More free-falling dog days

Today I'm feeling a little like Dr. Doolittle might have felt. A little bird with a reddish chest was checking me out through the sliding glass door to the back patio, as if it wanted to tell me something. I'm not sure what, I refilled the bird feeder. Earlier this afternoon, the little dog in my care sat on my lap for the first time. I don't know what the bird was thinking but I can certainly read the dog's mind. Food, she's saying. Feed me, I'm hungry. 

For such a little dog, Maddie has four hollow legs. There's no end to her quest to scavenge. If she can't get a treat out of me, she hoovers up peanuts dropped by the birds chomping at the bird feeder. When all else fails, she gnashes down some beatup dried-up limes (or are they lemons, who knows, they are still green) or wizened fallen pomegranates that failed to grow into fruit. Maddie will be last man standing, long after I've moldered into dust for lack of my preferred hothouse diet, because she doesn't care what she eats. I've told her if I happen to die of a stroke or heart attack on the premises, she has my permission to eat my dead body. I think she appreciates the offer.

Speaking of moldering into dust, fall is in the air in Scottsdale. You wouldn't know it by the afternoon triple digits, but the mornings are the clue:  The air is almost cold. Well, 75°F feels cold to me these days. My internal thermostat is off. So are my sleep rhythms. Well, admit it, everything in my life is off. When it all goes off the rails, you have to wonder if perhaps you got onto a different track when you weren't paying attention. 

Early in the morning, the neighborhood is quiet. All the air conditioning units have fallen silent. During the day, the neighborhood sounds like an RV park full of rumbling generators, the loudest of which is our AC unit sitting against the house outside. It probably needs some attention, but it works, thank God. The cold air thrums and bumps through air ducts buried in the walls, sounding like a marching drum corps, and spews out through vents under the ceiling, to drift gently toward the floor, the counters, the couch where we are dozing. Gradually, over the course of the night, the house settles. The fridge stops feeling compelled to make ice. The AC unit sighs for the final time around 5:00 a.m. The house holds the heat of the daytime, but I imagine the walls are breathing as the house dreams.

Maddie is a good sleeper until about 5:30 a.m., when she leaps off the couch and twitches vigorously, making her collar and I.D. tag jangle. That is my cue to leap off the couch, fumble for my glasses and sandals, and follow her to the back door. I bring along my camping headlamp so I can see her as she beelines into the gravel labyrinth. I don't think she cares if coyotes could be in the neighborhood. She's a dog on a mission. 

She's efficient at that hour, unlike any other hour. Most of the time she wanders around sniffing things. It's her nature to sniff. However, she understands darkness is for sleeping. It doesn't take her long to do her business. I can practically see her dust off her hands as she trots back inside and heads to the couch. Me, I detour to the bathroom, where it takes me longer to do my business, being still half asleep, not to mention on heart pills. By the time I get back to the couch, she's commandeered the center cushion and is pretending to be completely out. I have to fit myself around her, which I do, no complaints. I am her beck and call girl. When I fall into the temptation of wondering about the purpose of my life, which I do hourly, I keep reminding myself, I live to serve the small dog who made my day.

Hot in dog city

I'm happy to report Maya the dog survived her three days under my care. It was touch and go at first. The first two visits did not go well. The dog (who has mobility problems) would not get out of her "crate," which is what the owner calls the space under the stairs where the dog sleeps on a giant round furry dog bed on the floor behind a baby gate. The dog growled at me, even when I used my most saccharine nonthreatening wheedlesome voice: "Come on, Maya, don't you want to go outside?" 

By the third visit, Maya was starting to catch on. Plus, I think she was feeling some internal pressure. Even though she has a serious hitch in her gitalong, she beat me to the back door. As soon as I dragged it open, she flew past me, hunched over in the rocky gravel flowerbed, and added a big pile of stuff to the toxic waste dump alongside the house. A few seconds later, she squatted again, and then she was wagging her tail, all happy, like, yay, who are you, great, you are my new best friend! 

As soon as she realized I was all she was going to get, and that I was the bringer of food twice a day, she settled in and became positively friendly. We found our rhythm. I let her out, she did her business, and then I sat next to her bed on a soft pair of smaller dog beds (relics of her deceased dog buddy), and read news articles from NPR and CNN, aloud, because what else was I going to do? I had to do something. The owner in her instructions had suggested I "play" with the dog. I'm not sure what kind of play she meant. I looked around and saw no toys, and Maya did not seem inclined toward physical amusements, given she could barely walk. So, I thought news articles might suffice. 

