes, a kind of ambulatory nursing home for the old and the infirm. Apparently, my son has sent these fine gents, whose mission is to demonstrate that I can’t take care of myself.

😀   😀   😀

Well, so I (stupidly!!) let them in the door, and they take up their position in the living room — little knowing that a high-powered cleaning lady is lurking in the back of the house.

The conversation soon turns to evidence that I can’t take care of myself.

No kidding!

Luz has just cleaned the living room and the kitchen. The place is fukkin’ SPOTLESS. The bookshelves have been dusted, tables dusted, the leather furniture dusted, every piece of litter or dirty dish picked up and thrown away or stashed in the dishwasher…on and on and on.

Really: the conversation just got sillier and sillier and sillier. NOTHING the two clowns could see or say indicated the house was less than ideally clean.

So…they weren’t able to use their little visit to lock me up in an old-folkerie. What it did do was warn me and let me know what was up. So you may be sure: I’ll be a whole lot more careful to pick up the clutter and make the bed each day, between visits from Wonder Cleaning-Lady.

In fact, I may move to Sun City, simply by way of getting out of reach…so little stunts like this can’t be pulled on me again.

The very thought makes me cringe: I hated living in Sun City every minute I had to be out there with my parents. But better your own home in a ghetto for the elderly than a noisy apartment in a prison for the elderly.

Can you imagine?

Done For!

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Continuing spectacularly sick. Ohhh well…by now I’ve gotten used to the what appears to be the fact that I’m never going to get well. The best that can be hoped, I reckon, is that life comes to an end in some reasonable period of time.

Though, it must be allowed, we’re well past any “reasonable period.”

This morning — it appears to be a Tuesday — I plan to call a venerable old-folkerie here in the Valley. Well…the place is what I regard as a prison for the elderly. They take everything you have: your life savings, the value of your home, any other cash you happen to have laying around. In return, they babysit you and feed you awful institutional food until you pass into Eternity.

Which, we must hope, will happen soon.

Soon as my mother died, my father signed himself into a similar place, one then called “Orangewood.” His experience was just hideous, but not because of the institution and its operators: he married a woman he met there, apparently imagining she could somehow take my mother’s place.

Well. No one could do that. He was deeply, truly in love with my mother, and she with him. This new broad…ohhhh my gawd! Long story short, that “marriage” promptly turned into a Horror Show from Hell.

For me, it had one advantage: taught me that if you get locked up in one of those places, you mind your own business and don’t get chummy with anyone. And especially don’t marry anyone!

I had hoped to save my assets to pass along to my son. Unless I drop dead in the very near future, that ain’t gonna happen. Clearly, this unholy ailment is going to drag on and drag on and drag on, as I get weaker and weaker, more and more unable to care for myself. Soo….might as well resign myself to the fact that he will get little or nothing from me, because the disease is going to eat up everything I have: the value of the house, the savings I’ve set aside for myself, the small but real inheritance from my father. Gone. All of it.

If I were little stronger, I’d bring an end to the horror show myself, right now. But I simply don’t have the nerve end my own life. Just plain not brave enough. Sooo…that which I have is effectively no longer mine. Shortly, it will belong to a prison for old folks.

What a world we live in! 

And I’m Staying Here…WHY???

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This garden spot is within easy walking distance of the Funny Farm: two, maybe three blocks. In fact, I walk by there every time I stroll up to the liquor store to grab a six-pack of Guinness.

Any question why I’m beginning to think it’s time to move away from here?

This is far from the first such episode we’ve seen in past weeks.

Do I REALLY want to stay here?  If so…why? And what will change my mind?

Well, I hafta tell you: it ain’t a-gonna take many more episodes like this to convince me that it’s time to move along. As far along as possible…

We never used to see incidents like this. Yeah: burglaries. Who doesn’t have them? Yeah: car theft. You leave your car unlocked on the street and ya get what you ask for. Yeah: even the occasional home invasion (not usually to the benefit of the prowler, BTW).

