Coffee heat rising

Did She Know?

The murder weapon…

Did the woman who murdered my mother know what she was doing?

Well…there is an element of ambiguity there. Luella was, after all, stupid as a post, a perfect match for her less-than-brilliant spouse.

But Jeez! How hard is it to understand “You must clean all produce thoroughly AND sanitize it, lest you come down with amoebic dysentery, which will put you in the hospital and may even kill you”?

Really, how hard IS that? Especially if you’re sat down in a classroom and made to WATCH the process, step by step, for sanitizing contaminated produce?

Back in the 1950s, American wives who were sent out to Saudi Arabia to accompany their spouses, on contract with Aramco, were required to take classes in how to prepare food safely and how to keep their families well. One point of those classes was to convince you to clean your food thoroughly before cooking it or putting it (raw, as in the case of salad greens) on the table.

There was nothing difficult about these lessons:

*Germs
*Germs make you sick
*Germs make your kids sick
*Germs can even kill you and your kids.
*So you must wash all your food thoroughly to get rid of the germs.
*This especially applies to things you eat raw, such as salad greens.

Does this seem hard to you?

Seemed pretty self-evident to the ten-year-old me. But I do remember my parents’ idiot friend, Luella, standing in the kitchen and preparing a cabbage salad…without ever so much as rinsing off the leaves. And I remember her handing me pieces of raw, unwashed cabbage greens to munch on, as she puttered about the kitchen.

This treat did nothing to me. Not unduly surprising, since I arrived in Saudi Arabia as a two-year-old and, during the time we spent there, was exposed to every Middle Eastern germ known to personkind.

But…that yummy salad made my mother very, VERY sick. Desperately sick.

The company sent her back to New York, where she was hospitalized for weeks and dosed with every treatment known and imagined to beat back the microbes.

She spent a good two or three weeks in the Ras Tanura hospital before the company doctors felt it was safe to fly her back to New York, where she spent the better part of another month in in treatment – drastic treatment.

That STUPID, evil woman apparently poisoned my mother on purpose.

What did she think it would do to her? Probably nothing. She was so stupid she didn’t understand difficult concepts like the germ theory. But she had been told about it. And told about it. And told about it again and again. If she’d had a synapse between her ears, she would have understood that unwashed produce grown in fields fertilized by human feces was likely to make you good and sick. How hard IS that to understand?

To this day, I remain convinced that Luella quite deliberately sickened my mother by quite deliberately neglecting to sanitize the dinner produce. What…A…Witch!

At any rate, my mother did survive, though she was never fully well again. Eventually she did die of a gastric cancer – to what extent it was related to the parasitic infection and the ferocious treatment, I do not know. But…I do remain convinced, to this day, that Luella killed my mother.*

I don’t get unconvinced easily, y’know…

*Actually, while Luella had a lot to do with it, the tobacco manufacturers went a long way toward killing my mother. She was addicted to nicotine, and so, thanks to that habit, she smoked herself into the grave. 

Don’t Do This to Yourself…

Mwa hah ha!  The LAST thing a reasonably rational person needs is a mud-bath in sentimentality…

Seriously: The Internet, being a repository of all things remembered, forgettable or not, presents a serious threat to your sanity. It invites you to wallow in memories best left forgotten,

  • We have my friend Bruce Macalvanah, about a year ahead of me at the Ras Tanura Senior Staff School. We were about in the fifth or sixth grade at the time.
  • Next: my father’s hatred of Macalvanah Senior. I do not know why my father loathed Macalvanah with such passion. They worked together on the docks, both of them harbor pilots. My father considered Macalvanah to be a dangerous idiot…what happened to create that opinion escapes me.
  • Then we had the awful, mean, vicious brats at the school, and the stupid teachers who couldn’t seem to bring the little darlin’s under control. With the exception of the first grade and the third grade, I was freakin’ miserable all the way through the six grades I spent out there, until we came back to the States and the kids and my new school had no idea I was the Weird Little Kid.
  • But let us not forget the kid who lived halfway down the block… Ennis Hatch. The only other little darlin’ out there who didn’t create a hobby of making me miserable.

Bruce was one of the three kids in Rasty Nasty who didn’t torment me. Why, I never understood. When we came back to the states, none of the li’l darlings in the San Francisco school’s sixth grade seemed to know that I was cut out to be a pariah. They were all pleasant to me. None of them made it their business to make me miserable. I had friends. We played together after school. No one seemed to think I was weird.

