Let me take you to noisy town

Happy new year, Blogbots, all six of you. How are you doing? I hope you are staying safe in this stupid cold season. Yes, cold. Tucson temps fell below freezing last night. For the past week, we've been socked in with clouds and rain. It felt like Portland in early November. Then the clouds rolled east, leaving clear skies. You know what happens in the desert at night: The temperature plummets. I can hear you say, Really, Carol? Plummets? When I say plummets, I know it's all relative. Some of you are in actual plummet-prone places. (Have I ever used the word plummets so many times in one paragraph?) I'm thinking Albuquerque. Minneapolis. I'll step aside; I can't compete. However, remember, I moved here for the famous warm winters! I've been checking the maps for someplace warmer and drier that doesn't involve moving to another planet.

Speaking of noise, fireworks! On New Year's Eve, the big vacant lot just over the cinder block wall on the far side of the parking area was the scene of some pretty impressive DIY displays. (I kept checking to make sure my car wasn't on fire.) I'm on the first floor, so I couldn't see much through the trees and the block wall, but my neighbors upstairs were on the parapet above me, oohing and ahhing at each explosion and glittery colorful burst. I imagine they were sitting in chairs, but I didn't go up the stairs to find out. I don't think I could have interacted with them without resentfully asking them to use their indoor voices after 10:00 p.m. Anyway, New Year's is a thing here. The fireworks were hammering the neighborhood from six o'clock until the taco dropped at midnight. (There really was a taco drop somewhere in Tucson, I'm not making that up.) By 12:30 a.m., everyone had shot their firecracker inventories. I'm sure that is when the heavy drinking started, but I was asleep by then, worn out by the noise. 

Today the sun was brilliant. I walked my usual 30-minute circuit, enjoying the balmy 60°F warmth and sunshine. In daylight, I glimpsed the house that is the source of the neighborhood party noise. The sub-woofer was still going. A pre-teen boy was dancing on the flat roof, I kid you not. Speaking of kids, I am going to guess this is the house that keeps chickens and a goat on the property. A rooster crows at odd hours of the day, and occasionally I hear a goat bleating. I'm so confused. Meanwhile, the pounding bass continues to pound. I can't hear it, but I can feel it in my decrepit bones. 

Anyway, happy ho ho and all that stuff. I'm trying to ignore the cacophony of noises in and around the Bat Cave. The neighbor kid's bedroom is on the other side of the wall, five feet from where I sit. She's got a television. My loaner refrigerator is drowning out most of her noise. The loaner fridge has a little drummer boy behind the ice box. Whenever the fan comes on, he sits up and does his clattery thing to awaken the defroster, and then goes back to sleep. The fan roars on for another hour. This is a very small apartment. The only way to escape a noise is by drowning it out with a bigger noise. But the granddaddy of noise comes from that house on the other side of the vacant lot. It's always party time in the Old Pueblo.

Speaking of confused, last night I went onto one of my websites to update the copyright year. My heart dropped when instead of my website, I saw the infamous white screen of death. Oh no! I suspected a plug-in had gone bad, failed to update or something, but I couldn't get into my admin area to deactivate the culprit. What's a non-tech-savvy oldster to do? Failure was not an option. I did some noodling around on the internet and remembered that my ancient computer still has an old ftp program, which I used to use to shuffle files hither and thither. Would it still work? Would I remember how to use it? 

I bashed around, trying to follow instructions from multiple web experts, and eventually stumbled on some solution. Lo, when I clicked the button, my website reappeared, resurrected from the dead. I was able to repair my plug-in problem and now things seem to be functioning properly. Such are the dilemmas of stubborn DIY oldsters who do not want to admit things are harder than they used to be. Not that I've ever been a tech wizard. I'm a fast reader, is all. 

For example, tonight I was leading a Zoom meeting. Suddenly we were inundated with Zoom bombers. For a moment I was paralyzed with shock. Then I realized I needed to find the host credentials and log on as the host. I did that, and eventually I figured out how to remove the trespassers. Someone advised me to lock the meeting. I did that, and after that, we carried on in peace and quiet. I've never been a Zoom host before but I learned quickly. I admit, I felt a certain amount of satisfaction in having the power to eject someone from a meeting. I can think of umpteen times over the years I wished I'd had that power. So long, bye bye. Of course, I'm sure lots of people wished they had that power over me.  

 

Flying through the night

Bill rides a bike around the trailer park in the evening and we occasionally cross paths as I'm out walking my route. A few nights ago, we stopped and had a lengthy conversation about the weather, whether it would rain, what monsoon means, and the phenomenon known as virga. 

The next evening we crossed paths again. Bill told me his wife had died last year and asked me if I would like to have her bicycle. I said yes. He told me the number of his mobile home, and two nights ago, I set out walking in that direction, despite ominous clouds and light sprinkles. I'm an Oregonian—I'm not afraid of rain, even the downpours we have here in Tucson. I marched up the middle of the asphalt road, intent on my destination. I almost didn't see the woman standing on the edge of her gravel lawn waving at me in the deepening twilight.

"You might not want to go that way."

I stopped. She was brown-haired, perhaps somewhat younger than me, who can tell, everyone in Tucson looks ageless to me. She wore a big t-shirt and loose pants. 

"Why, what's going on?" I asked.

"There's two javelinas up there walking around."

