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House & Yard

No, Thank You!!! And it works!

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Okay, so now we’ve posted a fresh new edition of our front-door message:

Please be kind enough not to steal this sign

NO SOLICITING, PLEASE

NO PETITIONS, PLEASE

Kindly do not jangle the doorbell.

Occupant is ill and does not wish to yak with you.

Occupant does NOT buy from solicitors.

Astonishingly, I’ve found this little poster actually works to discourage nuisances and idiots from leaning on the doorbell or pounding on the screen door in their efforts to peddle stuff. These days, I hardly get ANY hustlers at the door!

Before I came up with this thing, I’d get at least one pest every two or three days — often one or two a day.

Frankly, I really am amazed that it does work. I seal it inside one of those transparent plastic binder sheet holders. This keeps it dry and seems to protect it pretty well from the ravages of the sun — although it’s in the shade most of the day, anyhow.

LOL! I guess they figure if you’re gonna go to that much trouble to make a sign to shoo them off, you’re not gonna buy anything from them or stand around listening to their political gab. First time I made one of these things, I figured they’d just steal it.

But amazingly, no! Never have had one stolen(!!). And the nuisance doorbell-jangling has fallen to nil. That’s why I know it’s working: we get rafts of those pests.

You do have to put it inside a plastic binder sheet, partly because if they can tear down a piece of paper, they will take that, and partly because the plastic cover nicely protects your sign from rain and blasting sunlight.

Gawd. What a world, eh? Where you have to erect weather-proof signs to keep people from pestering you in your own home!

How DO they know????

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Heeeee!!! Seriously: how do people know…for example, when you’re so tired all you want to do is go back to bed, along about 10 in the morning?

That’s when they break out a jackhammer and start RRRATTTA-TATTA-TATTA on the foundation of their house.

No kidding! That’s what the guy catty-corner across the road is up to: jackhammering up the foundation. 

What…

A…

Racket!

This stunt, he pulls just as I’m sitting here thinking I feel AWFUL and what I wanna do is climb back in the sack and go back to sleep. 

Jerk! 

Well, I can’t complain. The morning’s half over — coming on to 9:30 a.m. — so one can’t bellyache that he’s rousting us out of the sack early.

Raining this a.m.: so can’t take the dawg for a walk. I’m stuck here listening to the jerk’s serenade.

These houses all have concrete foundations. They’re laid over clay soil, meaning that when water seeps under there, it can make the soil expand and contract, merrily cracking the flooring.

Truth is, my own house has a number of cracked floors. For reasons I cannot fathom, though, these cracks fail to split the tilework laid on top of the concrete. So even though I know where the cracks are, there’s only one place where a crack running through a couple of tiles is visible. Just two tiles there are affected…so in theory, they could be replaced.

Good luck getting the new installation to match the surrounding mortar… 

 

 

And…So…DO I really wanna stay here?

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Out the door as the earliest stores opened, the better to traipse from pillar to post. WHAT a gorgeous day!!!

Neither cool nor warm…we could call it “temperate,” I suppose.

Without a car lurking in the garage, I have two choices: pay an Uber driver to schlep me around, or (hang onto your hat!) to walk. Truth to tell, I much prefer to walk — especially on a lovely day like this one.

An advantage to traveling on foot is that you get to see your fellow residents up close, as well as gazing upon the infrastructure. Today’s junket revealed what anyone with half a brain cell already has observed: that this neighborhood’s population is steadily darkening. Which is to say, large sections are turning Black. Where before you never saw a dusky face in these parts, now I’d say about…ohhh…..one in eight passers-by is of the African-American persuasion.

Most live in the banks of apartments stacked on the west side of Conduit of Blight Blvd.

Do I care?

Probably not.

If my mother were still living, though, she’d be throwing one hissy-fit after another. One of the reasons she and my father moved to (un)charming Sun City was that Black Folk were decidedly not welcome there.

That apparently is still the mood out there. One of my friends — a fellow of the duskier complexion — dared to buy a house out there a few months ago. No kidding: the aging locals harried the guy out. 

Within six months, he’d sold his new place and moved elsewhere.

Well. Sun Citizens feel the same about anyone under the age of around 45 or 50. That’s why I hated loathed and despised rooming with my parents after I graduated from the UofA. What a horrible place!

And what horrible people. 

Can you imagine a housing development whose existence is predicated on keeping certain people out? Out out out OUT! That describes Sun City, down to the smallest molecules. That’s what makes Sun City a horrible place. It’s a housing tract built on hate.

And there’s why I chose to stay here when SDXB took it into his bonnet to move out there, running ahead of Tony the Romanian Landlord’s onslaught.  Any day, I’ll take an angry Eastern European over a chuckleheaded Yankee.

So…uhm…yeah. I do really wanna stay here.

Awww, jeez! Guys!!!!

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Dare to sit down to breakfast, and ARF!!!!

Get up to see what the Hound is arfing at, and see Gerardo’s wondrous gang of yard dudes out front.

Dayum!!!

Get off duff. Trot around: pick up junk, put junk away; set up pool so guys can work around it; pick up more junk, put more junk away; pick up and discard mounds of dog sh!t… Finally get the place ready for the men.

