Here we go again

The more things change, the more they stay the same. Dumb platitude, but it feels true this holiday slash election slash stupid weather season. Haven't we seen this movie before? This hole in the sidewalk of American cultural insanity seems awfully familiar. Didn't it take years to crawl out of it last time? What am I talking about? I have no idea, but I suspect we haven't actually crawled out of any hole. We are not just still falling, but still digging the hole deeper. It's the American way. Rah rah rah.

So here we go again, into another stupid cold season of consumerism, fascism, and possibly alcoholism. I didn't think alcohol was my particular drug of choice, but never say never. However, when the stress hits the fan, many of us hit the bottle. I can see the appeal. The world looks better when it's somewhat blurry. The fear doesn't kick so hard while it's riding my back like a scream of wild monkeys if there's a layer of numbness. The cold is mitigated somewhat by dulled nerve endings, and the spectre of rampant shameless consumerism can easily be left on the doorstep simply by staying inside for the next month and a half (depending on how you feel about ringing in the new year). 

Speaking of ringing, I've got a new drug. 'Tis the season to experiment with remedies. I'm finding that remedies often create new maladies, which prompt a quest for new remedies. It's a vicious whirlpool that benefits only insurance companies and pharmaceutical manufacturers. And by extension, shareholders. Don't forget the real power behind the throne of commerce. Gotta keep those shareholders happy. 

Anyhoo, I'm sure you want to know all the details. Well, sorry. Not going to happen. Suffice it to say, the first drug for the vestibular paroxysmia stopped working almost the moment I set foot in Arizona. Weather occurred, as it is wont to do here, and my head went wonky with it. I blame Arizona. The drug prescribed by the neurologist stopped working. What's more, it's chipping away at my white blood cell count, which is apparently not ideal. Which leads me to mention this new drug. I've only taken three doses. So far the benefits have not appeared. However, the side effects have been interesting. 

It's too soon to know if this new drug will work. I'm sure you will stay tuned, because this drama is so interesting and you want to know what comes next. I'd write an upbeat new episode if I could, one with a happy ending. In truth, I wish I could forget all about this endless dramedy, just cancel the show, fire the writers, take it off the air, especially because this is supposed to be the most wonderful time of the year, and everyone deserves a little holiday cheer. Even the Chronic Malcontent.

Happy holidays from the Hellish Handbasket

I need to be sedated

Tis the season during which the residents of the mobile home park dress up in costumes and shuffle over to the clubhouse to drink strawberry lemonade witches brew and eat candy corn and tootsie rolls. Or whatever they were doing in the clubhouse last night. As I limped around the park in the gloaming, I passed a geriatric couple wearing orange T-shirts decorated with pumpkin faces. I took my earplugs out of my ears and said, "Nice pumpkins." I waited for a response but they looked at me with blank expressions, which indicated to me either they hadn't seen me walking around the park at dusk almost every night for the past year and were wondering if they should call security or they had left their hearing aids at home in anticipation of loud music at the monster mash and couldn't hear a word I said.

I passed another person just getting out of a little blue car. I could just see the top of their head, which sported a colorful jester hat, complete with bells. I didn't see the rest of their costume before I had moved on by. Something glittery, dangly, noisy, and backless, probably. One can hope.

Under clear skies and a bright moon, the old folks beelined to the clubhouse, via foot, walker, golf cart, and SUV. I briefly contemplated poking my head in the door for a looksee. Having once been in the costume industry, I have a great love of self-expression through apparel, as long as it is everyone else looking stupid, not me. Been there, done that, a lot, to the everlasting chagrin of my father. Last night, however, I didn't stick around to see what was going down at the Halloween hoedown. My party animal days are long past.

In fact, I am morphing into the opposite of a party animal. My sister gave me a word to describe what I am, which I will share with you and write more about in a future blogpost, if I remember. I am an apanthropist. Go ahead, look it up. I'll wait.

I complain a lot but I can adapt to almost anything, it seems. I was looking at some photos of the room I rent in this mobile home, which I fondly refer to as the Barbie Dreamhouse Without the Dream. I'd forgotten that just last year, I lived a life of abundance. I had two desks and two computers, and a fabulous chair on wheels, which I could drag between the two desks, as if I were two different people. An artist and a writer. What a creative life I had! And how quickly I have adapted to a life with less of everything, in anticipation of living a life with almost nothing.

I felt a twinge of sadness, which I do frequently these days, well, all the time for my entire life, if I'm being honest. I'm just a sad chronically malcontented whiner with a strangely optimistic streak of hope that I will find my creativity no matter what circumstances fall on my head. And so far I think I have. I keep writing, blogging, drawing, mentoring, hoping I'll stumble across the conditions in which I can thrive. Meanwhile, I adapt.

For instance, I'm adapting to the new revelation that my PCP has suddenly retired (or died) and now I have a new PCP, who like most healthcare providers in this system, is booked out until February of 2024. In a new round of righteous indignation, my well-meaning friends and family are berating me to "be my own advocate" and demand what I need. Ha. As if I knew what that was. I am showing up with persistence, patience, and pluck, but I wish they would say something less like "You need to push harder at the healthcare system" and more along the lines of "Gosh, Carol, that sounds stressful and frustrating."

