Geezers gotta get up and go

I'm currently residing in a pretty big mobile home park. I'm not sure how many homes there are here, a few hundred, I think. I got lost the first time I tried to find the exit. Now, after walking this village many times over the past couple years, I know the streets well. I don't know a lot of people, but I wave and smile and chat a moment if they have a cute dog that seems inclined to be friendly. Not all people are friendly, just like not all dogs are friendly. Lexi, for instance, is a poodle from hell, but that is a different story. 

Life in the mobile home park has a rhythm, and lots of things can upset that rhythm. The big upset the past week or so has been a paving project. The management sent around a Google earth map of the village, with streets marked in dingy colors to indicate what part of the park would be paved on what day. Brilliant, right? We were all informed we better move our cars if we needed to go anywhere, because for two days, the streets would be impassable. The first day was for the paving. The second day was for striping. These things take time to dry.

The forecast called for rain, and according to Contractor Google, you aren't supposed to lay down this slurry stuff in the rain. Apparently, these guys didn't get the memo. The contractors roped off the streets, including ours, with flags and cones and put cones in front of everyone's driveways, just in case they got a wild hair to go out for breakfast. The team of guys in their filthy neon green gear got busy with their machines and pretty soon we had a really nice layer of sticky black slurry on our street. 

Just as they finished our street, it rained. The contractors packed up and went away, leaving our street roped off. It was the only street in the whole place that was closed to traffic.

The old folks stuck it out for two days (that was the agreement), but with all the humidity in the air, the black tarry stuff on the street was slow to dry. Pretty soon, the pristine paving job was gouged with tire tracks. Some looked like they might have been left by the mailtruck. The bigger ones were probably FedEx or UPS. But the little ones were definitely left by my neighbors, because you could see the slurry traces in their driveways. Caught you red-handed, Susie. There were plenty of footprints, too, both human and nonhuman. Maybe some were from neighbors walking their dogs, and one little skidmark was mine where I lost my balance as I tried to walk in the concrete gutter, but I bet most of them were rabbits. After all, you can't stop our resident hordes of rascally rabbits from dashing from cactus to driveway and back again. Just like you can't stop Mr. Gimp (the coyote) from giving chase. Fresh paving means nothing to them. 

The management sent around a resentful email chastizing us for wrecking the paving job, yada yada, but here's my take on it. First, everyone knew (or could have known) that it was going to rain, and you can't pave in the rain. Duh. I checked the slurry paving rules, because I'm a meddling researcher, and I checked the radar. When you see a splat of green over Tucson, you know it's raining. So that's the first thing. 

But more important, you cannot trap old folks in their homes and expect them to stay there for long. They have grandkids to see, stores to patronize, pancakes to eat at Denny's. Seniors are like cats. They can't be fully tamed, you can't herd them, and they are mostly untrainable. And why would you expect anything different? Time is a-wastin' when you are old and running out of road. You have to get going now, or risk stroking out before you get to the all-you-can-eat breakfast bar. Fear of missing out (FOMO) is one step below fear of dying before I get there (FODBIGT). 

I can just imagine my wizened neighbors chafing at the bit, staring out the window at the clouds, looking at the slurry mess and wondering when it was ever going to dry. As soon as they saw the mailtruck or whatever it was that made that first long gouge in the asphalt, they were like, lemme outta here. If that guy can do it, so can I. And off they went.

Eventually the street dried. The contractors came back, took down the ropes and cones, and got busy paving other streets in the park, which were soon gouged to the bedrock with tire tracks, human tracks, and animal tracks. I'm guessing the trash truck had a go, judging by the chassis width and tire tread of the most impressive gouge, all splashy and drippy on both sides of the track. I took a photo because it looks like art. 

This whole week, as I've walked the park in the evening, avoiding the freshly glistening asphalt slurry, I wondered what future archaeologists would make of these remants of human existence. The way we marvel at the footprints embedded in a former lakebed, preserved for a million years, would future scientists scratch their heads and propose theories about how we used to live in the olden days? Must have been a religious ritual, they would guess. Or maybe some kind of sacred art? I know, I know! Ley lines, embedded in tar, leading to various spiritual centers, perhaps used for human sacrifice, judging by the many human footprints showing people were running, slipping, and sliding in the muck. 

The contractors are returning tomorrow to redo our street and the rest of this end of the park pushed to the back of the calendar because of the rain. We are expecting good weather. But no matter what, you can't keep old folks trapped in their trailers. Old folks gotta roam. 

By the way, in case you are wondering, I did not get that job. One door closes, the door leading to the vast Arizona desert BLM land opens. More to be revealed.

Your turn will come

I'd like to focus on the victory of the week, whch was that I figured out how to format an epub book that passed muster with IngramSpark—but all I can do is obsess over an ingrown hair on my upper lip. Dermotillomania strikes again. When I'm cold, skin imperfections are magnets for my roaming fingers. Every hangnail is an invitation to pull hard. My cuticles are bloody meat. It's a wonder I haven't died of flesh-eating strep. Does that sound familiar? Sorry if I repeat myself.

There's nothing new in my brain. The ruts are deep. I rehash the same tired complaints week to week, month to month. Usually people are kind enough to ignore the fact that I repeat myself. I'd like to apologize but actually I feel a bit smug. They don't yet know the frustration that awaits them when they reach for a memory and come up empty. Meanwhile, I keep picking at my lip, rubbing that hair the wrong way. 

I am regressing to my cultural mean. That is to say, like a narrow-minded person with trash roots, I'm circling the wagons on my willingness to be open-minded. I don't want to stress my brain cells with new things. The idea of learning for learning's sake sailed out the window when I got laid off from my teaching job in 2013. I have no more curiosity. This is partly why mastering the epub was such a victory. I use the word mastering hoping nobody will actually ask me to explain what I did to succeed. I went in circles for several days, punching holes in html and css with little knowledge and a lot of desperation. I kept telling myself failure is not an option, but of course failure is always an option. One day it will be the only option. I just hope it doesn't hurt much.

Meanwhile, it's the little things. Like hairs sprouting on my upper lip. 

The dark ones don't last long. If I see one, I pluck it. I'm not afraid to go in after it. If the hair is white, I can't see it. That makes me crazy. As I sit here picking at my cuticles, I contemplate the nuclear option.

Yesterday I had to thread a needle. I threaded needles for many years in my former life as a garment maker. I can thread a needle by feel, which is lucky, because my eyes no longer work right. I can't see things far away, and I can't see things up close. That means I can't see the thread or the eye of the needle. Muscle memory is the only kind of memory I have left. What's more, lately my right eye has occasionally been blocked by what looks like a round thumbprint. You could call it a flower. I guess it's a thing that happens sometimes. Oh, it hasn't happened to you? Well, your turn will come. Meanwhile, if you want to talk to me, stand about twenty feet away. 

I try not to think much. Thinking is over-rated. I do as little as possible. I used to admire people with robust intellects, you know those smartasses who read lots of nonfiction books. Not anymore. I think they are wasting brain cells in the pursuit of something that can't be retained. Sort of like Arizona uses water. 

I peaked in my twenties. It's been downhill ever since. This is ironic, because I was emotionally stunted when I was in my twenties. All those brain cells with so much capacity, like a high-powered nuclear reactor generating power to illuminate and solve all problems, and all I could do was apply them toward chasing codependent relationships. Now, forty-plus years later, I have so much more emotional intelligence and no brainpower left to use it. The nuclear power plant has imploded into dust. My weary thoughts sit mumbling around a campfire, singing kumbaya and trying to remember how to make s'mores.

In fairness to me, my capacity to think has been reduced somewhat by the washing machine in my head. Being off balance saps my will to care about anything. I'm going to the ENT for a follow-up this week. Maybe she will be able to tell me what particular brand of inner ear washing machine I have. I'm skeptical. Last year it was "Vestibular Migraines." That brand works for some people, but me, I give it zero stars. This year, the new fad is "PPPD," which stands for persistent postural perceptural dizziness. It's the brand of the week. As vestibular specialists do more research, they come up with more brands of vestibular insanity. We'll see what the ENT has to say about PPPD. She might tell me I'm really insane, like, Carol, it's all in your head. Duh. Doctors tend to blame the patient when they are too embarrassed to admit they don't know what is going on. Who could blame them? All those years in medical school, right? It's gotta hurt.

