Coffee heat rising

So Glad Not to Be There

On any ordinary day, to tell the truth, I’m mighty glad I no longer live in Saudi Arabia…or really, anywhere in the Middle East. But these days: holy mackerel!

[oooookayyyy… WordPress won’t let me add a link. So, here it is, for the copy-and-pasting: https://www.bbc.com/news/videos/czrm4k1e7d0o  Best described as egad!]

It was a horrible place to live, even for a little kid who didn’t know or understand what was going on around her. You think Americans can hate? You ain’t seen nothin’ yet!

Where those bombs are blasting away? That’s where we used to stay during my father’s biannual two-week vacations!

The American men (married women couldn’t work for the company) signed on for two-year contracts. Between each contract, you got a month off, and in the middle of the contract, you got a couple weeks off.

During those “short leaves,” as they were called, we would go to Beirut, or to Bahrein, an island off the shore of the Persian Gulf not far from where the American camps stood.

It’s horribly sad to think of a bunch of a$$holes blowing up Beirut. Despite the poverty and the hatred for Americans, it actually was quite a beautiful city. I recall this one beach we used to visit — not far from where we would stay. It wasn’t sand, exactly: it was made of tiny, smoothly eroded glass-like pebbles. Stones of many colors. Small enough and fine enough that you could walk around on them bare-footed. And so very, very pretty.

Yeah. So…let’s drop a bomb in it, right?

I see Aramco has spiffed up the Ras Tanura beach, turned it to a sorta entertainment venue. That’s too bad: it was quite beautiful enough, back in the day, and did not need to be junked up with any man-made accoutrements.

You have to be quite the adventurer — or, as my father was, extraordinarily anxious to max out your earning power — to sign on for two years in that place.  We were there for ten endless years. These photos make it look a lot less bare-bones than it was when we lived here. But still:

  • It was hotter than the hubs of Hades.
  • Humid as a steam-bath
  • Women were not allowed to take any decent jobs: you could be a K-8 teacher, a nurse, or a secretary. That was about it.
  • You had to soak every piece of produce in Clorox water, lest the stuff give you a roaring case of amoebic dysentery.
  • The school went through the eighth grade. After that you were sent to Beirut, to Switzerland, or back to the U.S. for high school. And no, your parents didn’t come with you.
  • At the time, the only air-conditioning was what we call “swamp cooling” today. Damp and pretty much ineffectual.
  • There were two church meetings: Protestant and Catholic. If you were into religion and one of those would suffice for you, you’d go to one of those. Not very many folks did.
  • Americans were roundly hated. That’s OK, I reckon: the feeling was mutual.
  • You couldn’t have a dog: rabies.
  • Even if you could, jackals came into the camp at night and would rip your dog, if it was caught, from limb to limb.

My mother did catch amoebic dysentery, as a matter of fact. In our LAST WEEK in that garden spot, we were invited to the home of one of my father’s coworkers. He was a guy my father openly disdained as a moron…without a doubt that attitude had become widely known. The guy’s idiot (malign???) wife served  us a salad with greens that she hadn’t soaked in Clorox, then the only effective way to sanitize produce. Before we were ready to head to Dhahran and jump on a plan back to the states, my mother came down with the parasite.

She very nearly died from it. Had to be shipped back to the U.S on an emergency flight. There she spent weeks in a hospital, being treated with the fierce and poisonous drugs they had at the time. The stuff made her desperately sick…which must have been gratifying for MacA’s bi*ch wife.

{Seriously: I am quite certain the woman knew what she was doing. She deliberately served us unsanitized produce in an effort to make us sick. And it worked!}

Eventually, my mother recovered. Got on a plane; flew back to Rasty Nasty, picked me up, and took me off to New York.

Never have I ever been so happy to leave a place. Seriously….

Encanto Dreamin’…

Or…nightmarin’? 

Why I’d rather live up here at the top of Central Avenue than in the beautiful, classic Encanto neighborhood downtown whence we came, lo these many years ago:

* Quieter. Lots less noise. Further from the airport. No fire station three houses down the street.

