The Chronic Malcontent cautiously connects

Happy holidays, Blogbots. May you have as much joy as you can stand during this stupid, cold, virus-infested, consumer-obsessed season. I'd like to turn the page on 2021 and forget it happened. Then I remember I said the same thing last year, trying desperately to escape 2020. I guess it proves the truism, wherever you go, there you are. Circumstances surround me like a cloud of stinky holiday farts. I can think of some other so-called truisms: You can run but you can't hide. Life sucks and then you die. Buy now and pay later. Whoops, no, not that one.

Speaking of whoops, yesterday I connected with a woman who worked for me in the late 1980s, back when I was suffering with a ten-year-long entrepreneurial seizure that almost killed me. I ran a small business making some things I really hated to make, which is not a business model I would recommend to anyone wanting to be self-employed. This woman, I'll call her Marty, was younger than me but just as opinionated about just about everything, especially about the existence of God. 

We argued daily as we worked shoulder-to-shoulder. She liked making the things, evidenced by her annoyingly relentless optimism. I hated making the things, evidenced by my chronic malcontentedness. At the time, it didn't occur to me that her positive outlook on the work, well, really, on life in general, might have something to do with her spiritual philosophy. She thought God was everywhere, and I thought God did not exist. We never figured it out. Thirty years later, I'm still working on it. 

About a year ago, Marty started following me on Instagram. She used a pseudonym so it took me a while to figure out who she was. For the past year, most days, she's posted videos and images stolen from other people into the direct messenger space. Never once has she actually written anything, like Hi, remember me? Finally, I realized that her messages were sent only to me—duh, direct messages. They weren't generic posts that anyone could see. She was trying to connect, without actually connecting. 

Maybe her goal was not to connect but to annoy. If that was the case, she had succeeded. Her incessant posting of inane weirdo videos forwarded from other weirdos penetrated my Instagram fog. 

I messengered her: Hey! Why don't you ever say anything to me? 

Marty wrote back immediately: I wasn't sure you would want to talk to me.

I wrote: I'm always happy to reconnect with old friends.

Marty: You can never be sure. Some people don't like it. 

That comment made me think her Instagram experience was nothing like mine.

Me: Would you like to talk sometime?

Marty: How about now?

In a few minutes, we had figured how to have a video call on Instagram and were seeing each other in real time. To me, that was the triumph of the day, mastering a live video call on Instagram. The pleasure I felt at reconnecting with an old friend faded quickly once I realized she was still a crazy wackjob. I was all about the video call. Social media, you will not defeat me.

Marty's face appeared below mine on my phone screen. She looked the same to me, or rather, she resembled what I remembered of her after thirty years, except her long thick hair, formerly dark brown, was now completely white. She wore bangs across her forehead and thick black-rimmed glasses. Behind her I could see the typical chaos of a creative person's space. She turned her phone and gave me a quick dizzying tour of the mess. Once again, I thanked my lucky stars that I have so few possessions. 

Marty: I'm working for [Name of a person I should have remembered but didn't]. I'm one of twenty assistants. The holidays have been weird. I have a big family. They are all Democrats. 

Me: [To myself] Uh oh, should I have seen that coming?

Marty: Yeah, I'm not vaxxed or any of that stuff. My family can't stand that I'm a conservative Republican so I can only hang out with my two nieces. 

Me: Yeah, the holidays can be difficult.

After that, I let her talk while I examined my long teeth on the video screen. Long in the tooth is a real thing. I practiced tossing my head back so my jowls didn't stand out so prominently. Then I noticed my chicken gizzard neck, and dropped my chin. My chin receded into the distance and my nose took over the screen. Meanwhile Marty yammered on about her skin cancer challenges. 

Marty: I don't trust the regular doctors so I'm going to a guy. He's given me some stuff to put on it. If it reacts, then I know there's cancer. If it doesn't react, then it's okay. 

Me: [To myself] Oh boy, sounds like hydrogen peroxide. Is that a treatment for skin cancer these days? Who knew? Maybe we could have avoided sending Mom to the dermatologist during the pandemic. I cringed mentally as I recalled laying waste to the clinic's bathroom in my futile attempts to clean up after Mom's fecal meltdown. Get behind me, 2020!

Marty: [Probably sensing my mind was elsewhere] Well, it was really good to see you. 

In that one statement, everything about our future interactions was spelled out. She will keep sending me stupid videos I never look at, and maybe she will direct message me occasionally now that she knows I'm okay with it, and we will never connect by video again. 

