Martinis, Mars and Mygawd My Neighbor Sucks!

A bad neighbor’s reason to return to martinis.

I stopped drinking in April. Not due to a drinking problem, rather health reasons that required eliminating sugar from the diet.

My improved condition now allows alcohol, in moderation of course. And thank god ‘cuz in summer, nuthin’ like a crisp chilled craft beer!


Coincidentally, when I could reintroduce alcohol is also when the problem with the neighbor and his monstrosity of a noisy swamp cooler began.

Apparently someone up there’s looking out for me after all!

June’s been a shit month because of the bad neighbor. Thank god I journal! Those pages have been my sole outlet for burning rage, hate not of him as a person but as a neighbor, disappointment in him. He can do better. He can and should to be that good neighbor for himself and for others.

He’s been a failure and failed to do what he said he would do, which exposes him as unreliable and as man of words but not action.

I can only hope that things get better – waaaay better — in July.


There’s reason for (very) guarded optimism. The planet Mars.

It went retrograde April 17. Finally finally turned direct yesterday. 4:38 p.m. Pacific Time to be exact. Yep, better believe I was counting the minutes!

Unlike Mercury, Mars rarely retrogrades — every coupla years as opposed to Mercury retrogrades 3-4 times a year.

Very different planets, Mercury ‘n’ Mars, thus too their retrograde effects.

Rather than delineate those differences, I’m gonna speak of Mars retrograde. Lord knows I earned street cred these past two months.

Mars retrograded from Sagittarius into Scorpio. The signs matter but I’m not gonna focus on that either, rather Mars retro generally.

Mars rules Aries. It’s the planet of action. Drive. Initiation. Determination.

Mars is the life force seen in springtime when the flowers crack open the soil and emerge.

Mars is the warrior. The yang. In a birth chart, the sign Mars is in tells us how we express our anger. How we stand up for ourselves.

Mars is physical. It is the Doing planet. It Get Things Done. Mars is assertiveness, courage and actionsfrom conviction.

Like every sign, every planet has positive and negative qualities. One of the negatives of Mars is aggression or forcefulness. Argumentativeness and willfulness. It can be incredibly selfish and me-me-me-first-and-only-me.

Like Kate Hudson (the “actress”), whom I cannot stand. She reeks of Aries. Of “me me me look at me it’s all about me.” Her mom said she came outta the womb that way. Kate has the sun, mercury and mars — three important personal planets — in Aries. Boy can I tell!

So that’s Mars.

A retrograding planet means its traveling in reverse rather than forward. Just like a car.

So the energies turn inward. Inner experiences feelings emotions are amplified, even gain precedence over external experiences.

In retrogrades, the energies associated with that planet — in this case Mars — also get stymied. Blocked. Thwarted from normal expression.

Since Mars is such an actions-and-life-force planet, in retrograde,  all those energies get bottled up. With no outlet.

Can you spell rage?



Energy drains … fatigue … ineffectiveness … actions that don’t come to fruition … actions backfiring. Even the best intentions end up in the sewer!

There’s a terrific article on retrograding Mars here.

I wrote that this Mars retro gave me street cred.

The talk with James about his noisy monstrosity cooler was a month ago. Smack dab in the Mars retro.

It was a great talk.

But he did nothing.

He did none of the things he said he would do: turn it off at night and when he’s away for noise reduction and when it’s not too hot.

I left him a friendly reminder on his door.

Still nothing. No action. No responsibility. No neighborliness from him. Zero. Zip. Nada.

Mars retro. It’s the man in the mob. He’s a knee-capper!

Good news is, this 2-month retro is FINALLY over — as of yesterday. It’ll take a few days for Mars to gain its forward traction and a couple weeks still for the dust to clear.

But with Mars going direct again, things can start moving forward again. The BACKLOG of rage, frustrations, intense conflicts with no solutions or peace accords, that’ll start easing up and clearing out.


So if these past coupla months have been marked with WEIRD confrontations, including, nee especially from total strangers,  agitation, stresses and frustrations of the highest order, hot tempers, impatience (yours and others), know that:

  1. you are not alone!
  2. it really will start getting better; the ways forward will be offered; progress will return.

I have a neighbor who is failing to be a good neighbor. He can be. Will he be? I’ve my doubts. It’ll require him to step up to the plate.

