Coffee heat rising

Round and Round They Go…

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And where they bite, no one knows. ARF!

Actually, this morning’s junket around the park was uneventful. Quiet. Arfifarious. Ruby declined to try to eat any of our fellow dog-walkers’ companions. (Either that, or the dog-walkers have finally wised up a bit…) Weather was hot, humid, icky — reminiscent of (un)lovely Saudi Arabia.

Mornings like this remind me of oooohhhh how glad I am that I no longer live out there! What a gawdawful place!

Seriously: a swampy morning like this would be S.O.P. over there. Useta be: all summer long we’d wake to water dripping off the eaves as though it had rained half the night…under a clear blue sky. That’s how humid it was: the air SO WET that water would condense out of it and piddle off the eaves like rain.

LOL! Swamp or no, the park is always fun…or at least pleasant. This morning we encountered a handsome young father pushing his obscenely adorable baby along in a carriage. Awwwww! What could be cooler, eh? 

😀

Well. Maybe “cool” wasn’t exactly the term. But he and his urchin were indisputably charming.

Otherwise…what? Well…one “what” is that, as we hiked along a particularly affluent street in Lower Richistan, I was suddenly struck by the resemblance between the upscale section of the Hood and a historic Phoenix district called Palmcroft.

That tract is part of the larger, also highly historic area called Encanto: a place full of gorgeous old houses dating back as far as the 1920s.

Our area is much newer…but here in the 21st century, no one would dast to call it “new.” The houses are edging on to “historic” themselves, many of them very pretty, all of them handsomely maintained. The Young and the Affluent do adore “historic” houses, and they flock in here to buy them…bearing well-stuffed pocketbooks.

This pushes real estate prices up and up and up. I couldn’t even begin to buy a house down near the park — an area that I could easily have afforded a decade or so ago, when I moved in here.

Therein lies a main reason that I want to stay in this house till I croak over: if I can leave the place to my son, he’ll be able to afford to go anywhere he pleases. 

  • Fancy-Dan Scottsdale: no problem
  • Ritzy Paradise Valley: call in the movers!
  • Back to his dad’s home town, Grand Junction, Colorado: off to the scenic upscale(!) hills
  • San Francisco, where each of us privately believes we belong: California, here we come!

You name it, he can be there. Or…he may choose to just stay here and enjoy this handsome upscale tract.

And it is an exceptionally pleasant place to live. Centrally located. Handsomely built. Mature landscaping. Gorgeous park. Adorable kids. And nowadays: an increasingly awesome public transit system.

Seriously: you can live here now without a car. And, incredibly enough, I do! 

Such are one’s thoughts as one’s dog tugs its human around our park. I love it here…my dawg loves it here…we ain’t movin’…isn’t that the cutest li’l kid you ever saw!… I want my kid to get this place, lock stock & barrel…

The Phone Is Not Your Friend

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The other day I learned something that just dropped my jaw!  Telephone operators, despite any hallucination you may have to the effect that it’s illegal to eavesdrop on you, sit there as they while away the workday hours and listen to customers’ conversations.

Noooo kidding! In the course of a discussion about my service and lack thereof, the phone company’s operator admitted that she knew what I habitually talk about over the phone — naughty or nice — because she had been listening to me.

We’re talking about land lines here… I’ve ever been too lazy to force myself to use the newer technology. But no indication was given to suggest she couldn’t do this with any technology that the phone company manages.

***
CAN you imagine?
***

I was pretty horrified. And I’ll tell you: after this I’ll use the landline phone a WHOLE lot less. Whenever I can force myself to learn the accursed new technology, I’ll get rid of the landline altogether. But believe me: I will NEVER trust that no one else can spy on any phone conversation…not now, nevermore.

Guess this is gonna push me, finally, to learn the current technology. I’ve felt if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it. And frankly, just have not wanted to be bothered with learning a whole new system of carrying on phone conversations.

That notwithstanding, after all these years of being assured that phone operators were required keep their pretty little noses out of your business, henceforth I will assume that someone, somewhere may very well listening to what I’m saying.

Y’know…I’m sooooo lazy. My problem with the kewl current phone technology is that I tend to feel if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it! My phones work and always have worked just as I want them to (well…except for the nuisance calls from the ba*tard phone solicitors). So I’ve felt exactly NO compulsion to get rid of my antique land lines, sign up for fancy new service, and learn how to use a whole new technology.

But I guess I’m gonna hafta.

So… old tech or new tech, do be aware: 

Apparently phone company staff can hear everything you say. If they choose to listen in on you, they surely can. And do.

Soooo…..when you’re yakking on the phone, keep a lid on anything you don’t want someone else to know about…

Trudge Trudge Trudge

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Holeee maquerel! WHAT a day!!!

Trudged from pillar to post and back to pillar. Metaphorically, of course: most of the trudging was done in cars.

