Coffee heat rising

Dispatches from Hell

Life in the 21st Century

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Trying again: WyrdPress refused to post this, so I saved it to Wyrd. Let’s copy, paste, and see if it will go online now…

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THIS is life????? Who freakin’ needs it???????

Honestly. By the time we got halfway through the day, I was ready to quit. Exit Stage Left. FLEEEEEEE!

Jayzus, what a dystopic world we’ve made for ourselves.

Appears the problem is that I just haven’t been keeping up with the technology…which evolves at the speed of a galloping coyote.

***

Toyota repairman was here, charged with fixing whatever was making it impossible to…figure out how to use the car’s fukkin doors.

By the time he finished, he had spent several hours…and then he presented me with a bill for SEVEN HUNDRED AND FIFTY BUCKS.

No kidding: to get the damn doors and locks to work on the damn Venza’s damn passenger compartment.

Yep. You need a degree in nuclear engineering to make a car’s doors work these days.

That was only the most annoying of the day’s adventures. Others were similar, but not quite so high-pitched.

Welp, I’ll tellya one thing: I’ll never buy another Toyota again.

Yea verily, I may never buy another car again; at least not one manufactured after about 1967.

If we could just PUHLEEEZE have decent public transportation, I would never buy any car again.

Seriously: when my mother and I lived in San Francisco — late 1950s — it really was NOT necessary to own a car. We did have one, because not to own a Ford have been an offense to my father’s manliness. But while he was off at sea (most of the time), she and I largely rode the public transit: busses, streetcars, and trolleys. We got where we needed to go within a highly reasonable time frame. We did not have to dodge lunatic fellow drivers. We did not have to fight homicidal traffic. We did not have to pay to park or to figure out where to park. And we did not need to get a degree in freakin’ ENGINEERING to make those things happen.

Anyhoo, the Toyota guy showed up to do some minor repairs. And it was SOOO complicated that I’m not even gonna be able to use the windows and doors on that car. What an involved rigaramole!!!!!!

Oh yes: before he left, he took a good half hour (or more) to give me LESSONS on how to operate the damn car’s doors and windows.

No kidding: you need a degree in engineering to open and close a modern Toyota’s windows!!!!!

Sumbiche.

****

Can you imagine? SEVEN HUNDRED AND FIFTY BUCKS for minor puttering that did not even require me to drive the car to their garage.

***

hmmmmmm…. Whaddaya bet I can’t get that fukkin car to start?

Let’s try it out…

****

Whew!  Well, yes: it took a minute of panic, but I finally DID get the damn engine to start up.

Yea, verily: it did allow itself to be persuaded to start. But since I didn’t have a pair of shoes on, I decided to opt the test drive.

Hm.

That was stupid, wasn’t it?

Okay…let’s go track down the damn shoes…

****

Well-shod test drive.

Okay okay…I can’t bitch about the quality of the ride. Very good. Engine runs awesomely. Ride is smooth. And…but..i don’t wanna ride much of anywhere.  And…and..for the luvva gawd, I spent SEVEN HUNDRED AND FIFTY BUCKS to get a car ride strangely reminiscent of my 1962 Ford Fairlane’s?

SERIOUSLY???????????????

I’ll tellya, folks: If I lived in San Francisco or New York, I would not own a car. This is fukkin ridiculous.

 

Arfa Arfa OUCH OUCH!

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OUCH OUCH OUCH!!!!!!!

Come about six o’clock at night. Nothing will ARF do but what we must ARF a doggy-walk around the park. That’s about a mile’s dog-drag.

Ohhhh goodie…

We start out.

Drag drag yank yank drag drag HEEL, DAMMIT!!! Drag yank drag yank yank yank drag…..

Ohhhhh Hell  Enough is arfing enough. The human commits an about-face and hauls the Dawg back to the house drag yank drag yank yank yank drag…..  And lemme tellya, that HURTS the sore, tired hands.

We trudge back toward the house. The neighbors no doubt feel their suspicions are confirmed: I am nuts. Drag yank drag yank yank yank drag…finally make it back to our front yard. Up to the door. Into the house.

Ughhhhh!!!!!

The feet hurt. The shins hurt. The hands hurt. They all hurt like the dickens: the friction makes the peripheral neuropathy kick in with a vengeance. So we get yank yank hurt yank burn burn yank yank hurt hurt ROAR with pain.

By now the Human is royally pi$$ed. The Dog is dragging with all her wolfish strength.

Sheee-ut! My fingernails are lifting off the nail beds, which makes the yank-fest hurt even more than normal. By the time we get back to the Funny Farm, the Human is uniquely pi$$ed.

