The chronic malcontent tries to avoid the consequences of living

Today I cried. Just a little, not for long, but it was an unexpected shock, to find myself sobbing into my hands. I haven't cried, really sobbed, since 2004 when my father was dying. Since then, I've felt sad, angry, and frustrated, but I haven't cried. Until today. The sudden storm of tears left me wondering if there's a limit to the number of calamities that people can handle. After I reassured my cat that I hadn't gone insane, I thought about what can make people cry.

Here's how I think it works: when we are preadolescent, we can handle one problem and that's it. Some problems are bigger than others, of course, but one that confounded me as a child was being denied access to something I wanted. Like a cookie, for example, or a Monkee magazine. Must have cookie! Must read about Monkees! Or losing something I possessed, like when my bratty brother would encroach upon my territory, bashing through the door to steal my stuff because he knew it made me crazy.

If our poor little child selves were confronted with more than one simple problem, we experienced total meltdown, and if problems piled up and lasted a long time, the repeated meltdowns eventually turned us into neurotic candidates for multiple Twelve Step programs. Well, I'll speak for myself.

However, by the time we are adults, we are pretty good at pretending we can handle whatever life throws at us, which is baloney, of course, though few of us will admit it. That's that whole admitting powerlessness thing... yeesh, too creepy, who wants to admit powerlessness? Not me.

Hey, ponder this! Somewhere around age 80, I think we revert to our younger self's strategy of tackling one problem at a time. It's not even like tackling. It's more like...all other problems cease to exist. No, that's not right. It's not that they don't exist, it's that they don't register on the radar. They simply don't appear on the to-do list. When our brains get to a certain stage of deterioration (or is it simply a case of old-age-related stubbornness?), we choose to address only one problem at a time, and it better not be a super big one, like downsizing to move into a one-bedroom apartment at a retirement place.

My mother reached that moment a few years ago when she found her brain wasn't retaining the instructions for sending and receiving email. Her world started closing in on her, and she recognized it as it was happening. In fact, she embraced it. “I'm not learning one more darn thing!” she declared and thus achieved independence from the little bit of modern technology her children had managed to thrust upon her (computer, cell phone, email, Facebook). Tomorrow my mother turns 86, and coincidentally (or not), she will be picking up the keys to her new apartment at the retirement community. Let the moving commence! Said the weary elder daughter.

I'm only 58 (only!), but today I had had enough. Too much! Too much sadness, too much anger, too much frustration, not enough serenity, not enough surrender. Life comes at all of us, but my stupid stubborn well-educated brain keeps trying to convince me that I'm exempt somehow from the consequences of living. My response to realizing I'm not exempt was to burst into tears. Real classy.

My eyes are gritty. My nose is clogged. The cat is demanding I stop typing. It's late. The paper I'm editing will be waiting for me tomorrow. Maybe tomorrow will be a better day.

Hunting and gathering in the heat of the day

This morning I had a choice: take a bus to buy groceries at Gateway, or walk a mile to the big store on Glisan. Choices, choices. Waiting for a bus would be boring, especially in the blazing hot mid-day sun. The bus would be air-conditioned, though. Tempting. Plus, I like the store at Gateway. I've shopped there for years; I know where everything is, which is reassuring. Waiting for a bus to take me home, somewhat boring. But at least I wouldn't have to lug groceries home on foot.

Seems like a no-brainer, right? Well, besides saving the $2.50 bus fare, the main factor that swayed me toward walking was the depressing spread of my ass. I need exercise. The only way I would be inclined to get moving is if I had a purpose: the hunting and gathering of food, or what passes for that activity in the modern age of Western civilization in East Portland. Plus, oddly enough, the vertigo seems to be better when I'm walking. So, at a little after high noon, I embarked upon the approximately one-mile journey to the store on Glisan Street.

Are you wondering if I was pushing my shiny new red shopping cart? Thanks for remembering. No, I did not, and I'll tell you why: The thing is huge. And heavy. I might as well steal a shopping cart from the store. It's quite a device, though, I must say. It folds up flat for storage (although the only place left to store things in the Love Shack is on the walls). It's quite sturdy. It's impressively shiny and red. Did I mention it is huge?

Unless I can figure out how to put a motor and a steering mechanism on the thing, I can't see myself wheeling the red shopping cart up hill and down dale to the store. I parked the red cart next to the other rarely used appliance in my bedroom, the vacuum cleaner. I've ordered a folding handtruck from Sears (I know, I'm insane). Until the new device arrives, I'm relying on my new backpack and two cloth grocery bags. I don't know how Bravadita does it: Despite being a pedestrian (by choice), she always seems so stylish, carrying the most lovely, functional bags while hiking the city in designer shoes. Sigh.

After making sure I had a bottle of water and my straw hat, I set out into brilliant 80° sunshine. Most of the trek to the store is downhill. It's not bad, walking downhill. Moving at the speed of walking, you can see things. I noticed used cars parked along the curb (none for sale). Now I know what a Pontiac Vibe looks like: just like a Toyota Matrix. Huh. I noticed lots of people grow vegetables in their front yards. The gardens are glorious, a direct contrast to the lawns, which are already crumbly gold fields of straw, even though it's barely summer. A long hedge of honeysuckle filled the air with a sweet delicate scent, blending interestingly with someone's crappy perfume and the smell of a decaying squirrel carcass.

I paced along, measuring my progress from shade patch to shade patch, winding through the hilly neighborhood down to Stark, then quick like a bug across Stark, then over to Burnside, and finally a few more long blocks to Glisan (our blocks are rectangular here on the Eastside). A few short blocks up the hill is the big store, on the other side of the street. A fancy pedestrian crossing, complete with flashing lights, gives the pedestrian the illusion that she is safe if she steps out into the street. There is no stoplight. I gave a special WTF, jackass! wave to the driver of an SUV, who waved back as she barreled through the crosswalk mere feet from my toes. I can see how pedestrians, especially those older than about 30, get killed while crossing wide boulevards: Once you step off the curb, you've got nowhere to go if someone doesn't stop. One little hitch in your gitalong and bam! you are flying into the gutter, a broken mess.

Luckily, that did not happen to me. I made it across the wide boulevard with no mishaps and entered the store from the parking lot, looking like all the other shoppers who came in cars to shop for groceries. I sank into air conditioned comfort. I don't know where things are in this store, so it seems bigger than it really is. Wandering the aisles, I saw lots of things I thought I needed and wanted. I limited myself, however, to what would fit in a tote basket, knowing I would have to carry it all back home.

Shopping as a pedestrian is different now. I'm making new choices. I have a list. I can't afford to forget anything; it's not like I can just hop in the car and zip back to the store if I forget eggs. Today I bought smaller versions of things, and fewer of them. Where I used to buy three cans of organic garbanzo beans, now just one. Instead of the large size olive oil, the half size. The smallest cabbage. Two onions instead of four. One dozen eggs, instead of two (I eat a lot of eggs).

I always go through self-checkout so I can avoid interacting with others. I also like to pack my own bags. As a pedestrian, I need to devise a new packing system. I put some heavy stuff into the backpack and distributed the produce between the two cloth bags, one for each shoulder. Apples, onions, broccoli, zucchini, carrots. Heavy but evenly balanced. I took a long swig of water, put on my sunglasses, and headed for the door.

The heat of the day hit me like a fist in the face. For a long moment, as I crossed the shimmering parking lot, the thought occurred to me that I may have taken on more than I could handle. I trudged slowly back up the hill, well aware that my next conscious thought might be from a hospital bed. But the heat was just tolerable. The space between pools of shade was just doable. The weight of the two bags was just about balanced. The sweat rolling down my back was soaked up by the backpack. My feet were hot, but the soles weren't melting, quite. I stopped once to drain my water bottle and let the sweat roll down my butt crack. Then I hoisted the load and plodded the last three blocks to the Love Shack. I guess I'll have to do it all again in about four days, or when the zucchini runs out. Bright side: I can always take the bus.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

All together now, let's scream like babies!