My excellent son, Ian the Great, drove me way to Hell and Gone, from one fine Valley Center (the Mayo Clinic in North Phoenix) and through one fine commercial district to another to another (shopping center after shopping center).

And…well…I’ll tellya: I could come to hate living in this place.

Seriously: the honored Valley of the Sun gets more and more like Southern California as each day passes. And yes, I sure as Hell did hate living in Southern California.

Well…at least we racked up the miles on his car, not mine. The Dog Chariot is still at his house, kiped from me a few weeks ago. No: I haven’t gotten around to buying another car, and I haven’t gotten around to leasing one.

And frankly…hang onto your hats, folks…I may not replace the Chariot, not with either a rental or a new purchase.

BECAUSE….hevvin help us!… I’m finding it’s bizarrely true that you may not need to own a car to get around in this city. 

No kidding.

First off, I live in a concentrated, highly commercialized area. Within easy walking distance of the Funny Farm, we have…

* 3 major grocery stores (Albertson’s, Fry’s, Sprouts)
* 1 full-service computer retailing and repair store
* 1 large, major  bookstore
* A car rental business
* 1 veterinarian
* 1 clinic, open for emergencies as well as routine care
* several clothing stores
* a Walgreen’s
* a Basha’s supermarket
* an El Rancho market
* a discount store
* a shoe store

One could no doubt go on and on…that’s as many as I can remember, but there are others.

Next off…the ‘Hood exists at the nexus of public transit in this part of town. Not one, not two, but THREE main drags pass right by my  house. I can walk to a bus or train that will take me anywhere from the ASU West campus in Glendale to the ASU main campus in far-away Tempe. Within six square blocks of my house, I can pick up a bus or train at over half-a-dozen stops! And if I walk another three blocks to the city’s central main drag, I can get on a bus that will take me all the way into the central business district — downtown — and from there into commercial and residential points south.

Which, I suppose, is a way of saying we’re in the middle of everything. 

The Choirless Sunday Proceeds

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Hmmmmm…. So, the MayoQuacks are (again!) precluding my attending choir or even going to church by demanding that we traipse to the Mayo Clinic way to Hell and gone out in Scottsdale.

Yes. That’s damn near an hour’s drive. 

Not like my son has nothing else to do with his time, either — right?

This is NOT the first time the damn Mayo has scheduled — unilaterally, no feedback from the victim — an appointment on Sunday morning, on the f8cking far side of Scottsdale.

Why do they do that?  Why are they even open at all on Sundays, other than for emergency visits? Today’s junket is for a rather routine (if exceptionally annoying) test.

Most annoyingly, it’s not the first time they’ve done this. Apparently busting up the patient’s religious worship and weekend activities is S.O.P. with that bunch.

Appealing to M’hijito is pointless: he thinks the Mayo can do no wrong.

***

So…how is The Ailment coming along?

Therein lies the question, hm?

Frankly, I think it’s getting a little better. The crazy-making tingling has been gone — as in GONE gone — for a fair part of the morning (it’s ten to noon as we scribble). Just now, it’s back — possibly as a result of my pounding on the keyboard. But…no: the lip tingling is back, too…and…well, I don’t chew on the keyboard. 😀

I suspect the fact that the bzzzzzzzzzzz in the lips and hands died down for the past two or three hours is tryin’ to tell us something. It may be that this thing is just gonna take a long time to clear up, a little at a time.

Meanwhile, we get to waste our time, energy, and gasoline schlepping to the effin’ far side of effin’ Scottsdale.

And mean-meanwhile, a hefty list of grocery-store needs awaits. I’m hoping I can get my beleaguered son to take me to AJ’s Fancy-Dan Overpriced Grocery Store on the way home from Doctor Hell. Or at least to a Fry’s or a Safeway…we shall see.

****

Hmmmmmmm…..  Okay, I’ve gotten up from the beloved Thos. Moser rocking chair — a hard wooden affair — twice. And each time, standing up has NOT hurt!

What is the body tryin’ to say to us?

Well…we haven’t given it enough time to have a serious say: my sojourns in the rocker have been quite brief. A matter of minutes.

Míjito is presumably on his way over here as we scribble. So let’s try sitting here until he surfaces: with any luck, at least 15 or 20 minutes, but better: 30 or 40 minutes.

If sitting down in a non-sagging chair without wriggling that joint around is what makes it stop hurting,… well… we surely can arrange that. Every day, all the time, eh?

Or, if gently swaying back and forth in a wooden rocker makes it stop hurting…whaddaya bet we can manage that, too?

Choirless Sunday

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Ugh. Still haven’t figured out how to stay out of Orangewood, the prison for old folks [now called “The Terraces,” apparently]. Oh well: I’ll figure that out later…if it can be figured out.