Now the feet hurt, the hands hurt, the chronically pained lips hurt… f-u-u-u-u-c-k!!!

Sez here the last time I took an ibuprofen was 2:2o a.m.

Hmmmmm…. Pretty sure I dropped one in the afternoon. Whaddayabet that’s 2:20 p.m. Hmmmm…

It’s after 6:00 p.m. now. So…presumably another one won’t poison me.

Swill an ibuprofen and a B12 pill. EEEEWWWWW!!!!!

I hate bolting down pills almost as much as I hate being stabbed with shots.

Smear the last of the CBD balm on the chronically burning lips. Tomorrow I’ll have to go out and buy some more of that stuff. Ugh!

CBD cream and balm are the only things I’ve found, so far, that work fairly promptly and effectively on the horrid neuropathic pain.

Dunno what is causing this ailment and dunno what might make it go away. All I know is, it hurts like the dickens. Very, very tired of it.

Too early to crash in the sack: it’s not even 6:30 yet. In the unlikely event that I should fall asleep now (give or take an hour), I’d be up at 1:30 in the morning: for the duration.

I hate laying awake through the wee hours almost as much as I hate tingling and burning from fingertips to elbows.

Dammit! Even my teeth hurt!

STOP THE WORLD!!

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😀  First good thing that’s happened this morning, as dawn proceeds to break: I have managed to weasel my way into the FaM website.

At 6:45 in the morning, all Hell is breaking loose, and as far as I can tell the terrorized demons are running off down the road.

Worst thing under way: the diabetes that runs in my family has apparently decided to visit me. At least, I assume that’s what these hair-raising and painful symptoms are. Can’t get in to see a quack at the Mayo. And the beloved Young Dr. Kildare has quit the practice of medicine to return to his first love, social work. His partners have moved to Sun City, an hour’s drive from here.

So later this morning I will have to go to one of those roadside docs — one resides about five minutes from here — and ask (again!!) to be tested for the Family Disease.

Failing that, I do have a friend who’s a chiropractor…vaguely, I hope he may be able to connect me with an M.D. who can test me for full-on diabetes.

To frost those cookies, the deadbolt on the back door has frozen shut. Joy! I cannot get the kitchen door open to let the dog outside!!!!!

So whenever the hour hits 8:00 or 9:00 o’clock — that is, whenever somebody’s shop opens — I have to call a locksmith and try to get him over here to fix that damn thing.

You realize…this means that if a fire starts in the kitchen, I can’t get out into the backyard. The dog and I will somehow have to make our way through the garage or else around Robin Hood’s Barn to get out the front door.

Hm. It also means I can’t get at the key to open the backyard gate into the alley, since that thing hangs on the inside of the back screen door.

Hm and hm… Do we have an extra key…???

Yes. It looks like it.

OK. If and when I can get a locksmith here, he’ll need to make me a couple more keys.

These adventures are just the frosting on the cake. This diabetes thing is a REAL terror.l

My mother’s grandmother, who raised my mother in Upstate New York back before there was such a thing as insulin, died of the disease. It runs in the family. I’ve been told (repeatedly!) that I’m “pre-diabetic” (none of the quacks seems able to explain what that really means), but apparently the implication has been that sooner or later I’ll develop the disease.,

We may now be at the “sooner than later” point…

Oh…lookee here! Just to make everything perfect, the clothes dryer just went on the fritz!

AAAUUUUGHHH!

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8:02 a.m.

The dryer decided to start working again. Hallelujuah brothers & sisters!

I smashed my hand in the back door. Doesn’t appear to be anything broken, though.

Will have to wait another hour to get thru to make an appointment at the Mayo…unless I decide to take my chances with one of the li’l roadside quacks closer to home. I don’t trust those guys…but…frankly, I don’t trust doctors in general. So what’s the difference?

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WOW!

Everything I touch goes S-P-R-R-R-O-I-N-N-G!!!!!!!!

Migawd, I can’t unlock the back screen door without breaking something!

*****

On the other hand:

* The clothes washer is running again…apparently working OK
* The smashed hand seems not to have any broken bones
* The clothes dryer is running, normally far’s I can tell
* The padlock on the back gate is now working: no clue what made it go on the fritz

But meanwhile, it’s not even 9 a.m. and I can’t get in or out the back door.

gaaaaahhhhh!

She Knew

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Of course she knew.

There was no way she could have not known. Surely not by the time we came back to the States, along about 1958.

By then the fact that smoking tobacco would give you cancer had been discovered; argued back and forth; tested; proven… No. By the time we arrived in San Francisco, after ten hellish years in Saudi Arabia, everyone knew:

Smoking gives you cancer.

How hard is that to understand?

Well. Very hard, if you’re determined not to believe it.

