Another stupid cold holiday season begins

As usual, the holidays stir up mixed feelings in my brain. Beyond the basics of cold, hungry, tired, or leave me alone, I often have no idea what I want or need, and it always seems worse this time of year. Is that normal? I suspect not. You probably love the holidays, am I right? All those songs, those lights, those smells emanating from frantic shoppers. What's more, I bet you go through this season knowing exactly what you want and need. The reason I claim this is because I used to know exactly what I wanted and needed. Or I thought I did. Now I know nothing, not about holiday cheer, pecan pie, or anything else.

For example, once I was positive I would have a career in the arts. Everyone around me thought so, and so did I. Now, looking back, I find I actually have had no career at all. I don't think many people who aren't in the arts can say that. Normal people go to school, get jobs that constitute careers, have families, accumulate wealth, retire, and then die. Oh, sure, they have hiccups, farts, and belches along the way in the form of divorces, deaths, illness, what have you, but those things would have happened anyway, no matter what their career, given that people are codependent frightened amygdalas most of the time. Oh, sorry, this has nothing to do with the holidays, does it? This sometimes happens. It's the end-of-year what-fresh-hell-is-this time of reflection.

My amygdala is running flat out these days, trying to get me to stop, just stop. I seem hell bent on jumping in a handbasket and setting a course straight for hell. I think I can add "as usual," because this is normal for me, this is my norm, this is my M.O. I'm regressing to my mean. I'm trying to be nice about it, but the holiday music sometimes gets under my skin. Misophonic dermatillomaniac. 

What I am trying to say? I'm saying I'm nuts. To really put paid to this season of holiday hell, I applied for a job, and this week, I had a Zoom interview. (No, it's not a Christmas sales job, although that could be a fun form of purgatory for someone who chases misery.) It's just a semi-white collar grant-funded one-year temp gig. Part of me thinks they'd be crazy not to hire me. If they do, there's a chance I might be moving to northern Arizona. However, there is an equal chance I will be moving into my car and parking it on BLM land somewhere to wait for affordable housing to catch up to the senior housing crisis. 

I'm trying to imagine how I will feel if I don't get the job. Will rejection confirm all the negative beliefs I've dragged around like a PigPen blanket all these years? Oh, woe is me, alas, alackaday, they hate me, time for some worm stew. My own private rain cloud will let loose, and I will accept it, because I rarely use an umbrella, but mainly because that is what I'm used to. I land somewhere by accident, I perch for a while, and then a strong wind (usually blown out my own butt) sends me toppling into free fall, until I fetch up on some other ledge or branch, wondering what the hell just happened.

But, holy crapolly momma moly, what if I get the job? Who will I be then? Someone whose skills are in demand? Someone chosen to be part of a team? My brain is like a piece of slimy meat that refuses to wrap around the stick. I need a new brain. I need a new persona, a new self-concept, if you will. This stupid cold season really tends to bring out my chronic malcontent. Kind of like Beauty and the Beast. No, more like Jeckyll and Hyde. Mutt and Jeff. Chip and Dale. Sonny and Cher. Bread and butter. Gay and apparel. Wait. What? 

I can write what I want here because this blog is still (more or less) anonymous and because nobody reads it anymore anyway. Or if they do, they are much too polite to bring up my latest melancholic diatribe about my attempts to live life on its own stupid terms. If I had been writing like this twenty years ago, my family and friends would have stormed me with an intervention. I'd be in rehab. Ninety in ninety, phone it in every day. 

Now, my friends and family are busy, living busy interesting lives. To be sure, some of them are probably as miserable as I am, falling down stairs and losing mothers. But others are busy going on fabulous trips to exotic places, embarking on romantic relationships, worrying about quiche and cats and husbands, oh my. None of them has time for my drama. This is healthy, this is good. Everyone has drama. They just don't barf it out in a blog. At least, not that I know of. Hm. Omigorsh, would it not be hilariously wonderful if we were all blogging anonymously? 

Meanwhile, the alarm clock in my brain is still going off once per minute, 24/7, and I'm still writing and posting a story a day on my non-anonymous blog, where I go on and on and on, simply to practice my craft. And because I said I would, and I am not a quitter. Wonder of wonders! No wonder I'm nuts. Writing a story a day is harder than showing up to write a literature review for a dissertation no one will ever read. 

Sorry to the bots, this blog is the landfill where the garbage trucks dump the crap. 

Welcome to a new season of endless cranky fun from the Hellish Handbasket. 

The wind in the shore pines

Day 22 of my epic road trip started as a typical spring day in Portland. That is to say, cloudy, damp, chilly, and depressing. I just dropped my sister off at the airport. Checkout time is noon. I’m hurrying to write and upload this blogpost before I lose internet access. I’m happy to report one of the main purposes of my trip has been fulfilled. Soon I will be free to move on from the city of my birth.

Speaking of free to move on, yesterday was the culmination of a family event long in the planning: the disposition of my mother’s ashes, which have been resting peacefully in a box for more than two years. My sister and I drove to the Oregon coast, met our two brothers at the South Jetty of Fort Stevens State Park, and braved a chilly ocean breeze to empty that box. You can probably imagine what happened.

First, it’s not legal to dispose of human ashes in the ocean at the shoreline. You are supposed to go three miles out before you dump the loved one overboard. We didn’t have a boat, and given the wind and high waves, you can imagine boating was not going to happen. In addition, partly because of beach construction and partly because of weariness and hunger, we did not seek out the Columbia River beach where we sent Dad off over the river bar to the Pacific, back in 2006. Now we are all a lot older. I have chronic vertigo, and my older brother is healing from a hip operation. My younger brother got lost trying to find us, so everyone was ready to take the easier, softer way. Next to the parking lot was a dense thicket of scrubby shore pines.

“She’d probably like being in there,” I said, thinking to myself, she’s dead, she won’t care where her ashes end up. Dirt, water, it’s all the same.

My older brother led the way. Instead of entering the thicket right from the parking lot, he chose a sandy path to the jetty. We stumbled after him, fighting the loose sand, buffeted by frigid wind. My pajama pants flapped around my legs. I put my hood up, a futile gesture. Soon I was miserable. Giving up was not an option, so I forged after my sister, who seemed impervious to the chill. Maybe my tolerance level is lower because I’ve been in Arizona for two years.

From the jetty, we backtracked into the scrubby bushes and found a little clearing.

“This looks good,” said my older brother. I’m not sure what criteria he was using, but nobody argued.

My younger brother’s knife was frustratingly dull, so breaking Mom free from the box and the plastic bag within took some doing. Finally, the bag was open. My brother held out the bag to us. One by one, we took handfuls of Mom’s earthly remains, now looking a lot like cement sand with a few little bits of white stuff and started flinging them on the ground.

“Don’t put them on the path,” my sister admonished.

The clearing was sheltered, but the wind was capricious. Within moments, we were all covered with white dust. I had a quick flash of Mom standing nearby, laughing, with a cigarette in her hand.

I said, “Miss you, Mom,” as I flung handfuls of Mom on a nearby bush. As soon as I said the words, I felt my throat close up, so that is all I managed to say as my special remarks on the moment. My younger brother was near tears and trying to hide it. I averted my eyes, knowing how much we desperately seek to hide strong emotions. Mom wouldn’t mind if we cried, I’m sure, but we wouldn’t be able to look into each others’ eyes over lunch at the Chinese restaurant, which is where I know we were all anxious to be without delay. If we could have beamed ourselves there, we would have.

I was too cold to appreciate the humor of the moment. I was aware of how silly we must have looked, skulking in the bushes to dump some ashes on the ground. Anyone walking their dog nearby would have thought we were doing drugs, or perhaps burying a body. Hm.

It took quite a few handfuls to empty the plastic bag. Finally, the job was finished. I took a photo of a leafless bush that used to be gray and now was white, covered with bits of my mother. Then we were ready to head back to our cars.

Back at the parking lot, we asked my younger brother’s wife to take our photo with my camera. I held up a small poorly printed photo of Mom that I always carry with me in my journal. My sister-in-law quickly took three photos. In the pictures, we look like tired, hungry escapees from a nursing home. Then, we caravanned to the Chinese restaurant and ate lunch as if we hadn’t just done what we did. I ordered vegetables and tofu. It wasn’t great. I tried to reach for a feeling of relief, and there was some of that, mainly a feeling that I was done with my personal caregiving obligation to my maternal parental unit. I don’t know how my siblings felt. Of course, we don’t talk about such things. But I felt some sense of satisfaction that I’d seen the job through. Whether she can be at peace in a scrubby grove of shore pines is beyond my ability to know. Short of renting a skiff and sending her out over the Columbia River bar or renting a plane and dropping her from the sky, we did what we could to put things right. You can’t leave your mother in a box forever. Eventually, you have to let her go.

A couple more days in Portland, a few more people to see, and then the epic road trip continues.

A not-so-modest proposal

Happy Mother's Day. If you aren't one, you had one, and even if you hated her guts, you can't deny you got birthed. It's not for me to say whether that is a good thing or a bad thing. All I know is, I exist, thanks to my mother. 

