Coffee heat rising

Idle essays

Is There a Place for Me?

by

{sigh} As I grow to hate the noise and the crime and the loony toons more and more, I wonder: IS there a place for me in (un)lovely Central Arizona?

Quite possibly not.

North Central Phoenix, where the Funny Farm presently resides, is…what?

* Aging

* Cheaply built, by and large (okay, okay: but better than most newer districts)

* Crime-ridden (no, I would not live here without a pistol and a dog. Why do you ask?)

* Spectacularly noisy

* Low on decent schools (you have to put your kid in private or parochial school if having them learn anything matters to you)

* Segregated (but so is everyplace else around here: Arizona is, after all, a Southern state)

* Hotter than the Hubs: essentially unlivable during the summer, for many folks

So… If I weren’t here in Noise Central, where would I be?

Sure wish I was at the ranch, yea verily even as we sit here and contemplate the local lunacy.

La Maya & La Bethulia moved to the Monterey area in California. Beautiful spot.

But…I can’t afford to live in California, not even (like them) in a trailer. Nor do I especially want to: habitable parts of that state are crowded, noisy, hectic, and spectacularly expensive.

So….where would I go, if I could?

Dunno. The Oro Valley outside of Tucson, maybe. It’s bit on the annoyingly suburban side for my taste: not fond of driving halfway to Timbuktu to fill a grocery cart.

Prescott, a small town up on the Rim north of Phoenix, is very pretty and has its charms. Expensive, though. Lacking in the big-city amenities I’ve come to expect.

Flagstaff: Colder’n’a by-gawd during the winter. Also lacking in little amenities like decent medical care and upscale grocery stores.

Yarnell: a wide spot in the road on the road from Wickenberg to Payson, waaayyy out in the middle of nowhere. Quiet, relatively cool, pleasantly hick-ridden. Our ranch was located just outside of Yarnell.,..and boyoboy, I sure do miss it!

Fountain Hills: A pricey suburb on the northerly edge of Scottsdale. Nice, toney area. My cousin lives there: not necessarily a recommendation, since she decided, some years ago and for unknown reasons, that she can’t stand my existence.

Sun City: Hate Central. And directly under the flight path for the daily jet airplane exercises at Luke Air Force Base. Noooo, thankee!

Truth to tell, there really isn’t anyplace within reasonable living distance of my son’s place and my own stomping grounds that I can even begin to afford. I’m incredibly lucky to have snabbed the Funny Farm before real estate prices rose into the stratosphere, and certainly could not afford to buy anything comparable within reasonable traveling distance of my son’s place.

So…???

by

Okayyy… After that fine system crash, let’s amuse ourselves by seeing whether Funny (via Firefox) will reboot…

{scribble scribble}
{Save Draft}

hmmmm

WordPress’s “Page Setup” looks funny…but…but… I dunno…it kinda looks like the site is online and…MAAAYYYBEEE it’s gonna work…

*****

Reminiscing and daydreaming about the Good Ole Days living in our beautiful mid-town Phoenix Encanto neighborhood.

  • Our house was so pretty.
  • Our neighbors were so fine.
  • The central location was so handy and dandy.
  • The burglars and wannabe rapists swarmed in such merry abundance…

I do miss it. But on the other hand…I don’t miss it. 😀

Cruising the real estate ads…gosh, here are all these beautiful old houses. Our friends Jan and Ed’s place!! Zowie!

It was a pretty house to begin with. After they’d been in it for awhile, though, it was freaking gorgeous.

Wonder what our old place looks like, now that several passels of yuppies have spent time in it… It, too, was freaking gorgeous — that was a good 20+ years ago.

Those houses are selling in the million-dollar range now. THAT, you may be sure, is something you couldn’t get here in my present tony neighborhood.

Hmmm….  Frankly..,.

I loved the house and I miss it. But I don’t miss…

* The traffic noise
* The airplane noise (we get about as many planes here, but the Encanto district was much closer to the airport than we are, so our noisemakers are higher overhead)
* The panhandlers
* The burglars
* The sirens from the two nearby regional hospitals
* The sirens from the fire station the accursed city installed right behind us
* The third-rate public schools, making private school tuition NOT a choice
* The ancient, rickety plumbing

Hmmmm…  Money doesn’t buy common sense, eh?

😀

Mid-century Joy!

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Oh, my. You cannot imagine my mother’s joy when, along about 1957, we came back to the United States to find…ohhh gosh! FROZEN FOODS!

No mere packages of frozen veggies: no indeed, but whole meals — meat, veggies, starches — neatly packaged in tinfoil pans, ready for you to warm up in the oven and toss in front of the Brat, ready to eat.

