Coffee heat rising

Angst

Outta Here?

by

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.

 

Weird-weather Day

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Just back from marching thru the ‘Hood with Ruby the Corgi. 

ICK! What a weird morning. It’s overcast…and hot! Doubt if it will rain — that would cool it off, eh? None o’ that nonsense in these sylvan pastures!

😀

We strolled down into Lower Richistan, an affluent neighborhood to the south of the ‘Hood. The houses are older and, oddly, not very interesting. Not an area that I would choose to live in, if I had that kinda money.

While strolling: Contemplate the latest weird predicament. 

Yesterday a pair of women showed up at my front door, identifying themselves as state social workers. Somebody had reported me as a victim of abuse!

Yeah…right: admire this black eye, eh?  /s/

Holeeee shee-ut! 

Apparently some “friend” of mine — which one it is, I think I know — decided out of the blue that my son is being abusive to me.

Got that?

My son: the guy who drives me from pillar to post, who helps with the paperwork, who arranges appointments for me at the Mayo and drives me way to hell & gone out there, who runs interference with the bank when I screw up my books….on and ever-so-abusively on. /eyeroll/

So I had to fend off that pair of fruitcakes. Whether I succeeded in getting rid of them, I do not know…but very much doubt it.

I probably need to call a lawyer and get him or her lined up and armed for battle. Problem is, mine croaked over a few weeks ago…and I don’t have anyone to take his place.

WhatEVER could have possessed my “friend” to pull a damnfool stunt like that?

The sheer hassle factor…oh gawd! It makes me cringe!

Well, she’s not my “friend” any more. I won’t have another thing to say to her after this.

And…after this I won’t answer the door, not unless I’m expecting someone and I can see that the desired “someone” is out there.

Hotter than a Two-Dollar Cookstove…

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Jayzuz!! As we scribble — at 6:05 p.m..,early evening! — it’s 109 degrees out there on the back porch. 

Got that? A hundred and nine degrees in the freakin’ SHADE of the back porch!!!!! 

Auuughhhh! 

Even (un)lovely Saudi Arabia never got THIS warm and cozy. Horrible!!!!!

We lived right on the shore of the Persian Gulf, so it did tend to get pretty humid. Temps soared into the low 100s…sometimes. But pushing 110? Not so much.

Just now, we have a little high overcast, but it doesn’t seem very humid….hmmmm…we have a resource that Saudi Arabia couldn’t offer at the time: Wunderground. 

Let us inquire…

Hmmmm….

110 degrees in the shade
No overcast
“Active warning: Extreme heat” eeeek, be very scared!
Full forecast: 115 tomorrow

Well. That will make for a nice, cozy night and a …uhmmm….balmy day tomorrow.

LOL! You have to be balmy, all right, to choose to live in this place! 😀

Seriously, though: the winters are lovely. Even at its coldest, the low desert doesn’t get snow. Usually, though, the winter days are cool and clear and pretty as can be.

Invited M’Hijito to come up and spend the night here. The Funny Farm is some 30 or 40 years newer than his place, and accordingly better vented, better insulated, and much better air-conditioned. It looks, though, like he’ll hold his own down in old Central Phoenix.

******

Ever so much later… 11:14 p.m. in yet another endless night.

To make everything perfect, it appears that I have a dental abscess. Look this up in the Hypochondriac’s Treasure Chest (i.e., the Internet), and you learn this requires dental surgery. Ohhh goodie! More pain, pain, and pain. 

I can hardly wait.

People think I’m being morbid when I joke about dying, finally getting free of all this sh!t. (At least I think and hope I’m dying…most folks, it develops, are so terrified of the end that they can’t see the appeal to it…)  But y’know…it’s NOT morbid to want to be free of pain. Free of fear. Free of pointless medical procedures that induce more pain and fear. Free of stupid BS that does not encourage you but leaves you hopeless.

No.

Freedom’s just another word
For nothin’ left to lose…

Ole’ Janis had somethin’ there…

That’s what death means, you know: Nothing left to lose. It’s not, of course, a joke. It’s plain, unadulterated truth. At some point life ends. And at that point…well, yeah: you have nothin’ left to lose. And nothing left to be afraid of.

Do not go gently into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light!

So Dylan Thomas begged his dying father. But…no, Dylan, my man. There’s no point in raging. The light dies for all of us. No amount of raging will change that.