I was relieved to be relieved of duty today when the family returned in their jumbo-size travel trailer and heavy-duty dusty black pickup. I gave back the house key and got a little glimpse into the lives of a family much richer than my own. Visiting their house was like visiting a zoo, to be honest. What family uses Alexas to wake them up at 7:00 am, even on Sunday? Now I know how to tell Alexa to turn off the damn alarm clock. 

Speaking of zoos, walking across the street from Dog #1's house to Dog #2's house and back five times a day for three days gave me some insight into the neighborhood. That's what, like thirty times? The inhabitants of this neighborhood are elusive creatures, only coming out in the early morning hours to walk their dogs. I never, not once, saw another person out walking on the street after 7:00 am. It's only maybe fifty yards from one house to the other, but I could see in all directions, and nobody but me, ever, walked outside. I saw a pool maintenance truck parked at the curb one day, and on another day I saw a person using a leaf blower in a yard. Other than that, the only signs of life were a few cars driving by, whose drivers usually waved at me. I wonder what they thought when they saw me, an oldish white lady in a sunhat, shuffling purposely across the street under the blazing sun. 

Even after dark, nobody is out on the streets. I can understand why. The air here is suffocating. I can almost feel the moisture being extracted from my eyeballs every time I go outside. The dark night air is velvety soft after the sun sets, but that doesn't make it dreamy and pleasant. Under the softness of the air, you know the desert is trying to kill you. 

I sometimes stood in the street and marveled at the perfect houses. I felt as if I were in a model town whose inhabitants had all been beamed up to the mothership. The lovely outdoor landscaping lights illuminate tall cactuses and agaves, looking like a set for a House Beautiful photo shoot, but where are the people? Occasionally I heard water splashing from behind tall concrete walls. I wonder, maybe you know the answer to this, do they make pool coolers to cool off your swimming pool on hot days? They should. I picture giant ice cubes. 

Every time I came back from visiting Dog #2, Dog #1 would sniff me with great curiosity. I felt a bit embarrassed, as if I were being unfaithful. I apologized to Maddie for two-timing her, but she didn't seem to mind. In fact, I think she kind of preferred me smelling like a dog. 

Dogsitting for the extra dog was not hard physical work but it required some attention to time management. I set alarms on my phone and tasks on my calendar. The consequences of missing a visit would be unacceptable, mainly because I would have to clean up the resulting mess, so I kept my eye on the clock constantly. The upshot of my vigilance was that I was exhausted all the time. These three days were a constant emotional drain, and from this experience, now I know I am not destined to be a dogsitter. 

In fact, it's time to start applying for jobs. The delusion that I can live within my means with the current housing shortage is going to make me sick and then it's going to kill me. The miracle of subsidized HUD housing has failed to materialize. Apparently, I have too much income. I'm not needy enough, or I failed to grovel enough, or something. It doesn't help that my former landlords failed to send whatever documentation was requested of them. Well, you know what they say: When one HUD door closes, maybe some stupid ass job door opens. I'm hoping. I'm not quite ready to give up on life, so I'm throwing myself on the mercy of the Universe in hopes of a miracle in the form of a job. So much for retiring to a cute little apartment in the desert and writing books. 

One thing I realized as I traipsed around this rich enclave: This neighborhood is just an upscale version of the weird Disneyland mobile home park in Tucson. The houses are stick-built solid and some of the front lawns are actual real live green grass, watered with real water, but the artifice of the lifestyle is the same. The mobile homes decorate their front gravel patches with lighthouses, metal javelinas, and pin-wheels. These guys in Scottsdale decorate their front patios with fountains, fancy lighting, and expensive wicker table and chair sets. It's Tucson with a few extra degrees of heat and a few extra zeros after the property values. 

It's all unsustainable. When every single day is over 111°F, you have to conclude that humans don't belong here. The earth does not care that you need water to survive. If you can't survive on nectar and prickly pear, then you should not be here. I can imagine a time in the not-too-distant future when the acquifer is drained and taps will stop flowing. The pools will evaporate, then gape and crack. The mourning doves will gradually move in under the eaves, despite the spikes you placed there to keep them out. Dust will collect in all the crevices of the marble floor tiles when the air conditioners break down and people and parts can't be found to fix them. New inhabitants will replace the old ones who flee to cooler climes: First lizards, then rabbits, then coyotes, searching for shelter from the sun. 

Dog days

I seem to have become a commodity among an underground network of neighborhood dog owners who need a dogsitter. I picture these dog owners talking on the phone: A friend of ours . . . do you want me to ask? Maybe she will . . . And I'm like, okay, I guess, whatever. Let's meet and see if your dog likes me.