Let's keep it simple. Instead of adding up my victories and defeats to arrive at my value as a going human concern, let's just give me an attaboy for managing to cross something off my daily to-do list. As I'm going to do after I upload this blogpost.  

 

Future cloudy, try again later

 You ever have one of those days when it seems like nothing goes quite right, and then you suddenly realize you have your shirt on backwards? Then you are like, wow, that totally explains everything. That pretty much sums up the week for me. Well, let's be honest. So far, the entire first half of 2020 has had its shirt on backwards. From January 9, the day my cat died, it's felt like two seconds to midnight. I'm sure you can relate. 

So many times this week, I thought, I need to blog about this! And now that I'm actually sitting in front of my computer, all I can think of is, I wonder if the statin I just started taking for my cholesterol will kill me before I can finally enjoy some cheese. The week is a blur so I will take this interlude to wax philosophical while I wait for memories to emerge from the fog.

At points in my life, I've stood on the edge of a chasm, staring across to the green pastures on the other side. (Metaphorically speaking, of course—I am not one of those foolish tourists who take selfies on the edge of the Grand Canyon.) I'm sure you have experienced the longing that comes from being able to imagine the paradise that lies just out of reach and wishing you had something—a glider, a parachute, a large cannon—something that could launch you out of your current misery into the bright future you know you deserve. No? Maybe it's just me. For some reason, I seem to find myself standing on metaphorical precipices quite often. I don't really like heights, but I seem compelled to find them. 

The current precipice has to do with the maternal parental unit. She's running out of money. The retirement barracks in which she is currently incarcerated has done a great job of keeping her alive, no doubt a nefarious plot to extend their ability to generate revenue. The cost of her upkeep has escalated with the increasing demands of her care. We, the family, knew this was a possibility back in 2015 when we had a family discussion about Mom's finances. Mom participated in the discussion. You've read all this before in previous blog posts. We all thought, what are the odds that Mom, a dedicated smoker with COPD and dementia, would outlast her money?

Never underestimate genetics. Or the power of quitting smoking. Now the family is revving up the hunt for a Medicaid facility, never an easy task even without a pandemic. How the hell is this going to work? That is a rhetorical question, but if you have suggestions, I'm open to feedback.

My sister has volunteered to help me qualify adult foster homes in the area. We did this back in 2016, before Mom chose the place she's in now. My sister came to town and we drove around, looking at houses, and making appointments for tours. We tiptoed gingerly on shag rug, grimaced at bad decorating choices, peered into bathrooms, and met some interesting inmates, I mean, residents. It was a lesson in what life can look like if you have money when you get old.

Now that my sister is confined to Boston, our care home search must roll out by phone and video. I have a short list of places. My next task is to plot them on a map and then scout out the locations, maybe take some surreptitious photos, like a weary gray-haired private eye. I hope no one calls the police to investigate the suspicious Ford Focus lurking in their neighborhood. Now is not the time to tangle with Portland police.

My sister and I will call each place and ask some questions. The first one will be, do you accept Medicaid after some period of private pay? If the answer is no, we will cross them off the list. I suppose the second question should be, does your facility have or has it ever had a case of Covid? One question for sure has to be, can I stand outside Mom's window and talk to her through the baby monitor? If the answer is no, I will cross them off the list. If Mom goes into a place that won't give me eyes on, I will most likely never see her again except as dust in a cardboard box. Window view is a deal breaker for me. If we could ask for the moon, it would be great if the food was a little better and she could get to keep her couch and TV. Not that she remembers how to turn it on, but still.

We have to do something. If she outlives her money, she'll end up in my bedroom, yelling for ice cream. That is not acceptable. She might graciously decide to die. If she really was thinking of our welfare, she would keel over soon, before we go through all this searching and questioning. You know how it feels when a car blocks the sidewalk where you are walking and you have to detour around the back end of the car, only to have the driver pull out into the street just as you pass their sputtering tailpipe, leaving you feeling foolish for taking unnecessary steps? Like that. If she could turn off the switch, I know she would. That's another chasm I don't care to contemplate.

I read an article about a rain forest community whose members patiently train tree roots and branches to form bridges across ravines. I wonder if I could do that—metaphorically speaking, of course. What would a metaphorical bridge look like that could lead us from here to there? And I can't help asking the question I always ask when I'm peering into the fog toward the promised land: Would there be any better than here? Where is that dang Magic 8 Ball when you need it? Future cloudy, try again later.

Service is the path to happiness, she says [cue eye roll]

I'm taking a break between sneezes to record yesterday's networking adventure. (My sinuses are combusting from ragweed pollen. Welcome to allergy hell.) As part of my endeavor to trick the universe into rewarding me for my paltry attempts to be of service, I applied to join a nonprofit organization that helps small business owners succeed in business. I figure, why not. If I'm going to live on air, I might as well be of some use to someone.

Yesterday was my first opportunity to meet other members of the organization. Let's call this organization the Oldsters. I drove to Tigard in lovely sunny, windy, cold fall weather, puttering in the slow lane while trucks and SUVs dodged around me. As a former school bus driver, I have learned highway patience. When some large vehicle is snuffling up my tailpipe, I try not to make any sudden moves. Eventually if I slow down slowly, they will dart around me and floor it. I'm happy to see their dust. I don't compete while driving.

I arrived calm and intact thirty minutes early for the 11:00 a.m. meeting. I try to find the balance between being too early (pathetically overeager) and just early enough (casually confident). Achieving this balance sometimes requires sitting in my car watching the clock. It's a skill I have gained after years of fine-tuning. I'll send you the syllabus if you are interested.

Anyway, at the precise moment, I skittered to the front door, buffeted by blowing leaves. First stop, the restroom, of course, because, you know. I found the meeting room around the corner. The tables were set up lecture-style, with a clear space in the center for the speaker. A generic PowerPoint title slide glowed on the screen at the front of the room. A dozen or so oldsters, mostly men, milled around chatting.

An older gal with glasses and fluffy gray hair rushed over to me and introduced herself as Veronica. I extended my hand and she took it and kept it. I tried to get it back, but she had a firm grip. I grinned and nodded as she looked deeply into my eyes and told me how nice it was to meet me, so nice, awfully nice, great, in fact, so great. Later, after her plaintive pitch for volunteers to help on understaffed committees, I realized her enthusiasm wasn't about me specifically but about the prospect of having more help.

Another young woman came in immediately after me. I'd like to think I qualify as a young woman, but actually, I was probably old enough to be her mother. Since I turned fifty, I rarely look in the mirror. Humor my delusion. I found a spot in the front row and she took the seat next to my right.

“Hi, I'm Jane,” she said loudly. I introduced myself. She said, “I'm a business banker at the downtown branch of [Bank]. What do you do?”

Gah! That dreaded tell me about yourself question gets me every time.

A super-old oldster shuffled in the narrow space between desks to claim the seat to my left. I noticed he wore hearing aids like the ones my mother wears. He parked his cane against the desk and took off his plaid newsboy cap. He turned his entire body to smile at me. The banker reached across me to shake his hand. “Hi, I'm Jane!”

“What?” said the oldster, whose name we learned later was Lenny.

True to my nature as an overachiever, a few days earlier, I had found my way to the group's local Google Drive and downloaded the day's agenda, after reformatting it to fit on one page. I was the only person with a printed agenda. Thus, I was ready for the moment when the five new members were to be granted one minute each to introduce themselves. In my car, while watching the clock, I had tested different approaches, remembering my Toastmaster days. Should I write it out? Tell three things about me? Tell a joke?

When the moment came, though, I did what the two women ahead of me did: I stumbled through a brief biography and warbled about how glad I was to be there. Marty the co-chair was apparently timing our responses. I got a thumbs-up for coming in at fifty-seven seconds. Thanks, Toastmasters. Everyone else introduced themselves and reported how many years they had volunteered with the Oldsters. The years of service ranged from zero (us newbies) to over twenty-five years.

Minutes later, about twenty-five people swarmed two tables of food. One table displayed pizza, the other stacked boxes of Panera sandwiches. My preferred lunch time is about three o'clock, but I can eat anytime, especially when stressed, although in company, I tend toward the ascetic side. I hide my binges. Accordingly, I swarmed with the rest and grabbed a veggie sandwich box, but ate only the potato chips, saving the hideously decorated cookie and mysterious wrapped sandwich for later when I could pig out in private.