* Our park seems safer than large, beautiful, mega-public Encanto Park. No public toilets here. Fewer shrubs for bums to sleep under. Much less parking.

* Deeper in the ‘Hood: Fewer iron bars on windows & doors…

* Houses here are newer…which means not so picturesque. But that also means better, safer wiring, better & more efficient AC, enclosed garages, ever-so-much harder to break into.

* Really no further from a regional hospital than we were there. Except we have TWO of them…

* Better insulation, possibly better construction here (depends on your point of view)

* Desert landscaping: acceptable here. Hold the grass. Save the gallon on gallon on gallon of water poured into the dirt.

* Less commerce, and commerce further from residential areas.

* Schools may be better. Closer to private & parochial schools.

My O My, I did love living in the beautiful, classic downtown Encanto district.

But My O My: if you have a functioning synapse between your ears. the northerly reaches of tony North Central and the shabby reaches of neighboring, lower-middle-class Sunnyslope make sooooo much better sense than the snobby elegance of the Encanto District!

And all things considered, our reaches don’t look any worse, they don’t feel any worse, they don’t function any worse than the classic, handsome upper-middle-class Encanto neighborhoods. Ever so beautiful, those. But…uhm…none too practical.

😉

Old(!!!) Home Day

Omigoodness! Just came in from a totally pointless, idle, and radically sentimental cruise of the Old Neighborhood.

It’s still there. It’s still called the Encanto neighborhood. It’s still beautiful. It’s still infested with the Young and the Upwardly Mobile, who seem to invest most of their money and their energy in fancifying and preserving the lovely old early 20th-century houses.

How I do miss it.

We left because I (ignorantly) imagined DXH (Dear Ex-Husband) would consent to put our son in the (excellent! top-of-the-line) Madison public schools if we moved north up Central Avenue into the Madison School District.

Wrong!

He refused to do so, and insisted on keeping the kid enrolled in the spectacularly expensive, annoyingly sosh’ private schools up there.

If I had known he would do that, I would never have lobbied to move up to North Central Phoenix. I hated the place and hated the snobs who infest it. Ultimately the stress from that move and my social exclusion from that fine exclusive company brought an end to the marriage.

Sorry. I’m just not lawyer’s wife material….  LOL! Born WT and always will be WT.

Ohhhh well.

Our old house is still there, looking much the same. Well maintained: whoever has it now must love it.

They did put a steel gate across the driveway: good move. Discourages the local bums and prospective burglars from entering the backyard via the west side of the house.

Wish we’d done that.

{sigh}

I did love the neighborhood. The reason we left was fear: the crime level was quite high. And we didn’t seem to be able to get away from it…

* The night Greta the Gershep caught a prowler in the living room, where he had just found me snoozing on the sofa (DXH had a deafening roar of a snore!). She chased the poor fella out the back door…I imagine he’s still running.

* The guy who tried to get in the side door as I was sitting in the adjacent room typing a seminar paper. I ran to the front door, threw it open, and screamed FIRE! FIRE!! FIRE!!! That brought out all the neighbors, excited to watch the house burn down, and scared the poor perp off down the alley.

* The sh!thead who tried to break in the front door as I stood there next to another German shepherd…whose presence didn’t even faintly faze the guy.

* The night my mother brought a pistol after I’d invited her to stay overnight. Yeah.

Well. No wonder, eh?

But still: it was such a pretty neighborhood, and the neighbors were such a delight, a constant delight.

We moved up to North Central: Snobsville North, as we might call it. I’m just too fragile a little blossom to survive hate, prejudice, meanness, and petty snobbery…the result being that the marriage didn’t survive them, either. How I came to hate that place!

And I guess the hate slopped over onto the marriage.

Encanto remains a beautiful neighborhood. And I found myself wishing we still lived there, were still married, were proceeding happily ever after.

Yeah. Right.

 

 

Cutest thing…

….i’ve ever seen!

Seriously (okay, not very)…this afternoon THE cutest young fella came up to me in the Safeway. A nifty-looking black gent, simply too, too handsome. He wanted to know which aftershave was most likely to appeal to his lady friend.

