Two brainiacs walked into a bar

I drew this picture in 2003, long before I had any reason to whine about medications. Back in the old days, when I was young and naive, when I thought because I didn't drink, smoke, or eat meat, I was therefore invincible. Back when I assumed I'd live to be a hundred. Ha.

I won't say my life is ruled by meds now that I'm older, because that wouldn't be true, and plus, it would be giving way too much of my brain space to the conundrum of mortality. However, I take a lot more meds than I used to. Less than many, probably, and I'm grateful to have healthcare, which I assume will continue even if the C-suite happens to meet with an unfortunate accident. 

I know it's foolish, but taking all these medications sometimes makes me feel like a moral failure. However, I admit to a thrill of triumph when I see the impressed look on the med aide's face when they take my blood pressure. It only takes two blood pressure medications to keep my BP looking good. 

I probably mentioned my brainiac neurologist disagrees with my diagnosis of vestibular paroxysmia. Why she should trust her years of eduation and experience in favor of my imprecise, anecdotal tales of woe is beyond me. I'd be happy with a little empathy. I've heard surgeons are incapable of empathy, which is why they go into a field where they (mostly) don't have to think about bedside manner. It might be the same with vestibular neurologists. I bet most of the patients this doctor meets are weepy, anxious, wobbly whiners who can't describe their symptoms beyond "I fall over and I can't get up." I think I might be an anomaly. I know my malady is kind of rare, but the fact that I show up having read the NIH articles about my condition might be something she has never encountered.

Anyway, all that to say, after Med #1 lost some of its effectiveness, she prescribed Med #2. She said I should know after the first week if it was going to work or not. I appreciated that information. I stuck it out for two weeks and reported that the new medication had not only made the symptoms worse but also given me a new set of symptoms to complain about. She told me to keep taking Med #1 and stop taking Med #2. She's cooking up Med #3 as we speak. Not literally, I hope. She's a brilliant brainiac, so you never know. She might have a lab in her basement.

Yesterday I was at a grocery store parking my empty cart in the cart parking place like a good little shopper when I noticed an older white-haired woman pushing her loaded cart in circles, scanning the parking lot. I could tell right away she'd lost her car.

"Do you need some help?" I asked.

"I can't seem to find my car."

"What are you driving?"

She told me the make and model, looking worried and chagrined. "I parked it and pulled through to the next slot, you know, so I could get out easily?"

I reassured her I did the same thing. "What color is it?" 

"Green."

"Is it dark green?"

"No, light green."

I trotted around and eventually found a very pale greenish-gray car I thought might be hers. I ran back and verified the license plate.

"You've done your good deed for the day," she said, clearly greatly relieved. 

As if someone would have stolen her car in an upscale grocery store in an upper-income part of town. I guess it could happen, but not likely. Now, if she'd parked in my usual neck of the woods, she might have come back to a car on blocks and stripped for parts. 

I patted her shoulder. "Happens to me all the time."  

Merry Christmas and all that happy horse pucky from sunny, warm southern Arizona. 

Multitasking on the road

Greetings from someplace in Arizona. Yes, I am back in the brutally hot sunshine state. I guess soon every state will be brutally hot, but probably after I'm dead, so at least I don't have to live through that. This is bad enough. I'm doing my Goldilocks routine again, searching for a place that's not too hot and not too cold. Like most hothouse flowers, I require optimal temperatures to feel my best. 

I'm in Prescott, hanging out at a park with all the other travelers who live in their cars. I have figured out my wild camping routine. Wild camping means finding places to park overnight in a city. First, I search Google Earth for a park with a big parking lot. Street parking is no good. You can't deploy solar panels across from somebody's house. They will think you are stalking their children. In a park parking lot, normies come and go, doing their pet-walking, jogging, or biking thing. The ones who stay all day are people like me, the ones who would rather not waste gasoline driving all over the state just to charge up their batteries. I'm sitting in the sweltering shade of my car with a solar panel spread out on the roof. The battery that powers my fridge is slowly sipping power from the sun. Meanwhile I'm blogging. Look at me go, I'm a multitasker.

After my cross-country expedition, I still have no answers about where to look for housing. All the states I visited are lovely in the fall, but would not suit me in the summer or winter. California is beyond reach, financially, so that leaves Washington and Oregon. Both states are gloomy, but of the two, Oregon is a little less gloomy. Bright side: As long as I'm mobile, if the weather sucks, I can move on.

Happy birthday to me. I'm 68. Sometimes birthdays invite a reflection on the past year. In my case, I'm inspired to consider my entire past, the choices, events, and circumstances that led me to this lifestyle. I might add a page to my blog chronicling my timeline. I assume nobody will read it, or when they arrive there by accident, they will read two lines and quickly click away to assuage their boredom on another website. The timeline would be for me. There will come a day when I won't be able to pull together a timeline. Even now, the sequence and details of events are hazy. People and pets are fading into the mist. Certain events—my cat's death, COVID, and my mother's death, for instance—are gashes in the timeline, leaving a lingering trauma that probably will outlive me, but dates sometimes get fuzzy. 

I still can't believe this is my life. Sometimes shock hits me. The surreality of this existence flows over me like a massive wave, driving me deep, so I can't breathe for a moment. Then I surface and get on with things: Do I need water, do I need to dump trash, is my fridge powered up, do I have clean clothes, is there gas in the tank. The minutae of my daily life, just moving from task to task, getting it done, not thinking too much except beyond the next few minutes. 

There are people like me everywhere. Now I can spot them easily. Most of them aren't in soccer mom vans, but their ineptly made window covers are a clue. A rooftop box, a hitch box carrying a portable generator, a general dustiness, back window piled high with blankets... When the occupant gets out of a car and brushes his teeth with a bottle of water, spitting in the sand at a rest area, you can figure he is a nomad. 