Toward that end, I will be talking with him again WHENEVER I CAN FIND HIM HOME!!!!

It’s 73 degrees outside. Nights are like 50. IT IS NOT NECESSARY FOR THAT SWAMP COOLER TO BE RUNNING. AND CERTAINLY NOT 24/7!!!!

Get with the program, James in #8. Do what you said you would do. Turn the monstrosity off when it’s not too hot.

A fair and reasonable request.

God I’m glad Mars finally went direct! Perhaps now he’ll become a man of his word. A man of action.

Me, I’m a girl of action. On that note, while a martini would soooo hit the spot, I’ve none of the makings so gonna go pour myself that beer!



Be a Good Neighbor or Go.

A power saw to the montrosity to shred it to smithereens.

Poison in the water for the bad neighbor who isn’t doing what he said he’d do and making my home hell.

Slicing the cord running outside his home that powers that damn monster.

Tearing apart limbs joint by joint.

Raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens, bright copper kettles and warm woollen mittens.

Forget those! None’s my favorite thing. Not today.

I like my ideas a whole lot better – today.

I’ve got a swamp cooler (aka evaporative cooler) next to me — 20 steps outside my door — the size of a Japanese car.

It SOUNDS like a Japanese car with its engine idling.

Also SOUNDS like a police car with its siren blaring. Telling you to pull over. Unless it’s your lucky day and he’s after somebody else. Whew. Wipe brow.

The Montrosity needs repairs. But the landlord — my lying thieving landlord I discovered but that’s another tale — won’t repair it like the law requires. And she won’t let me repair it by hiring and paying for a serviceman.

So I’m kneecapped. Powerless. Stymied. Screwed.

James my neighbor is the one with the swamp cooler. He’s 20. Living on his own for the first time. He’s not a bad boy doing bad things in the world because he can. He’s not out front pulling wings off flies or swinging cats by their tails.

Immature, yes. But he’s not stupid.

What he is is forgetful. Fucking forgetful.

It’s making him a bad neighbor. A Fucking Bad Neighbor.

A month ago we talked about turning off the Montrosity for noise reduction when it’s not too hot.

He agreed. Moreover, he understood the pain of migraines. I get migraines. They make sounds unbearable.

We had a short hot spell. Even then, nights were still pleasant.

Now the monsoon season’s just started. Temps are down. Like 85 in the day, 60 at night.

ZERO need for a swamp cooler! In fact, using a swamp cooler’s useless in humidity!

Still, he lets that motherfucking monstrosity run.

For one reason: JAMES NEVER TURNS IT OFF!  Even though he promised he would. Even though it’s not hot. Even though he’s NOT HOME.

That monstrosity is on 24/7 and HAS BEEN for a month.

Swear to god, a blizzard could be raging and he’d still run that damn thing.

That’s James. Paying zero attention. Not being a man of his word. Not thinking of the impact of his actions — or lack of action — on others.

That’s James. Being A Bad Neighbor.

A month it’s been since talk. The swamp cooler tally:

2 wins – 27 losses

Bad Neighbor, James in #8. Bad Neighbor.

I’m really screwed now. He’s not been home for days so I can’t even talk to him about this.

Talk we must. It must happen. It’s the right thing to do.

I suspect he’s away for the holiday Monday. Don’t know. Don’t need to know. Don’t care.

I care about only one thing:

Is he being a good neighbor.

He is NOT. He gets an F. For failing to do what he said he’d do. An F for fucking up the flow of harmony and goodwill. An F for Failing to Be a Good Neighbor.

He’s been irresponsible. Oblivious. Forgetful. Unreliable. Undependable. Not to be trusted. Not to be believed.

Only one person can fix that. Only one person can do what was promised. Only one person can step up to the plate and be a man.  Be a good neighbor.

That is  James in #8 mobile home.

Looks like I’ll hafta wait ’til after the July 4 holiday to talk to him.

By then, his win-lose tally’ll be about 2-36.

+ + +

Here’s what I wanna tell the world:

It is SO MUCH EASIER to do the right thing than the wrong thing.

It’s SO SIMPLE to be thoughtful. Considerate. Kind. Responsive.

For James specifically: It’s SO easy to do the right thing.

It’s SO SIMPLE to ask himself: “Is it hot? Do I need this on?”

To ask himself: “I’m not even home. Do I need this on?”

It’s SO EASY to push a button. That is ALL he has to do.