I wanted to say javelinas, I'm not afraid of two javelinas, but I didn't want to offend. At that point, the sprinkles intensified. Not quite drops yet. We both looked at the clouds and continued our conversation. 

"I've seen one javelina around," I said. "She seems pretty shy."

"They usually run in packs," she said. "They can be nasty, especially if there are babies around. Oh boy, looks like it might start pouring!"

"That's okay. I'm staying just over there, on the other side of the wash."

"Do you want a ride back home?"

I was thinking, who is this troll blocking my way? My destination was close but the rain was coming down harder. I had the feeling I just needed to back off. I was more leery of her than I was of two javelinas. To keep walking forward toward danger after her obvious warning seemed rude, so I turned around and retraced my steps. I walked around the park in circles, waiting for the rain, which didn't arrive until much later in the night, disrupting my sleep by pounding on the metal awnings. 

Last night, the sky was clear. I tried again. The troll was nowhere in sight as I marched up the street past her place. As I came around the corner, there was Bill on his bike coming toward me. I waved. 

Bill is a thin rangy sunbaked man with bad teeth, glasses, and shaky hands. Every time I've seen him, he's wearing a beige polo shirt, tan cargo shorts, knee-high socks, and well-worn white sneakers. 

"Come inside, I have something to give you," he said. "Besides the bike."

"Oh, I don't know, with Covid, is that such a good idea, to let a stranger into your home?" I said, standing on his back steps 

"Just for a minute."

He obviously didn't care about Covid. I didn't have my mask with me. I've had my shots. I assume he got his too. The likelihood of us transmitting Covid to each other was probably small. I followed him through his kitchen door, admiring his shiny beige compression socks as he went up the steps. 

"It's all original," he said, pointing proudly to the counters and cupboards. "The floor too." I nodded in appreciation, noting the1970s beige linoleum squares and pale green and white swirl Formica countertops. "My daughter-in-law painted that part," Bill said, pointing to a strip of blood red wall running around the room above the white cupboards. I admired the breakfast bar with its pale swirly Formica surface. "Psychedelic," he grinned.

He led me into the dining room, which was carpeted in plush beige shag. I took off my shoes and left them on the kitchen floor. He told me the story of his dark brown oak dining room table (oak grown in the U.S., shipped to the Netherlands to be made into a dining set, and then shipped back to the U.S.).  Next, we toured the living room. Three big overstuffed pieces of furniture occupied half the space, arranged around a coffee table. The base of the table was wrought iron, and the top was made from squares of desert-colored cut rock. "It took two guys to get that thing in here," Bill said proudly. 

A large dark wood entertainment center dominated the wall opposite the longest sofa. Bill pulled out doors and opened cupboards to display his collection of DVDs and CDs. He asked me what kind of music I like. I mentioned 1980s new wave dance music. I wonder if he's heard of New Order or David Bowie. 

"You'll like this, then," he said, handing me a stack of CDs with hand-written labels. He'd compiled his favorite songs onto CDs. I lifted my glasses so I could read the songs. "Air Supply," I murmured. "Okay." 

"You take those and listen to them." 

I dutifully accepted a small stack of CDs and held them carefully as he led me over to a table against the wall. The table was covered end to end with sympathy cards. In the center of the table was a wooden box with an engraved tree on the front. I read the inscription about losing a limb from the family tree. Bill started to read it and choked up. I finished reading it for him. 

"Everyone here loved her so much," he said. "She was the nicest person you could ever hope to meet."

I did my best to be a good listener. When it was time to go, Bill put the CDs in a plastic bag along with an extra inner tube for the bike tires. I slipped my shoes back on and followed him out to the carport. He got a little bike out of a shed and wheeled it to me. It was a sturdy girl's bike with tall handle bars, no gears, and old-fashioned foot brakes, a lot like the bikes I rode as a child. I got onboard. 

"You have changed my life today, Bill," I said, thinking about the rides I could take on the bike path and around the mobile home park. He grinned. 

"I hope I remember how to do this," I said. I hung the plastic bag on the handlebar and off I went into the darkness. 

I rode back to the trailer, reveling in the warm darkness. When I pulled up next to my car, I heard a voice.

"I just wanted to make sure you got home okay."

I knew right away who it was. I turned and saw Bill on his bike. 

Chime in when ready

 A wall of heat descended on Southern Arizona, and now we are baking inside an oven. As hot as it is, though, it's not as hot as being in a sauna. I looked it up. Whenever I feel like whining, I just remember (a) nobody cares, and (b) I've been in a sauna and I survived. I have my jug of ice water. I'm doing fine. I've rarely been so aware, however, that heat can kill a human very quickly. I think I'll be okay going from the grocery store to my car, but I guess we will find out. Tomorrow is shopping day. 

I've been going outside a few times a day to experience hell. This is the Hellish Handbasket, after all. Just doing a little research. During one of my excursions, I heard some activity next door. The neighbors were apparently hanging another wind chime on the edge of their carport. I'm not sure what their wind chime strategy is, or even if they have one. Probably they made the mistake of telling their family and friends that they liked wind chimes, and now that's all they get for birthdays, anniversaries, and Father's Day. Like when my mom said she liked frogs and ended up with fifty frogs of various sizes, shapes, and materials. Be careful what you ask for. Your remaining family members will have to dispose of all that crap after you are gone.