Someone fetched a sandwich box for Lenny so he didn't have to get up. On both sides of me, my seat mates ate noisily. My misophonia kicked in big time when the presenter had to compete with crunching potato chips and crackling sandwich wrappers. To remain calm (and to prove my status as a self-proclaimed artist), I doodled stupid caricatures in my journal.

Eventually the two-hour meeting dragged to a close with Veronica's plea for more hands to help on committees. If I stay with this group, I predict within two years, I will be running it. Not because I can do a better job, not because I'm so desperate to be in charge, but because everyone else who qualifies to lead will be either burned out, retired, or dead. Leader by default. Last sucker standing.

I escaped into the breezy afternoon sun, feeling a lot more depleted than when I walked in the door. My people alert had been blaring silently since I got swallowed up by Veronica's iron grip. The first thing I did when I got into my nice warm car, you guessed it, was to open up that cookie. It didn't make me feel better, and I knew later I would regret it, but the combination of butter, sugar, and flour took the edge off so I could drive home with some semblance of serenity.

Happy Independence Day, if you can stand it

Happy Independence Day, blogbots. I hope your Fourth of July celebration is . . . celebratory. If that is what floats your boat. Laser shows, fireworks, rumbling tanks, sloppy BBQ ribs dripping with carcinogenic sauce . . . whatever works for you. May you enjoy your day. My little leaky boat is floated by peace, quiet, and solitude. I will be hunkered down in the Love Shack, helping my cat ride out the artillery barrage that will begin at dusk. To each her own.

My schedule for tomorrow is unusually busy. I have two entire things planned. I don't know how I will manage. In the morning, I plan to Wire with my sister, who is stateside in Boston. In the evening, I will visit my maternal parental unit, as I do daily at 6:15 pm. After that I would like to bury myself in the bathtub, but I have a self-imposed obligation to write 2,000 words per day. What's that, you say? Thanks for asking.

For the past couple weeks, I have been torturing myself with my own personal NANOWRIMO commitment. If you don't what that is, no fear. It stands for National Novel Writing Month. Officially, it happens every November. I tried it once, a few years ago. I did not reach the word count goal of 50,000. I am still working on that book; it's the book of blog posts about my mother. Unfinished. You are reading one more chapter right now. How cool is that.

In Big Magic, Elizabeth Gilbert wrote, “When an idea thinks it has found somebody—say, you—who might be able to bring it into the world, the idea will pay you a visit. . . . This idea will not leave you alone until it has your fullest attention. And then, in a quiet moment, it will ask, ‘Do you want to work with me?’” (pp. 35-36).

An idea came to me in a dream. I had a choice: say yes or say no. I chose yes. Sorry, I can't tell you what it is about. I can tell you it is a novel. That is all I will say.

My self-imposed commitment is to write (at least) 50,000 words before my sister arrives on July 22. To achieve that goal, I have to write at least 2,000 words per day. I've been writing almost every day for two weeks. Today is Day 14. I have 28,000 words.  I will add, there's not much magic involved in flogging oneself to write 2,000 words per day. This is a classic case of stop whining and just do it.

I work better when the temperature is at least 80°F. It's 71°F and overcast. The sky is gray and gloomy. It's cold in the Love Shack, but I refuse to drag out the space heater. It's July, for garsh sake. Two days ago, we had a tornado a few miles away. Just a little bitty EF0, lasted only six minutes, only managed to go a mile. Tore up a bunch of trees and power lines. How endearing. Summer in Portland officially starts July 5. It can't get here soon enough. I'm so ready to be warm.

When I came strolling down the hall at the retirement place, Mom was still in the dining room, sitting alone at her table. I went in to see what was going on. She said she was late getting out of dinner because she had to run for the bathroom. I use the word run loosely. More like, shuffle along with the walker, squeezing her butt cheeks as she goes. Unsuccessfully, apparently. Luckily, a staff member was there to help clean her up and get her back to the dining room to finish her dinner. Everyone was sympathetic. The Med Aide patted her shoulder when she brought her a little cup of pills.

We watched Property Brothers. I made snide comments about people spending $1.2 million on a house. Mom said she didn't know what was going on. I get the feeling she loses a few more brain cells every time she gets stuck in the bathroom and can't figure out how to leave. Every day I shudder through about five minutes of hell, knowing for certain that I am going to end up just like her, but minus the helpful daughter.

She hasn't walked me to the back door at all this week. I left her sitting on the couch, watching MASH. Tomorrow is my sixteenth anniversary of moving to the Love Shack, the beginning of my personal independence. I dread the day I lose it and so I try to cherish every drop.

The world keeps turning

When times get tough, I queue up the songs that keep me going as I slog through my ongoing pity party. This week my soundtrack is mostly New Order, punctuated by Rod Stewart's Mandolin Wind and Helen Stellar's Io (from the movie Elizabethtown). Maybe engaging in some new compulsive activities will help me get my mind off reality for a while. Tonight I'm thinking about taking up the mandolin. And maybe learning Chinese and Russian (just in case America is invaded while we are distracted by the shit show happening in Washington).

Every evening I come back to earth by visiting my mother and her smoking buddy, Jane. Some evenings Jane doesn't talk much, and Mom doesn't talk at all, so we have a pleasant ten-minute interlude staring into the distance. Well, they stare into the distance. They have a view of tall fir trees and sky beyond the roof of the facility. I have a view of two old ladies sitting in front of a wall of rhododendrons. It's hard to know what to stare at. I often don't know what to say. I do a lot of fidgeting.

The other night I made the mistake of describing the hearings I'd witnessed of the Supreme Court nominee. Of course, neither old woman had any idea what I was talking about. I worked myself into quite a lather before I finally managed to zip it. Darn it. I need to unload my anxieties someplace else.

Mom and Jane could not care less what is going on in politics. They no longer vote. Their attention is riveted on what is happening in their own small world, the world of the retirement facility.

“Tonight is Amy's last day,” Jane reminded Mom tonight. Mom nodded. Amy was the nice part-time cook. I was sad to hear that Amy was leaving. She baked gluten-free cookies for Mom.

“I wonder if she is getting another job,” Jane mused. Mom shrugged her narrow shoulders. I looked at the front of her red fleece jacket, wondering if it ever got laundered. She loves the jacket for its deep pockets, plenty of room for her cigarette case. The front of the jacket is a minefield of pock marks, some just black circles and others outright holes, burned clear through the fleece. I wondered what I would do if one evening she dropped her cigarette and spontaneously combusted.

“Someone died two nights ago,” Jane said. She looked at me and mouthed, “Stroke.” Mom nodded. She had told me about it yesterday. We didn't know the woman who died. Neither one of us was terribly concerned about the dead person. After all, people go to retirement facilities to die. We both expressed sadness for the staff.

“The same night, another woman fell,” Jane said. “Blood everywhere.” My mother's eyes widened. She glanced at her cigarette and then at Jane's cigarette, comparing their smoking progress.

“They could get some serious rain this week in Arizona,” I said, thinking, what is the mildest topic possible? Right, the weather. 

Both ladies looked at me in surprise. “Arizona!” Mom said.

“We can't get flooded here, can we?” Jane asked.

“No, we are on a hill,” I reassured her.

The glowing ember at the tip of Mom's cigarette fell onto the ground. She held out the now dead stub. Sometimes I take it, sometimes Jane takes it. Tonight I took it and chucked it into the big gourd-shaped receptacle for cigarette butts that must look absolutely gross inside. Mom got up and grabbed her walker. Time to head for the door. I trailed behind to pick up the pieces, if anything (or anyone) should happen to fall.

Amy met us at the front door and let us in. Behind us the sky was almost dark. No rain, but I could smell it on the air. I stood by as Amy hugged first Jane and then my mother. Amy towered over both shrunken women. Up close, she looked younger than I first thought.

“Come back and visit,” Jane said.

“Don't forget us,” I said to Amy as Mom turned away down the hall. Amy did not look sad to be leaving. I worked at a nursing home once. That was probably the hardest job in my life. (So far. I have a feeling Home Depot might be in my future.)

Back in her room, Mom parked her jacket on the visitor's chair. She stood by the bed, staring at the bed covers, which were pulled open, ready for her to go to bed later. Her blue fleece pajama bottoms lay on top. She pointed at her head.