Once again, I'm chagrined (and relieved) at how carefully I've set my boundaries to exclude wackjobs, past and present. Is that a good thing? I don't know. I know it's good to see things through other people's eyes sometimes, but how can I have a meaningful conversation with someone who can't, won't, refuses to . . . you know, care about the common good? I know I can't change her mind, any more than she could change mine. Two planets. We are in a race to see whose planet will survive. I'm not optimistic. 

Your quest for control is futile

You’ll be relieved to hear, after two weeks of me camping out of an ice chest in the Bat Cave, the maintenance crew carted away the malfunctioning refrigerator and replaced it with a temporary. Like a loaner car, sort of. This loaner fridge is a little smaller, a lot quieter, and smells like an old motel. The handles are slots embedded in the side edges of the freezer and fridge doors. I keep forgetting where they are. Opening the doors conjures foggy memories of family beach trips to cheap motels with musty kitchenettes. I left an uncovered cup of coffee in the fridge overnight and tasted the smell of old motel this morning. Once again, impersonal circumstances confirm I live in temporary housing.

Omicron has come to Tucson. Last night I dreamed I was at a social gathering. In my dream, I suddenly realized nobody was wearing a mask, including me. I went outside, looking for my car so I could get a mask from my stash, but couldn’t find my car. I often lose my car in dreams. Not sure what that means.

Because I survived last week’s COVID-19 booster, I decided to press my luck and get a pneumonia vaccine. My new insurance company recommended it, and my new doctor concurred, so off I went for another jab in the bicep at my local grocery store pharmacy. You never know if you are going to be the one in 30,000 who has a negative reaction, as in, seizure, heart attack, or stroke. This time, the principles of statistics were on my side. I had a good outcome. My arm was sore but I had virtually no side effects, compared to the achy malaise I felt after the COVID booster.

Overall, I am making good progress on my 100,000 mile healthcare self-care checklist. I think I’ve had all the shots I can get for now, so check on the shots. I survived the first dose of the osteoporosis medicine with only some mild heartburn, so check on that too. Next up on my after-holiday list: a visit to an ENT, a visit to a hematologist, and a mammogram. I’d rather have another shot than get a mammogram, but what can you do. If you’ve got ’em, you gotta squash ’em. It’s a law, I think.

Most days, my brain feels like a sandcastle being washed away by waves. The things I knew how to do yesterday are mysteries to me today. How is that possible? Do I have dementia? Is there a vaccine for that? Not yet, although I heard there might be a new pill for Alzheimer’s. However, there is no cure. Mom took a drug to slow the rate of her dementia decline, and I guess this new drug does something similar, affecting other areas of the brain. It’s not covered by Medicare yet, and the annual cost of the drug is $56,000. Oh, thanks, I think I’ll pass. Once I get to the where is my butt stage of dementia, I’ll be opting out permanently with some cheap fentanyl. Of course, we know all about best laid plans. Most of my plans fall into the category of half-assed bungled plans bound to go sideways.

Tucson had its first overnight freeze and its first omicron case this week. I doubt if the two events are connected. Tucson apparently has a winter season. I blinked and fall was over, and here we are at the threshold of winter. Every time I cross one of the many viaducts over the Rillito River, I read the sign with a heavy heart: Ice forms first on bridges. Why would they need signs like that in the desert? Because it gets cold at night here, and on rare occasions, it snows, even here in the city. I’m like, what the hell, Tucson. Baja is looking good to me right now.

My ongoing adventure feels a bit vague. If you know me, you know I like to know where I am and where I am going; that way, I can manage and control my life so I don’t have to be afraid. What do they say about fear? What you resist comes back to tear your lips off? I’m not an experienced camper (although I feel a little more confident about managing an indoor ice cooler). I’d rather get a job at Walmart than have to live in my car in a Walmart parking lot. Although, considering Walmart, I might end up doing both. Who knows.

Living in the wreckage of the future is as futile as trying to live today for a better past. All I have is the present moment. Why is that so hard to accept? Oh, right, because I can still find my butt. Hooboy. The blessing and curse of not having dementia.

Despair is always an option. I reserve my right to wallow in my malcontentedness. However, the sun is out, the sky is blue, and it’s a good time for a slow ramble in the nicer part of the demilitarized zone I fondly call my neighborhood. Tucson homeowners are putting up Christmas decorations. Step by step, the journey continues.

Change my attitude or change my situation

Once again my week overflows with blessings and curses. Among the blessings, I count a quiescent check engine light and the absence of little dudes in my kitchen. I used to take my luck for granted; I hardly noticed when things were going my way. Not anymore. Now every time I start my car, I tense, waiting for that horrible ding that tells me I bought the automotive equivalent of a hothouse flower. Pavlov's frothy minivan owner. Each time the light does not come on and the bell does not ding, I feel a tremendous sense of unearned relief. 

