Coffee heat rising

Deliver me the chow!

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Okay, here we are in the 21st century, whither Yours Truly just arrived. 

As we scribble, it is hotter than the hubs of Hades here in lovely uptown Phoenix. I need to go to a grocery store: the only chow with which our shelves are well stocked just now is…yeah…dog food!

The human needs meat. It needs veggies. It needs fruit. It needs pasta. And it craves a glass of wine.

For some time, I’ve known that the local Sprouts will deliver. So, I gather, will Albertson’s. But I haven’t taken advantage of these alleged services, because…well…let’s be frank: Learning something new feels like more trouble than it’s worth these days.

My charming son has absconded with my car. Apparently he thinks that 80 is too old to be navigating the homicidal streets of Phoenix with much hope of survival. Ohhhhkayyyy…. Wanna know something? HE CAN HAVE THE THING! Because the real horror — which he seems to have overlooked — is that I don’t need that car to get around. 

Y’know… We have Uber. We have a wonderful shiny new lightrail that whizzes right up Main Drag West. We even still have old-fashioned boring busses. Dreary little hickish Phoenix has turned into a big city…and lo! These days we have big-city amenities.

Dudes and dudettes! We don’t need no steenking car!  :-D

Nevertheless, as we scribble, the outdoor thermometer reads 109 degrees in the shade of the (north-facing!) back porch. And y’know what I am NOT gonna do?

I am NOT gonna walk the two or three blocks to the Sprouts or the Albertson’s. NOT A FREAKIN’ CHANCE!  Nay verily: I’m gonna call Sprouts and order the meat and the veggies and the bottle of wine I crave.

Let’s see how they do! 😀

Americans are not good with fresh produce: they don’t know what good fruits and veggies look like. So…we shall see if Sprouts’ staff can overcome that cultural challenge. But if they can…I may never go into a grocery store again! 

😀  😀  😀  😀

Seriously: I do hate grocery shopping. If store staff can get their act together well enough to select decent produce, this ole’ lady will cheerfully hire them to do so.

The main problem will be scraping together enough cash to tip these folks — no, I do NOT carry cash with me. I put everything on charge or debit cards. And no, I do do NOT want to traipse across the city to the credit union to extract cash dollars from my bank account.

But there’s gotta be a way around that. We’ll figure out what it is. Maybe they’ll let me add a tip to the bill.

Heh!  Y’know, when we stayed in London, we didn’t own a vehicle. ‘Twasn’t necessary: busses and cabs would take you wherever you pleased in the city. If we wanted to take a weekend sight-seeing junket into the countryside, we’d rent a car.

Between  you’n’me, I don’t see why we couldn’t do the same here. What with Uber, why do you need to grace your garage with a hole in the ground into which to pour cash?? 

The Sprouts, the Fry’s, and the Albertson’s are no further from my house than were any of the stores in London — in fact, they may be closer. London had trains: we have trains. London had busses: we have busses. London had taxicabs: we have taxicabs. So…uhmmmm….

Yeah: at the risk of repeating oneself: why do you need to grace your garage with a hole in the ground into which to pour cash??

{Cackle!} Why do you need a damn garage at all????

Sauna City!

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It is hotter than a two-dollar cookstove outside — as my father used to say. Feels like Ras Tanura out there. That’s Aramco’s crummy little company town, perched on the shore of the Persian Gulf, about 40 miles out of Dhahran.

Horrible place. Horrible horrible place!

Damn glad I don’t live there anymore.  But sometimes I do wonder if there’s much difference…at least, at some times of year.

This is one of those seasons: hot, still, and wet. Just walked in the house from the morning doggy-walk, drenched in sweat.

Oh well: a morning like this is short on doggy-walkers. That means fewer encounters, fewer near-fights (or full-on fights), fewer morons to ask to puh-leeeze keep their dogs back. That’s something I guess.

Something else: today is NOT a day when my son is dragging me out to the damn Mayo Clinic. Thank goodness! 

What a waste of time: An hour’s drive through nasty traffic. They put me in these stupid workshop meetings where a dozen old buzzards sit around and bitch about how they can’t remember things. Is any advice offered on how you might keep track of things that you used to be able to manage?

Nooooooo. It’s just whine whine whine wine….I can’t remember where I put my shoes…. Not one person in the room — fellow whiner or medical/psychological professional — says “Well, then: get in the habit of always putting your shoes in the same place!”