Meanwhile, it was off to the park with the Human and the Dog. Speaking of “Ugh!,” the weather is sunny…and soggy. A humid, shiny morning: less than perfectly pleasant. That notwithstanding, we circumnavigated the park — upwards of a mile’s stroll — with me mooning along: wishing I could be back on the church choir.

After the beloved Scott retired from the choir’s directorship, the new clergy took to hiring guys who expected choir members to be able to sing on the professional level. Well…I can sing along just fine. And I can carry a tune just fine. But in Arabia, we did not have music lessons. 

Well: some did. Our neighbors hired a piano instructor for their kid. But my father was not ABOUT to spend his hard-earned riyals on any such thing!

Result: I cannot read music! If I can hear a piece of music, I have no trouble learning it. But I can’t read sheet music.

That kinda disqualifies me from the much fancier choir our church now has. All of those folks are functioning on the professional level or close to it…and believe me, they can figure out how something is supposed to sound by reading the sheet music.

So that’s disappointing.

If I had a car (still do not: and I expect that quarrel to be permanent), I could go out to the Unitarian church, which has a kind of sing-along choir. For my taste, though, they’re a bit too lovey-dovey. I’m just NOT the hug-and-kiss type. You’re all very nice, folks: but keep your hands (and your lips) to yourself!

The Methodist church down on Central Avenue, which was similar to the Episcopalian outfit I was attending, has closed. Property values in that upscale business district had gone too high, apparently, to allow a low-rent tenant like a church to continue.

There’s another Episcopalian church (I think that’s what they are…) down by the park. But I found it singularly uninspiring: left me less than enthused about driving down there and dodging the park’s population of bums.

Heh! So…that leaves Sunday morning for Doggy-Walks!

Good Morning, Dogmerica!

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Scarfety chomp munch munch scarf scarf chomp…  Ruby’s way of greeting the morning. Arf! we say to that.

Lately back from the ayem tromp around the park. Apparently the Human tromped on an ant’s nest: Crazy-itchy spots on the feet.

Hey, stupid! Next time remember to wear a decent pair of shoes! 

😀

Honestly! Humans aren’t very bright, are they?

It is a beautiful morning, though. High, thin overcast softens the brilliant sunlight and gives it a golden cast. Ruby as usual enamored herself of every passing human.

My gawd but people love corgis. The cuteness does it, apparently.

* * *

{sigh} We may be coming up on the last few morning walks around that park. M’hijito has been talking up the glories of prisons for the decrepit such as Orangewood, a dreadful motel that my father moved into after my mother died.

It’s not actually dreadful, objectively speaking. It’s just that..well…communal living is about as not my style as anything can get.

Truly. I despise living in close quarters with other people

  • No, I do NOT want to listen to your choice of television shows.
  • No, I do NOT want to hear your toilet flush.
  • No, I do NOT want to overhear your conversations.
  • No, I do NOT want to hear your microwave beeping.
  • No, I do NOT want to listen to your favorite radio talk show.
  • No, I do NOT want to smell whatever packaged gunk you’ve heated in your microwave.
  • No, I do NOT want to listen to your dog yap.
  • No, I do NOT want you to have to listen to my dog yap…
  • No, no, no, no, and N-O-O-O-O-O!!!!!!!

Seriously: It’s getting harder and harder to see how I’m going to avoid being locked up in an institution for the elderly and the decrepit. And that is NOT the way I want to go out.

I hated, loathed and despised living in the university dorms. Just HATED it!!!!!

That was the way I began my adulthood. And now it’s beginning to look like that’s the way I’m going to end adulthood.

There simply MUST be a better way to pass through the tag end of your life. But I’ll be damned if I can figure out what it is!

***

On the other hand, it does have to be said that these jails offer some serious benefits for the unattached elderly.

The staff at Orangewood were wonderful to my father. You couldn’t hope to find more caring, more skilled, and more knowledgeable prison guar…uhmmm…caretakers. I surely couldn’t have given him even a decent fraction of the attention and care that he got from them.

He doted on my mother — apparently loved her more than anyone or anything in his life — so she was cared for like a queen during the last weeks and months of her life. By the time he fell ill, though, I was running late on the deadline for my dissertation and could NOT interrupt that project to hang out at Orangewood and nurse him as he passed into the Next World. And it might be recalled that he had bestowed one beating too many on me as I was growing up, a circumstance that left me with no great desire to scotch the Ph.D. and stay at his house or at some institution to babysit him.

He had already decided to move to Orangewood — the only reason he wasn’t ensconced there when my mother’s smoking habit caught up with her was that she had flat refused to move out of her beloved Sun City house. She wasn’t in her funeral urn more than a few minutes before he was arranging to get out of Sun City and into the old-folkerie.

He liked that kind of thing, though. Institutional living would’ve made me crazy then and will make me crazy now, if I’m forced into it. How exactly to avoid it, though, kinda escapes me.