Coffee heat rising

House, Yard, and (Book) Marketing

Much cooler this morning than of late! It’s after 10 and only about 101 on the back porch. So far. That’s grand: it was balmy enough to walk the dogs a mile, then drop them off and go back out for another real walk of about 1.5 miles, then drop in the drink and clean the pool a bit, water the plants, fart around.

Tpaloverde beetlehe accursed palo verde beetles are back, damn their multiple eyes. This is the time of year when they like to come out — at the height of the alleged monsoon. We haven’t seen much sign of the annual summer rains, though — a couple of sprinkles a few weeks ago, some mild humidity, and that’s it. But I guess when you gotta hatch, you gotta hatch, rain or shine.

Last summer a guy at Home Depot, a fellow who presented himself as a retired landscaping business owner who KNOWS about PV beetles, claimed that a Bayer product the store peddles absolutely positively will kill the things. I doubt it — when you look the critters up you find almost nothing will kill them — about the only thing you can do is try to keep your tree healthy and hope it’ll last longer than the seven years it takes for the monsters to kill it. Besides, read the label and you find the Home Depot dude’s stuff is really a miticide. A three-inch-long Triassic bug a “mite” does not make.

Oh well. It IS an insecticide, and it IS ridiculously concentrated.  So I decided to try this strategy, which I don’t think will work, but I don’t think it will do much harm, either.

This morning I poured the Bayer product, uncut, down the four exit holes that have surfaced so far. By the end of the season, there’ll be at least a dozen — probably more like two dozen. There are so many grubs under the soil out there that I’ve actually found the damn things in plant pots next to the deck!

So far, I’m not seeing any visible die-back to the tree’s limbs. Yet. However, paloverde grows aggressively. In the city, where a paloverde is close to a house, you need to trim it back once every year or 18 months to keep its limbs off your roof and your neighbor’s. Pruning, no matter how carefully done, isn’t good for paloverde trees — it can damage the tree’s overall health. Supposedly, trees that are pruned are more vulnerable to these damned bugs.

They have, though, started to damage one of the Arizona sweet oranges — it’s dying back in the area closest to the paloverde’s infested roots. The things like citrus as much as they love paloverde, and supposedly they’ll finish off your fruit tries as fast as they’ll finish off your shade trees.

One arborist told me than when his crew cuts out a paloverde that’s dying from a paloverde beetle infestation, they find literally thousands of the grubs in the ground. Before a new tree can be planted — if it ever can be — they have to apply insecticide directly to the grubs repeatedly, trying to kill off as many as they can.

And good luck with that endeavor…

We’re told the adult females come back to their exit holes to lay their eggs. And yea verily, an expired momma was flopped on her back out there this morning, gone to meet her Buggy Maker. I figure if you pour a mighty strong insecticide down the holes and then water it in, the stuff will spread around by capillary action. Maybe it will kill whatever little guys are burrowing around nearby. And maybe it will kill the new eggs.

So that’s what I’m hoping for. Speaking of “good luck with that”…

Meanwhile, in the insect department, the plants on the kitchen counter seemed to be hosting a tribe of gnats. I figured they were attracted by the mangoes I’d left to ripen on the counter and then were overjoyed to find the swamp that had developed in the pot where the coleus cutting died. Threw out the coleus, swatted the bugs back.

This morning, however, closer inspection revealed that most of them were not the flying kind. In fact, they were the tiniest, most delicate little ants you’ve ever seen! Gnants!

And none too many of them. With the fruit in the fridge and the dead plant gone and a squirt of Dawn in the plates under the living plants, there wasn’t much for them to scavenge. But still, hope springs eternal in the antish breast.

They’re so fragile that a light spray of very dilute Dawn does the poor little things in forthwith. I felt bad about killing them, because they’re such charming little gnants. Yet off they must go: we’re not sharing the kitchen counter with the wildlife, thank you.

Followed them to their tiny entry way in a tiny opening in the kitchen door threshold. Brushed around that with some DE. Then scrubbed off the counter with Mrs. Meyers. And what the heck: the kitchen sink hasn’t been decently scoured in a decade or so: scrubbed that till it glows.

