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Good grief.

Oh, look! Alliteration! G…G…G…Gaaaahhh

😀

Yesterday (was it only yesterday?) I had to refill a couple of propane tanks for the barbecue. We have three of them, which I usually get filled at Costco, where the price is right (uhm, well…) and the service excellent. But Costco is a drive from here, and I did not feel like traipsing halfway to Flagstaff or halfway to Payson for the privilege of saving a buck or two. So, like an idiot I decided to just zip up Main Drag West to a local tire shop that dispenses propane as a sideline.

Bad move!

They charged an arm and a leg for one (count it: 1) tank of gas. And when I got home, I found there was no propane in the damn tank. WTF?

Exceptionally annoyed, I decided not to go back and argue with those idiots. After all, I couldn’t prove the empty tank I would have to schlep back there wasn’t just another tank out of my backyard.

So I loaded the damn tank into the back of the Dog Chariot and took off across the city. Driving…driving…driving…

God, but I’ve come to hate driving in this city. The Southern-California-style ambience plus the Southern-California-style moron drivers really do make driving here an unpleasant experience.

Anyway: got up to Costco, refilled the tank, and paid a fraction of what the crooks up the street charged.

Annoyed as hell: felt even more ripped off by the local crooks than I did at the outset.

Seriously: I don’t mind paying a bit more for convenience and proximity…but this was ridiculous.

So much for buying local.

You wonder how places like that stay in business at all. My guess is that location matters: This particular vendor is in darkest Sunnyslope, a dire slum. A lot of folks there probably can’t afford to pay Costco a membership fee for the privilege of spending more money inside the store. And the local joint is convenient — Costco is a drive from here, over roads best described as cut-throat.

As Phoenix gets more and more Los-Angelized, it gets less and less pleasant as a place to live. The packed roads, the traffic roar, the crooked vendors, the smog, the mile-on-mile of ticky-tacky: ugh!

If my son weren’t here, I would be sooooo gone.

At any rate, if the place just up the road provided decent customer service (no, I did not get my money back…), I would be willing, if not happy, to pay a few bucks more to forego driving halfway to Flagstaff.

{sigh}

In other less-than-sylvan vales, a friend of mine moved to Sun City and ran head-on into a b-i-i-i-g mistake. When he said, over breakfast some weeks ago, that he was going to sell his place in Mesa and go out there, I should have said to him DUDE! DON’T DO THAT!

But in the first place, I didn’t feel like it was any of my business. And in the second, a white broad telling a black dude not to move to a staunchly middle-class housing development…it just seemed tacky. And probably, from his point of view, not very credible.

Alas, my unspoken fear for him was…dead right. Last week, he e-mailed our group and reported that he forthwith sold the Sun City house and moved back to the East Valley. He slammed head-on into so much prejudice and so much open hostility…older Americans don’t even  bother to hide their hate.

Seriously: the whiteyness of Sun City was one of the major reasons my parents moved there, wayyy back in the early 1960s. Apparently things haven’t changed.

So I felt terrible for him.

Speaking of less-than-sylvan vales, Tony the Romanian Landlord put the house across the street from mine up for rent. Apparently he didn’t do real well in the Juvenile Delinquent business. The neighbors complained constantly, he vandalized their pools same as he did mine (by throwing a gallon of used motor oil over the back wall from the alley), the cops showed up frequently, the authorities noticed the house was out of code… {sigh} Pore fella.

So now he’s got a renter in there: probably several renters, since the house has four bedrooms. Dunno how much he’s getting for it, but he was asking — hang onto your hat! — THIRTY-FIVE HUNDRED DOLLARS A MONTH!

Heeeeeeeee!  CAN you imagine?

I figure he expected to park a passel of unruly college students in the place, with which to annoy the neighbors. People on that side of the street (it’s across the street from my place) complained to the authorities about the late, great delinquents, and the cops who visited after the kid who was whacked in the face showed up at  my house noted that his little institution was out of code every which way from Sunday. Surely, he must have figured, a half-dozen hard-partying junior-college kids would annoy the neighbors even more than an off-the-cuff reform school. 😀

Another great idea gone astray…

Only one car is parked in the driveway (could be a couple more in the closed garage, but I don’t think so). The For Rent sign is down. So that suggests he either got a single party who could afford that preposterous rent (migrating Southern Californians, maybe?) or he allowed himself to be bargained down.

***

Cruising around town yesterday, I drove through the neighborhood where a long-gone friend grew up. Friend and now-ex wife have since moved on…and on…and on…  When last heard from, she was in Portland (Oregon) and he was in Idaho.

It’s a nice little neighborhood of modest but attractive houses. Unfortunately our brilliant City Fathers chose to drive the horrid State Route 51 freeway right through the middle of it, pretty  much destroying it as a peaceful place to live. But it’s still reasonably well kept up, the sort of place I would consider moving if it didn’t have a freeway in the backyard.

