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Hubs of Hades, Redux

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Three-thirty in the afternoon. High, magnificent white clouds off to the north…but nary a sign of rain here in the Valley. Wunderground says we have 114 degrees; humidity 11%; precip zero.

That, my friends, is another way of saying “hotter than the hubs of Hades.” 

The hapless woman my son hired to babysit me — he thinks I can’t take care of myself alone anymore — is bored out of her mind. The reason I’m unlikely to get hurt while I’m sitting around all day by myself is that…

* I go noplace;
* I do nothing;
* I sit around watching the dog as she does nothing.

Oh, well. If that’s how he wants to spend his money, far be it from me to contradict him.

Haven’t persuaded the poor lady to drive me to any stores or other amusements, mostly because I don’t need any new provisions and surely do not want to go out in that unholy heat.

What to do? How to deal with this new headache?

Well…

1. Make a list of things that need to be done (or at least can be done) while I’m under her control.

2. Be nice to the poor soul. She’s probably as terrorized as I am about this whole wacky thing.

3. Since my son has cut off my driving privileges, get her to drive me to stores (even those within walking distance) at least several times a week.

4. I walk a couple miles every day, for exercise. See if she would like to come along on these walks, after the weather gets cool enough that we could leave around the time she gets here.

Godlmighty, this fiasco is making me crazy. Pretty clearly, I’ve passed a milepost on the road to senility. And some major changes are going to have to be made to accommodate that. The big hope — the big stumbling block — the big screaming nightmare…is that I’m not yet so batshit that I have to be locked up in an institution.

I hate, loathe, and despise communal living. Hated every minute of living in the college dormitories. And that is NOT the way I want to wrap up my life.

This job will be made tougher for our New Lady by the fact that I refuse to pay for television. I will be DAMNED if I’m gonna pay to have advertising shoved in my face. Plus about 90% of what’s on TV is just not worth paying for.

So…that means she doesn’t have any pap to amuse her when she’s here. She must think I’m even crazier than I am. And she must be excruciatingly bored.

So…THAT means we’ll have to come up with things to do and places to go while she’s here. Better confer with her along those lines: mostly to find out what she likes to do and figure out when and where we can go for those things.

Also must ask my son if he thinks we should go ahead and pay for cable TV, so she will have some drivel to watch while she’s here. I’d just as soon not have brainless blah blah blah emanating from one of the rooms, but…if that’s what it takes to keep some poor soul in our employ, I guess I’ll have to get used to it.

{sigh}

Guess I’ll have to get used to the whole damn fiasco!

Who’s That Knockin’ at My Door?

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Just realized…. These days, I never answer the door when somebody comes a-knocking. Or a-doorbell ringing, either.

Seriously: it used to be — back in the Dark Ages — that when you went to someone’s house and rang the bell or knocked on the door, they answered by opening the door(!!) and greeting you. Today, I won’t open the door unless I know who’s out there.

Actually, that’s not entirely true. My front door is secured by a heavy-duty prison-like screen door, on the outside of the usual decoratively wooden door. So, the exterior door — the real one — has a set of bars and outside that, a thick sheet of solid metal screen. Getting through that would not be easy!

My next-door neighbor has a camera installed above the front door. It relays an image of any caller to a screen inside the door. And no, she won’t answer the door unless she knows who you are and why you’re there.

Awful that we have to be that scared, isn’t it?

One might say times have changed and so our door-answering customs have changed…the implication being that in the good ole’ days you didn’t have to worry about who or what was out on the doorstep.

But no. I don’t think the folks who show up at your door are any different than they used to be. If they’re not a friend or neighbor, then they’re trying to sell you something or (of late) they’re census takers, surveying the locals. It’s a rare bird that poses a real threat.

That notwithstanding: These days I peer out a window before I go to the door. If I don’t recognize the person, I don’t answer. Or else I holler through the window to ask them what they want — and nine times out of ten, send them away.

Now I will say: I don’t want to be hustled by some door-to-door seller. Period. So one reason that door doesn’t get answered is to make it easier to repel those jerks. As for census takers and the like: they need to show me a mighty authentic-looking ID to get me to the door.

Fine times we live in, eh?

{Bellyache Bellyache…}

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Migawd, those poor people who have to work outside in this UNHOLY heat and humidity. This morning it’s a swamp out there. And yeah, that’s the only way to describe it.