With one simple push of a button, goodwill flows into the world. Into the neighborhood. Into the tiny narrow space separating his place from mine.

People can choose to be bad.

Or they can be good.

They can do the wrong thing — sometimes the fucking wrong thing. Heinous crimes and all that.

Or they can do the right thing.

I certainly don’t know all there is to know in life. But I do know:

The simplest action is usually the right action.

When you do the right thing, you are above reproach.

When you do the right thing, everyone benefits.

When you do the right thing, it is inherent goodness.

So I am requesting again of James in #8 mobile home:

Do the right thing.

Be a Good Neighbor.

You can do better. I know you can. You know you can.

If you will not, then please vacate the space so another who is a good neighbor can come.

It’s how it is here. The layout, the vibe, the energy, the character of the park.

If you don’t fit, then you need to go. Not the good neighbors. The bad neighbors. Your call, James. Your growth. Your choice. Your goodbye if you continue to fail, as you’ve so horribly have, in being a good neighbor.

This request is fair, just, honest. It is aligned with the spirit of goodwill, harmony and neighborliness.

It is for the good of all.

Scrubbing Down the Bones: My Zen

Even a neat freak needs to get down ‘n’ dirty for a day!

I am that freak. Also uber-organized. It’s the German in me.

When I was a kid, my mother never had to tell me to clean my room or make my bed. Everything has a place and everything in its place! Sage wisdom that I’d-a contributed to mankind had someone not beat me to it.

My sister on the other hand. Her room looked like a hurricane had passed! Her floors and closet, strewn with stuff. Mine, everything organized and tidy. No one ever had to cut a path through shirts, pants and lord knows what else across the floor!

Her socks drawer, you’d think it’d been ransacked by burglars! Mine, socks tightly rolled and organized.

I still organize my hanging clothes that way. By season and within each season the colors.

Fastidious. (And yes, we’re full siblings to anyone curious!)

I share these factoids only to convey the high level of cleanliness and organization that characterize my space. Anyone entering would exclaim: “Wow, it’s so clean and organized!” They would and they do. Down to the skinny kitchen drawer that for most are mere containers of utter chaotic odds-n-ends.

Everything has a place and everything in its place.

Plus at any moment, I can tell you where any object in home and storage shed is within a 2% margin of error.

If I said: “I need to clean, someone would exclaim: “Clean what?!”

To that I respond with zeal and wisdom: The devil is in the details.

People don’t understand that what your eye can’t or doesn’t perceive is still perceived by the subconscious.

So, say, that sliiiiiiigt coat of dust or grease on the stovetop. Eyes don’t see it. A sweep with a fingertip might reveal it. Regardless, it’s still very much there. Your mind’s picking it up.

Ditto baseboards. That thin line of dust that accumulates on top. It’s there. Oh yes it is! Even if your eye doesn’t perceive it or in daily living you don’t notice it.

Every detail of the space you inhabit, it’s perceived by the subconscious. And they affect people far more than they’re aware.

Me, precious little escapes my notice. I am NOT good at sweeping dirt under the rug — apropos! So I tend to details long before they become really noticeable or problematic.

Circling back to the beginning.

Today I did a deep-cleaning of my home that “by all appearances” didn’t need it.

I began with a load of laundry. A much bigger deal than the deep-clean ’cause I gotta bag it and haul it to the laundromat like I’m 21 again! Fucking pain in the arse but the chore once done always feels good.

I happened to awaken super early — around 8 a.m., some 3 hours prematurely. Couldn’t get back to sleep so got up and began my day at the ungodly hour of 9:30 am.

Hence the laundry, unplanned. The subsequent deep-cleaning and minor organizing, unplanned. By 2 p.m., when I’m usually just getting going, I’d accomplished SO much that my head spun!


Using the attachment, I vacuumed hairpin cracks in the laminate flooring. Window rails. Beneath and tight around furniture and their legs. Dusted extensively — which could and should be a daily task in dusty Arizona! Wrapped up and put away the winter bedding. Stuff like that.

Even for one who lives in a state of order and cleanliness, it feels really good!

Drawback to being this tidy is that I don’t get to experience what most people do when they clean, organize or declutter . I gotta kick it up so high — to the post-grad / Master’s level — to experience gratification. When it happens, it’s fantastic!