“What do I do with this?” I wasn't sure if she meant the pajamas and bed covers or her head. I took a chance she meant the bed.

“Your bed is ready for you, when you are ready to go to sleep,” I said. “See the picture on the wall?” Last week I drew a series of cartoons showing her how to get ready for bed. First, brush your teeth. Take out hearing aids. Take off shoes and pants. Put on PJs. Sit on the bed. Put feet under covers. Pull covers up to chin. Sweet dreams. Layers are the problem. The quilt is covered by the wool blanket, which is covered by a sheet. Three layers! With the pajama bottoms on top. Too much for her brain.

“Ring your buzzer if you need help,” I said.

“Okay,” she replied.

The chronic malcontent plans a birthday party

My mother and her smoking buddy (I forget what name I've given her before ... today, let's call her Jane) are typically desperate to get outside after dinner for a cigarette. I am their ticket outdoors to the smoking area. They are always glad to see me. Last Wednesday was no exception, and it happened to be Jane's birthday. A month ago, she had casually mentioned that her birthday was June 27, and then she said “Oh, I don't want anything for my birthday” in a coy way that made me think I would be pretty safe if I brought her a little gift and some chocolate cake and ice cream. So I prepared my bag of goodies and headed over to the retirement place.

I arrived as usual about 6:15. Every evening by 6:20, my mother is done with dinner and complaining that she's full (she doesn't know when to stop eating). After a trip to the bathroom, she's ready to head outside. She stuffs her cigarette case in her jacket pocket, puts her over-sized sunglasses on her head, and grabs her old-style front-wheel walker, we call it her “buggy.” On the special day, I carried an extra bag containing a little gift bag, two containers of gluten-free chocolate cake, and a small container of cashew milk chocolate ice cream (my mother is gluten-free, non-dairy to stave off bouts of diarrhea).

Jane lives in a one-room apartment just around the corner from the front door. My mother rapped on Jane's door: shave and a haircut, six bits. If it takes Jane less than ten seconds to open the door, I know she's been hovering with her cigarette wallet, waiting for Mom's knock. Tonight she bolted into the hall, wallet clutched to her chest, and led the way to the front door. At this point, she usually makes a disparaging remark about her appearance. I happen to like her style: I think her pin curls, mismatched track suit, and sloppy slippers are charming. Her standards are apparently higher than mine. She tossed out a couple phrases, and I reassured her she looked marvelous. This time she didn't argue: She was eager to get outside.

The evening was pleasant enough, partly sunny, but I'd heard rain was on the way. The wind was starting to kick up a bit in advance of the rainy edge of a low pressure front spinning at the Idaho-Oregon-Nevada border.

The smoking area consists of three plastic chairs, two of which sit side-by-side under a black iron structure that used to hold a lawn swing. It has two built-in side tables. Nearby is a square table that the aides sometimes sit on to take their smoke breaks. I pulled the table over and used it as my staging area.

First, I pulled out the little gift bag and handed it to Jane with a flourish. It was pink with paisleys. The tissue paper was red and white stripes, like a candy cane. I know, clash. It's what I had. I don't keep wrapping paper anymore. Inside the bag was one container of Pepperidge Farm Mint Milano cookies, Jane's favorite. The gift was the presentation: I'd given her cookies before, but never in a cute little gift bag with clashing tissue paper. She made appreciative noises.

I had a plan, and so far, so good. Instead of trying to cut cake and dish it up on the patio table, I had pre-cut the cake at home and put it into two plastic containers that previously held Gelato (yum, moment of weakness... well, two moments of weakness). The containers were the perfect size for tiny pieces of chocolate cake, with lids to keep it all secure. I even covered up the Gelato label with some festive neon red bond paper. Again, it's what I had.

“How about some cake and ice cream?” I said, reaching for my bag of goodies. The wind at that moment knocked the bag out of my hands onto the asphalt. I grabbed it up and rummaged for the plastic forks and containers of cake.

I opened up the lids so Mom and Jane could see the little morsels of chocolate cake.

“I'm so full,” said Mom.

Suddenly, the wind whipped the plastic forks and napkins out of the bag. Two white forks skittered away on the pavement. The napkins sailed off across the parking lot. I gave the old ladies the cake containers and dashed after the napkins. I rescued the forks and wiped them off (I know, yuck... three words: six-second rule, so there).

Slightly winded, I returned to the table with the napkins, well, paper towels, really... I don't buy paper napkins anymore. Not to be outdone by a little breeze, I jabbed a tiny yellow birthday cake candle into the chocolate icing rosette on top of Jane's cake. I used Mom's Bic lighter to light the candle, singing my thumb slightly in the process. I'm not experienced with lighters. I handed the container to Jane. The candle fell over and extinguished itself on the side of the container. She looked a bit overwhelmed.

“Ready for some ice cream?” I asked gaily.

Both ladies were valiantly holding their containers of chocolate cake and trying to light their cigarettes in the shelter of their elbows to ward off the wind. I could see that cigarettes were going to win out over cake. I gave up on the ice cream and suggested they put their cake containers on the side tables. After a few tries, both ladies were puffing on their cigarettes.

“Now, let's sing to Jane,” I directed. I began to sing the Happy Birthday song to Jane in my usual off-key voice while my mother harmonized in a gravelly tenor. “Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you, happy birthday, dear”—my mother looked at me blankly, and I loudly filled in “—Jane! Happy birthday to you!” Jane beamed. Mom looked relieved.

We spent a few blissful moments hunkered against the rising wind, and then I heard my mother utter the words I have come to dread: “Uh, oh.”

“Do we need to go?” I asked, thinking dang it, couldn't her bowels have waited five more minutes?

Mom handed me her still lit, half-smoked cigarette. She might as well have been handing me a live grenade. I stubbed it out, wondering to myself, what is smoker protocol? Do we keep half-smoked cigarettes or is that tres gauche? Meanwhile, Mom was up and moving. I quickly backed my chair out of the way. Jane hurriedly stubbed out her smoke and stood up, somehow managing to hang onto her gift bag, chocolate cake container, and her wallet. I grab up my bag and stuff the ice cream and Mom's cake inside.

Meanwhile, Mom was beelining for the front door, head down, moving fast. We hustled along in her wake. I poked the doorbell. (The front door is locked at 5 pm.) We waited for the Med Aide to buzz the door open. I wondered if Mom was successfully holding it. You know, it. Finally, the door swung open, nearly bashing me in the hip. Mom plowed through. Jane and I exchanged a wave. “Happy birthday!” I cried and followed my mother down the hall to her room.

After even half a cigarette my mother's brain is short on oxygen and functioning at less than optimal. In her room, she parked her walker and headed into the bathroom. I sat on the couch to watch Flip or Flop with one ear open. When I heard my mother say, “Oh boy,” I knew that was my cue to step in and offer my services. I didn't want to, but ... it's my mother.

Breathing through my mouth, I helped her navigate the sequence that stymies her when her brain has flown south: first, the shoes come off, then the pants. Then off comes the stinky adult diaper (apparently, they are called pull-ups, not diapers). “Roll it up, put it in the trash can,” I said. (Lucky for me, she can follow directions, she just can't initiate them.) I held out the container of baby wipes. “Now wipe it down,” I said,  motioning vaguely to the offending area. She got busy and managed to do something. I wasn't quite willing to inspect the damage, but I'm pretty sure it was better than it was.

I handed her a fresh pair of pull-ups. She stared at them. I bent down and helped her guide her feet into them. I helped her stand up. She yanked them awkwardly up to her waist and beyond, like a two-year-old navigating unfamiliar clothing. “Now your pants,” I said. She sat back down on the toilet and we collaborated to get her pants back on. I put her slip-on Merrells in front of her feet. She slid her toes in and stood up.

“Flush,” I said, and she flushed, watching whatever was in the toilet disappear. She closed the lid. “Wash hands,” I said, waving her toward the sink. She washed her hands.

“How do you feel?”

“Much better,” she said.

“Let's watch the end of Flip or Flop,” I suggested. We sat side by side on the couch.

A few minutes later, she patted me on the knee and said, “Thank you, daughter.”

The Chronic Malcontent jumps a little

My sister has been challenging me since she first appeared on the scene as a rival to my position as the only girl in the family hierarchy. I was not quite two when she showed up, this blonde squalling red-faced thing, so I hadn't had a lot of time to consolidate my power. I've been struggling to keep up with her ever since. This week my sister challenged me to do the 7-minute exercise regimen she found on the internet. Well, she didn't come right out and say, hey, you fat slob, you should do this. She coyly remarked that she had tried it twice. That was all I needed to galvanize my shaky legs into action.

