Coffee heat rising

Angst

She’s B-a-a-a-c-k!

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Zowie! I’m in!!

WordPress has been blocking me from signing into the Funny About Money website. Just did something — dunno what — that suddenly let me into the site.

Since I may not be able to get back, here’s an update, of sorts…

Things keep getting ridiculouser and ridiculouser. 

For myself: I’m slowly sinking into the Family Disease, which happens to be diabetes. Things go from bad to worse there: the Mayo Clinic has called the state and taken away my driving privileges, meaning I can’t even so much as drive to the grocery store.

Seriously: to buy food at the local market, I have to hike blocks through 100-degree heat! So much for “do no harm,”right?

Wouldn’t Hippocrates love it…

Meanwhile, my son has also fallen ill. Deeply worried about him…but what I can do about it, especially in my present condition, I can’t imagine.

And mean-meanwhile, it looks like there’s a good chance I may soon be dragged to an old-folk’s holding pen, very much against my will. Did you know they can force you into an old-folkerie? Even if you’re willing to hire someone to come to your home and care for you, apparently.

I need a lawyer. Mine dropped dead in his office.

No kidding. Apparently he was just standing there when he had a stroke and literally fell on the floor dead.

So now I have no one to help me through the biggest set of fiascos I’ve ever been through in my life. 

No one answers the phone at his office. Apparently where he had established himself was not a partnership but a sole proprietorship. It appears he was just renting space from the other lawyers in that office. So I can’t reach anyone to at least, for godsake, send me my file!

And I have NO IDEA how to deal with that.

He had written a will which, I hope, will protect my son and pass my property along to him. But…where IS that paperwork? 

My understanding is that wills and whatnot are filed with the County. But did he do that before he fell over dead? Don’t know, and don’t know how to find out.

When life turns into a fukkin’ nightmare, eh? 😮

As I scribble, it’s the wee hours of a Sunday morning. So I’ll have to wait until Monday to even try to get something done. Oh well: that gives a day in which to figure out how to try to get something done.

And mean-fukkin-while, GET THIS:

Some idiot called the state of Arizona and reported that I am being abused. 

No kidding!

The other day two social workers showed up at my front door, saying someone had called the state and told them I was being abused.

HUH?

By a pure miracle, Wonder-Cleaning Lady had been here that day, and so the house was spotlessly clean. I was neatly dressed and combed. So we sat in my clean and neat living room while we had a clean and neat conversation. They went on their way, apparently satisfied that I’m not being beaten and starved.

But of course, that means someone, somewhere is watching.

Yep: Big Brother is watching you…and me!

What kind trouble-maker would call up the state and sic a pair of social workers on me? That just escapes me. But it’s a big worry: will this also create problems for my son?

I simply have no idea. No experience with this kind of thing. And no imagination to picture whatever this trouble-maker might dream up next.

Meanwhile, one thing this unending fiasco has shown is that it was majorly a mistake to establish my medical care at the Mayo Clinic. Not because anything is wrong with the Mayo. But because the Mayo is almost an hour’s drive on the other side of the Valley!!!

They have a hospital that’s a little closer — about half that distance — but it also is a LONG way from my house. I have been enjoined from driving, which means it’s damn near impossible for me to get to a doctor — not without enormous inconvenience and hassle for my son!

{sigh} I guess what this shows is one basic principle: NEVER ESTABLISH YOUR MEDICAL CARE THROUGH A GIANT BUREAUCRACY. 

Seriously: I deeply regret having set health-care things up through the Mayo. Just getting an appointment is a hassle. When you try, you get sent to the far side of Scottsdale…quite a trick to get there, when their quack has nullified your driver’s license.

So it goes…from one fiasco to the next fiasco.

It’ll be interesting to see what happens next, eh?

What WAS the matter with us???

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Ever have one of those reflective, memory-filled moments when you wonder…”Why didn’t I do this?” or “Why didn’t we do that?” Yeah…don’t we all, eh? This afternoon I’m haunted by one of…well, the most haunting such moments.

In the first chapter of our marriage, DXH and I lived in Phoenix’s downtown Encanto district, a quaint historic tract filled with beautiful old houses and, yes, lots of history.