I’ll take it. The alternative — a level of (un)cleanliness and (dis)order normal and acceptable to most — would be torture. Daresay it’d be as bad if not worse than Chinese water torture!

So when I go home from work tonight at midnight, a bright sparkly immaculately clean space awaits me.

This is joy. Peace of mind. Calmness. Inner serenity.

Your mileage will vary

Oh, by the way! Were I ever wealthy and with my own home, I still would not hire a housekeeper.

For me, there’s something sacred in truly respecting and caring for one’s space (rentals included). About tending to its every detail. Overlooking nothing. Scrubbing and cleaning and dusting and vacuuming and all those so-called tedious chores until the place is the best it can be.

When my space is the best it can be, so am I.

Spring cleaning. Everyone’s heard of that.

Today was my Swing into Summer Deep Clean.

Yes, I am a happy camper when my space, wherever it be, is at its best.

This is My Zen.

Neighborliness? Nada.

I have a bad neighbor.

A thoughtless, inconsiderate and forgetful neighbor. He forgets to do what he said he would do toward community harmony and peace.

I have a neighbor who disappoints me.

He is not doing what he said he would do in our talk weeks ago. Certain behaviors that need to change to restore peace and harmony and toward goodwill.

It was a good talk, positive, friendly, of goodwill. I returned home optimistic.

The optimism was unwarranted. None of his disturbing actions ceased. Not even at first opportunity on the very day of the conversation.

I have a neighbor who is failing to do what he told the landlord he’d do.

I have a neighbor who pays no attention to his neighbors / community surroundings.

Is he that self-absorbed? Perhaps. He’s 20. It is a generation of  Self-Absorption and Entitlement. In talking with him, I didn’t get that he’s that far gone. However, I don’t know him well or really at all. I don’t need to.

I need only for him to do the right thing. I need him to be a man of his word.

I have a neighbor who is failing to do what is right. I have a neighbor who is failing to be a man of his word.

I have a bad neighbor. A negligent neighbor. A thoughtless, inconsiderate, inattentive and forgetful neighbor.

His name is James. He lives in #8 in the mobile home park. James can do better.

Counting on numbers for the message

What’s in a name? Or number?

A lot actually. The universe is the perfect mathematical composition ever.

Today’s post, however, isn’t about that but a number.

The brain is hard-wired to find patterns and order. It’s why I pay no heed to the whole 11:11 fad. And a fad it is! — with everyone saying they keep seeing it and what does it mean and attributing miraculous and angelic messages to it.

Hey, we can all see 11:11 … twice a day … if we watch our clocks! It’s not God talking to us. It’s our brains wired to note repeating patterns and attribute meaning when there is none. So obviously I’ve not jumped on the 11:11 bandwagon … or any bandwagon ever for that fact!

Which isn’t to say I don’t take notice of recurring numbers outside the mainstream fads.

I do. Take yesterday driving home from work. My beloved Subbie’s odometer displayed:


Caught my eye. And NOT ’cause of some stupid fad! 😀

126621. Mirror Images

126. Mirrored.

Mine’s a good working knowledge of numerology. But wanting to go deeper with this 126, I researched it meaning. Got pretty much diddly-squat.

So like any good unofficial mathematician/researcher, I broke 126 into its components. Following are the simplest meanings of each number for those unfamiliar with numerology:

Number 1:

denotes leadership and success, fresh beginnings, creation, independence, ambition, willpower, assertiveness, initiative.  new beginnings, creation, independence, uniqueness. In tarot, number 1’s associated with The Magician: the creator, manifesting from the ethers to earth.

Number 2:

resonates with balance, service and duty, diplomacy, duality, cooperation,  intuition and insight, partnerships of harmony and disharmony. In tarot, number 2’s associated with The High Priestess: feminine intuition, spirituality, receptivity,

Number 6:

denotes money and material possessions, home and family, nurturing and caring. In tarot, number 6’s associated with The Lovers {not limited to intimate others!}: relationship, cooperation, harmony, interaction, relationship.

I liked Doreen Virtue’s input:

“6 refers to materialism, finances, or earthly worries. Like the Sermon on the Mount, 6’s are a reminder to set your intentions upon more spiritual sights instead of worrying about material needs. Six guides us away from money worries (which will attract money-problems) and has us set our sights upon faith to supply our earthly needs.”