So far, in addition to the dog I'm sitting now, I've met a big dog named Juno and a medium big dog named Maya. Both dogs in their earlier years probably could have dragged me off my feet and into the underbrush in pursuit of whatever lizard or rabbit or bird happened to capture their attention. Now, these dogs are old, weary, and slow, with gray muzzles and hitches in their gitalongs. I probably could walk them if they could walk, but they can't, not very well, so the dogsitting job consists of feeding them whatever weird food they require for their sensitive stomachs and letting them out to relieve themselves in the backyard, where the landscaper picks up the piles of poop.

This place (Scottsdale) is so weird. So is this life, come to think of it.

You probably remember, I'm a cat person. You've never heard me mention a dog, unless it was my brother's dog. These dog owners have kids but they don't seem to have cats. I'm not sure why, although I suspect it has something to do with their fear of cat stink in their homes. I try to be understanding, but it confounds me that they would choose to have dogs that need walking when they live in a desert city that regularly achieves 110°F in the summer. I mean, I ask you. Wouldn't you rather scoop a few turds out of a litter box than walk a dog at oh-dark thirty every morning? 

I like dogs well enough. I've met a few in my time. In addition to a zoofull of cats, my brother in Portland has raised up a succession of dogs: Ireland, Jack, Lola, Lucy, and now Maddie. I might have missed one or two. We never had dogs when we were growing up, though, so I don't know how he figured out it would be fun to have a dog. Maybe it's because he lives in a high-crime area. In that case, a watch dog makes sense.

Here in this weird enclave in Scottsdale, people leave their doors unlocked. I know. Shocking. I would never, not my door, not anyone's door, but clearly, I don't trust my neighbors . . . or anyone else, really, now that I think of it, probably because I know some people who cannot be trusted. Hm. I never, not if I'm going further than the twenty paces to the trash bin. The way my luck goes sometimes, the one random day some random hungry drug addict-type dude tests the unlocked door and helps themself to some chow (and our laptops), the blame naturally would fall on me. 

So, no. Never. Maybe it's because I used to live in downtown Los Angeles. Anyway, don't assume, that's my motto. My other motto is, if you can't be bothered to lock it up, don't complain later when it's gone. Clearly, the Universe thought someone else needed that thing more than you needed it.

Of course, locking up is no guarantee of security. A determined intruder will intrude no matter how loudly this anxious little chihuahua-poodle screams. However, it's kind of reassuring (and entertaining) to have a four-legged alarm system. Homeland security to the rescue! Trash truck, look out! Smaller dog walking by, beware, could be trouble! I try to offer praise. Dogs take their job seriously, and I want them to know I appreciate their dedication. I've known some cats who were pretty good, but dogs really have honed homeland security to a fine art. 

I'm feeling somewhat untethered these days, so it's good to have a focus. Centering my life on a dog is not a bad thing, especially if I am lucky enough to be able to stay in a lovely air-conditioned house with a washing machine that looks like it could launch me into outerspace. I'm a little nervous, though, I have to confess. Taking care of a friend's dog is one thing. Taking care of strangers' dogs in unfamiliar homes is another thing entirely. Yes, the network has vetted us both, but still. I'm an unknown quantity, and so is the dog owner. I know how I felt about my cat. I'm guessing dog owners are just as . . . devoted? 

Every time I left town, which was as infrequently as I could manage, I was always thinking of my cat and wondering how he was doing, whether my mother was giving him enough love when she dropped in to feed him, whether he was lonely, whether he would hate me when I got home. I'd give just about anything to see my cat again. I loved my mother, but I miss my cat every day. 

How can a pet parent stand to leave, knowing there is a possibility their beloved pet might not be alive when they get back? 

That's a lot of pressure on a dogsitter. 

Holding on for monsoon

The Art Trailer is a dark cocoon. The windows are now blocked with reflectix and cardboard to ward off the afternoon sun. In addition to the window coverings, box fans have been strategically placed in the main living areas to blow cold air around corners and walls. It's working. Instead of being 91°F inside the Trailer, it's only 88°F.  

In my room, three fans run constantly. Fans alone won't cut it, though. I learned from my first summer in Tucson that the answer to extreme heat is evaporative cooling. That is how I survived the days without AC when the temperature outside was 115°F and I had to wait for the AC technician to save me. Now, well into my third summer in Tucson, I know the trick. I wrap dripping wet underwear around my head and neck.  

Days are barely tolerable. Nights are endless. Without wet cloths on my head, stomach, and feet, I'd be laying on the floor panting like a dog. The good news is that cocoons have a lot of potential. Whatever grows in them might turn out to have a beautiful set of wings.

Now, I could end the blogpost with that happy poetic thought, and if I were seeking an awwww out of you, that is probably what I would do. But you might know me by now. I have often been sentimental, but not today. It's too damn hot. 

