Winning the reverse lottery

First off, nobody died. Just want to make that clear up front. Nobody got hurt except my bank account and the environment. I guess if the world decides to bestow personhood on the earth, then I'm going to hell. I'm sure I'll have lots of company. 

Early yesterday morning, just after daybreak, I heard something bump my car. I assumed thieves were going after my new spare tire, which I proudly display on my roof rack like the badass old lady urban nomad that I am. Not wanting to lose my $400 tire, I started yelling, "get off my car, get off my car!"

I looked out the driver's side window and saw a chubby Hispanic- looking guy scrambling to get into the passenger seat of a small silver sedan. He and his driver took off. 

I fumbled around in the dark for my glasses, my pants, and my car key so I could hit the panic button. I'd never pressed the panic button before, so I didn't know what to expect. My horn bleated once, and that was it. Not exactly the alarm I'd been hoping for. My fear was that I would accidently presss the "open all the doors and come on in" button, which might not not have ended well. 

I yanked down all my window covers and got myself over the console into the driver's seat in record time. As I started the engine, the silver car returned from the other direction and stopped right next to me. The driver wore a mask pulled up to his eyes. I flipped him off and hit the gas. As I left, I heard a thumping bumping sound from somewhere near my back left tire. I kept going.

I drove a few blocks on autopilot, found a side street, got out of my car to see if my tire was still there, and smelled gasoline.

Yep. You guessed it. I got drilled. Or rather, my gas tank got drilled. Gas poured out a hole about the size of my thumb, onto the street, into the gutter, all my lovely near-full tank of gas.

I called the fire department. A big red firetruck arrived, lights flashing, but no siren. Three firefighters jumped down and rolled their eyes at what they were seeing. One of the firefighters was a woman. They made her crawl under there with some of that magic plastic putty. She couldn't fix it. In her defense, it was a big hole spewing a lot of gas. One of the guys dumped a pile of kitty litter to keep the gas from spreading downhill in the gutter, in case it reached a storm drain. 

"You got any plastic containers?" asked the guy in charge.

I pulled out some plastic bins I had in the back. He situated the bins under the stream of gas. One filled up. He moved a second one into place. At that point the stream trickled to a drip, probably because the gas had dropped below the level of the hole.

The firefighters got ready to go. I said, "What about these containers of gas? Can't you take them?"

"No, we don't take gasoline."

They left. I called my new insurance company (the one I'd had for thirty years cancelled me because I wasn't able to give them all the names of the drivers in my new Oregon household). While I was waiting, I stuffed my most important possessions into a bag. What are my most prized posessions? Thanks for asking. My phones, my calendar, my tablet, my notebook of important documents, and my medications. Plus my laptop. It was kind of an epiphany to realize my entire life could easily fit into one backpack. All I would need to do is add a toothbrush, and I'd be good to go.

Roadside assistance eventually sent me a contract tow truck driver. He called my cell and asked what color my car was. In a few minutes, a slim young Middle Eastern-looking guy pulled up with a flatbed tow truck. 

"I help you," he said.

I pointed out the two containers of gas under the car. He put on rubber gloves and moved them to the sidewalk. Knowing what I know now, I'm sure he would have driven over them without a thought.

"Did you bring a gas can like I requested?" I asked.

"No, I don't take gasoline. It's not my job," he said as he lowered the back end of the flat bed.

He took my car key, started up my car, and floored it up onto the flat bed. Gas spewed everywhere, all over his truck, onto the street. He secured one wheel. Then he got in his truck and drove away with my car.

I sat on a low wall by the sidewalk, wondering what just happened. I called his number. He answered.

"You left me here," I said.

"You didn't say you needed a ride."

"Come back and pick me up," I said.

"Okay, I do it for you, because I love my mother."

In a few minutes, he came back. I hoisted my crap into the passenger seat, boosted myself up, and didn't bother putting on a seatbelt, thinking who cares at this point. It's a nice big windshield, and I'll have a lovely view of the street while I am being decapitated.

The entire drive, he regaled me with stories of his family. Wife, three kids, and his demented mother all live in one household. Mom has some brain thing, probably Alzheimers. Doctors in Afghanistan couldn't help much. Now she's on a med that is working wonders. 

"I'm so happy for you," I said. "Love your mother while you still have her, because mothers don't last forever."

We made it to the mechanic without mishap. The tow truck driver backed my car off the ramp as fast as he could, scraping both the front and the rear of the car, which doesn't have a lot of clearance, being a soccer mom minivan, for crying out loud. He gave me a big grin as he handed me the keys.

Then the young Afghan tow truck driver gave me a long, long, long hug. 

The rest of the day was just a wait-around-and-see-how-much-money-this-is-going-to-cost-me kind of day. I got to know the mechanics pretty well. They told every customer who came in about my car getting drilled. That's the term, apparently. Drilled. 

"How could they do that to an old lady?" one of the workers huffed. I enjoyed hearing the righteous indignation on my behalf almost as much as I enjoyed being called an old lady. 

Somebody told a story of a woman whose car was being drilled, and she was in the driver's seat. She backed up and ran over the miscreant. He won't be doing that again, although now she has to live with the knowledge that she killed somebody, even if "he deserved it." 

Somebody else told me a story of how it cost $2,000 to replace his gas tank. "I would have gladly have given him gas money, if he'd only asked." 

I had to concur.

Lucky for me, it was a one-day ordeal. The mechanics were able to find a gas tank at a salvage yard. By the time they added their markup and labor, the final price was a third of what I would have paid for a new gas tank from the dealer. Not to mention I got mine in one day, and a new one would have taken a week. I'm counting my blessings. It was a long day, but I survived. 

I filled out a police report today. To do that, I needed to find the location of the scene of the crime. Other cars were parked in that spot this morning. I didn't see any Tupperware bin in the gutter with my tire tracks on it, so I guess they took it with them after I split. If I were truly a badass, I would have gone around the block and rammed them. But you can't really do much damage with a minivan. It's like putting a lightning bolt on the side of a wheelbarrow. I can dream, though.

My car seems to be running fine. It seems that cars get drilled often here in the big city of Portland. Still, people park their cars on the streets all over the east side of town. I'd like to put Kevlar all over it, but apparently that's not a thing. I just have to chalk it up to the annoying phenomenon known as winning the reverse lottery and try not to imagine lightning will strike twice in one place. 

Got my oil changed and suvived to write about it

I'm always shocked when my car speaks to me, but I've learned to listen when the horrible chime jangles my nerves to tell me something needs attention. Most of the time it's the dreaded check engine light, the bane of my existence. Once it was an issue with the gas cap not being closed all the way. Recently the message in the odometer window was "low tire." My car plays coy, though. Not going to tell you which tire is low, ha ha, you figure it out. Given the weather had turned cold, I suspected it was all four. I am now the proud owner of a tire inflator machine. So fun. 

I'm glad my car has enough of a brain to tell me when something is wrong, rather than shutting off with no notice and leaving me stranded, as has happened with cars in my past. They did the best they could. I'm sure someday if I live long enough I will have a car that actually talks to me. Not like that car in Knight Rider. I'm thinking more along the lines of My Mother the Car. I can just imagine my mother being reincarnated as a 1994 Toyota Camry. Nothing fancy. She would say "I need an oil change and Jiffy Lube is having a special, but don't let them sell you an air filter because I don't need one yet, and you can do that yourself." 