Heh. It was filled with burglars and rapists, too: drawn by the affluent young people who thought a historic district was cool, and by their pretty wives (yes, in those days most young married women counted their occupation as “housewife”) who were were a sexy draw.

We lived next door to Mrs. Wilson: the widow of the city’s first city manager, a woman with some historic significance and a long, long-time resident of the central city.

Mrs. Wilson was scared.

But then, so were most of us. The Encanto district was richly populated with drug addicts, panhandlers, vagrants, burglars, and thieves. One never knew when any such worthy would come a-visiting. This fact alone was the main reason many of us lived with massive pet dogs: German shepherds, doberman pinschers, great Danes, and whatnot.

Well.

One morning Mrs. Wilson told me that she had gotten up in the night, walked out of her bedroom through the living room and into the kitchen…and on the way spotted some guy sleeping on her patio, right outside the living-room’s French doors.  

Holeeee sheee-ut!

What did she do?

Did she grab her pistol?

Nope.

Did she call the police?

Nope!

She retreated to her bedroom and cowered until sunrise.

No kidding.

What is the matter with people? All she had to do was lift the phone and dial our number. My husband would have gone right over and scared the midnight camper away. Or called the cops and sicced them on the guy.

Folks! This is why we have a  pistol. It’s why we have a German shepherd or a doberman. It’s why we have a FREAKIN’ PHONE!!!

Apparently it never entered her mind to pick up the phone in her hallway and call the police. Or us. Too terrorized, no doubt, to think.

No one would expect an 80-year-old woman to have a .45 at the ready. Okay, that makes sense. But she sure as Hell can have a telephone at the ready.

So can any of the rest of us.  

Whenever you’re home, ALWAYS HAVE A PHONE WITHIN EASY REACH. And know how to call emergency services. Most municipalities use 911; if yours doesn’t, you can dial the Operator and tell her what’s up, and where. She’ll call the cops for you.

This is easier now, with cell phones that don’t have to be plugged in. But it might be wise to have a land-line at hand, too…just in case.

The other thing we all need to do is think through what we’re going to do in this set of circumstances or that set of circumstances. 

What are you gonna do if you wake up and find someone creeping around your house? What are you gonna do if the house catches fire? What are you gonna do if you hear someone start up your car and drive it out of your carport?

And be prepared to make these maneuvers work. If you figure you’re going to grab a pistol, be sure that pistol is well lubricated, working, and loaded; and that you know how to use it. And that it’s kept out of the kiddies’ reach…  If you’re going to flee, have several escape routes in mind, and know how to get to them. If you imagine your dog is going to protect you, have your dog trained for the purpose.

Be set to go into action. Always. 

F’rgodsake, At Least Get the Story Straight!

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The most ludicrous stuff is going on here. 

It’s my fault, because behaviorally I do not hew to the standard  American middle-class way of daily living. I grew up overseas, in a remote oil colony surrounded by a culture best described as “alien” to the American way of doing things. It was like living on another planet, when that planet was inhabited by people who had no grasp of our way of life. And we, conversely, had little grasp of theirs.

The way we Americans did things, in private behind closed doors, was very different from the way the locals did things. They would (and did) regard our ways as downright immoral. But because we lived in a fenced, isolated American community, most of the time we could go about our lives as we pleased, local mores and laws notwithstanding.

Saudis, they were — the locals. In terms of what they viewed as right & wrong, what they regarded as “clean living”: about the closest we would have here are Mormons. 

As  you know if you live in the American Southwest, Mormonism — like Islam — forbids the use of alcohol.

But your average American Jane or Joe — unlike a Moslem, unlike a Mormon — is not really much into teetotaling. Thus, where we lived in Arabia, the isolated camps full of American company employees were populated with folks who were used to a cocktail at dinner and to getting snockered at a party.

Where did those cocktails come from? Generally from a still hidden in or near the American resident’s home. My father brewed his own alcohol for years, and after the Arab workers went home, many a fine party was held in camp, fueled by DIY booze.

