The chronic malcontent lacks the energy to dramatize

I left Flagstaff on Thursday. Now I'm plant-sitting for a week for a friend who lives in a small house in a housing development in the City of Marana, about 30 minutes north of Tucson. Outside of this housing development is raw, rough, scrubby desert, where riffraff like me would belong. I know this because I got lost finding my way here. 

The contrast between have and havenots is stark when I contrast the two neighborhoods. Inside the housing development, residents walk their dogs along manicured sidewalks past tidy gravel lawns. The houses are crammed wall to wall with the barest minimum between them, so I can hear the neighbor's AC unit roaring outside my bedroom window, and they no doubt can hear ours. In contrast, outside this enclave the roads are gravel, the dirt lawns are decorated with dented cars and RVs, and the houses are mostly mobile homes that look like they fetched up on the land in the great flood and have been sheltering generations ever since.

However, no matter where you live in the desert, the odds of living with pests and critters are 100%. Case in point, I'm sharing the kitchen with some American cockroaches. Judging by their condition, the extermination chemicals are still working, but it might be time for another application. I don't care. I had hoped never to have to share living space with cockroaches again, but I'm a transient. I'll be on my way in a week. Meanwhile, I'm keeping my food bag up off the floor. 

After driving over hill and dale last week, I was relieved to finally find free camping in the national forest just north of Flagstaff. It was a dusty campsite, but I relished the shade among the Ponderosas, happy as an impostor camper can be to have cell signal, which means I had internet and could watch my late night talk shows. Yes, I'm an impostor camper. After four days of isolation, I find I get hungry for civilization. Don't get me wrong, I don't want to socialize. But I find it reasuring somehow to rub shoulders with the hoi poloi in some small-town Walmart Supercenter. It feels like affirmation that I'm still part of the human species. Not that I'm proud of that fact (any species that invented big box stores should be exterminated), but now I get it: You can take the girl out of the city, but the city is still in the girl, no matter where she roams. 

Speaking of roaming, I'm pretending to enjoy my freedom, just like I pretend to be a camper. Just like I pretended to enjoy golfing when I had a boyfriend who golfed. Like I pretended to like jazz when I had a boyfriend who played jazz. The truth is, I'm just an unhoused person who is seeking accommodation on my own terms. My terms are not unreasonable: I want a city that is not too hot, not too cold, not too big, not too small, and I want a space with no roommates. It has to be affordable. And preferably have no cockroaches. I'm not sure cockroaches are a dealbreaker, to be honest. In addition, as long as I'm making my wish list, I'd like a place that isn't prone to tornadoes or tsunamis. Or wildfires or earthquakes. Hm. That pretty much excludes every place except Corvallis, Oregon.  

I don't want to live in my car, but I'm glad I have this car so I can live in it while I drive around and try to find a home. Considering the lack of affordable housing in this country right now, I could be driving for a while. I'm predicting I will find something before I turn seventy. 

I was supposed to arrive at my friend's house on Friday evening. We were going to have dinner. I drove four hours, descending from the cool northern climes into the hell of Tucson heat. 

She sent a text: Too busy with work, can we meet Saturday morning instead? 

I texted back:  Sure, no problem (heart emoji). 

We agreed I would come over at 7:00 a.m. That left me to find shelter from the heat for rest of the day and night. I activated my survival plan: I took my laptop to the mall to sit in the frigid AC until the sun went down. (The sun, once my beloved friend, is now my arch enemy.) After sunset, I went to the gym for a little while, pretended to work out, and then drove to the Home Depot up the street. I chose a parking spot away from the store, near some bushes, where I've parked before, and proceeded to put up my window covers. Immediately my car interior became stifling. I busted out my little fan. It's an amazing gizmo: You put water in the top and it pretends to blow cool air on you. Don't underestimate the power of the placebo, people. 

Early the next morning, I was trying to follow the GPS Lady's instructions to get to my friend's house. She got me there, even though I didn't believe her, and thus caused myself to get lost. I'm used to it. Getting lost is how I roll. Anyway, I finally parked outside my friend's house. 

As I was about to text her, she texted me: Can you come at 10:00 instead? (head exploding emoji)

I texted back:  Of course, no problem (heart emoji). 

She texted: Maybe you can get some more sleep (heart, sleep emoji)

The strangeness of my living situation swept over me. I tried to picture it. Go back to the Home Depot parking lot and try to sleep with cars, trucks, and pallet moving equipment coming and going around me? Pee in a jar, hunkered below window level, in broad daylight? Not impossible, but not wise for a stealth camping impostor. 

What do you think I did? Yep. I went to Walmart. After that soothing injection of humanity, I got gas, dumped trash, and refilled my water jugs. I ate breakfast in my car, parked in some parking lot, can't recall now. Walmart adjacent, I think. 

I try not to think too much. It's easy to overdramatize my situation. Lots of people have it much worse than me. I'm lucky to have good friends. And internet. Don't ask me to choose between friends and internet. I know I'm an internet addict, which means I might be an impostor friend. 

Happy holidays from the Hellish Handbasket

Here we are again, heading into another holiday season. It's not my favorite time of year, because 75°F is still too cold for this hothouse flower. And because grocery shopping is twenty times more difficult. And because one of my preferred radio stations seems to have sold its soul to the Christmas music devil. And because one of the neighbors here in the trailer park gave me a little loaf of banana bread and a baggy of Chex mix and I ate them both in ten minutes. For all those reasons [urp], this is not my favorite time of year. But what do you expect from a self-proclaimed chronic malcontent?

I'm kind of over the malcontent thing. With all the troubles in the world today, it seems pretty self-centered to act like my little dramas are so important. I may be heading toward houselessness, but at least bombs aren't falling on my head. I mean, we need to keep things in perspective. Yes, I ate the entire loaf of banana bread but that constitutes dinner, and tomorrow I will do better, because the banana bread is now gone. 

I'm learning the only way through these strange days is to keep my head down, focus on what I can do here and now, and not get enmeshed in other people's drama. Some people like drama. Just because I got weary of self-made drama and let it go doesn't mean other people have to do the same. Drama can be fun and exciting. I used to be a drama addict. Now, all I have to do is remember that one of my close friends has dementia, and another friend's mother just died, and I get back to right-size. Good things happen sometimes. It's not all bad. I mentioned last week I didn't get that job I had applied for (which probably would have changed my life, at least for one year), but I had some editing work this week. I keep showing up for life, and somehow I keep on living. So weird. 

Meanwhile, I continue to write a story a day, why, I'm not really sure. You can't really call them stories. More like . . . scenes. Musings. Little upchuckings. Sometimes I have an idea of what I want to write. Stories come to me while I'm out walking. That's fun, trying to see if I will remember them by the time I get home. Other times I open up the page and stare at it. Classic writer angst, right? To bemoan the blank page? I don't really bemoan anymore. As long as it's not the white screen of death, I'm good. I just start typing. Kind of like how I'm writing this blog right now. Wow. So meta. 

Here are a few holiday wishes from the Hellish Handbasket. I hope this holiday season is joyful for you, or at least not miserable. I hope the weather doesn't totally suck where you are. I hope the suffering you might be feeling doesn't drag you down into depression. I hope your family doesn't criticize you too much and if they do, that you have a safe place to hide out with a good book. I hope you can experience the holiday lights, the aromas, the shoppers, the music, without going completely insane and wishing you could hibernate till spring. Please don't poke your eyes out. Please don't overdose on oxy. Please don't eat an entire loaf of banana bread at one sitting. Be kind to yourself, just for a few days., till this thing is over. We'll get through it together. Then in January we can commiserate when winter really hits the fan.