But lookee here. Nineteenth and Dunlap is about three blocks north of the Funny Farm. The apartment complexes to the west of Nineteenth have changed demographically: not just racially but economically. The latter change has not been for the best.

I’ve arrived at the point where I won’t walk around up there — certainly not without a male companion, or at least a large dog.

Head south along the same main drag and…hmmmm…  Well, you feel a little less unsafe. But if you’re on foot, you’ll likely choose to cut through the neighborhood until you’re forced to come out on 19th to reach your destination. And, truth to tell, after you’ve made that journey a couple of times, you’re likely to choose NOT to go to the corner that hosts the desired stores.

If my son weren’t lurking around — he wants me to keep this house — by now I would have sold up and moved to another neighborhood. Indeed, these circumstances ARE the main reason SDXB chose to move to Sun City, a.k.a. Drabtown.

Where would I go?

Scottsdale.
Some parts of Tempe.
Prescott.
Berkeley, California.
Some parts of San Francisco.

By and large…. Truth to tell, there just aren’t many places where I want to live. Certainly not so much that I’m willing to pour money into a move, yank up roots, and take off into the sunrise.

I don’t wanna move, not by a long shot. But take a long hard look at it, and you think it’s time to get outta here while you still can. Without a large loss of cash investment. While you still have better choices to live in town. Before you have to go to the far side of the moon to get away from the crime and growing blight.

WAIT.WAIT.WAIT.WAIT!  😮

Return to the Land of Zillow and take another look. Therein, you see a slightly different picture…and HOOOLEEE Moley!

Here’s a shack, three blocks to the east of the Funny Farm: $875,000. (Uhhh…I paid about 200 grand for this place, and felt I was being gouged…)

This hovel has a rather tonier address: much closer to FancyDan Central Avenue. But is an address really worth EIGHT HUNDRED AND FIFTY GRAND???

Ahem…you realize…that place is in Sunnyslope, renowned until late as a slum…

And speaking of holeee whatever, this hovel is right around the corner from the Funny Farm: OVER A MILLION DOLLARS!

JAYzus!  Apparently the antics and the frolics going on around here are not affecting property values. Or if they are…you don’t wanna know what houses cost in safer neighborhoods.

Hmmm…. Maybe instead of a house in a different part of town, mayybeee what is needed is a larger dog.

I’ve got Ruby the Corgi, of course: she will alert whenever she hears an untoward sound. But she weighs all of about 20 pounds. A German shepherd, she ain’t.

Must say…at this age I don’t want to have to wrangle a dog that size. But I could handle one that was professionally trained.

On the other hand, with my honored son having confiscated my car, I don’t know how I would get such a beast to the vet — even the clinic right down the road — if it got hurt or suddenly took ill. I can carry Ruby to that veterinarian. To get an 80- or 90-pound fiendish beast there, I’d have to recruit someone with a car and some physical strength.

Hmmmmmm….

Well, I do have a thing that contains chunks of lead instead of teeth….  But to use it well and accurately, I’d have to get some practice again, and stay in practice. And that would entail getting down to the gun range at least a couple times a week. And…yeah…that would entail taxi rides, and all the hassle pertaining thereunto.

A shotgun would do the job… But truth to tell, I haven’t been near one of those in many a year. Don’t even own one. That means I’d not only have to get out on the desert and practice using the thing, I’d have to get the thing. And again: traipsing to the range and banging away at targets is not quite how I’d like to spend the remaining time allotted to me.

Hmh. Looks like FAM’s site has crashed. It won’t upload an image. Let’s try to post…but save this copy to disk.

And so…awaaaayyyy!

A Long Time Till Dawn of a New Day

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LOL! It’s 3:30 in the freaking morning!  How DO I manage to wake up at these crazy hours?

Ohhh well: Last night I got excused, once and for all, from the annoying hup-hup-hup physical therapy sessions. So that’s a relief, anyway: for me and for my son, who was having the schlep me over there and waste the evening waiting for me to get done.

So of late I learned that lifting fingernails — one of my current symptoms — can indicate diabetes.