What it means is that at some point, the pain stops.
At some point, there’s no need to rage.
At some point you will be set free.

And that, my friends, is not a bad thing. 

August 5 Heat, Continued…

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So the day that I began describing this morning has trundled on. And on. And on.

Now it’s late afternoon. Hotter than a two-dollar cookstove out there. No kidding: As we scribble, the back porch thermometer registers 110 degrees in the shade of the back porch overhang!

Yeah: that’s 110 in the shade! 😮

WHAT a place, eh?

Today has been quiet…probably because it’s too damn hot for anybody to get up to any hijinks. 😀

But I’ll tellya: the hijinks of recent days are still eating at my nerves. Enough, I might remark, that for brief periods I seriously consider piling my stuff and the dawg in the car and driving outta here.

Where would “outta here” be?  

I dunno. Grand Junction, Colorado, is a pleasant enough venue. A little cold in the winter. A little hickish. But a LONG way from here, and in another state. Presumably out of Arizona’s jurisdiction.

That those two social-worker women who showed up here had, in hand, a record of the night that SDXB and I got into a fight and I stalked off down an alley, ending up at a neighbor’s place…WOW! 

Sorry, folks, but THAT scares the Hell outta me. That little flap happened years ago! How much else does Big Brother have on me? And what can be done with that “else”?

Jayzuz!

Haven’t yet decided what, if anything, to do about this. I don’t want to leave, for two reasons:

* Most important, I absolutely don’t want to leave M’Hijito behind. I love my son, relish his company, and do NOT want to sever relations with him…or even to put any distance between us.

* And I love my home. It’s perfect for me and the dawg, probably the most pleasant place I’ve ever lived in, and you may be sure I do not want to leave. This place is where I want to live until I die.

Which I expect will not be soon!

Seriously: That sounds overweening. But I’ve known several women who have lived here in the ‘Hood, all by their little old selves, dwelling in these houses well into advanced old age. Most notable was my first neighbor here. She was in her 90s when her son carted her off to an old-folkerie — WELL into her 90s. And going strong.

But after her, I’ve also known several others who’ve been able to stay here into their dotage, as the young pups have moved into these houses, fixed them up, and jacked up the property values. A-n-n-d…

…I love young pups and enjoy having them as neighbors.
…As they upgrade the houses, they jack up property values all around them, which means that…
….When I croak over, my son will inherit a house worth A WHOLE LOT more than I paid for it, and a whole lot more than one would expect inflation to increase that value.

I want him to get the benefit of that sharp increase in value. And that’s one reason (far from the only one!) that I hope to stay here through my dotage and until I die: Money, honey! 😀

The cost of locking me up in the desired old-folkerie would absorb every penny we get from sale of this house…and then some. The longer I survive to take up space there, the more of my savings will be taken away from me.

And, at the risk of repeating myself: I want those savings to go to my son, not to some damn depressing institution!

Tired of Stupid!!!!!!!

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So a few minutes before 8 a.m., Ruby the Corgi and I get back to the house after an hour’s trudge through unholy heat and humidity. ALL I WANT is to get back in the house, back in the air-conditioning, and sit down with a glass of water in my paw.

But nooooooo….NOT A CHANCE!

As we approach the front yard, we find a dog-loving moron standing there, with her own overheated hound. She awaits our approach, simpering inanely.

Dammit. If you’ve lived with a dog longer than six months you should know: Dogs are NOT your little “furbabies”! They’re CARNIVORES. Tribal carnivores, whose instinct is to defend themselves and their fellow pack members against all comers.

No matter how pea-brained the comer!

Problem is, city folk tend to confuse dogs with kids. They think their dog is on a par with their eight-year-old. And they imagine you think the same. Gawdlmighty, these people are stupid!

So we try to go around the front-yard visitor. This doesn’t work. She and her dog come to greet us.

GO! AWAY! YOU IDIOT!

No amount of attempted mental telepathy or body language helps. She comes bounding over to us. And yeah…right off, the two dogs go at it!

Jayzuz, am I tired of stupid!!!!!

We — Ruby and I — manage to get inside the gate without bloodshed. But it was close. Very close.

Can’t say this kind of stupid stuff happens every time Ruby and I go out for a walk. If it did, we wouldn’t go walking. But it surely does happen enough to annoy the Hell outta you.