I got lucky in the mother department. As moms go, she was a pretty good egg. She had a challenge raising four kids who barged into her life in stairstep fashion and destroyed her independence and autonomy. A product of her times, she had little choice. In her day, after you got married, the job was all about cooking dinner and birthing babies. She did what she could to eke out a life in the thin spaces around ours, but it's no wonder she was a cranky resentful person most of my childhood. 

Which could be why I opted to remain childless. I saw the physical and psychological damage four self-centered kids could do. 

Later, after we all left home, she got busy joining book clubs, leading knitting groups, volunteering at the library, and growing green beans. For such a shrimp, she had strength in abundance. In nursing school, they called her Mighty Mouse. I used to be proud of her muscles, like, my mom, the superhero. 

Now she's gone, and I'm old, tracking in her footsteps, seeing her face in the mirror. I realize how lucky I was to be born in that time and place. To suddenly appear in that place, in that time, with that skin color—man, how lucky could a fetus get? It could have been so much worse. I grimace to see people acting all entitled, as if they somehow had any control over being born in a particular place and time. Stupid sods.

Speaking of stupid sods, you know what I'm going to say, so I'm not going to say it. Instead, I'm going to go out on a probably somewhat distasteful limb here and wave at you from the short branches as I state my support for a new policy, sort of my version of a modern-day modest proposal. I call it Mandatory Abortions. 

Yes, it is what it sounds like. No more babies. Not for you, not for me, not for anyone. I've come to the conclusion that humans are too stupid to reproduce, and it's time to shut the whole thing down. 

I once tried to give a speech in front of a large audience, a long time ago, like, in the early 1990s, when I was in college (the second time around). It would have been a funny speech. It made me laugh, anyway. Unfortunately, I arrogantly assumed I didn't need any notes. Thus, I forgot my speech partway through the delivery. I don't remember much of the speech, but I do remember the feeling of utter, abject, stomach-dropping horror at the realization that my memory had failed me and my words were gone. I still get cold sweats when I think about it, proving the adage that fear of public speaking is possibly the worst of all human fears.

The opening line of the speech, though, was something about babies being a plague upon the land.

Besides a surfeit of babies, I could point to a few other plagues upon the land, but I don't want to get too nuanced. My brain is pretty much locked in an either/or mode these days. I'm either alive or I'm dead. People are either good or they're bad. I'm half-blind and not seeing shades of gray very well, and shades of gray aren't safe anymore anyway, or so I have heard, not that I would know. One of the plagues, I can't help but notice, is men. I read something from a historian about the origins of Mother's Day. I had no idea that the day was originally proposed as a response to the stupidity of men killing each other off in the Civil War. Unfortunately, that was before women's suffrage, so . . . back to the kitchen.

For some of us, it's the kitchen, for some of us, it's the burqa. It never seems to end. My mother didn't get to create her own life until after us kids grew up and went away. I witnessed her anger and frustration—I was partly to blame for it. As a young adult, I was observant, and far too selfish, to fall into the trap of birthing babies. And how lucky I was to be able to cavort through my child-bearing years under the kindly umbrella of Roe v. Wade! 

In case you find my not-so-modest proposal appalling, remember, I'm old, this is my blog, I'm a smartass, and I can say what I want to. I've done my part to end my line of DNA. If it is any comfort to you, nobody will follow me on the family tree. The bud stops here.

Time to put on my infinity hat

Mom started keeping a journal in 2005, when she was seventy-six years old. I scanned it into a pdf file last night. Each entry was just a few lines long, mostly centering on the weather and her garden. Defrosted freezer received equal weight with July is half over already! She noted some major moments in her life and in the lives of her four children, mainly the passing of people and pets, but most of her journal chronicles the weather. Few entries offer insight into her mind, which makes this one notable: In 2006, she wrote, Some days fly by—others crawl. Sometimes I wonder why I'm still here—What am I supposed to do with myself? She answered her own question: to be useful. 

She led a supremely useful life, in my opinion. She kept lifelong friendships with high school chums, nursing school classmates, neighbors, fellow librarians . . .  As an bubbly extrovert, she spread love and hugs to just about anyone she met. Dementia stole her outgoing talkative nature and turned her into a confused, cautious, reticent old woman. Her journal is filled with exclamation points almost right up to the last entries. In 2015, she wrote Growing older. No car. Carol does financial and food. The next entry was in 2016: Just maintaining! In January 2017, her final journal entry: Cold, very cold. 

A few months later, she admitted she couldn't live alone anymore. We moved her into the retirement home. She had her computer but stopped using it. She had her TV but forgot how to work the remote. She forgot how to use the bathroom. She forgot how to think. 

I postponed scanning her journal because I didn't want to feel sad. Last night, I scanned it without reading it. Instead, I listened to the news and let my hands go through the routine motions of flipping pages and pressing buttons. Before I sent the pdf file to my siblings, I finally took time to read through her entries. 

I hear her voice in her Farmers' Almanac style entries. She sounds like the mother I used to know before dementia took her mind away. I wish she'd written more, left more of a legacy. She lived a life of loved experiences instead of documenting her thoughts in writing like I do. She preferred to keep her introspective moments hidden. 

I wonder if she knew when she was writing these pages that I would be the one to go through her journal. 

Probably not. She stopped writing as her life started unraveling. By the time I was visiting her daily at the retirement home, sitting with her on her stinky couch, finding M.A.S.H. reruns on TV, and helping her navigate the meal menus, she had become anchored in the present. If she had introspective moments, she did not share them. After Covid-19 barred me from entering the building, I taped photos of her family on her window so she wouldn't forget us. When she moved to the care home, the caregiver pinned those strips of family photos on her wall in her little bedroom. She loved looking at pictures of her children interspersed with beloved characters from M.A.S.H.

I'm taking those photo strips with me to Arizona so I don't forget where I came from.

Organizing my dog house

I vacuumed the two lime green shag rugs and rolled them up in preparation for giving them away on Freecycle. The bedroom rug departed to a new home today. With bare walls and floors, I'm now living in an echo chamber. However, I'm appreciating seeing the hardwood floors again. 

Overall, this place is a well-loved, tired old apartment—well, let's call it what it is: it's a dump. The generic off-white walls are pockmarked, peeling, and scraped; the sinks are rusty, chipped, and partly nonfunctional; toxic black mold grows behind the toilet, along the cracks in the kitchen ceiling, and in all the cupboards. The kitchen is unheated. All the metal hinges are rusted and frozen; the wooden cutting board is so swollen it can neither move into nor out of its slot. My landlord will need to do some serious renovation to make this place inhabitable (and worth charging market-rate rent). On the bright side, the floors were covered with area rugs for the past seventeen years, which means they still look great. Chip and Joanna Gaines would drool over these 1930s-style authentic wood planks.

Today I tried to calculate the cubic cargo space on the model of minivan I think I want to buy. The number of cubic feet I calculated doesn't match the number of cubic feet claimed by the car manufacturer. Should I blame the company's marketers or blame my brain? Math doesn't lie, if you do it correctly, but marketers lie all the time. I know. I am one. I used to call myself the anti-Christ of marketing, back when I used to teach it. 

Therefore, because I don't trust math, marketers, or my brain, I used masking tape to outline the dimensions on my newly revealed hardwood floor. The letter-sized boxes are already stacked along the wall. It was pretty easy to see that my cargo space is five boxes long by three boxes wide by three boxes tall. I believe that means I can transport forty-five boxes. I'll wait while you find your calculator and double-check. 

I have an excess of some possessions and a dearth of others, compared to most of my friends. For example, how much scrap wood do you have leaning against the wall in your living room? I bet you don't have an IBICO machine (I'll let you look that one up). I make up for having lots of some odd things by having very few clothes (most of which I plan to trash when I walk out the door of this place). I also have a mostly vacant refrigerator. I buy fresh food for one week at a time. By Sunday evening, the box is almost empty. A friend texted me some photos of what her refrigerator looked like after a can exploded and destroyed several of the glass shelves. I was astounded at the amount of glass, and I was even more astounded at the amount of condiments that somehow came through the ordeal intact. I am really lacking in the condiments department. Sometimes it is helpful to see how others live to see how I am failing. 

Speaking of failing, yesterday I discovered I put the mushrooms in the cupboard instead of in the refrigerator. They were looking somewhat ancient by the time I realized my error, but they tasted fine. I buy twenty-one mushrooms per week, and I sauté and eat three per day. The morning eggs and veggies don't taste right without mushrooms.  

After last week's blogpost, I'm in the doghouse with my sister. She thinks I hold her in low regard because I don't care if she thinks I'm socially unacceptable for bathing with my laundry. Of course, I don't know what she really thinks about my behavior. I was just making a lame joke, based on my family experiences. She didn't find it funny. Now we are taking a break.

She has no idea how she held me together while our mother declined. She helped me find the care home for Mom last summer. She was my patient and rational sounding board. For several years, our weekly video calls were my lifeline to sanity. She was the only one who listened, who understood the situation, and who remembered our mother as she used to be. I will always treasure those calls. Now that Mom is gone, the dynamic in the family is shifting. The siblings no longer orbit the maternal parental unit. We are free now to find new paths. 