The Brat, conveniently enough, had never seen any such marvels before, out in horrible Saudi Arabia, and so had no idea that frozen slop is still slop. 😀

No idea at-tall.

***

Just tossed a fistful of frozen spinach and another fistful of frozen French fries on the grill. 😀

Nooo, we did NOT have microwave ovens, back in the Good Ole’ Days.

Nooo, living in a mid-century high-rise San Francisco apartment, we did NOT have a gas grill.

My mother wouldn’t have known what to do with either of those. What she knew was to stick the tinfoil pan, fresh out of the freezer, into the oven. Let it overheat the pan’s contents. Haul it out. And dump it on a plate in front of the brat.

The brat, having no more  clue than her mother did back in the Day, thought that was just real cool.

😀

Make no mistake: my mother could cook.

Oh my, could that woman cook!

It was just that…well…she’d druther not. And especially she’d druther not clean up the mess after cooking a full-on family meal.

😀

Her excellent grandson can cook.

Oh my, can that young man cook!

And I do believe that’s one of several reasons she would have been thrilled to know him. If only she’d lived another 20 years(+). How extraordinary she would have thought he is!

Because, as a practical matter, that’s what he is. Even today, in our extraordinary times.

Make. It. Stop, Lord!

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Lock on the side gate: busted.

Latch on the kitchen door: busted.

Nails on both index fingers: lifting off their beds. Hurts.

Drag my computer into the bedroom, so at least I can put my feet up while playing at blogging and waiting for the locksmith: the phone’s gone.

Search search search around the house. Finally find a phone extension. drag it to bedroom; drop it in its cradle.

Phone jangles: repairman. Says he’s on his way.

Coffee: stone cold.

*****

Adorably handsome repair-dude shows up at the front door.

{sigh!}
Can I carry your tool kit for you all day?
<3

***

He charges off to Home Depot, there to do battle in the hardware department. He apparently imagines I’ll be irked because his bosses charge me enough to cover his gas and his time.

DUDE! If only they knew how much I’d be willing to pay to get you to do this job!

Fortunately, they don’t…

Spavined hip: EXCRUCIATING!

Don’t get old, whatever ya do. When you’re old, you hurt all the time.

Hmmm…

Y’know, another little pain that afflicts you in your old age is sentimentality.

Yesterday, I left the Dog Chariot off at the repair shop up on the corner. Getting home, then, required me to walk through the neighborhood of aging 1950s tract houses that stands just to the north of the ‘Hood.

Gosh, but construction was ticky-tacky in the Good Ole Days!

Prob’ly no worse than it is today, when you come down to it. Tract housing is tract housing is tract housing: is, was, and ever shall be. 😀

Walked past the former home of a favorite old neighbor. WHAT   a nice man! He and his equally pleasant wife moved out generations ago…I wanna say they moved into an old-folkerie. But don’t recall the details.

Sure do miss them, though. They were as nice as you could get.

****

Something there is about the modern American custom of locking up the elderly in old-folkeries. Ugh! What a fate to look forward to!

For what it costs to live in an old folks’ prison, you could hire someone to come in every day, pick up after you, fix the days’ meals, drive you to the grocery store or the quack…  Why lock yourself up to get those privileges?

Learned this from The Cleaning Lady from Heaven, who (it develops) has done exactly that kind of thing.

So…I sit around wondering about my father: could he have stayed in his cute little Sun City home until he arrived at his last days and hours?

Hm.

Possibly. But we have this huge difference between him and me: he went to sea all his adult life. Ran away from home at 17, lied about his age, and joined the Navy. From there on, he shipped out by way of making his living.

Hence, two major differences, temperamentally, between him and me:

* He did not mind institutional living. For him: bad food, annoying noise from fellow inmates, daily schedules determined by someone else: those were just normal life. For me: that kinda stuff drives me nuts.

* And he had a wife (until she smoked herself into the grave). She did the shopping. She did the cooking. She did the cleaning. She did the budgeting. She organized their social life.

Hm. As for moi…. I have no problem with cooking — actually, I rather enjoy it. I hire out the cleaning, the yardwork, and the bookkeeping. As for a social life…whazzat?

****
Ah hah!

Here’s part of my social life, right now: An adorable young workman.

He’s here to replace the worn-out deadbolt on the back door.

That’s good.

Also good: he’s more than adequately scenic.

*********

The gorgeous creature replaced the kaput deadbolt — and did so with a piece that matches the rest of the kitchen hardware in color and finish. To accomplish that, he made a trek to Home Depot, one of my very least favorite activities.