What do you suppose is the matter with city planners that they deliberately choose to trash healthy, close-in neighborhoods?

 

 

 

Apparently yesterday’s fall didn’t damage the arm any more than it was already damaged.

Et voilà! As we scribble, the phone jangles. Costco: the tires I bought yesterday are in. I must arrive at the northwest corner of the Valley to get them installed: 3:15.

Ohhhhhhhh goodie. Nothing like three hours’ notice for a nuisancey errand, eh?

Jeeeemineee, could I do without this stuff.

Matter of fact, I could do without about 95% of the details of Life in Early 21st-Century America.

Where were we?

Ah, yes: the busted paw.

Thought for sure I wuz gunna end up back at the Mayo yesterday afternoon. But incredibly, the tumble I took yesterday did NOTHING. Other than get me all riled up, that is.

That notwithstanding, just now the last thing I wanna do is spend two hours this afternoon driving through Phoenix’s unholy traffic and then twiddling my thumbs till Costco’s guys install two new tires. On the other hand, I can’t do without the tires. Both front tires are BALD. No kidding.

The rear tires look fine. Soooo….the question is, if I didn’t buy two rear tires (did I? Don’t recall, but my excellent neighbor, Mr. WonderAccountant went up to Costco with me a few weeks ago to get something done on that car. The something, I can’t remember…ain’t old age grand???), how come their tread looks practically new.

Good grief! Someone say it ain’t so…

Yesterday I spent the whole damn day batting from pillar to post, trying to repair one of the antique lamps that grace the bedroom. It flickers after it’s been on for awhile, suggesting it needs some rewiring. No, a new light bulb doesn’t fix the problem.

One place, a hardware store that usually fixes stuff like this, said they couldn’t do it.

Schlepped across the city in search of another place: closed. Out of business!

Drove ALLLLLL the way back across the city and downtown to a third place. They charged me a pretty penny and apparently fixed it.

So I’m sitting here reading the Gnus of the Day when….flicker flicker flash flash!

The damn lamp is NOT fixed.

WTF, think I… Might it not be the lamp? What if the problem is not the lamp but the bulb?

Haul out of the sack. Change out the light bulb.

And what if the problem is not the lamp or the bulb, but the electric outlet?

Move the lamp so it can be plugged in to a different outlet.

Just this minute, the flickering has stopped. We shall see how long that lasts.

But if it does last, then (because of my over-eager machinations), we won’t know whether the issue was the outlet or the bulb, since the thing now has a new bulb in it.

Oh well. If it stops with its flickering trick, at least it will be fixed.

Yeah…leastwise. At the cost of a whole day of my priceless time.

Fortunately, now that I’m not working much, my time is without price. But driving through Phoenix’s gawdawful LA-style traffic is just unholy. While it was kinda fun to explore old precincts that I haven’t visited in years, this city really is a gawdawful place to drive. Public transit isn’t much of an option: it’s slow and you end up sitting elbow-to-elbow with some very creepy (and smelly) folks. So I didn’t much enjoy yesterday’s endless junket.

****

{minutes pass}

***

Now, neither light is flickering.

WTF?

So…I wasted the whole goddamn day and a quarter-tank of gasoline and a fistful of dollars for…nothing? And I got ripped off by at least one local lamp merchant; probably two.

Nice.

Lordie, it’s only ten to seven p.m., and I’m so tired I can hardly see.

Ruby is crapped out at the bottom of the bed, presumably also reamed, steamed, and dry-cleaned.

Of course, we’ve been awake half of every night, what with the New Year’s “celebrations” and various acts of vandalism.

Meanwhile, the docs out at the Mayo want to subject my brain to an MRI. Looking into this procedure, I decide that on this, they are not a-gunna get their wish.

Half the afternoon (or so it felt) at the physical therapist. That guy is some kinda low-key miracle worker. By the time I left his precincts, the hip pain was gone — as in GONE gone — and it has stayed gone all afternoon.

Dog and I walked, fairly briskly, for about an hour this evening. So…I guess I’m not crippled.

Yet.

 

LOL! Actually, the issue is ON the wall: the great mounds of cat’s-claw vines that have piled up all over my backyard wall. The one that runs along the alley. The alley where the Brats and the Nitwits are blasting off their bang-bangs…and will be, for hours to come.

A few years ago, the State of Arizona and the City of Phoenix decided to legalize fireworks. It bein’ an ethnic thing, after all. And a patriotic thing. Is that “ethno-patriotic”? 😀

Fireworks manufacturers have descended on the city and now sell bangers and crashers from every corner parking lot in the city. Result: BANG BAM BAM BANG POW BAM BAM POW KEEEEEEBLAST BANG POP POP POP BANG BAMMMM BANG BLAST POP BANG WHACK BLAST…half the night. It’s 9:00 now. The antics have been going on a good two hours. With no end in sight.

The back wall along my lot line, running up the alley, is festooned with thick, heavy cat’s claw vines. They’ve formed a kind of carpet over the thing. Piled up on year after year of past, now dried-out growth…

A highly flammable carpet.