In this routine, you do 30 seconds of about 10 exercises—pushups, curlups, planks, jumping jacks, and some other stuff—all in seven minutes. First, jumping jacks to warm up. I managed 30 jumping jacks successfully without falling over or crashing into anything. The second exercise was the "wall sit," where you put your back against the wall and "sit" against it. I held it for about five seconds before my legs gave out and I ended up on the floor. After it took me 30 more seconds to get up, I realized I might not be ready for this particular exercise routine.

Exercise is not my favorite pastime. I'm not naturally thin. Food is my drug of choice. To my perplexity, my sister has always been slender and feminine. While I played softball and volleyball, she learned ballet and figure skating. As I got my hands and clothes dirty with paint, she studied painters and paintings and learned how to handle artifacts with fastidious care. I have photos of her wearing white cotton gloves while holding a framed painting of some saint or monk or duke. I was the dirty, mud-covered female in the family. She was the refined child—who (I'm gleeful to report) still cringes when I swear.

Our usual challenge involves writing. My sister is a prolific writer, although she might not agree. She just delivered her second book to her publisher, a year-long labor about something to do with medieval books. I helped her choose the cover design but I can't remember the title. Her audience is small—maybe a handful of libraries and world-class scholars. Not surprising, she will make little to no money for her efforts. But did I mention, published!?

My writing projects are all over the map. I need multiple pen names to encompass my diverse interests, few of which ever reach daylight. It's safer to keep them hidden in the dark.

Speaking of writing, I rarely blog anymore. I can't find my words. Interesting events happen, interesting people cross my path, but I don't write down the stories, and they fall away into the past. My memories are mostly dust. Yesterday's memories are already crumbling. As I wait for the next phase of my life to begin, my brain is processing my experience in a new way, the way an engine processes gasoline that has some water in it. That is to say, not well. Stuttering, stumbling, confused, apprehensive. Day by day, I resemble my mother, in thought and in appearance. Except I'm three times her size and still allowed to drive.

Recently I spent a few hours scanning some family photos and negatives. Pictures of relatives, far away in space and time. Lots of photos of my mother as a child, a teen, a young adult. She looked like a happy child, a contented teenager. She went on outings with her friends, to the beach, to the mountain. She went camping with her family, slept in a canvas tent, rode horses, caught fish. I suspect she would have been happier not to have been burdened with four children in six years. I have tried to compile a book of blogposts about her, but I was stymied when I got to the ending. I mean, I know what the ending will be but I'm not ready to write it.

Speaking of endings, Mom just received a clean bill of health from the nurse practitioner who comes out from the insurance company for an annual house call visit. For an 88-year-old smoker with moderate dementia, Mom is in great shape. Her heart is strong, her kidneys are pumping. She coughs like a demon but her lungs are clear. She could live a long time. At this rate, it is likely she will outlast me. Especially if I don't exercise once in a while. Guess I'd better get back to jumping jacks. Some action is better than no action.

Happy Earth Day from the Chronic Malcontent

As a long-practicing dermatillomaniac, I assess my mental state by how many raw open bloody wounds festoon my cuticles on any given day. A few nights ago I noticed all ten of my fingertips were devoid of wounds. I was astounded. The pressure was apparently too much; the next day I counted six open wounds and two hangnails I hadn't yet been able to yank. Sigh. As my cuticles go, there goes my serenity.

Why am I so anxious? Thanks for asking. As a self-described chronic malcontent, I always have a tenuous relationship with relaxation, peace, and serenity. My normal state is morose discontented fretfulness, as evidenced by the deep vertical furrow between my eyebrows. (Today I met a man who has a matching brow furrow! I didn't say anything to him about it, of course, but I felt better, somehow, knowing I'm not the only one who wears a sure sign of malcontentedness for everyone to see.) Anyway, fretful anxiety is my default state.

The past two weeks have been unusually unsettling. First, we've had one day of sun to five days of rain. Portland is waterlogged. Not flooding, just saturated. Sun breaks happen, and I turn toward them like the hothouse flower I am, but within minutes the clouds roll back in and it's pouring. We had a crap winter—way more snow and ice than usual, and so far spring has been wetter and cooler than average. I dream of Arizona daily.

Second, my maternal parental unit chose an assisted living place to move into, and thus on April 7 we made it happen, me, my brother, and two hired movers—professionals who had all the equipment, a fancy truck, and knew what they were doing (minimum charge $300). I arranged the furniture, hung the paintings and photographs. I got a senior-friendly microwave. I built her a dinky round wood-top table to replace her kitchen table so she would have someplace to eat her Cheerios. I'm still fetching things from the condo. Today it was gardening tools.

Her brain works intermittently. She has had a few good days. One day last week, she said she took a shower and only sprayed the aide once. We had a good laugh at that. I brought her some of her old sheet music (stored at my house for the past year) and she tentatively picked out some tunes on the grand piano in the common room. I sat with her in the outdoor smoking area, talking about nothing in particular, as rain drops fell on the rhodies behind us. The air smelled like spring (as long as I was upwind).

Most of the time, though, my mother is depressed and cranky at losing her independence, even though it was her idea. She knows she can't get mad at me, because then who would fetch her cigarettes, but I can tell she sure would like to get some resentment off her chest. I'm the one that sent her to that prison. She hates the food; she can't figure out the schedule; everything is in the wrong place... she copes by going to bed. I don't think a whole lotta gardening will be going on, but she's got her clippers now, just in case. I hope I don't hear any complaints about Mom whacking the rose bushes.

Third, last week, my cat's eye got infected, and now we have the thrice daily ritual of me trying to hold his twisty body still for the few seconds I need to rub ointment on his cheek in the general vicinity of his eye. It's a battle I'm not winning, but his eye is looking much better, so some of the goop must be finding the mark. I call him Squint Eastwood. I'm just grateful I don't have to give him a pill. If you have ever tried to pill a cat, you know what I mean.

A few days ago, I went for a walk around the Mt. Tabor reservoirs (.56 of a mile in circumference). The walk started out sunny, ended up rainy, ho hum, what's new. Someone had dragged an old well-used black leather office chair up the path to the reservoir and left it there in the walkway, where runners and walkers detoured around it. Maybe whoever donated it to the park thought people would like to sit there to watch the sun go down beyond the hills. Ha. Joke. What sun?

I walked past the chair a few times as I made my circuit, hunkered in my rain gear, watching it get wet. On my fifth circuit, the rain was pelting down and no one was nearby, so I grabbed that old chair and dragged it to a spot next to a park bench. I felt quite satisfied as I walked around the reservoirs one more time. I felt I had beaten back a tiny bit of the chaos, now that the seating was arranged to my liking. I hope no one saw me indulging my inner OCD tyrant.

As I was driving to my meeting today in my fossil-fuel burning car and remembering picking up trash in front of my elementary school on the first Earth Day in 1970, I thought about how hellish old age really is. People don't talk about it much. People don't talk about the food that goes through you so fast you don't have time to make it to the bathroom before it's dripping down your leg. Nobody wants to think about how it feels to see your contemporaries pushing wheelchairs and walkers up and down the hallways, heads bent, eyes dull. In the morning, you hear the hollering of Bingo numbers from the activities room. In the evening, you hear the droning of prayers over the dying woman in the room next door. You hear the chatter of the aides (the jailers) swooping by in their colorful scrubs, and for a moment you think, what weird hotel is this place? Then you remember, this isn't a hotel. This is where you go to die.

I am becoming more and more certain that if I am able to make the decision and execute it, I will opt out sooner not later, rather than wait until it's too late. I don't want to end up warehoused in a barracks for old people. Sure, maybe I would have some of my furniture and pictures around me—my Mom's place looks strangely familiar with her old flowered couch and chair, but you can't fool her. It's still a prison, and she knows it.

#where'sthebarf?

I've been wearing the same tired old pair of winter shoes for five years. I love my beat-up Merrills. They've taken me through mud puddles and ice puddles, across cement sidewalks and gravel driveways all over NW Portland. These shoes are shaped like torpedoes, which means these shoes aren't great for running, but I can kick things with them, like falling trees, attacking dogs, and marauding children, although I haven't actually had to do much of that. The black suede is gray and crusty with dirt and dust. Sadly, the soles are wearing down. I estimate they might give me another five years of service.