My car has the brain of an infant savant, more or less. It doesn't speak, but it makes noises that get under my skin, particularly that gruesome chime. I hate that sound. When my car dinged a couple days ago as I was firing it up to go shopping, I was confused at first, because the check engine light was blessedly dark. Then I saw the message in the odometer window: oil change.

According to the sticker dangling in the corner of my windshield by the last oil change provider, I should have had another thousand miles, but I stopped patronizing that shop because I finally figured out, after thousands of dollars, that they had taken advantage, and not only that, they smoked weed as a group in the back of their shop, which is right by the bike path where I frequently walk. Nothing against those who indulge, as long as they aren't working on my car while they do it. Anyway, I found a new mechanic in the neighborhood. So when my car told me it wanted new oil, I went there.

Sadly for me, the gray clouds that had threatened to explode finally did, which is good if you like rain, as we often do in the desert, but this rain was the kind I know from the Pacific Northwest, that is to say, the kind that moves in and squats over the city like a brood hen trying to hatch a cold dead egg. In the desert, I've come to know the nature of monsoon, the weather phenomenon that boils up out of nowhere, destroys the place with lightning, hail, wind, torrential rain, and flash floods and then evaporates, leaving you wondering what the heck! This week's rain was not like that. The radar showed Tucson under a huge green splat, which meant it was going to be raining for a while.

I drove to the mechanic and dashed through the rain to the office. I was greeted by a surly middle-aged man who reluctantly agreed to do the oil change on the spot (well, within three hours) and what kind of oil did I want? Like I would know the answer to that question. I said, "You are assuming I know the answer to that question." He looked at me with that long-suffering look I've seen on countless sales reps' faces over years and years of me not trusting that I know more than I think I do. Finally we figured it out, and pretty soon we were getting along. 

"Are you going to wait or are you going walk around the mall?" he asked. 

"Oh, I'll go hang out at the mall," I said, like an idiot. I had a raincoat. How bad could it be?

I'd forgotten it was a few days until Christmas. I don't pay attention to the holidays, except to be annoyed that they encroach on my routines. I guess I assumed yet again that everyone else was like me but you know what happens when we assume. I headed off in the rain toward the mall and soon realized I was way out of my comfort zone. Even on a good day, malls are trying to kill me. During this Christmas shopping season, a sense of desperation and panic hung over the whole retail neighborhood. The streets were jammed with SUVs all trying to turn into the mall parking lot without getting T-boned by oncoming traffic. Pedestrians had no chance, but what choice did I have? Sit in the waiting room? I chanced it. 

I wandered the edge of the wide parking lot past the empty Sears store, crossing the traffic lanes near JC Penney, and meandered past REI and the Container Store, loathe to actually go inside the mall itself. As I stumbled over curbs and puddles, I got the bright idea to walk up the street to Best Buy. I needed new headphones, and it wasn't too far away. On a good weather day, it would have been a pleasant stroll. Not today.

Between the rain and the speeding cars, I was a soggy ragged breathless mess by the time I got there. Unbeknownst to me, my raincoat had lost its ability to repel water, so I was drenched through my hoodie sweatshirt through my T-shirt through my tanktop to my skin. My sweatpants, so cozy just an hour earlier, were soaked from the knees down. I was half-blind from glasses covered with raindrops. Lucky for me, not expecting to have to walk very far, I had worn my thirty-year-old waterproof Merrell mules instead of my sneakers. Thus, although tired, my feet were warm and dry. 

I made it to Best Buy, found the things I needed, and ventured back out into the slogfest. No letup in the rain, no letup in the traffic. If anything, both seemed to be growing more intense by the minute. At the intersection between me and the mechanic's shop, I made sure to press the walk button. With my eye on the walk sign and the opposite curb, four lanes away, I watched for oncoming traffic making a left turn in front of me. All good. 

Lucky for me, out of the corner of my eye, I saw the huge black monster truck making a right turn as I stepped off the curb. I don't think the driver saw me, at least, I hope that is the case. I hate to think they made that dangerous turn on purpose. The holidays can make people do things they would not normally do. I can be magnanimous now, given I lived to write this blogpost. 

I stopped walking and let the truck blast by in front of me, close enough to touch. I had time to admire enormous rugged tires. I wasn't thinking at that moment, oh, nice tires. In that moment, I yelled and gestured, which felt pretty good, actually, since I rarely yell and gesture. I dashed across the street and made it to the far curb unscathed, calcified heart valve pounding. 

As I continued my walk, I was gifted with more opportunities to yell and gesture, this time at the drivers who sped through the standing water, drenching me as I walked on the sidewalk. If it hadn't been so miserably uncomfortable, it would have been hilarious. I could have been starring in a rom-com. Hapless hero facing conflicts before achieving the goal of happiness, which in my case was getting back to my car alive.

I returned early to the mechanic and sat shivering in the waiting room scrolling through my phone like a zombie. Eventually my car was ready. Now I know the holiday spirits were looking out for me, partly because I survived the walk to Best Buy and back, but mostly because the mechanics didn't find anything else wrong with the car, other than the obligatory notice to get my fuel injectors cleaned. I'll wait until my car tells me its time.

Happy holidays from the Hellish Handbasket. Hope your new year is better than the last.

Living life on the floor

I have one small victory to report. With a little help from my friend, I managed to replace the support struts on my minivan's liftgate without braining either one of us. It's always great when DIY car repairs don't kill or maim anyone. There's enough killing and maiming going on in the world without my car adding to the carnage. In addition to the satisfaction of accomplishing one thing on my endless list of tasks, I saved quite a bit of money. I would have saved even more money if I hadn't had to go to the dealer for a replacement bolt that sheared off when I was about to embark upon my camping trip to Flagstaff. Remember that? That was a fun morning. Not. 

But now the liftgate is working, which is more than I can say for my right butt muscle. I have a severe hitch in my gitalong. In other words, I can barely walk. The pain is excruciating, radiating from a knot in my gluteus . . . I want to say maximus, but I don't actually know. I've stared at the anatomy drawings and all I see is a mushy red version of Autopia, with roads of muscle overpasses and underpasses and the whole thing looks like the Santa Monica Freeway in rush hour. 

I chalked up the pain to arthritis, and I'm probably diagnosing myself correctly, considering my mother had a hip replacement and my brother somehow managed to dislocate his hip while stretching in his sleep. Ouch. Mom got a metal shank in her shanksmare, and my brother got a new ball and socket. Thus, it wouldn't surprise me if my turn was coming soon, even though I'm just barely sixty-seven. This is not the kind of precociousness I admire. 

Anyway, I got to thinking as I was stumbling around my room with my mother's cane, which she never used, having leaped straight over the cane to a metal wheeled walker, figuratively speaking. This pain does not seem to emanate from the actual hip ball and socket joint. I have been consulting with Dr. Google and it won't surprise you to know I now have multiple diagnoses, ranging from benign to dire. Dr. WebMD was equally creative. What did we do before internet doctors, I ask you! Go to real doctors? Ick.