Poverty is not a moral failing

As I nodded off on the bus today on my way across town, I remembered that 40 years ago, I took Portland buses everywhere. Long before the MAX light rail system was a gleam in the eye of some progressive Portland mayor, sweltering or soaking wet with rain, I lugged my blank canvases and tackle box of paint and brushes to Portland State and back to the east side on huge, loud, orange buses and thought nothing of it. I had no intention of getting a car. I didn't need one. Lots of people live perfectly normal, fulfilled lives without cars. My sister, in Boston, for example. Bravadita, in Gladstone. Of course, it's easier when one has the energy, stamina, and naivete of an 18-year-old.

I made one last effort to resuscitate my Ford Focus (mechanic in a can, poured into the radiator, by my mechanic, Mr. What Have You Got to Lose). It didn't work, despite a money-back guarantee. I presume Ping will get his money back. I also presume I will not. It was worth it, though, to know finally, once and for all, that the patient was truly, irrevocably dead.

“Dead!” my older brother protested when I called him to ask his advice about cars. “Head gasket is fixable,” he said, making it sound like it was as easy as topping off the oil or something. “You just need to do a long block rebuild.”

I'm not entirely sure what a long block rebuild is, but the word rebuild implies this activity is outside my expertise. Not that I couldn't learn how to do a long block rebuild... grrl power and all that. But seriously. Not going to happen, not with these old tired gnarled-knuckle hands. Not with this old tired leave-me-alone-so-I-can-die-in-peace brain.

Ping said drive the car around a bit, to see if maybe the stopleak crap would circulate in the system and do what it was supposed to do. No such luck. The car ran fine on the way to the store. I thought, oh, joy, maybe I can get a few more months out of the old buggy. Part way home, the temperature gauge soared dramatically into the red, and the engine began to wheeze. I flogged it up the hill toward home, thinking, yeah, okay, no problem, I could walk from here, no problem. Sweating, I pulled into my parking spot (nose out to make it easier for the tow truck to cart it off to its next incarnation), shut off the engine, and sat back in the seat. Good-bye, old used up Ford Focus. Not quite Found on Road Dead, thank god, but not First on Race Day, either. To tell you the truth, I never expected the thing to last this long. It's totally possible that when I go out tomorrow to catch the bus, all that will be left of the carcass is a pile of dust.

Hey, bright side: Now I can pretend I gave up my car to support the environment. I admit, over the years, I have had twinges of guilt about (a) burning fossil fuel, (b) polluting the air, and (c) dripping oil and coolant wherever I go. Yech, you say? Well, you can only say yech if you walk, ride a bike, own a bus pass, or your car is electric. Which leaves out about 93% of the adult population of Portland. Otherwise, pot, kettle, shut it, if you get my drift.

When I lived in Los Angeles, many years ago, I used to loftily claim I chose not to drive a car because I was doing my share to save the environment. (That was 1980, before global warming was a thing we worried about. Back then, it was the ozone layer and acid rain.) The reality, of course, was that I said that because I couldn't afford a car but I didn't want to admit it. The moment I could, I got a wheezing, gas-guzzling pollute-mobile (1966 Dodge Dart) and drove it till it dropped (which is apparently my pattern... I can't think of any car I've ever owned that I haven't completely used up. Well, maybe the 1974 Toyota Corolla wagon, which was still hobbling gamely on three cylinders when I sold it).

I told my mother I was considering going carless for the summer. She didn't sound impressed. In her defense, she's still coping with the impending prospect of packing up and moving into a retirement community. She's like a freshman during the last week of summer, scared of all the big kids at the big new high school. Where's my home room? How will I make friends? What if I get lost? Can I bring my eldest daughter with me so I won't be alone?

I told my younger brother about going carless; he was appalled. “How can you go without a car?” he exclaimed.

“People live without cars all the time,” I said. “Your other sister lives without a car. She's never had a car. It's not a moral failing, it's a choice.”

“You can borrow my [old Ford] pickup truck any time during the week” he said magnanimously. Or is it a Chevy? Something old and American-made, uh, no thanks.

“Thanks,” I said. “I'll keep that in mind.”

The chronic malcontent leans in... and out

As I shake the cat hair and fingernail clippings out of my keyboard, I reflect on the possibility that sometimes vertigo is just vertigo. It doesn't have to be metaphor for anything else in my life. Right? Like, oh, I don't know...balance, maybe?

Yesterday in a fit of frustration, I put on my jogging duds and staggered up the main staircase to the top of Mt. Tabor. From the summit, I trotted down and around the road, marveling at how level-headed I felt but on the lookout in case the ground suddenly turned into an asphalt trampoline. The sun was warm. The park was crowded with Sunday pedestrians, bicyclists, skateboarders, and dogs. I felt happy to be outside, trudging my trails at half-speed while joggers blazed by me on both sides. Balance, I thought smugly. Take that.

A half hour after I got home, wham, the floor suddenly became jello and I was back on the open seas in a tiny boat. Ho hum, said I. I am quite familiar with the nuances of fluid in my head now. I picture my brain awash in a viscous murky muddy sea, but I know that isn't what is really happening. Dinky little ear rocks are meandering around, sightseeing where they shouldn't be, shredding my balance and creating the loudest, most cringe-inducing silent roar I've ever not heard.

I'm becoming a quasi-expert on performing the Epley on myself. Not expert yet, because if I were an expert, I would have effected my own cure, right? No, I'm still practicing. I love YouTube—every ENT in the world has posted a demonstration of how to do the Epley. It's great. They all do it differently, too, which is somewhat perplexing for the novice, but hey, I'm all for creativity, as long as it doesn't break my neck. So far my neck is still intact, although it is somewhat stiff from trying to hold my head level all the time. (No, I don't think it is meningitis, but thanks for asking).

What is the Epley, you ask? It's a maneuver you can perform to make use of gravity to get the ear rocks to float back along the tube into the hole. Yeah, I know those aren't the technical terms, but hey, I'm not an ENT. You can look up the anatomical terms if you really care. Rocks, tube, hole, that's all you really need to know. It's a bit like miniature putt-putt golf, but inside your inner ear, where it's dark so you have to maneuver by feel. Like, how close to barfing am I right now, scale of 1 to 10?

Actually, I haven't barfed yet, I am proud to say. I know pride goeth, etc. etc., but I'm hopeful that as long as I have to put up with this vertigo crap, that it will remain the subjective type rather than morph into the objective type. Subjective vertigo is where I feel like I'm moving. Objective vertigo is where the world seems like it is spinning around me. Like how you feel when the Roundup starts twirling and you realize you've made a terrible mistake by eating your corndog before the ride rather than after.

The Epley is like a slow motion head waggle followed by a half-pirouette, performed horizontally. You can't picture it? Well, like I said, there are multiple methods to execute an Epley, but the one I am finding easiest goes like this: (while lying on your back with your head hanging over a pillow), BAD side head back and hold 60 seconds, then GOOD side head back and hold 60 seconds, then roll on the good shoulder, look down, and SPIT. Hold until the boat stops rocking or you are thoroughly disgusted.

Well, actually the spitting part is optional, I just added that because usually I've found that I'm not miraculously cured when I roll over and that makes me so angry I feel like I could spit. But at that point, my nose is all but buried in my lime green shag rug and I'm thinking as I'm counting the seconds in my head: ants, cat barf, dust mites. I feel obligated to refrain from adding my spit to the mix, mostly because who knows what will rush in if I open my mouth. Besides, according to my older brother, when I was about five, I proclaimed in my sleep, if you turn over and spit, you'll die, and even though that was 50-some years ago, I'm not willing to press my luck.

The thing about the Epley is this: It's not an instantaneous cure. It takes time for the ear rocks to settle in properly, and some of them still seem inclined to go gallivanting. So if you are going to try this at home, you may have to do it more than once. I also read that you should sleep sitting up for two nights afterward, but I haven't been able to accomplish that feat. Maybe that is why I'm still whining about vertigo. Well, hell. If it wasn't this, it would be something else. Like, ants on my desk? WTF!?

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.

Let's make like squirrels and get flattened

Today the maternal parental unit and I went on our fifth and likely final tour of our local retirement community options. I prepared myself with a banana and a quick Epley maneuver on the floor of my apartment. (I'm getting good at it, after almost three weeks of incessant vertigo. Who knew life would come down to managing the rocking boat in my brain?)