I shaved my upper lip to see what that would feel like. It's a little numb. I ask you, why has the hair on my legs migrated to my nose and upper lip? I despair. That question is right up there with what to do about Google following me wherever I go on the Internet. Jeez, all I did was look at some pictures of ancient Greece on Pinterest and now every website I visit thinks I'm in the market for a vacation to the Mediterranean. This is why I hate marketing. Although I admit, sunny Greece looks pretty good right now while the Love Shack is enduring a hailstorm. Portland is still cleaning up from the ice storm. I'm just thrilled to have electricity and temperatures over 50°F.

I found out last week that I will need to visit an endodontist to fix a twenty-year-old root canal that has gone bad. What is an endodontist? It's a special kind of dentist. Endo plus dentist equals endodontist: a dentist that inspires you to say, when you look at your bank account, well, that's the end of that. I'm not stupid. I know teeth don't heal themselves, and having a dental emergency on the road between here and somewhere else is not part of my plan. I'm not worried. I'll be okay. It's tax return season, and stimulus checks are on the horizon (thanks, half of Congress!), and don't forget the pot of gold if I can catch that dang leprechaun. Rainbows were everywhere today but I wasn't fast enough. It's spring in Portland, though, so I'll try again tomorrow.

Saddled with the job

Google is so funny. Whenever I log into this blog, it sends me alerts to tell me that I'm signing into my account from a new device. As if to warn me I might be having an out-of-body experience. I'm sure it makes sense to Google. My confusion is near-constant when it comes to the Internet. I've had to abandon several Gmail accounts because I couldn't remember the password, and even though there are other ways to verify my identity, Google has decided it just can't take a chance. After I give up, it sends me an email to my "verification" email stating that it just protected me from an unauthorized log in. As if it expects a pat on the head. For protecting me from myself. Hmmm. Maybe that makes sense after all.

Everything is back to normal at the Love Shack, that is to say, all effed up in the usual way, moving along according to the moving plan. The kitchen table and chairs departed this week with a grateful Freecycler. I still don't know how she managed to fit all three pieces into her little SUV. Maybe those things are roomier than they appear. I have one more shelf to donate to the local reclaim store. After that, there's just the bed. The question I'm now facing: at what point does one let go of one's bed? I still haven't shaken off the residual trauma left from two days of no heat. The thought of discarding my bed is fraught.

Nevertheless, I'm starting to get a sense of the rhythm of letting go. I thought at first the best strategy would be to hang onto the small stuff to the end. However, I've discovered all the small stuff takes a long time to unscrew and dismantle and pack up and discard. The big stuff leaves an obvious vacancy in the space near the front door—visible and therefore impressive. The small stuff, though—I'm talking about the knicky-knacky things, the shelves, the shower curtain (and rings), the mirrors, the plants, and the pots on the back porch, and the car gear in the basement—all that stuff takes up a lot of emotional space. The best strategy, no debate, is to tackle the small stuff while you are waiting for Freecyclers to venture out in the rain and snow to pick up the big stuff. 

Therefore, my downsizing victory today was removing the shower rings from the shower curtain rod. It was more difficult than I expected. I already packed the curtain. I never take showers because of the vertigo. 

My other victory today was enduring a Zoom meeting with my siblings without losing my serenity. Our mission was brief: to state aloud that we were all in agreement that we are going to hire the probate lawyer and to make a list of questions I am to ask her next week. I am not sure how I ended up the the facilitator of this endeavor, considering I am not the executor named in the will. Somewhere over the past five years, I volunteered to be Mom's personal rep, and even though now she's dead and doesn't need me anymore, I'm still it.  

The reward for being of service is the opportunity to do more service. It's easier for everyone if there is a control freak in the bunch, one person to step up and take the reins while the others enjoy the relief of not being saddled with the job. Did I just mangle some metaphors? Who is wearing the saddle in this case? I guess it is me. Well, get on up and hold on tight, kidlets. You asked for it. Away we go. Yee-haw. 

Blood on the keyboard

Oregon gave away free money earlier this month. I didn't find out I qualified for some until a couple days ago, long after the funds ran out. I don't care. My main concern is laundry. I haven't been able to get near the bank to replenish my stash of quarters for two weeks because of that free money giveaway. Long lines of unsocially distant desperate people wrapped around the bank every time I trolled through the parking lot. No way am I going to stand in line for quarters. So I'm doing my laundry by hand in the tub.

I guess in a pandemic I need to make some allowances for comfort. Wearing cardboard underpants is one of those allowances. My skivvies are stiff and ripply like crepe paper but I'm getting used to it. Once I've broken them in, it's really not much like wearing hair shirts. I'm not suffering. It's like being back in college. Back then I was oblivious because of substance abuse. Washing clothes in the sink was part of the adventure. Now I'm oblivious because of exhaustion and old age.

Speaking of self-flagellation, I am hopeful that my family and I have found a new facility to receive our maternal parental unit. With the expert help of a placement advisor, we have located a care home in my neighborhood. We haven't signed anything yet. We have some questions to ask. But I'm hopeful that the search is successfully ended and in about thirty days, the chore of moving the old lady and her stuff can begin. I wish I could just put her into storage. I wonder if my vertigo will ease up when this task is finally done. 

Speaking of exhaustion, Portland is coming undone. It is unsettling to see Portland in the national news for so many weeks. My first thought is, ha, the joke is on you, to all the people who moved to Portland for its mellow laid-back vibe. Then I remember violence is a tragic expression of an unmet need, and I feel sad. I can't unravel all the needs entangled in the nightly riots I see on the news. I can't stop picking at my cuticles. Yesterday I felt something weird while I was typing and saw blood on my keyboard. 

I'm starting to create conspiracy theories in my head to explain the madness. Unsubstantiated theories comfort in times of distress. Maybe liberals are a little behind in the production of creative conspiracy theories, but I'm sure if we do a little brainstorming, we could catch up. Like, for instance, what if the rioters who are looting and breaking things are really minions of Mordor out to make the peaceful protesters look bad? Yeesh! Would humans actually do something so cunning and cruel? Today my brain wandered into the bizarre possibility that they sacrificed one of their own for the cause. How insane is that? But, I ask you, is there evidence to the contrary? I mean, can you prove the moon isn't made of green cheese? 

My protection is to hide in my burrow, keep my head down, and attract as little attention as possible. I wash a few pairs of socks and a couple t-shirts every night, marveling at how everything I wear is some shade of gray, even when it started out white or black. After I wring out the water and hang things to dry on hangers from the window sill over the tub, I watch the news and cringe when the Eye of Sauron looks our way. I feel sick when I realize how many wackjobs live in this city, possibly just yards away from my doorstep. My illusory bubble is evaporating. I wear my pastel plaid face mask and imagine I have a target on my back.

Summer is ending and I haven't properly sweated yet. I've cried some, though. I miss my cat. I miss my mom. I never thought I'd say it, but I miss being around people. 

Blue in a sea of red

Merry happy, Blogbots. An inch and a half of snow has shut down the city and trapped me (well, my car) on this hill. What else is there to do but whine, I mean, blog? Are you weary of Christmas music yet? I am currently suffering from a Mariah Carey earworm. The only known cure is to replace it with another earworm, preferably something I can sing, or at least hum. I'm cranking up some old Emerson, Lake, and Palmer. (Oh, what a lucky man he was!) Fortunately, my neighbors seem to be absent.

With my feet ensconced in my dry rice microwaveable foot warmer and wearing four layers of fleece, a hat, and fingerless gloves, I'm ready for the day. I'm a little concerned, though: I'm down to my last pair of fleece pants, the ones that stink. I suffer the relentless thrift store stench that never seems to shake out of the acrylic fibers because the plaid is so darn cute. Nobody sees me, why I care I can't say. I washed them in white vinegar and that helped for a while. I don't understand the dynamic of thrift store odor; I suspect it has something to do with chemistry.

Last night I braved the snow, freezing rain, and wind to shuffle two blocks to the house of some my father's relatives. My family has spent every Christmas eve with them since I was a child. I won't say all the memories are great, families being what they are. I'm closer to my mother's side of the family than I am to my father's. Plus I went away to L.A. for twenty years, which took me off their radar. I doubt I was missed by any of these relatives, although to their credit, last night they welcomed me into their home with open arms.

In her latest incarnation as a decrepit, demented, fleece-wrapped elf, my mother opted to stay in. Home. Whatever we call it for a person who lives temporarily in a retirement place before moving on to that great all-you-can-eat Christmas buffet in the sky. Not that I could have fetched her, given the snowy roads. If the buses are not braving this hill, I'm sure not. I could get my car down, no doubt, considering the undeniable force of gravity, but getting back up would be problematic. I wasn't willing to risk it. My relatives' house was only two blocks away, though, and I was pretty sure I could trudge that far on my own power, if the streets weren't too slippery with ice.

I found no ice, just lovely virgin snow crunching underfoot. The wind was cold. Freezing rain pellets stung my cheeks. I started to hustle. Huffing along the snowy sidewalk, I marveled at the brightness of the streetlights. Who needs a moon when you have streetlights on a blanket of new snow?