I refuse to quit going out for my evening constitution around the mobile home park, despite the fact that every step burns and despite the fact that the vestibular spasms put me off balance as the waves sweep through my head every thirty seconds. I know I'm a broken hip waiting to happen, but that doesn't stop me. This evening my walk took on a meditative tone as I placed my feet carefully on the uneven asphalt. I would not have seen a snake or javelina or coyote until I was right on top of them, I was so intent on watching my feet. Besides managing the pain, I was determined to follow the directions of my favorite YouTube physical therapist. Apparently, my gait is partly to blame for hip flareups. 

For instance, he advised me to walk with my toes slightly splayed. In my adolescence, I preferred to appear somewhat pigeon-toed, thinking that made me look more like Twiggy. I'm not pigeon-toed now, although I currently walk like a drunken sailor so there's no telling where my feet could end up. But tonight I really tried to turn out my toes, especially my right foot, while I minced along the road with my shortened stride. I'm not sure, but turning out my toes seemed to ease the pain somewhat. I had my head down, so I couldn't tell if people were watching me through their windows and wondering why I was walking like a duck.

More important than the splayed toes, the PT said I should pay close attention to my glutes. Specifically, I should squeeze them alternately while I'm taking each step. Left, squeeze, right, squeeze, so that the muscles support the inflamed hip. Well, I quickly found out I no longer have anything resembling muscles in my butt. My butt is flat as a board (but not as hard as a board, sadly), so there's nothing there to squeeze. I did manage to coax a little you want me to do wha—? from my left glute, but my right glute was MIA, nowhere to be seen. Just a floppy pile of jello. Now I can truly claim to be half-assed. Ha. 

I made it home and collapsed on my foam rubber bed. My mind wandered into the past, as it is wont to do when I'm trying to figure out a medical mystery, and it occurred to me that I have felt something similar before. Not exactly the same, but similarly immobilizing in the buttocks region. Back then, I was both post-menopausal and vegan, which is not a combination I would recommend, but there I was, trying to maintain muscles on little more than soymilk and tofu. Plus, I was jogging almost daily, trying to tighten up my loose quads. It's no wonder my back and leg gave out. My muscles had atrophied from lack of adequate nutrition. That painful time led me to Dr. Tony, the wacko naturopath, which was another painful time, mainly in a financial sense. He flummoxed me with mumbo-jumbo, but he probably saved my life by telling me I'd better get more protein or else head south with the geese. 

Now I'm going to do that thing that doctors hate so much and diagnose myself. Why not? I did it before with the vestibular issue, and they are starting to get on board, so why not diagnose my butt? Here's what I think. I don't think it's hip arthritis creating this stabbing burning pain. It's either a nerve problem or a muscle problem, brought on by sitting for extended periods of time on a $11.00 IKEA plastic folding chair in front of my laptop, which is sitting on a $17.00 Walmart wooden folding table that is just about two inches too tall for the height of the chair. It could be that lack of protein is playing a role, considering I don't get much these days and I'm not willing to eat animal flesh just yet. However, I think the precipitating trigger was my chair and table setup. The writing life is killing me.

That is why at this moment, I am sitting on the bed with the laptop on my lap, like any sensible sendentary computer user would do. My bed is on the floor, and now my desk is on the floor too. Maybe my hips will loosen up a little and enjoy life if I give them the job of getting up and down off the floor twenty or thirty times a day. Like they have a choice. I can always crawl to the bathroom if I have to. It's not very far. 

Trial run for a new life

I finally made it to the forest outside Flagstaff. It’s as beautiful as I had hoped. The trees are tall and piney. The grass is green, sparse, and full of weeds. The fire road to get to this campsite is flat and well maintained. Best of all, the temperature is in the low- to mid-70s. After the heat of Phoenix, I was ready for a shot of cooler air.

My dogsitting job ended on Wednesday. I spent Wednesday night in a Home Depot parking lot, almost ready to cave and call my friend to rescue me with her AC. But I toughed it out with the help of a USB-powered fan, and in the morning, I was ready to hit the road to Flagstaff. To celebrate my long holiday weekend of freedom, I stopped for coffee and a chocolate croissant at a Panera Bread. Yum. When I got back to my car, I opened the back liftgate, planning to get a cord to recharge the fan. As I was lifting the heavy gate, it wobbled in a highly unusual fashion. There was a loud pop, and a quarter-size piece of metal shot off into the parking lot, right in front of a passing car. Then the full liftgate weight was in my hand. The liftgate strut was hanging untethered.

I slowly lowered the liftgate on the dangling strut, wondering, what the heck, what now? I picked up the piece of metal that had been airborne. The metal bolt appeared to be sheared clean through.

The driver who saw the piece of metal fly off pulled up and asked me if I was okay and could she call someone. I just stood there, looking at the metal bolt, unsure what to say, feeling my coffee and chocolate croissant turning into water in my bowels. Finally, I thanked her and said I would call my nearby friend for help, knowing even as I said it, I had no such intention. I had memories of calling people every time my car broke down: my parents, my boyfriends, my brother. No way was I going to give up my freedom to eff everything up in my own stubborn way, even if it meant I had to cancel my camping trip.

The lady left. I lifted the gate and looked at the strut. I couldn’t tell quite how it was attached. Another bolt? I poked at it with some pliers but could not get a grip. I got out my phone and looked at a video about replacing the struts on a Grand Caravan. Not helpful.

Next, I looked up car repair places near me. I thought I might be able to make it someplace close by, if I drove really slowly. Images of my stuff flying out the back of my car flitted through my mind. I would be littering the road with all the stuff packed at the very back of the car: my electric tea kettle, several boxes of nose strips, cellophaned wrapped N95 masks, and beat-up baggies of power cords, not to mention my favorite quilt. The terrifying prospect of losing that stuff (and littering, I'm from Oregon, remember) made me feel a bit like barfing, but I didn’t see that I had much of a choice. The car repair place was only a few streets away. I let the GPS lady guide me. She took me straight to an apartment complex. Apparently this car repair dude was working out of his apartment. I tried his number. No answer.

I pulled up Maps again and found another place, a tire repair shop. Their website said they also handled “car repair,” and that fit my situation. I had a car in need of repair. I drove gingerly to the tire repair place. I parked and walked over to the office door. It was locked. A woman was standing on a grassy verge watching some guy moving tires around a shiny gray car.

We got to talking as women do when they are standing outside a car repair shop. I explained my predicament. She said she didn’t think they did car repair there, and anyway, there was only one guy working, and he was working on her car, which she’d brought back for a second time because they had sold her a set of four tires the day before (for $1,300) but failed to balance them, and what’s more, they were dirty. I made sounds of empathy. Clearly, she needed someone to witness her frustration.

Then she pulled out her phone and looked up the Dodge dealer over by the Scottsdale airport. It took her about five seconds to do what would have taken me fifteen minutes. I thanked her and wished her luck with her new tires, got back in my car, and set my GPS lady to lead the way. She did, although it was pure luck that inspired me to make a left turn when she said “make a slight left.” Slight. Ha.

In the dealership parking lot, I pulled around a bunch of cars, and maneuvered among some more cars, and finally saw the service area, which didn’t look too busy. I pulled up and a guy wearing a soft-brimmed hat came over. I showed him the broken bolt, and he backed away.

