Arizona summer

The High Price of Grass

/ skidaz / Leave a comment

 

lawn3No, I’m not talking about weed, Mary Jane, Kush, I’m talking about the stuff in my yard–or lack of stuff in my yard.  Long ago,  I chose not to grow winter grass, just summer grass.

In March, I began the task of overseeding, patching, mulching, and fertilizing.  The water sprinklers ran three times of day.  Unlike other parts of the country, the Southwest rarely gets free water from Heaven.  Yet, the dogs enjoy romping through wet grass and leaving paw prints on my floors.

03-not-weird-facts-rain-Mr_Twister

Over a month has passed and my lawn looks terrible.  It’s filled with splotching dead areas which refused to grow–even over the septic tank!  I’ve spent copious amounts of money trying to have an attractive, lush lawn to no avail.  Then yesterday, I received a water bill from the city.  OMG!  My water bill had quadrupled!  It was almost half a grand!  (Water is damn expensive in the desert.)

bad-grass-cropped2

I’m in a quandary; I don’t know what to do.  For sure, I’m reducing the watering schedule, but should I take out all the grass and put in rock or astro turf?  Resod? Spray paint the bare patches green?  Or maybe, I simply shouldn’t worry about the dismal look of my backyard.  No one can see it but me.  The dogs certainly don’t mind.

Once upon a time, someone said to me, “That’s just like you, Sue.  You always want to take the easy way out.”  I beg to differ.  I’m usually up for a challenge, but with temperatures over 100, an inviting pool, an inflatable lounge, and a cold beer, I’m no longer going to fret over my dismal attempt to grow grass.  Maybe next year.

 

 

Pricks

/ skidaz / Leave a comment

cactus

 

Arizona is awash with pricks!  Before you get your knickers in a knot, I’m not being bawdy.  The reality is the desert is full of pricks.  Perhaps, piercing needles are the first line of defense for smoldering summers, or perhaps, deadly burrs and barbs help flora survive.  I don’t know.  But Mother Nature early on forced me to employ a landscaper.

th

Of course, I, first, tried to control errant cacti by myself.  Then an inch-long spine impaled my leg.  A jumping  cholla attacked my foot on my way to the mailbox in my flip flops.  An agave ripped open my wrist when I tried to free a lost baby quail.  I was so stupid to think I could trim a palo verde tree and survive–wrong, my arms looked like I’d been in a lion’s den.

IMG_1388

Bougainvillea and other gorgeous flower plants also wreck havoc.  When picking grapefruit, oranges, limes, and lemons, as most of the branches have razor-sharp needles.  I’m glad I don’t take blood-thinner.  I would need a transfusion for the amount of times I’ve been stuck.

So if you come to my house for dinner, don’t have one too many and end up with these pricks!

IMG_1389

 

Labor Day…Humbug!

/ skidaz / Leave a comment

the-labor-day

Please know I have no problem with honoring our nation’s workforce; they earned it.  Further, I do know the first Monday in September has been a national holiday for 123 years.  However, as a child I loathed Labor Day, for it signaled the end of summer. My world screeched to a standstill.

unoccupied-traditional-carousel-fair-ground-ride-e152mj

The city swimming pools closed, the amusement park went on hiatus, and the wonderful county fair was over.  By Tuesday, the pools would be drained, the park concessions shuttered, and the fair carnies would disassemble their rides and head south.

autumn_1490388c

The weather noticeably changed; soon all of the trees would shed their leaves, and I’d be helping rake them.  Then winter would come, and months would pass without sunshine. No green grass, no flowers, naked trees–I found it depressing.

porter_school_class

Yet, the worst thing about Labor Day was that Tuesday I’d have to go back to school!  I didn’t hate school, but I did find it stifling.  In my era, school was highly regimented.  I found it absurd the older I got that we had regularly scheduled bathroom breaks.  As a fourth grader, I absolutely knew if I had to go to the restroom.  I didn’t need to line up in the hall, march downstairs in the girl’s line to the potty.  (The boys had their own line on the opposite side of the hallway, and the teacher sashayed down the middle.)  It was so stupid and rather insulting to be led like cattle to the loo.