Anyway, wind chimes. It's breezy here in Tucson, which makes the heat somewhat more tolerable, at least after the sun goes down. The trailer next door has about ten wind chimes hanging on the edge of the front porch and several more dangling from the edge of the carport. Most of the wind chimes seem to be made out of different kinds of metal. You know the kind I'm talking about. They sound like your cell phone is ringing, and you can just barely hear them over the roar of the air conditioner, which means you are constantly checking your phone. The new ones that I believe were added today are made of dangly lozenges of wood, so the sound is somewhat less melodious, more like a dozen wooden coasters banging around in a dryer. 

Last night, to accompany the wind chimes, the guys who drive in circles in the Sam's Club parking lot just over the fence were back doing their stop-start-screech-vroom shenanigans. I'm sure it is a lot more fun than it sounds. What could be more fun than locking brakes and burning rubber in a large parking lot? Well, doing it on ice, but there isn't much of that here this time of year, and I'm sure they figure, well, this big open space ought to be put to good use during off hours, so I'm just going to drive in circles at a fast clip and then slam on the brakes at 2:00 a.m. That ought to give those over-55 oldsters in the trailer park some interesting dreams. 

Speaking of dreams, I dream of the day when my sixty-fifth birthday has come and gone and I've made my Medicare choices. Maybe then I will stop seeing sponsored ads on Facebook from companies warning me not to screw this up. I'm irked that they are taking up space in my feed. I would prefer to watch video of tortoises going down slides. I'm tired of videos of animal rescues. They always turn out well. I don't know why I didn't realize that. Duh. I should have known they wouldn't post videos of animal stories that didn't turn out well. Whoa, maybe they do. I guess the only thing protecting me is clicking like on the tortoise video every time it comes up. Yesterday I watched a video of a man edging and mowing a lawn for almost thirty minutes. I hate Facebook.

The doves are less vocal on these warm mornings. A few days ago, it sounded like their admonition to hang up and drive had turned into hip hip hooray. Maybe they were cheering for the president's trip to Europe, I don't know. I'm not really following politics anymore. It's so boring. 

Now that I'm a prisoner of the desert heat, my world has shrunk to the size of a dot on Google Maps. The most excitement I have these days is when vehicles go by. This trailer is on a cul-de-sac, so it's a big deal. For example, I notice when an Amazon Prime truck pulls into the turnaround. I love it when the Sparkletts truck arrives. You have to admire the confidence of a driver who floors it in reverse all the way down the street. Delivering delicious water to thirsty oldsters is clearly something this driver takes seriously. The mail carrier seems much more laid back, buzzing lazily in a little white truck from mailbox to mailbox, like a bee delivering pollen. I hope the AC is going full blast while the driver leans out the window to put junk mail in our mailbox. Our taxpayer dollars going to good use. 

The AC just settled into silence. It will rest for about five minutes. Now I can enjoy the sound of the new wind chimes. They are actually more melodious than I expected. It sort of sounds like someone is trying to use an old-fashioned touchtone phone. Remember those? Oh, now the AC is on again. The trailer is under assault from the sun. I feel a bit like a critter hunkered in a dark burrow, waiting for dark. If the electricity goes out, I'll soon be a raisin-like desiccated critter. In the meantime, back to writing. 

The chronic malcontent may be a hothouse flower

My shrimpy maternal parental unit braves the wind, rain, and cold multiple times a day to indulge her nicotine habit. She likes being outside. She's like a wild animal, bundled in five layers of fleece. The bulky sweaters and jackets make her look bigger than she is. Her outer layer is an old red fleece zip-front jacket pockmarked with cigarette-ash craters. When she lights a cigarette, she shields the lighter in the crook of her arm. I asked her if she has ever set herself on fire. She said no. Ha. As if she would tell me if she had.

Yesterday I put on long johns under my wind pants and a second hat over my first hat so I could sit outside with her in the pitch black smoking area. The iron shelter covers two iron-backed chairs (which you have to navigate to mainly by feel) and offers no protection from the sweeping east wind. Mom doesn't seem to care. The need for nicotine outweighs her desire to be warm.

I told her I had been to see my doctor for a checkup. She didn't seem particularly interested so I didn't give her any details. Like how I discovered a blob of toothpaste on my shirt front when the medical assistant was taking my blood pressure. I didn't tell Mom how disconcerting it was to realize that (1) I don't look in the mirror anymore so things like toothpaste blobs go undetected, and (2) that my perceptions have narrowed to the point that I don't notice things like toothpaste blobs anymore. No use telling all that to my mother. She would just roll her eyes. Welcome to my world: Get over it. 

I may have mentioned, my neighbor to the south of me got a girlfriend. She's an enthusiastic, energetic creature. They have a sliding door in their bedroom closet (I'm guessing), and she seems to get a thrill out of opening and closing it. It sounds a bit like someone is sending a bowling ball down a really short alley. Then slam! The door hits the end with a bang. Then she does it again. I think she's probably getting dressed. You know how it is, girls and their closets. My closet has a door, but I don't bother closing it. Half the closet is taken up by two rolled up carpets, removed from my main living area last summer during an effort to reduce fleas and dust. I guess I should get rid of them. But where do I put them? This is the ongoing problem with stuff.