No kidding… Diabetes is the family disease. I’ve been told several times over the years that I have “pre-diabetes” — whatever that means. None of our august physicians at the Mayo have condescended to explain what it does mean, if anything. And of course, with my son swamped in work and unhappy beyond words with me, there’s no way I would feel comfortable pestering him to drive me out there.

It’s almost an hour’s drive…two hours round trip. So you don’t even wanna know what a cab would cost.

There’s a neighborhood clinic a couple blocks down the road, though. Tomorrow I’ll walk down there and ask if they’ll test me to see if the prediabetes has evolved to full-on diabetes.

Speaking of the ‘Hood, here’s a fine event that happened within about two blocks of the Funny Farm.

Ugh! The apartments along Main Drag West have turned into serious slums. I really need to move away from here. Not a propitious event for not a propitious time…

I’m too damn sick — by a factor of about 110! — to find another place to live, pack up my house, haul out of here, unpack everything, put everything away, and set up housekeeping and yard maintenance somewhere else. So even if I wanted to move (which I sure don’t), I can’t.

Plus I believe M’hijito wants this house. In that belief, I do want him to have it.

It’s a lovely little house — not so little, actually: four bedrooms, a roomy yard, a pool, a corner lot… This is not something I want to lose, and not something I want to cut off from his future possession.

However, if the area is going to He!! on a Handcart, it would be foolish to stay here much longer. I probably should be looking for safer digs…or maybe for a place that will hold its value after I finally croak over and M’hijito inherits it.

So far, none of the neighbors seem to be in any hurry to move. The thing to do is to keep an eye on what the Romanian Landlord does, since he is smarter than the average snail and is not about to stand around watching his real estate investments go down the drain. Plus his daughter lives two houses down…I very much doubt that he would allow her to stay here if he thought the place presented much risk.

Surely, I don’t want to move: a sentiment multiplied times 100% by the presence of the weird pre-diabetes ailment. Or whatever it is. Really, I’m too sick to pack up my house, drag across the city, unpack, and organize a whole new dwelling.

On the one hand, I can only hope that I’ll die before things get a lot worse here. And before the house loses a lot of value for my son.

On the other hand, it is getting scarier and scarier here: the slum apartments; the stiff laying across the entrance to the neighborhood school; the constant cop copter fly-overs, the cops getting shot at, neighbors paying the city(!!) to gate off the alleys; the endless serenade of sirens and roaring engines….  I dunno. If I could move, I would. But I can’t…so I won’t.

Never a Frikkin’ Dull Moment

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Now we’re told that a slew of aluminum pots and pans — sold by different retailers under different brand names — will leak lead into your food. Jayzuz! Never a frikkin’ dull moment, eh?

Looks like none of my cookware falls into these categories. Probably because I bought all my spectacularly overpriced pots and pans at Pottery Barn and Macy’s: years ago.  When I had an income…  Sometimes there’s an advantage to paying way too much for that kinda stuff.  Plus I believe mine are all stainless, not aluminum.

How can I count the ways that I don’t wanna get up and start charging around?

Well, it’s only quarter after seven, so Ruby and I can loaf for awhile longer. But soon we’ll have to get on the road for the morning hike around the ‘Hood.

My revered (reverewared?) son came over yesterday afternoon and supervised tha AC guy’s activities. That was a mercy! I wouldn’t have had a chance of climbing up to the roof or tromping around observing what the guy was doing — because I wouldn’t have any idea what he was supposed to be doing.

So just now the system is pounding away. Back porch thermometer says it’s 46° out there. Not unreasonably chill for December. I guess. Doesn’t do much to inspire me to schlep the dawg around the park, though. 😮

This evening we have to traipse to the physical therapists’ gym and waste another couple of hours going hup-hup-hup. I do not see that this routine does anything whatsoever for the hip pain. What works is…yes: time and the river flowing.

Anyway, the aches and pains have faded to near-absence. So I figure that in another week or so I can put my well-exercised little foot down and call a halt to the PT shenanigans.