Monsoon 2023 is overdue, and I'm cranky. I don't know why, exactly. So we get a few thunderstorms. It will be just as hot in between, with the added gift of high humidity. I'm embarrassed to admit I am tired of nothing but blue sky. Wait, that's not true. I would welcome blue sky if it came with reasonable temperatures. I'm bored with the heat, that is what it is. I want a break.

Over the past couple weeks, crews blocked our roads and driveways with big trucks and cranes. They were trimming the telephone pole palms in the mobile home park. In high winds, big dead palm fronds go flying. I can imagine why: Flying fronds could take out a window or maybe knock an unsteady unbalanced wobbly old-ish person off their feet. Just saying. Anyway, I was in awe. Those guys were out there in the burning sun when the temperature was 108°F, bundled up in long sleeves and long pants, helmets, and neck scarves. How do they do it? 

The sun feels like my enemy. I always thought I was a creature of warmth and sun, but I guess I'm a lizard only within a certain range. My comfort zone is narrow. I can walk around the park in 102°F, but not until the sun goes down. Now I live in a fortress, barricaded against the threat, waiting for the insidious, relentless invasive foe in the sky to sink below the horizon. 

Leaving the burrow brings of feelings of existential angst. Last night I ventured out in the hot dark gloaming to wash my car's windshield. Then I walked around the park in the dark, trying to watch where I put my feet while I looked in people's windows. Many of the windows are dark: Their owners wisely fled the Tucson summer. However, many others stay put year round. Some of the perennials (I know for a fact) keep their thermostats set at 78°F. Imagine that. I can't.

On my last nerve

During yet another hopeless search through the medical literature, at long last, I found a description of my vestibular symptoms. I could hardly believe it. I was so relieved, I almost started weeping. After all these years, maybe, just maybe, I can get a diagnosis and maybe find a treatment.

Of course, I'm a doctor's worst patient, self-diagnosing with Dr. Google, but in this case, I'm relying on academic research articles published by the National Institutes of Health. I feel confident that the sources are reliable, even if my interpretation is not.

This particular phase of my chronic dizziness has morphed from BPPV and maybe vestibular migraines (I'm not sold on that idea) into something called vestibular paroxysmia. My symptoms are as follows, in case you know someone who has this weird and annoying malady:

• recurrent (for me, that means occurring every 45 to 120 seconds, it could be different for other people)
• spontaneous (I cannot trigger it, but I can make it more intense by moving my head)
• postural vertigo (some people have rotatory vertigo, which would be the absolute pits)
• 10 to 15 seconds in duration (others might have shorter or longer duration)
• Accompanied by ear crackling in right ear (others may or may not have some kind of tinnitus)

My head is possibly affected by changes in air pressure (causing narrowing and widening of blood vessels). That is why I went on that epic roadtrip searching for a place at low elevation that might have less variation in air pressure. 

The symptoms are no longer treatable with gravity maneuvers (Epley, Foster, etc.), thus, not likely to be BPPV. My hearing is not affected except for some minor hearing loss in my right ear during an attack, thus not likely to be Meniere's. Vestibular migraines don't come in recurrent waves with tinnitus.  

Apparently it is a biomechanical problem stemming from a vascular compression of the root entry zone of the eighth cranial nerve. That means a blood vessel, probably an artery, is encroaching on the vestibularcochlear nerve and wreaking havoc in my balance (vertigo) and hearing (tinnitus). I always suspected it was something mechanical. Why else would the waves of vertigo be synchronized with the ear crackling? Now it makes sense. A stupid blood vessel is interfering with the eighth cranial nerve. 

The nerve! 

The good news, vestibular paroxysmia is probably treatable with antiseizure medication. In fact, that is how they often diagnose this illness. They give you the drug first and if the vertigo stops, then you have it. If it doesn't, well, then there are other avenues to pursue. The down side is, the drugs can have side effects, so it's kind of like testing for witchcraft by waiting for the person to sink to the bottom of the pond. Oh, well. Guess she had it. 

The alternative to drug treatment is brain surgery, but I'm not going to think about that right now. Next step is vestibular testing, coming up this week. I can hardly wait. I'm so excited. From what I've read, it's a grueling, puke-inducing experience. 

I can't disclose what I've learned the moment I walk in the door. As a researcher, I know I need to keep my mouth shut and not proclaim my belief that eureka, I have discovered the problem. I don't want to skew the tests. I don't want to influence their reports. I will let the ENT do his thing. Then, when he looks at me and shakes his head and says what I expect him to say, sorry, Carol, we think you need to see a psychiatrist, then I can say, well, have you considered this?