Mom told me she was pretty sure she wouldn't be choosing this place (she didn't say why), but it was the last place on our list, and we aren't quitters. So off we went in unsettled spring weather to search out a parking place and meet the marketing director.

Nicole, a tall young brunette in a knit pantsuit and flat shoes ushered us into an office off the main foyer. First, she gave us the marketing collateral: a folder containing floor plans, pricing, amenities, map of the campus, activities calendar. Typical stuff. I zeroed in on the prices. A one-bedroom ran just over $2,500 a month. No big surprise. Meal credit of $150 per month. Jacuzzi, pool, hair salon, bank, computer room, chapel, weight room... typical stuff. Ho hum.

We sat at the requisite round conference table. “Do you have any questions?” Nicole asked my mother.

“What if I got a two-bedroom and had my daughter live with me?” Mom asked, gesturing in my direction. My heart fluttered a bit.

“We'd have to make an exception if she's under 55.”

I wasn't sure whether to feel flattered that Nicole thought I was under 55, or anxious that it was permissible that I could move into a retirement community, or terrified that my mother was actually considering having me move in with her. Somewhere along the way, something apparently has shifted in my mother's mind. I took a deep breath and tried to imagine living in a retirement community with my mother.

“A two-bedroom is $3,000 a month,” I ventured.

“Yeah, but we would split it,” said Mom.

“That's out of my league, Mom,” I said, laughing a little. Thinking to myself, we've now left earth. Approaching Planet Marjorie, galactic home of magical thinking. Normal rules do not apply.

“I just have one unit open to show you,” said Nicole, standing up. I think she realized then that we were looky-loos. “It's a deluxe one-bedroom apartment.”

“Do any of the one-bedrooms have bathtubs?” asked my mother.

“No, only the two bedrooms,” replied Nicole. That's when I realized, my mother doesn't want me, she wants the tub. Getting a two-bedroom and a roommate (caregiver) is the only way she'll get her coveted bathtub. The pieces clicked into place.

We took the tour, saw the one bedroom (spacious, airy, open, lots of storage). However, now that I've seen five places, I have developed some expectations. This place we toured today met most, exceeded a few (great location and village atmosphere), and fell short in one, namely, Nicole, after graciously explaining the options and showing us one apartment, failed to offer us a free lunch in the dining room. Mom and I were both surprised, but we decided to stay and pay for our own lunches, just to find out the quality of the food. Their dining room is open to the public, like a restaurant. We took a four-top near some other diners, clearly residents. A young Asian kid in a white shirt and tight black pants served us black coffee, and then we waited patiently for our server to take our order.

Mom looked perky in a red fleece jacket. She took off her white knit cap and multicolored knit gloves to eat. Don't get the wrong impression. Ladies in the 1940s, maybe even into the 50s, used to wear hats and gloves to lunch with friends at Yaws and Meier and Frank's tea room. My grandmother, maybe, but not my mother. She's not a tea room kind of gal.

I ate a cheese sandwich. She had a half a turkey sandwich and took a piece of cherry cobbler home with her in a bag. As we ate, I managed my vertigo and watched my mother eat her fruit with a knife and fork, thinking, I don't know anymore what kind of gal my mother is. She doesn't look like the mother I grew up with. This person is much smaller and thinner. Even her face looks different since the new teeth. She now has an endearing overbite. Actually, with her knit cap covering her wiry gray hair, she looks like a wrinkled 12-year-old with dentures. She's an adolescent who loses emails, phones, and car keys, an adolescent who assertively wrangles her old green Camry around corners even though she can barely reach the pedals.

She's upset that she's forgetting stuff and losing things. My mother, saddled early on with four kids and a domestically helpless husband, learned to be a master organizer. She managed all the schedules, made the lunches, albeit scowling resentfully, but the trains ran on time at our house. What I am saying is, her standards are high. You can imagine how she feels when she fails to meet her unreasonable standard now she's almost 86. She is scared. Her world is unraveling.

Old age is like riding a roller coaster in the dark (think Space Mountain). You can't get off. You can't see the track as it plunges into the abyss until you are screaming and falling. You are definitely not in control. You are along for the ride, hanging on for dear life, hoping that when the thing stops, they can pry your cold dead hands off the omigod bar. You don't get a do-over, and you can't go back even one inch, the only way out is forward full speed ahead. It does no good to drag your feet. All that means is you are a bystander as your life passes you by.

When we got back to her condo, I cleaned up Mom's cluttered computer desktop at her request, and explained that if she trashes an email, it's gone forever. She handed me the stack of marketing folders from all the places we've toured. “You won't lose them. I will,” she said. “Oh, and take this stuff with you, too.” She's jettisoning the extra clutter in her life. Her life is shrinking along with her spine. Meanwhile, the piles of clutter at my place continue to grow, a problem for another day.

As I drove away in the rain, a squirrel ran across the street in front of my car, straight under the wheels of the car coming toward me. Bam. It happened fast. I looked back in the mirror: the little body was in the street, not moving. The other driver had no idea he just crunched a squirrel. For a brief moment I imagined going back. What could I do for an injured or dead squirrel? The heavens opened up in a massive downpour. I kept going and finally made it back to the Love Shack. Fifteen minutes later, the sun came out.

Sail on, sailor

This just in: getting old sucks. Where do I start? Well, let's start with the reason I haven't blogged this week. I'm sailing rough seas in a tiny boat. I'm on an elevator that sometimes goes sideways. What am I talking about? I've got one word for you: vertigo.

That's right. My right ear is infected, somewhere deep in darkest Africa. Tiny calcium crystals have shaken loose from their moorings and they are wreaking havoc among the delicate and sensitive and completely blameless little hairs and nerve endings that tell my brain that we are upright in a crazy world. I'm swaying, I'm staggering, I'm flailing from doorpost to chair back. This is a righteous drag. Although, looking on the bright side, I haven't puked yet.

I'm not going to write much today, because sitting at the keyboard makes it worse. Who knew typing was such a balancing act? Tiny motions, little movements of my head, my hands, and I'm swirling again. I can't find my place in time and space. I can feel my blood, though, crashing in my head. It's loud in here. Once again I discover the truth: my mind is trying to kill me.

I have a doctor's appointment on Friday, if I can last that long. And I have a 55,000-word paper between me and freedom. I almost turned it down, but it will pay my rent. Beggars, choosers. This is a torture I never imagined, editing with vertigo. I'd cry, but I need to hold my head still.

I have so much to catch you up on: At the top of the list is the ongoing saga of finding my mother a place to live. My sister is coming to town in two weeks. The siblings are going to be together, all four us, to discuss the situation with Mom. My poor old scrawny mother will probably feel like it's an intervention. Luckily, she is still a free agent: it's her money, her life, her last years. I hope she goes out fighting. But not with me, I don't want to be the caregiver she gifts with a black eye. Just so we are clear.

Meanwhile, my car is still going, my cat is still operational, the weather alternates between awesome and abysmal (it's spring in Portland). Everything has a new uncertainty these days, when vertical is no longer something to be taken for granted. A symptom of old age, so I read. I'd like to see this experience as a sign of my increasing wisdom, but I'm pretty sure I peaked in my 40s. Downhill from here, folks, in a hellish hand-basket.

Two ants shuffle into a bar

The balmy temperature has invited relentless droves of ants to once again infiltrate my kitchen. My puny barricades of diatomaceous earth and half-hearted moats around the cat food dishes are not working. Scouts wander the walls and ceiling over my kitchen table. Lone soldiers reconnoiter the table cloth, despite my efforts to thwart their access. Every hour I pluck and squash a hapless forager from the back of my neck. Why do ants feel compelled to go up?

Last week I expressed my frustration to my friend Carlita. “Get some of that spray stuff!” she recommended and told me the brand name. I got some at the store. It's a gallon jug with an attached sprayer device, a very clever delivery system. I kept it in my car for a few days (along with the gallon of anti-freeze, which my mechanic recommends I mix with water and put into my radiator reservoir when it falls below min). A couple days ago, I brought the ant killer spray into the house and set it on the floor by the kitchen door. I took time to read some of the instructions on the label. This weekend, as I reapplied diatomaceous earth and cleaned up scouts, I occasionally glanced at the jug of death juice.