Anyway, I digress. My neighbors have a new noise. It started a week ago. I'm not sure what it is. It sounds like a cement mixer. Between 10 and 11 pm, every night, a rumble begins and doesn't end until morning. You know how a jet sounds when it is taking off from a runway? The Love Shack is about eight miles from the airport. When the windows are open, I can sometimes hear jets taking off and landing. It's a rumbling roar that lasts just a few seconds. Right. Like that. Except my neighbors rumbling roar doesn't stop.

The first night I heard the rumble, I was dumbfounded at how loud it was. The sound reverberated through the floorboards and walls of the entire Love Shack. I put my ear to the wall. Could it really be coming from their bedroom? Yep. How on earth could they sleep with that racket going on? I banged on the wall between our apartments. Of course, that accomplished nothing but sending the cat slinking under the couch.

Every night, the rumble commences around 11 pm news time. I'm aware of it as I watch the news, as I watch Stephen Colbert, as I watch HGTV. I can hear it in my bathroom while I'm taking my before-bed bath. I can't get any further away from it than my bathroom. I can hear it in my bedroom as I'm lying in bed, wishing the damn plane would just land already.

At first I thought it could be a treadmill or some other piece of exercise equipment. But who would run on a treadmill all night? I doubt they actually have a cement mixer in their bedroom, so I'm going to guess that it is some kind of heating device that has a rumbly forced-air motor and the contraption is sitting on the wooden floor. They turn it on to heat their bedroom, and they turn it off when they get up in the morning and go wherever it is they go during the day. The rumble is not present when I get up at my more leisurely hour. Sometime during my sleep cycle, the machine, if that is what it is, is switched off.

Am I a hothouse flower like my mother? I certainly wouldn't want my neighbors to freeze just to preserve my precious silence. Last night I practiced a new tactic: I blessed their relationship and wished them pleasant dreams. Oddly enough, my rage subsided. Funny how that works.

Fitna on the condo board

Today I ate chia seeds and after a wave of dizziness, I felt much better than I did when I posted the last morose post, so yay for chia seeds. I don't really want to blog about chia seeds, though. Tonight I went for a jog in the park, intent on enjoying the last of the balmy weather before the rains return. It was a half-and-half sky, half blue, half white, with streaky high clouds moving in from the coast, a sign of weather to come. As I exited my back door, my neighbor Kirsten waved me down to tell me that her landlord is selling the duplex she lives in. She and her husband might have to move. As she spoke, her chin began to quiver.

“I've planted over 500 bulbs in that garden,” she moaned, waving at her wild and chaotic yard. I didn't say it, but I learned long ago, all the yard work we do for landlords increases no one's wealth but the landlords.

“There will be other gardens,” I said cryptically.

“What will we do? Where will we find another place like this?”

“It is natural to want to hang on to what we have,” I said. “It's hard to let go.”

I left her gazing dolefully at her flowers and sipping beer out of a can. I enjoyed my trot more than usual, maybe because of the chia seeds, who knows. I smiled at everyone, which is a rare state for a chronically malcontented person like me. A bit of sunshine caught me on the way back. Kirsten was still out front, talking to another neighbor. I ignored them and headed along the path to my back door. I heard her voice calling and turned to see her waving at me.

I pulled my earplugs out of my ears.

“Are you talking to me?”

“I just wanted to thank you for your words of wisdom,” she said, still holding a can of beer. I walked out to the garbage can area to meet her. A breeze of beer breath wafted over me. I can't remember the last time I had a beer. (No, I wasn't blacked out. I just don't like beer.)

“I'm always happy to dispense words of wisdom, whether anyone likes it or not,” I smiled.

“You always seem so calm,” she said dreamily, and then she started to cry. I gave her a hug on impulse, not something I usually do, but she seemed comforted, judging by the way she held on to me a bit too long. Maybe she was using me to stay upright, I don't know.

Luckily at that moment, another neighbor, a woman with fake platinum hair whose bearded husband is a guitar player, came out to dump something in the trash, and Kirsten shared the sorry tale of woe with her.

“I've been talking to Carol, because she's so calm,” Kirsten said. The woman (whose name might be Susan) looked at me with no recognition at all. She has really nice skin, I thought to myself. The woman put her empty bowl on top of the trash can and came over to hug Kirsten. I took that opportunity to make my escape.

It was a day for sharing stories, apparently. My almost 85-year-old mother called me shortly after I had changed back into my usual garb (pajamas). Her voice boomed out of the phone.

“The Board Chair said some terrible things to me at the condo meeting last night!”

“What did she say?” I asked.

“She said she heard me say some denigrating things about one of the homeowners. Who happens to be her friend,” my mother sputtered, lisping slightly because of her dentures. “I don't remember saying anything about the homeowner!” Which, I thought, doesn't mean you didn't do it; it just means you can't remember doing it. But I didn't say that.

“What did you say?” I asked.

“I said, 'I'm moving!'”

“Whoa.”

“Then after the meeting, two other Board members came up to me and told me she had done the same thing to them! Accused them of saying something negative about her friends.”

The righteous anger was beginning to pile up in big frothy bubbles.

“What are you going to do, Mom?”

“We need to vote her off the Board!”

“Better check your condo bylaws before you start rounding up a posse,” I warned.

“I've got 'em here someplace. But they are so hard to understand. Can't we just hold a special meeting or something?”

“Probably. But you need to follow the guidelines in the bylaws. This is for the good of the condo association, right, Mom? It's not because you don't like the woman. It's not about revenge, right?”