And she was: she refused to believe it.

So she — my mother — ignored all the news reports. She ignored all the scientific studies. She ignored the statistics. She ignored her little girl coughing and gasping as the house filled with stinking carcinogens. She probably never even noticed that the house stank to high heaven.

Okay. Let’s suppose she didn’t believe it. Let’s suppose she thought those news reports and scientific studies and statistics really were shameless propaganda, the product of Goodie-Goodies and profit-driven competitors to the tobacco industry. Let’s suppose she thought the stink of tobacco smoke smelled good: a comforting aroma. The scent of home.

Override common sense with addiction and…uhm…okayyyy….maybe you couldn’t figure it out for yourself.

Y’know, folks…

If it’s illegal to sell cocaine because users can get addicted to it…
If it’s illegal to sell heroin because users can get addicted to it…
If it’s illegal to sell marijuana because the Goodie-Goodie set thinks it’s immoral…

WHY THE F*CK ISN’T IT ILLEGAL TO SELL TOBACCO?????????

Wednesday in Hell…

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My son is on the way over here to pick me and up and drag me to the Mayo Clinic. Again.

Hope today’s appointment is at the hospital, here in town. Many of their doctors maintain their offices at that place, which is 45 minutes closer to my house than is the Mayo’s palace in Scottsdale.

Since the Mayo aims at an affluent, well-insured audience, they place their clinics and doctors’ offices in upscale parts of the city. That’s all very nice…but our particular upscale neighborhood doesn’t happen to be in either of the two ritsy-titzy locales that the Valley’s Mayo Clinic occupies.

So any trip to a MayoDoc means an endless trudge through cut-throat traffic. It’s an awful drive at any time of day; a rush-hour trip is a species of Hell.

This is why I took up with Young Dr. Kildare, who had an office just up the street. Unfortunately, he and his partners have closed that practice, and he’s moved to Sun City.

Bad sign. When my mother was out there dying, we got more than a superficial taste of the medical care available in Sun City. That’s one reason I wouldn’t retire out there on a bet!!

So, so, SOOOO not in the mood(!!!) to hassle with doctors today. Especially not after an hour’s rush-hour drive. Ugh!

What a fine way to start your day, hm?

Fundamental Questions of Olde Age

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What am I doing?

What am I supposed to be doing?

Who the Hell am I?

And why am I here?

Yes. There we have the fundamental questions
that confront the aging mind.

😀

Was just about to fly out the door and trudge down to the ever-pricey AJ’s fancy-Dan grocery store, there to buy some swell stuff for the mid-day dinner. Charging around, it occurred to me to wonder…

* Waitaminit! What’s in the freezer?
* Waitanotherminit!! Whats wrong with this spectacularly fancy piece of spectacularly expensive steak?

and…

* Is there some REASON I can’t add this fresh, crisp asparagus to the menu?
* What??? No potatoes? Really??? What’s wrong with a fistful of freshly cooked pasta?

Sometimes I do wonder what’s wrong with me. At least this noon I escape the vicissitudes of old-age brain haze (for once!!), come away with what will be a very nice dinner, and not have to shell out another dime for it.

***

Y’know…ten years ago — even five years ago — it would never have occurred to me to traipse out into the (pricey!!!!) wilds to buy the makings for today’s mid-day feast. I would have known what was in the fridge. I would have known there was no need to go charging out in the traffic and scoop up $30 worth of fancy food and wine at AJ’s.

So…

Now we scribble while we wait for the kettle of water to come to a boil for the pasta. We swill wine by way of passing the time. And we wonder which drain our IQ points trickled down.

<<sigh>>

Worrying about SDXB and NG (New Girlfriend). He says she’s under the weather…apparently seriously so.

This is highly worrisome: first because she’s a lovely person and does not deserve to be sick; and second because he’s transparently in love with her and needs to have her in his life.

***

And in the Department of Weirdness…

Last  night I dreamed of returning to the sweet middle-class Berkeley  neighborhood where the relatives who raised my mother lived. And…

…how much I miss those women
…how much I miss Berkeley
…how much I miss the San Francisco Bay Area
…Oh hell! How much I miss my mother

How dast she smoke herself into the grave?

If heroin peddlers and cocaine peddlers and even marijuana peddlers are regarded as criminals, why the Hell aren’t tobacco peddlers legally recognized as the craven murderers that they are?

Ah well…movin’ on.

Maybe we’re all craven murderers? is that possible?

Daydreaming on in this vein, I found myself remembering Berkeley and the oh-so-long dead relatives, so vividly that they seemed almost real, almost here: and I wondered WTF is wrong with me.

If this is senility, my friends…then senility is freakin’ weird!