Coffee heat rising

Memories…of Nightmares

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{chortle!}  Sittin’ here over breakfast remembering my beloved San Francisco Bay Area relatives of the prior generation. They lived on the side of a hill in Berkeley, just below a tunnel where the train to San Francisco entered the neighborhood.

Those were cool ladies: my aunt Gertrude and her mother (my great-grandmother) Clarissa, lovingly known as “Gree” by the family.

By the time I came along — after nine years in Saudi Arabia — Gree was well into her 90s. That seems to have done nothing to slow her down. She walked up that (steep!) hill almost every day, headed for a little grocery store where she bought lovely fresh produce.

Neither Gree nor Gertude drove a car. They had no need for it, truth to tell: the train would carry them into downtown Berkeley or across the Bay Bridge into San Francisco. On foot, a short climb up a set of outdoor stairs would deliver them into Gertrude’s son’s neighborhood.

At some point along the (very long!) line, though, they decided that Gree should learn to drive. I was not along on this famous ride: mercifully, I wasn’t born yet.

So Gree and Gertrude had acquired a car, and now they decide to hop into it and take a drive.

Yeah.

Somehow, they get on the Bayshore Highway — Gawd only knows how. It wasn’t designated a “freeway” yet, but that notwithstanding, it was already magnificently a main drag. This was all very Californian of them…except…well…somehow Gree made some sort of a wrong turn and drove the wrong way up an offramp! 

No kidding. There they are, two old ladies in a clunk, headed onto the Bayshore Freeway going bass-ackwards up the offramp.

They make it onto the road, and now they’re driving against the traffic on what was then one of the most dramatic freeways in the land.

Got it? Wrong way on one of the fiercest freeways in North America!

Somehow, Gertrude managed to coach her mother across the lanes of 60 mph traffic and get her to drive off the road and safely onto the shoulder. HOW…really, I cannot even begin to imagine.

If I’d been her in that passenger’s seat, I would have utterly panicked and probably been unable to utter a word. You have to say about Gertrude: she was one helluva woman!!

Why would she do that?

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One of the things that puzzles me, here in the wee hours of the morning, is why my mother killed herself that way?  

She knew what she was doing. She’d watched her mother die, hideously, of cancer.  One might say, of a self-induced cancer.

So she knew the horror and misery that particular type of suicide inflicted on the people around her — the people who had to care for her and clean up after her as she died.

She surely knew my father loved her more than life itself. She must have known she was imposing a peculiarly ugly horror on him.

She must have known — should have known, because she wasn’t stupid — that if I took off working on the Ph.D., I would be thrown out of the program. She knew that would mean eight or ten years of my life and effort wasted, thrown down the drain.

She knew — as we all had known since the late 1950s — that smoking causes cancer. She knew her gawdawful smoking habit made her little girl sick, chronically ill from the clouds of sidestream smoke filling the air in their home.

But still she puffed away. Puffed and puffed and puffed until she puffed herself into the grave.

Yeah, I know: it was an addiction.

But addictions can be overcome. She knew nicotine is addictive. She knew she could rid herself of it, even if the effort to do so would be hard and uncomfortable. But hey: harder and more uncomfortable than dying of cancer? Harder and more uncomfortable for the man who waited on her through all the vomiting and the gawdawful sickness and the horror? Harder for the daughter who watched her die and almost lost her own future to her mother’s suicide?

One wonders, here in the wee hours of the morning…

Never a Fukkin’ Dull Moment!

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Saturday noon…and now I’ve got the plumber on his way over here.

The toilet in the master bathroom is totally clogged. The one in the center bathroom, which drains through the same system, is barely working.

Jayzuz! Another pile of obscene bills, galloping down the pike!!!

Just talked to their dispatcher: she says they’re on the way.

Goodie. I had nothin’ else today than fart with that. As it were….

My son is gonna yell at me, as he always does every time I call workmen. That will add a little more fun to the day.

Ahhhhh homeownership!

Y’know…I had the strangest nightmare last night. 

It concerned my long-gone relatives in Berkeley, California. They had a pretty little bungalow in the foothills, just the sweetest house you ever saw.

When my great grand-mother passed away, her daughter (who lived in that bungalow with her and had a high-test job with Crocker-Anglo National Bank) sold the house and moved to a nice apartment downtown. The Realtor who put the house on the market explored around and discovered that its basement was full of termites!

Apparently it had been, for some time

So after they killed off the livestock, they had to get carpenters in there to rebuild the beams and stuff in the basement and attic. WHAT a mess!!!!

So…last night’s motion-picture show brought that misadventure to Arizona. Lo! in that dream a workman climbed into the attic and found it swarming with termites.

This, you understand, is not an unlikely scenario here in Lovely Uptown Phoenix. We do have termites, too, and they have been known to excavate people’s houses. And in fact, this house has had its own visitations.

The place has been sprayed several times, attic included. Far as I can tell, termite spray doesn’t last long. Apparently you have to spray a couple times a year. And since I’m royally allergic to that stuff, I tend…well, NOT to do that.

So…boyoboy! Here we go again!

Bug guy will have to spend half the day or more climbing around spraying the attic, the roof, and everyplace else he can reach…thereby rendering the yard toxic for the dog.

And toxic for me: I’ll be sick for three or four days.

Once again I’ll have to sign on for regular bug spray, so the dog and I can get sick for several days every six months. Wheeee!