Duhhhhhh!

My patience with that clap-trap is, shall we say, long gone.

Well, anywho…that frees up the day for my favorite activity: loafing. Ruby and the human are are now well-walked, and so we can loaf without guilt.

LOL! Sentimental-journeying through websites picturing Ras Tanura, the horrid company town where I grew up on the shore of the Persian Gulf. Claustrophobic. Hot. Small-town mentality. Horrible place.

Mercifully, my father retired from Aramco when I was at the end of the 6th grade. My mother and I came back to the states six months ahead of him and settled in San Francisco…just in time for the big earthquake at the end of the 1950s.

My mother was absolutely terrorized by earthquakes. To capitalize on that, they stupidly rented a high-rise apartment — a very nice one — in a tony development called Parkmerced. He had gone back to sea, and so was floating around the ocean on a tanker most of the time.

Yeah: in a real earthquake, that swell Parkmerced building would sway back and forth! “How to terrorize your wife even more,” eh?

We hadn’t been there long when, during a school day, a major quake struck. I was in school — sixth grade. The teachers paraded us all out onto the playground, where flying debris and collapsing ceilings were unlikely to kill us.

Meanwhile, my mother totally freaked out. So much so, that she lost consciousness of her experience that day. Her first memory of it is finding herself in the middle of a street in front of our building, running around in circles! My father had gone back to sea at the time, so he wasn’t there to calm her down.

Ahhh, the good ole’ days, hm?

So…despite the gawdawful heat and the bat-brained right-wing politics, Arizona has a lot to recommend it. High on the list: no earthquakes. 

😀

I stay here because there really isn’t anyplace that I know of that’s any better. But primarily because my son is here. He stays here because his dad is here. And because he grew up here. And because he has a decent job here.

Actually, I can think of a number of better places. If M’hijito weren’t in Phoenix, where would I go?

* Berkeley, California
* San Diego, California
* San Francisco, California
* Paris (yeah: the one in France)
* Santa Fe, New Mexico
* Seattle, Washington
* Mexico City

I dunno. There really aren’t all that many places in the world that are much better than where I am. What would be the point of moving?

Except, maybe, to get away from the summer heat. Then you get…what? Winter cold?

Welp…the dog is walked. The human is hungry. Better get off my duff and fix some breakfast. Outta here!

How Did They Live That Long?

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Old age is creepin’ up, y’know. Where the heck did THAT come from, eh????

Welp…as I get older, I do find myself wondering…

* How DID I get this old?
* How much older will I get? and
* Do I care?
* What can I do to stay in my home until I croak over: to avoid being locked up in an old-age prison?

My father thought old-age homes were The Business. He tried to persuade my mother to move out of their pretty little house in Sun City to enter an institution called Orangewood, here in north Central Phoenix.

She would have none of it. And she succeeded in resisting until she croaked over from the cancer brought on by her incessant tobacco-puffing: right at about the age of 65. The minute he got her urnful of ashes installed in the local mortuary, he was out the door! 

Sold their sweet Sun City house and moved himself into that Orangewood prison and felt mighty proud that he’d done so.

His best friend there shot himself in the head. You’d think that might have told him something, wouldn’t you? Maybe it did, but he had the sense not to articulate the lesson out loud.

He married the Wicked Witch of the West there…apparently in an effort to revive his reasonably content life built, over 32 years, with my mother.

That didn’t work.

The evil bitch made him utterly miserable. But he was afraid to divorce her, because, he moaned, she’ll get all my money.

The idea that some things may be more important than money was beyond him. Besides, he apparently was afraid to make a move in that direction, partly because the new wife was extremely popular at the Institution and divorcing her would have made him a pile of sh!t in the other inmates’ estimation. He didn’t feel he could afford to move someplace else…and he probably was right.

So he stayed horribly married to her.

At any rate, my mother died fairly young, partly because of her incessant cigarette-huffing; partly because of malnutrition while she was growing up; and  no doubt because of the amoebic dysentery she caught while we were in  Saudi Arabia and the unholy treatment for it that she was subjected to.

This left him alone in Sun City…and for a guy who had spent his entire adult life in institutional settings, “alone” did NOT make it. So he moved out of the house and into the old-folkery within weeks of her death.