“I've got two Board members who are on my side,” she said excitedly. “I gotta go.”

If you remember a couple posts ago, I reported that my mother has become a reader of this blog. If she remembers how to find it again, she may read this post and declare that I have failed to accurately report the events I'm describing. It's true I have taken some artistic license in the pursuit of laughs. I've definitely shortened the conversation, and of course, being the malcontent that I am, I've tried to make me look smarter at her expense. Because that's what daughters do as payback for all the years of hell, am I right? But seriously, Mom, if you read this, sorry for taking advantage, but you set it up so nicely, I really couldn't resist. Watching you instigate a mutiny of the condo board is priceless. Rock on, Mom! Fitna on the condo board!

This time it's ants and dogs... well, one dog

Last night after blogging, I enjoyed an evening of network TV and congratulated myself that I'd won the ant war that has left the Love Shack in a dusty shambles. After some desultory surfing between Letterman, Fallon, and Kimmel, I turned off the TV and converter box and went into my bathroom to take a bath. When I turned on the light, I discovered to my horror another trail of ants, this time leading to the medicine cabinet (which is nowhere near the cabinet that held the half-empty bottle of mouthwash that was the center of the previous ant battle).

I howled. My cat came running. “I can't believe it!” I cried in anguish and ran for the bucket of diatomaceous earth powder. My cat watched as I daubed the loaded paintbrush into the crack that seemed to be spewing little ant soldiers. Then I gingerly opened the medicine cabinet door.

I don't store all that much in this shallow cabinet, probably because it isn't over the sink, like most medicine cabinets, but opposite the sink. I peer into the mirror occasionally when I'm trying to extract a recalcitrant whisker, but I don't really open the cabinet door that often. I yanked open the door to let in the light. The ants continued their industry. I leaned in to see the damage.

The jittery trail led up the side of the cabinet to one of the top shelves, where there was an opened package of cough drops, the menthol eucalyptus kind. (Hey, weren't those the same ingredients in the mouthwash?) I watched for a moment, paintbrush poised. The ants were marching in an out of the package in smart regimental style. Ho Weeee oh, yooooo-oh. You gotta admire the little f--kers, they really know how to get sh-t done.

I eighty-sixed the cough drops that were attracting the crowd, plus two other bags of herbal cough drops that were getting no attention at all. You can't be too careful. These cough drops have been stored in that cabinet for at least five years. If it took them that long to find the menthol eucalyptus goods, then it could be a while before they find the herbal stash. I'd rather jettison all attractive nuisances. I figure safe, not sorry.

So, maybe now I can do a tentative victory dance in the bathroom. I'll let you know.

I tell you, I need something to be glad about. Today I witnessed a sad event: the passing of the neighbors' dog, Mojo.

Mojo was a medium-sized skinny white dog with a big smile. He was shaky and mostly deaf, but always had a tail wag and a welcoming grin for me when I'd get out of my car. Old age came on him fast. Today I looked out my kitchen window and saw a small crowd crouched around something white lying on the grass in the neighbors' front yard. From the looks on all the faces, I could guess what was happening. I could just make out white fur between the rhodies that divide our two yards. People took turns patting the dog's side and fondling his ears. They were saying good-bye.

An hour or so later, I looked out my window again. Mojo, unmoving, was being attended by two people in scrubs. The vet, a hefty woman, sat awkwardly on the ground, efficiently assisted by a young bearded technician. They worked together to shave the dog's leg and insert a needle attached to a plastic tube. In a few minutes, some white stuff flowed through the tube. My window was closed: I couldn't hear any sobs but my own, but I could see that the women were weeping. The men did their best to look sad but stoic (although I noticed one guy couldn't watch while the needle went in.) Only Mojo's dad was unashamedly crying.

It was over in a few minutes. The doctor checked for a heartbeat. The bereft parents bestowed their final kisses. The tech wrapped the body in a blanket and put it in the back of their Mini. That was the end of the brave and kind dog named Mojo. I presume he will be brought back in a small cardboard box, or maybe an urn, and placed on the mantel to preside over the fireplace he used to doze in front of.

I've had allergies all day. I'm surrounded by piles of soggy white tissues. What's a few more tears?

How to blend in to your neighborhood

It's pandemonium at the Love Shack. My new neighbor has the bass cranked up on his stereo, same old story, just like the old neighbor. Sound travels through the old walls and floors like bladdity bla through yadada. I can't think of any metaphor that isn't a total cliche, because not only is the bass rattling my brain, but the neighbors in back are having an outdoor party, complete with music and applause. Closing the windows helps against the applause, but does nothing to block the bass coming through the walls from next door. And then we've got the music and laughter coming from the cafe across the street. There's no escaping it.

After a lovely evening at the Portland Art Museum with Bravadita and her friend Jeff, this is what I came home to. Cacophony. The first thing I did was close all my windows and pull my shades. I considered cranking up my stereo—a little New Order might help. What I really want is silence. There is nowhere to hide from this, except into my mp3 player, my refuge of last resort. If I can fill my head with my own music, I won't have to hear/feel the bass thrumming in my bones through the floorboards. It's a different kind of assault, one of choice.

It's hard to imagine writing anything coherent with all this noise going on. I was going to try. But it's after 10:00 p.m., and I just don't have the brain for it. I have a lot to write. And a serious deadline. I need a miracle. But I don't think it's going to happen tonight.