Where do we go when the park closes? Thanks for asking. Walmarts used to open their parking lots to vehicles of all sizes. Not any more. Many Walmarts have posted signs to indicate they don't allow overnight parking of any kind, probably from all the shootings and trash. Those rascally nomads. Sometimes Walmart allows cars but not RVs and trucks. Sometimes there is a fringe of unpatrolled spaces in the wayback, where the riffraff is allowed to park. Back east, Walmarts were much friendlier to overnighters. Here in the west, not so much. However, you can almost always park overnight at a home improvement store, if you don't mind the employees who come and go in shifts all night long. After about 3:00 a.m., you will be the only car in the parking lot. If you don't mind that, for a few hours, it's quite peaceful. The other standby is Cracker Barrel, traditionally a welcoming respite for overnighters. 

In some ways, I am invisible. Older white gal in a nondescript white minivan. There are thousands of us cruising the streets of America. Not all of us live in our cars, but possibly more than you would think. In January I will find them in Quartzsite, Arizona, the traditional winter home of nomads. They will come from all over the country seeking desert sun. I will find my tribe there, and the moments of surreality will fade for a while. When everyone is living in their car, suddenly this lifestyle is normal, and it's all of you stick-and-brick folks who are the weirdos. 

If artists ran the world

I thought I could make some money being creative. Not so fast. 

I spent the week whining to myself about how hard it is for U.S. artists to legally sell their work. I'm not wrong. It’s true, many administrative hurdles block artists from starting small businesses, but maybe my whining is overly dramatic. Other entrepreneurial wannabes have to stumble over the same hurdles. Just about anyone who wants to start a small business in the U.S. has to do a few things if they are going to operate above the radar, and when I say “radar” I mean the IRS radar. The IRS thinks you are running a business if you have at least $400 in net profit when you file your annual tax return. Sell a couple paintings, lead a couple workshops, and there you go, bam, you might owe somebody some taxes.

And don’t get me started about the confounding world of sales taxes. The topic irks me so much that I’ve cut off my hair, literally whacked it back to an inch, so I am not tempted to yank it out by the roots. I’ve even toyed with the idea of moving back to Oregon, which has no sales tax, just to avoid the whole headachy mess of charging sales tax.

I'm freaking out on behalf of all U.S. artists. It's my way of being of service. You're welcome. It’s not like I sell my art. I’m not even making art these days, at least, nothing anyone can put their finger on. Earlier this year, I was selling some 99-cent templates to dissertators on my website, until I realized, hey, I should probably be charging sales tax to customers who live in Arizona. Considering the likely number of Arizona-based dissertators (few, I'm guessing), the odds that I would owe more than a dollar are slim to none, but rather than find out the hard way, I now give the templates away for free. I do not want to rouse the wrath of the State of Arizona. In any case, I never collected mailing addresses, so I have no idea where my buyers live. 

All that got me thinking about what artists must go through to be sales-tax compliant. If they sell any tangible art at all, and if they live in a state that has sales tax, then the artist is supposed to collect sales tax from buyers in their state and remit it to the state. I’m not even going to mention the regulations affecting artists who sell digital art remotely into other states. Let’s just keep it simple.

Forty-five of the fifty U.S. states have a state-level sales tax. If you live in one of those states, and sell art to buyers who live in or visit that state, then you should be collecting sales taxes.

It sounds so simple, doesn’t it? Until you factor in the artist’s brain.

Think about what artists are being asked to do. To collect sales tax from buyers means artists must keep track of sales and money. What are the odds of that happening? Artists don’t use Quickbooks. They don’t even use Excel. Artists use napkins and sticky notes, notebook paper, and handmade journals with cats on the covers. Ask artists to produce an income statement or a balance sheet and their eyes will roll back in their heads as if someone had asked them to do math. Right.

Second, to remit those funds to the State means artists must register with their State (unless they live in one of the five states with no state sales tax). One look at the web form would make most artists run screaming into the night. It won’t take long for them to realize if they register to collect sales tax, they will need to apply for a business license. Then it’s one slippery misstep toward opening a business bank account, hiring an accountant, and discovering they owe income taxes. The next thing they know, all the joy and creativity they derived from their artmaking is gone, and now they are running a business. Bummer.

Third, the artists must remit the funds to the State. Dream on. All the artists I know will be using those sales tax funds (supposedly held in trust for the State) to pay their rent and buy their Frappuccinos. This is how I got into debt. Back in the 1980s, I found out too late, from the accountant I hired too late, that I should have been collecting sales tax on the clothing I made and remitting it quarterly to the State of California. Darn it, now you tell me.

Fast forward to now. I could have registered with Arizona. But I know the limitations of my artist brain. I balked after I found out the terrifying fact that even if I had no sales, I still must report to the State or be fined $100. That means $100 in fines for each missed sales report. It's like checking in with a probation officer. No check in, uh-oh, warrant for your arrest. In the face of financial terror, my brain goes gunnysack. Art becomes a burden, and all outcomes favor the State. 

Lawmakers don’t get it. They think artists will prepare business plans, hire lawyers and accountants, install and learn Quickbooks and Taxjar, and file their tax reports with the State on time. As if! Maybe on another planet in a galaxy far far away, where artists are the lawmakers and lawmakers are the whiners. What would a world run by artists look like?

My artist brain is not the brightest crayon in the box but it knows when the system is rigged against it. If you are one of those rare artists whose left brain works as well as your right brain, apologies for lumping you in the crayon box with me and all the other ratty, worn-down crayons. I hope you will run for office. I would definitely vote for you.

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.