2UaWuXzNCjh58.febm8SMA

I kept a calendar counting down the days to my first break.  Thanksgiving was an eternity; Christmas was eons.  In the meantime, I suffered through the humility of having my paper torn up in front of the class due to my poor handwriting.  I slogged through math.  I weathered my weekly flutophone class.  I consciously programmed myself to not pee on demand; my sole act of defiance against the system.

Fortunately, in Phoenix, I no longer dread Labor Day where  I swim in the pool, grill a rib-eye, and knosh on salad.  However, when I shopped the grocery Labor Day specials this week, I was a tad miffed pork, baby back, ribs were buy 1, get 2 free.  WTF?  What’s a Lone Ranger suppose to do with 12 pounds of ribs?  Shuffle off, Labor Day.

 

 

I Beg Your Pardon, Mr. President

/ skidaz / Leave a comment

six-point-ball-tipped-sheriff-badge-4641-p

The events of the last few weeks have left me thunderstruck.  I have zero tolerance for malicious hate.  Further, I have zero tolerance for megalomaniacs–folks consumed with wealth,power, and omnipotence.  Folks, who don’t play by societal rules, for they are above the law.

I’ve witnessed first hand the ascension of the former Sheriff.  Over time, he morphed into a madman, fueled by a large campaign chest and national media attention.  He bragged about his inmates wearing pink underwear, eating green bologna, and sleeping in tents in Phoenix summers.  Now, anybody who has taken a criminal justice course knows rehabilitation or habilitation is not accomplished through humiliation.

As time went on, he focused on Latinos.  His deputies routinely stopped brownish, innocent American citizens.  He spent a million investigating President Obama’s birth certificate.  He staged an assassination attempt against himself.  Clearly, he was hell-bent on furthering his national image. Over and over, he was accused of racial profiling, defiance of the law, and ignoring court orders. He thumbed his nose and proclaimed, “I’m just upholding the law.”

I could cite countless examples of his grandstanding, like the $92 million Maricopa County wasted on his defense in the racial profiling case.  Months ago, he was found guilty and awaited sentencing.  He asked the President to pardon him.  Friday afternoon, it was delivered.  He said he and his wife planned to celebrate with spaghetti, calamari, and red wine at their favorite Italian restaurant.  “I’m not through with politics; I have a lot to offer.” After 24 years as sheriff and at 85-years-old, that seems preposterous!  But I’ve never danced in the spotlight.  Some egos must not die until their last breath.

Mr. President, while I find your acceptance of proven, institutional racism unconscionable, I abhor your pardon of a man who failed to investigate hundreds of sex abuse cases, many of which involved children. Guess rape or sexual molestation didn’t feed the world’s toughest sheriff’s megalomania.

 

Swimming with O Rings

/ skidaz / Leave a comment

IMG_1141 2

Several years ago, one of my dearest friends since childhood wrote a delightful book, Swimming to Italy.  (It is available on Amazon.)  I was searching for a title for this blog, and hers immediately landed in my mind.

As I’ve noted numerous times, my new life has taken me thousands of miles from my comfort zone.  While I’ve come to understand more about home repairs than I ever wanted to know, I’ve managed to utilize my research and study skills in a plethora of new ways.  In fact, I find it curious many of my friends contact a schlep like me about appliances, plumbers, and cabinet refinishers.

Last week, however I was rocked with a new lesson.  The saga began with a leak in the automatic pool chlorinator.  (This is a wonderful device–under $100– that eliminates the need for rubber ducky floating around the pool.)  The pool repair guy diagnosed the problem–the cap needed a new O ring.  After it was lubed and installed, the leak stopped.

360d9e44-cd3e-40d9-8739-51e6d9b5e924_400

Two days pass and the repairman returns.  The pool motor is surging.  Really, this is a high-end motor, less than 5 years old.  “I think I should just backwash the filter, and your problem will be solved.  You do it regularly, right?’

“Rarely.  I can get the valve down, but I’ve not strength to pull it up.  Even my uber-strong cabana boy has difficulty helping me.”

Pool guy backwashes and decides to take the valve apart.  “No wonder it was so difficult to pull up.  Look at these O rings.”