I collected my fifth interview yesterday. That is the good news. But it doesn't look as though any more will be forthcoming. By now, all my former colleagues at the career college have had time to make their decision: Will I help Carol or not? After two weeks, one person emailed me to express his willingness, and I met him yesterday morning on campus. Yes, on the campus where I used to work.

Driving there, parking, walking into the building... it felt surreal, like I was Rip Van Winkle, gone a hundred years, shuffling through the door with bad eyesight and a beard. Don't you know me? They knew me. They were just surprised to see me. And it wasn't the good kind of surprise, like, Wow, here's Carol! How are you? It was more like, Wow, here's Carol, what is she doing showing her face here? A few students recognized me, too, which was awkward. I couldn't remember their names.

The interview went well; I collected some good insights that will make my study stronger. When it was finished, he was clearly done with me: There was no loitering, hey, how's it going, no chit chat. I went out to the receptionist area and paused, thinking that maybe I could go over to the main building and find someone else to interview. Stupid me. I quickly realized everyone was in class. Everyone had a job. Everyone but me. I got in my car, drove home, and went back to bed.

Once it gets quiet, my plan is to begin writing up my findings, and continue data collection if possible. Qualitative research is iterative anyway. See? It's all good. Somewhere.

Feeling terminally unique

I can't really dredge up much enthusiasm for this doctoral journey when the pace of it ebbs and flows so much. I'd like more flowing and less ebbing, but at this point, I am almost past caring. Every now and then I feel a spark of interest, like, oh, yeah, I remember why I chose this topic. But mostly I'm beyond both frustration and enthusiasm. At each roadblock, each obstacle, I shrug: Whatever. I have a similar reaction to each success. Yeah, whatever.

I checked the course room every day this week, hoping for word from the Institutional Review Board that they have approved my revised recruiting method. It's a small change, how hard could it be, people? Instead of an approval notice, I got an announcement that my Chair is out of the office until July 29. Because the IRB keeps us at arm's length, communicating to us only through our Chairs like we are cootie-infested members of a lower caste, I can assume I will hear nothing this week. Oh well. Maybe next week.

It doesn't matter. I will be out of town this weekend myself. I'm going to Minneapolis for a reunion. So, if the plane goes down somewhere between here and there, let me just take this opportunity to say it's been a blast writing this blog. I hope this isn't the last post, but then do we ever really know what will happen when we walk out the door? I'm more likely to get decapitated in a car wreck caused by some texting teenager than die in a plane crash. But I've always wanted to be special.

Speaking of feeling special, I probably mentioned I have a new neighbor. Joy is gone, replaced by a young man named Everett. Everett moved in and then disappeared for a while. I feared he might have drowned in his tub. But no, I saw him last week, said hi, made a connection. It's sort of that connection you try to make with your kidnappers, so they won't kill you, you know what I mean? I kicked myself later for not mentioning how thin the walls are at the Love Shack. Because now I am suffering.

He's got something in his bedroom, some kind of a machine with a motor. Does this sound familiar? Wasn't I complaining about Mary having something that intermittently whined on and on? This is not a whine, it's a rumble. It's right on the other side of the wall. I can hear it when I watch my television. I can hear it when I take a bath. Imagine your windows are open to a summer night, and off in the middle distance, you hear the grumble of a freight train slicing through the night, rushing along the Gulch toward Hood River. It's like that. Only it never stops.

Air conditioner is my bet. An exotic guess would be an aquarium pump—maybe he has tropical fish in his room to help him sleep. Maybe it is a refrigerator, for his beer. No, it doesn't go off, it just keeps rumbling, a low, low vibration that I can feel in my chest. Annoying as it is, it isn't as bad as Joy's music. So I'm going to just live with it. I will pretend it is a freight train, heading east out the Gorge, carrying coal. No, not coal. Carrying art supplies and yarn for hungry artists and knitters. Yeah.

If nothing else, I can serve as a bad example

My hero of the week is the guy who expressed his irritation with four of his neighbors by driving a bulldozer through their houses. Rock on, dude! Sure, you are in jail now and probably will be for a while, but how did it feel, crunching their houses to smithereens? I'm sure before the remorse set in you had a moment of euphoria.

My two neighbors and I live in a triplex. A bulldozer crashing through Joy's apartment would definitely affect me, since I am in the middle. I would expect the whole building to fall into the basement. So no, I won't be driving a bulldozer through here anytime soon. But I think a couple times I have approached that tense moment when whaling on the wall with a hammer seems like the appropriate thing to do.

I look at it this way. I'm all about service quality. I live to serve. If nothing else, I can serve as a bad example.

Speaking of bad examples, this week I received my second and final rejection from the VP of Media Relations who represented the institution I approached for permission to interview ten of its faculty. Apparently, they have a policy of not accepting research proposals from doctoral students! Stupid me. I guess I naively assumed that because they are operating institutions of higher learning around the country, that they would... I don't know, be supportive of higher learning. I am chagrined to say I should have known better. These institutions are corporations, not colleges. They don't care about higher learning, or any kind of learning that doesn't line their pockets. They care about one thing only: profit. Duh. I'm an idiot.