I don't have the energy to fight. Today the barometer nosedived this morning, a steep 16-point decline in just a few hours. My head has been going crazy. On top of that, an old friend of mine has dementia, and it's heart wrenching to see her struggle for words. Plus, the weather in the Sonoran Desert is stupidly, ridiculously, unbearably hot. You can see I have many things to ponder. Meanwhile, the train keeps rolling through my head every minute like someone tapping me on the shoulder reminding me I'm here, I'm still here, pay attention to me. 

I can't think anymore. It's late. Tonight, the moon is full and golden. The AC is resting, so it's blessedly silent in the Trailer, and tomorrow will be another day to try it all again and maybe get it right this time. 

Moving up in elevation

I'm back in Tucson after my week of dog-sitting. I'm trying to find the humor in 105°F and 7% humidity. Is it funny? I feel as if it ought to be but the joke is just out of reach. I think my brain might be overheating. At last, summer has come to the desert. The swamp cooler sitting in the gravel outside my bathroom labors mightily to hold the inside air to something bearable. The fan roars just outside my bedroom door. I'm lucky to have a burrow to be trapped in. Living in a car would be death in this kind of heat. 

My dear Phoenix friend returned from her vacation on Thursday. The next day we put Maddie, the chihuahua/ poodle/ neurotic nutcase, into the back of her Tesla and embarked on a short road trip to some copper mining towns in the Verde Valley. The temperature dropped a few degrees with each thousand-foot rise in elevation. The cactuses that I've learned to disdain gave way to trees. We got stuck in a traffic jam on I-17 (caused by somebody's utility trailer catching fire) and learned how many watts of electricity a Tesla uses even when it's not moving. Once we got past that spectacle, the highway opened back up to full speed ahead. Before long, we found the way to Cottonwood, where I had an excellent cheese quesadilla in a charming cafe. My friend enjoyed a generous humus plate. After lunch, we walked up one side of Main Street and back on the other, carrying the dog over the patches of hot asphalt. 

It was an educational trip in many ways. We both failed to bring dog food on the trip, or a dish, so we bought dog food at a Safeway and fed it to Maddie from our cupped hands. We learned how to find Tesla superchargers, a feat that required driving in circles more than once. After my epic road trip, which entailed a lot of retracing and backtracking while the GPS lady admonished me, I am reassured to know even Tesla's GPS maps don't always get it right. 

If you are one of those people who always knows where they are going, you should try getting lost once in a while. I know from extensive experience, getting lost is a great way to see a place.

We finally found a supercharger in Sedona. At last, I got to see the famous red cliffs people rave about. I didn't actually like those looming cliffs all that much. Nor did I feel those ley lines or the hoodoo energy people come here to find. The fake touristy vibe reminded me of some southern California beach towns I've seen, where nothing is authentic and everything is a show.

In contrast, I really liked the downhome simple vibe of Cottonwood. I could see myself living there. It reminds me a bit of Eastern Oregon: dry air, summer heat, pine forests, small-town charm, slow pace.

It won't cool off much tonight, even though it's dark now. At this moment, the NWS says 99°F outside. The AC labors on. Should I come out of the burrow and sniff the air? Tomorrow is soon enough. In the morning, I'll emerge to forage for food and check my mailbox, like I usually do on Monday mornings. I'll be back in the burrow before 10 am, before the sun gets too high and burns me to a crisp. 

Meanwhile, monsoon is ten days late. 

Taking wing

When I first came to Tucson, I couldn't imagine I'd ever contemplate becoming one of those residents who vacates for six months out of the year. I don't remember thinking the actual thought how bad could it be? But I must have, because what I feel now is chagrin, regret, and embarrassment. After a year in Tucson, I begin to understand that I've moved to the Mars. Being a snowbird is starting to seem like a survival option, rather than a way to flaunt how many homes one has. 

I've read that many desert cities swell in the winter and shrink in the summer. Some people have winter homes in the desert and summer homes in the mountains, and they travel back and forth. Two homes! What a concept. Some people take their homes with them wherever they go. I'm thinking of the infamous nomads who live in RVs and vans and trailers, follow the weather, and have roundups to share tips and take videos they post on YouTube to make a few bucks.

Only poor Tucsonans are out in the daytime. They stand on street corners holding up signs in leathery hands. They set up house in the culverts that drain into the washes—not a good place to be in monsoon. Have you seen video of a wall of sticks, trash, and floodwater tearing up trees and shrubs as it moves down a wash? If I ever happen to see the actual beginning of a raging river, it most likely means I didn't get out of the way in time and off I go, headed for the next county. 