So that counter looks about as good as it’s going to look. Which isn’t very: it’s got several cracks in it, and I haven’t been able to find a tile guy who’s willing to fix it.

I’m thinking if I could find a slab of marble in a kind of beigeish color that would go with the existing Mexican tile, I might replace the stuff on that side of the kitchen — there’s actually rather little backsplash there, so if it had to be torn out and replaced, it wouldn’t take much to do so.

I really don’t like stone countertops, even though yes, I do understand they’re the permanent rage. I’d so much rather have tile. But what must be must be, I suppose. The big question is whether I could keep the sink if I had to install marble or butcher block. It’s one of those things that’s flush with the counter, so you don’t have to fart around with cleaning up the mess around the sink’s rim. It was a very expensive Kohler sink, too: there’s nothing wrong with it and I’d like not to bet rid of it.

On housewifely reflection, I realized that I haven’t cleaned and oiled those expensive kitchen cabinets since before the horrible medical adventures began — two and a half years ago! So I need to break out the Murphy’s Oil Soap and the orange or lemon oil, wash them down, and polish them up. (How does that kind of labor take on directionality?) That will make the kitchen look a lot better…later. Much later. It’s not a job to do when the AC labors to cool that part of the house to 83 degrees.

This fall: clean cabinets.

Put out a couple of feeders full of fresh bird seed for the feathered critters. Almost every variety of bird eats ants (with the possible exception of ducks and hummingbirds). I’ve found that attracting them to the backyard really does help with the Ant Wars. But lately, in the heat, I’ve been lazy about feeding them.

Also put out fresh sugar water for said hummers.

Speaking of wildlife, it looks like the resident duck has failed to hatch ducklings. She seems to be gone now, with no babes waddling around or drowning in the pool (which they will do, if any ever do hatch). I’m pretty sure she built a nest in the cat’s claw, a far better one than DuckDuck built last spring: deeper into the shrubbery and much harder to spot. But apparently she had no better luck in the reproductive department than did the previous occupant.

These ducks are quite charming. As long as they don’t produce babies to die in the pool, which will break my flinty little heart, they’re more than welcome to float around and tease Ruby. They really don’t make that much mess: the pool cleaner quickly cleans up the occasional dropping, which IMHO isn’t any more drastic than the purple stuff the grackles deposit in the pool as they fly back and forth. I’m pretty confident that the chlorine and acid take care of any microbes — certainly a vigorous shock-treat will do so.

I’ve been madly hawking my wares on the various social media. The Pinterestified images Jackie has been creating make perfect ads elsewhere, especially if I fiddle with them by inserting them in a horizontal ad. So I went through the P&S Press Blog and made a long list of the many, many, MANY posts I’ve failed to publicized. Then determined to flog three a day at all points:

My Facebook timeline
The Plain & Simple Press FB page
The Copyeditor’s Desk FB page
FB Group: Writers of Nonfiction
FB Group: KDP Select Authors (who reads this stuff? It’s ALL self-serving ads!)
FB Group: Book Promotion (ditto, in spades!)
FB Group: Books Gone Viral (who??? why????)
FB Group: Authors & Book Lovers Discussion (well, okay…maybe)
Twaddle
Google+

Sticking links to the various posts does seem to be doing something. Every day I get a slew of new people following The Girls on Twitter, and presumably I’m reaching more people on Facebook…if anybody actually reads that trash.

In fact, though, the Writers of Nonfiction group apparently is inhabited. The moderator keeps a grip on things there — she allows ONE day a week in which people can post their ads — and only as comments to a post there. Otherwise, the content is real conversation. And some of it is pretty good.

And strangely, a tiny but steady stream of users keep subscribing to the P&S Press page, for reasons I cannot imagine.

Welp, what with the ant cleanup frenzy and Cassie flying into a barking frenzy that elicited another endless spasmodic reverse-sneezing frenzy from the puppy and the bird feeding and the pedicure (multitasked while writing) and the current laundry load (multitask) and all that, it’s now past lunch time. I hunger.

And so, finally, onward with the day.