126’s meaning was described thusly (edited for clarity) here:

“The angels seek to remind you that you’ve fulfilled many of your material needs. They wish to reiterate that you’re going to acquire something of great value soon.

Angel number 126 wants you to focus less on material needs and more on spiritual needs. They promise that material desires will be fulfilled if you work harder on your spirituality. Create a balance between your material and spiritual growth.”

By no means do I give undue stock to this one person’s view!

As I said, scant was found on the meaning of 126, nevermind in mirrored form: 126621 so I excerpt what I can find.

It Keeps Adding Up

What I find … interesting … coincidental … synchronistic is this series of events:

A few weeks ago I met a woman, S., at a cafe. Hit it off immediately.

  • Turns out she works in the higher ranks at Whole Foods, aka Whole Paycheck. I’d seen their ad and had thought about applying since I’m needing a second part-time job, I said.
  • She encouraged me to do so plus gave me the name of the head guy (C.) I should contact to follow-up.
  • Last week I telephoned but he’d already left for the day. Said I’d try again.
  • I drive past Whole Foods (aka Whole Paycheck) every day. Today on the drive-by I was reminded I gotta follow up with that guy. I might’ve stopped in except in T-shirt, shorts and flip-flops I was not dressed for the occasion. “Tomorrow,” I reminded myself.
  • Today at the cafe I think: “I should call C. at Whole Foods. I will, after my coffee.”
  • Some 3 minutes later, in walks the gal from Whole Foods! Hadn’t seen her in weeks though we text occasionally.
  • “Weird! I was just thinking I gotta call C. at Whole Foods and follow up my online application!” I say.
  • “He’s in a meeting now. Every Monday 1 o’clock. He works mornings, better to call him then.”
  • “I’ll do that tomorrow.”

Circling Back to the Start

Returning to 126621.

Perhaps there’s a kernel of substance in that online excerpt above.

My take is: If indeed 126, when reduced to its elements: initiative + cooperation + material needs met through spirituality …

Maybe the message is a nudge to keep looking the Whole Foods direction. Maybe there’s a “reason” my Whole Food thoughts today synced sync with bumping into S. …. from {drum roll} Whole Foods!

Time’ll tell.

Rather numbers 126621 on the beloved Subbie. As good as if not better than any clock!




Heat the Humbler

It’s heeere!

They’ve been talking about it for a week. They = weathermen & townsfolk.

The heat wave crossing Arizona.

We here in central Arizona — as well as northern, i.e., Flagstaff — don’t get socked like Phoenix.

For example, it’s about 2:30 in the afternoon.

My outdoor thermometer reads 110 (43 C). says its 102 (38 C). Nickels-and-dimes difference.

My indoor thermometer reads a whopping 100 degrees (37 C.)! The nature of mobile homes. They trap the heat and cold.

Meanwhile, in Phoenix — which everyone immediately and incorrectly thinks is Arizona — it’s 117 (47.2 C.). Cooling down from high of 118 (47.7)!

Don’t mind the heat. To a point. I’ve lived all around in all sorts of climates — albeit never the extremes of Alaska’s it-never-gets-dark-summer. Including spots that are supremely hot and humid and Phoenix-like scorchers for 3 months straight.

So 110 for a few days doesn’t phase me.

Plus I’m made of indeterminable grit. A hard life on the rocks fighting for survival does NOT a wuss create! Any heat discomfort, I suck up.

But I’m not stupid. Not gonna go out and build a house in these temps. I take it easy. Hydrate. Ooops! — the beer at my side, not exactly hydration!

Heat to me is like labor (childbirth). Resistance is futile. Only makes it worse, more painful, slows everything down.

Go with the flow. Be one with the pain of contractions. Be one with the heat. Let it roll off like water off the duck’s back.

This heatwave is short-lived. They say.

In a week, it’ll be only 112 (44.4 C) instead of 118 (47.7 C), in Phoenix; where I’m at, 97 (36.1 C)  instead of 102 (38.8 C.).

No denying summer’s gaining inroads after an extended winter & sucky spring.

Here’s what I know and fear. Summer’ll come and go in a blink of an eye. Just as we’ve stashed away the winter bedding and clothing, we’ll be pulling it all back out.

We’ll be scratching our heads: “Where’d the year go?!?” as we start buying up bags of Halloween candy, booking flights for Thanksgiving, running up the credit cards for Christmas gifts usually not needed.

The cycle of life.