ORINGS4

Now, there were three more, bad O rings in the plunger valve.  Repair done.  New O rings.  All is…NOT well.  The motor surges again, which for you novices means too much air in the lines, which causes the motor to rev like a hot rod at the starting line, which causes blah, blah, blah.

Again, the pool guy returns to diagnose this new problem–another worn-out O ring!  By now, you are as bored as me about TMI and O rings.  Little circles of rubber with very important jobs.  Who knew?  Who cared?  Yet given the critical necessity of their position in the circle of life, perhaps we should all invest in a company that manufactures O’s!

T-5000-All-ORing

 

 

 

 

 

 

A Timely Tale of Bullies

/ skidaz / Leave a comment

 

 

th-1A few weeks ago, I shared the story of Bob, my current cabana boy.  Bob and his burly dog, Max moved into my guest house over a year ago.  For a year, Max only ventured outside when my dogs were in the house.  If they happened to see him, they’d chase him back through his doggy door.   They’d gnash their teeth if they spied him through the sliding glass door.  I would go and visit Max; I felt sorry for him, for his dad was gone much of the time.  He spent endless hours alone–unhealthy for a pack animal.  Dogs want to belong.

th

Like some of our children, Max was a victim of bullies.  He was lonely and afraid.  Even though, I made numerous attempts to introduce him to the group, they refused…unless his dad was present.  Surprisingly, two weeks ago, Max wandered up on my patio and came through my doggy door.  Given the mid-afternoon, Phoenix heat,  my five were all asleep in various locales.  No one took notice.  And on that very afternoon, Max moved in.  He quickly adapted to our routine.  He knows his dinner is served in the laundry room, as each dog has an assigned space, i.e. office, powder room, playroom, kitchen.   (Yes, with six dogs, I need separation at meal time.)

IMG_1109

Further, like the rest of the pack, he understands I am the Alpha.  It is my way!  (Wish my own children understood I run the pack!). Curiously, though, Max quickly assumed another role–chief body guard of Sue.  I can not walk from room to room without him beside me. He follows me around the pool as I brush grit from the walls.  When repairmen come, I must banish him back to his own abode, as the hair raises down his spine and his teeth are in full display.  No doubt, he is my protector!

IMG_1197

Certainly, I was hesitant to bond with Max; he is Bob’s dog.  Yet, most of us want a haven to belong.  We don’t like being made fun of or ostracized.  Each of us has something to share; each of us wants to further the greater good.  So for the most part, the rest of the pack is relieved to not be #1 in guard duty of the old witch.  All is well.

I shall never understand why Max ventured into my house two weeks ago.  Perhaps his loneliness fueled his instinct to just belong.  Hmm.  Wonder if there’s a lesson here?

IMG_1202

 

 

Columbus Took a Chance

/ skidaz / Leave a comment

 

Screen Shot 2013-10-11 at 9.22.15 AMThe mantra of my maternal grandmother, probably my clone.  She lived to be 99.5 years, had a great sense of humor, and was overtly willing to try most everything–even a second marriage at 80 years old.

Granted it’s taken far too many years to embrace my single status, but it was time for me to take risks, e.g. go to a movie alone, go to a restaurant alone, etc.  And so, it began.  I ventured to safe havens; I didn’t get my hair and face all made up.  I’d no desire to be some old man’s purse, nor nurse.

Then I decided to do something edgy–something outside my comfort zone–something quasi-dangerous.  I took a chance and obviously survived.  I stop short of saying it was a great or an exhilarating experience; it was fine.  And I DID IT!

I’ve lived in my ‘hood for over 26 years and was always curious about a nearby bar and grill.  It looked tacky from the outside–the kind where there with lots of cars parked in front at 8:00 AM.  Once I asked my savvy daughter about it, “Mom, it’s a dive bar where they serve underage kids.”  Hmm.  Wonder why she knew that.  On another occasion while standing in the grocery store line, I heard the gal in front of me say to the cashier, “Come over tonight.  Hot roast beef sandwich special.”  Hmm.  One of my favorites.