Maybe I am too much of a fatalist. Maybe besides being an optimistic apanthropist, I am also a bit of a nihilist. What is the point of pushing? As if life were so precious. There is no meaning or purpose to existence. The meaning I attach to events is arbitrary and pointless. As if I had any control over reality. Is it a basic philosophical difference? I like living okay, usually, but sometimes isn't it okay to let the Universe have a say in how events unfold? People who tell me I need to fight harder are the ones who are most afraid of losing what they have. Maybe they need to do a little Swedish death cleaning to gain some perspective.

I think I just need to be sedated until conditions are optimal for success. Like, just let me sleep. Put me in a crystal cave and fill the door with a boulder on a timer and post a sign outside: open this tomb when conditions for this creative hothouse heirloom tomato of a person are likely to foster happiness. I haven't figured out all my specifications, yet, but for sure, when I wake up from my long slumber, I want all guns to have been melted down and beaten into ploughshares and windmills.

The annoying choice between safe and happy

I had a birthday this week. To celebrate, I treated myself to the trifecta. I don't mean I went horse racing. I mean, I sidled on down to my pharmacy and got the COVID-19 booster in my right arm and the flu and RSV shots in my left arm. Then I went home and descended into the misery I so righteously sought and deserved. I can hear what you are saying right now. Just because your friend E got all three and bounced back like a Bobo Doll doesn't mean you can do the same. E is six years your junior! Come on, Carol. Get real!

Clearly, even at this ripe stinky old age, I still have a lot to prove. 

What did I prove? I am a superhero. After a day and night of fairly intense suffering (it's all relative, isn't it?), I emerged stronger, straighter (in a postural sense), and buoyed with optimism. Invincible is how I feel. Confident enough to keep my tube of Preparation H in the same jar as my Crest Cavity Protection. That's pretty darn cocky for someone on the glaucoma watch list.

As is normal for a chronic malcontent, my unearned sense of optimism wore off fast. Now I'm back to my usual gloomy self. The alarm clock in my head relentlessly chimes once or twice per minute of every waking hour. I can't say for sure what happens after I finally fall asleep, but judging by the amount of time I spend awake and staring out the bathroom window at the stars, I'm guessing the alarm rings while I'm sleeping, too. During the day, like for instance, right now while I'm typing, I can tune it out. But when I'm lying on my foam rubber mattress on the floor, the noise in my head is deafening. I wish I were deaf, but I have a feeling this kind of sound is the kind you hear through your eight cranial nerve. Sort of like the way trash truck noises travel through the floor of the trailer at 4:00 a.m. and permeate my bones. Oh, the humanity.

It's so fun to hear other people express righteous anger on my behalf. I have to remind myself, though, that they might possibly be right. I'd rather not consider that possibility. Some of their suggestions are downright annoying. For example, people give me suggestions (advice) on everything from eating to dressing to finding a home to managing my healthcare. Some of it I've heard since I was a kid, so it's easy to tune it out—get a job, wear a bra, grow your hair, learn to type, draw flowers and fairies. Lately, I've been told to apply for senior housing, move closer to family, put my art on t-shirts, be more assertive, sell on BookTok . . . The list goes on and on. I suppose I do the same to them, so I fair's fair.

I usually fall into the trap of trying to defend myself and justify my choices. Later I berate myself for once again falling into the trap of trying to defend myself and justify my choices. It's futile, yet I still slip and fall right in. More like I dive in headfirst. I'm self-trained to defend first and self-berate later. And of course, because I live in constant doubt, I wonder, are they right? Is the problem that my hair is too short? Or I don't eat the flesh of dead creatures who would prefer to still be living? Or that I should just accept where I am, even though I don't like this town, and focus on being safe, forget about being happy? 

I've done so many things wrong in my life, it's easy to nod and say, you're right, I'm sure you are right. Everything would be different if I just put on a bra once in a while. Or stopped picking my teeth with toothpicks. Or yelled at my doctors instead of sucking it up and whining to any friend who will listen. 

In the end, with all the noise in my head, I can't hear my own voice among the voices of all my well-meaning advisors, mentors, and fixers. How much of my predicament is the product of a lifetime of thoughtless choices, and how much is attributable to a structural problem in the U.S. affordable housing market? I read an article today about someone who works in Los Angeles but has to live 100 miles away to find affordable housing. That's a 2- to 3-hour commute! I did not create this housing shortage. Neither did I create the fiasco that is the U.S. healthcare system. I just happen to be caught up in the vortex of ill health, age, poverty, inadequate housing, and a deep desire to rest in silence. 

A good friend's mother is dying. Another friend just found love for the first time in many years. The refrigerator is working. My check engine light went out. My sister's cat finally pooped after days of constipation. Lives are cut short from war, earthquakes, sea-level rise, gun violence, and COVID-19. The world is busy. I want to be busy, too, writing. I don't need much to do that. Maybe I can find my own version of Walden Pond. Is it out there? I won't know unless I go look. One thing I am sure of. It is not here.

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.