Hot, Brown, and Full of Rules: Dispatches from Arizona

The end of October has brought me out of the rain and into the blistering sun of Arizona. I’m visiting my parents in the fiery hell they call home.

While other states are easing into fall, Arizona’s over here saying, “Hold my beer—watch this shit—I’m not done yet.”

The temperatures have been in the mid-90s with a light breeze, which at least makes for good pool weather. My parents live in a resort called Happy Trails, which honestly sounds like the name of a nudist colony. I always tell people my parents live in a nudist colony because, well, it fits.

You have to be 55 or older to live in Happy Trails. Kids can visit, but they can’t stay too long. There are clubs for everything—stained glass, pickleball, cards, chess, bingo—you name it. There’s even a golf course, restaurant, four saltwater pools, and their own post office. (Yes, an entire post office just for the residents.) The hot tubs and saunas are there too, but I imagine those only see action in winter.

Today I played Mahjong with actual people instead of computer bots for the second time, and it was a blast. I might try to find a group near me—maybe.

The thing is, most of the people here are jerks. Not gonna lie. It’s like a retirement version of high school: everyone’s watching each other, ready to report any rule-breaking to whoever will listen. No lawns to yell about, so they take out their frustrations on one another. Picture the movie Grumpy Old Men times about five thousand. There are a few nice ones but most will run you over with their golf cart and brag about it at bingo the next day.

There’s even a rulebook full of do’s and don’ts. It’s entertaining to visit, but I definitely wouldn’t want to live here.

If I had to describe Arizona in two words, they’d be hot and brown. Remind me of that the next time I start bitching about the rain in Tennessee.

Meanwhile, Back at the Quail Ranch…

We’ve had an interesting development in the Quaildom—Seizure Steve laid an egg!

So now we have definitive proof that I can’t sex a quail, and neither can the lady who sold them to me. Every “male” adult she sold me is laying eggs. The one with the cross beak died, so maybe that was the actual male. I guess we’ll never know. Seizure Steve also needs a new name. I’m open to suggestions.

We moved them off the porch and into the prepper shed because, holy hell, they stink. I had no idea birds could smell that bad. No matter how often I dumped the poo trays, those feathered freaks smelled like feet and tuna left in the sun at all times.

I like to keep my doors and windows open, but not with the poop fairies stinking up the place.

The prepper shed sounds sketchy, but it’s not—it has a porch and electricity, and it’s about the size of an average bedroom. So, I didn’t banish them to anything awful—only somewhere I don’t have to smell their fowl odors all day.

Of course, not all of them fit. The babies are growing like weeds, so six went into the Pepto-Bismol Palace (the one that got knocked over by the bear). We moved it up against the chicken house and secured the legs together, so the bear will have to knock over both if he comes back feeling froggy.

If that happens, I’m out of the bird business for good.

The Living, the Dying, and the In-Between

I’ve also started volunteering with the local hospice, helping people nearing the end of life with whatever they need—sometimes just sitting with them so they don’t have to leave this world alone. I can’t say exactly how I came to this, but here I am.

When I was younger, I had a very real fear of death. I’d cry at night thinking about it, railing against the unfairness of the whole deal. I didn’t ask to be here—why should I have to die?

The older I get, the more that fear fades. I’m still not ready, but then, is anyone?

I’m grateful to live in the Information Age, where I can get an answer to nearly any question in seconds. I could learn Latin or how to replace my car’s engine if I wanted. Instead, I spend my limited earth years poking buttholes to sex quail and putting pants on chickens. (And if you have chickens, you have to do this.)

Now that I’m not working, I feel this constant pressure to do something. I don’t know what that something is yet. Does anyone know how long the average midlife crisis lasts? Because mine’s been dragging on like a bad houseguest.

I’m in a good place mentally—I simply don’t know what I want to be when I grow up. I just want to make good use of whatever time I’ve got left.

Happy Halothanksmas

Happy Halloween to those who celebrate. Though honestly, it feels more like Halothanksmas now—stores just lump all three holidays together.

In my area, kids don’t even trick-or-treat anymore; they trunk-or-treat. I don’t know who decided it was safer to get candy from the trunk of a car, but as a child of the ‘80s, this goes against everything I was taught.

Back then, if a guy in a van said, “Hey little girl, want some candy?”—you ran like hell. Now kids are told, “Go ahead, take candy from that car over there!”

What’s to stop Frankenstein from tossing your ass in the trunk and driving off? I’ve never been to one, but it sounds weird and not like a great idea.

So that’s life lately—sunburns, stinky quail, philosophical spirals, and the occasional Mahjong victory.

Maybe this season is about learning to sit with the chaos, laugh when life smells like shit, and remember that no matter where you are—Tennessee rain or Arizona heat—enjoy it all before it's gone.