Stumble back in the house. Look out front to see if they need me to go out there and unlock the side gate…

and…

and….

THEY’RE GONE!!!!!!!

WTF??????  Nary a sign of a yard dude! Or a yard dude’s truck!!

ohhhh…kayyyy…. So where’s the dog?????

Ruby!

RUBY!!

R-U-U-B-E-E-E-E!!!!!!

Nary a small fuzzy corgi!

Ohhhhh shee-ut! Did they open the gate and let her out?

Frantically search around and search around and call and call and search around and search around and call and call and…and…

Lo!
Here she is! 
Ambling out from underneath the toilet.

ggrrrrrr….  This is gonna be one of THOSE days, ain’t it?

Glorioski! Glorious Day, Glorious Future

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Wow! What a gorgeous morning. Intermittent overcast with big, fluffy, cottony clouds. Cool but not cold. The sky wants to rain, but can’t work itself up to that much effort.

Ruby and I frolicked through Upper Richistan, as usual admiring the big ole’ expensive houses and their big, expensive irrigated lawns. Gorgeous neighborhood.

Ours isn’t “gorgeous,” but it’s adequately pleasant. Mid-middle class homes on lots that put enough space between neighbors.

Ruby loved up some workmen…cuteness is like some kind of joy drug for most people. We went on our way eventually. Now we’re back at the house.

And the Human finds itself wondering what next? 

Despite the family track record for longevity, we can pretty safely bet that I don’t have all that much longer to go. Relatives who have lived into their dotage have uniformly been Christian Scientists…tee-totalers, that is.

I ain’t no tee-totaler and never have been. My first boyfriend introduced me to wine when I was about 17, and I’ve been lapping up the stuff ever since. As we know, anything alcoholic is a handy device for shortening your life span. So I think it’s safe to figure I’ve got maybe about 10 years left — at most. Probably a little less than that.

The best I can hope for, I think, is to drop dead…and thereby avoid ending up in some nursing home or prison for old folks. That’s not outside the realm of possibility — as I say, the forebears who dropped dead in their late 90s didn’t drink. I do (with élan!), and so it’s safe to assume I’ve probably cut a good 10 years off the inherited lifespan. But that still would leave me another 10 years. Ten years that I do NOT want to spend in an old-folkerie!!!!

And therein lies the challenge: How to stay out of one of those horrible places. 

They soak up your life savings…and I want my savings to go to my son. Not to a holding pen for old bats. But….

But I have yet to figure out how to protect those savings for him, especially if I live much longer. Even more especially if I live much longer and get sick. How to evade those eventualities, though, does escape me.

If I manage to stay healthy into my dotage, though, M’hijito should inherit enough to retire in comfort…forthwith. By then, it’ll be time for him to figure out how to evade life in the old-folkerie…  😀

Late October in the Desert

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Incredibly gorgeous morning! Clear, cool but not cold, not even crisp. People out pushing their baby strollers, walking their dogs. My mind wanders…

…to the horror of potential incarceration at the Beatitudes, a venerable Phoenix old-folkerie. Honestly: I’d rather be dead than locked up in an institution. Must figure out potential alternatives…

* Hire someone to come to the house and care for me? Apparently Luz (Cleaning Lady from Heaven) used to do this.

* Stay someplace overnight, but keep the house and return here during the day?

* Buy an apartment in someplace like The Terraces? (The Terraces is an old-folkerie.)

* Allow self to be forced to buy a place at the Beatitudes (an old-folkerie on the gawdawful level), but after the dust settles, go out and rent an apartment someplace else, keeping it secret?

* Buy a house in M’hijito’s neighborhood, so he feels better about being closer to me? Hire someone to help care for it?

Looks like #1 is probably the only truly viable choice. That or 1 & 5.

Right now, I don’t need #1. I have no problem caring for myself:

* Fixing meals
* Shopping for groceries
* Cooking gourmet(!) meals
* Bathing, grooming
* Tending the pool
* Riding herd on the hired help
* Caring for the dog

The big issue, really, is the purloined car: not being able to get from Point A to Point B without hiring a driver. But is that really a very big deal?

* A guy across the street drives for Uber and is usually available.
* Otherwise, Uber does its own roaring business in this neighborhood: no problem calling for a driver.
* When my son’s nose is not on the grindstone, he probably can schlep me to most routine destinations (grocery stores for example).
* But that may not be necessary: we have not one, not two, but three major grocery retailers and two drugstores within easy walking distance. And two computer stores. And a veterinarian. And a hair stylist. And a nail salon. And…hmmmm…Is anything NOT within walking distance???

My Aunt Gertrude was a very practical woman…so, my guess is that she moved from her sweet Berkeley bungalow into a fancy old-folkerie because her son forced her to move, not because she felt any urgency to do so. She could have gotten by in that house indefinitely, with hired help to come in and handle the cleaning, the shopping, and the errands/appointments. And what an asset to have handed down to her son: it’s now worth over $1.2 MILLION!

Such are the ravages of time, eh?

Truth to tell, I suspect that over the time left to me, this house’s value also will explode…right along the lines of Gertrude’s house. And how would I love to be able to pass along something over a million bucks to my son? Zowie!!