It's mostly the poor people who get creamed by speeding cars as they cross the street to the grocery store after dark. Tucson ranks thirteenth on the list for U.S. pedestrian fatality counts. It's not just my imagination. Walking here is dangerous. If you walk in the mid-morning you fry from excessive UV rays. If you walk in the afternoon, you run the risk of heat stroke, not to mention getting torched by lightning if a thunderstorm cell happens to sneak up and dump on you. If you walk after dark, you run the risk of getting mowed down by a texting Tucsonan in an SUV. 

Bicyclists don't fare well here either. Early mornings are most dangerous. They ride in packs, wearing bright uniforms, but that isn't always enough to save them.

Heat is a tangible thing. Along about noon, I wet a tank top, drape it over my head, and stand in front of the fan for a minute. The water coming out of the cold water tap is warm. Really hot days (over 110F) require two wet tank tops. Evaporative cooling works well here in the desert. 

Around 5:00 pm, when I'm done with my Zoom calls, I punch the button on the wall unit and let the roar overtake me. It sounds like a jet is warming up in my living room but it throws out cold air, and that's all that matters. After thirty minutes, the place is cool, but it heats up rapidly as soon as I turn it off. The entire front wall of the apartment radiates heat. It's a wonder the fridge still works. (Knocking on wood now.)

In the mornings, the skies are clear blue. Around 2:00 pm, I usually see big white fluffy clouds starting to boil up to the south. Within an hour, the visible sky is a grungy shade of gray, a color I am very familiar with, having grown up in the Pacific Northwest. In Portland, that kind of sky in summer would indicate 70F, maybe sprinkles, good walking weather. Here, it means 107F, humidity, excessive UV risk, and threat of thunderstorms. Who can live like this!?

Now my computer is notifying me of rain off and on, showing me a little umbrella icon. Isn't Windows cute? If a thunderstorm parks itself over me, an umbrella won't do much good. Thunderstorms here tear down powerlines and uproot trees. So far this season, very little rain has fallen in the actual city of Tucson. Waiting for rain is a useless waste of time. I keep thinking I hear rain but it's just the neighbor kids on their bikes outside my window. Storm cells move through bringing dust clouds but no rain. 

My sister suggested I get in my car and go north. Or up. Either one or both. She's right. I think the only way to survive living on Mars is to be a snowbird. People who don't escape to a summer home in the Northwest clog the roads to 9,000 ft. tall Mt. Lemmon, the local equivalent of Mt. Hood, where the temperature is thirty degrees cooler than in the valley. I see the mountain forecast on the news. People ride on the ski lifts, even though there's no snow. 

I haven't driven up to Mt. Lemmon yet. I continue to wait for monsoon, keeping cool in the Bat Cave and packing for my move next month to the Trailer.

 

The myth of attracting what we fear

It seems kind of charming that all I had to complain about last week was the neighbor's wind chimes. I've heard people say what we resist persists. I've heard others say, what we fear will come to pass—in other words, we attract or even create what we fear. Are we really that powerful? 

I whined about how it was really hot in Tucson. I whimpered about how terrible it would be without air conditioning. Meanwhile, the washing machine in the backyard was pumping out cold air at regular intervals, doing its job so I could keep complaining. It's so easy to complain about fearing the bad thing when the bad thing hasn't happened yet. 

Well, the bad thing happened. Last Tuesday afternoon, the machine in the backyard, after being on all day, said, nope, no more, had enough, done compressing, need a break, tough luck, stupid human, you are on your own. That is what I imagined the machine would have said, but there I go anthropomorphizing again. It's a bad habit that is just getting worse the further to the left I move on the continuum between fiction and academic writing. 

The machine was still roaring, but cold air was no longer pumping out of the vent. The air, in fact, was warm and getting warmer. I quickly shut the system off and texted the homeowners. We got busy arranging a remedy. The soonest we could get service, turns out, was going to be Thursday afternoon. 

Blogbots, did I attract my worst fear by focusing on it? No, Carol, (I hope you are saying), you are not powerful enough to create a situation in which air conditioners are more likely to break. After a day of 114°F under a brutal sun, it should not be a huge surprise that air conditioners quit. Case in point, the two-day wait for service. No, I don't think I affected the climate, the weather, or the air conditioner by misplaced projections of fear. 

Like most humans, my life is ruled by fear. Sometime we fear things unreasonably, but we are alive today because our ancestors listened to their fears. I haven't been making animal sacrifices to appease the gods like some of my ancestors probably did (would that help, I wonder?), but like any modern creature living in a dark burrow (AKA a mobile home trailer), I have been doing my best to hunker down and ride out the heat wave. Unfortunately (for me), I won the reverse lottery and spent two days learning about my ability to survive extreme heat. 