Thus I grew up thinking that a cocktail at dinnertime or at party time was a normal part of life. No, we were not getting blitzed every evening after the hired help went back to their own settlements. We  were having a cocktail before dinner, or a couple of swiggles during a party.

Thus it has been all of my adult life. From the time I was 18 years old. All the time I was going through the university, I dated a guy who did the same. After I graduated, we split up but I continued our usual habit with beer or low-rent wine.

The horror, eh?

Well…yeah. Turns out this is not normal behavior for a large slab of Americans. 

Among them is my cleaning lady. She thinks I’m a lush because I have a glass of wine with my mid-day meal — which is my equivalent of dinner: meat, potatoes, veggie, salad. This horror, she has reported to my son, and now he thinks I sit around all afternoon swilling booze.

Yeah, you’re right: if I’d had any sense, I would have refrained from drinking wine or beer in front of her. And so I should have.

My son, having ingested her exaggerated reports, has now passed this “intelligence” along to my doctors!

No kidding! He has told them I sit around every afternoon getting snockered!

And that has created a fine fistful of trouble for me.

In the first place, short of a camera and a replayable video, I have no way of proving to these docs — or to my son — that no, I do not sit around all afternoon getting blitzed.

In the second place, this blossoming squabble means I have two choices by way of keeping the peace:

* Either get rid of ALL the alcohol in the house — all alcohol of any kind, from a bottle of gin to a tiny bottle of vanilla flavoring…

* Or sell the house, move away, and get on with my life unmolested.

Neither of these these options appeals to me. I do not want to change my lifestyle because someone else’s religion or superstition tells me what I do is naughty-naughty.

And I most certainly do not want to move away from my home, my son and my friends.

Absurd, isn’t it?

Muse Me No Muzak!

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Daaayum, but I hate Muzak. Do you know anyone who actually likes to sit on the phone interminably listening to bing-bing-BONG-bing/bong bong BING bing pumped into their ear?

Tried to call Young Dr. Kildare’s new office, way to hell and gone out in Sun City, by way of canceling today’s appointment. Ring ’em up and get bing-bing-BONG-bing/bong bong BING bing blasting into the phone. Finally, after about five minutes of this annoyance, some poor office worker came on the line, just as I was about to slam down the phone.

Y’know, one of the problems with this endlessly annoying “system” is that by the time an employee answers the phone, your customer is in SUCH A RAGE that it’s almost impossible to muster a shard of politeness.

Another problem: since Dr. Kildare makes his (dis)respect for his patients/customers so obvious, you can be SURE this one will never show up in his environs again.

Y’know, I think the Mayo is just great. Love my doc out there, though sometimes question her opinions. But the problem is…their offices are WAAAAYYYYY over on the far side of north Scottsdale, halfway to freakin’ Payson. A drive over there takes upwards of 40 minutes — one way. So you’re on the road for 80 minutes to spend maybe 10 minutes with MayoDoc.

Annoying.

At the time I knew him here, YDK’s office was right up the street from my house. Literally: I could walk there, if I felt so ambitious. That and the fact that he’s reasonably smart and competent led me to schedule visits with him for any medical issue that looked fairly tame. Saved the Mayo safari for ailments that looked downright terrifying.

And when you get old, you DO get enough of those to help pay a doctor’s overhead…

At any rate…probably in search of an older, more ailing clientele, YDK closed his office in Moon Valley, a suburb just up the road from the Funny Farm, and decamped to Sun City.

A long drive from here. A long, crowded, unpleasant drive.

But…I like him so much that I decided I would follow him…westward, ever westward.

***
Uh huh. Tried that. Ain’t tryin’ it again. 
***

My parents lived in Sun City. My mother died there, under the care of the most UNcaring doctors I ever met. So, I determined that I would never, ever let a Sun City doctor have at me.

Needless to say, YDK’s move out there led to some agonizing second thoughts. 

A huge, brand-new, fancy hospital has sprung up in Sun City. One guesses that YDK and his partners decided to go out there so they could get in on the ground floor of that thing…and have access to some swell new office digs. All very nice.