I could wax sentimental for a moment. Share on the sadnesses and sorrows of being closer to life’s end than beginning. The weariness that crept up on me just this year, one shy of 60. I could make this post philosophical. Then it’d become a book. Or two!

For brevity, best to say simply that summer is here! The HEAT is here in Arizona.

I like it. Just as it is. Driving my home temp up to 100 (37.7 C.) (while the 20-year-old guy neighbor runs his evaporative cooler 24-7, what a wimp!). Scalding the dirt so’s you can’t even cross it barefoot without sprinting.

The heat reminds me: Just Be. Just Be With the Hotness. Resisting is Futile. Only Makes it Worse. Like Labor.

Just Be With It.

Were that I could apply that very wisdom to all areas of my life all the year ’round!

Heat gets a bad rap. Americans make too much of it. Dramatize like the world’s end is upon us.

No grit. No resilience. No Will to Survive. Only Whining at a Smidge of Discomfort.

Heat is humbling, methinks. Mother Nature reminding us that we’re mortal and sometimes that means being hot and sometimes cold. It’s the way of the world.*

Of life. Go with the Flow. Resistance is Futile. Only Makes it Worse.

Heat the Humbler indeed.

(*global warming’s an f-ing hoax)

Exposed to The Light.

My landlord.

Strange, powerful and quite telling events in a short three days have exposed K.

It’s like I’m an instrument of light. Shining a beam into dark places of other people.

It’s very strange. Pronounced. Real.

Go with the flow. Keep doing what you’re doing with two criteria: Do the right thing and what is above reproach.

Not looking good for the landlord.

Friday, in interactions about a swamp cooler requiring service and repair, she reneged on her responsibilities and worse.

The landlord-tenant law fortunately is on my side. I can take her to small claims court (if it comes to that — I hope otherwise) and recoup the costs of repairs.

Will that become necessary? Up to her. Time will tell.

Two days later, I discovered a very large gemstone (large and heavy, a “display” piece) missing from my yard (prior post).

Either she or the young dude helper took it. This is certain. Gut tells me who. But I’m not accusing her. I’m not stupid.

I simply email-requested that she see to its return promptly.

Next day now, no response. And no stone.

K. is being exposed by the light as a landlord who attacks first and shirks responsibility and now a thief and possibly also a liar. Time will tell

If she’s not the thief (unlikely), then her hired helper is and she needs to know that.

Either way, she needs to step forth and respond.

The more time that passes that she doesn’t, the worse this gets. It exposes her guilt and adds to mounting evidence of disrespect.

I hope for a positive outcome. I sincerely do.

Feel like I’m being tested. Over and over with some extraordinarily weird situations and interactions with people of sketchy to sociopathic character, of dishonest to deceitful intents and actions.

All I can do and is being asked of me to do is:

  1. Keep doing the right thing, at every turn, no matter what’s thrown my way
  2. Remain above reproach in intent and deed.

That’s what I’ve been doing and will continue to do.

Keep guiding me, Light. Keep guiding me. To do the right thing and the thing above reproach.

Gratitude and thank you.

Unearthing truths.

It’s not right.

No matter how you spin it. Stealing is stealing.

Friday my landlord and hired help — a 22-year-old due — are working in my yard tidying up, removing sticks, fire hazards, raking (part of the inspection process for mobile home parks I reckon).

I collect gemstones.

I had two large gemstones in the back yard by the tree in a space cleared for them in the dirt. I often go out to enjoy them and check on them. Make sure they haven’t been trampled by javelina or taken by a neighbor. Which would be supremely unlikely given the yard’s place and privacy (i.e., zero foot traffic).

Today I discover that the stones are missing. They went missing after the cleanup.

Instantly I am nauseous and feel an urge to vomit. The natural response to violation. Anyone who’s had his/her home space robbed or violated by intruders knows the response.

Then rage.

I search every square inch of my yard. It’s a tiny dirt lot with a smattering of trees so easily done.


Just then my neighbor Mark drives up. Ours is a friendly chatty neighborly interaction.

I tell him about the missing gemstones. I describe them in detail. Say they have a story.

He’s upset too. “That’s not right. That is not cool.” He searches all around my yard and his, which had also been tidied-up Friday. We cover all ground. Front sides and backs of our mobile homes.

It is gone.


Then a significant key emerges.