What a nightmare!

Well, I”m not up for rehearsing all that here. Just bear in mind: when your spouse dies, don’t be in any hurry to find a replacement!

My mother died within days of turning 65. He was 84 when he died — not bad for a male who had a bitch of a hard life. But…that left him with some 20 years without the the love of his life.

Rather promptly after moving into the Old Folkery, he married the Dragon Lady. Big mistake. She was one of the great Bitches of the 20th Century, and she made him utterly miserable.

But he refused to divorce her, because “she’ll get all my money!”

Arrrrghhhh! Daddy, some things are more important than money. 

But as a practical matter, that old saw did not apply, where he was concerned. He’d worked like an animal all his life to accrue that money, and as a practical matter, there really wasn’t anything more important to him than his money.

Nor did he seem to understand that, with my husband a partner in one of the Southwest’s most powerful law firms, the Dragon Lady was not about to get all his precious money. He never did get that message, so between what he perceived as social pressure and his fear of losing his savings, he stayed in what can best be described as a nightmarish marriage.

I wish I’d had the nerve to tell him that the witch was not gonna get all his beloved money, because his daughter — moi — was married to a lawyer who would crush the old bat like a cockroach. But I didn’t.

So he stayed married, miserably. Died, miserably. Left me with about half the money he had come away with at my mother’s death. That precious money.

/eyeroll/

None o’ my bidness, eh?

Well, anyhow… Sometimes I do wonder how, given the gawdawful stress my father faced at the end of his life, how on earth he survived into his 80s. Poor man! How he must have suffered…

I, thanks to him and thanks to good luck, am not suffering. And hope not to, between now and the looming end of my life. Keep the hassles away from my son, and leave all the cash and property to him as his inheritance. Just let me live out the last few years, weeks, and days of my life in peace.

If there is any such thing….

HOW do dogs know????

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Doggy telepathy, right?

Obviously, Ruby can see me sit down. Get comfortable. Open the computer on my lap. Start playing with it. But how does she know the exact moment when really, truly, I do not want to drop everything, get up, traipse across the house, open the back door, and let her out?

She does know. Absolutely.

And there will be no loafing for the human when this dawg is around. No chance!

Let her outside? Next chore is to wait around till she’s finished patrolling the backyard and then let her back in.

😀

Yuch! It is hot and wet out there. Not yet 9:30 and the weather is already ungodly. Way too hot and humid to leave the back door open so she can come back in at her whim.

The coyote issue is getting a bit more intense, too. As our local wild canids get more tame, I grow more reluctant to leave a 20-p0und corgi toddling around the backyard by herself, unobserved and unguarded.

****

Amusement 0f the day, later on, will be testing a new wine M’hijito showed up with. Uhm…make that “wine,” quote-marks included.

Understand: I have my main meal of the day between noon and 2:00 p.m. And because yes, I do like a glass of wine with a good meal, that is when I snort down my daily dose of what he regards as booze.

He gets all worried about this. Apparently he thinks I’m a lush, and that I’m swilling down half a bottle or more. Every day.

This is somewhat distant from the truth. Yes, I do snort down wine with lunch. I usually have a glass — at most a glass and a half — of wine with that mid-day meal.

Shocking, ain’t it?

This is a habit I picked up from an old boyfriend, a guy with European origins who did, indeed, start tippling his wine along about mid-day. Because…that was what his own people did.

Since it looked very much like I was going to marry this guy, “his own people” were fast evolving to become “my people.” And I wanted to fit in.

Lemme tellya: my parents about had 15 shit-fits. 

Not that they didn’t drink themselves. They did, indeed. In fact, my father could (and did) brew his own.

Long story short: after some months, it became clear that if I married our guy, I would never see my parents again. They just hated the man, partly as a matter of racism and partly because they genuinely thought he was a jerk.

I deep-sixed that relationship…but did not deep-six the wine. 😀

And so, over the decades (and that’s what it’s been: decades), I’ve been in the habit of swilling a glass or two (or three…) of wine every day.

Shocking, eh?

Well, my son pretty much abhors this habit. And I will say…he probably has somethin’ there. It can’t be good for you to be gulping down a couple of glasses worth of wine every day.

No! Baaaaad basselope!

So I can’t get irked over his resentment of my swilling habits. But…neither do I feel much enthusiasm to knock them off….  😀

He has tried to reform my evil ways. No luck, poor kid.