As the temperature climbed, I made the mistake of contacting family and friends for empathy. Everyone immediately came unglued. My sister recommended I sit at the mall all day. Her husband suggested Starbucks. My friend in Marana wasn't home but was willing to turn her life into a pretzel to get me a key to her house. My other Arizona friend suggested I hop in my melting car and drive two hours in blazing sun through barren baking desert to get to her house in Phoenix, where the temperature was two degrees hotter than in Tucson.

The homeowners, obviously, expected me to stay and let the service technician in when he/she finally showed up. Thus, they could not tell me to bail, although I'm sure they would have understood. I got the feeling they weren't entirely sure what would happen to me, but no doubt they feared coming home to a slag heap where their trailer once stood. Nobody said, don't worry, Carol, you can do this. Honestly, I wasn't sure I could. But I wasn't sure that I couldn't, and therein lay the source of my secret power. Like the proverbial frog in a pot of tepid water, I didn't recognize the moment when the water started boiling, and by the time the water started boiling, I had figured out a way to survive.

People, it's all about evaporative cooling. I turned myself into a walking swamp cooler. I had only one towel, but I had a dozen tank tops in my bag of clothes. I quickly covered my head with a wet tank top and felt much better. Next I draped wet tank tops on my shoulders and upper arms. By the second day, I discovered I could drench my cotton knit cardigan in water, wring it out, and yank it on (not as easy to do when wet as when dry, try it). With a stylish wet cardigan, a dripping turban, and damp tank tops wrapped around my feet inside my Adidas slip-on sandals, I learned I could endure the heat.

The electronic gadgets in the trailer weren't so fortunate. On Wednesday morning, the modem stuttered during the middle of my Zoom presentation and knocked me offline. It regained its senses immediately, but my laptop balked at rebooting, so I lost a good twenty minutes trying to get things restarted and reminding myself that just staying alive in a trailer with no AC was a significant victory. The Zoom admin covered for me while I was offline, and when I reentered the Zoom room, it was obvious my presence was not missed. Go figure.

I was a bit concerned about sleeping in such high temperatures. At night the temperature outside dropped to about 87°F but it was hard to get that cooler air into the house. One of my friends suggested I sleep wrapped in a wet sheet. I was not willing to get water all over everything. I slept with the front door open and the screen door locked. Wrapping my head and feet in wet tank tops and sleeping with two ice packs stuffed into Mom's white sweat socks did the trick quite nicely. 

I was afraid my family members would not believe me so I took regular photos of the indoor temperature gauge. The highest indoor reading I recorded was 108°F. That was Wednesday evening. The outdoor temperature was approximately five degrees higher at that point. As soon as the outdoor temperature and the indoor temperature were about the same, I opened all the doors and windows to let the hot air blow through. 

Don't forget, I did not lose electricity. The ceiling fans were still patiently spinning. Without the movement of air indoors, I would probably have had to vacate. I'm not a total frog.

When the AC technician arrived around 2:30 on Thursday afternoon, I was feeling rather pleased with myself. It was only about 105°F, inside and out, no problem, so the doors and windows were open, admitting a blistering breeze. I greeted him with wet tank tops on my head and feet. All my tank tops are white—or were white when I bought them—so I probably looked like a dripping mummy not recently risen from the tomb. That is to say, I probably looked like I'd been dragging around some bandages for a while. The technician smiled at my appearance. I didn't care. I'm sure he's seen it all.

He tied a brimmed camouflage hat on his head and got to work. I watched him from the bathroom window, fulfilling my fiduciary responsibility to be a good house-sitter and make sure he wasn't ripping us off. I could see he worked from muscle memory. He'd done this job a thousand times. Job security, I was thinking. He's got it made. Unscrew these bolts, take off this panel, check here with the gizmo, unhook this little silver can thing, screw on a new silver can thing, put it all back together. 

As he worked, he yelled at someone on his phone in Spanish. Sometimes he had video on, so I could see a woman's face yelling back. I forget her name, even though he said it over and over. I have terrible audio memory, even for English words. Plus, my Spanish isn't great, despite a year of Duolingo lessons, but I certainly understood when he said esto es un problema, otra vez, otra vez, y otra vez. They were both frustrated and kept hanging up on each other, or the call kept getting dropped, I don't know which. When I realized it was a personal call, I stopped trying to translate the Spanish and let him do his work unobserved. I mean, really. Sometimes you just have to trust the Universe.

The homeowners kindly arranged payment over the phone. Within a few hours after the technician's departure, the air was back down to a balmy 85°F, my sweet spot. The electronic gear seemed to be back to a reasonable temperature—that is to say, not sizzling to the touch. I hung my wet clothes in the bathroom, and they were dry in twenty minutes. 