“That pile of stones by my shed,” Mark says. “That’s new. I didn’t put that there.”

Some 20 smallish stones, collected from both our yards, neatly stacked by the shed during the clean-up.

We handpick though them all.

“This one’s nice. Doesn’t look like the others.” In his raised hand is my quartz cluster.


Truth emerges clear as crystal.

To an non-gemstones person, the quartz cluster could be mistaken for the garden-variety Arizona desert stone.

The other gemstone: not. Not at all.

It’s a salmon-orange calcite. Polished (all edges rounded). It’s big (about 6″ by 6″) ad somewhat heavy.

In a store, it’d sell for $50-60.

The beautiful specimen could not be mistaken for Arizona rock.

One of two took it. My landlord. Or her hired helper.

My gut knows who.

It’s not Mark. We chatted. I don’t see a 22-year-old dude with long hair and a baseball cap being into gemstones. (Drugs, cars, chicks and rock-n-roll, maybe!)

Even if he paused because of its uniqueness on a plot of dirt, I do not see him taking it from someone’s yard.

My landlord: absolutely. No question. She is the type who’d admire it and take it home.

Who’s the white trash now, Landlord?

Hint: It ain’t the former white-trash residents in the mobile home park you manage.

I am livid. Laid-back neighbor Mark was too. “Man, you gotta call her. I’m sorry this happened. That’s not cool.”

My next step: Getting my stone back. An email that’s concise, businesslike and leaves no stone unturned, no pun intended.

Moving forward, any personnel on my property is instructed to take nothing  (excepting the obvious such as twigs, leaves, branches from tree trimming).

This is personal property that was taken. There is no spin she can put on it. None. She may even lie about it. Claim it was the helper.

I know differently; I know better.

That this happened puts the landlord in a very bad light.

That this took place during other shitty behaviors from her concerning repairs of a swamp cooler two days ago — matters that may lead to small-claims court, time will tell — is exposing her.

I’m not the white trash, K. Probably neither some former tenants you’ve bitched about.

Look in the mirror.

Nuthin’ here that 5 pints can’t fix …

From red-letter day* to real-hungover day.

(*prior post)

What a difference 48 hours make!

A is for Active Dead People

Yesterday was weird. Seriously weird. Stretched from sobbing after an encounter with the landlord (note: she is in the wrong) to speaking with the dead.

My mediumship pops up in the oddest times and spaces.  Including saloons — were that they were smoke-filled! — amidst complete strangers on a clamorous Friday night of live rock-n-roll and drunken decibels at their apex.

Really need to continue thinking about going public with these amazing gifts and receiving $ in return. It’s never been about the money. Dead (sometimes living) people talk to me when they talk. These gifts I share, deliver, give for free.

But if I pause to consider how much money these abilities could earn, well, I’d never have to throw my mind and life away in some menial Lame Crap Job again.

How refreshing and uplifting would that be?!

Sage Moment: One of life’s greatest challenges is trying to develop self-worth when the family of origin told you you are a piece of shit.

B is for Beer & Buddy

Between sobbing and speaking with the dead for strangers at the saloon: Bumping into an old friend. Friend, acquaintance? In-between. A bar buddy. A peep at Prescott brewery.

Been months since I’d seen Bill. We’ve had encounters of friction (namely due to his insistence that he’s right when in reality it’s otherwise and can be proven, thank you online dictionaries, etc.!)

C is for a Chat-Up

Regardless, we respect each other on some level and are always happy to see each other when it unpredictably happens. Our long chat  — no butting heads this time! — was good and welcomed in the aftermath of the shit with the landlord that had reduced me to an hour of uncontrollable tears.

Bitch. Had to be said. Moving on …

D is for Drink-On!

Indeed weird does describe it. Weird, distressing and wonderful — in one 24-hour swoop.

It was a day to get my Drink-On!

You know when it’s necessary. Same as you know when you’re hungry, thirsty, in need of sleep.

It’s that primal.

Hence after the sobbing stopped … after the predictable shit from the workplace bully {son of a bitch} … after the raw emotional upheavals quieted but did not pass … I turned to an evening dedicated to craft beers. Whiskey Row’s the perfect place for a drink-on.

Big mistake: Drinking without eating. Empty tummy completely. I’ve made this mistake many times. I always regret it. I never learn!

