The delusions of an impostor

I'm typing my final Portland blogpost from a miniature desk crammed into the chaotic mess in the main room of the Love Shack, a place I have enjoyed for almost eighteen years. It feels surreal to be leaving. I can't believe this is really happening, even after I loaded up a U-Box with most of my possessions and approved its departure to some unknown facility in Tucson. I am fully prepared to never see my stuff again. My next challenge is to get myself there. Departure is set for Thursday. 

My brain swings between delusionary extremes. I try to plan, organize, manage, control. I can't seem to predict circumstances with any accuracy. On the bright side, I was pleasantly surprised to find the U-Box held a lot more than anticipated. I was afraid I would have to abandon all my lovely handmade lopsided wooden shelves. They all fit! Plus my work chair and my TV watching chair, in pieces. If I ever find the allen bolts (carefully stored somewhere in a plastic bag), I can reassemble two chairs. Awesome. 

On the opposite end of the delusionary scale was my assumption that buying a used car would be an easy, smooth, painless process. I'm not even factoring in the tooth extraction and subsequent round of antibiotics (I'm fine now, thanks). You should assume that people don't sell cars they love. They only sell cars that are currently or imminently going to have a conniption fit. On the bright side, I have learned so much about myself in the process of getting a new radio installed. I look forward to another learning experience tomorrow when I attempt to locate a mechanic who can diagnose and resolve the mysterious check engine light, the dreaded indicator that could mean mutiny among the oxygen sensors. 

I fear my apartment has more stuff in it than can fit in the car with me on this trip to Tucson. I've built boxes for Mom's TV, my computer, and my computer monitor. Perhaps I was overly generous with the cardboard, I don't know. I'm not sure there will be room for me in the car. I laid some boards in the cargo space to get a sense of a floor plan. In my mind, I pictured something larger. That is another instance of delusion usurping reality. Reality wins every time when it comes to cargo space and cubic feet. I may be sleeping in the driver's seat. 

Another delusion I have entertained lately is the idea that I will be a different person when I move to a new city in a new state. I know in my heart that executing a geographical won't change me. However, I am hoping that I might, I don't know, be able to eat things that normal people eat. Bread. Cheese. Pasta. Milk. Sugar. I might start wearing bright colors, cotton dresses, bras, sandals. Hey, I might not like eating cheese and wearing dresses. To be honest, I doubt I will feel comfortable wearing a bra ever again. However, I reserve the right to try on another persona, at least for a while. Everyone who moves far away should have the right to make new style choices. I might even grow my hair, who knows.  

Yesterday while I waited for my new radio to be installed, I visited a nearby grocery store and bought a Honey Crisp apple, a protein bar, and a box of plant-based chocolate chip cookies. I ate the apple first, sitting on a bench in the shade outside a Kohl's store. Between bites, I wrote in my journal and consulted my calendar to make sure my afternoon was on track. The weather was gorgeous, summer-like temperatures and soaring blue sky. The heat felt great, even though the dry air was turning the skin on my hands into crepe paper. Next, I ate the protein bar. Feeling adventurous, I tore into the box of cookies. Six cookies nestled in a plastic tray and wrapped in plastic. I didn't feel quite so happy after seeing the wasteful packaging (and realizing only six cookies came in the box). 

I bit into the first cookie (mmm, chocolate) but was distracted by a commotion ensuing about thirty yards away, outside the door of the store. A large bedraggled white woman and a chubby Black teen in a heavy jacket were coming toward me. The kid pushed a beat up bicycle. The woman was yelling, "I need to sit down, my feet are f**king killing me!" Despite other bench options, she made a beeline for my bench.

As she aimed her butt toward the space between me and the arm of the bench, I hastily closed my notebook, stashed my pen, stuffed the box of cookies in my bag, and leaped to my feet.

"You don't have to leave!" she whined. I don't know what she saw in my eyes. Being so close to another human felt shocking. I was wearing a mask. She was not. She wore dirty leggings, Birkenstocks, and a stained skirt. I suspect she was on drugs, not that I'm an expert. Her companion walked his bike away from the woman, moving from the shade into the sun. "Winston, wait, don't leave me!" He kept walking across the empty parking lot.

