Coffee heat rising

Did She Do It On Purpose?

She killed my mother: no question of that. But…did she do it out of stupidity? Or out of malice?

I grew up in Saudi Arabia, where my father worked for ten years as a harbor pilot for ARAMCO, steering tankers and freighters in and out of the port at Ras Tanura. The country was as Third-World as a country could get, a marvelous incubator of toxic disease.

One of those diseases was amoebic dysentery, a gawdawful and potentially fatal infestation with the local germs that lurked in all the food…especially in fruits and vegetables. Anything that we ate had either to be fully cooked (as in cooked to mush!) or soaked in Clorox to disinfect it.

Well. My father worked with a guy who wasn’t too bright, and said guy had a wife who was even less bright.

And she just didn’t get the message about sanitizing ALL the food.

One evening they had us over to their house for dinner. I was in the kitchen watching and playing around — at the time I was about ten or twelve years old. There, I observed that our hostess didn’t bother to sanitize the cabbage she used to make our salad. She even handed me — a little kid! — pieces of this unclean produce, which I scarfed right down.

Fortunately for me, I had pretty strong resistance by that time, after spending nigh unto ten years in the bowels of Hell. But…my mother did not.

She ate that salad, and shortly thereafter came down with a roaring case of amoebic dysentery.

She damn near died of it. Years later, I learned that there was a moment when her doctors thought she very probably would die.

But she didn’t. After weeks in the hospital and then in bed at home, she eventually recovered.

Sort of.

She never really fully recovered. But she went on with her life.

A truncated life.

The upshot of the unholy infection and its ungodly treatment was that some time later she did develop an abdominal cancer.

And yes: that killed her.

Understand: The wives who were brought to Arabia with the men working for the Company were required to sit through a lengthy course in how to prepare food safely, and how otherwise to protect their families from the diseases to which simply living out there would subject us.

That idiot woman knew not to serve up unsanitized produce! Yea, verily: She knew to soak those greens in Clorox and rinse them well before making a salad of them. 

Interestingly, neither her husband nor her young son would eat the stuff. “Don’t like cabbage,” we were told.

I believe she deliberately tried to make us sick.

She could not have not known that the produce had to be mightily sanitized before it could be served to people who were to eat it.

Given that fact, it’s my belief that she purposely served us unsanitized cabbage in the hope that it would sicken us.

And it worked. It sickened my mother enough to do her in, ultimately.

Did she do it on purpose?

Could be. But…on the other hand, there’s an outside chance that she truly didn’t know what she was doing. My father regarded her husband as one of the stupidest men he’d ever met. So…who knows? Maybe they were a matched set. Maybe she really was so stupid that she didn’t bother to sanitize the produce before serving it up to her guests.

Maybe.

Doesn’t matter: Stupid or cunning, the upshot was the same. She killed my mother.

Another Swampy-Dampy Day

The sky is clear. The air is WET and SOGGY out there. Horrible, horrible place. Almost as miserable as (un)lovely Ras Tanura, the Saudi Aramco encampment where we spent ten unholy years on the shore of the Persian Gulf.

Man, do I hate the Arizona desert. If there were any way I could afford it (and…if my son weren’t ensconced here…) I would be SO outta-here!

Ruby and I just came in from the morning dog-and-human constitutional. Ugh! Thought I was gonna melt into the pavement before we got back!

Well…one good thing about it was that there were hardly any other people out there.

Most folks have better sense than to charge out in this kind of sh!tty weather.

Now we’re waiting for the babysitter my son hired to show up. I told him that I am NOT going to opt the daily exercise hike — it’s the only thing that keeps the spavined hip from freezing right up — and so these women either have to show up an hour later than they normally might or they’ll have to wait in their damn car for me.

I did leave the dear lady a note saying we’d soon be back and suggesting she repair to the local supermarket for a nice cup of coffee (they have an awesome coffee bar there!). No sign of her, though.

Awwwwwwwwww…. What a shame, eh?

Whoever was in the house a day or so ago babysitting and puttering ripped off a lot more stuff than I thought. One of the phone’s handsets is gone, as are a few other miscellaneous desk-top items. Plus the entire phone that was in the living-room desk.

Busy folks, eh?

Anyway, now I’ll have to figure out how to get extensions to replace those phones. And that may be a challenge: they were pretty old. I may have to replace ALL the phone handsets. That would be seven of them.

And you don’t even wanna know how much that’s gonna cost.

I sure don’t….

Seriously: it looks like replacing two of them will run around eighty bucks.

No wonder the dear soul wanted to steal mine. 

Scam-a-Rama!

Am I the only one who tires of being the target of a scam a day? 

Honest to Gawd, sometimes it does feel like some new scam comes in over the transom almost every day. 

How the Hell do these people get enough information about you to concoct a convincing-sounding pitch? The current effort (now consigned to the trash) comes from someone who knows who my (now long former ) mortgage lender was. We’re told I must hurry and call this number and blah blah blah blah….

Well. If I hadn’t paid off said loan some time back, I very probably would have fallen for that one.

This is the major reason I have call-blocking on my phone: the blitz of crooked hustles. I do try to filter the incoming emails, but you can’t strain out every one of them.

And yeah…some of them are amazingly persuasive.

Another Swampy-Dampy Day

Yech! Feels like ugly, hot, wet Saudi Arabia out there, where I grew up on the shore of the Persian Gulf. Extraordinarily unpleasant morning for a doggy-walk.