So, on to Plan B. No, I'm not pregnant. Plan B consists of approaching the career college I used to work for. Two weeks ago I was laid off with many of my compadres when the campus was closed. Now that I'm no longer an employee, no more conflict of interest! I sent a groveling email to the president of the college yesterday, trying to get a sense of how much he dislikes me. I did, after all, briefly gain some notoriety among my co-workers with my somewhat sarcastic photo blog of the campuses last days. I don't know if the president of the college ever saw the blog, wrapped up as he was in his own overwhelming problems: (How could I have been stupid enough to invest my retirement money in this floundering sham of a school!? Kick me!)

I doubt I'll hear from him, as absorbed as he is in his own crumbling world, so I'm already moving ahead with Plan C. Plan C is the guerilla tactic of recruiting faculty through other faculty. It has a couple names. Sometimes it is called chain sampling. My favorite term is snowball sampling. You use one participant to recruit the next. It's subversive. What's not to like.

One way or another, this study is going to happen. Yes, I need to finish this doctorate, but more than that, the world needs to hear what faculty think about the academic quality of for-profit vocational programs. People (the Department of Education) seem to think that as long as students graduate and get jobs that allow them to pay off off their student loans, then the students received a quality education. I think faculty might have a different view. I want to find out. Just because for-profit institutions are behaving like cults, circling the wagons around their faculty and trying to keep them from talking to researchers doesn't mean we shouldn't try to reach them.

Join the underground! For-profit faculty unite! Speak your truth! (Just do it under the radar, so you don't jeopardize your job.)

Do what you love and you'll probably starve... or not

The last time I had an entrepreneurial seizure, it did not go well. That was a long time ago (1981) in a galaxy far far away (Los Angeles). Now that I am staring down the barrel of unemployment, I remember my past self-inflicted self-employment massacre, and my terror is compounded. I wish they made bullet-proof vests to ward off attacks of idiocy. Maybe that is what aluminum foil hats are for.

Time out. My neighbor sounds like she is giving a fashion show to her dog. She's strutting back and forth on her hardwood floors in what I suspect is a pair of chunky-wood platforms. I'm too sexy for my shoes. I hope she is getting ready to go out.

Last night I heard her growling in the basement. I couldn't tell if she was just angry, or hurt and angry, so I ran down there to see what was going on.

“There's a quarter stuck in the washer,” she groaned, banging on the coin slot. While she ran to get a knife from her kitchen, I peered at the coin slot. Yep. Jammed good and tight. Wouldn't go in, wouldn't come out. No laundry tonight, Pumpkin. While she poked at the slot with the knife, her little gray poodle patted me repeatedly on the backs of my thighs with his front paws. I ignored the dog, and wondered if perhaps the human might use the knife on me, considering I interrupted her noisy coitus a couple weeks ago by pounding on the wall that separated my angry hammer from her headboard.

We both agreed the coin slot was a lost cause. I suggested she call the landsharks. We adjourned to our respective corners, if not friends, then at least no longer adversaries. Well, her dog likes me. That is a start.

I emailed the landsharks today, just in case she didn't, and earlier today I saw George in the basement, talking on his cellphone while he dismantled the coin box. I was leaving. He didn't see me. When I came back, he'd left a stack of quarters, and a note pointing out the one coin that wasn't actually a quarter. I don't know what it was. It looked like funny money. Maybe Canadian. I left it all there on the washer. I am content to be an observer. I only engaged last night because I thought she might have been injured. Or that she might have destroyed the washer. Actually, I don't know why I engaged. I guess it was a way of expressing my chagrin at interrupting her lovemaking.

Back to the main topic—me. My pending entrepreneurial experiment. I'm having some brain trouble. I can picture actions I need to take, and I've got lists in triplicate, but my brain can't seem to translate the actions I plan to take into actual income. In other words, I can imagine a bank account full of cash, but I can't see how my actions will put it there. I think I have a mental block placed there by years of flogging a business I hated. I used to sew clothes for a living—you could call me a former fashion designer or you could call me a former seamstress, and both would be accurate. The problem was that I hated to sew (still hate to sew), and thus I learned to associate earning with doing something I hated.

But that was years and years ago, way back in ancient times. Surely my brain has evolved since then? Or disintegrated? Or embarked on a new tangent? It's a new millennium, for crying out loud. Nothing is the same. Still, how I handle earning as an entrepreneur remains to be seen, and I know, don't call me Shirley.

Ten years of working for someone else has meant no hassles with invoices, collections, complaints, or worries about when the money will appear. Working for the career college is a different kind of earning mystery, where performing my teaching job has been totally disconnected from receiving my direct-deposited paycheck. Magic. As an entrepreneur, I will have to get my hands dirty again. I will have to initiate invoices, follow up with statements, ask for deposits, handle cash, figure out PayPal... it's all so... messy.

Well, the good news, I am strong enough to handle it, according to Dr. Tony, my ebullient naturopath. Yesterday he dosed me with some white pellets, yanked on my right leg (really!), and pronounced me whole, see you in two months, you are on the maintenance plan. And to really put a shine on the bright side, in three weeks, there will be no more commute to Clackamas, no more in-services, no more split shifts, no more nutty professors, no more whining students, no more outdated textbooks, no more clogged toilets, no more mismatched clocks, no more mind-numbing graduation ceremonies... No more. The few people I've grown to love, I will still stay in touch with after we leave, and the rest, all the rest of it, I am content to let go with my blessing.

