Whether you care or not—and I know you don’t—it seems that there’s only one street in Santee, CA: Cuyamaca Street.

Everything Great Auntie Ann directs us to down here is either on Cuyamaca, or off Cuyamaca. It’s just past Cuyamaca. Or somewhere around where Cuyamaca used to be before they put in the bypass. There’s also a “North” and “South” Cuyamaca. That’s important to know, she says. She lives on Mission Gorge, which is far busier and more heavily traveled—but she never mentions that.

Who are those guys, anyway? The Cuyamacas? Mafia Dons? Mortgage modification specialists? Hedge fund managers? Is this an Indian tribe?…

If so, just forget I brought it up. I don’t need any more people suing me.

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Great Auntie wears one of those emergency alert pendants, to use if she falls or otherwise needs help. Kathy keenly noticed a blinky light on the control unit, and called the company to see what’s up.

They never heard of Great Auntie. They’ve been sucking thirty-some bucks out her checking account every month for two years, and never heard of her. The company was sold, you see, and this and that, and blah blah, and maybe it’s their sister company that’s doing the monitoring. These guys never heard of Great Auntie.

Okay. Give us their number. They don’t have it. It’s their sister company that maybe does the monitoring—while they concentrate on siphoning the accounts of people they never heard of—and they don’t have the number. Cool. Thanks.

Okay, here’s the plan: One, you push the pendant button and see who calls back for a confirmation of the emergency. Then you take down the pertinent contact information for future use. Or maybe…two, you push the button and nobody calls back. In either case, three, you cancel the automatic deduction for the monitoring.

If you stop paying they can stomp and shout from dawn to dusk, and try to stop the monitoring service. But they don’t have the number. And apparently, they don’t have Great Auntie’s either.

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My brother-in-law came down from Boise and, feeling nostalgic, decided to visit the old barber shop in Fremont where he got his hair cut for years. Apparently, it’s been sold.

He reports that the woman who cut his hair was tall, Nordic, and blessed with an endowment larger than Stanford’s. She was wearing one of those “wife beater” t-shirts—one with no sleeves—which pointedly displayed a lack of anything beneath.

Kathy says if he tells me where the place is, she’ll cut him out of her will, if ever she writes one.

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My brother-in-law up in Boise tells me they had a cold snap overnight. Says it turned to 12° by the time he got up. I told him that if it turned to 12° around here, I’d turn 180° and go back to bed.

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