I know what you are thinking—five-year-old shoes, and you think they will last another five years? Are you nuts? More to the point, are you completely outside all bounds of respect for fashion?

I can hear your incredulity. I'm amazed you can conjure so much incredulity, considering the state of our national politics, but hey, more power to you. Whatever gets you foaming at the mouth. It takes more than out-of-style shoes to get my heart rate up, but I respect your indignation, whatever prods it to the surface.

I used to be a slave to fashion. To be precise, I was a slave to other people's ideas of fashion. I used to make custom clothing for a living, back in one of my former lives as a . . . well, let's just name it what it was—seamstress!—in Hollywood. Yep, the one in California. My clients brought me pictures of gravity-defying outfits (inevitably designed for a size zero) and demanded I make the outfits for them (in polyester satin, sans beading, in size 16, for my daughter's wedding, which by the way is next Saturday). I know I don't have the right to use the word slave, considering my skin color and life of lower-middle class blue-collar privilege, but maybe some of what I felt in those days was a ghost of slavery. I certainly felt trapped in a horrible job, bent over hot machines doing the bidding of harsh judgmental mistresses.

I guess I have associated fashion with pain, embarrassment, and resentment, which might explain why my current modus operandi is to use things till they disintegrate. It's how I treat my automobiles: drive 'em till they drop. It's how I treat my clothes: wear them until they shred into tiny pieces. So it's no big surprise that is how I treat my footwear.

All that is the long way to announce, in honor of spring, I bought a new pair of walking shoes. I bought them online, which is always a crap shoot, I'm sure you know—the convenience of purchasing in my pajamas is often outweighed by the disappointment of shoes that don't fit and look stupid.

In this case, when I opened the box and saw my new all-black walking shoes, I thought, hmmmm, these look like . . .  old lady shoes! They might as well be Easy Spirits! Humph. Even I have my fashion limits. I'll wear bell bottoms or pegged trousers, I don't care what the shape of my pants is, but I draw the line at wearing Easy Spirits. Probably because they were my mother's preferred brand, before I sold her on the style benefits of Merrills.

I tried these new style-less shoes on with my thick running socks, thinking, well if they don't feel perfectly awesome, I can wrap them up and ship them back, no questions asked. I trotted around the carpet, testing them, tuned to every rub and pinch. My right foot is wider than my left, don't ask me why, which means I must compromise between loose fit on the left and tight fit on the right. I guess my left foot is a 6 1/2 but I buy a size 7 to accommodate my wider right foot. When I buy running shoes, which I wear with a thicker sock, I usually order size 7 1/2s. That means I occasionally look down and experience a shock at how long my feet look.

I trotted around my living room for three days, wondering, should I send them back, should I keep them? Finally, I decided to send them back and try again. I got out the box and checked the soles of the shoes to make sure they were clean . . .  oh, no. What? Between the grooves on the left shoe was smashed an all-too-familiar sight: cat barf! No way!

Well, you know what they say: you step in it, you bought the shoes. Resigned, I took the shoes out to the store yesterday for a little spin and was pleasantly relieved: no blisters, no pain. Today I took them out for a 2-mile hike around the reservoir in the rain. The shoes warmed right up and melted to the shape of my foot. By the time I got home, they fit perfectly.

But I have looked all over my place and I still can't find the pile of cat barf I stepped in. I guess if my sinuses weren't so clogged with allergies, cat hair, and mold spores, I might be able to sniff it out. Maybe someday, or not. I never claimed to be a great housekeeper, a fact I hope my sister remembers when she comes to visit this summer.

I don't care how I look anymore. My shoes might look stupid, but they feel great. I'm greatly relieved. Freedom from pain is worth looking old and foolishly out of style.

Coming soon: A future without facts or truth

I don't know what is real anymore, with all the falsehoods flying around the zeitgeist. Americans can't seem to agree on the facts. Can I trust the calendar posted on the Internet? Is it really almost the end of 2016? Maybe, maybe not. I'm sure if I forced enough fake news on Facebook, I could convince some people that it's still October. Or that we have a new month now, the month of Terrorary. The month of Muck. The month of Run Them Down. We all know who "them" is.

It's not a great time to be anything but rich, white, and male. I want to lament, but what good does that do. It just makes me one of the whiners. And we all know, nobody likes a whiner.

The next four years will be good practice for weathering the apocalyptic effects of the many impending disasters looming on the time horizon (earthquake, solar flare, cyber hack of the electrical grid, sea level rise, volcanic eruption, tsunami). I need to learn to suck it up. It would help to have a tent, camp stove, and sleeping bag, I suppose. And some MREs stashed in a tote bin. What can I say. I'm not ready. I've never been a prepper. I worry a lot, like a prepper, but my fear paralyzes me, so I'm unable to take action. I sit in paralysis like the proverbial frog in hot water, too scared to leap out before I'm parboiled. I won't be a survivor. I can't say I'm too sad about it.

But I'm not ready to go quite yet. I need to survive just long enough to see my mother exit the world stage. I wouldn't abandon her, not by choice. Fear of the future makes me gag sometimes, but we all know what is coming. She's going to die, someday. I don't know how or when, but I know it's coming.

After she's gone, I don't really care much what happens to me. Depending on how much money I have left (if the banks aren't belly-up by then), I'll probably move somewhere where it's warmer, just in case I end up sleeping outdoors. I don't expect to see 80, but who knows.

Maybe when the Chinese-Russian alliance takes over America, we will all finally relax. Let someone else be in charge for a while. The nursinghomes will be full of old white American prisoners of war clamoring for organic gluten-free dinners and internet access, even though we won't remember in five minutes what we've eaten or how to access the future equivalent of Facebook. Torturing us will be useless: What can you learn from people who think they deserve to have whatever they want without paying for it?

You can't reason with Americans. Most of us don't care that our activities for the last 50 years have destroyed a good portion of the planet. Have I stopped driving my fossil-fuel burning Focus? No. We don't learn. Don't bother picking our brain, Russia. There are no state secrets among us except how to get the best deals on Black Friday.

The chronic malcontent is aging in place

I haven't been out of the Love Shack all day. It was 98° today, blue sky and blazing sunshine, our second day of record-breaking heat. It's great to be warm. I've got a wet washcloth on my head and I'm awash with iced green tea, edging toward heart burn. It doesn't get much better than this.

I've been working on my book. Yes, did I tell you? In between editing jobs, for the past couple years, I've been writing a book. I am happy to say it's almost done. I'm weary. What kind of book, you ask? Well, it's a bit too soon to say for sure, but odds are it's nothing you will be interested in, unless you are a frustrated wannabe dissertator who has repeatedly failed to get a dissertation proposal approved and can't figure out why. Yeah, it's kind of a niche topic.

Time out. I just checked the temperature. It's dropped to 88°. I opened the back door and tested the air. Woohoo, the outside air is cooler than the inside air. Time to open up the windows. The sun has dropped below the horizon. The air sluggishly enters the front window, along with the voices of the happy diners sitting on the sidewalk at the cafe across the street. The cat is sleeping awkwardly in the (empty) tub. I notified him that the windows are now open. He didn't budge.

Earlier today, my mother invited me over to enjoy her air conditioning. She forgets that I prefer the heat. Maybe she's lonely. Tomorrow I'm taking her to her fifth physical therapy appointment. She's been doing exercises twice a day to strengthen her gimpy leg and build up her scrawny butt. She says it is helping. Last week I remarked that her stride seemed to be a bit longer, and she beamed. She even sauntered a little bit when she thought I would notice.

Last week was a busy week, with the physical therapy appointment and a visit from my niece and her partner and kid. My brother and I met them at the zoo. Seeing the elephants was fun. No children fell into any cages. The next morning we met for breakfast and my mother came along. It was hot but not sweltering. She ate a turkey sandwich. I had a small margherita pizza (wheat crust, fresh mozzarella, fresh tomatoes, fresh basil), for which I am still paying.

My niece is 25, her child is three. My mother was thrilled to meet her great-grandchild. The kid wasn't all that thrilled to meet her, this funny stick-like lady with the booming voice who smells of cigarettes and tic-tacs. I remember meeting old people when I was young; it wasn't pleasant then. I'm sure it's not pleasant now. Old people are scary.