But in Arabia? Dear God, was I hated! Hated and hated and hated and hated. The little darlin’s out there did everything they could to trash my life…and they were good at it. Over some six years, only three kids out there were not just acidly mean to me. One was a little girl named June B. The second, another girl child about my age. And the other was Bruce MacAlvanah. He was a year older than me…but didn’t seem to recognize that meant he wasn’t supposed to have much to do with me.

For reasons I never did know, my father HATED MacAlvanah, Bruce’s father. The guy seemed like a nice enough fellow to me. But my father thought he was a dangerous idiot. Apparently something had happened down on the docks to inspire lifelong scorn in my father.

They were both harbor pilots, steering tugboats to wrangle tankers and freighters in and out of the docks — one false move, as you can imagine, could lead to a grim and fatal catastrophe.

But where our family was concerned, the one who allegedly was a menace was MacAlvanah’s wife, Luella. She apparently poisoned my mother, and I do believe she did it on purpose: deliberately served up contaminated salad greens that gave my mother a roaring case of amoebic dysentery.

My mother very nearly died from the infection. But oddly…none of the rest of the people at that dining table came down with it. I can tell you that my mother would never have served herself contaminated lettuce or cabbage: she sanitized every single bite that went into a bowl, a plate, or a pan.

As we kids lingered in the kitchen, Luella handed me pieces of the leaves she was cutting up for that salad. I scarfed it all down merrily…and I never got sick.

So…wha???  Either the produce wasn’t actually contaminated, or somehow Luella managed to dip specific pieces of produce into some bug-infested water and then drop them into my mother’s bowl. I dunno. What really happened there, I dunno. My mother was damn near psychotic about raw produce while we were out there: most assuredly, she would not eat anything that hadn’t been sanitized. So…I have no proof of what happened there: only the experience of watching my mother get sicker and sicker in a hospital bed, and almost die as she lay in the hospital.

None of the rest of us at that table got sick that night. So as episodes go, it was freakin’ weird.

***

If you were one of the little darlin’s in the Ras Tanura Senior Staff School during the early 1950s: Be assured that I have not forgotten your meanness — and I never will.

Ohhh well. There’s a lot one should forget but never will.

Makes the Old Folkerie Look Good…

Gawd, I never imagined I’d have any such thought!  But here it is, not even 6 in the morning, and I’m being blitzed with hassle after hassle after HASSLE.

Got to take the dog for a walk before it gets hot — which means we’ve gotta get out the door NOW.

The pool is suffocating in dead leaves. WHERE is Pool Dude????  Amazon just delivered a new net for the leaf catcher, the original having plain worn out. 

Put that out back with a note for Pool Dude. No guarantee the guy is gonna show up.

Pool cleaning is one of the “professions” for which the state prison system trains its residents. So…that means chances are good that your pool cleaner is an ex-convict: not exactly the soul of reliability. I should wait here and see if he shows up, but you KNOW that if I do that, the dog will not get out for her walk. Because…

* The guy won’t show up before 10 a.m., by which time outside temps will be pushing 108 degrees; or
* The guy won’t show up at all.

Meanwhile, to get to the grocery store on foot before it gets too hot to walk up there (my son having purloined my car), I need to get started on that errand NOW.

But I can’t do that and take the dog for a walk. And even if I leave for the store right now, by the time I get back it will be too hot to take Ruby out.

My son is probably right: the time draws nigh when I will no longer be able to stay in my home. I’ll either have to move into an apartment (and what am I gonna do with the dog?) or into an old-folks storage bin (and what am I gonna do with the dog?).

Actually, I think some of those places will let you keep your dog. Ducky: how do you keep her from yappiing at every footfall that comes up the hallway?

Speaking of footfalls: better get the dawg out for her walk before the heat comes up: i.e., NOW.

MORE Pool Dude Shenanigans

So I stagger out to the backyard to be sure Harvey the Hayward Pool Cleaner is working properly…as he should be, after Pool Dude got finished with the job late y’day afternoon.

Should, eh?

Shoulda coulda woulda….

The damn thing isn’t hooked up properly. Nothing is working right. The bottom of the pool is showered in black dead leaves and debris.

Goddammmit!

Hotter….Than…The…Hubs!!!!