Finally, tonight, I had enough. Start small, I thought. I'll do the cupboards under the sink and next to the sink.

I got onto my knees and started pulling junk out of the cupboards: four rolls of cheap paper towels; a jug of bleach; a jug of ammonia (do not mix!); a gallon of distilled water (for the neti pot); alcohol in a spray bottle (for killing ants, moths, and fruit flies); about twenty sponges of various types and a scrub brush thing that doesn't work (not enough bristles); a near-empty bag of diatomaceous earth; a few vacuum cleaner bags in a box (hepa filters); an old toothbrush; a very old and rusty SOS soap pad saved in a clear teacup; two thermoses and a thermos jug with two compartments for keeping food separate and hot (never worked); an empty tray with sections for serving fresh fruits or veggies, with clear lid (why?); four white plastic bowls with green lids in graduated sizes; one stainless steel mixing bowl; two measuring cups, one plastic, one glass; two ice cube trays; a cat food dispenser; a cheap Osterizer blender base and clear plastic container (lots of protein shakes have been made in that blender); a stainless steel sieve; and a big white plastic bowl (the fifth one of the set) holding a big white plastic colander of roughly equal size, which I use for washing broccoli and collards.

After I pulled all the stuff out onto the floor and counter, I saw a gruesome sight: splotches of mold and about a billion dead ant bodies, resting in small drifts around the edges of the cupboard. Hmm. I swept out the dusty carcasses and set about my task of creating a perimeter barrier with poison.

I detached the sprayer nozzle from its holder on the side of the gallon of pesticide. I pulled out the curly hose and attached it to the cap of the jug. I flipped up the switch and started pulling the trigger, aiming around the edges of the space under the sink. The juice flowed freely up the tube and sprayed neatly where I pointed the nozzle. I held my breath, but couldn't smell anything much.

I moved to the rest of the empty cupboards. Pretty soon, my throat started to feel just a teeny bit scratchy. I felt a righteous urge to keep on spraying. When I felt my mission was complete, I closed up the cupboard doors to keep the cat from investigating and backed away. Then I opened the kitchen windows wide, just in case.

I let the juice dry for a good hour before I opened the cupboard doors. While I waited, I cleaned all the junk that had been stored in there. A few things I chucked in the garbage (SOS soap pad). Some I put into the thrift store bin (the disappointing thermos). I found some plastic baskets and organized what was left.

I took time out to heat up my dinner: ground turkey and wild rice leftovers. While I ate, I read a book my mother had checked out from the library. The title of the book is What to do with your Old Decrepit Mother. Well, not that, precisely. The book is a guide for people who need to care for aging parents. The author outlined what to expect, where to put them, how much it will cost, what questions to ask the care facility... She also told the sad tale of her own aging father. By the time I finished eating, I was completely ruined.

I put my dish on the stack of unwashed dishes in the sink and peeked into the sprayed cupboards. Everything looked okay. Still moldy, but nothing shocking, like no dead squirrels. I started loading the junk back into the cupboards. It didn't take long. While I worked, I wondered why the author of that book didn't suggest the ancient resolution for old parents: taking them up the mountain and throwing them off a cliff. Maybe I haven't got to that part yet.

Knowing my luck, the ants that used to travel through those cupboards on the way to some other kitchen location will simply detour around the toxic barrier. There are more cupboards to do before my perimeter defense is complete. Plus the other side of the kitchen, around the table and the cat food area. Maybe I'll feel up for tackling that job tomorrow. Or not.

Let them eat cake

It seems like every time I write about an event I attended, I start with “I survived the...” Is that odd? Do you do that? No, probably not. I guess the best I can do these days is survive. Thriving, or succeeding, or seizing the day are all way outside my current zone of expectations. That's okay. I'm clinging to the short branches, breathing the rarefied air of entrepreneurship. I expect things to be challenging. Like camping at the Oregon coast, for example, which I vow never to do again (rain).

I am happy to inform you that I survived my 40th high school reunion, held yesterday at a park situated on Hwy 224 past Estacada, which, if you are familiar with the Clackamas County area, is part of the exurbian hinterlands. It was a lovely drive, though, along winding tree-lined, single-lane roads, I admit.

I left about 9:15 a.m., and got there a little more than an hour later, delayed ten minutes by an overturned panel truck, lying on it's side in the roadway. Luckily for me, a civilian directed traffic around the truck. More relevant, luckily for them, it appeared no one was injured. As I drove by, I got a 5-second look at the underside of a large truck: not something you see every day (unless you are a truck mechanic).

The other three members of the reunion planning committee were already there when I arrived. Everything was in place except the balloons and the easel, which were in my trunk. I unloaded my stuff and took a look at the layout.

“Having the registration table here is going to create a bottleneck at the bottom of the stairs,” I said, hands on my hips.

They looked at me skeptically, but gamely helped me move the table about ten feet away into an L-shaped alcove. Good call. For most of the rest of the day, I manned the table, checking people in, taking money, making change, filling out receipts, and peeling off name tags. I was safely barricaded, with plenty to do, and blessed with limited social interaction. My perfect job. Too bad it didn't pay.

The park was small, perched on a low bluff over the Clackamas River. Tall fir trees provided abundant shade. The picnic structure was partly covered by a barnlike shed with a huge stone fireplace at one end, and partly in the open, where chairs were scattered around the edges of a wide wooden deck. Picnic tables spanned the length of both spaces. The two committee members in charge of the food arranged a staggering selection of fruit and veggie trays, chips, salads, and other dishes neatly on the tables under the shelter. Flies immediately descended on the croissant sandwiches. I snapped photos of the decorated cake, offering a silent prayer to the reunion gods that I might be allowed to avoid eating any of it.

The weather was perfect: the air was warm, just a tiny bit humid, and there was plenty of shade. The sleepy Clackamas River basked below us, accessible by a short but steep trail, at the bottom of which was an unoccupied wooden dock built for boaters and kayakers. We had none of those, and there wasn't much river traffic, so the River provided a silent but picturesque backdrop for the mini social dramas that unfolded on the deck above.

There was a fair amount of squealing among the women, as they stared at and then recognized former classmates and friends. There was no shortage of hugs. I had a ringside seat behind the registration table. I would eyeball each newcomer as they came down the concrete steps from the parking area, trying to guess his or her identity: is this a classmate or a spouse? Even after scanning yearbook photos and printing name tags, I got only about half of their names right and managed to call at least two people by the wrong name. Can I blame early dementia?

Few classmates looked like their high school yearbook photo, which I had thoughtfully provided on their name tags. Most of the women were obese, the men not so much (although for some reason there were many portly male spouses). After 40 years, it's no surprise we all look somewhat haggard. A few, though, seemed especially aged, while a few others seemed untouched by time. Many of the classmates had major health issues: diabetes, pacemakers, knee replacements... not to mention the challenges of dealing with aging or dying parents and adult children who refuse to grow up, hold down jobs, or marry the right partner. I was so glad to be single and childless. And I hereby declare that I'm going to stop complaining about my mustache: Clearly, it could be a lot worse.

On the other hand, many classmates, when asked what they do, replied that they were retired. They put in their 35 years at their electrician jobs and their telecommunications jobs and their healthcare jobs, and then they gracefully bowed out of the workforce. Ouch. Luckily for me, nobody cared about my life: They were far more interested in talking about their children. And their vacations, cruises, and volunteer activities. I didn't have to try to explain my unsettling financial predicament to anyone and in the explaining inadvertently reveal my fear and anxiety. Sometimes I am relieved that other people are so self-obsessed.

Still, I had a great time. I enjoyed seeing people I hadn't seen in 40 years. Seven of them were people I went to elementary school with. We have history. And as I talked with each person, a strange thing happened: The years seemed to fall away from their faces. I saw past the bald heads, puffy skin, and wrinkles to the 18-year-olds they used to be, the people I knew and the people I didn't know, as I endured the long hellish years of high school. I wasn't afraid of any of them. I felt a deep affection for all of them. We had survived a shared experience. Not all of us lived to tell this tale: We lost some along the way. But those of us who are left have figured out how to live. I'd like to think I'm one of those survivors, although it's always one day at a time for me.