I backed away from the bench expropriator. "Wait, is this yours?" She picked up a piece of metal from the bench. We both stared at the object. It looked like a large paperclip, bent out of shape. I shook my head, confused. She tossed it toward me, and it bounced off my sneaker. "Oh, sorry," she laughed.

I hiked with purpose around the corner of the building, trying to avoid the other local houseless crazies and druggies who wander the parking lots, panhandling and socializing. They live in tents tied to fences and trees and inhabit decrepit RVs rusting along the nearby side streets. I could so easily be one of them. Yesterday, temporarily, I was an impostor, sitting on a bench eating my snack, briefly blending in with the other parking lot zombies while I waited for a radio to be installed in my fancy used car. When I walked back to the shop, the technician demonstrated the radio. The gizmo lights up, connects to my phone, and does everything but call me by name. As I sat in my fancy car looking at my fancy new radio, I still felt like an impostor. 

I am guessing a road trip through the desert will change me in ways I cannot yet predict. I'll update you when I find out who I am. 

Burning up some gas

Do you ever get a hankering for some humble pie? Me neither. But sometimes we get served up a slice whether we hanker for it or not. This was my week for gorging on humble pie. 

You may recall, last week I described my smarmy attitude toward an ignorant dental receptionist who seemed to think I needed antibiotics before I could make an appointment to have a tooth pulled. My dentist had pulled the offending tooth on Friday, as I reported last week, but the pain was not receding as I might have hoped. I white-knuckled through the week with pain pills and finally called the office on Thursday, almost a week after the extraction.

"I think I have a dry socket," I said morosely.

"Oh dear. Can you come in tomorrow morning at 8:20?"

I know they start work at 7:00 a.m., so 8:20 probably seemed like a late start to them. I, on the other hand, start work (or what passes for work around the Love Shack) at about 11:00 a.m. after a leisurely cup of coffee, a couple Duolingo lessons, and breakfast. Nevertheless, I said, "See you tomorrow at 8:20."  

I didn't need the alarm. An aching jaw is a very effective wake-up call. I threw on yesterday's clothes, swilled a cold swig of yesterday's coffee, and headed to the dentist in my fancy white minivan. Soon, the dentist was peering into my mouth. "I don't think you have a dry socket," she said. "The hole is healing up nicely. I think you have an infection down in the jaw."

I had a brief moment picturing myself a year from now with a missing jaw after a jaw removal for jaw cancer. Then she said, "I think we'll start you on a round of antibiotics. Are you allergic to penicillin?" 

Eight pills into a regime of thirty doses, four per day, I'm feeling much better. I'm still taking the pain pills, but not as often, and the humble pie is going down pretty smoothly too.

Meanwhile, the move out of the Love Shack plods forward at its own glacial pace. I look around at the stacks of boxes and think, why the heck did I pack up so early? Then I remember the yards of lumber that had to be removed from the walls, the furniture that had to find new homes. It takes time to explode a household into smithereens, especially if you want to save any of it to start over somewhere else. It would be a lot easier to just set a match to it all. However, I have neighbors. 

Speaking of which, I saw one today, one of those elusive neighbor entities. She was on her way to the laundry room in the basement, and I was on my way to loading boxes of family photos albums and keepsakes into my van to take to my brother's for eternal storage. 

We were both wearing masks. We are such good citizens. Minnie asked me how I was doing. I told her I was moving in a couple weeks. She was politely astounded and asked if I needed any help. 

"Would you like to take over the care and feeding of the birds and squirrels?" I asked. 

She said yes, they could do that. I pointed to the pyramid of cement blocks stacked up near the decrepit fence. I suggested she could move the blocks closer to their back steps. 

"We could put some plants in them," she said, hands on hips, surveying the scene. I began to feel a lightening of my stress level. My one regret has been abandoning the critters who have come to rely on this feeding station. Now I can leave knowing Minnie will care for them. 