“Let me get a service advisor,” he said. What was he, I wondered, some sort of pre-advisor? I didn’t ask, I just said okay.

In a minute, a tall guy came over and took a look.

“I can’t replace these struts today,” I said. “I just need you to take this thing off so I can get back on the road.”

He grabbed the strut and gave it a turn. It popped off, like a hip joint coming out of a socket, and just like that, I was able to close the liftgate. I made marveling noises so he would feel properly appreciated, like, ooh, big strong dude, thank you for saving my weekend. I can’t play a damsel in distress anymore, given I’m over 60, but I am learning that I can play the old senile lady. Young dudes seem to appreciate being appreciated.

“Come back when you want to replace those struts,” he said. 

Feeling like my Dodge had dodged a major big-dollar bullet (every time this car breaks it costs me a minimum of $1,000), I managed to back out of the line without hitting anything, which now looking back was a total miracle, considering my car was packed almost to the roof.

At last! One more thing to do, fill the gas tank, then I would be on my way to my camping adventure!

I found a gas station just a couple blocks away. I pulled up to the pump and shoved my debit card into the slot like I’ve done a hundred times before since I’ve been in Arizona. Declined. What! I tried debit, I tried credit, I tried my business debit card, all declined! That was a first for me.

I went inside and paid cash, wondering if my bank account had been hacked and drained and I was now destitute. Dang it! I made a mental note to call the bank once I got to my campsite, assuming I had cell service.

Then I proceeded to enjoy a lovely drive into the mountains. I forgot all about my troubles. The car performed without a hiccup, which for me means cruising along at 63mph being blown off the road by everything but the slowest towed trailer. I passed the turnoff to Montezuma Well, thinking it would be nice to stop, but it was 100°F and suspecting the magic would not be quite the same the second time around. I kept going, wondering when the terrain would turn to pine forest, and then I crested a ridge, and there they were, evergreens! 

I braved traffic in Flagstaff and took the turnoff to Highway 40, also known as the old Route 66. I had directions to a camping area not far off the highway. To my surprise, I found the fire road with no problem. The red graveled road wound past some homes, an old quarry, and some logging sites, and then I spotted the first travel trailer, parked in a clearing 50 yards off the road. At last! Campers! 

I drove a little further, seeing more vehicles parked in the trees. It wasn’t even noon, so there were empty campsites to choose from. I took the first one that seemed level. I backed my car under a pine tree, turned off the engine, got out of my car, and took a deep breath of 7,000 feet high forest air. Then I called the bank and did a little whining. The bank lady reassured me, everything was fine, no cause for alarm, probably it was that one gas station. My bank is 1,500 miles away, so it’s not like I can just pop in for a new debit card. Fingers crossed.

I arrived on Thursday morning. The clouds rolled in Thursday night and kept on rolling overhead in waves, all the way to Sunday morning, when they finally parted, revealing blue sky. Friday and Saturday, intermittent rain, rain, and more rain. Some thunder, some wind, lots of chilly air. I definitely got my fill of cooler climes. Meanwhile, my two little power stations were draining as I recharged my phone and used my laptop and waited for some sun so I could test out my solar panel. Yes, I am the proud owner of a heavy glass foldable solar panel! I know. So exciting.

I’m happy to report, the solar panel worked. It took all day today to charge my power stations, because big white puffy clouds kept obscuring the sun, but eventually both my power stations were restored to 100% power. I felt like singing.

The weekend has been peaceful, despite my power anxieties, and despite the off-road vehicles, dirt bikes, trucks, and cars going by on the road fifty feet from my car. Despite the freight trains going along some tracks over by the highway. Despite the gunshots coming from shooters doing target practice in the forest . . . yep, I kid you not, and it’s loud. I’m pretty sure they are firing guns for fun. It’s been going on intermittently all weekend. If they had wanted to do harm, they have had plenty of time to come along and shoot up all the minivans, RVs, and travel trailers parked under the trees. I hope they will stop when it’s full dark.

I had only one visitor, and that was today. Ranger Brian was stopping at each camp to warn us that even though it’s been raining more or less nonstop for three days, there is still high fire danger, and we should not be having campfires. I have no problem with that rule. I’m not at all sure I could make a fire with wet wood, even if I wanted to. My RV neighbors to the north fired up their campfire the moment they pulled in, so I’m sure Ranger Brian gave them a talking to.

Nights in the forest are very dark. Dark and cold. I don’t have enough light to work in here after the sun goes down. I will have to pull out my headlamp. Last night I went to bed at 8:30, because what else is there to do when it’s pitch black and you aren’t sure you have enough power for one more day? At 10:30, something woke me up. The inside of the car was gently glowing. I looked out the window at the sky and saw a partial moon dodging the clouds—the remnants of the super blue moon. I tried to take a photo through the window, but all I got was a big white dot surrounded by some little whitish dots, which I figured out later were raindrops on my window.

Tomorrow I must break camp and head back to Scottsdale to resume the second portion of the dogsitting job. Back to AC. Back to electrical power. Back to triple-digit heat.

There’s lots more I could write about, like the conundrum of a condition I’ll call camping constipation, like the problem of too much stuff in too little space, like the real possibility I may have to do more car camping in the not too distant future. But that can wait.

Oddly, the most marvelous find of this trip is a fully automated, noncommercial Flagstaff radio station that plays the best classic rock songs I’ve ever heard in one place. I’m accepting it as the gift it is.

Things that don't heal by themselves

I've heard time heals all wounds. That sounds nice, but time doesn't heal everything. A few things come to mind. Cars. Teeth. Hearts. Money can heal some things, though. Cars, for example. If you have enough money to throw at the problem, you can definitely get that dreaded check engine light to go off. For a while. 

A business person once said something like, "I know half my advertising is wasted; I just don't know which half." I feel that way about car repair. When Charlie the mechanic says things like "Well, first we'll replace the coil, and if that doesn't work, we'll replace the fuel injector," it makes me suspect I just got a new coil for nothing. Not that you can't always use a new coil, but generally, I try to wait until I really need a new thing before tossing out the old one. It's the guess-and-by-golly approach. You guess, and if it works, you say, well, by golly! If it fails, you say, golly, sure screwed that up. The approach works, either way. After $2,300 worth of new everything, my car is running great. 

Another thing that doesn't heal by itself is teeth. Repairing teeth chews up a lot of money (ha, see what I did there). As I lay stiff as a board in the chair, with a drill, a water pick, a suction hose, and four hands in my mouth and the whine of the drill blasting my eardrums as it ground #3 and #26 to smithereens, I had a solid two hours to really savor the feeling of money being siphoned out of my bank account. I kept picturing the moment when I would be sitting at the receptionist's desk, pulling out my debit card. While I suffered in the chair, I couldn't wait for that moment. Once I survived the grinding and was actually pulling out my debit card, I felt somewhat less enthused. However, my deal is, I pay as I go for services rendered, even if they render me impoverished. How could I refuse? I got two new crowns for the bargain (Medicare) price of only $1,500. Such a deal. 