Fallon Best Laid Plans

Happy Fourth of July!

  Happy Independence Day to one and all!

So what are you doing to celebrate, if anything?

Here in the ’hood, the neighborhood association throws a big shindig in the park. When the dogs and I circumnavigated the park at 5 this morning, folks were out there setting up booths and bringing in the beloved fire truck and generally carrying on. It’s a great tradition, especially for those who have the stamina to tolerate the heat…it’s supposed to hit 109 today.

Not for me, thanks. The dogs and I trotted through our favorite part of the ’hood before the Old Guy who likes to feed other people’s critters. The shade-tree mechanic’s old yaller cat was sitting on the sidewalk  awaiting the arrival of the food hand-out. Cassie, who adores cats, and Ruby, who thinks a cat might be good to eat, admired the cat quietly, sat around and gazed at the cat, did not try to grab the cat while it sat there gazing at them. LOL!

Dropped the dogs off back at the house and then raced back out to get a real walk & jog, not possible when you have one dog trying to charge forward and one dog lagging behind, pleading old age as an excuse to sniff every blade of grass. Hence the view of the shindig preparations.

This evening I’ll be joining friends at the home of a couple who host dinner at their 12th-floor apartment, which overlooks the Phoenix Country Club and the Steele Indian School Park, both of which have spectacular fireworks displays. It’s a wonderful party and experience — a great opportunity to get together with people who scatter during the summer and a fantastic view of the nearby displays and more distant fireworks all over the Valley.

So that will be fun.

People started blasting away with amateur fireworks last night. For years, selling fireworks to the general public was illegal in Arizona.

But of course, our moronic legislators decided that this outrage abridged good old American Liberty and so passed a law legalizing sale of fireworks to one and all. In Arizona, it’s perfectly legal to blow your hands off — we have affirmed that it’s your God-given American right to do so.

Cities, whose emergency responders were already maxed around the Fourth, subsequently passed local bans within city limits. The legislature, incensed, responded to this rebellion by decreeing that all retailers would be free to sell fireworks, even in cities that ban the use of fireworks. This means you can buy whatever your little heart craves at the corner Albertson’s or Safeway.

Isn’t that cute? No more stealth trips to Nogales! 🙄

So of course, at this time of year every nitwit in the city is out throwing fireworks around.

Last night a couple of bird-brains who live nearby were setting off cherry bombs. You could tell by the sound when they’d put one under a can or a pail. They were in the alley and the street outside my east wall.

Corgis being fairly calm dogs, the hounds weren’t unduly alarmed, though they didn’t like the noise. I was annoyed, in the way stupidity has always annoyed me.

In junior high school, a kid I knew was blinded when a cherry bomb he set off  under a can blew up in his face. So my patience level with this kind of “fun” is low.

vinesaroundpoolIt’s SO hot and SO dry this summer, I’m concerned about the flammability of those massive hanging gardens of cat’s-claw vines that ensure my privacy in the backyard.

Even though Gerardo has them trimmed up off they ground where they lop over the wall into the alley, there’s still masses of plant material along the way out there. All it would take is some Roman candle to go astray and land in that stuff to set fire to it. If such a fire isn’t put out quickly, it will easily jump to the house. Those vines come all the way up to the back of the house along that far wall, and they join up with hop bushes and a tree that would carry flames to the roof and attic.

So I’m not real happy about having to go off and leave the dogs here unattended. Cassie has never figured out how to use the dog door, and I doubt if Ruby would have enough sense to get out if the house started to burn. What they’d do is try to shelter in their den in the back bathroom. Where, you may be sure, they wouldn’t last long.

How can a species that so prides itself on its allegedly superior brain be, collectively and individually, so fuckin’ stupid?

I’m thinking about taking the dogs down to M’hijito’s house on the way to my friends’ place. But a) that will require me to leave very early and b) I suspect he won’t appreciate it. He’s probably entertaining his own friends.

So this morning I asked the neighbor across the street, who was celebrating the start of Independence Day by working on his wife’s car’s brakes, if he’d kinda keep an eye out. He no doubt thinks I’m a crazy old lady. But that’s OK, if he’ll take a glance over at the shack after the racket settles down.