Trouble is obvious when it happens. This week’s trouble has been the refrigerator, which seems to have a funky defroster. The maintenance guys, Jaime and Carlos, visited on Wednesday. Jaime is clearly a refrigerator whisperer. He showed Carlos how the defroster works, and I sat nearby and listened. Carlos and I wore masks. Jaime did not. I didn't ask why. Yes, I was willing to trade the possibility of COVID-19 for a repaired refrigerator. 

Jaime gently removed the back inside wall of the freezer and set it aside. He chipped off chunks of ice to expose the metal rod that normally heats up to keep ice from accumulating where it doesn't belong. However, he said there could be an issue with the gizmo that tells the defroster when to defrost. Maybe it was funky, maybe not. He said he would order some parts, just in case. Meanwhile, feel free to put your food back inside.

I did not remove my food from the ice chest and put it back inside. I’m not a fool. Good thing, because despite his ministrations, the freezer still cannot make ice and the main part of the fridge is still not cold enough to keep yogurt safe. Nothing has been repaired. The fan runs almost constantly but Darth Vader the Defroster is still AWOL. 

I’ve been camping without a properly functioning fridge for ten days. The only thing I keep in the box are raisins and nuts. Although, today I mentally kicked myself—I don't have a thermometer, but I’m guessing the freezer is probably the perfect temperature for keeping my yogurt safe. I wish I had thought of that before all these trips to Safeway for bags of ice. Oh well. This is how I learn my way, by going in circles.

It has been a going-in-circles kind of week. On Monday, I met a new dentist, chosen from a short list of locals in the Medicare provider network. This dentist was unlike any dental professional I’ve ever met. I use the term professional very loosely. I’ll call her Stumpy. After Stumpy's exam and cleaning, I have a profound appreciation for the professional dental practice I left behind in Portland. 

On Tuesday, I motored to the desert hinterlands for my second visit to the lab and contributed a little more blood for a follow-up exam. Then to round out the day, I got my COVID-19 booster shot. Wednesday was more or less a black hole of aching-bones misery, punctuated by the fruitless visit from the maintenance guys. Thursday I started to feel a little better, except for a late-day migraine. Friday I found out my blood is no good, tornadoes tore up the Midwest, and Mike Nesmith died. It’s been a rough week.

I spent Friday and Saturday grieving. Once I started grieving, I tried to glean as much value as I could from my investment in the production of tears and snot-nosed congestion. That is, I packed everything I could think of into my grief bucket—the death of my cat, the pandemic, my mother’s death, my stupid car, my stupid blood, scary weather, mean people, the demise of the second-to-the-last Monkee, the little dudes in my kitchen, the fridge, the melting ice in my ice chest, my sagging butt, and the whiskers growing out of my nose.

Trivia, perhaps, but big or small, it’s all evidence that things are changing. Circumstances have changed, are still changing, and I myself have changed. For someone desperate to manage and control circumstances so she doesn't have to be afraid, change is cause for grieving.

So what should I do? I will tell you what I would like to do. I’d like to go to bed for the winter, hibernate in the Bat Cave until things settle down, inside and out. However, I know that is neither realistic nor possible. So I’m meeting life head on. Next week I am going for my pneumonia shot. Why not? I’m on a needle-jab jag. Then, I plan to start a new drug for osteoporosis—oh boy, that is bound to be fun. And third, I’m going to make an appointment to meet a hematologist. I predict I am anemic, and the cure will likely involve eating great slabs of beef liver daily. 

Blessings or curses? Who knows? I have more evidence to factor into the mix. The southern Arizona weather is chilly at night but mild during the day, compared to Portland or Albuquerque, anyway, with brilliant sunshine and pure blue skies. This afternoon, I walked to a local cemetery, saw people visiting the graves, and felt gratitude that I was born in this time and place, the perfect age to appreciate the ephemeral under-appreciated phenomenon we knew as The Monkees. My brother sent me photos of his five black and white cats, all brothers, and of his soulful-eyed black puppy who now weighs over forty pounds. My sister, taking on the role as parental stocking-stuffer, sent me a toothbrush. 

Right now, it's quiet in Bat Cave. No pounding, no voices, just my own soft music, my playlist of favorite songs. See what I mean about taking my blessings for granted? It's not hard to know when things are going wrong. It takes dedicated mindfulness—and a sneaky optimism—to be aware when things are going right. 