But (ugh!) we’re back. The Human and the Dog are pretty well cooked. Dog is dosed with prednisone. Overdosed, actually: I accidentally gave her a whole pill, when she’s only supposed to get a half. Hope it doesn’t make her sick.

Not many fellow travelers in the park this morning. Understandably: it’s hot, sticky, and ucky out there. Horrible place to live: almost as bad as hideous Saudi Arabia, there by the by the seaside where I grew up. Horrible place!

Feeling on the ragged edge of “I can’t deal with this.” Dunno why…just don’t feel like coping with…anything. Not that there’s much to cope with this morning.

Truly: I hate Arizona.

Where would I rather live?

Mars,  maybe…..  😉

Seriously: San Francisco is where I’d rather be. A thousand times rather be.

It’s where we decamped after my father quit his job in Saudi Arabia and we finally came home. I was sick all the time out there, but that didn’t make much nevermind to the parental units. What finally changed my father’s mind and forced him to take a Stateside job was the amoebic dysentery that struck my mother.

She damn near died of it.

He loved her dearly, and her illness — a direct result of living in an unsanitary Third-World country — was what drove him to quit his spectacularly paying job out there and bring us home. At last. 

After we’d been living in San Francisco for awhile, my father landed a better-paying job, shipping out of Southern California: the land of the stupid and the home of the bourgeois. So it was off to Long Beach, where I’d been born 16 or 17 years before, and where my mother’s dearest friend dwelt.

Awful place! I hated living there. The schools were so backward it felt as though I’d been demoted about two grades. And my dreams of going to school at UC Berkeley went straight down the tube.

Arizona is ten times better….but that ain’t sayin’ much.

Hmmmm….where would I ‘druther be?  Let’s see….

  • San Francisco
  • Berkeley
  • Just about anyplace in the S.F. East Bay
  • New York City
  • Paris
  • London

Heh! Don’t ask much, do I?

Ohhhh well.  Here we are, on the ragged edge of Hell. We ain’t goin’ anywhere. And this is where I’ll be until I die.

Without a doubt.

A Pleasurable Way to Die

Can’t stop thinking, this a.m., about my mother’s demise: essentially a form of suicide. One that she inflicted on my father and me and anyone else who happened to be around her.

She smoked herself to death. 

When I say “inflicted,” I kid you not. She engineered a particularly gruesome way to die — one that she had watched as it killed her own mother — and she deliberately chose habits that she could not have NOT known would do her in, too.

The habits?  

Endless puffing on cigarettes. And guzzling bootleg booze.

She KNEW what either of those fine traditions would do to her. And she not only went right ahead and indulged them, she kicked into high gear.

Literally: if she didn’t have a cigarette in her mouth, it was because she wasn’t awake. I knew when she woke up during the night because I could smell the stink of her wee-hours cigarette. And in the morning? The first thing she did, before she lifted her head from the pillow, was light another fuc*king cigarette.

She and my father had learned to brew their own booze while we were in Arabia — where alcohol was illegal. They had a hidden still out there and cooked up their own hootch. When they got to Sun City, here in Arizona, my father thought it would be fun (and cheaper!!) to brew his own. And so they indulged in a daily swiggle of high-test booze…every afternoon, before their dinner.

Not surprisingly, this habit caused some chaos with their health. It helped lead my mother to a fine, high-octane case of cancer.

She’d had to care for her own mother as the wild-a$$ed mother lay dying of cancer induced by wild promiscuity and repeated back-alley abortions. So she knew what was involved. And she knew that cancer makes for a mighty hideous way to die. Hideous for the victim, and hideous for everyone around her.

By the time she landed in their bed, too sick to lift her head from the pillow, my father, pretty clearly, understood exactly what she was doing. When I tried to lay beside her to comfort her, he literally chased me out of their bedroom. And he wouldn’t let me go back.

By then, I wasn’t living with them. They were in Sun City — a bland old-folks’ suburb of Phoenix — and my husband and I had a home in Phoenix’s beautiful downtown historic district. So, I had to drive a half-hour or forty minutes to get to my parents’ house.

Dear Daddy’s beating me away from my mother’s side did not inspire me to go back. Doubt if I returned more than four or five times before he locked her up in a nursing home, waiting for her to die.

You hafta say: he wasn’t the soul of tact. In a less generous mode, one could say he could be pretty damned mean. Not to her: he truly worshiped her. That, though, was not so where his weird little daughter was concerned: the nutty brat who wanted to grow up to be an astronomer.

And just like everyone else in those fine domesticated 1950s when I was a kid, he thought I was crazy. I was supposed to grow up to bake cakes, paint my face with expensive make-up, spawn children, and wear frilly clothes.

When you think about it, it’s pretty damned weird that I never smoked as I was growing to adulthood. My father didn’t smoke as much as she did, but truth to tell, they both puffed stink-sticks with élan. Truly: he must have seen me as some sort of distorted outlier.

WhatEVER. He surely didn’t want me underfoot as his wife — incidentally, my mother — lay dying.

Why I don’t want to move into an old-folkerie

So this guy is trying to get me to move into an old-folks’ home called The Beatitudes.

Right?  I do NOT want to live in any such place: hated living in the college dorms, and do not want to end my life on that note.

What does he do? He emails my son with “Do you have availability on Thursday October 8th at 10:30?”  Nary a word to me. The assumption being that as a doddering old bat, of course I have NOTHING else to do next Thursday.

And right there: that presumptiveness. THAT is why I do not want to live in one of those places.