Meanwhile, I’m pouring the water to those vines, in hopes that they’ll soak up enough moisture to protect them some from incidental sparks. Don’t even know if that’s possible. But they need to be watered, anyway.

DuckDuck is in the pool as we scribble. Every time Ruby realizes the duck is paddling around, she trots out the dog door, parks herself by the fence, and sits there as rapt as a little kid at the zoo. It’s really very adorable!

Better get up and fix some lunch and make up the rest of those tomatoes into gazpacho. And so, away! Have a happy Fourth of July!

24-Hour Siesta Time

The_sun1Well, we could say it’s finally getting a little warm here at the Funny Farm. An hour ago, it was pushing 120 on the back porch. Not quite there: on the high side of 118, maybe 119. It’s 5:30 now and the temp has cooled to 115.

As nothing, though. A little berg called Piedra, west of Casa Grande on the I-8 on the way to San Diego via San Luis, supposedly was the hottest spot on the planet yesterday, at a Mercurial 127 degrees.

Keeping plants alive is a challenge in a heat wave like this. You want to water them several times a day to keep them from dying of plant heat exhaustion, but when you do that, you drown the damn things. Even the ultra-xeric plantings around my house are threatening to keel over. I’ve covered the single rose bush that gets direct afternoon sun with strips of shade cloth and old sheer curtains, but even with that protection, its leaves are burnt. The other roses, which really are the yard’s only plants that react badly to extreme heat, are planted in shady spots and so are doing OK.

Interestingly, though, the vitex in back is wilting. That is distinctly non-good, because it has grown into a tree and it helps a lot with the pool privacy issue that I created by removing the Tree from Hell.

The one in front, however, has not wilted. So I’m a little concerned that the limp leaves have less to do with the heat than with some problem with the tree itself. On the other hand, the one in front is a volunteer. It may be a little tougher by dint of its circumstances. Or maybe it’s a different variety of vitex.

Naturally, a sprinkler head in the front courtyard broke yesterday, causing a geyser and turning a quarter of the fenced-in area into a lake. Gerardo came by in the heat to dig it out and replace it. He hates the sprinkler system Richard put in lo! these many years ago, and we agreed that when the weather cools down, he and his guys should rebuild it.

Tomorrow a repair-dude is supposed to come over and fix the barbecue, whose igniter has busted. As long as they were going to charge me for a service call, I arranged to have him clean it. That is a job, and I’m not real thrilled about having a workman laboring out there, on my dime, at 1:00 in the afternoon. I’ve thought about calling the company and canceling, but on the other hand, that could mean the guy doesn’t get paid.

I dunno. I may call tomorrow morning and suggest we put off the job till the weather cools or at least until they can get him over here early in the morning, instead of at mid-day.

Sun

 

 

Hotter than the Hubs of Hades…

Ducks Saturday enhancedThe weather is actually cooler than it has over the past week here in the Valley of the We-Do-Mean Sun. It was only 96 today, probably because we had some cloud cover. Now, at quarter to nine p.m., it’s a chilly 91.2, with a 20% chance of rain.

Yesterday I was over at SDXB’s place in Sun City: 110 degrees and overcast. Holeeee sh!t. The sky was this glarey white, all over…it hurt your eyes to drive, even with dark glasses on. And my shades are dark!

Last week it hit 115 at my house; SDXB got a reading of 120 in his backyard out in Sun City.

It’s way early for this kind of heat. This is Fourth of July heat. And humidity readings between 25% and 62%: that’s August weather.

Mercifully, we still have power here. Both the local power companies have had outages all over the county today. No air conditioning in these temps is truly not fun.

I don’t even want to think about what the power and water bills are going to be this month. My poor son, whose home is in the predatory Arizona Public Service’s district, is going to see an 8% increase on his already exorbitant bills. He already gets $350 bills for his little 1300-square-foot house, which he keeps uncomfortably warm during the summer months when he can’t use the swamp cooler. By comparison, my house — which doesn’t have swamp cooling — will max its power bills at around $230 for 1860 square feet, with a pool.