I hope she was serious. I am going to get her a big bag of birdseed. 

Meanwhile, did you know that new-ish cars have brains? Yes, they do. And did you know, if you drain the battery, the car's brain doesn't work properly until you retrain it to think? Right, I didn't know that either. Well, my new van lost its brain because the amateur used car dealer who sold me this beast left the key in the car overnight, thus draining the battery. "Ha, ha," he laughed. "No problem. Now you take car to DEQ." DEQ is the state agency that handles the emissions testing and issues certificates so you can get your car registered. 

Trusting soul that I am, I trundle off to DEQ, wait in line, and pull up into the garage. Five minutes later, the technician hands me a piece of paper. 

"Your car isn't ready to be tested."

"What?"

"This happens when they work on the car. You need to take the car through a drive cycle, then come back."

He handed me the paper. He couldn't see my face under the mask but I think he could sense my distress. "Don't worry, it should pass when you come back."

I took my stressed out brain home, took some pain pills, and looked up "drive cycle" in the big brain in the sky. Drive cycle for this car: Drive 40 to 60 mph keeping a steady throttle for eight minutes, then stop and idle for three minutes. Then drive 20 to 30 mph for two minutes. Finally, stop, turn the key off and leave it off for ten minutes. This should reset all the oxygen sensors.

I'm like, what stretch of highway in this urban setting will allow me to go at freeway speeds and then pull over and idle? I feverishly pulled up Google Maps. Maybe east out the I-84 freeway? Meanwhile, I put calls into the two dealerships in town. Nobody in the service departments was answering. I left two  voice mail messages. I left a message on a contact form. I had a nice online text chat with a polite and helpful woman whose first language was not English. She said she would consult her service team and get back to me. 

Later in the day I got a call from a young woman. I think I have identified her demographic characteristics correctly. She sounded young, and she sounded like a woman. You can't be sure, not that it matters, but for purposes of describing the situation, I can say it was not a man, and it was not an older woman. I mean, old like me. Hmm. Do I sound like an old woman when I'm on the phone? Older, maybe. Perturbed woman, for sure. Exasperated. Morose. All those things. 

"You asked about a drive cycle?"

"Yes! Thank you for calling me back! Is that something you can do there at your dealership?"

"You really don't need us to do that, just drive around for a few days, just regular driving."

"Really, that's it?"

"Yep, just make sure the gas tank is more than half full when you take it back to DEQ."

"Wow. Okay," I said, thinking, dang it, I just got a full tank of gas the day I took it through DEQ. Now I have to drive around and burn up a bunch of gas. "Okay, thank you so much!"

I went on their website, thinking they earned the right to have my business, and I'd like to have this car checked out six ways to Sunday before I take it on a hike to Arizona. Unfortunately, their service department was booked out two weeks, and so was the other dealership's service department, so it looks like I will be using my old fallback method. That is the method that always worked well for my father. I call it the wing and a prayer. 

To burn some gas, I drove about 70 miles yesterday to meet my older brother in a Safeway parking lot in a town called Clatskanie. I handed over his inheritance, tucked in a lime green envelope. He listened to my new-to-me car and said, "Does that tapping sound ever go away?" 

Well, I think I'll probably make it to Arizona. I am hopeful. Tuesday I'll make another run at passing DEQ. Then I can start the title transfer process. New Oregon plates will arrive at my younger brother's house in approximately four months, long after I've registered the car in Arizona. 

Gnashing and grinding our pearly whites

 Hello to my six (sometimes seven) readers. You know who you are, even if I don't. Thanks for taking time. We are all busy, it's hard to keep up with my escapades when you are no doubt dealing with your own challenges. Send me a link to your blog. I promise to subscribe. Meanwhile, because you are here, let me catch you up on the progress of my move.