Meanwhile, in the absence of said aches & pains (most of them, anyhow), I need to hike to the nearby Sprouts this morning. Just what I wanna do… /s/  Still too early and too cold for any such expedition. Probably the dawg and the humann will just climb back into the sack and loaf for a couple more hours.

********

2;10 p.m.

Back from the Sprouts…and the Albertson’s…and various stores in the associated shopping center.

The outfit that sold me the shoes, one of which fell apart, claimed they’d  never sold any such shoes.

R-i-i-i-g-h-t…  Like I buy so many shoes I can’t remember where I get them. 

So I got nicely screwed there. And will never buy anything at that store again.

The skies are vibrating with the roar of military jets charging back and forth. Think most of them are coming out of the Sun City area, which is almost adjacent to Luke Air Force Base. However, a few seem to be lurking on the opposite side of the Valley — the east side, which would not be true if they were Luke planes.

Haven’t seen any nuclear bomb clouds, so I assume we’re not at war. For the nonce.

***

Sit your butt down in an easy chair, fire up the computer, start dorking around online and… RINGIE DINGIE DINGIE * RINGIE DINGIE DINGIE * RINGIE DINGIE DINGIE… Some a$$hole on the line trying to hustle you.

My GAWD but I’m sick of our idiotic phone system

Really, sometimes I think that I ought to just unplug the phones whenever I’m home, unless I’m using them to call out. But..of course…that will mean that friends and business acquaintances will never be able to call in to reach me on the goddam phone.

Let’s see if we can make the phone jangle some more by trying to take a nap between now and this evening’s hup hup hup session…

😀  😮  😀

 

 

Surely the End Is in Sight

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So, so sick. One can only hope this comes to an end fairly soon.

Not that I’m in any hurry to shuffle off this infamous mortal coil…but…dayum this old-age stuff hurts!

Need to find a way to get down to the nursing home/old-age factory, there to talk with the operators and figure out how to arrange to get myself in there when the time comes (which, I fear, is nigh…) and how to pay for it.

Horrors.

First horror: I truly detest institutional living. Hated every goddam minute of living in the college dorms. And now it looks like I’m going to have to end my life in exactly that kind of setting.

Yeah: hating every goddam minute of every goddam day.

Next horror: those places take everything you have in exchange for baby-sitting you into the Next World. And I do NOT want to have to fork over all the money my father left me and all of my own savings plus the value of this house for the privilege of being baby-sat into the Next World. I want that inheritance to go to my son, not to some baby-sitting factory.

As I mentioned a few posts back, Wonder Cleaning-Lady apparently spent some time coming into infirm people’s homes and baby-sitting them. Next time I see her, I’ll have to ask her about that, and where she worked.

It would be ideal if I could hire someone to come in and baby-sit me, at least during the day and at least until I’m a lot closer to the finish line. But it’s unclear to me whether that’s possible and, if so, how much it would cost.

Everything you have: that’s how much it’ll cost. Dontcha just  know?

And no, my son is in no position to chauffeur me into the Next World. He has a JOB. Can you imagine???

And it’s a pretty demanding job: his nose is on the proverbial grindstone all day, every day…and then some. So…somehow I’ve got to find some way get cared for without wrecking his life. And preferably without making me any more miserable than absolutely necessary.

So…I have no idea how to handle this. Asked down at the church, figuring social service work is a large part of a cleric’s job. They didn’t have a clue.

What would help a lot would be if I would just keel over dead, with a minimum of hassle and pain. Flop down on the living-room floor and be done with it.

BUT…we have this little problem of the dog. If I fell off the cliff into the Next World, she would be left here alone, with no one to feed her and care for her. And since nobody gives a damn whether I live or die, she might not survive until someone noticed.

I guess I could find a new home for her now. But gosh, I don’t wanna do it. Just now she’s my only companion and, frankly, about my only friend. If I give her to someone else, I really will be all alone.

All alone in an institutional setting. Doesn’t that sound jolly?