But if I’m going to drive half my lifetime to see a doctor, I guess — oh, make that I know I’d rather go east than west. ANY day I’d rather go to a Mayo Clinic doctor than to Albert Schweitzer in Sun City! Hafta say: the experiences we had out there — in Sun City — while my mother was dying were just horrific. I swore I’d never go near another Sun City doctor or hospital…and…well… I reckon now is the time to honor that oath.

‘Bye, YDK…you will be missed!

<3

The Evolution of Car-Freedom

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Another (un)lovely day in Phoenix. Leave us all FLEE it…

LOL! That’s a take-off on the daily pitch of a guy who, back in the Day, was probably Phoenix’s all-time greatest morning talk-show host.

He’s long gone now. But anyone who’s  been in the Valley for a lifetime or so remembers his daily greeting:

It’s a beautiful day in Arizona…
Leave us all enjoy it!

Yeah. Arizonans were that illiterate, back in the day. 😀 He was much beloved, though…and frankly, much missed.

Truth to tell, it’s hotter than a by-gawd out there just now.

“A beautiful day,” it ain’t.

So far, quite to the contrary.

Oh…really, though…. Look at it through the right lens, and it’s funnier than a crutch.

****

My son has decided that I should get off the sauce. My terrifying drinking habits have led him to believe I’m a lush!  And he wants me to swear off.

What are those terrifying habits?

-> Swilling down a couple of glasses of wine with the large meal of the day. “Dinner,” most Americans would call it, except that I partake of this pile of chow at noon, when most of us are eating what we would call “Lunch.”

This latter feast, as you no doubt know if you live on this half of the globe, is taken at mid-day and is usually a light meal.

Okay. Being a little weird (and having grown up in an entirely different country…), I stoke up the barbecue along about noon and sizzle myself a portion of meat (steak, lamb, pork chop, fish filet, or the like), a starch (potato, pasta, beans, whatnot), and a green or yellow vegetable (broccoli, asparagus, green beans, carrots, corn, etc.). This makes a large meal: large enough to soak up whatever wine I decide to lap down with it.

A few hours later, at what most FaM readers would call “dinner time,” I have a much smaller, lighter meal, usually without benefit of booze.

Well.

Observing me chow down on what I call “the big meal of the day” (i.e., lunch in your jargon), and seeing me swill down a glass of wine with it, Wonder Cleaning-Lady concluded that I am a lush.

Yes. She decided that because I was drinking an alcoholic beverage at mid-day — along about noon — I must be a drunk. 

{Understand: a “glass” of wine in my house is a wine glass…one of those bubbles atop a stem. Filled to the top, it holds about a third of what a standard US-style glass holds…and it’s never filled to the top.)

To make things worse…ooooohhhh gawd! Get this:

She was here on a day after I’d been awake the better part of an insomniac night.

I’d had almost no sleep the night before she showed up here. And all the time she was banging and roaring around the house, what I most craved was just to go back to bed. 

Not an option, of course.

So…stupidly…ooooh HOW stupidly!… I put my noon meal on the table. Sat down to eat it, accompanied by the usual partial glass of red wine. And feeling soooooooooo tired that I pushed the plate aside, laid my head in my arms on the table, and promptly FELL ASLEEP.

No kidding.

So what does she do?

She whips out her little camera (we all carry a camera with us, everyplace we go, right?) and snaps photos of me with my head in my arms on the table, a half-full glass of red wine sitting there next to my noggin.. 

These, she soon displays to my son, telling him that I was so drunk I fell asleep at the dinner table while she was here.

Yes. I did fall asleep.
No. I did not pass out in a drunken stupor.

But o’course, he couldn’t tell that from a snapshot. And nothing I could say would persuade him of what really happened.

So now the Kid is on High Alert at all times. He thinks I’m a drunk, and he thinks I’m pirating wine to swizzle at every opportunity.

I know: it would be funny if it weren’t so damn stupid!

Funny or stupid — or even serious, if you prefer — it has created a shopping-bag full of trouble for me.

At this point, I can’t persuade M’hijito that I’m not a lush and that I do not loaf around the house all day swilling booze.