All this data was stored someplace in brain.  Would I retrieve it?  Would I venture into this elusive, dangerous place?  Again, another several years passed.  This week Phoenix was overwhelmed with sweltering heat.  I’d spent two weeks awaiting a cooktop replacement.  It was far too hot to turn on the oven, or to cook on the outdoor grill.  I was tired of microwaved food.  I was hungry, but it was taco night.  Damn, the last thing I needed was a spicy taco to ignite my hair.  I assessed my ‘hood options; none whose cuisine appealed.   Perhaps, I should go to the sketch bar.  Don’t clean yourself up; go as you are.  You’re not looking for the proverbial love in all the wrong places.  Suck it up and go.

As I drove the two miles,  I weighed my decision.  My inner voice echoed, “Sue, are you sure you want to do this?”  I struggled.  What would my kids say?

I walked into this supposed dive bar, which wasn’t dive at all.  Lord, I’ve been in worse.  Over 90% of the folk in there were my age, and fortunately, I didn’t see anyone I knew.  I ate my dinner, listened to the DJ, and silently played his trivia game.  Silently?  Yes, they had formed teams hours ago. Though I knew the answers, I wasn’t on a team. No need to be rude.

I smiled in my short trip back home.  I slew a dragon; I conquered my fear of the unknown; I survived.  I took a chance.

If there’s a next time, I will clean myself up and join a trivia team.

 

 

 

Swimming with Spiders

/ skidaz / Leave a comment

Phoenix summers are not for the faint-hearted.  The stifling heat, skin-burning pavement, fiery hot winds are brutal to visitors.  As they exit the jetway at Sky Harbor, they quickly realize they’ve arrived in a place Satan vacates in July.

th-1

When my eldest, Annie, was also my only child, I established a summer routine.  We’d don our swim suits around 11:00 AM, play in the backyard pool for an hour, change into dry clothes, eat lunch, watch a video, and then she’d toddle off to nap time, while I worked on my dissertation.

Unlike high humidity states, wet towels and swim wear were draped on patio chairs; they dried instantly and were easily accessible for the next pool frolic.  On Tuesday morning, I gathered up the swim suits from the patio, pulled up Annie’s suit, and put on my two-piece.  (Yes, I realize I never did/have/will cause men to ogle at my body in a two-piece.  I simply prefer them to those tight one-piecers that hurt in all the wrong places.) And just like every other morning, we frolicked in the pool.

Fortunately, the bathroom had an outside door from the pool.  I helped Annie strip off her wet suit and pull on her shorts and t-shirt.  She ran off to find a Barbie doll as I began my disrobe routine.

th-2

When I tossed my wet bra on the floor, I saw it.  Right there.  In the bra cup.  A big bug.  On closer examination, not an insect…a spider.  And not just any spider.  A FEMALE BLACK WIDOW!

 

Unknown

OMG!  It appeared to be alive.  I swished my bra in the toilet and flushed the arachnid away.  Oh, sweet baby Jesus, did I just spend an hour in chlorinated water with a spider on my chest?  Am I like the princess and the pea?

Thankfully, I just laughed off this encounter and didn’t bother to research said spider species.  Had I knew then, what I know now, I would have died from my own imagination.

Female Black Widows, unlike males or juveniles, have a red hourglass shape on the underside of their abdomens.  Unlike males or offspring young, female venom is 15 times more toxic than venom of a prairie rattlesnake!  (Be still my heart.)  While death from a Black Widow bite is extremely rare, human victims are nauseated, experience  muscle aches, and may have difficulty breathing.

images

In retrospect, I will never know why Wilhelmina, the Widow, didn’t bite me.  Perhaps, she took pity on my flat chest; she saw first-hand I needed to make up with cotton what God had forgotten.  Perhaps, she was weary of sweating in the relentless sun, spinning a web, and yearning for a splash in the pool.  Or perhaps, she had mated with Wesley the Widow, ate him for breakfast, and wanted to chill.

Regardless of your motivation or lack thereof, I want to belatedly thank you, Wilhelmina,  for sparing me of poison, vomit, pain, and gasps.

images-1

Coming next week:  Spider in my ear….