Came back with a new lock set, took out the sad old one, installed the new one…et voilà!

So…hmmmmmmmm…

Maybe we don’t wanna make it ALL stop, Dear Lord…

😀

E-freakin’ NUFF

by

Hey there, Sprouts management: lissen up!

I quit!!!!! Those weekly, biweekly, even triweekly trips to the beloved neighborhood Sprouts?

DONE!

GONE!!

NO FREAKIN’ MORE!!!!

This afternoon’s gamut-run marked THE LAST TIME, absolutely positively THE last time I will shop in the Sprouts just down the street from my house.

NEVER….

fukkin’

AGAIN

You cannot go into or come out of that store without being hustled by panhandlers.

And y’know what?

As a woman alone, the LAST effin’ thing I want, as I head home from the grocery store, is to be hustled by panhandlers.

Some of whom are bloody aggressive.

Today was it. I am simply NOT GOING INTO the Sprouts at 19th Avenue and Northern, ever again. And NOT COMING out of the Sprouts at 19th and Northern, ever again.

No. No way. No how. Never fukkin’ ever again.

*********************
LOL!!
*********************

Quite the li’l hissy-fit, eh?

I’m good at that. 😀

Well…one does hafta say that the constant hustle from the panhandlers at our neighborhood stores is…well…a bit of a nuisance. 😀

Across the street from the Sprouts et al., the Albertson’s has hired a full-time, armed (!!) guard to stand out in front and chase off the pests. That is, I’ll say, the main reason I shop there. Otherwise, I’d never go into the shopping center at all.

But the time is fast approaching when a ten-minute saving on the drive will not be worth the hassle of shopping in those stores.

Then what???

I will say, the main reason I still live in town — that is, in the central parts of the city — is to be close to routine shopping…to avoid the endless annoying drives.

***

My friend VickyC lives in a beautiful old — as in “seriously, elegantly antique” — house in the historic mid-town district. I’d love to have that place!

{ahem!} But maybe not love so much the burglars, the sex perverts, the constant airline noise, the police and ambulance sirens, the traffic noise, the… Aggghhh!

Too bad those districts can’t be a) safer and b) quieter! 😀

We used to live in that area. Never again!

You shouldn’t HAVE to own a live-in German shepherd and keep a pistol stored under the sofa cushions to feel safe in your home.

“The Sound of Freedom”…

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Yeah. This morning the weather conditions are perfect: we’re being serenaded nonstop by the “Sound of Freedom,” as my mother used to put it while she perched on her back porch over morning coffee.

Noooo, muther, I used to think. That’s the sound of World War III, comin’ our way.

It never seemed to register with her that those fighter jets weren’t up there for pretty. They weren’t up there to amuse the locals.

They were up there to practice blowing civilization back to the Cave Man Era.

They’ve been blasting away all morning. They start as dawn cracks.

It’s almost 8:30, and we’re still getting ROOOOOAAAAARRRRRR ROOOOAAAARRR ROOOARRR from the air base near Sun City — a good 20 miles away. The racket whams through your solid block walls: there’s no escaping it.

{oh, this is nice: WordPress refuses to insert a link. Check it out: https://www.azcentral.com/story/news/local/glendale/2019/05/17/late-night-f-35-flights-luke-air-force-base-common-during-summer-months/3694405002/}

Really, if my son weren’t here I wouldn’t live in the Valley on a bet.

Dunno, though, where you’d go to escape. Anyplace within 40 or 50 miles is gonna be shuddering with jet engine noise. And the racket no doubt is with us forever…at least for our foreseeable lifetime.

Yea, verily… If my son weren’t here, you can be sure I’d be somewhere else. WHERE else, though, remains a bit of a mystery. Might have to move out of the state. Tibet, maybe???

***

Speaking of morning rackets:

yappa whine
yappa whine
yappa yappa yappa yappa
yap yap WHINE!

Get off duff. Put computer down. Let the dog out.

Let more noise in: rrrrooooarrrr roarrrrrr rrrooaaar…

Any question why the Old Bat is a crabby harridan?

****

LOL! Where could one go that would be quieter?

In theory, the ranch should be, if only it were still accessible to its former owners. But…it’s not.

The ranch sits on the edge of the Mogollon Rim, overlooking the Valley. The West Valley, where Luke Air Force Base reigns noisily supreme. So you’re not gonna get away from much airplane racket up there.

That notwithstanding… {sigh}… I do so miss the ranch. It was beautiful.

Wonder what Ruby would make of a cow? Probably not much, before one of them booted her into the middle of next year.

A ranch dawg, she ain’t! 😀

R-O-O-O-O-A-A-A-A-R-R-R-R