Speaking of dental deals, I hear that my insurance company has denied the $1,550 cost of last month's root canal re-do. I'm going to call them and weep into the phone, but I don't have a lot of hope. You can't petition the insurance company, not with prayer or anything else. The root canal had to be done, though, to save the tooth. So they say. Do we have to save teeth? I'm starting to think I'd look pretty good with dentures. I wonder if the dentist would let me customize them. Could I get them sharpened to points, maybe? That might come in handy in the upcoming zombie apocalypse, when I might be called upon to bite the throats out of water thieves. 

My bank account is starting to resemble Lake Mead—that is to say, a lot going out and not much coming in. I am not good at math, but even I know that is not sustainable. 

I knew this was going to happen. I was mentally prepared. Cars and teeth do not repair themselves. As long as I have the money, I will pay to maintain them. After that, it's baby food and bicycle. 

The other thing I'm thinking of that doesn't heal on its own is my heart. I don't mean that I'm grieving the losses of the past three years, although I am, and I probably always will miss my mother, my cat, and my sense of "home." I am actually referring to the actual meatball beating in my chest. Taking up yoga and jogging won't fix the valve that is gradually calcifying. My father used to lift weights to "muscle" his way through his maladies. It seems likely that I have inherited his genetic heart condition. I doubt if lifting weights is going to save me, any more than it saved him. But I understand his motivation. After a long walk, I feel a sense of sweaty accomplishment, like, yeah, take that, you stupid meatball. I'll outlive you yet, you just wait.

Speaking of dead, I'm pretending there will be a tomorrow, and I'm making plans accordingly. In a couple months, I'm going out in the world to seek my new home. Am I too old to go on a quest? I haven't heard that there is an age limit. This might be the adventure of my mediocre mundane lifetime. Or it might be the stupidest thing I've ever done. It's so hard to know ahead of time. Most of my bright ideas fall into the second category, but I've been lucky a few times before. It could happen again.

One year in Tucson

Happy Sunday, Blogbots. Another gorgeous day in Tucson, marred only by gusty winds. Yes, the same winds that are blowing wildfires around the Southwest. Thankfully, the smoke is going the other direction. I am in more danger from tree pollen than I am from wildfire smoke. I feel guilty enjoying the 80°F heat when homes are burning and bombs are falling. I guess I'd feel less guilty if I were curled up in a ball in the closet, but sooner or later, I would have to get up and use the bathroom. The mundanities of life really detract from the drama.

Speaking of drama, my friend E got Covid! I'm bummed, but only a fraction as bummed as E is. It sounds like utter misery. Vaccinated and boosted! Is there no god? E is in California. There's nothing I can do except pick up the mail, flush the toilets, and pray for a speedy recovery.

I was dismayed at the images of (mostly) happy airline passengers ripping off their face masks with joy after the announcement that the mask mandate was over. I felt for the passengers who clearly weren't happy. It's like they'd been warily riding in a safari jeep among a pride of tigers when most of their fellow tourists suddenly pulled squirt guns out of their pockets and shot everyone up with meat juice. 

How could a virus say no?

I think it is dumb luck I have somehow managed to evade this disease. Luck and the fact that I don't have any friends. I mean, people I see in person. I cannot count the people working at Sprouts as my friends. Especially because most of them are not wearing masks anymore. Sigh. Don't get me started.

Have we all just given up? If so, then why not bomb the crap out of Russia? If we are all going to hell in a handbasket, might as well go out with a bang. If all we are afraid of is a few nuclear bombs on some major cities most of us don't care about anyway, well, why worry? We've already destroyed a third of the species on the planet. It would be fitting if we destroyed ourselves as well.

I probably wouldn't be writing this if I had kids. No, I would be swinging wildly back and forth between apologizing for ruining the planet and begging them to use their nimble young minds to come up with a magic solution. 

Speaking of magic solution, do you have one for vertigo? The ENT thought I might have vestibular migraines, rather than BPPV. I started doing some digging, and turns out, it is possible the little pipsqueak was right. Actually, I'm starting to think I might have both! Well, it would be typical of me. My usual M.O. is to never do things halfway. For example, if you are going to move to a new city, just pack up the car and go, don't bother to scout the place first. Just hit the road or board that train, and see what happens. I've done it twice; so far, I'm still alive.

Excuse me a moment while I go out and murder one of my neighbors who is sitting in his car with his car stereo bass turned up so loud, his car speakers are shuddering. My stomach is shuddering in time to the beat. There is no actual beat, just that juddery sound you get when you know you've just blown out your stereo speakers.

Okay, I'm back. He turned it off just as I got off my chair. I probably wouldn't actually have murdered him. You know, Covid, and I don't have much in the way of weapons or an army. Just a couple of forks and a little herd of badly trained cockroaches. I'm all talk and no action, as you can see.

Spring is over in Tucson. Summer starts tomorrow, sounds like. Upper 90s are in the forecast. Once it warms up that much, I believe it really won't cool off significantly until November. It's a good thing I got the  beast's air conditioning fixed. Living in the desert without AC is foolhardy. I repeated that to myself a few times as the car repair guys efficiently sucked $441.32 out of my bank account. Apparently the price of Freon has gone up, too, just like the prices of everything else. What is the deal with Freon? Is this a case of if you love something and want to keep it, you have to be willing to let it go?

Oh, hey, I almost forgot, happy one year anniversary to me. I moved to Tucson exactly one year ago. 

Another week on the Zoom

I drive so rarely, my car decided it couldn't be bothered to start. I know the feeling. I often feel that way myself, like, what is the point? On Monday I forked over some money to the place up the street for a new battery. When I got my car back, it seemed to exhibit a new resolve, although the clock indicated it had somehow entered a different time zone. Being time-zone-challenged, I plan to use my usual approach: wait and see what happens. Perhaps the clock will reset itself. It's happened before. It's like when socks, or gloves, or keys go missing. They quite often reappear.

Speaking of things disappearing and reappearing, one of my friends has a poltergeist. My friend has had it for years. A thing goes missing. A needle and thread. A document. My friend searches like a mad person, can't find the thing. Eventually my friend gives up. Then the thing mysteriously returns, sometimes days later, suddenly appearing in plain sight. 

I don't have spirits following me around. Far as I know. I am glad about that. If you see a spirit following me, don't tell me.

So Monday's quest was to replace my car battery. Tuesday it rained (with thunder, lightning, and wind). I've already forgotten how that felt. It's a little preview of what comes in July. Wednesday I led a workshop to help artists figure out what art products they should sell. That was fun. A futile endeavor. It's always fun trying to herd cats. Mm, cats. Much rather be herding cats than teaching artists. 

On Thursday I decided I'd better get out of the Bat Cave. I walked to the local Goodwill. It was a twenty minute walk, mostly through a neighborhood of desert houses. Desert houses in the poor part of town are made of cinderblocks. The roofs are flat. Of course I can't see inside, but I imagine everyone is lying on the floor to escape the heat that pools under the low ceilings. Goodwill was small and moderately crowded. I was one of a few shoppers wearing a mask. Every time I go around others, I think, is it my turn? I've been careful, I've been lucky, I've dodged this thing for two years. Is my luck going to run out?

Friday was April 1, another good day for a walk. Does walking help? (Help with what, you might ask.) Who can say. Saturday was a day of phone calls. I praise the TV gods for SNL. Sunday was a day of Zoom meetings. The week is over. I am done.