This portion of my father's family centers on two sisters. I've blogged about them before, I believe. They share a split-level duplex. They both have husbands, children, and grandchildren. They both have health issues. When Amy (not her real name) and her husband lived in a big house around the corner from me, we came together every year in one big family celebration. Then Amy and her husband sold that house and moved to the duplex, next door to her sister, Nan. Christmas celebrations got split down the middle. For the past few years, my mother and I have navigated both celebrations via the shared garage.

This year was rough for both families. Amy survived some serious health issues. I wasn't surprised that she and her husband broke with tradition this year and opted to visit a son who lived elsewhere. Last year Nan's oldest son died in a tragic accident involving police and guns. After such a crappy year, I didn't know what to expect when I entered Nan's house and went up the steps to the living room. I was ready for anything from a melancholy dirge to a drunken brawl.

Besides Nan and her husband Drake, Nan's 40-something daughter Joyce was there with her husband Ed the Vegetarian and their two pubescent girls whose forgettable names both start with K. Three people I did not know were sitting on the couch. I assume they were family friends, not family, else someone would have explained our connection. Nan introduced me to Bob, his wife Marlene, and someone named Charlie, who may or may not have been a son, a round-faced middle-aged man wearing a red sweater and cowboy boots. Bob was a tall, thin cancer survivor who went outside to smoke three times in one hour. His wife was built like an apple on stick legs and sported an impressive set of dentures and a deep loud voice. She and I secretly competed for ruffled potato chips.

Nan sat solidly in an easy chair by the front window sipping frequently from a glass of red wine. Drake was hiding out in the kitchen, cooking hot dogs and baked beans with a glass of whiskey in his hand. After awkward greetings, I grazed the buffet table, trying to get my share of ruffled potato chips while avoiding two small dogs who lolled on the floor. One was Gunter, an old fat black-and-brown dachshund who pestered anyone with a paper plate in hand; the other was a white short-haired poodle-like thing named Paige, who skulked morosely under the table, waiting for crumbs to fall.

Everyone looked and sounded cheerful enough, considering the year's calamities, with the possible exception of Drake, who I suspected was somewhat sloshed. Nan and Drake collected antiques earlier in their lives. Besides a six-foot Christmas tree, the place was cluttered with old-fashioned holiday decorations. A huge nativity scene occupied a coffee table. I sat carefully on the couch between Bob and Charlie, hoping my butt wouldn't accidentally sweep some priceless wise man onto the floor,  wondering at what point it would be acceptable to leave.

Then someone mentioned the NFL football players.

“If I were those owners, I would fire those a-holes,” shouted Bob, obviously forgetting (or not caring) that there were two children in the room.

“It's disgusting how they are disrespecting the flag,” agreed my cousin Joyce.

Nan, Charlie, and Marlene concurred loudly. Drake sat silently in his chair, frowning and fiddling with a smart phone. I also sat silently, observing how a rising tide in my body was compelling me to object. What would I say? How would I say it? I quickly filled my mouth with potato chips and prayed to the higher power of dysfunctional family gatherings to deliver me. Visions of Christmases (and other holidays) past welled up in my shredded memory: Dad yelling at NFL players on TV (for completely innocent reasons). Mom arguing with Grandma over how to cook a turkey. My siblings and I hiding out in books and bickering.

I realized that my relatives were most likely Republican, Trump-supporting, conservative Christians. Here I was, the blue misfit, surrounded by a sea of red, wondering how this was possible. Then I remembered, hey, my father was adopted! I'm not related to these people at all. For a second that made me feel better. However, I suspect my genes are very similar to theirs, no matter who was adopted. We are all so very white. The main difference between them and me, I suspect, is that I am not proud of it.

Nobody asked me my opinion, and I did not offer it. Shortly after, someone suggested it was time to open presents. Even though the dessert had not yet appeared, I knew that was my cue. I slipped into the bedroom to get my sweater, looking forward to getting back to the Love Shack.

Even then, I couldn't escape. Charlie offered to walk me out. I thought he would leave me at the bottom of the stairs, but he shuffled along next to me, all the way back to my apartment, in his red sweater and cowboy boots. Partway along the walk, even though he must have been freezing, he stopped and exclaimed how beautiful the snow looked in the light. I had a moment of wonder at that, but the pelting rain had picked up, the snow was crunchy with a layer of ice, and I wanted to be alone. I waved vaguely to indicate we had arrived my place and he could abandon me with honor. Charlie grabbed me in a hug, smelling of aftershave and alcohol. I extricated myself gently, trying to maintain my holiday cheer, and hurried toward my back porch, retracing the footprints I'd left earlier in the evening. I assume he found his way back to the party.

Happy Thanksgiving from the Chronic Malcontent

Howdy, Blogbots. Happy Thanksgiving. I hope you are fortunate enough to spend the day doing something you love with people you love.

Here in Portland, it's a balmy 60°F. Windy, yes, and wet ... but warm! In fact, a third day of balminess! In spite of my chronic vertigo, I don't want to miss a minute of this bizarre gift of global climate change. After lunch (actually, breakfast, but who cares?), I dressed in wind-breaking waterproof layers and went for a walk around the big reservoir (0.56 miles around) in Mt. Tabor Park. It's my favorite meditative walk.  Five times around is usually all I can do before my bladder kicks me back up the hill toward home. Sometimes I even run a bit, but not today. I'm tired.

Yesterday the air was calm. The water in the big ponds was still as jello, barely jiggling. The hills and trees and clouds were perfectly replicated in the water. Today, not even close. The water was lively. Leaves flew everywhere. The colony of ducks snoozed on the concrete berm at the water's edge, out of the reach of dogs and children. A few raindrops splattered my glasses but off in the distance some part of the city to the south was enjoying some short-lived sunshine. Typical fall day, except for the balmy temperature.

As I was walking around the reservoir musing about what I'm going to do if I run out of money, an older guy in an overcoat came toward me the other way, pushing a big stroller filled with a wide-eyed toddler under a pink blanket. I smiled at her and kept going. When I passed them again, the man asked me something. I had my earbuds in and he didn't speak loudly, but I could read his lips.

“Is she asleep?” He pointed to the kid in the pram.

I looked at her big round eyes and said, “Nope.”

He winced. I chuckled and kept walking.

The next time around, the kid's eyes were half open. Progress. I don't know what happened after that. It was time for me to head back up the hill. I hope the kid finally fell asleep. I'm sure her grandfather could have used some rest. It's a half-mile around that thing!

Last year, my mother and I went out to her favorite restaurant for Thanksgiving dinner. I'm pretty sure she ate turkey. I'm pretty sure I ate eggs and pancakes. Or maybe that was Christmas. Maybe it was both. I can't remember. It doesn't matter. Now we are in a new era. The era of eating out at restaurants with my mother is over. Now we are in the era of eating alone.

Tonight I will visit my mother at the assisted living place. We will sit outside in the dark smoking area on plastic chairs with a little LED lantern to give us weak light. As she lights up her cigarette, I will ask her if she had turkey today. I'm relatively confident she will be able to tell me. As her brain flakes away, the only thing left to talk about is the food. I can count on her to have something to say. She knows she doesn't like the food, even if she can't remember what she ate.

I guess that sums up my experience of life so far. I can't remember all that much about it, but I know I didn't like it. Eggs and pancakes would probably fill the hole for a little while. Except I only eat pancakes when I go out for holidays with Mom. I've lost my dining partner. Today I'm alone.

The chronic malcontent circles the drain

My sister is in town this week from Boston. She's staying at our mother's condo. We ordered Chinese food from a local favorite restaurant, and I picked up the food on my way over to visit and have another “family discussion” about the maternal parental unit who is the center of our orbit.

Darkness is especially dark when it's raining. I suppose it doesn't help that my eyes don't work as well after dark. Still, I managed to avoid hitting the pedestrians who scrambled across 82nd Avenue in pitch black night, heading for the bus stop. Victory for me. And them.

At the restaurant, the woman behind the counter said she'd be right back with my order. While I waited, a young Chinese man handed me a nickel and pointed at the tabletop fountain on the counter.

“Make a wish,” he said.

“What? A wish?” I said in confusion.

“Yeah, make a wish for me.”

I studied him. It occurred to me that perhaps he was a slow thinker. His voice sounded a bit slurred. But his smile was open and genuine, despite some broken teeth. He looked mid-20s, not very tall, and pretty well dressed. He didn't smell. He looked like someone's goofy kid brother.

“Okay,” I said. I took the nickel from his fingers and held it poised over the fountain. I said the first thing that came into my mind. “May you have many friends.”

He smiled. “Then what do I do?” he asked.

“Be a good friend,” I said and dropped the coin into the fountain. I sat down on the bench by the door. He grinned and sat down next to me, maybe just a little too close. It occurred to me, maybe he's not mentally slow, maybe he's on drugs.

“Is he bothering you?” The woman behind the counter sounded concerned. “Your order's almost ready.”

“Thanks, no, he's fine,” I said.

“She doesn't like me,” the kid said to me.

“Why? Are you making trouble?” I asked him.

“She doesn't want to talk to you,” said the woman, looking angrily at the kid.

“Maybe you ought to move on,” I suggested gently to the kid.

“Your order's ready,” the woman said, holding up a white plastic bag.

“I just want something to eat,” the kid said.