So convinced is he that he raided my kitchen and stole the two bottles of sinful wine it contained: a bottle of red and a bottle of white. He also made off with my car, because he imagines I cruise around the city three sheets to the wind!

Hm.

I really SHOULD fire the cleaning lady, shouldn’t I? The woman has created a gigantic kettle full of trouble for me. How to get out of that kettle escapes me at the moment.

But that poses its own little headaches:

* Good cleaning ladies are notoriously hard to come by. And you may be real sure I don’t want to clean this four-bedroom palace myself.

* If I can her, will that not just damn me by my own actions? It will look like I’m firing her because she knows I guzzle down the vast kegs of wine at noon that she reported to my son.

* And yeah: I do hate cleaning house! So much so that I’m inclined to let this stupid flap go, just to hang onto the woman.

The latter is itself probably pretty stupid, eh? 

I mean, after all: If she’s going to squeal on me to my son because I dared to swill a glass of wine with lunch, what other trouble will she make for me? 

* People in a given trade tend to know each other. So let’s say I do can her and hire a new cleaning lady: next thing we know New CL will also think I’m a lush, having been told so by the present incumbent.

****

{sigh} I’m brought back to my periodically recurring thought: that I should sell this house and move out of Phoenix.

Just. 

Get. 

Away.

From.

Here.

But y’know…I don’t wanna!

* I love my house.
* I like my neighbors.
* Even the Romanian Landlord and I are acting like friends of late.
* The house is paid for.
* I could walk to my son’s house from here.
* I don’t wanna move away! 

So here we are: I’m living in a lovely house with a huge, EMPTY garage. My son has absconded with my car. I’m not about to get into a fight with him over that damn thing.

And we have an army of Uber drivers in this neighborhood…

We have a busy and efficient light-rail system running right up the west side of the ‘Hood…

The neighbors and I are getting along fine of late…

It’s (relatively!) safe here…

And, gilding all those lilies, just about all of the grocery stores and household marketers are within reasonable walking distance.

So no: I don’t wanna move away from here!!!!

And I ain’t a-gonna. 

Idle Question of the Day…

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Why, after my mother died, did my father choose to enter the Orangewood “Retirement Community” (read “prison for old folks”) rather than the Beatitudes, a larger and more established prison?

I could walk to either of these places from here. If I could afford to give this house to my son (moot: when I have to go into a “retirement community,” I most certainly will not be able to afford any such generosity), I could consign myself to either institution and be within walking distance of where he could live.

If he chose to do so.

More likely, he’d sell this place. Either bank the money and stay in his present home, or leave the proceeds from the sale to pay off his own mortgage.

Orangewood is on a single story. It’s built like…oh…I dunno…it kind of reminds you of a motel. Spread out. Grassy views outside most of the apartments. Laundry rooms down the hall from your place. A chow hall serving awful food — you’re required to show up there for at least one (bad!) meal a day, so they can count you.

The Beatitudes, another option for old-folks’ “living,” occupies a high-rise — actually, more like a mid-rise building. It’s built like a hotel, with the chow line and meeting rooms on the ground floor.

Either way, to my mind they’re depressing places. Mostly because I strongly dislike communal living — hated living the college dorms, don’t wanna wrap up my life that way.

But…it’s hard to see any way around them.

I probably could hire someone to come in and take care of me. But…who’s to oversee such a person? Unless someone were checking on me daily, how could we be sure I was being kept clean, that I was fed regularly (and decently), that the house was kept clean, that nothing was stolen…on and on and on. Expecting my son to ride herd in that way is, I fear, expecting too much. He has…you know…a life. And he can’t take half of it to devote to riding herd on my last months or (heaven forfend!) years.

Probably one of the best of the many excellent things my father did for me was to move himself into an old-folkery after my mother died. If I’d had to take care of him, I would never have finished the dissertation, never have completed the Ph.D.

But why on earth would that have mattered? Yes, I did get one (count it, 1) halfway decent job because of the doctorate. Published a book or three. But helle’s belles! I could have done as well or better without a Ph.D. in freakin’ English.

Annoying, isn’t it, to arrive at the end of life and realize you flubbed it? 😀 You wasted God only knows how many years.

Now what?