My life seems to be a frayed slogfest of loose ends. I complete everything on my list, but the outcomes are unknown. For all those Zoom meetings, did I help anyone? I don't know. All that spraying of the insecticide in my kitchen, is it going to keep me safe? I doubt it. The new car battery, will it guarantee my car will start next time I turn the key? Can't be sure. I learned more about time zones last week, namely that Arizona is in its own private Idaho when it comes to time. Does anyone really know what time it is? Today I led a workshop on Zoom. People from multiple time zones attended. I am embarrassed to tell you how many tries it took me to get the correct time zones on the flyer.

I may not know what time it is, but I show up for life, that's the best I can say. I've just about given up on the idea that my life has meaning and purpose. It does if I say it does, but I'm sort of over it. Maybe it's just the vertigo. Maybe it's the high pressure building in, inviting me to get lost in blue sky. Today is over. Tomorrow will bring its own set of tasks and unknown outcomes. Sooner or later, I will be done.

 

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.

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. 

The Chronic Malcontent should not become a car mechanic

I'm bone-dog weary, but I keep slogging through the days. On the bright side, sunshine! On the dark side, dementia! Life is a balance sheet of debits and credits. I add up both sides and think I've got things figured out. Then pink eye! (Mom, not me). It's always something, even when I don't know what it is. We all know how the story ends, but how we get to the ending is the part that puts hair on my chest. And upper lip. And nostrils.

After our visit to urgent care to get the pink eye diagnosis, my mother called me to tell me one of my headlights was out. That was nice of her. Even more impressive, she remembered to call me even after trudging the three-minute hike back to her room, fifteen minutes after having a cigarette, which typically temporarily erases a good portion of her brain cells.

I went to the auto supply store yesterday to buy new headlight bulbs and new wipers. As I pulled out my debit card, I kept waiting for the clerk to offer to install them for me, at least, the wipers. They've done it in the past for me, in a fraction of the time it usually takes me to do it. It's not like there was a line, but apparently he didn't want to go outside. So off I went, $47.00 poorer with some trepidation about what would come next.

I had previously checked YouTube for a video that would show me how to replace a headlight bulb in a decrepit old Ford Focus. Videos abound. When I backed my car into my usual parking spot in front of the laurel hedge, I felt well equipped with the knowledge of headlight replacement. I gathered my tools: gloves, basically. The nice mechanic on the video said don't touch the bulbs with your bare hands. I pulled on my lavender rubber-palmed gardening gloves and smacked them together in anticipation of success to come.

First, I optimistically opened the package of new headlight bulbs. Then I yanked on the hood release and managed to get the hood up and onto the support stick. Next, I peeled off the rubber gaskets that covered the headlight assembly, thinking eeew, these things look remarkably like dusty black contraceptive diaphragms. I set them aside. A fleeting thought crossed my mind: I hope I will remember to replace them when I'm done.

I reached my hand into the space by the left headlight assembly. There I encountered my first problem, I mean, challenge. The guy in the video seemed to have a lot more space to maneuver than I was finding in my car. I could barely get one hand in there to try to loosen the plastic retainer ring holding the bulb in place. I could feel the ring, though, so I persevered.

The ring wouldn't budge. I tried one hand, then the other hand. If I could only get both hands in there! I tried to picture my mechanic undertaking this task. Nuh-uh. Not going to happen. Maybe I'm doing this wrong. I switched to the other headlight, and twisted the ring. It came off easily and fell down into the engine compartment.

I stared down into the depths of the engine, feeling my heart rate go up, and wondering what would happen if I pretended like that hadn't happened? Would the ring melt and start a fire as I was cruising along the freeway? Would the car even start?

“Failure is not an option,” I muttered. I left the hood up and went into my apartment, seeking inspiration. I grabbed a 36-inch metal ruler, a roll of duct tape, and an X-acto knife. The cat looked askance at me as I hurried back out the door.

When I returned to the car, I looked into the engine, trying to find the ring, but my eyes weren't adjusting to the bright sunshine. I couldn't see a thing, just velvety darkness. I rummaged in the glove box. Where the heck is my flashlight? Don't I have a flashlight? Note to self: get a flashlight!

I was going to run back into the apartment for a flashlight but remembered the Multnomah County Library keychain flashlight I had received at 2017 Wordstock. I clicked the tiny button and shone the LED beam into the engine. Yep, there it was, that stupid ring, sitting on a horizontal surface much closer to the ground than to the hood. Too far for me to reach, even if there had been room to insert my arm into the narrow space.

I shoved the metal ruler down toward the area where the ring was sitting, hoping I wouldn't dislodge something essential, like, I don't know, the engine. I applied my former skill as a golfer to putt the ring toward an opening where I thought it could potentially fall down onto the ground. After some tries, success! The ring fell on the ground. I bent down, reached under the car, and snatched it up triumphantly, holding it aloft like a trophy. I glanced surreptitiously at the diners eating at the tables outside the cafe across the street but nobody was watching.

By now I was a good twenty minutes into the job and I hadn't even managed to remove the old headlights. Nevertheless, I persisted.

I yanked out the old bulb assembly from the right headlight. I removed the old bulb from the thingamajig that it plugged into, you know, the thing with all those scary looking wires no doubt leading to my car's electronic brain, if it has such a thing, which I doubt. I tossed the old bulb into the trash. I inserted the new bulb into the thingamajig and poked it back into the hole leading into the headlight area. It did not slide in as easily as it popped out.

Did you know you can look through the headlight cover and see from the front what your hand is doing from the back? I poked the bulb into the hole and watched from the front as it refused to line up. And kept on refusing. What the heck?

Now I'm sweating and my back is aching from bending over the front of the car. I straightened up and stared at the partly cloudy sky. Briefly I thought, too bad I can't enjoy this lovely day. Looking for a miracle, I switched to the other headlight, thinking, I don't know what I was thinking. I was in a state of low-grade panic, you know the feeling, where your brain is one stresser away from shutting down and forcing your body into the fetal position?

I used my right hand to try to loosen the plastic ring. It came off immediately. I figured out that unplugging the thingamajig with the wires was the easiest way to get the ring off. Wish I'd figured that out for the other side! Now I could take out the old bulb and insert the new one. It worked! Now to get the ring back on. Wait, which way does it go?

I tried it one way, I tried it the other way. Finally, something clicked. The ring went on. I turned it a bit to lock it in place, reattached the wire thing, and voila! Success. Now to replicate my success on the other side.

I wrestled for many long minutes before I finally got the bulb into the socket, the ring on and tightened, and the wires plugged back in. Wow. What an ordeal.

I was ready to close the hood when I remembered the plastic covers. Whew. They were a lot harder going back on than they were coming off, but finally I got them back into place. I shut the hood. I noticed the hood was slightly askew. Wha—? I opened the hood again and found I'd shut the old bulb from the right headlight into the space where mechanics typically lay their tools, up by the wipers. I grabbed the bulb and tossed it in the trash with the other one.

Now the moment of truth. I put the key in the ignition and started the car. In bright daylight it was hard to see, but it appeared that both headlights were working. The test would come when I visited Mom in the evening.

