Happy Thanksgiving from the Hellish Hand-Basket

This afternoon as I was eating under-cooked apple-and-raisin oat bran muck out of my beat-up thrift-store stainless steel pan, I contemplated . . . oh, darn it, now I don't remember what I was contemplating. I lost my thought remembering the dusty aisles of the many thrift stores that have provided me with clothing and household goods over the past forty years. Practically everything I own has been used by someone else. I return some of the things I use to thrift stores when I feel I've received my money's worth. However, like a good American, most things—for example, people, clothing, cars, and time—I consume until they fall apart.

The holiday season thunders ponderously at me like a freight train through Sullivan's Gulch, first Thanksgiving, followed by Black Friday (also known as Buy Nothing Day) and Christmas, followed closely by New Year's. I dread the season of disruption. Even on Monday, Winco was packed with milling shoppers intent on acquiring frozen dead birds and pie tins of sugar and fat. Merry ho ho, says the Chronic Malcontent.

I can't even complain about the weather. The center of the bombogenesis is to the south of Portland. A little breeze and some rain and we throw up our hands while our neighbors in southern Oregon can expect 100 mph winds and a foot of snow. Oh, poor us, we have to use our windshield wipers. Speaking of wipers, I closed a bank account yesterday and treated myself to new wipers front and rear. The Autozone guy came out in the mizzle (misty drizzle) to put them on for me. He said I should clean my hatchback window once in a while. My wipers would last longer. I said okay, but I probably won't. That rear wiper was only five years old. (Clearly, I don't care much about seeing what happens behind me.)

The Med-Aide at the retirement home asked me tonight if I would be joining my mother for Thanksgiving dinner on Thursday, which occurs at lunch time. (For the old folks, lunch is called dinner and dinner is called supper. I don't understand that.)

I must have looked confused. “We need to know how many people to plan for,” she explained.

I tried to imagine resentful family members clumsily helping the old folks shovel pureed turkey and stuffing into their toothless mouths. Yeah, that sounds like fun.

“Oh, no thanks,” I said. “I'll visit after dinner. I mean, supper. Like I usually do.”

I wonder how many family members will show up. If anyone new arrives, Mom will notice. She notices everything that departs from normality. Like when I move something on her coffee table. Like when I almost leave behind the grocery bag I used to lug in her Cheerios, almond milk, gluten-free bread, and dairy-free ice cream. Like when her neighbor came into her room and put his hand on her forehead. (Dan is on bed-rest, now, confined to his room, possibly not long for this world.) Mom may be demented but she's not blind. She notices stuff.

I read some advice on a blog that appeared in response to my Google search on How do I make a decision. The blog author indicated I should focus less on doing and more on being. I sat with that idea for a few moments before I snorted derisively, startling my cat who was sleeping on the top level of his six-foot cat tree where the weather is much warmer than it is down here on the plain.

Being versus doing. Ha. I have dedicated my life to the quest of being, avoiding the chore of doing in the process, resulting in several kinds of being I didn't really want, for example, poverty. If I could sit around and just be all the time, don't you think I would have? Eventually, I get hungry. My car runs out of gas. No, focusing on being doesn't cut it, not for me. I'm all about the action.

Which is why I felt compelled to Google How do I make a decision. Like most creatives, I feel pulled in multiple directions. How do I choose my focus? You should interpret that question as, How can I prod, bend, stretch, or torture my creativity into producing some income? A friend called me tonight to suggest I apply for a job at a fabric store across town. Having spent some of the worst years of my life working with fabric, I had to swallow the bile and say thanks, but I'd prefer to find something closer to home.

I could ramble on but my high-tech foot warmers (microwaved rice-filled socks) have lost their heat and my feet are getting cold. I'm wearing two hats, finger-less gloves, sweatpants, a fleece jacket, and a wool shawl knitted by my mother on oversize needles. The space heater labors continuously to cut the chill. I am such a hothouse flower: It's at least 40°F outside, not even freezing.

Hey, here's my cat, ready to take over blogging. Time to microwave my foot warmers.

Happy Thanksgiving from the Hellish Hand-Basket.