My mother is aging in place. That's the phrase. You can use it if you want. I hope to someday find a place in which I can age in place. Meanwhile, I'm aging where I am, sweating in the Love Shack.

The chronic malcontent muses while jogging: Don't try this at home

Today for the first time this spring, I put on my jogging togs and headed for Mt. Tabor Park. As I marched up the hill, I tried not to notice how tight my running shorts were or how my belly bulged over the waistband. I plodded up the main staircase, admiring my black polyester (or are they nylon) pants with the modest belled bottoms and racy white stripes, thinking these pants will be around until the apocalypse. I made it to the top of the staircase. I only had to pull the band of my sports bra out to give my lungs some room to expand twice on the way. Progress!

The cloud-filtered early afternoon sunlight was warm, and I was overdressed: long t-shirt, short jacket, long pants, baseball cap. Ready to start trotting. Any moment now.

Finally, I urged my legs to a trot, first trot of the season. Argh. I was aghast at how creaky my ankles and knees felt. The pain reminded me of my vegan debacle, from which I thought I had recovered. Mentally I reviewed my diet. Have I been eating enough protein? I've been doing protein smoothies almost every day, plus my usual eggs... hmmm. I heard Bravadita's voice in my head: Americans eat too much protein, more than they really need (those selfish hogs). So, add in my broccoli and maybe I'm getting 45 grams of protein a day? I don't think that's enough, sorry, Bravadita. My joints are telling me I need more protein. And probably more water, too.

As I trotted down and around the hill, feeling every little sinew between my hips and ankles, feeling every scraping bone and twinging muscle, I lamented the loss of strength, stamina, flexibility...and even as I lamented those prized assets, I knew if I really wanted them badly enough, I could get them back. At that point, gravity sucked my facial skin into a sinkhole somewhere around my knees and my brain along with it. Save that conundrum for a rainy day.

Still, I had to count my blessings: the vertigo was bad this morning, but it calmed down while I was finishing the final edits on a small job, an insubstantial treatise on the casual carpooling phenomenon now occurring in San Francisco. (Who knew! People are so amazing.) My jagged jogging didn't seem to stir the accursed ear rocks up much, I'm happy to say. I'm going to try not to move my head much while I type this and hope for the best.

After my choppy scoot down and around the road, I walked once around one of the reservoirs, admiring the deep green water, noting the occasional floating cup lid and tennis ball, and then headed up one of the dirt trails toward the northeastern flank of the mountain. As I walked, I began to feel sad, and then I remembered why sometimes I don't like to go walking: Walking gives me time to think, and when I have time to think, I feel sad.

First, I grieved the loss of my mother (she's not dead yet, she's actually doing better, but that doesn't stop me from indulging in the wreckage of the future). Then I grieved for the plight of people suffering at the hands of terrorists. Next, I grieved for the plight of animals suffering at the hands of mean people. Finally, I grieved for the plight of the planet, weighed down by humanity's greed and selfishness. All this grief I felt as I sauntered along the dirt paths wearing polyester (or nylon) pants, listening to an mp3 player that I charged with electricity generated by coal plants (and maybe some hydropower—this is the Pacific Northwest, after all). And now I'm blogging about my sadness while enjoying a cup of tepid coffee (think I'll heat it up in my microwave) and listening to Ultravox's Hiroshima Mon Amour on Window Media Player. Oh, how I suffer.

Pre-worrying solves nothing, but planning and action can help ease my fears about the future. I fear my mother's decline and eventual demise. I fear the impending earthquake and tsunami. I fear my landlord will evict me this summer so he can triple the rent and I'll have to move in with my mother. I fear my crappy car will croak; it's a Ford, after all—found on road dead. I fear I'll never finish my book (I'm almost done). I fear ridicule for my attempt to write a screenplay (but I submitted it to a contest anyway). I fear I'll soon be size extra fat instead of just medium fat (I still went jogging).

Nobody knows the future, except for the one thing we all know and don't want to talk about: We all will die. We don't know when, we don't know how, but we know we can't escape it. The essential, mind-blowing question is (and has always been), how do we want to live until we die? You know what they say: A life lived in fear is a life half-lived. Do I want to get to the end and realize I was a bystander in my own life? How many of us just trudge through our days without letting ourselves feel anything? I know that's what I do. I don't feel much rage anymore—I go straight to sorrow.

I don't like to feel sorrow, so I avoid feeling anything. But I've learned that the sun only comes out after I feel the sorrow, after I acknowledge the pain of living life, after I let myself feel the feelings. Then I can shrug, take a nap, have a blueberry smoothie, and get on with the business of living.

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.

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.

The chronic malcontent joins the tiny hat movement

Sometimes when I stand at my computer desk, staring morosely at my screen, my cat sneaks silently into the room and sits on the floor behind my feet. Inevitably, eventually, I step backward onto his tail. I think it's a ploy to get sympathy. I thought he wasn't all that bright, but maybe I'm wrong: He's figured out how to get love. That is more than some of us can say.

I'm seeking a hat that will clamp down on the vertigo. Is there such a thing? I have many kinds of hats: berets, cloches, stocking caps, straw hats, watch caps, baseball caps, and hats whose names I do not know. Most are black. None of the hats I have seems to mitigate the vertigo, so I'm hunting for a new hat. Maybe something in tin foil.

I wear a hat pretty much all the time. I wear a hat to the store. I wear a hat to job interviews. I even wear a hat to bed. I'm wearing a hat right now. The only time I don't wear a hat is when the temperature exceeds 90°. Then I'll let my scalp roam free. People are always shocked to find I actually do have hair. I suspect they believe I've been a cancer patient for years. Nope, sorry. I buzz my hair short on purpose.

Somebody should invent a hat that helps old people think. Teachers used to tell students, “Put on your thinking caps!” to imply that they were not thinking to their full potential. Did it inspire students to think harder? Deeper? Clearer? Who knows. All I know is, I want a thinking cap. I want one for my mother, and I want one for me. I don't care what color.

Lately I've been thinking that everyone should start wearing a hijab, the Muslim women's headscarf. If everyone walked around in hijabs, maybe people would get used to seeing them around town. Then they wouldn't be scared of hijabs. It's normal to be scared of things we don't understand. If you were wearing a headscarf on your head, you would understand it's a piece of cloth that wraps around your head. Then you wouldn't be scared of it.

I'm not much of a joiner. Groups make me feel uncomfortable, and the idea of joining a movement in a presidential election year really makes me queasy. (I might accidentally become a Trumpeter or something, and then I'd have to kill myself.) However, I don't think the tiny hat movement is all that well organized. I haven't seen any newsletters. I don't know if there is a website. In fact, I might be the first one in the tiny hat movement. It's hard to tell if I'm part of a movement when life is moving around me. Do you ever have that feeling?

Anyway, if you would like to join the tiny hat movement, leave a comment, and start wearing a hat.

Happy new year from the Hellish Hand-basket

It boils down to this: Do you want to be safe, or do you want to be free? I always thought this choice referred to civil rights and terrorism, but nope, it actually applies to aging maternal parental units. Who knew?

If Mom had asked me, I would have chosen safe for her. But she didn't ask me. When I asked her what she wanted, she chose freedom.

It's not a huge surprise. After the two moves over the summer (to the retirement home and six weeks later, back to the condo), she's pretty clear now that safe is nice, but free is better.

Free when you are 86 is not the same as free when you are in your 50s, 60s, or even 70s. Now that her doctor, DMV (and I) have taken away her car keys, her circle of life has narrowed to the condo complex.

She phones in her grocery orders to me. I fetch and carry. I forget things, but I don't complain to her. How can I complain when her brain has gone AWOL? What's my excuse? Just stress. I complain to my younger brother, Chuck.

Mom and Chuck are not talking. When Mom moved out of her condo, she left behind boxes of old photos, cards, letters, and memorabilia. Chuck took the stuff to his house to sort, thinking Mom had abandoned it all, and it was bound for the trash. Chuck sorted out the stuff and found many things he thought were too great to toss: Mom and Dad's wedding announcement, negatives from our childhood, postcards from around the world. Along comes Christmas and suddenly Mom wants some blank holiday cards she is certain were in one of those boxes. She demanded the boxes be returned. She complained to me when the boxes did not arrive immediately. I emailed Chuck: for the love of god, give her the damn boxes. Chuck brought her the boxes. Last time I saw her, she had sorted a bunch of old negatives and photos into the trash can.