My next task was to replace both front wipers, which I managed to do in record time (like 10 minutes). I think I was still riding my competence high. You know how that is, when you accomplish something you weren't 100% sure you could do and then you feel like you can run a marathon or make a cold call? If I could bottle and sell that feeling, I'd be in Tahiti right now. Assuming no hurricanes or typhoons were headed for me, of course.

Now I feel like I should vacuum my car out and get it washed. What is up with that? You fix one thing, suddenly everything needs fixing. Just a few minutes ago, I dusted some shelves and suddenly had the urge to vacuum. That compulsion can go on indefinitely. Next thing you know, you start looking for a new apartment.

Tonight I'll go visit Mom and take her outside with her smoking buddy so they can have their after-dinner cigarette. Mom's eye is looking much better, thanks for asking. I'm ready for rain, darkness, and whatever else might be headed this way.

The chronic malcontent goes through the car wash

A good day is when I get everything done on my list. A great day is when I get everything done plus one. Despite 97°F heat today, I got two extra tasks done today besides the items on my list, so that makes today one for the archives. Okay, I don't keep data on my task completion rates (unlike some people I know); still, accomplishing tasks on the to-do list gives me a lot of smug satisfaction. Like, take that, World! Jump back, Entropy! I got this handled.

I experienced only one moment when I thought I may have performed one too many tasks. That was while I was taking my car for its annual car wash. That was one of my two bonus achievements today. It seemed serendipitous. I just happened to drive home on a different route, which goes by the car wash. I happened to notice there was no line at the car wash. I happened to have a coupon for a free wash. I happened to be able to locate the coupon. Really, it seemed like the universe was lining everything up for me. I thought about how nice it would be to show my mother that I had finally washed my car.

I pulled up to the kiosk. The idle girl plucked my coupon from my fingers, looked at it skeptically, and issued me a receipt. I pulled my car into the track. The feral man grabbed the ticket from under the wiper, mouthed “neutral,” and off we went. We, meaning my car, with me inside.

On the plus side, I had remembered to detach my radio antenna and roll up my windows. However, it quickly got warm inside the car. I thought about the unhappy intersection between flesh creatures and hot cars. Dogs and babies, for example. Middle-aged flabby women. I reassured myself that the car wash was not in direct sun. It would be highly unlikely that anything bad would happen. It couldn't be any worse than riding the Pirates of the Caribbean. I pictured myself overcome by heat and humidity and made sure my car door was unlocked, just in case the guy at the end of the line had to yank me out and resuscitate me.

Sitting too long inside a car inside a swampy car wash in 97°F heat could have produced a less-than-optimal outcome in the form of me red-faced and unconscious from heat exhaustion. Fortunately the ride was only three minutes long, and I had a bottle of water to suck on when the humidity started to rise. I admired the soapy bubbles, and before I had time to start to pant, we emerged into the hot air blower unscathed. I watched little beads of water rush away from the windshield. My wipers jumped energetically but remained attached. The guy at the end gave my side mirrors a cursory swipe, probably realizing only the top layer of dirt had been removed and that it would take a lot more than a three-minute car wash to restore the shine to this old Ford Focus.

The car died as I was looking for a driveway to get back on the street. Or maybe I just killed the engine by letting the clutch out too fast. I spent a long thirty seconds trying to start the car again. Eventually the universe lined up the ignition, the starter, the battery, and the engine, and off we went. I followed a slow bus up the hill, pausing patiently when the bus stopped to drop off and pick up passengers, annoying the hell out of drivers behind me who thought I should have gone around. No, I'm all about respect for buses. Further, I know that drivers coming down the hill are notoriously rambunctious.

I parked my car in the dusty gravel lot by the Love Shack and paused to admire the sheen of a poorly washed car. I replaced my antenna and noticed dust was already settling on the hood and roof. Oh well. No worries, at least, not for another year. I think I still have one more coupon.

It was refreshingly cooler inside the apartment, but I knew it wouldn't last long. We don't have air conditioning here at the Love Shack. We have a ceiling fan. The big front window has three layers of protection against the western sun in the form of crinkled Mylar shades, a wide vinyl roll-up shade that occasionally rolls up by itself, and cotton drapes (well, actually they are Home Depot cotton paint dropcloths but nobody cares). The three layers are enough to block about half the sun's rays from penetrating the main room. The air gets progressively hotter as the afternoon sun moves toward evening, and the ceiling fan does an excellent job of stirring it up so the heat infiltrates all corners.

Soon I'll go out again to drive over to the retirement place and take the old ladies out for their after-dinner cigarette. We'll complain about the heat and the food, then go back inside and relax into the coolness. Jane will shuffle off to her room. Mom and I will watch Fixer Upper or Flip or Flop for ten minutes. Then I will go back out into the blazing evening sun and drive home. Summer in Portland. These are my halcyon days. It doesn't get much better than this.

Gains and losses, but sometimes it's hard to tell which is which

Yesterday Mom and I went to the retirement village (more like a small city) to look at a one-bedroom apartment. After a long walk through the maze, the marketing coordinator Helen unlocked the door of apartment 305. We went inside. Full-sized kitchen to the left, bathroom to the right. Living room with a bay window straight ahead. I walked across to the windows and peered down. The apartment was on the third floor, overlooking a parking lot. I saw two pigeons resting on the roof of a sky bridge below.

The air conditioning was on full blast. I turned it off. I noticed the brownish plaid rug sported the dents left by the previous tenant's furniture.

“They are in the process of cleaning the apartment, should be ready in about a week,” Helen said.

We went into the bedroom. Plenty big enough for Mom's bed and computer gear. I've lived in less space. The room was light, but not in direct sun. I went into the bathroom and stopped short in disbelief. There was a tub! And next to the bathroom, a washer and dryer! Mom and I looked at each other in shock. She had pretty much resigned herself to living without her beloved bathtub. And no way did we ever expect to have a washer/dryer unit inside the apartment! Score!

“Tub!” I shouted, grinning like a maniac.

“Washer and dryer!” she responded.

“Space for your dining room table!”

“And chairs!”

Helen probably thought we were insane. After some milling around, we went down the elevator and out the back door of the building.

“That is the path to the garden area.” Helen pointed across a narrow private street to a sidewalk going up a gently sloping hill.

“And there is your smoking area,” I said, pointing to a lone bench in a patch of dried-up grass by a chain link fence.

After we saw the underground parking, Helen led us along the path to the main dining area. As we walked, I could feel my spirits lifting. Inside me, a cranky old monkey wearing a fez and a hair shirt was jumping up and down yelling take it, take it, take it, take it!

The three of us stood outside the building in the sunshine. I kept my mouth zipped and watched Mom for signs of freak-out. Drawn brows, shifty eyes, hands reaching for cigarettes. I didn't see anything.

“You have 24 hours to decide,” Helen told Mom. Mom looked at me. I looked at her. In her eyes was the abyss. She took a deep breath... and jumped.

“I'll take it,” she said.

Right on, Mom, I thought. Good to know, just because we get old doesn't mean we automatically lose our nerve. My mother is nothing if not courageous. Eighty-six years on the planet can kill you but it can also make you stronger. Ditto having four kids, I suppose. And a precarious life with intermittent employment and a crappy car. But let's not make this about me.