I thought, uh-oh, homeless, hungry, and on drugs. I thought of the money I had on me, wondered if I should give him some money to buy food. Then I thought, no, the woman would probably not appreciate my altruistic gesture if it meant he wouldn't go away. I sat paralyzed for probably a full 10 seconds, staring at the smiling Buddha sitting smugly on a shelf behind the counter, thinking through the scenarios. Finally, I stood up and handed the woman my mother's debit card to pay for the order. The kid stood up and went back to the fountain.

I did nothing. I paid for the order, turned my back on the whole thing, and went out into the rain.

Later, after dinner, after cigarettes, my brother and I were getting antsy to be gone. My sister got the drift. She wrangled Mom from her bat cave and computer games and enticed her to sit on the couch. Time for the family discussion. Oh boy, said the pot stirrer.

“We want to get a sense of where you are at in your plans to stay in the condo or move to a care home,” I said loudly, speaking at my mother across my brother. She's conveniently hard of hearing sometimes. From a certain angle, I noticed her head looked like a skull with very little skin, an animated skull. Weird.

“I want to stay here at least for the summer,” Mom said. “You can check out the places and if we find one we like, I might consider moving in the fall.”

Of course, it took many more words, shrugs, interruptions, questions, comments, and eye rolls (on my part) to arrive at that conclusion. I'm giving you the abridged version to protect your delicate sensibilities. You are welcome. So, that was the gist of the discussion. No surprise. Nothing's changed. Essentially, she wants to stay put until she can't function anymore.

It's all good, right? I think it's good for her to speak her decision out loud, so she can hear that it's her decision, not ours. It's good for her to feel that her children are actually listening to her. It's good for her children to get a sense of how her world is shrinking inward, narrowing in scope and depth, like a baby planet nucleus imploding on itself.

There probably will be less and less flexibility, less tolerance for ambiguity, less willingness to learn new skills. I expect to see her desire to manage and control increase as she tries to keep things from unraveling. I expect to feel increased frustration and fear, which I predict I will mostly manage to keep hidden from my mother as I dump on my siblings to relieve the pressure.

Of course, I could be completely wrong. I could get hit by a garbage truck tomorrow. Unlikely, but possible. You know what they say: Don't count your chickens... until they tear your lips off.

The chronic malcontent goes up the country

Today I drove my mother out into the country for Cousin Dave's memorial gathering. I took I-84 to US 30 and cut up Newberry Road just past the little town of Linnton. We expected rain, but it was intermittently sunny. I wore sunglasses. The roads were dry. The car ran fine. I found the Grange Hall without getting lost. As we came around the bend, I could see we were late. Cars and huge trucks lined the gravel road in front of the building.

“I'll drop you off,” I said to Mom and pulled up in front. She maneuvered out of the car and almost fell over as she tried to slam the car door. “Slippery,” she said. She wobbled toward the building.

I crossed my fingers, drove back onto Skyline, and found a spot a couple hundred yards along in a pullout. I parked, spent a moment hoping nobody would come round the curve and wipe out into my car, and walked back along the gravel road to the hall. The air was refreshingly brisk. I smelled spring. I pulled out my camera as I walked. Water gurgled in a gully but I couldn't see anything beneath the lush greenery. An open meadow past the row of parked cars glistened brilliant green, soggy wet against a backdrop of fir trees.

A group of unfamiliar men stood near the door, chatting. One guy said something about Dave elk hunting in eastern Oregon. I didn't linger to introduce myself. I am not a hunter. I gave them a weak finger wave and one of those smiles that I hope said, I don't know you, we share a loss, but not a huge loss, because I was only a cousin, and I'm guessing you guys are work buddies, and the sun is shining so how bad could it be?

Inside the grange hall, people milled about, talking loudly and carrying paper plates of food. Cookies, crock pot meatballs bristling with toothpicks. Across a big open space of beige linoleum, I spotted both my brothers and my sister-in-law. My mother was lost in the crush. About five long folding tables covered with blue paper tablecloths had been set up in a row, blocking access to a display of photos. Children of all sizes and genders, mostly blonde, ran screaming among the adults.

Someone had created a huge photo poster of Dave's life, pasting photos on multiple sheets of poster board, captioning each one by hand. I recognized none of the photos. Dave was a stranger to me, I realized. There were no photos of family Christmases that included my family (although I have some from our elementary school days). I felt sad to realize that I grew up distant from my cousins, even though we lived in the same city. For a tiny second, I blamed my mother. Then I realized that we all lived full, busy lives. Across the city might as well be on another planet when you are a kid. Even after we grew up, the only time I saw my cousins was on rare occasions when I was visiting from California and they happened to be visiting my parents. Once, maybe twice. The next generation of cousins once-removed appeared and grew up without me. Now there are twice-removed cousins running around.

Some people are close to their cousins. Not me. Much as I adore my girl cousin, our lives rarely intersect. She's busy with a full-time job, traveling, a relationship, and I'm busy in my cave doing this. I don't even know my boy cousins.

I wandered and took pictures. Two framed paintings perched on table easels, one of a country cabin and one of an elk standing on a ridge. A set of antlers took up most of a side table, elk presumably. I wouldn't know. I do know the owner of those antlers is almost certainly deceased. A large flat-screen computer monitor showed a slideshow of photos of Dave and his kids and grand-kids. His eldest daughter sat on a bench by the wall, watching the slides and weeping.

I was ready to go when my mother gave me the high sign.

“I would use the restroom, but I don't like the look of those stairs,” she said. The restrooms were in the basement. The stairs were steep and many. Carpeted, though, which might save old bones from ruin. Still, I didn't argue.

“Just as long as you don't mess up my car.”

I walked out into the sunshine to fetch my car. The sons and daughters of my cousins were standing around in groups. My cousins once-removed. I waved and pointed to my car, which I'm sure was perfectly translatable as I'm going to fetch my car because my mother can't walk that far. I walked on, breathing in the spring air. It could be fake spring; we get that a lot here in February. Crocuses bloom, and then bam!—snowstorm. But it's an el nino year and the hottest on record besides. I think winter is over.

As we pulled out of the parking area, I noticed my mother digging through her many pockets. She does this frequently. It usually means something got lost: a glove, sunglasses, cell phone.

“What are you looking for?”

“I thought I saved my cigarette butts,” she said. “But now I can't find them. Guess I threw them away.” My mother, the perfect guest: she packs 'em in, she smokes 'em, she packs 'em out.

I smelled burned ash and started coughing.

“You aren't on fire, are you? I don't have a fire extinguisher.”

She laughed. I wasn't joking; no fire extinguisher. I let it go, figuring if she were on fire, we'd find out soon enough.

On the way back, the smell of burned cigarettes was overpowering. I rolled my window down a bit and tried to breathe through my mouth.

The chronic malcontent takes a philosophical view

I've been dreaming lately of escape. Hitting the road, leaving it all behind, taking a geographical. Even though I know that wherever I go, there I'll be, I still want to take myself someplace else. I'm not sure where exactly. I haven't done more than choose a direction: south.

My friend Bravadita has used her recent brush with death as a metaphysical platform from which to launch a tiny house. She's collecting sinks and things, immersed in the process of crafting a new life from the inside out, from the ground up. I'm guessing the actions she takes toward building her pint-sized dream house help her tolerate her crappy day job. I want to get some of that.

The maternal parental unit has now declared her intention to stay in her condo as long as possible. I interpret that to mean until she falls, breaks a hip, has to go into rehab, and from there, into an adult care home. I don't say that to her. I say, I support you in your desire to stay independent as long as possible. I work daily at being a good daughter.

She changes her mind weekly. I try to keep up.

Today Mom took a cab to a doctor's appointment about two miles from her home. She arranged it by phone ahead of time. I kept my fingers crossed this morning, as I waited by the phone, in case she needed a ride home. I was fretting a little bit. I was acting like a parent whose child had gone to school on the school bus for the first time.

I called her around noon, wondering what I would do if she'd gone AWOL. Wanted! Scrawny old lady wandering in NE Portland. If seen, do not approach. Call authorities. I imagined my tiny twig mother getting into the cab of a semi-truck, bound for Ojai with a load of lettuce. Breaker, breaker in a deep smoker's voice.

She answered the phone. I breathed a sigh of relief.

“How did it go?” I asked (on your first day on the school bus).

“The driver who took me home was quite nice,” she said. “A lot nicer than the one who picked me up.” The customer has spoken. Are you listening, cab company? I doubt it. Nobody cares what old ladies think.

“I'm glad you made it home safe,” I said.

“I'm going to eat lunch and take a nap,” she said and hung up the phone. I felt some of my tension ease. Maybe this is a good sign. Mom can take a cab.

My brother is adamant that Mom should move into a care home, the sooner the better.

“You want her to be safe,” I said with compassion.

“Yes!”

“Even if that means she's not happy.”

“Yes!” Well, he didn't actually say that, but he meant it.

I felt the same way up until a few weeks ago, when I started to shift more toward the happy camp. I'm sensing my family is trapped in a four-quadrant decision window. What's that, you wonder? Thanks for asking. It's a quadrant with four choices: safe but not happy, happy but not safe, not happy and not safe, or happy AND safe. Of course, we say we want happy AND safe, but truthfully, Mom prefers happy not safe, and the children lean toward safe not happy. As long as Mom is competent, she can do what she wants. Up to and including getting into semi-trucks with strange truckers.