“Mom, Chuck wanted all that stuff!” I said, trying not to sound too aghast and failing.

She frowned at me. “What?”

“Chuck spent hours sorting through all those photos,” I said. “He wanted to keep that stuff. He was going to give them to me to scan!”

“Oh.” Her expression was a mix of chagrin and belligerence. Kind of like a two-year-old caught writing on the wall with permanent marker.

I took the paper sack of stuff to the kitchen and wrote in big letters on the side: “Keep for Chuck!”

“Don't throw this away!” I admonished her.

“All right, all right.” She meant get off my back. We silently declared a truce. I hugged her and told her I loved her.

It's New Year's Eve. She had a lunch date today with a bunch of condo ladies. That's good. It's late now. I was busy doing end-of-year stuff and forgot to call her. I'll call her tomorrow. I hope when she's sitting out on her patio tonight, smoking a cigarette in 30° frosty air, that she catches a glimpse of the northern lights and feels free.

The chronic malcontent is stuck in one long slow pratfall

My life is punctuated by drafts of proposals and dissertations that magically appear in my email inbox, demanding my editing skills. Compensation is predetermined (too low). Deadlines are often severe. I immerse myself in each paper like a scuba diver slipping gingerly into mucky water. Eeww. I add Oxford commas and snarky comments exhorting the authors to embrace Word styles instead of manually typing their tables of contents.

In between editing jobs, I fret about my mother and try to keep my nose above the surface of my anticipatory grief. (Yes, there's apparently a name for it.) It's almost two and a half years since I lost my teaching job and two years since I finished my dissertation and earned my degree. In between editing jobs and fretting over my mother, I have time to reflect on the current state of my life. Sadly, I seem to have lost my funnybone, and the loss has manifested in fewer blog posts.

Back when all I had to fret about was resenting my job at the career college and finishing my massive wretched tome of a dissertation, I didn't know how lucky I was. Pre-vertigo, pre-dementia, pre-summer of carlessness... ah, the good old days. My attention was riveted on the PhD and the job. As I steamed and stewed in my self-righteous messy little bog, I could always find something funny in the experience. Students! Ha, ha! Dissertation chair! Har har! The jokes were low-hanging, shiny baubles just above my head. So I picked them. Who wouldn't? I didn't name names; nobody was hurt in the making of this blog.

I mean, admit it, it's hilarious when someone does a pratfall into a hole in the sidewalk (especially when they are texting). Come on, don't tell me you haven't laughed at someone else's misfortune, as long as they were only humiliated and not hurt. That's how I felt most of the time, back in 2013, like I was watching myself taking one long slowmo pratfall. So funny, look at her clutch and cling to her expectations and resentments—what could be more comical? ROFLMAO.

So what's the problem? Thanks for asking. Lately, the jokes seem to be harder to find. I'm sure they are still there, somewhere, peeking out from under my scowl. I feel so weary. Who knew a 90-pound, 86-year-old scrawny twig of an old lady could be so heavy?

Maybe I'm caring too much. Everything seems overly complicated. I fear I'm descending into dementia along with my mother; we'll probably end up roommates in the same adult foster care home, yelling at each other and drooling on our bibs.

Hey! That joke snuck up on me! It's not a great one, I know, but it has potential. It's a chuckle, not a guffaw. But I bet there's more where that came from. There's not much funnier than demented old people who don't know how funny they are. I imagine a sitcom about a mother stuck in adult daycare and her recalcitrant, unwilling, resentful caregiver of a daughter. Well, maybe that's a little close to home. Still, there's a joke in here somewhere. I could go in after it, but maybe it's better to just let it gently percolate to the surface, like a stinky gas bubble.

Rewind

I've been away from the blog for a while, immersed in life and not feeling energetic enough to share. The vertigo is destroying my frontal lobe, grinding off layers of brain matter with every wave. Well, I know that isn't really what is happening; I know vertigo is an inner ear problem, not a brain problem, but that is how it feels: like heavy ocean waves are beating the inside of my brain. I've found the symptoms get worse with stress. Ha. Does anything get better with stress. I ask you. Really. I'm asking. If you know, please tell me.

What am I so stressed out about? Thanks for asking. The usual crap: weather, earning, creativity, cancer (Bravadita's), transportation (lack thereof), and my mother.

Actually, news flash, the weather has been pretty excellent: mild late summer days punctuated by a little bit of much-needed rain. Really not much to complain about. It's that rich moment just before the leaves go golden. I guess it's really the turning of the earth and the angle of the sun that puts the melancholy in me. Sometimes I wish I could sleep until April. I've heard naps can be good for you. Maybe not that long, although I'd be willing to try it.

As far as earning goes, I am still editing other people's massive dissertation train wrecks for money. I don't like it, but I can say with a bit of pride that I'm getting better at it. I'm sure that is good for the clients. For me, maybe not so much: I don't think just because I'm good at something, that means I ought to do it. I got caught on that hook for years... sewing, typing, driving the short bus. Ack! My good friend said to me in 1989, “It's never too soon to stop doing what you hate and start doing what you love.” Those oddly convoluted words granted me permission to stop sewing for a living, an activity I detested. Maybe I can find another set of equally interesting words to set me free from editing. Hey, it could happen. All I have to do is finish my book, market it, and watch the cash roll in. Said the crazy insane woman.

I'm doing a fair amount of walking these days, compared to before my car went to Ford Focus heaven. I was sort of hoping to have achieved buns of steel by now. I'm sad to report that is not yet the case. I'm still working on it. Now I've almost convinced myself that I don't need a car, that in fact, I'm a better planetary citizen without a car. That doesn't stop me from eyeballing the shiny not-so-gently loved cars parked in the used car lots I walk by on my way to my weekly meeting. I'm just looking. Mostly at the little yellow striped mini. It's gone now. Oh well. Another missed opportunity.

My younger brother gave me a bicycle he wasn't using, in exchange for one I gave him that was too big for me. The exchange was leisurely, taking place over the span of ten years or so. In the interim, he seems to have lost the helmet I gave him, so I need to get a new bike helmet. Plus the bike he gave me has no front brakes and the seat is stuck too high. But it's got great big fat tires and it's small enough so that falling off it doesn't seem like it would be fatal. I wonder two things: Will riding a bike will retrain my brain to find its balance? And is this bike stolen?

I've saved the best (or worst) for last. Last month you may recall, my siblings and I moved our maternal parental unit into a lovely apartment in a large retirement community. I remember feeling a great sense of relief when we finally got pictures hung. Apart from the ongoing telecommunications nightmare requiring me to check in with the cable company every day, I thought things were going pretty good. Unfortunately (for me), my mother has hit the reset button on her move.

I accompanied her to her doctor's appointment last week. As I helped her fill in the forms in the waiting room, I started to get a bad, bad feeling that all was not right in retirement village heaven. Depressed, lonely, bored. Depressed, lonely, bored. In a warehouse for old people.

In the exam room, she sat on the exam table in a gown, with her old lady blue jeans half on her legs. When the doctor came in, she kicked her feet like a kid and said belligerently that she wanted to move back to the condo.

The doctor asked her to stick it out another month, but I knew that was a waste of breath. My mother is a bulldog. You wouldn't know it to look at her tiny 93-pound frame, but when she wants something, she goes after it with a single-minded focus. Maybe that's because she can only hold one thing in her mind at a time these days. The move pretty much destroyed her short-term memory. She may be hoping it will come back if she moves back to familiar territory. Logical. She reminds me of what a cat does during an earthquake: run until the earth stops shaking. Wherever the cat hunkers down equals safety. Right now Mom's world is shaking. The condo represents safety.

Most of my blog viewership has departed, leaving only a few friends and family members, all of whom are over 50, I believe. So you get the word rewind. I don't need to explain. If you are under 40, you may not be familiar with the word rewind. Just think of your parents' VCR. Or that old 8-track tape player in your basement (antique!). My mom wants a mulligan. A do-over. A reboot. She's calling a moving company tomorrow to help her rewind time.

My first thought was, how could she do this to me? Fortunately, my second thought was, how can I support her in her quest to be as happy as she can be in her final days? My third thought was, what the hell am I going to do when my turn comes?