So now he’s found a new tack: deflect my boozing onto non-alcoholic booze!  

Don’tcha love it?

Seriously, if this stuff is drinkable, you may be sure I’ll be switching over to it.

He just showed up with it a day ago, so I haven’t tried it yet. But this afternoon I will, with dinner. Should be innaresting to see (uhm…taste?) what happens.

{chortle!}

The real truth is, what I need to switch over to is iced tea. Or iced water.

This would require me to behave like a grown-up. And we know I have a moral objection to that, right?

😀

Hotter than the Hubs

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6:15 p.m., and it’s 105 on the back porch.

The back porch wherein no sunlight penetrates….

{whine whinge!!} It’s SO hot, so miserable that it’s hard to believe this is Arizona.

Yeah, it does get HOT in Arizona. But as we like to brag, “it’s a dry heat.” Today the oven appears to be attached to the plumbing. We’ve got hot, all right. But also weirdly damp. 

An unpleasant wind has been blowing all afternoon, waving the trees around in the distance. And we have a weird, high overcast. Very thin clouds, gathered over us like a sheet on a bed. They’re keeping the heat close to the ground, and the wind is blasting that heat back and forth.

Saaaave us!

Ohhhh well. Ruby and I are barricaded inside the house. The AC is blasting away…we can only hope it keeps on blasting, and doesn’t crap out in the middle of the night.

My excellent son brought over some good things to eat, and so the human is stuffed. Presumably the dog is, too, since she just scarfed down a dish of pooch chow.

This junket to our house was very kind of him: it rescued me from having to walk to the Fry’s or the Sprouts. They’re close enough…but in this heat, nothing is close. So I was mighty glad to be spared the grocery-store hike.

Tomorrow the temp is predicted to hit 110. Again: not surprising at this time of year. But still…heh! lamentable. 

One of my neighbors — a great favorite of mine — has rented an apartment in Prescott: a cowtown and tourist trap up north on the Rim. It’s not far from where our ranch was. But…hmm ….  Y’know, the ranch wasn’t exactly balmy in the dead of summer.

Lessee…. Tomorrow Prescott is supposed to hit 113.

Well. It’s better than 120. I guess.

Not enough better, IMHO, to make it worth renting or buying real estate up there! 😀

 

Hot and Hellish

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Lovely, lovely Arizona. 

At 3:30 in the afternoon, it’s 108 in the shade of the back patio. And overcast. 

Got that? 108 under a blanket of gray clouds.

What a place! Almost as lovely as lovely Arabia. Ick!

My son, figuring to protect me from myself (somebody has to, right?), brought over a few cans of beeroid.

And “beeroid“is the operative term: the damn stuff is non-alcoholic!

😀

LOL!  

Actually, in the flavor department, it’s not bad. Tastes much like real beer…a little bland, but otherwise acceptable.

WhatEVER…I am NOT in the mood to venture out, on foot, (the kid still has my car) to hike through cloudy (gawdawful!) heat and wind for the sake of a six-pack of beer.

On the other hand, neither am I in the mood to deprive my little self.

So here we are, perched on the bed, peering through the back windows as we watch the storm pile up, and…swilling. Beeroid, is what we’re swizzling..

Tried to talk M’hito into coming over for dinner. He, being no fool, was having NONE OF IT. So…okay…there’s some work I don’t hafta do.

And instead of that steak in the fridge, I reckon we’ll have some spaghetti. Well, I will: that dawg will turn up her cute little nose at spaghetti. 😀

By dinner time, this storm will have rolled into our parts, and we won’t want to be dodging raindrops to grill a slab of meat.

Hmmmmm….  Actually….that was prob’ly a smart move on The Kid’s part. This weather is growing worse with mathematical élan! Wind is picking up fast. Ugh! Looks like we’ll both be glad we stayed hunkered down in our respective caves. Temp.: 108 degrees. Wind speed: a mere 9 mph…just now… But tree tops are waving in the wind, a standard sign that soon the wind will be whipping us all around.

***

Uggleee afternoon. The sky’s the color of mud.

Sure am glad I don’t have to go anywhere this afternoon. And especially glad I won’t be driving home from work in a storm through rush-hour traffic.

Retirement: it’s the business!! 😀