😀

How adorable can you get, eh?

{heh!} Yep: afraid i failed to explain to him that it was his incredible cuteness that would appeal… 😀 At random, recommended one or the ‘tother.

Let’s hope she appreciates him! <3

 

Hotter than a Swamp in the Hubs of Hades….

Another cozy warm afternoon in lovely Arizona.

All I wanted to do out there in the freakin’ backyard was pull the garden hose around to get water on the trees (whose automatic watering system has failed) and on the weed in the middle of the backyard (whose automatic sprinkler has failed) and on the roses in back (whose automatic sprinkler has failed).

Fail.

Fail.

Fail.

And fail.

Hotter than the hubs out there. No clouds in sight, but once again the air feels almost as humid as effin’ Saudi Arabia on the shore of the effin’ Persian Gulf.

Drag hose.

Drag hose.

Drag hose.

Drag hose.

Drag….

Sick and tired of DRAGGING. In the HEAT!

In front: can’t find sprinklers. Appears some worthy soul has stolen them. You can’t leave anything out front that’s not red-hot or nailed down. What is the MATTER with me that I don’t seem to be able remember that little factoid?

Senility, no doubt.

*****

5:00 p.m. give or take.

Some worthy has definitely stolen the sprinklers off the (walled!) front patio. So it appears, anyway. Another search led to no sign of the escapees. So I think it’s safe to assume they were purloined.

grrrrr! Too bad I can’t electrify the damn things.

So tomorrow I’ll have to schlep to the Depot or the hardware store and buy another couple of damn sprinklers.

I mean…jeez! It’s not like the things cost much! Dude! You can’t afford to buy your own damn sprinklers????

Unfortunately, there doesn’t seem to be a way to secure the things — to wire them in place, for example. So…it looks like if you don’t want your sprinklers stolen,  you have to disconnect them from the hose every time you finish watering and lock them inside garage.

Chilly afternoon: only 88 degrees at 5:40 in the afternoon. Brrr!!!!  We’re told the temp is supposed to go town to 70 tonight… YOW!  Get out the wool blankets!

😀

Somehow, I find that a little dubious. It certainly hasn’t been as allegedly “cool” as predicted today. Wunderground is predicting highs in the 70s throughout the upcoming week.

Yeah. Sure.

 

Uh huh: “Another Beautiful Day in Arizona…”

“…Leave us all enjoy it,” as the late Governor Jack Williams, that avatar of hickish literacy, used to crow on his morning radio show.

We have a chilly 80 degrees outside, with FORTY PERCENT HUMIDITY. Traipsing around the park with the dog was like spending 40 minutes in a sauna.

One good thing, though: not many other dog-walkers out there. That meant we got through the whole trip without a dog fight — neither real nor threatened. That was refreshing. I guess.

This — hot and soggy — is a typical day in Saudi Arabia. How my father (or any other Westerners) managed to survive TEN YEARS of physical, outdoor work in that Hellish climate escapes me.

Finally made it back to the house: the pooch very chipper, the human about to melt into the ground.

Meanwhile, during the entire trudge we were serenaded with an infernal RRROOOOOOOOAAAAAAARRRRRRRR from Luke Air Force Base. That place is a good 20 miles from here.

My mother, an inveterate John Bircher patriot, used to simper on about how that racket was “the sound of freedom” as she sat on her back porch in Sun City, listening to blasting jets over her morning coffee.

This is what keeps me from moving to the blankly middle-class realms of Fountain Hills, where the weather is cooler, you could walk to the Mayo Clinic, and you’re within ten minutes of Scottsdale’s infinitely superior shopping. Passenger jets from Sky Harbor take off in the morning, headed north over Fountain Hills, and land in the evening, headed south. People out there bellyache all the time that they can’t have their morning coffee over breakfast or their post-prandial wine after dinner — not on the back porches that they paid handsomely to buy.

Who would imagine that, as you’re shopping for a house, you need to look into the noise from commercial and military plane traffic?

ooohhhh well…