When I moved in here about 11 years ago, I figured the pool added about $40/month to the power bill. Rates of course have gone up since then, so it’s probably a little more. But his house has no pool, and APS charges him about $100 more for a much smaller house.

Can’t complain too much, because the spring was gorgeous and it lasted on and on.

Still. Sure could do without that $400 car repair bill on power bills for 115-degree days.

The pool is heavenly, though. How did I ever get through a summer when I lived in houses that didn’t have pools???

{Answer: it used to be one helluva lot cooler here, that’s how!}

This is the first time in two years that I’ve been able to use the pool. Neither surgeon —  boob or belly — would allow me to go anywhere near a swimming pool. By the time I could get back in the water last summer, it was water was getting too chilly for comfort.

Results: I got fat (have dropped five pounds over the past few weeks! 🙂 ), and the pool has been so extravagantly neglected that it’s taken a lot of work to get it cleaned up and stabilized. Had to backwash twice over the past few days. But now it looks pretty good. I think it’ll be OK until this winter, when it will need some maintenance upgrades…probably a repla$stering job.

The new mother duck is hanging around out there. She waddles out of her nest about once a day, usually early in the morning, stands around looking skittish, and then disappears again. Ruby and Cassie are riveted by her.

I’m pretty sure this is not the famous DuckDuck. She’s much more shy and nervous than last year’s Duck, who seemed to have little or no fear. DuckDuck was not impressed by curious dogs, nor would she move off if the human walked into the pool area. This little bird, who seems a little smaller than DuckDuck, is very wary and will take off if she thinks you’re excessively interested in her.

Speaking of the swimming pool, it’s time to take a quick dip and then go to bed. And so, away…

Signs of the Times

This is weird! A bunch of SEO data somehow inserted itself into this post. My apologies… think it’s fixed. But since I proofed this piece several times, I’m sure I would’ve seen that bit of strangeness. In fact, I recall reading that passage several times. Is WordPress as weird as Wyrd? Should we rename it Wyrdpress?

The News of the Day is its usual eye-popping self. Lots of shouting and self-righteous screaming just now about the Stanford rape case. Anyone who dares to suggest that it might not be wise to drink until you pass out next to a garbage bin is instantly accused of sexism and abetting the rape culture, to the tune of RAPE IS NOT OK delivered in high decibels. As though questioning the victim’s judgment equated to “rape somehow is OK”!

As a practical matter, that ugly turn of events is the logical outcome of the drug- and alcohol-laced party culture that permeates college campuses in this country. Elite schools are no exception. It also is the outcome of the (highly profitable!) custom of lionizing college athletes, leading them to feel entitled to do as they please.

When my son was at his elite high school, he and his friends took to calling young men like Mr. Turner “jock-rapists.” By that they meant handsome, affluent, athletic, aggressive “stars” of the sort who spend their college years making lots of money for schools like Stanford (and all the rest of them) by playing on athletic teams. Surely, a degree of sour grapes was going on there…but as we can see by the circumstances around the Turner case, he and his pals were not so far off base.

I knew a young woman who attended a private liberal arts school in the same tier as, say, Claremont, Whittier, or Carleton. She and her friends were given to some very heavy drinking and also to a bit of drug use. This was current and customary on the campus, where dormitories were coed and many students lived, unsupervised, in apartments near the campus.

One evening she went out with a handsome jock-rapist type and got very, very drunk indeed. This, we might add, was nothing out of the ordinary — it was pretty typical behavior in her social set on the campus. She went to the young man’s dorm room — his bedroom — where she took off all her clothes and climbed into his bed.

What you would expect to happen…well, happened.

If you were a studly young man, what would you think a girl wants when she gets naked and climbs into your bed?

The next day, she went to the infirmary and asked for a morning-after pill. There, the college’s nurse informed her that she had been raped (because she was drunk at the time, you understand, and so in theory couldn’t give informed consent to the young man into whose bed she had installed herself). The nurse urged her to file charges against her fellow student.

Probably to the benefit of all concerned, the young woman declined to do so.