I don't trust my feelings on any of this. It's like when I hear someone who clearly has an eating disorder declare, “I can have bread everyday. I just have to manage it.” Like when an alcoholic says, “I can have a beer once in a while. I can handle it.”

It used to be I would see family at weddings. I stopped getting wedding invitations years ago, after the cousins of my generation had kids and then grand-kids. Now I can see what's coming: I'll be seeing my cousins at funerals. What's left of us, that is. On Saturday I'm taking Mom to a grange hall in the country for Cousin Dave's memorial service. I imagine it will feel as bleak as the graveside service did, except for indoors.

A pollster called me this evening from a 555 number. Is that even possible? I thought it was Windows Technical Support again. I started preparing my strategy as soon as I heard a young woman speaking with a clipped British-Indian accent.

“I'm not trying to sell you anything and I won't ask for a contribution or a donation,” she reassured me. It was almost time for iZombie, but I sighed and agreed to be polled.

Most of the survey was about two bond measures, one to raise money for schools and the other to raise money to build affordable housing for seniors. As I struggled to translate her accent, I thought to myself, it's pretty silly to expect people to quickly come up with thoughtful responses on such important issues. I did my best to answer, though. Definitely yes, somewhat yes, undecided lean yes, not at all convincing. It was entertaining to hear her pronounce Oregon Orreezhjan. I almost stopped her to ask where she was calling from. Deepest darkest Atlanta, probably. Or Austin. The heart of call center country.

Mostly I was grateful that that wasn't my job, to call weary people at 8:30 at night. 10:30 central time zone. In the background was the buzz of many voices. It sounded a lot like the buzzy background of the Windows Technical Support cretins who've been calling me three times a day for the past month.

Today the scammers left me alone. I can hardly believe it. Maybe it's because I asked the young man how he could live with himself, knowing he was breaking the law, taking advantage of people with a heartless scam. Probably not. One can hope.

Fool on a hill

I've only been to Skyline Memorial Cemetery once, with Mom to direct me, some years ago, so I wasn't sure I would find the place. The clouds were low over the West hills of Portland. The road was socked in with fog. I almost missed the sign. Luckily, I had viewed the place from satellite the night before (Google Earth!), so I knew that the funeral home office was just off the second driveway. I was 20 minutes early on purpose. I figured I'd use the restroom, get a map, and sneak into the periphery of the group somewhere near the grave site, if I could find it.

As it turned out, the family was gathering in the lobby of the funeral home office. The former wife of my youngest cousin was already there. We recognized each other, which for me is a big deal, for her, probably not so much. Still, she seemed glad to see me, and I was glad to see her. I like her. When I came out of the candlelit restroom, I greeted her with a hug. I was conscious of the degree of my social enthusiasm and wondered if I should dial it back a bit. Not that I'm so flamboyantly social, I've met her what, five times in 30 years? But it was a funeral. Well, at least I wore black.

People I didn't recognize came in out of the damp fog. In my cloud of social anxiety, I was just barely conscious of my awareness that most of them in my generation were overweight and obviously colored their hair. And they all looked so old. What happened to us? Dave was only 61; that seems so young to me. It occurred to me as I was standing awkwardly trying to keep an appropriately sad but welcoming look on my face, that I probably looked just as old and decrepit to them as they did to me. WTF.

I realized that some of the strangers were actually grownup children of my cousins, towing their own young daughters and sons. Some of the faces I may have seen once at a barbecue a few years back, at my aunt's 75th birthday. Seems like ancient history now. My memory fails me daily. Names and faces... like my mother, I am learning to fake it.

The funeral home assistant, a tall heavy young woman dressed in a parka and black leggings, perked up as soon as Cousin Dave's wife arrived. I could see her move into a brisk-but-sympathetic let's-get-this-show-on-the-road mode. I tried to model my face after her expression. Nobody noticed.

“If you want to drive your car to the site, just follow the truck.” She didn't have to say which truck. We all knew: The truck with the casket hanging out the back. I can only imagine what it was like to drive that truck from the house to the cemetery. Did they hang a festive red flag on the end of the casket? Would any nearby drivers realize that there was an embalmed body, sans a few organs, resting in the box? Now there's a plot for a story...

Someone murmured something about walking. That sounded good to me, and apparently to many others. We swarmed out the door into the drippy fog and walked in small groups out to the parking lot. My aunt came over, a tiny shred of an old woman wearing an eye-watering hot fuchsia windbreaker. I think my mother might actually have a pound or two over my aunt. (My aunt has always competed to be thinnest.)

She gave me a long, uncomfortable hug. Her eyebrows barely reached my chest. I'm not sure where she was looking—at my jacket, I guess. I stared off across the parking lot, patting her back, realizing belatedly that I was actually holding her up. I waited for her weight to transfer back onto her tiny feet and extricated myself from her embrace.

An exotic long-haired young woman came over and gave me a hug. Who...?

“I'm Julie,” she said in a choked voice. Oh, right. Julie. My brain scrambled, trying to unravel the family tree on the spot. Dave's second daughter. Oh, right. She just lost her father. Bummer.

My brother and his girlfriend were there, two familiar faces. The small crowd walked in groups up a small rise. As we crested the hill, a cold wind attacked. Nothing out of the ordinary, just the typical 40° damp wind we all know as Portland winter. We all huddled into our scarves and trudged onward.

Not far along the road was the mausoleum wall. About 20 yards below the road, a backhoe and a little pickup filled with gravel were parked on the muddy grass. An empty bier stood waiting for the casket. I presumed the bier hid the open grave beneath. Hey, I've seen funerals on TV, I know what's what. Pretty soon, six men of varying ages struggled into view, carrying the wooden casket across the slippery grass. I recognized Dave's two brothers and Dave's son. I thought of all the things that could go wrong, but they settled the box on the bier without mishap. 

I hovered on the periphery as about 30 people clustered around, facing a bearded guy wearing black and holding a book. Minister, pastor? Four members of the grounds crew waited respectfully nearby. One was a blond woman wearing enormous black gloves. I imagined they were itching to get back to backhoeing and spreading gravel.

As if on cue, as the minister led the crowd in the first of several prayers, the fog began to lift. The view was impressive. Far across the valley, sunlit glimmered on a section of the Willamette River. Dave's other daughter stood up to make some brief remarks. Fifteen minutes later, the wind was cutting through my jacket. Small children were crying out loud, the adults were sniffling into tissues, partly from grief, partly from the biting wind, and I was ready to bail.

After another prayer, a young girl stood by the box and faced the assembled group to sing an a capella hymn. The first stanza had everyone moaning and sobbing. So cute! So sweet. By the third stanza, people were starting to shift around in the mud and pull their scarves around their necks. By the fifth stanza, she was still going strong. Where's Monty Python when you need him? I gazed off over the open fields of the cemetery below, inching away from the mourners (prayer and hymns have that effect on me), and watched a crow fight off a hawk over our heads. The hawk kept circling, aloft on the wind, and lazily drifted away toward some distant trees. The crow returned to a tree near the mausoleum, the winner, for now.

The story should end here for effect, but life is so strange. The grounds crew lifted a white plastic cover and placed it over the casket. Unfortunately, the cover did not fit over the box. My youngest cousin, Dave's younger brother, had built the box himself with the assistance of Dave's son. He was standing next to me as we watched the dilemma unfold.

“Twenty-four inches tall and twenty-eight inches wide,” my cousin said. “That's what they told me. It better fit.”

People milled around for a few minutes, churning up the grass, then most retired to the shelter of the mausoleum wall, where the cemetery people had set up two rows of folding chairs covered in dark green fake fur (I kid you not). The cousins and sibling gathered in groups according to their age brackets, waiting for the cemetery crew to find a cover that would fit. I wandered a dozen yards away to see the grave marker for my grandparents, who both died in 1985. My girl cousin came over with her daughter.

“When Grandpa came to stay with my mother, after Grandma died, he was so sad,” my cousin said, glaring bleakly at her twig of a mother who was holding court by the mausoleum wall. “My mother had no compassion at all for him and what he was going through.”

She looked at me. “You know my mother.”

“I do know your mother,” I agreed. I thought about mothers. I decided that even as much as I'm struggling with my own mother, I would not want to trade. I know her mother.

The wind felt like it was coming straight off the ocean. At that point, I hit my limit. I didn't know I had a limit on graveside services, but apparently I do. I decided I didn't need to see my cousin's coffin lowered into the dirt. I said goodbye to my girl cousin and her daughter, and to my brother and headed away from the group to get up to the road. The grass in places was pure mud, which made walking treacherous. My brother's wife walked back to the parking lot with me. The hem of her long dress was wet from trailing in sodden grass. We talked about aging parents, but didn't figure anything out.

Cousin Dave is on the roof

I dreamed a mildly romantic dream last night. Sadly, though, no tongues to report; I rarely progress that far in dreams anymore. Don't know what that means, and it doesn't matter. I didn't regret the loss. I was more interested in the fact that, in my dream, I was ageless. I mean, I wasn't any specific age, as far as I could tell. I wasn't old or young. I just was. My perception of me existed outside time.