But as Ruby and I swam around the block through the soggy air, we came across one yard dude after another slamming around in this heat: pushing lawnmowers (or, if they were lucky, riding them), through heat and humidity thick enough float in. Horrible, horrible morning.

Walk in the door at 7:30 a.m. Ringy dingy ringy dingy ringy dingy…. Goddam phone solicitor!

Me to A**-hole, at high volume: GET OFF MY PHONE AND STAY OFF MY GOD-DAMNED PHONE!!!!!!

God, how I hate that. Really, I should disconnect the phone when I go to bed at night. But I’m afraid if some emergency comes up, M’hijito won’t be able to reach me. Or I may not be able to reach him.

Phone soliciting, though, really should be illegal. In these parts, though: far from it. Here, it’s a prison industry.

No kidding. When your phone jangles with a nuisance call, chances are there’s a convict on the other end of the line.

Even if he or she weren’t serving a term for some fun crime, I’d still rather not talk with them. Especially not over the phone. Especially not at 7:00 in the morning!

Here We Go Again…

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Ugh! Today is the 30th, and the calendar says one “Janie” is supposed to surface at 8:00 a.m. — that’s 20 minutes from now — and hang around until 4:00 p.m.

Janie is a babysitter. A woman my good son has hired to watch over senile little me, drive me to grocery stores, and whatnot.

  • That the Funny Farm is within walking distance of three grocery stores: meh! Doesn’t matter.
  • That I value my privacy above just about all else: meh! Doesn’t matter.
  • That just this minute, I do not relish the prospect of having someone in my face: meh! Doesn’t matter.
  • That the kitchen  needs to be picked up before someone barges in and starts sniffing around: meh! Doesn’t matter.
  • That all I wanna do at 7:45 in the morning is relax and play with my computer: meh! Doesn’t matter.
  • That, failing a good loafing session, the second-best thing I wanna do at 7:45 in the morning is take a nice skinny-dip in the pool: meh! Doesn’t matter.

Well…the latter probably isn’t relevant. At this  hour, one never knows what yard and pool workers will show up.

At least the Hound and I got out the door early enough for the day’s circumnavigation of the park. Not history’s most pleasant stroll, though: it’s muggy and sticky and yucky out there. Reminiscent of (un)lovely Saudi Arabia, where you could wake up in the morning and see rain falling out of a clear sky.

Arizona’s never that bad. But today, we’re in the competition. The air is hot, wet, and gummy. And air-conditioning notwithstanding, I sure am glad I don’t have a job where I have to throw myself around cleaning house. Or pretending to clean house.

***
A-a-a-n-d…here she is!

What a marvelous pistol this lady is! If you MUST have someone underfoot all day, this is the one to have. 😀  She’s smart, she’s witty, she’s friendly, she’s got her act 100% together. And I think I can pester her into taking me to a grocery store.

She brought over some nopalitos: a type of cactus-based delicacy.

Onward!

Morning in Lovely(?) Arizona

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The Corgi is out back, sniffing every corner of the yard — her daily task, right? The Human loafs, feet on the hassock, computer on the lap. All is quiet…for the nonce.

Not looking forward to this morning, though. M’Hijito has hired a babysitter to come in and supervise me, forgodsake. Today, as I understand it, is to be her first day on the job.

It’s only a little after seven, and so we presumably have an hour or two before she surfaces.

Once the poor soul is welcomed into the Funny Farm and has a chance to look around, we’ll have to try to get to know each other. And since Funny is in fact One Weird Chick, …heh!!  We’ll see how long she lasts!

😀

Seriously: I am a strange little broad and always have been, since I was a little kid. As a child, I had hardly any friends, because I did not and could not fit in with the crowd.

Over half a century of life on this earth indeed has taught me to keep my mouth shut. But that’s easy enough when the victim…uh…companion isn’t living with you. When you’ve got someone in your face all day long…well…that’s a whole ‘nother story.

So, truth to tell, even though I’m interested to meet this new person, I’m sure not looking forward to it.

By now Ruby and I would have circumambulated the ‘Hood on our morning walk. Instead, we’ve had to sit here and wait for the babysitter to show up. Of course, she has not done so, and because June is one of the hotter months in lovely central Arizona, our chance for a doggy-walk is already lost.