The point is, I fear, we are failing our girl children today in not teaching them that, unfair as it is, they run certain special risks because they are female, and in failing to teach them how to keep themselves safe. Colleges compound that failure by failing to restrict behavior in on-campus and near-campus living facilities and by failing to engage strategies that foster safe conditions for residential students.

In the same way, we’re failing our boy children. Mr. Turner’s life is ruined, permanently. He will never fulfill the promise he showed in a high-school career that got him into Stanford. Had my acquaintance reported a casual sex act that ensued after a night of heavy drinking as “rape,” another young man’s life would have been ruined.

We fail our young women when we give them the idea that they’re entitled to do as they please, even in very risky situations, without helping them to understand the potential consequences. We’re failing to let them see that having a right to be safe from harassment and unwanted sexual advances does not mean you are safe from those things.

Because we’re letting them think they can drink themselves into a stupor and dance suggestively on tables and stumble around the streets late at night with impunity, we set them up for harm.

Where were both young people’s parents when they were in high school? Why did Mr. Turner’s parents and Ms. X’s parents not teach them how to drink? And did Mr. Turner’s parents really not inform him of the damage he could do to himself in a single booze-enhanced moment, to say nothing of the damage he could do to someone else?

Yeah, I know: it’s illegal to give your kids a highball or a glass of wine with dinner. But I also know that in the homes of the rich and famous, it’s commonplace. One woman in our neighborhood of lawyers and doctors used to throw an annual party for her high-schoolers, where drinking was allowed openly, on the theory that if the parents could keep an eye on the brats, they could see to it that they didn’t weave off into the night in their cars.

That’s inappropriate, IMHO.

But it is not inappropriate, in the privacy of your home, to let your nearly adult kid have a glass or two by way of instructing him or her on how alcohol affects the body. Experience is the best teacher — certainly, when it’s about something that’s influenced by a lot of peer pressure, guided experience is one helluva lot better than a lecture or some video delivered in a classroom.

There are experiences that no human being should have, and one of them is being attacked while laying unconscious in an alcoholic stupor. My point is not that RAPE IS OK, for godsake, but that even though it’s not OK, it does occur. Unless we teach our young women that they are at risk, unfair as it is, and that the risk is hugely enhanced when you’re impaired by alcohol and drugs, these horrible things are going to keep happening.

If I may, by way of heading off the self-righteous shrieks likely to follow on this rumination, let me tell you that I also was attacked in circumstances very like Ms. X’s, when I was about her age. A neighbor in the apartment building where I lived — a guy that I’d met at the pool and knew casually — invited me over for a daiquiri.

This gent could make a killer daiquiri. And of course, that was what he was counting on. He’d laced the drink with copious amounts of rum, which was pretty much unnoticeable behind the sweetly delicious blend of mixers. I hadn’t finished half of a refill before I could barely stand up.

At that point, he started to take my clothes off.

I resisted. He tried to restrain me. I was in no condition to fight him off.

Fortunately, he was momentarily distracted by someone outside. I managed to slip away from him and get out the front door. Once I was running across the balcony in my high heels, headed toward my own apartment, he pursued me but didn’t catch me — it was a crowded apartment building with a lot of people coming and going, and if I’d yelled for help it would have attracted attention.

I made it to my place, got inside, locked the door behind me, and called my boyfriend. Then I spent a fair amount of the evening throwing up rum.

Yeah, the guy was a scoundrel and a predator. If he’d succeeded in screwing me, he probably would have deserved to go to jail.

But I don’t believe I was without fault in that scenario. I knew better than to go to a strange man’s apartment alone. And it was incredibly stupid to accept a sugary alcoholic drink from such a man. In his apartment. Alone. I was lucky alcohol wasn’t the only thing he put in the stuff.

The point is, no, overly trusting women don’t “deserve” to be attacked by predatory men. But all women need to be aware that such men exist and that some circumstances predispose us to attacks. To ignore the risks is foolish. To insist that nothing will happen because nothing should happen is foolish.

You can’t go around in a chador. But neither should you wear a sign that reads “CFM.”

 

Shots and thangs…

Spent most of the day banging around in 112-degree heat. Dawn cracked straight into the windshield as the Dog Chariot cruised east (halfway to freaking Payson!) toward the Mayo.