I've spent the last two days appreciating temperate indoor temperatures while I write my novel. After dark, I wander around the trailer park in the bone-baking heat, carrying a bottle of cold water and marveling at the sky. 

The journey continues. 

Chime in when ready

 A wall of heat descended on Southern Arizona, and now we are baking inside an oven. As hot as it is, though, it's not as hot as being in a sauna. I looked it up. Whenever I feel like whining, I just remember (a) nobody cares, and (b) I've been in a sauna and I survived. I have my jug of ice water. I'm doing fine. I've rarely been so aware, however, that heat can kill a human very quickly. I think I'll be okay going from the grocery store to my car, but I guess we will find out. Tomorrow is shopping day. 

I've been going outside a few times a day to experience hell. This is the Hellish Handbasket, after all. Just doing a little research. During one of my excursions, I heard some activity next door. The neighbors were apparently hanging another wind chime on the edge of their carport. I'm not sure what their wind chime strategy is, or even if they have one. Probably they made the mistake of telling their family and friends that they liked wind chimes, and now that's all they get for birthdays, anniversaries, and Father's Day. Like when my mom said she liked frogs and ended up with fifty frogs of various sizes, shapes, and materials. Be careful what you ask for. Your remaining family members will have to dispose of all that crap after you are gone.

Anyway, wind chimes. It's breezy here in Tucson, which makes the heat somewhat more tolerable, at least after the sun goes down. The trailer next door has about ten wind chimes hanging on the edge of the front porch and several more dangling from the edge of the carport. Most of the wind chimes seem to be made out of different kinds of metal. You know the kind I'm talking about. They sound like your cell phone is ringing, and you can just barely hear them over the roar of the air conditioner, which means you are constantly checking your phone. The new ones that I believe were added today are made of dangly lozenges of wood, so the sound is somewhat less melodious, more like a dozen wooden coasters banging around in a dryer. 

Last night, to accompany the wind chimes, the guys who drive in circles in the Sam's Club parking lot just over the fence were back doing their stop-start-screech-vroom shenanigans. I'm sure it is a lot more fun than it sounds. What could be more fun than locking brakes and burning rubber in a large parking lot? Well, doing it on ice, but there isn't much of that here this time of year, and I'm sure they figure, well, this big open space ought to be put to good use during off hours, so I'm just going to drive in circles at a fast clip and then slam on the brakes at 2:00 a.m. That ought to give those over-55 oldsters in the trailer park some interesting dreams. 

Speaking of dreams, I dream of the day when my sixty-fifth birthday has come and gone and I've made my Medicare choices. Maybe then I will stop seeing sponsored ads on Facebook from companies warning me not to screw this up. I'm irked that they are taking up space in my feed. I would prefer to watch video of tortoises going down slides. I'm tired of videos of animal rescues. They always turn out well. I don't know why I didn't realize that. Duh. I should have known they wouldn't post videos of animal stories that didn't turn out well. Whoa, maybe they do. I guess the only thing protecting me is clicking like on the tortoise video every time it comes up. Yesterday I watched a video of a man edging and mowing a lawn for almost thirty minutes. I hate Facebook.

The doves are less vocal on these warm mornings. A few days ago, it sounded like their admonition to hang up and drive had turned into hip hip hooray. Maybe they were cheering for the president's trip to Europe, I don't know. I'm not really following politics anymore. It's so boring. 

Now that I'm a prisoner of the desert heat, my world has shrunk to the size of a dot on Google Maps. The most excitement I have these days is when vehicles go by. This trailer is on a cul-de-sac, so it's a big deal. For example, I notice when an Amazon Prime truck pulls into the turnaround. I love it when the Sparkletts truck arrives. You have to admire the confidence of a driver who floors it in reverse all the way down the street. Delivering delicious water to thirsty oldsters is clearly something this driver takes seriously. The mail carrier seems much more laid back, buzzing lazily in a little white truck from mailbox to mailbox, like a bee delivering pollen. I hope the AC is going full blast while the driver leans out the window to put junk mail in our mailbox. Our taxpayer dollars going to good use. 

The AC just settled into silence. It will rest for about five minutes. Now I can enjoy the sound of the new wind chimes. They are actually more melodious than I expected. It sort of sounds like someone is trying to use an old-fashioned touchtone phone. Remember those? Oh, now the AC is on again. The trailer is under assault from the sun. I feel a bit like a critter hunkered in a dark burrow, waiting for dark. If the electricity goes out, I'll soon be a raisin-like desiccated critter. In the meantime, back to writing.