Catching the disease of chronic malcontentedness

Everyone is unhappy, mostly about work. Does it seem that way to you? My sister, a published author and expert in her esoteric field of art history, hates her admin job so much she is ready to jump off a bridge. (I told her she would be missed.) Bravadita, my former colleague and now friend, is a talented writer/photographer wasting her creativity teaching bratty, germy children how to read. My friend in Minneapolis, I'll call her Chica, is itching to start her own digital marketing business. And then there's me, of course, on the verge of unemployment, hoarse from complaining about the unfairness of it all.

Is it something in the air? I'd say yes, but there are always exceptions. My friend E. has figured out the secret to happiness: condense your life to a 35-foot motorhome and hit the road. I dream of bundling my mother and my cat into an RV and heading south toward the warm desert air of Arizona or New Mexico. A silly dream: My cat would hate it. He would reward me by upchucking all over the linoleum. And my mother would probably die on the journey. I'd have to strap her coffin on top of the rig and head back home. We'd sail through little American towns trailing a stench behind us, sort of like a modern day Addie Bundren. I don't think my sensitive nose could handle it.

Well, we can't all take to the road in massive rolling living rooms. There wouldn't be enough room. Or enough fuel to keep us all moving. We'd have to hunker down, butt to nose, wherever we sputtered out of gas. We'd slide out our slide-outs and roll out our awnings all along the shoulders and gullies of the interstates. We'd have to live off of stuff people threw to us as they drove by. Here, catch! A bucket of the Colonel's extra crispy and some coleslaw, if you think fast.

I'm just yammering. It's a day for yammering. I'm waiting for my dissertation proposal to be rejected or approved. I'm waiting to find out if I will have a job when the term ends. It's a day for expressing my malcontentedness. It appears I'm in good company. With the exception of E., everyone I know seems malcontented to some degree or another, from mild to extreme, from resigned irritation to raging fury. I'm somewhere in between. My mother, though, is edging toward the boiling point. She's laid up with some weird swollen ankle disease, bored out of her mind.

“You need a new hobby,” I suggested when we talked on the phone.

“Oh, yeah? Like what?”

I pondered, but couldn't come up with anything that she hasn't already done: knit, write letters, read books, do crosswords, play computer games. Maybe I need to get more creative. What if I could get her hooked on World of Warcraft? Or even Farmville. That always worked on our students. But Mom's Internet connection is too slow. (She's the only person on dial-up left in Portland. It takes 12 hours just to download an update to her virus program.) Hey, maybe she could open a phone sex business. Or be a phone psychic. That could be fun. (Hmmmm.....)

I know what she wants. What she wants is go outside and root around in her garden. It's spring. Things are blooming. The air smells like fragrant candy. There are about a billion shades of green going on. But it's been pouring rain off and on all day. I reminded her that we need the rain, that we are six inches below normal. She whined like a child: I'm booooorrrrred! Man, I'm glad I never had kids. I don't know how parents do it.