Between here and there

When last we spoke, I mentioned that my nemesis, the check engine light, had returned to disturb my peaceful cat-sitting gig in Albuquerque. The day after Thanksgiving I drove to two places in a valiant but fruitless effort to get the problem resolved. One was closed for the holiday, the other was too busy, come back later. I pictured days of delay as I waited for parts and repairs. As it turned out, on Monday, when I started up the beast in the frigid early morning sunshine, the check engine light did not come on. Maybe there is a god.

The theme of my days seems to involve driving in circles. On Wednesday I got lost on my way to the airport to pick up my friend. I knew it would happen. It always does when I drive in the dark in an unfamiliar place, so I allowed plenty of time. My sense of direction deserts me in the dark. I won't mention what else deserts me. Suffice it to say, it's probably time for another eye exam.

I eventually found my way to the cell phone waiting area and dutifully waited with my cell phone on my lap and my feet wrapped in a big towel, thanking that possibly nonexistent higher power for helping me find the place. I don’t know why I fret. I always somehow manage to get to where I’m going.

That track record is reassuring; as long as I know where I’m going, I’ll eventually get there. Driving in circles on the way to my destination is sort of my personal motif. Ask any passenger I’ve ever had. Following a linear route on a map is something I aspire to but seldom achieve. My friend reminded me that there are phone apps to guide me. So far I have not successfully managed to get my old smartphone to talk. Maybe I haven't given it the old college try. My style is perhaps more elementary—I meander, geographically and otherwise, like a kindergartener wanders from puzzles to playhouse to play-doh. I’m okay with that, as long as I’m not in a hurry. Where I hit the metaphorical concrete bridge abutment is that moment when I realize I have no idea where I am going, that there is no destination other than death, and how and when I get to the final destination is almost completely out of my control.

Tucson looks different to me now, after driving to Albuquerque and back. It’s just another city. Just a place where my stuff happens to be, a place to land for a while. I haven’t experienced many cities in my lifetime. I can name them on one hand and still have fingers left over: Portland, Los Angeles, Tucson. Three cities in my sixty-five years. Does that seem like too few? Well, to be precise, I sampled two L.A.-adjacent neighborhoods that were actually cities: Santa Monica and Venice, to be specific. Maybe I’ll find something similar here—the Santa Monica of Tucson. Could that be Marana? Oro Valley? Neither one is a place I can afford, even if they have vacancies. You need real money to live here.

How can I make a decision about where to live if I haven’t lived but a handful of places? I’m chagrined to report, I moved to Los Angeles in 1977 sight unseen because my high school friend J had moved there, and also because Portland winters suck. I moved to Tucson in 2021 the same way. My defense in 1977 was that I was twenty and stupid. My defense in 2021 was COVID-19. I’m a lot older but possibly still stupid. Maybe it’s the way my brain rolls. It’s all or nothing. After Mom died, my choice seemed to be stay in one place and succumb to toxic black mold or pack up everything and move to a new city. I always knew I’d head south once I was free. I’m a creature of the sun. Tucson promised warm weather and affordable housing.

Nothing is every quite as advertised. Tucson has warm weather, yes, and also shocking heat waves, thrilling monsoon rains, walls of dust-filled wind, and the potential for ice in winter. Affordable housing, yes, if you don’t mind living in the demilitarized zone in a roach-infested motel-style apartment with noisy neighbors on four sides and the ever-present threat of burglaries and car thefts. I guess I should put affordable in quotation marks.

I drove for seven hours, crossing the desert between Albuquerque and Tucson, and as I covered the dusty miles, buffeted by speeding semi-trucks, pickup trucks, and motorhomes, I gradually stopped being afraid of Tucson. I found I had gained a new appreciation for this city. Maybe it's more like I achieved a sense of neutrality. I drove away before dawn on an unfamiliar highway into an unknown future and reentered the city on a hot afternoon, moving with the traffic, knowing exactly where to exit and how to find my way home.

Home. I’m using the word home now consciously, wearing it like a loose overcoat, trying it on for size, knowing the definition of home could quickly morph into something else.

I’ve seen a couple shy little dudes since my return. As long as they stay out of my bed, I don’t care. The next challenge to my peace of mind is the refrigerator, which is clearly gasping its death throes. It can no longer make ice or keep my yogurt cold. My new icebox is literally a box of ice. I can’t dredge up much angst. Yes, it is inconvenient, evidence that I unwittingly moved to the third world. On the plus side, the fridge no longer sounds like Darth Vader haunting my dreams. In addition, the ice cooler will be useful if I end up living in the belly of the beast.