The Mayo Clinic, which runs the only hospital in the Phoenix area that consistently scores high in patient safety and overall quality, would prefer not to have to deal with Medicare patients, who don’t return as much cash as folks with private insurance. So if you’re not already a patient there when you turn 65, you’re not about to become a patient. You can stay if you were enrolled in their records as one of their doctors’ patients before you go on Medicare, but once you are a Medicare patient, you have to show up at least once a year, whether you need care or not. If you don’t, out you go!

To complicate that matter, my long-time doc, who had done his residency at the Mayo (way back in the day!) and later rejoined the clinic the instant the Mayo built its Scottsdale facility, has retired. So I was assigned to a young thing who looks like she graduated from high school about six weeks ago. 😀 In fact, she has an M.D. and a fancy set of internship and residency credentials and she’s been around for awhile. But she sure doesn’t look it from this vantage point.

So anyway, nothing would do but what I had to run out there for a fishing expedition annual checkup, a profitable custom that has been widely debunked as rarely helpful and often harmful to patients. Ordinarily I wouldn’t do that, but I felt boxed into it, not wanting to be thrown onto the mercy of the local health providers, who like to give themselves annoyingly specious, self-congratulatory corporate names like “Honor” and “Dignity.” {snarkity!}

Other than the waste of about two hours of my time (a five-minute blood draw at 8 a.m. and then sitting around until 9:40 to see the doc), little was accomplished there.

Except her parting shot was “I’d like to suggest you get the newer pneumonia vaccine and a tetanus-diphtheria-pertussis shot.”

Well, I’ve been thinking the same thing for quite awhile, and every now and again figure I ought to raid a Walgreen’s or Safeway pharmacy and demand the same. But by the time I’ve picked up the eye shadow or the potatoes, I forget. Yeah. It’s a function of old age: no focus.

So this was good. The last community-acquired pneumonia shot I had was a freebie we got as a benefit for Great Desert University employees. That type protects against about a dozen strains of pneumonia. The newer version fends off another 23 varieties. The older you get, the more vulnerable you are to this class of diseases. Pneumococcal pneumonia kills about 1 in 20 of people over 65 who get it. Pneumococcal bacteremia and pneumococcal meningitis each kill about 1 in 6 gray-haired victims.

As for the DPT shot (now called TDaP): the last time I had one of those, I think, I was in junior high school. We got them all the time in Arabia, of course…along with cholera, typhus, typhoid, smallpox, and a variety of other horrible shots. In fact, I have quite a phobia of shots, as a result. But with age also comes wisdom…and a certain amount of don’t-give-a-damn-anymore nerve. Whooping cough — that is, pertussis — has made a comeback, thanks to the ninnies who don’t vaccinate their kids. And that disease can make anyone good and sick and can kill older adults. Diphtheria, a nasty disease, can also spirit you away.

At any rate, these two shots gave me a pair of sore arms and an overall stunned feeling. That notwithstanding, I had to trudge back across the city in the heat. Stopped at a gigantic Fry’s to look for some popsicle molds (found them, but they’re DINKY), to buy some popsicles (thereby to plagiarize their recipes by studying the contents lists), and a few other pieces of junk.

Interestingly, this gigantic supermarket did not carry frozen berries and fruits.

From there, race home, put away the food, turn around, and race back out: this time to Tempe, to meet with the business partner over a late lunch. That was fun! We always enjoy Tempe’s ineffable House of Tricks — if you’re ever in that burg, you should have lunch or dinner there.

Ate myself stupid; then proceeded back across the city on the surface streets, it being past the start of the rush hour by the time we parted. The freeway west-bound was dead stopped for several miles whilst I was heading eastward: one wreckie-poo and the damn thing turns into a vast ribbon-shaped parking lot.

The freeway-avoidance route  took me past a Costco, where I dodged in to grab some frozen fruit: mango plus a medley of berries. This should make an incredible fruit pop!

Post-script: Ah-hah! New computer weirdness discovered! Have hit “publish” twice on this thing, and it won’t go online. Lovely.