Stupidly, I didn’t think about the likelihood that ninnies would be out in that alley setting off their toys. And other ninnies would be driving by and riding their bikes by to throw their bang-bangs into the alley. So…that creates quite a fire risk.

If my brain had been in gear this afternoon, I would’ve dragged the hose out there and saturated those damn vines. But — lacking a noticeable IQ these days — naturally I didn’t even think of it.

Very.

Very.

Stupid…

Age seems to bring stupidity in the door with it.

So now I’ll have to wait till the middle of the night before I dast to go to sleep. Wait until the morons have exhausted all their toys. Wait until they’ve gone off to drink or smoke themselves into a stupor.

Hmmmmmm….. I wonder….

If some A$$-hole sets fire to the vines out there — which will soon jump to the roof and consume the house — could I sue our honored state, county, and city fathers for legalizing a clear and present fire hazard?

Chilly, windy day: morning breezes have blown away most of the cloud cover. In an hour, I have to be at the physical therapist’s, meaning I have to leave in 45 minutes. Nothing from my son as to whether he’s picking me up or when. But this poses no problem for the appointment, because the spavined shoulder is healing MUCH faster than I imagined possible, and I certainly can drive my car the couple of miles to get to the PT’s office/clinic/gym/whatever-you-call-it.

I can think of about a thousand things I’d rather do than spend another hour going hup-hup-up, flapping my arms around. WHAT a bore! However….gotta admit that just one session seems to have made a huge difference. The joint hardly hurts at all, and I can move the arm in just about any direction without a startling stab of pain.

Meanwhile, there’s a Safeway catty-corner across the street from the PT’s joint. Some groceries are in order…so whenever I get free from the “therapy” or whatever it is, I can dodge over there and refill the fridge. That’s assuming my son doesn’t show up to haul me over there.

If he does, he’ll need to get back to work ASAP: this business of his taking 90 minutes or two hours off to ferry me around in the middle of the afternoon is NOT satisfactory.

*****
Wasting way too much time reminiscing
about old times and daydreaming about childhood friends.

Few of those were in evidence, back in the Bad Old Days of Saudi Arabian exile. I was a weird little kid: instead of craving to grow up to be a pretty little wife and mommy, instead of spending my endless hours pretending to cook meals on a play stove, I craved to become an astrophysicist.

No kidding. That’s what I wanted, back in the days when girls could  barely get into a public college, to say nothing of majoring in science. HAR HAR!  I had no idea I would not be allowed to pursue a career in astronomy or physics…I imagined I would grow up, escape the horrid confines of Saudi Arabia, get in to Cal Berkeley (where other members of my family went…members of the male persuasion, by and large), and major in astronomy.

Heeeeee!
Dream on, girlie!

Anyway, because I was too stupid to keep my mouth shut about this line of thought, my little colleagues in school saw me as a hilarious butt of teasing and tormenting. By the sixth grade, I hated school so violently I would dream up just about any excuse to stay home. Consequently, my mother thought of me as sickly…she fell for every tale I’d tell her.

One of her best friends out there, though, was a nurse. This woman was no fool.

Somehow she figured out what was going on, and she recognized that I was just…flat…MISERABLE living in that horrid place. What she did — one of the biggest favors anyone ever did for me during my entire lifetime — was to tell my mother that I needed to come back to the United States and be enrolled in a decent school here. She convinced my mother that the two of them needed to dream up a tale to faze past my father, something that would persuade him to send my mother and me back to the U.S. well before it was time for him to retire and come back to the States.

Don’t know what they did or how they did it, but…they DID do it. I’d already been taken out of the nasty grade school, thereby escaping the second-stupidist  primary-school teacher of my life (the stupidest one surfaced in the fourth grade). Now instead of having me tutored privately, my mother managed to get my father to send us home to San Francisco.

There, she enrolled me (by luck and by God, as far as I can tell) in a wonderful school that was part of San Francisco State University’s College of Education.

• The teachers did not treat me like sh!t.
• Indeed, most of the teachers appeared to have inherited their fair share of IQ points.
• The kids did not know I was the weird little kid. They treated me like one of their own.
• Because I had nothing to do in Arabia but study and read, I was far, far, far ahead of my grade level. The sixth-grade teacher they dropped me on must have been astonished.
• And I even made a couple of actual friends, if you can imagine.

****

Back from the Magical Mystical Physical Therapist!

That guy really is good at what he does. As in amazingly good. After an hour of hopping around at that place, the arm hardly hurts at all, and it moves almost as well as it did before I busted it. He listened to what I said MayoDoc said and issued some advice about what to ask and who else to talk with.

At any rate, I gathered we can expect the complete healing process to take about six weeks.

From there it was over to AJs, where as usual I failed to buy all the things we need. Tomorrow I’ll have to traipse back down there.

But…f’r sure…NOT today!