The afternoon wafted to a close, and people drifted away with promises to keep in touch. Yeah, let's do this in five years! You bet. I helped clear away, pack up, and wash down, and eventually just the planning committee was left, plus one stalwart helper, whom we will no doubt recruit for the next iteration, should we live that long. I drove home thanking the reunion gods that I escaped without tasting a single crumb of the cake. It wasn't really such a miracle: It wasn't chocolate.

The chronic malcontent hedges some bets

If I could have any life I wanted, this would be it, pretty much. I've got a great little apartment (aside from an ant infestation problem), a cat who likes me a lot, family members who tolerate me, time on my hands to chase my creativity and exercise my curiosity... toss in a little sunshine and some income, and life would be darn near perfect. What was that? Yes, you heard me right: income. I'm sad to say, I'm still not earning much at the Love Shack. Who knew that Ph.D.s fresh out of the can were so unemployable?

That reminds me of a lyric I wrote last year when I got laid off from the teaching gig at the career college. Sung to the tune of Unforgettable, it starts out like this:

Unemployable
That's what we are
Unemployable
It seems bizarre
Like the stench of fear that clings to me

My age has done bad things to me

Never before has someone been more…

I'm sure you can guess the rest. Sorry, I'm an artist, not a songwriter.

The cat stretches across my lap, purring. Now he is attacking my hands. He hates it when I type. Every word I type represents attention that is not directed where it should be—at him. Time out while he exits with a disgusted look tossed back over his tail. My most honest critic.

This week I'm using the shotgun technique I've ridiculed my former students for using when they grudgingly wrote their essays. You know what I mean, where, when you don't know what to do, you try to do a little of everything, hoping by some miracle something will stick? Like, maybe the teacher won't notice that your paper has no point?

Since last Wednesday, I have attended a two-hour seminar on market research for small business owners, I've put an ad on Craigslist for dissertation coaching, I've written a blog post aimed at small business owners and posted it to one of those wretched social networking sites, I've formatted the first ever e-book compiled from my Hellish Handbasket dissertation posts and sent it to friends to review, I've updated two websites (not very professionally, but whatever), and I've drafted a survey for a non-profit organization as part of my volunteer effort (see Universe, I do think of something besides myself, sometimes!). Let's see, did I leave anything out? Besides fighting off ants, vacuuming the carpets... I guess that about covers it.

And, oh yeah, applying for any business adjunct faculty position in the city of Portland. Those are the hedges, just in case my bets don't pan out. My central bet is that I can hold out for the entrepreneurial miracle I'm positive is just over the horizon. But just in case, because I don't want to be a stupid person, I'm applying for jobs. I'm starting with teaching gigs. Then I'll move onto...I don't know, administration, I guess, since it was Administrative Professionals Day today. Why not: At least admins get love once a year. Then after that... hmmm. Not sure. Retail? School bus driver?

It won't come to that, I'm pretty sure. But no one can predict the future. Isn't it awesome, though, that I don't have $50,000 in student loan debt hanging over my head? I can afford to live under a bridge. If I had a mountain of debt to pay off, I'd have to kill myself. Hey, maybe there is a god.

Summer's last kiss

I took a break from writing to go for a run in the park. Well, I wouldn't call it a run, exactly. More like a shambling trot. I used to be able to run. Then I jogged. Now I trot. As long as I'm not crawling, who cares. Getting outside is good for the brain. And it's the last kiss of summer.

This time of year is always bittersweet. I love the golden light, the warm air, the luscious green leaves. But too soon, it ends. I wax maudlin every year about this time. I got a little weepy in the park just now, as I stood next to a lamppost, creakily stretching my legs and staring into the setting sun. Swallows looped silently overhead, in and around, up and down, snatching at invisible insects. The sky was devoid of clouds, and the sun was huge and red with the ash of Washington wildfires. I soaked it up, wishing I could store that light for later. I'm going to need it in a few short months when I'm dragging with SAD.

It might have been the setting sun, or the fact that I was wearing sunglasses, or it might just have been me waxing weepy, but I kept seeing people in the park who resembled people I knew long ago. I knew it wasn't them, because they looked just like they did when we were teenagers. One was my first official boyfriend, I'll call him Steve. I was 16, he was 19 (can you say underage?). He was a runner, a gaunt young man with a long torso and short legs, and long wavy dark hair that fanned out behind him as he ran. Now Steve could run. No trotting for that boy.

Seeing this modern version of Steve glide by in the setting sun reminded me of how simple things seemed when I was young and stupid. I'm just as stupid as I was, in a lot of ways, and now I'm not young. Being young and stupid is sort of cool if you wear the right clothes, but not if you are old and stupid.

Talking about how stupid I am is stupid. I'm going to stop that now and reflect on other things. Like the homeless person's tent I saw off to the side of the trail, on the flank of the caldera. No wonder I always smell pot when I run past that place. Like the difficulty of dodging piles of dog poop and wandering slugs while one is wearing sunglasses in the twilight. Can't see with them, can't see without them: Be ready to scrape your shoes later. Like the sudden epiphany about how to organize Chapter 4 of my dissertation.

It's not all bad. Neither is it all good. And it's not both, as those who subscribe to yin and yang would have us believe. It's somewhere in between. Yes, today seems like the last kiss of summer, but there will be nice days in the fall, and yes, even in the winter. Life happens, that's all. Good, bad, it is difficult to tell. Today the VP of Whatever emailed me to say that next Friday I can come to campus and interview any faculty who are willing. I think that might be good. But it's hard to tell.

Even a rabid introvert needs human contact once in a while

My phone rarely rings during the week. When it does, it's almost always telemarketers. Despite the fact that I am registered on the national Do Not Call list, I occasionally get calls from people trying to sell me something. Usually they start out by thanking me for my past support.

“Thank you for your generous contribution to the Oregon Republican Party,” the caller, usually a man, will gush. “How are you this evening?” When I hear that opening, I know I am not the droid he is looking for. I know this because I am not a member of the Oregon Republican Party. Also, I know he is probably calling from Atlanta, the call center capital of the western world, because it is inevitably 4:02 p.m. Pacific time, not quite evening yet, here on the west coast.

“Oh, I'm sorry, I think you want the person with the same name as me who lives on the West side of town,” I say apologetically. The rich, white, conservative contributor-to-the-opposition-party person whose name comes up when I Google my own.

“Oh, I am so sorry!” the polite man with the southern accent will say contritely as I am hanging up my phone.

Those are the telemarketing calls I like, the ones that are obvious cases of mistaken identity. Or the ones that go something like, “Are you looking for new siding?” That one is easy to terminate, too. “No, sorry, I'm a renter,” I say blithely. Bam! Ten seconds, tops. My all-time favorite calls are marketing researchers, of course. What do you mean, will I take a 30-minute survey on Minute Rice? Of course I will! Oh, you mean you want me to actually be a user of the product? Oh, sorry. (Thank and terminate. Click. Buzzz.) Darn it. No, I don't smoke. No, I don't watch cable television. No, I don't use mayonnaise. Argh! No one wants someone who spends all her time writing a stupid dissertation!

Sometimes I get lucky. Sometimes not. Today the phone rang at 4:02 p.m. I picked it up and responded with my usual wary drawl. “HELLLoh.” When I didn't hear my mother's smoker's tenor: “Hello, Daughter,” I knew it was a telemarketer.

After some clicks and some brief pockets of dead air, a woman finally said, “This is bla bla calling from Life bla bla bla bla. How are you this evening?”

Because this was the only human contact I've had all day, I felt an urge to connect. “I'm doing great, thanks for asking! How are you doing?”

There was a long moment of silence as she processed the maniacal tone of my voice. “I'm fine, thanks for asking.” I suspected she thought I thought I recognized her voice. My Aunt Sally, maybe. I could practically hear her brain chugging away: Will this nutty prospect freak out when she realizes I'm not her Aunt Sally?

“What can I do for you this evening?” I said eagerly, anxious to hear the marketing message. I am a student of marketing, after all.

She launched gamely into her spiel. “Have you heard of Life Alert Systems?”

“Life what?” I said with a sinking feeling in my stomach.

“Life Alert Systems is a medical alert system specifically designed to help seniors remain independent—”

“Hey wait a minute!” I interrupted. “How old do you think I am?” I admit my voice had just a hint of belligerence. And a touch of wounded vanity. And a teensy weensy bit of righteous indignation.