Actually, it happens enough to lead me to think maybe I shouldn’t go out walking with Ruby. At all.

Hate to do that! Ruby needs the exercise. And so do I.

But jeez. One of these days, somebody — canine or human — is gonna get hurt!

In the Land of Looney Toons…

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Welp, speaking of Looney: I’ve lost the post I was writing. In it, I went on at length about an alarming incident: a surprise visit from a pair of social workers, who apparently were trying to elicit evidence that some of my marbles have rolled out my ears.

Luckily, Wonder Cleaning-Lady had just been here, so the house was spotless. Presumably, then, they did not conclude from a slovenly mess that I’m too marble-free to take care of myself. 😀

At least…I hope not.

Lemme tellya: these folks are REALLY scary. A significant part of their job appears to involve deciding whether you’re well enough to live in your home and take care of yourself. From what I can tell, when they show up, you’re at some risk — very possibly significant risk — of being declared non compos mentis and locked up in a facility.

One of the alarming characteristics of such folks is that they have no sense of humor. They seriously can not distinguish between something you say in jest and something you really mean seriously.

One of my schticks, for example, is the very silly proposition that I’m a-gunna throw myself off the North Rim of the Grand Canyon.

I have to ask you: How silly is that? And…if a person were really going to do such a thing, do you seriously believe they’d babble on about it in a casual conversation? Holy sh!t. Obviously, if I were going to kill myself by leaping into the air and plunging several thousand feet down a cliff, I wouldn’t tell you about it first. Would I?

So without thinking, I let part of this joke out, and HOLEEEE SHEE-UT! You’d have thought I took out a pistol and stuck its barrel in my ear.

Okay, after I calm the two down a bit, the conversation devolves into a discussion of a silly incident that followed on a quarrel SDXB and I had while he still lived in the ’Hood — years ago!

I don’t even recall what we squabbled about. But in a fit of pique, I stalked out of his house and charged off down the road, figuring to take a walk and burn off some rage.

For reasons that I also do not recall, I took it into my pea brain to walk up an alley. I think the deal was that this alley went straight from the residential street where I was walking to the street just south of my house, effectively creating a short-cut home. In stomping up this alley in the dark, I got turned around, and….eeeps! I got lost! I couldn’t tell which way was north and which way west, the directions I needed to know to get back home.

A party was going in one of the back yards, so I stopped there and asked if they could tell me which way I needed to go to reach Main Drag West. For reasons I do not know, this bunch now calls the cops, telling them a disoriented woman is wandering loose in the alley.

When the cops arrive, they quite reasonably think I’ve lost a few marbles.

You can see which way this is going, right?

I got them to take me back to SDXB’s place, where together we were able to persuade the cops that I was not stoned and not crazy, and that SDXB would take care of me for the rest of the evening.

And so it went: he drove me home; I went to bed; and that (I imagined….) was the end of that.

BUT… Apparently this escapade went into my permanent record. 

Yes. Did you know you have a record, whether or not you’re a criminal type? Be aware that whatever shenanigans you get into, even the most innocent, go into this record…

Now — several years later! — when these social workers show up in my living room, they know all about this long-ago escapade, and they suspect it’s evidence that my marbles are loose.

No kidding. 

  • Have I ever been arrested?
  • Have I ever gotten into any trouble with the cops, with my employer, at the church, with my fellow crazed drivers?
  • Am I stone cold sober at the time?
  • Do I act like I’m crazy with these women?
  • Am I coherent and level-headed?

Forgodsake: the correct answers to these questions are no, no, yes, no, and yes. I emit all of these correct answers, and prove those answers by my behavior.

Nevertheless, they decide I’m nuts and file a report with their agency to that effect. So now I have an official record as a nut case, and as far as I can tell there is NO way to change that.

Hafta tell you: I don’t know what to do about this episode. Obviously, I need to call a lawyer. But my lawyer recently died! I called his office and got no answer there. So I have no idea which way to jump.

Monday, I’m gonna have to get on the phone and start calling lawyers, at random, until I can get someone to talk with me. And hope I can get them to position themselves between me and the Authorities.

Really. This is scary enough that if my son didn’t live here, I’d pack up my house and leave the state, right now. But he is here. So I’m staying…very possibly to end up in some institution.

Quite some society we live in these days, eh? Orwell set 1984 about 41 years too soon.