Since it’s unreasonable to ask some poor underpaid soul to surface before 7 in the morning, I’ll have to go over to the locksmith’s shop and have him make another key, to give to this lady. That will allow her to get into the house while Ruby and I are out junketing around the neighborhood.

Just what I wanna do: hand out front-door keys to all and sundry…

Meanwhile, my office looks like a bomb dropped in there. WHAT a mess! Instead of loafing here playing with the computer, I should be back there shoveling out that room.

Ugh! Grand way to start the day, eh?

This is part of what makes my character weird: I don’t like people telling me what to do with my life or what to do with my time. 

Ever has it been thus. So…school was a PITA. Organized sports: PITA. Church activities: PITA.

Huh….  What happened over the years to incline me to dislike other people so?

Hmmmm…

Well: my earliest memory is of the time I was playing in a sandbox with a neighbor’s two brats. I was under three years old, because this happened before we left for Arabia…and we arrived in that sylvan realm a day before I turned three.

We’re sitting there in a sandbox in front of the house my mother had rented in Berkeley, California. The neighbor’s two brats are there, too, playing with me.

I imagine we’re all having a good time, when the brat girl picks up a load of sand in her little kiddie shovel and SLAMS IT INTO MY FACE. 

Slams it into my EYES.

Oh, my god! Never has anything hurt so much, before or since.

And there you are, folks:

That is how I learned to dislike and to distrust other people. That lesson, we might add, has never been forgotten.

And that’s why I don’t want strangers in my home. It’s why I don’t want the babysitter my son has hired in my home. It’s why just now I do not want to sit here waiting for the woman to show up; but instead I crave to be striding around the park behind a bouncing corgi.

Humanity: God’s gift to Satan.

Good(?) Morning, America!

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NINETY-FIVE DEGREES in the shade of the back porch, at 7:00 in the morning!  Hoooleeeee shee-ut!  How hot IS it supposed to get today?

Hmmm….  Saith Wunderground: 108 degrees, with 23% humidity.

Dog and Human are just back from our morning stroll — around the park and through the hood, the air so thick you could swim through it. Yea, verily: it’s mighty hot and sticky out there.

Ohhhh well: at least we’re exercised. After a fashion.

What new horrors are on the calendar?  Checking…

Hmmmm… Doesn’t look like anything. One can only hope…

What I am hoping is that my son doesn’t have one of the housekeeper/babysitters slated to descend on me this morning. What a NUISANCE those women are!

Not through any fault of their own. It’s my eccentricity that creates the problem. I strongly prefer my aloneness. I really, really don’t like people underfoot. And especially not strangers. Not hired help.

Oh, well. If one of the poor dears shows up, I’ll make her drive me to the Sprouts and the Albertson’s. That’ll soak up the better part of her morning, anyway. Then maybe I can pretend to take a nap, which will extract an hour or two of relative privacy.

At any rate, at least the little dawg is exercised, and we got out before the pavement could burn her feet. If there’s any question in your mind about whether this place is a precinct of Hell, all you need to do to resolve that question is to visit in June, July, or August.

I could brain my father for dragging us here when he retired. Too late, though: his brains have been reduced to a pile of ashes. 😀

Seriously, I assumed that we would stay in San Francisco, near my mother’s relatives. Or at least in Southern California, where my parents had lived before we decamped to Saudi Arabia.

Jayzuz! TEN YEARS in that Middle-Eastern Hell-Hole. Can you imagine?

Actually, for my mother and me it was a mere nine years. Toward the end of his planned sojourn out there, she came down with amoebic dysentery. Almost died from it. But she did recover, at which point her doctors told my parents that she needed to get out of Arabia and come back to the States, where she could get better medical care and get away from the endemic parasites.

So, to his infinite disgust, my father had to quit the job that he figured would support him into early retirement. He sent my mother and me to San Francisco (where surviving members of her family lived); stayed in Arabia until the end of his contract (another nine months); and then got a first mate’s job shipping out of the East Bay.

Poor guy! All his plans went down the toilet. He’d figured to spend another year or two in Hell, and then retire — that’s how much Americans got paid out there. But alas, ’twas not to be!

Thank Gawd, from my mother’s and my point of view…

Anyway…the air here is not as soggy this morning as it used to be by dawn’s early light in Araby. But by comparison with what’s normal here, it’s darned sticky!