“Uh... This is for seniors 65 and older?”

“Sorry, that is not me!” I declared decisively. I didn't tell her my age, of course. Telemarketers are like squirrels: You shouldn't feed them if you want them to go away.

“Do you have anyone in the household over the age of—”

“Nope, sorry, there's just me.”

“Well, okay.... good-bye.”

Wait a minute. What? She gave up? She didn't even try! Well, admittedly I was working up a frothy case of buyer's resistance, she could probably hear it in my voice. But isn't that what she's been trained to overcome? If she was a really good salesperson, she would have done her best to sell me, despite my objections, even if it seems at first that I'm not in the target market. Everyone my age has an aging parent. She never asked. I actually think my mother should have something like Life Alert (“Help I've fallen and I can't get up!”) She could have asked me a few well-placed questions, I would have answered, I would have let her ramble on a long time before I eventually let her go. No matter how much I wanted to connect with her, though, I wouldn't have committed to a purchase over the phone. I never do, because to me that is debting. But that doesn't mean I didn't want to talk! Hey come on, where are you calling from? What's the weather in Atlanta? Don't go!

Happy one year anniversary to the Chronic Malcontent

It's been almost a year since I started blogging as the Chronic Malcontent. I began with no purpose in mind other than to share my writing and drawings in a public space. A few things have changed. I used to disclose my gender and age. Then I had a birthday and decided I didn't want to think about age anymore. I stopped claiming to be female, too. I've never been particularly attached to being female, and at times I've actually been quite resentful about it. Can you blame me? Considering the way women are treated in many parts of the world, it's not a quality that gladdens my heart. The only thing worse than being a woman is being a man. But I digress.

My fan base has more than tripled. How cool is that? Before you get too impressed, that means instead of just my sister reading my blog, now I also have two friends, maybe more, who regularly check in. Or so they say. Plus a whole lot of people from Russia who apparently drop in by accident. I won't tell you how many visitors I have received during the past year, because you will laugh and say, Why do you bother? For sure I don't get enough visitors to be able to sell ad space to Google. In the world of blogs, I'm not even a blip. It's sort of calming to realize I am just one blog in a sea of blogs, floating in the blogosphere like a baby planet nucleus a billion light years from the next blog. No pressure to perform, because no one knows I exist. Or how to reach me. My anonymity gives me the shelter to share myself with you.

One hundred-and-thirty-some-odd posts later, I can discern some patterns. It seems my musings are usually prompted by an event. Small or large, something happens that resonates with me, something tragic, something funny, something puzzling, and I feel compelled to discuss it. Poke at it. Whine about it. Weep over it. My topics have mostly focused on my endless journey to earn a Ph.D., my adventures teaching at a career college, and my occasional attendance at family events, but I do stray into other areas like an explorer who fears cannibals might be lurking behind the next tree. The overall theme is one of whining, true to the nature of chronic malcontentedness. (Which, by the way, Blogger does not recognize as a real word.)

I've mulled over the end of the world, the impending inevitable earthquake and tsunami, the contents of a bug-out bag, and the collapse of the financial system. My latest itch is the possible demise of the power grid by solar flares. (You can make an aluminum foil-covered box to store your electronic gear in, did you know that? But if the power grid goes down, lotta good it will do ya. And your car will be toast, in case you thought you could escape to the other side of the planet.) Say what you will, there is something comical about our fascination with the end of the world.

I've complained endlessly about higher education. I whine almost daily about my quest to finish the Ph.D. I started back in December of 2005. It's taken a year to beat my concept paper into a condition deemed acceptable for submitting to the Graduate School reviewers. (Still waiting for the verdict.) I whine about the career college I've worked at for the past nine years, how the students don't want to take responsibility for their learning, how I am too burned out to care, how tiring it is to drive 25 miles to Wilsonville in the wee dark hours of pre-dawn winter, how much I despise teaching keyboarding. Waaa, poor me, I have a job.

I've burned my neighbor in effigy for being too noisy. I've mentally trussed her dog to the wall with duct tape for pooping all over the path to my back door. I left the poop on her back step. I really did, I didn't just fantasize about it. I've welcomed spring, I've reveled in summer, I've dreaded fall, and now I'm enduring winter. I've mourned the loss of Davy Jones and 20 kids in Newtown. A lot of life under the bridge during the past year. I'm older, grayer, saggier... I wonder, am I snarkier? Am I more malcontented since I started this blog? Not sure. I'm more self-obsessed, I think. Whenever something happens to me these days, I think about how I can spin it for my next blog post. I'm becoming more conscious about telling the stories of my life.

So, after a year, what do you think? Should I focus on one topic? Sooner or later the dissertation will be behind me. Sooner or later I will leave the chains of keyboarding in the dust. Winter will pass, spring will sneak up on us, and summer will make life worth living again. What is the point of it all? I ask you. No, really, tell me if you know what the point of it all is. Some might say to serve god. Some might say to have fun. Some might say there is no point, no meaning to life except what we give it.

That's all I can think of right now. Looks like I've written myself into a corner. I'll stop now and just say, Happy new year from the Chronic Malcontent.

Merry Christmas and a genderless new year

My mother called me last night and in typical indirect style expressed her desire to go shopping today. “I need some boots,” she said. “Lilly got some nice boots at Nordstrom Rack.”

“That's nice,” I said. After a few moments, I caught on. “Do you want me to take you to Clackamas?”

“Well, I know you are very busy.”

I tried to reassure her that no, actually, I wasn't busy. I was on vacation. It wasn't until I said, “I need to get gas, and I usually get it in Clackamas,” she said, “Oh, really?” like I had just offered her a ticket to the Superbowl. Well, maybe not the Superbowl. Ice Capades, maybe. Anyway, she was thrilled that I had a reason to go to Clackamas, and she would be able to tag along. On the way she told me she didn't feel as comfortable as she used to driving out of her neighborhood. Inwardly I sighed. I can see what is coming. More time spent taking my mother shopping.

Luckily she is a guerilla shopper, like me. Get in, get out. Off we went to Clackamas (yes, the same Clackamas where a shooter killed two people and wounded one before taking his own life at the mall on December 11). We weren't going to the actual mall. We were going to the poor man's mall across the street. Target, Kohl's, Nordstrom Rack... and the career college I work for, but since I am on vacation this week, I did my best not to notice the ugly orange stucco building I'll be slaving in next week.

Mom pawed through the racks at the Rack. She found some Uggs but decided the $169.95 price exceeded her budget, so we walked a few doors down to Payless Shoes. She sat on a bench, and I fetched boots for her to try on. The sales clerk, an older gal wearing all black, scurried by us. “These are all on sale!” she trilled merrily.

Mom tried on several boots and settled on a pair of black suede calf-high boots (man-made materials, made in China, $34.99 on sale), and we went up to the cash register. The sales clerk helped her navigate the credit card machine. “Now just swipe your card, honey!” I turned away to look at slippers, not wanting to see the train wreck as my mother poked at the little credit card screen with the corner of her credit card.

The door bell rang. Someone came in. I wasn't paying attention. I heard the sales clerk say, “Can I help you, sir? Sir?” It took a moment to realize she was talking to me. I turned around. The clerk said, “Ma'am.” I said, “I'm with her,” pointing at my mother. The clerk finished the transaction, red-faced. She said something inane about the doorbell that made me think she was trying to make amends for mislabeling my gender. I ignored her discomfort and waited for my mother by the door.

It's not the first time in my life I have been mistaken for a man. When I was a hippie-wannabe teenager with long straight hair and a flat chest, someone asked me, “Are you a boy or a girl?” It's true sometimes I wear my hair quite short, but it seems odd to me that people would have so much trouble identifying my gender, because I have an undeniably female figure. By that I mean, hips. I have hips. But I hide my shape with big jackets. And that is what happened today. I was wearing an over-sized black wool men's jacket with broad shoulders and a black cap over my very short hair. Most likely, she saw my bare neck and broad shoulders from the back, and leaped to the conclusion that I was male. Maybe she was a tiny bit frightened, wondering how I got from the door to the slipper aisle so quickly. Maybe she thought I might have a weapon hidden under my big black jacket.