Sure, my dreams have changed over the years, whose haven't? When I was 6, I dreamed creatures from outer space were taking over the earth in flying saucers. That was the year the city adopted oscillating sirens on their police cars. I was sure invasion was imminent. When I was young, I used to fly a lot in my dreams. I don't fly anymore. I don't even run. Now all I do is stomp repeatedly on nonfunctional brakes. Or I lose my car altogether in some part of the city I've never seen before.

I feel like I live life interrupted, daily. I aim in one direction and find myself going in another. I wait in wait-and-see mode, not bothering anymore to wonder what the future holds. I know what it holds. I don't need a magic 8 ball to know where we are all headed. Yep, you got it. Hell in a hand-basket.

Cousin Dave died last week. His mother called me because she was afraid if she called my mother, the news would send her off her rocker. (Oh, sorry, that's a euphemism for lose her mind. No, that's a euphemism too. I mean, she would lose what cognitive ability she still has.) I was the designated bad-news bearer for my immediate family. I took the coward's way out and wrote an email to my siblings. But I called my mother first to give her the sad news.

“Cousin Dave died yesterday,” I said when I got her on the phone. Oh, darn. Should I have used a euphemism to soften the blow? Should I have said Cousin Dave is on the roof? I am a lousy liar. I can't even tell a good joke, because I dread making people wait through the setup. I should probably at least have made sure she was sitting down. Well, in my defense, I did wait until evening so I didn't ruin her afternoon nap.

My mother is a former nurse. And she's a former librarian. That means, to me, that if she hasn't seen death and dying up close in person, she's certainly shelved some books about it. I figured she would say, oh, that's terribly sad, grieve a bit, and move on. Unfortunately, my mother has been replaced by a pod person whom I no longer recognize. This new pod-mom creature was devastated by the news of the loss of Cousin Dave.

“Oh, no. Not Dave. No. Why couldn't it have been me?” she wailed. I cringed. I know it's not my mother anymore, but it's still hard to hear her suffer.

Cousin Dave was my mother's brother's eldest son. A heart attack laid him out. By the time they got him to the hospital, he was dead. Oh, wait, I should say he had passed. Or passed away? Is that the right euphemism? I can't keep track. I always thought passing was what one did on the two-lane road to the coast when you're stuck behind a log truck. Whatever. So, Dave is gone. We lost him.

Eventually Mom emerged from her blue funk to call my aunt and get the details. She called me the next day and sounded pretty calm as she told me about the casket-building her brother's remaining children and grandchildren were doing. I was impressed. Casket building would never have occurred to me. I'd be more likely to sew a shroud.

“They plan to wrap him in an elk hide,” my mother said bemusedly. “The other kids plan to put in a Native American blanket.” Right. For his trip to the happy hunting ground. I don't know what Dave's idea of heaven was, but I'm pretty sure it involved guns, judging by how many racks he had hanging in his living room. And when I say racks, I mean elk and deer antlers, just so we're clear.

I didn't know Dave well. I am closer to his sister, my only girl cousin. Dave was an enigma, like all older males. He grew a beard, married a Mormon, had a pack of kids and got divorced. He was happily remarried to a woman I met once or twice, who seemed to enjoy hunting as much as Dave did. I'm sad she's a widow. Dave was only 61, the same age as my older brother.

Mom told me today she doesn't feel up to attending the graveside service day after tomorrow. I guess I'll drive up the hill to... I don't even know what that part of the city is called...to Skyline Cemetery, a place I've only visited once, some years ago, to see the graves of my mother's parents. They died the same year, 1985, within months of each other. Dave's grave will be nearby, with a nice view.

When I was maybe 14 or 15, before I got my first boyfriend, I remember a family visit to Cousin Dave's house. I don't know if it was winter or summer, but I remember Dave, my handsome older boy cousin, offering to play some records for me on his record player. (If you don't know what a record player is, it's a device that played vinyl records.) He might have played more than one song, but the only one I remember is Chicago's Colour My World. To this day, I can't hear that song without thinking of Cousin Dave. RIP Cousin Dave. You will be missed.

Season's greetings from the Hellish Handbasket

'Tis the season for giving. A few minutes ago, the phone rang: Planned Parenthood, calling for donations. Dream on, dude. While I was listening to the telemarketer drone on about the litany of crimes committed by the opposition, there was a persistent knock at my door: another solicitor, seeking donations for some unknown cause.

I waved the phone at her. “I'll come back later,” she promised. I might turn on the porch light: It's pitch dark out there. Then again, I might not.

Bah humbug. I'm not in a giving mood. This week, the wind has been uprooting trees. Rivers are flooding roads and yards and basements in outlying areas. Entire apartment complexes are sliding down muddy hillsides. This morning I wasn't sure it was morning; I thought my clock was wrong, it was so dark outside. I don't have any extra to give—not money, not time, not love. Grrrrrr.

Last week, the family from out of town came and went in the blink of an eye. The long-awaited family discussion to talk about what's next for Mom barely happened. It wouldn't have happened at all, I suspect, if I hadn't started the ball rolling by looking at my mother as we all sat around her condo living room and saying, “So, Mom.... what do you want for the next phase of your life?”

She seemed a bit unsettled to be on the spot, which is unlike her, but possibly the new normal now that her brain seems to be disintegrating. The extroverted woman I used to know is gone, leaving this strange pod person in her place.

“Well, uh, I, uh... I want to just stay here for now,” she said apologetically. She probably knew that wasn't what her children wanted to hear. A few days before, she had mentioned her interest in touring adult care homes in the area. I was like, Yes!

I tried to remain calm.

“I've got my friend Summer to come and clean once in a while,” Mom said. My sister and I looked at each other. The guest bathroom was a mess.

“What about food?” my sister asked.

“The condo ladies go out to lunch every Thursday,” my mother said.

Great. At least she eats on Thursdays.

After driving everyone out to Gresham in pouring rain in my mother's old Camry, eating a rich dinner (including dessert), and driving back to Mom's condo, none of us was in a mood to dig into a compassionate, caring conversation about how Mom wants to live out her remaining days (weeks, months, years... her aunt lived to be 100, for chrissake). My brother wasn't feeling well. He went home.

Woozy from sugar, I drove my jet-lagged sister and her sometime husband to their downtown hotel. The rain had stopped. The lights of the city sparkled. Mom came along, riding shotgun like a sprightly wizened elf.

Slow boat to hell

Last week my family came together to talk about Mom. Mom was there, in case you were wondering. It's not like the kids met in a secret cabal to decide what cliff to throw her over. No, we are good kids, now that we are old and tired. We weren't when we were younger, though. We made her life a living hell. I guess it's payback time. All those years of not cleaning our rooms. All those years of biting, kicking, and punching each other. All those years of ignoring Mom yelling at us. Maybe we collectively recognize our cosmic just desserts are about to smack us in the face.

I say we, but really it's more like me. My sister has escaped back to Boston. My older brother has retreated back to the sleepy beach town on the coast. That leaves me and my little brother, and he's got a full-time job, ten cats, three dogs, a rabbit, a dilapidated house, and a wife. Eldest daughter, self-employed, no kids, close proximity to Mom...I leave it to you to connect the dots.

Mom sat on her beige flowered couch next to my sister. My brothers and I sat in the three battered old armchairs that my parents carried from living room to living room over many years. I noticed, not for the first time, how Mom's noisily patterned couch clashed with her Home Depot oriental rug. I blame myself: I helped her choose that rug.

I self-consciously handed around the one-page spreadsheet I had prepared for the discussion and explained my rating system. Before I could start my lecture, my scrawny mother commandeered the floor.

“I hope everyone understands if I want to give Carol a little something to compensate her for being my caregiver,” my mother said to the group. Oh boy. Despite my self-admonition to remain calm, my heart rate increased slightly. A little something could be $1,000. On the other hand, it could be $20 for gas. It's always money, though. It's never a banana cream cake or a slice of tiramisu. Or a trip to the Bahamas. Or enough money to actually make a difference.

I was embarrassed. She could tell. “No, I just mean, you have done so much work!”

“My sister came all the way across the country to help you sort and pack up stuff,” I reminded her, trying to get the focus off me.

“Well, as my designated care-giver, the burden has mostly fallen on you,” she said. “That is why I want to give you something extra.”

Knowing that my sister plans on killing herself when she runs out of money in eight years, I said, “Can we talk about you, Mom? This family meeting is to support you in your decision to move.”

“Okay, okay,” she grumbled. The conversation turned back to evaluating the five retirement communities she and I had toured. My brothers asked rationale questions. We all agreed Mom and I would see a financial planner to talk about the relative advantages of selling or renting her condo. Then we ate Chinese food. My brother left to drive back to the coast. My younger brother went home to his zoo. Mom, my sister, and I sat in a row on the couch and watched a DVD of Singing in the Rain. Then I went home and collapsed.

I'm beginning to see my ongoing vertigo as a metaphor for my out-of-balance life. The vertigo started about the same time Mom made her choice of retirement community. She had told me, even before we all met, which place suited her best. In our family discussion, we all agreed she chose the best deal, but she'd already made up her mind. She chose the least expensive option, which oddly was the one that had the best food. She also chose the one that would allow her to rent a second bedroom in preparation for the time when she might need a live-in caregiver. (All eyes can now swivel toward me.)