Mom gave Helen a big hug, or as big a hug as a shrinking underweight old lady with bones like twigs can give. While we were bubbling with bonhomie, a young woman wearing a housekeeping badge that identified her as Tiffany came over and introduced herself to us, welcoming Mom to the place. Soon, I thought to myself, soon there will be others looking out for her. Already she's making friends.

When we got back to the Love Shack, I saw that the tow truck had come and towed my dead Focus away to its new life as someone else's problem, leaving an empty space in the area where the neighbors fight to park their cars. I don't think I'll be filling that space with another vehicle anytime soon.

Feeling the heat? Let's all scream like babies!

When I got home from a walk in 98° sunshine, I saw a strange shadow on the drape that hangs across my front door to shield my living room from the brutal rays of southwest summer sun. I pulled aside the drape and saw a large, flat box on my front porch. I knew what was inside. Although it is exactly what I ordered, I am not jumping for joy. What is in the box? It's my ticket to the old folks' home. It's my invitation to finally surrender and join AARP. It's the realization that life as I know it is over. It's related to the sinking feeling that comes over me when I realize I should have started saving when I was 22. Yep. It's my brand new, shiny, red wheely cart, ordered online and delivered by some sneaky delivery person while I was out. It's official: I'm old.

I took the contraption out of the box (heavy!), but I'm blogging to delay the moment of assembly. I dislike those instruction sheets that show exploded views of nameless gizmos that seem to fly under the desk as soon as I open the plastic baggy. I'm not that great at assembling things. I once took an aptitude test at a temp agency. The nice lady set me up with a small piece of wood drilled with holes. In each hole was a bolt with a wingnut on the other side, holding it in place.

“Just undo the wingnut from this side, take out the bolt and put it through the other way. Then screw the wingnut back on.” She left me to it. Within moments, I had two wingnuts and a bolt flying across the floor. On my hands and knees in a pleated skirt and blazer, I rescued the pieces and eventually got them inserted and partnered up. I held up the wooden torture device triumphantly. Other people in the waiting room avoided making eye contact. As you probably can guess, I didn't get sent on any assembly line jobs. Too bad. I could have had a great career over at the sheet metal plant. Seriously.

Now that my eyesight has gone south, I don't expect putting together this cart to be any easier. I predict at least one washer will make it under the baseboard heater before I'm through. Truthfully, I'm postponing the task because it's 90° in the Love Shack. Because it's only 89° outside the Love Shack, I have opened the windows and the back door. Two old tired fans labor to shift air around the room. One is wheezing rhythmically in time to my music.

I got the wheely cart so I can pack my groceries home from the store. I'm carless now, remember? It's the carless summer. How is it going? Thanks for asking. So far, not too bad. Twice, no three times, I have made navigation errors that added many extra steps to my hikes. For example, a couple streets between the Love Shack and the store don't go all the way through. Hey, how was I supposed to know that? I can't pull out my dumb phone with an armful of groceries! I ended up walking around a block back to where I started. People watering their lawns or weeding their roses probably thought I was nuts when they saw me stomping by, carrying a bag of groceries in my arms like it was a baby, alternately cursing and laughing.

Today I walked a long way out of my way because I didn't know there was a pedestrian footpath across the freeway. In my quest to seek the shady route, I avoided the desert-like bicycle path, which would have taken me over the freeway almost straight to my destination. Instead, I walked several long, hot blocks to another street that crossed over the freeway. From there, I looked out over the parked cars heading in both directions (rush hour), saw the pedestrian bridge off in the distance, and started once again cursing and laughing. Luckily, no one could hear me, although some drivers probably worried I might be planning to take a header onto their overheating Ford Focus. No wait, that's a different story...

So. A whole lotta walking, that is my new reality. I got a new backpack and an insulated tote bag to keep my frozen food frozen (although I found out it doesn't work that great in 98° weather). As soon as I admit I'm too old for anything, I'll assembly my wheely cart and join the throngs of gray-hairs riding the bus in the middle of the day. I'm all set.

All together now, let's scream like babies!

It's official: The chronic malcontent is old

Welcome to the summer of carlessness. Mine, that is, I hope not yours (unless you want to be carless). I spent time this week embracing my new status as a professional pedestrian. It's all about framing the experience. Instead of bemoaning the fact that my car is a heap of metal and plastic sitting on four rubber tires and gathering dust, I'm saying, I'm doing something good for the environment. I'm shrinking my carbon footprint to the size of sweat droplets on the pavement. Look at me go! I'm a walking, bus-hopping, train-riding dynamo!

I could also say it's the fashionable thing to do. All the coolest people (my sister, Bravadita) are carless by choice. Both have been supportive, giving me tips on how to travel, what to carry, how to pack stuff...it's quite complicated, the pedestrian lifestyle. Suddenly I'm very conscious of the weight of my shoulder bag. Big questions: plastic water bottle or stainless steel?

How committed am I? Today my mother offered me a ride home from her place (we live maybe 2 miles apart). I was adamant: I had come prepared to walk: sneakers, hat, backpack, bottle of water... I was ready. For a moment, I thought, oh man, I could be home in ten minutes, well, five the way my mother drives. I shook my head. “No, thanks, I'll walk,” I said and set off on my journey.

What could go wrong? Heat exhaustion, strained knees, twisted ankle, upset stomach...I was sweating by the time I reached the end of her street, but I kept going, thinking, if it really gets rough, I can catch a bus part way.

I wandered through Montavilla Park, taking pictures with my old digital camera. The park has changed since I was a kid. The trees are bigger. The swings are gone, replaced by a fancy plastic structure swarming with screaming children. The outdoor pool was still there, not quite as big as I remembered it, crowded with splashing kids and parents. The sun was hot. The grass was green, dotted with little white flowers we used to string into bracelets and necklaces.

The world looks different at street-level. Walking offers time to think about what I'm seeing. It also gives me time to think about my mother and her recent declaration that life is no longer worth living and she wishes she were dead. I responded by making an appointment for her to see her doctor. Now she has a prescription for an anti-depressant. I hope she'll be willing to move into the retirement community in a few months.

Down the boulevard is the elementary school I attended in the late 1960s. The windows are new, but the brick walls are the same red-brown I remember. A tall chimney tethered with guy wires in case of earthquake pokes up into the sky (has that chimney always been there?). I crossed the wide playground in back of the school, snapping photos, and found the three ancient wooden portables still standing. These were supposedly temporary buildings set up to ease the overcrowding of little Baby Boomers. I remember practicing air raid drills in 1962, marching from the portable into the big brick building, sitting cross-legged with my face turned to the wall, one anxious child in a row of anxious children, waiting for the atomic bomb.

The hardest part of the walk was the final stretch, the trek uphill to the Love Shack. It's a long, fairly steep hill, which may account in part for why my old car died an early death: I felt my own internal carburetor overheating as I trudged, one step at a time, fighting gravity, sweltering in the sun, gasping in the shade, stumbling over curbs, until I reached the top, where my dusty dead car sat with its butt against the hedge, nose out, waiting for the tow truck.

In addition to being a professional pedestrian, I'm now officially old. Today I ordered a wheeled cart to pack my groceries home. It's red.