Shut down the system. Haul Harvey out. Clean the crap out of him, as best as possible. Disconnect the vacuum hose. Lay it out flat (so it won’t sear itself into a curled-up position like an angry cobra…). Burn feet on pavement. Some guy is outside the east wall. Check on that: apparently just a random workman.

Realize the debris all over the bottom of the pool is going to have to be vacuumed out. But I ain’t doin’ that in 112-degree heat. 

Hm. It’s almost 3:30. Sun blasting away. Sheeee-ut!

Decide to leave Harvey on the deck until sunset, at which time it may be a little cooler out there. At that point, get the hose vacuum, scoop as much debris as possible, and then put Harvey back in the drink.

What fun.

Makes a box in the sky look good, doesn’t it?

Cleaning Lady Day…

Boyoboy! You wanna talk about a spoiled, lazy ole’ bat? Welp, here she is!

Yes. I am sooooooo lazy that I actually resent and cringe at the fact that today is Cleaning Lady Day. Why?

  • Because I’m too lazy to get up off my duff and shovel out the mess so she can find a few spots to actually clean.
  • Because I’m spectacularly not in the mood to have someone banging around my house for several hours.
  • Because my son is coming over here later today for an online “meeting” (har har!) with our doc at the Mayo, and trying to deal with that while the cleaning lady is roaring and banging around will be a PITA of the first order.
  • Because I’m still mad as Hell at Cleaning Lady for her most recent antic, which caused me a LOT of trouble…and continues to do so.

😀 If that ain’t spoilt rotten, I’d like to know what it is!

Well, in what passes for my own defense, we do hafta say: I’m sick as a dog, have been for days running into weeks, and all I want right now is just to be left alone, dammit.

  • No roaring vacuum cleaners
  • No stinking detergents
  • No wet floors
  • No torn-up beds
  • No kitchen in disarray
  • No…noooooooooo!

Argha.!!!

Isn’t that awful? How spoiled CAN you get?

Well, I do hafta say, one thing I can do without — spoilt or unspoilt — is annoying online meetings…with anyone, but especially with a doctor, one who knows nothing about me and who isn’t gonna believe a damn thing I say.

****

Yes. The idiot cleaning lady…I haven’t gotten around to firing her and tracking down someone to take her place — because I’m too goddamn tired to take on a bothersome project like that.

Get this: A couple weeks ago I was sick as a dawg, felt just AWFUL, and needed more than anything to go back to bed. While WonderCleaningLady was here slamming around the house. 

I’d sat down at the dining-room table for a snack to pass as lunch. This being less than perfectly appealing, I folded my arms on the table and laid my head down, waiting for her to PUHLEEEEZE get done with the job so I could go back to the bed. Shortly, I fell asleep.

She spots me there and arrives at her own tee-totaler’s conclusion: she thinks I’m drunk on the quarter-glass of white wine I’d poured to go with the mediocrity of a lunch I’d set out.

No kidding: she decides I’m passed out blotzed!

She whips out her camera/phone, takes a photo of me dozing at the table, and ships it off to my son! 

He buys her story that I’m snockered.

Jayzuz!

So now I’m in trouble with him, he’s told my doctors at the Mayo that I’m a lush(!!!), they’ve ordered that my driver’s license be suspended, and he has made off with my car!

To buy groceries, I have to hike through the heat (110 degrees today) and haul stuff home from the Sprouts or from the slum stores to the north of us.

I should have canned the nitwit. But I’m just too sick to clean a four-bedroom shack myself, and the prospect of searching for a new employee is more than I can contemplate.

Without my car in 110-degree heat, there’s not much I can do. Hiking up to the Fry’s or down to the Albertson’s or over to the Sprouts is fine when the weather is moderate, but when it’s a blast furnace: not so much.

Gettin’ Old

Just climbed out of the tub. Combed the dripping wet hair. Hauled on the jeans and T-shirt. Dog is fed. Thought is devoted to running the laundry…ehhhh…too much like work!

Gorgeous morning. If I weren’t older than the hills and feeling like Methuselah, I’d take Ruby for a walk. Except Míhito is supposed to show up pretty soon to haul me off to the damned Mayo Clinic, there to be poked and punched: subjected to yet another pointless blood test.

That means I can’t have breakfast…and I’m just about to faint from hunger. Don’t suppose the coffee is indicated, either…but fuckkit! Enough is enough.

Or not enough is not enough….