The mere possibility that I might choose to give up my sacred sanctuary, AKA The Love Shack, to move in with my scrawny maternal parental unit has been percolating in my brain since she made her choice. Nothing has happened yet, nothing is different, but I think some part of my psyche recognized that the metaphysical rug is quite possibly about to be pulled out from under my feet. Hence, vertigo.

Of course, it could just be I'm more likely to get vertigo because I'm female and in my late 50s. It could have nothing to do with emotional stress and fear of the future. It could have nothing to do with the prospect of leaving my nest to orbit my mother and watch her die. I mean, how can you know if your emotions are killing you? I think we know in general stress has physical consequences, but how do you know that your stress is killing you? Could it just be random chance? Of course it could.

Life is constantly killing us. That's not random chance, that is 100% guaranteed certainty.

The perils of cleaning

Our scrawny maternal parental unit is preparing to move into a retirement place. More on that another time. Earlier today I was sitting in a stuffed armchair in my mother's spare bedroom, riffling through a shoe box of used postcards my mother had saved over the years. Some were from me to my parents, written years ago, sent, and forgotten. It now appears my mother kept everything her children ever gave her, from kindergarten to adulthood. I read the postcards while attempting to keep my head motionless, trying not to rile the evil calcium carbonate crystals roaming like marauders through my inner ear. No easy feat. Suddenly, I heard my sister scream from the kitchen.

“What?” my mother called from the other bedroom. Spider, probably, I thought. I waited. My sister shouted again. Curious now, I got up to check out the ruckus. I found my sister in the living room, pointing at the pantry cupboard in the corner of the kitchen and doing a funny little dance.

“A mouse! A huge mouse!” she gasped. Ah. That explained the dance.

My mother was digging around in a big plastic bag that my sister had dropped on the kitchen floor. Apparently the mouse came out of the bag. I looked gingerly into the pantry cupboard. The dark, dusty floor at the back of the pantry looked like a place a scared mouse might be hiding. My mother kept digging in the plastic bag.

“Do you have a broom and a paper sack?” I asked, shouldering my mother aside. I began unloading a dozen cartons of rice milk from the bottom of the pantry cupboard, keeping an eye out for a large mouse.

My sister handed me a broom and dustpan with surgical precision.

“Can you block the doorway with something?” I asked. My sister quickly assembled a stack of boxes and lids. Wow, I thought. She's good.

It took a minute to move all the rice milk cartons onto the counter. My plan was to offer the mouse a nice cozy place to hide in the paper sack, hopefully with minimal coaxing from the broom. Then I could take the mouse outside and set it free near someone else's condo. I poked behind the old wooden box that had held the rice milk and saw something scuttle into a corner.

“Oh for crying out loud. It's tiny!” I said. Hovering anxiously in the hallway behind her barricade, my sister looked slightly chagrined. While I was standing there chuckling and feeling superior I noticed a stream of ants marching along the edge of one pantry shelf. What the—? Oh no!

Mouse first, then ants. I moved the box out of the way and raised the broom. The mouse ran past my shoe, around the corner of the pantry, and disappeared under the dishwasher. I straightened up.

“He's gone,” I said.

“Back to his family in the crawl space,” my mother muttered darkly.

“Did you know you have an ant problem?” I asked her.

“What?” She didn't sound particularly outraged. About either the ants or the mouse, now that I think about it. What's up with that?

From out of nowhere, Mom produced a spray bottle of insect poison and started spraying it randomly on the various boxes of crackers, cans of soup, and open cookie bags that were stuffed on the pantry shelves.

“What the hell!” I shouted and grabbed her arm. “Are you crazy? Good god, woman, that's your food!”

My mother retreated in a hurry, and I got down to the self-righteous business of clearing everything out of the pantry cupboard. My sister appeared from time to time with cardboard boxes to corral the stuff I pulled from the shelves. Among the items: half-used bags of brown sugar, two bags of loose generic puffed rice cereal, a bag of dusty granola, beat up box of stale graham crackers, half a can of baking powder, unopened jar of Tang (the astronaut's breakfast), and three bottles of corn syrup of various flavors and vintages. Three cans of chunky soup, four cans of tuna, a can of pears in syrup, and a can of water chestnuts. Unopened bag of white flour, unopened box of white sugar. Plus one can of pickled beets.

My sister loaded the boxes of stuff out to the patio, where she and Mom sorted, saved, and tossed. Meanwhile I washed down the shelves with some kind of cleaner, standing on a chair to reach the topmost shelf. I dried the shelves with a paper towel, and then I sprayed all the surfaces with the ant killer and shut the pantry door to let it steep.

We adjourned to the patio for a few minutes to regroup. Mom praised us. I apologized. My sister laughed. Some time later, when the pantry was dry, I laid down newspaper liners and loaded back the stuff they deemed worth saving, which took up about half the space it did before. Mom retired for a nap. My sister and I went out for coffee.

We didn't see the mouse again.

Bah humbug. No wait, I didn't mean it, really...

I generally don't post in forums or in the comments sections of articles or blogs, although I get a lurid thrill out of lurking on the periphery, reading other peoples' snarky comments and wondering how they have the guts to write their nasty trollish responses to other commenters they've never even met but apparently hate on principle. It's entertaining, shocking, occasionally disgusting, and somewhat addictive. Today I must report that I stopped being a lurker. And thus, today I had my first interaction with a troll.

My grocery store invited me to post a comment in their online forum, describing my shopping behavior on Black Friday. No doubt their many research snoids will comb through the massive database of comments to find the behavior patterns and keywords that will direct next year's holiday marketing campaigns. Hey, I'm a market researcher; I know how this stuff works. More or less. I always fill out the store's online surveys, but this is the first time I was invited to comment in a forum. Out of a desire to be helpful and interest in the research method, I registered my user name and entered the forum, where I posted a short comment:

I dislike the holiday season. I avoid shopping if at all possible. I don't buy gifts. If I could sleep through the entire season, I would. I don't participate in the obligation or the rituals. The religious connotations are uninteresting and the commercial aspects of the season make me despair. (Where do all the dead ornaments and foil wrapping paper go? Does anybody care?)

Now, I admit, true to my chronic malcontented nature, I was using the forum to express a contrary view, more out of a desire to poke the frog than anything else. After all, I have this blog through which to express my whining, so I don't feel a strong urge to post my frothy resentments in other online venues. It was an experiment, you know? Research?

Frogs, when poked, jump. Not long after I posted my admittedly dark, somewhat snarky comment, I received an email in my inbox, notifying me that someone had commented on my post. I clicked on through and read:

Get a life......and move back to Communist Russia.

Huh. Clearly another troubled soul. I thought about the wide range of actions I could take in response to the comment. I could retort, I have a life, thank you very much, and what's wrong with Communist Russia, anyway!? (Is there any part of Russia that is not Communist, I wonder?) I could claim that my birthright as an American gives me the right to say stupid things, just like it does them. I could try to explain more fully my feelings about the commercialized holiday grind. I could apologize for pissing them off. I could give them some empathy and address their fears. I could ignore them. Which is probably the wisest response, considering what I've seen of vitriolic exchanges on other forums. Within six volleys, I bet we'd be fighting over Obamacare. Keep in mind all this would be taking place in the online forum of a grocery store, in response to the question, How do you shop during the holidays?

After I stopped laughing, I thought for a moment and responded as follows:

Thanks for sharing. Sounds like I struck a nerve. Sorry. Next time I won't be so open about sharing my feelings. My intention was not to create strife. I'm glad you felt safe enough to share your feelings, though. All the best to you.

It sounded pretty good at face value. But I am a liar. First, I didn't actually care if I created strife, clearly, or I wouldn't have posted such a overtly provocative comment in the first place. Poking the frog, stirring the pot, call it what you will. I can't help myself. The contrary view draws me like ants to dirty dishes. 

And second, reading the message between the lines isn't hard for anyone who has spent time in counseling for relationships: the words you stupid dick were invisible, perhaps, but clearly implied. I learned my passive aggressiveness at the foot of the master. Or mistress, I guess. 

I was curious what type of person would tell someone who was struggling during a stressful season to get a life and move back to Communist Russia. I can't tell from the user name if the person is male or female, old or young. I wonder, who responds to a cry for help—unskillful as it was—by smacking them down with an admonition to go away? Like, far away. 

Someone who is hurting themselves, no doubt. Someone who has probably maxed out her credit lines in a vain attempt to buy the perfect gifts for her many grandchildren before the looming deadline crushes her beneath the wheel of failure. Someone who is terrified that if she doesn't uphold the all-important religious traditions of the season, she will surely be condemned to the bitter hell reserved for failed evangelists. Someone who secretly wishes she could keep the festive decorations but toss the obligations and enjoy a long nap before tax time. That kind of sorry-ass soul, probably.

When I got home from a meeting tonight, I found another note in my inbox. I clicked through and read:

What a gracious response to such a ridiculous comment. Good for you, Carol!

Ha. Don't you just love it? Chickaboom!