We left and went over to Target, where I bought a stainless steel omelette pan (on sale). Then we were done. I took her home. Later while I was steaming a piece of salmon in my new omelette pan, I thought about gender and how annoying it is that we have pronouns to differentiate the sexes. He, she. Him, her. Hers, his. Why can't there be just one word? We managed to make Ms. politically correct. Why can't we do it with He/she and his/her? Some other languages have gender-neutral pronouns, and I guess some folks have suggested some English alternatives that have yet to catch on.

I'm not a linguist. Most days I feel barely literate. What would it take to change the way we use gender-specific language? Maybe a society that is based on gender equality? That might be a good place to start.

Seems like I've been here before

Have you ever driven on a freeway at night in rainy fog and felt like you were not moving at all, or felt like you might just possibly be at home in bed dreaming you were driving on a freeway at night in rainy fog? I believe the term for this phenomenon is spatial disorientation. It happened to me a few years ago when I was on my way to the company holiday party. I had no idea where I was going—a golf course country club I'd never heard of before—so it was easy to get confused. Confusion was just a heartbeat away from imagining I wasn't really driving a car at all. It seemed possible that at any moment I would awaken to find myself at home in bed. Or upside down, hanging from my seat belt, bleeding from my nose and mouth.

It was a disconcerting feeling to not be sure if I was where I seemed to be. I steered my car over to the slow lane and slapped my face a few times to see if pain would help reality reassert itself. I made it to the party late and sat at an empty table near the door. The entire evening took on a surreal quality. The windows were fogged with condensation. The golf course was inky blackness. The food was generic catered. People I worked with every day were wearing sequins, mini-skirts, and clouds of perfume. I won three gift baskets. Eventually I knew I would have to drive home. The thought was both worrying and exciting.

Obviously I made it home. The experience has remained with me, though. Now I understand how pilots crash planes. Reality changes when you have no reference points to gauge your speed. Dreams start to seem more real than real life.

On Wednesday I visited my naturopath, the maniacal fiend who masquerades as a doctor. He loves me, and not just for the check I write without complaint. He can try things on me that might make some squeamish. In my gullible ignorance I don't know when to say no. This time he dosed me with nux vomica (for the food poisoning, thanks a lot, Trader Joe). Then he took me to the closet, bade me lie on the (heated) bed, and stuck needles in my shins and my belly. He threw a thermal blanket over me, cranked up the heat, and let me cook for 20 minutes. Once I got used to the idea of having a needle in my stomach, I relaxed. Some part of me exited my body and drifted happily around in some alternate reality somewhere, until his knock on the door brought me back with an unpleasant thump. Bam.

After I visit the naturopath, I always feel compelled to take a nap before heading off to the career college for night classes. During my nap, I dreamed I was in Los Angeles, trying to find my apartment. I went to the apartment I used to live in, totally confused. Everything looked familiar, but weird, like it was ten years later. When I came out of the apartment, I couldn't find my car. Dude! After walking the streets for awhile, looking for my Ford Focus, I gave up and I enlisted my dad to drive me around West Hollywood in one of his big American cars. It was great to see him again, even though he didn't have much to say, as usual. My sister was in the back seat, helpfully steering the car whenever Dad wanted to lean out the window for a closer look down some palm-tree lined avenue. It was great fun tooling around in the smoggy sunshine, despite the fact that we never did find my car. Thanks for the ride, Dad.

When I woke up, I was disoriented. The room was hot. My brain was foggy. I wondered if that dream was a portent of the dementia to come. It doesn't seem so impossible to imagine a time when I drive to the store and can't find my way home. Or I park my car at the mall and forget where I parked it. How do you hold water in your hands? A GPS would be the trail of crumbs leading me home, but what if I don't recognize the place when I get there?

Welcome to my week. As I wait for word from the committee on the status of my dissertation concept paper, the cracks in my carefully built facade are becoming apparent. To fight off entropy and discontent, today I braved the rain and crowds to purchase a new toilet seat. Merry ho ho to me. (My car was waiting for me where I parked it.) When I got home, I installed the new seat and tested it out. We have lift off! Chalk up one for me, one small blow against disorder, chaos, and crumbling reality.

Wanted: Mystery shoppers for mammograms and colonoscopies

Last night I posted Chapter 3 of my concept paper for the chairperson to chew on over the next week. She's taking an extra day over the long holiday weekend, which surprises me because she lives in Florida. I wonder where she's going? Maybe somewhere where it's not raining. She didn't say. Anyway, I'm happy because the monster Chapter 3 is on her plate now. Chapter 3 is the Research Design chapter, in which I describe and justify all the research methodology choices I have made. After being royally shot down with my previous attempt, I now have a slightly clearer idea of what she's looking for. I aimed for clarity and maximum CYA. In other words, I cited the hell out of the darn thing.

To celebrate, I went and got a mammogram. I know, not the sort of thing you'd normally think of doing when you are celebrating the sunshine, the long weekend, and the posting of Chapter 3. But mammo was on my calendar, and I was celebrating, so I showed up with a smile at the breast center. I arrived 20 minutes early for my appointment, so I sat in the main waiting area, ready to settle in for a spell, but within three minutes, I heard someone call my name. What a great place!

Everyone I saw was female. (What, no male x-ray techs? I'm shocked.) The technician (“Hi, I'm Lisa!”) escorted me through a maze of hallways to a lovely waiting area lined with little dressing rooms. “You can have dressing room D!” she exclaimed, like it was her favorite. “Here's a gown.” She gently set a perfectly folded cotton robe on the padded bench. “Everything off from the waist up, open in front. Here's a locker.” Lisa opened a full-length wooden cabinet and posed, displaying the interior with a graceful Carol Merrill arm gesture.

“Wow,” I said.

“Take the key with you,” she reminded me cheerily as she exited.

I unfolded the gown. Nothing flimsy about that gown. Heavy cotton, full-length, a lovely solid dark green teal. You could call it a kimono; it was like something I would wear around the Love Shack on a warm day. It looked somewhat like the robes I used to make for an old producer guy when I made custom clothes in Los Angeles. Nothing remotely hospital gowny about it. I quickly divested myself of my shirt and tanktop and wrapped the robe around me. Mmmmm, nice. I stowed my gear and slipped the key ring coil over my wrist like a bracelet. Too cool! Feeling quite stylish, I went out into the waiting area.

Chairs were arranged in a rectangle around a coffee table laden with every women's magazine you could imagine. Oprah, Martha Stewart, Vogue, Good Housekeeping. One woman waited, paging through a magazine. She was an older gal, wearing a black head of hair that I suspected was a wig. I didn't look closely, but I got the impression she was a solidly built gal, well-endowed. I wondered if I would hear screams from her exam room.

I pawed a few magazines, found a copy of Oprah. “This is from December 2011,” I mused under my breath. I tried to do quick math in my head, and failed. How old? I don't know, old.

I picked up another one. “This one is from August of last year. That's not so bad.”

“People probably donate them,” the woman said politely, intent on her own magazine.

I looked at a few ads. “It's great when people donate magazines,” I said.

Suddenly she looked up, and I looked up, and we connected, two women, one light-skinned, one dark-skinned, both wearing teal cotton kimonos in an x-ray waiting room.

“I keep hoping Martha Stewart will have a cake dish,” she confided. “My cousin had one, a real tall one, like this tall—” She held her hands about a yard apart. I was about to tell her about my aunt's collection of antique cake dishes, but we were interrupted by the technician calling her name. Her name was Chatauqua. So off she went, this teal-clad woman with the unlikely name of Chatauqua to get her boobs smashed, and that is the last I saw of her. She and the technician were chatting about cake dishes when my own name was called.

Lisa led me through more hallways to a dimly lit exam room, smiling beatifically. I was smiling too. I knew what was coming. No worries. Now that I'm post-you-know-what, I don't mind mammograms. My flacid fleshy protuberances, formerly known as funbags, aren't protruding much anymore. (Nor are they much fun, for me or anyone else.) So I didn't mind when Lisa grabbed my breast and manipulated it into place, cranking the machine to smash my flesh between two glass panes, saying, “Hold it right there, just like that, and don't breathe!” Piece of cake. I cared more about the breathing than I did about the mashing. Left, right, front, side, four times in the press, and I was done.