Looks like I need to renew my driver’s license, another fun nuisance to occupy hours of the day.  Nope….that’s wrong! Doesn’t have to be renewed till 2030…and that’ll be long past my driving days!

So…this is what gettin’ old is all about: one petty hassle after another petty hassle after yet another petty hassle. 😀  I guess the reason for that feeling is that after some years you get just plain sick of all the ditz of daily life in modern times. The ditz translates itself, over time, into “hassle,” and the endless hassles become endlessly annoying.

***

And the news becomes endlessly horrifying. Did you see the reports on the latest ungodly plane crash?

Gosh, I used to hate flying on passenger planes when we lived in Arabia. Every two years we had to fly from Dhahran to New York City. My father would buy a new car there (his reward for a two-year stint in Hell) and we would race across the country in that: first to his brother’s place in Texas; then to my mother’s relatives in California. Then straight back to New York as fast as we could sail along in the thing, there to jump on another plane back to the Persian Gulf.

Even after I reached an age to understand that car travel is far, FAR more dangerous than airplane flying, I just hated those hours in Connies and other passenger planes. Crowded. Uncomfortable. Fukkin’ terrifying! And 12 hours across the Atlantic in those good ole’ days.

****

Wish to gawd my son would show up here and let’s get today’s nuisance/horror trip to the Mayo over with!

Can’t complain,, though: it’s only 6:30. Don’t think their lab opens till 7:00.

Naughtily, I’m dasting to swill a cup of coffee. You know what that will do, right? Screw up their damn test results, of course. So then we’ll have to jump through this hoop again.

Uh oh…shoulda looked it up before leaping off that cliff: NO, you’re not allowed to have a cup of coffee before the hateful blood test.

Goddammit! Now we’ll have to go through this hassle again.

waitwait! Here’s a page that says black coffee has no effect on blood tests.

Let’s hope that’s so. I just HATE the medical crapola, and I sure don’t wanna jump through today’s hoop again.

***

Ten to 7:00 and no sign of M’jito. Maybe he forgot?

Awwwww, wouldn’t THAT be a shame!

>:-D

Well, it’s only a ten-minute drive up to the Mayo. So he’s not yet late, quite.

Meanwhile, I’m fukkin’ STARVING and want to get this circus on the road, so we can have something to eat.

Looks like I need to renew my driver’s license, yet another hassle to cope with… Wait wait! The thing says it’s good until 2030!!!

Woo hoo! Now that I contemplate that moment of glory, I recall that yes, I’ve already jumped through the Arizona Department of Transportation hoop.

Thank goodness: One fewer PITA to dodge around just now.

*****

Seven ayem and no Young Dude. He must have forgotten or overslept

Awwwwww! Wouldn’t that be a shame? 😉  not to say 😀

Well. I should call him on the phone and wake him up. But…

But…

Uhm…

Am I going to?

Going to what? I forget….

😀

Okay, let’s wait til 7:30 and then break out the chow.

All this dorking around means the poor li’l dawg hasn’t had her morning doggy walk. Nor has her Human had its morning trek, either. Ohhhhh well….

****

Parked on the front porch, awaiting His Dudeship’s arrival.

If indeed he’s supposed to arrive.

If indeed he remembers.

If indeed he hasn’t overslept.

😀

One can only hope.

****

WHAT a gorgeous morning!!!

More than acceptable…which no doubt will poison the proposed blood test. But we’re now so late (it will take at least 20 minutes to drive up there from here: more at this rush-hour time).

I starve…  Hmmmm…. Will wait till 8 a.m. and then break out the chow. That’s 38 long minutes from now….

Hmmmmm s’more….  Here’s a news flash: Alzheimer’s may be a product of gum disease! 

Who’d’ve thunk it?

Fortunately, I inherited my father’s Superman-style teeth and gums.

My mother had terrible teeth — presumably the result of malnutrition, which she enjoyed as a child in Upstate New York. By the time I was…what? about 12 or 14, she’d had every tooth in her mouth yanked out. Poor thing.

My father, a variety of Superman, had perfect teeth all his life. No kidding: never so much as a small cavity.

***

Urk! Here’s a messsage from The Kid: “See you shortly for the Mayo trip.”

Dayum!

Well, I do hope I haven’t negated the purpose of this junket by daring to swill a cup of coffee. Boyoboy, do I ever hate this kind of thing!!!!

Ohhhh gawd. Here he is!

Darn it!