It seems the entire city of Portland, after a year of gnashing and grinding their pearly whites, has decided it is safe to venture a visit to their dentists, who immediately sent everyone out for tooth extractions. I guess it's a thing. My dentist is capable of taking out my infected tooth, but during the consult (no charge), she mentioned that an oral surgeon could do a bone graft in case I wanted an implant to replace the tooth. She doesn't do bone grafts, and she clearly wanted me to get an implant because that is how she makes her real money. In an idle moment, I looked at her website: cosmetic dentistry is her specialty. I get it now. All this time she's been grooming me. She took care of my mother, who ended her life with a full upper and a partial lower—my dentist probably sees dollar signs every time I smile and reveal my receding gums.

I didn't want to make her feel bad, so I listened to her sales pitch about my options, thinking to myself, lady, no offense, but there is no way I will spend $6,000 to get a tooth screwed into my head. That is how much I paid for my Ford Focus, just saying. I'd rather have a car than a fancy white tooth any day. I admit, I might have felt differently if it had been a front tooth. I pretend I don't care how I look but I don't want to give my brother a reason to call me Snaggle Puss. 

After the consult, my dentist gave me a referral to an oral surgeon and told me to tell them I'm in pain, really lay it on thick, to motivate them to get me in sooner rather than later. Accordingly, I made the call and whined to the oral surgeon's receptionist about how much pain I was in, waaahh, poor me, and she said, "I have an opening on April 23," as if appointments were a scarce asset and she was doing me a huge personal favor. Then she asked, "Are you on antibiotics?" 

"Why, no," I said.

"Oh," she said, packing a lot of meaning into one small sound. I'm great at interpreting tone of voice. She was saying you can't be in that much pain if you aren't on antibiotics and what kind of fly-by-night dentist did you see who didn't immediately prescribe antibiotics? Loser. 

I aimed a half-hearted eyeroll into my phone, in too much pain to really care. I wanted to use my own snarky tone of voice to imply who are you calling a loser, clearly you don't keep up with the latest scientific literature, which says antibiotics are only necessary for patients with heart conditions or heart valve transplants. Loser, yourself. 

Not worth the trouble. It takes precious energy to be snarky when your jaw is throbbing. After disconnecting, I called my dentist's office. Sandi always answers the phone. I think she lives there.  

"Wah, wah, wah," I said, or something similar, I forget. 

"Oh, poor thing. I'll talk to the doctor and call you tomorrow," Sandi said.

Two days and many ibuprofen later, I got a call from Sandi. "I've checked around and no one has any appointments for three weeks. I don't understand it." 

"I cannot survive three more weeks of this," I said. We made an appointment for the next day for the dentist to do the extraction. 

I was nervous, not sure why. I've had braces—four teeth were culled to make room in my tiny head for the rambunctious survivors, so I'm no stranger to extractions. However, that was a long time ago, when I was certain the universe was not out to get me. Now I know better. 

The assistant took my blood pressure with a gizmo around my wrist. Do those things work? I'm skeptical. She told me the numbers, which never make sense to me but I know any number above 130 is bad. My number was a lot higher than 130. "That is very high, isn't it?" I said. 

"Yes, it's a little high," she agreed. I looked around for a crash cart, just in case I had a heart attack during the procedure. Then I thought, what the heck. There are worse ways to go than lying in a comfy chair surrounded by nice people in masks. 

The dentist came in. The fun began. After one glance at the gigantic plunger of Novocain, I shut my eyes and didn't open them again until I was so numb I wasn't sure I had a jaw anymore. I clasped my hands in my lap in a death grip, felt the waves of vertigo ripple around my head, and hung on for dear life. Once my face fell off, I was fine. The actual extraction was a breeze. A couple yanks, and it was over. 

"Bite on this," she said. "Do you want to keep your tooth?"

Half my face managed to chuckle. 

That was Friday at noon. It is now Sunday at 9 pm. I have discovered that the only way to survive this ordeal is to take the recommended dosage of over-the-counter pain relievers. Half-doses left me sweating in agony during the night. No more of that. I only have so many tank tops. 

On the bright side, I have almost bought a car! It's big, it's white, and it's a beast! Tucson, here I come.