“There's some coffee or tea over there for you, if you'd like,” Lisa said graciously. “And deodorant.” (Oh, do I stink? You told me no powder or pitstop!) I quickly retrieved my clothes, tossed the teal green kimono gown in the hamper, and cruised out the door. Start to finish, it was over in 15 minutes. It took longer to park my car than it did to get mashed, pressed, and x-rayed. I was singing the lab's praises to myself as I hustled through the corridors of the cancer center. (Huh? Art on the walls, amateurish oil paintings of flowers for what!? $600? Yipes!)

As I was wondering if I should start painting again, it occurred to me that I would have made a good mystery shopper for that x-ray lab. Maybe the HMO needs a little undercover secret shopping to find out how they are doing? Hmmmm. Something to consider. I'm all about service quality. I'm naturally judgmental; it's the perfect job fit for me.

The next item on my healthcare bucket list is the colonoscopy. Ugh. I don't think I'm up for that just yet. Maybe in a few years. Growing old sucks. When growing old is finally considered de rigeur, then I'll get a colonoscopy. Then I'll join AARP. Then I'll give up rock n roll and start listening to pale jazz or whatever they call it. Until then, forget it. I'll stick with mammograms, thanks. Retirement is for babies, anyway, right? What do they say about riding it hard all the way to the end of the line?

I probably won't be riding anything hard any time soon, but I don't expect to be retiring anytime ever. My retirement plan is die. I guess if the White House changes hands, that will happen sooner rather than later, but whatever. Everyone dies. And the beat goes on.

More to be revealed

Finally, at the age of 55, I think I get it. This is it, this is my life; whether I like it or not, this is my life. It doesn't matter how much I complain or whine. Having hope that things might be other than what they are is a waste of the time I have left. Today I am pondering the idea that what I focus on reveals what I think is important.

I have spent so many hours, days, years thinking if-only thoughts. You know what I mean. If only I were thinner, if only I were pretty, if only I had a new car, if only it were 90 degrees everyday, if only people loved me for who I am.... then I could finally be happy. But if-only thoughts are a pointless dead end, leading me nowhere but down, back into the hole in sidewalk I've tried so hard to crawl out of. Today I am taking a new approach to the if-onlys.

If I am not thin by now, then it was never that important to me. If it were that important, I would have spent more time watching my diet and working out. Bah, who cares about thin! I'm giving it up. From now on, no more obsessing over my hips. I wear huge baggy clothes anyway. People already think I weigh 200 lbs. Who cares about a couple camel hip bumps! At least I'm balanced. And if there is a brief famine after the earthquake, I'll be able to live off those hip bumps for a couple weeks at least. Na na na.

About the whole pretty thing. I'm old now, so pretty, like baby-making, is no longer on the bucket list. But grooming is always possible, if one cares about how one looks. For example, if I don't have manicured nails by now, then clearly I must not rate manicured nails high on my priority list. Nails, shmails. That is an easy one to give up—I have never cared much about grooming. (Just as a for instance, this morning I looked in the mirror and found a white hair growing among the coarse dark hairs in my right eyebrow. It must have been there for quite awhile, to be so long. I confess, I rarely look in the mirror. Grooming is highly over rated, in my opinion. Before long my eyebrows will be non-existent, if my mother's eyebrows are any indication of the future of my facial hair.) Anyway, so when it comes to manicures, I don't care what my nails look like, or my hands either, for that matter. I'm just glad I have hands and that they work, more or less. At least I can point to things and carry a cup of tea.

How about cars and self-image? Americans are obsessed over cars. Not me. If I'm not driving a Lexus by now, then I never cared about how my vehicle communicated my status, not enough anyway to earn the money or marry the rich husband so I had the resources to buy one. I've never participated in the must-have-new-car-every-three-years mentality. (Or the earning thing or the rich-husband strategy either.) I know some people would rather die than drive an old beater. Just like there are those who wouldn't be caught dead shopping at a thrift store. Not me. I happily shop Goodwill, and I'm content with my 11-year-old Ford Focus, with all its dents and scratches. It reminds me of me.

The weather thing is a non-starter, but I'll say something about it anyway, because this morning I had a conversation with someone about the issues of powerlessness and control. She admitted she didn't understand the concept of powerlessness, because people control the weather all the time. I was like, what? People control the weather? How did I get left out of that seminar? She proceeded to tell me that there is a cabal of powerful folks controlling the world's weather, so apparently there's no longer any point in complaining about it. Wow, think of the implications! Humans have been complaining about weather since at least the dawn of history. There will be a huge void in the water-cooler conversation if we all get to choose our own micro-climate. Maybe we can get some work done. Anywho, sign me up! Ninety degrees sounds about optimal to me.

The last one, being loved for who I am, is a tricky if-only. I'm demanding unconditional love, and I know enough now to know humans aren't capable of delivering. Somewhere along the line I guess I must have figured out if I wanted acceptance, I would have to be something or someone other than myself. Naturally I resented that realization, and fought it hard in ways both covert and obvious. Which may explain in part why I chose the difficult path of creativity. (And why my relationships have always been such a mess.) But what I think I'm really asking for is acceptance of my creative self. And it hurts to imagine that, applying the same logic I so glibly applied to my hips, if I haven't focused on my art or my writing by now, then maybe I never really believed in them to begin with.

I can't leave it there. I think my mind is trying to kill me again. This happens when I get close to achieving a meaningful and terrifying objective—and my educational journey might qualify as such an objective. After six years, I am beginning to think I might actually one day finish this Ph.D., that the objective might really be achieved. The thought is terrifying. My instinct is to turn my back on the possibility, revert to my childish self, and declare I never really wanted it anyway, this stupid Ph.D., all I really want is to create, and isn't is sad and unfair that no one loves me? Well, that might have worked when I was 25, but not at 55. Nobody cares about my angst. I have a squad of cheerleaders prodding me to make more art, sell it on Etsy, turn the blog into an ebook, sell it on iTunes. Who am I to say it can't be done? Who am I to put some if-only condition on the dreams I have claimed as mine since childhood? Why can't I make art and earn this Ph.D? Maybe it's not an either-or but a both-and. Memo to Self: This is life. So get over yourself and live it, already.

Pondering the questions

Here's an academic quality question for you. Just in case you care. What happens if faculty define academic quality as critical thinking skills, reasoning skills, and communication skills, while administrators define academic quality as student retention rates, job placement rates, and student loan default rates?

I'd like to say I pondered this question this morning, while I lay in a comfy dentist's chair having a filling replaced, but truthfully, this morning was one of those rare occasions when I can say I was truly in the moment. There's nothing like a trip to the dentist to bring you back to your body.

After I recovered with a nap and a pill, I walked into the park and tried to clear the mental fog away with sunshine and exercise. I do my best thinking while walking in the park. (Too bad I forget all my great ideas immediately. I suspect there is a limit on how many brilliant thoughts I'm allowed. Maybe the limit doesn't count if I don't write them down?) Today, I tried to apply my critical thinking and reasoning skills to the problem of defining academic quality, but I kept getting distracted by cute shaggy dogs, happy dog-walkers, hikers, birds, rocks and pebbles... What can I say? It's spring. Who cares about academic quality when the sun is shining in Portland?

At some point, endorphins kicked in. “The End of the Line” by the Traveling Wilburys came on my mp3 player (no, I'm not cool enough to own an iPod), and I started reflecting on the finite nature of life and art. Then I got frustrated with reflecting. I thought about my aunt who died last Friday at the age of 100. I thought about my sister and our matching quests for meaningful lives. I thought about my friend Karen who died way too soon. I thought about how short life is and how unimportant other people's opinions really are. For about 45 seconds, I was ready to claim my place in the world. I was ready to quit the tedious teaching job. I was ready to jump in my car and head for a new adventure. I was ready to tell the world, loudly and repeatedly, “Make room for me, I have something to say!”

Then I had to climb a hill, I got tired, I sneezed, people were in the way, and the path smelled like dog poop. I went back to pondering the question of academic quality as I left the park and meandered toward home. The sun went down, the pain pill wore off, and everything went back to normal.