110 degrees

Every Arizona summer is scorching hot, but this year is one of the worst ever. Two weeks ago, the state broke its record for most number of days in a year with 110 degree temperatures — 32 days! The old record was 29 days in 2002. On average, we only get 10 of these super-hot days a year.

Telling myself “it’s a dry heat” doesn’t help when I walk outside and it feels like I just walked into an oven. We have this rule when we go out. We call it the “one-minute rule.” To minimize our global warming-induced miserableness, we give ourselves one minute to go from our air-conditioned, parked car to our air-conditioned destination, whether it’s a restaurant or a store.

So this past Sunday, the TV meteorologist predicted a five-day forecast of 104 to 106 temperatures, and I actually yelled, “All right!” because it was going to be cooler. Let me repeat — 104 to 106 degrees, and I’m happy. How sad is that?

Another month of this and we’ll enter the pleasant part of desert living — mostly 80s and 90s and sunny skies — in the fall and winter. We do run into a rough patch in January when the overnight weather dips to below freezing and we have to cover our fruit trees to protect them. But then it’s pleasant for another few months until temperatures start reaching the century mark in May. That’s when I start complaining about the weather and start eyeing flights to the Bay Area.

24 Hour Johnny

Remember that wonderful dot-com called Kozmo? Bike messengers delivered everything from music CDs to Starbucks coffee to your door within an hour? I never used the service, but what a terrific idea for the ultra-busy person or the ultimate couch potato.

I want something in my neighborhood that’s on a smaller scale. Earlier tonight at 11:30 p.m., I was craving a piece of banana cream pie, but I was in my jammies and much too lazy to schlep to my neighborhood diner half a mile away. In times like these, I often wish I could call some kid named Johnny down the block who can come to my rescue. And I’d gladly pay a $5 to $10 delivery fee.

So there you have it: A free idea for an enterprising teen who wants to make some good money on a part-time basis. Your company name can be “24 Hour Johnny,” with the tagline, “Every Neighborhood Needs a Johnny.” (If you’re female, you can be “24 Hour Janie.”) Think of the opportunities! Our neighborhood is full of young parents. They sometimes run out of milk. They might need their lawn mowed. They might even want a piece of pie after midnight!

In the time it took me to write this, the diner has closed. I could have gone there and back and consumed my piece of pie. Instead, I munched on BBQ potato chips, and it didn’t hit the spot.

Where’s 24 Hour Johnny when you need him?

Finding the perfect bowl of wonton noodles

I push through the restaurant door seeking noodle nirvana, but what I get is so much more. It is late afternoon – too late for the lunch crowd and too early for the dinner crowd – so the restaurant is empty, except for the three faces at a table looking up at me. As I stroll toward the counter, a woman, probably in her 50s, maybe early 60s, jumps out of her seat to join me, leaving her laptop computer, Chinese language newspapers and two male cohorts behind.

I pick up a menu, but the woman bats it away. “I’ve got a Chinese menu for you,” she says. I tell her I can’t read Chinese, but she says it’s got English, too. So I scan the menu and see what I’ve been lusting after: wonton noodle soup. Cool. Since moving to Arizona nearly five years ago, I’ve been seeking a Chinese restaurant with good noodles. But every time I’ve ordered it, I’ve been disappointed. The broth is either bland, or the noodles lacked the right flavor. Back home, the best Chinese restaurants are grungy hole-in-the-walls, and this one has the look and feel. “I’m from San Francisco,” I tell the woman. “And I miss eating good wonton mein.” She replies: “If you’re from San Francisco, you’ll love our food.”

She’s spunky, full of energy. I like her. And I want to believe her. So I order two bowls of wonton noodle soup, and one order of crispy chow mein and some jook for good measure. “Are you going to be able to eat all this?” Yup, I say. Do you want that crispy bread to go with the jook? Yes. Do you want this order to go? Yes. One of the men, wearing an apron, hurries into the kitchen to prepare my meals. After paying, I turn to join Miiko, who is parked at a corner table, when the woman says, “You should eat the wonton noodle soup here.” It wasn’t a question. It was practically a demand. A bit bizarre. I look at Miiko. She looks at me. Moment of truth… and I say OK. (more…)

Hi Ho, Hi Ho, It’s off to the gym I go

When children leave for college, some parents leave their kids’ rooms untouched, in pristine condition, so when they come back for the holidays or during summer vacation, it’s the same as they left it (without the piles of clothes on the floor, of course). But not us.

When little m went off to college, Miiko cleaned it out and moved all her stuff into the smallest bedroom, and turned her much bigger old room into a mini-home gym. That was in November, and incidentally, that was the last time we actually visited our regular gym. Why drive two miles to the gym when I can just walk across the hall from my home office and work out? When little m came home for the holidays last fall, and Miiko broke the news to her, I remember her saying in an annoyed tone of voice, “Uh, mo-ooom? Some parents leave their children’s rooms the same. Forever!”

Some do. But not us!

Her room is prime real estate. Two rooms, actually. A regular room with several steps that lead up to a second, octagon-shaped room, just big enough to fit her bed. Sunny. The highest point in the house. A princess in her castle. I would have been annoyed, too.

But now it was our gym. And we used it regularly. Months ticked by. Every month, our regular gym deducted our membership fees. We considered canceling our memberships, but in the back of my mind, I was going to go back. You know, next week. Some day. Real soon. (more…)

Dog Days of Summer

Last week, I strolled into PetSmart on a whim and walked out $21 poorer with a cute, little, round dog bed cradled in my arms. One of our miniature pinschers likes to sleep near my desk in my home office, even as I’m typing away into the wee hours, and for a dog that loyal, it should be rewarded with a comfy bed to sleep in.

I showed it to my wife. “OK. But the dog doesn’t really need it,” she says, as she pauses for a second for dramatic effect. “I know it’s really for you.”

Hmph.

This weekend, she calls me from the esthetics, cosmetics and spa conference in Las Vegas, and says: “Guess what I just bought from the show floor? Organic toothpaste for the dogs!”

Ah, I haven’t even begun to give her grief.