A good drink-on is productive. It’s therapy — in a bottle or pint glass. It clears and cleans the system, ironically. It a reset button for mind, body, emotions and soul.

You go into a drink-on not to get blotto. This is key to a successful adventure. You enter consciously and with clear intent while practicing moderation.

Sounds counterintuitive. It’s not. There’s a fine line between moderation and room-is-spinning-Im-gonna-puke-all -night.

I can’t claim 100% success with all drink-ons. But as a rule, I do really quite well in striking that balance between: I’m drinking more than usual yet not so much as to spend a night passed out on the sidewalk in a pool of vomit.

A fine line indeed! I’m pleased to report that it was achieved.

E is for Eccch

Today I pay the price. A cruncher of a hangover headache eased (but not removed!)  with water (hydration!), coffee and food — so the stomach empty for 24++ hours can chew on something other than its own lining!

I’m 59. I don’t have the bounce-back of a 20-year-old. I know that.

I know it’ll take like three days of recovery and discipline in the basics: sleep, nutrition and hydration.

I know that I’ll be draggy, headachy, sluggish for the next several days.

The Eccccch for a while is the price expected and accepted in exchange for the positives of a drink-on.

Are four days of discomfort worth it?


Would I do it again?


For this drink-on:


A for Alcohol. Absolute Success. Admirable Achievement in striking that healthy healing balance between comfortably inebriated and slurring stumbling drunk. Good job! A for Arizona Allycat!






June 9: a red-letter day

Color me yellow for cheerfulness!

Today was a good day.

Not that anything stupendous or extraordinary occurred. So I ask myself, with 4-1/2 hours of the day remaining, what made it so.

Ironic actually that it was a good day — considering that I caught maybe 40 winks. Okay, 50.

Terrible insomnia had me tossing and turning — for three hours! … fluffing and refluffing my pillow … changing positions like cards randomly pulled from a deck and flipped onto a table. Clearly a futile outcome in an effort to sleep early (2 a.m). At some point you best NOT look at a clock, otherwise add an hour to sleeplessness.

Despite the loss, I awoke feeling oddly OK. More importantly, I rose **without a headache** or a migraine. Knock wood. Because I get them so regularly, any day without a headache is a good day.

Let me shout that from the mountaintop!


Any day free of pain is a good day!!

So what made the day good after that?

I tweaked/shifted some things in my space (details unnecessary) with one purpose: to minimize the 24/7 intrusion of my neighbor’s swamp cooler (prior post).

Though the shiftings weren’t large, they were enough to provide some breathing space from that Obnoxious Machine that runs day and night piercing my space and outdoor silence with its high-pitched siren. That boy (neighbor) needs to learn a few things about being a good neighbor — attentive, thoughtful, considerate. He doesn’t get that at all. He’s 20. He’s Oblivious.

Do I still want to take a saw to his screaming metal monstrosity? I do.  Three more months of this crap is more than I signed up for! I make no promises that I won’t be heading to the Rent-a-Center for that … dismantling tool.

Today, however, thankfully my interior tweakings achieved the desired effect of creating some psychological distance from Oblivious Boy’s Siren for a Swamp Cooler. I pray for the end of that GRINDING noise as much as for him to wake up and smell the coffee. He won’t. A boy is a boy is a boy.

So what else made the day good?

After introductory static last week, today I was able to attend a writers’ support group for the first time. Just six of us. A writers’ group is a stretch!

Adult coloring books and pencils are provided for anyone who wants to spread the colored lead while listening to others (in this case two people) read their creative writing aloud. Very casual, unstructured. More chit-chat than writing or reading aloud in that 1-1/2 hours!

It was a nice group, however, or so it seemed. I’ll return next week.

So what else made the day good?

A decent hour at the workplace, a couple of productive healing/therapy meetings.

All said and ultimately I still circle back to the very best part of the day:

No pain! No headache. No migraine. No dizziness, vertigo, nausea or extreme fatigue symptomatic of “walking migraines” as I’ve named them. Like walking pneumonia. You can still function — barely — on auto-pilot though even the simplest task (like reciting your name) is a giant ordeal and challenge.

On those days (which I’m sad to say are more often than not),  you truly should be home in bed, in the darkest of dark rooms, windows sealed to shut out the world. And DEFINITELY a Siren for a Swamp Cooler!


But today wasn’t like that and I am so grateful. Because this day was pain-free, it was: a red-letter day.