It’s the “sick” part that causes me to “forget” to call our guy or to sign onto a regular contract. I don’t happen to like to get sick from breathing the fukkin’ air. Nor am I fond of cleaning up the dog barf that happens when Ruby is exposed to the stuff. Or having to take her out for doggy-walks several times a day for a week or two, until the poisoned air clears out enough that she can navigate the yard safely.

Anyway: the crisis of the moment concerns running water, not poisoned air. We shall see what happens next….

Bring Her Back

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I want my mother back.

She was murdered by the tobacco merchants of death. It was an effective way to kill her: get her hooked on an addictive, toxic weed and let her puff herself to death.

She never saw her grandson. But oh, my! How she would have loved him. How she would thought he was cool! Because he is cool.

They killed her before he could be born. She knew I was pregnant with him. But by then she was so sick from the murderous tobacco products she so loved that she simply did not care that she was about to have a grandson. And she was right: she didn’t live to enjoy him.

What the hell is wrong with our society that we allow murderous products to be manufactured and sold on the open market?

Money:

More important than life.
More important than health.
More important than our children.
More important than our families.
More important than common decency.
More important than anything, eh?

Loverly Loafing…

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WHAT a gorgeous afternoon! Cool but not too cool, warm but not too warm. Cute little kids behind us playing in their yard. Birds gliding around…DANG! But this part of the neighborhood is THE business.

Days have gone by without a car, and y’know what has happened?

That’s right:

nothing

Not one single catastrophe has occurred in the absence of the Dog Chariot.

It appears that my son is right: I really don’t NEED a car. 

Over the past week, I’ve had no problem getting to the various places I need to go, either on foot or by Uber cab. Mostly on foot: a good 90% of the places I go and things I need are within easy walking distance.

A-N-N-N-D…. A guy who drives an Uber cab lives right across the street! About 90% of the time he’s just sitting there…so if I do need a serious ride, all I have to do is walk across the street and lean on his doorbell.

😀

Seriously: I would never have thought it was so easy to get around this part of town without a vehicle.

Knowing it sooner than this could’ve saved me a lot of money, eh?

So…now I suppose we need to decide what we should do with the car, which presently resides at my son’s place. Hmmmm. What are the options, anyway?

* Give the damn thing, lock stock and over-priced barrel, to my son. Lucky him, eh?

He, of course, has his own hole in the ground into which to pour money, so the truth is, he has no need for another one.

* Sell it and run off with a wad of money.

Hmmm…and what IS the tax implication of that maneuver? Have to check into that.

* Speaking of tax implications, donate it to a worthy cause.

Would that not convert it from a tax liability into a tax deduction? Hmmm, again: let us check with our beloved Tax Lady to find out what that really means.

Well. My own thought, to the extent that I still think these days, is to give it to the Kid and let him decide what he wants to do with it. On the other hand: that seems a little self-defeating, if I could take a several-thousand-dollar tax deduction by donating it. On the other other hand, WGAS? if the car is something he needs and can really use, what do I care whether I can extract a deduction from it?

Well. I guess we’d better confer with our tax accountant before making a decision. But…hmmmm….I’d just as soon fork it over to my son as to a charity or to the government. But…let us see what we shall see. 

Another Day Later and Deeper in… ??? …

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A day later and early evening. Still sicker than a dawg. Well: that’s not surprising, since the Dawg shows no sign of anything resembling an ailment…whereas I’m banging at Death’s Door. 😀

Well.  At least…at some doctor’s door.

Jeez. Did you know you could get peripheral neuropathy in your damned teeth???  No kidding: my two upper front teeth are buzzing like an electric current is running through them. And as usual these days, the hands are stinging and tingling and hurting enough to make typing freakin’ uncomfortable.

Whatever the hell is causing this, I do wish it would go away. From what I can uncover through  my endlessly brilliant excavations of the Internet, apparently the neuropathy that afflicts the paws can take aim at other parts of your body. The lips and gums are among those parts. I’m not gonna assume that’s behind today’s fun sensations — I are a English major, after all; I are not a doctor — but it does give me something fresh to pester Young Dr. Kildare with.

Or the new doctors down the road.

YDK has moved to freakin’ Sun City — a 40-minute drive from here, through crazy-making traffic. So I’m afraid our relationship has ended. That’s too bad…because I like him a lot and found he had a fine dose of common sense: a rare commodity in an M.D.

But…now we do have a doctor’s office just down the street — within walking distance, even!   Alas, so far I’m not impressed with those folks. Nothing bad about them, mind you…but nothing notably good, either. Personally, I crave a little more than mediocrity from my doctor.

M’hijito perennially wants to drag me out to the Mayo Clinic. Their docs would be fine if they just weren’t halfway to Payson…  Sorry, but an hour of driving through thick traffic to see a doctor for 10 or maybe (if you’re lucky) 15 minutes doesn’t make it for me.

Am I the only one who imagines that medical care in America used to be significantly better 15 or 20 years ago? Honestly: these days, it hardly seems worth burning the gas to get to a doctor’s office. They don’t pay attention to what you’re saying, and even if they do hear you, they seem to miss the point you’re trying to make.

Perhaps I exaggerate, though. Or more likely,  because I’m old doctors don’t pay any more attention to me than they do any other old person. Which ain’t much…

What a culture we live in, eh?