May we all be free from suffering, and may we all find peace. Now let's break out that champagne!

Win a few, lose a few

Good news (at least to some, not sure who exactly, maybe just my mother). I just uploaded the massively wretched tome, the first draft of my dissertation proposal, all 172 pages (counting front matter, references, and appendices). The courseroom swallowed it with a slightly longer than normal gulp, and now it's there, posted in cyberspace, visible evidence of my willingness to take the next step in the process of earning this doctoral degree. I'm not sure what I pictured these days would be like, way back in 2005 when I first started this endeavor. I think my original goal was to teach online in an adobe hut in the desert. And to be a more valuable employee to my career college employer. Foolish girl, you say? Well, life was simpler back then, when I was naive and uninformed.

For the past 2,677 days (counting much?) I have lived in the fretful fog of the moment, just trying to get the writing done, take care of my students, eat good food and drink water, live in the present, do the next right thing. I haven't thought much about what comes next, after this journey is over. (I used to say if, but it's starting to look likely that I will finish, barring something unforeseen, like a party bus or an asteroid). Except for a general sense of anxiety and some hazy... I won't even call them plans.. I don't have a clear picture of a future. This is not a bad thing.

Unexpected events happen. Like today, for instance, the maternal unit called to ask me to take her to urgent care. She suspected she got bit on the ankle by a malevolent critter on her back porch, a spider, perhaps. This happened last Tuesday. Her right ankle swelled up like a sausage. Since then, she's been hobbling around in slippers with her walker, not driving, not eating much, popping quarter-tabs of oxy and hoping it will go away. No such luck. So today we spent three hours on a gorgeous Easter Sunday morning getting her through urgent care and over to the pharmacy to fill a prescription for an anti-inflammatory. And pick up a box of generic cheerios, so she would have something to eat tomorrow.

That is what I mean. You can plan all you want, but life does what life is going to do. Other people are busy living, and sometimes their lives collide with my plans. I have no control over events, in my life or anyone else's. In some ways, this is frustrating, but in other ways, it is strangely liberating. To accept the invitation to give up the illusion of control is a rare opportunity to appreciate the moment. To be here now, something I've been practicing for the last seven years. It's easier to accept the gift when the sun is shining like it is today. It's 72°. Rain is on the way, but right now the air is golden and ripe with the scents and sounds of spring. A stellar bluejay stole some moss from my back porch. Nest building time.

A woman who lives at the end of the gravel driveway was walking by as I went out to dump my kitchen scraps in the green compost bin. She hurried over to me, pointing at the back of the Love Shack.

“Did you know you have a rat living under your back porch?”

I started to feel some shame, because yes, I know we have a rat living under the porches, and I don't particularly care. Hey, wait a minute, I said to myself.

“Yes, we have a rat,” I said. “We also have birds, squirrels, possums, and sometimes, raccoons. And moles!” Implying that it's a regular zoo in our six-foot-wide strip of nature, and how cool is that? “Do you have moles down there on your corner?” She forgot that she believes that a rat is a bad thing to have lurking under one's porch.

“We don't have moles, but my neighbor does,” she replied. “And she keeps her yard perfectly manicured. The moles drive her crazy!”

Now we were rooting for the moles. Long live wildlife. Yay for fat rats who live under porches. Yay critters, in general. I'm happy to fatten up a rat with spilled birdseed. Why should this little piece of the planet be exempt from harboring god's myriad creatures? (If there is a god, yada yada yada.)

And the plot thickens. Now I hear the sound of running water. Back in a mo. Ok, I'm back. I peered out my back door. The basement door is open, and there are two short, scratched-up surfboards propped against the fence. It looks like the quiet weekend at the Love Shack is over. My neighbor has returned. Now if I'm really lucky, I'll get to hear her making out with her boyfriend till the early hours of the morning.

Dueling stereos and the wretched dissertation proposal

It's war at the Love Shack. Dueling stereos are shaking the woodwork. I'm being pummeled by New Order, bass on high. I don't know what my neighbor is playing, but I can feel it through my feet. I'm hoping she's getting ready to go out. It's about that time on a Friday night.

Last night around 1:15 a.m. I'd just gone to bed, when I heard a pounding somewhere in the building. My cat and I looked at each other. What the–? I got out of bed and staggered into the living room. The pounding was louder. I heard muffled giggles and a man's voice. Oh boy. My neighbor Joy is  living up to her name. I considered doing a little pounding of my own, and I don't mean that in a self-sex kind of way. However, after a moment, I decided against ruining their mood and went back to bed. They were done, anyway, if they were at the giggling stage. I presume. Hell, it's been so long, what do I know.

I'm taking a break from the gigantasaurus I call the DP, short for Dissertation Proposal. You thought I whined a lot during the concept paper. That was banana cream cake compared to this. The concept paper is to tell the Graduate School what you are thinking of doing. The Dissertation Proposal is to tell them what you plan on doing, down to the most minute detail. There are three chapters in the proposal. Chapter 1 introduces the idea, Chapter 2 justifies it and situates it in the existing body of knowledge. Chapter 3 is a blueprint of the study. When I say blueprint, I am being precise. I must plan every breath, every grunt, every fart. All this planning is starting to get tedious. The more specific I get, the more I want to just say F--k it, just let me wing it! It's qualitative, for gawd's sake. Another word for herding cats.

For a closet optimist I don't really put a lot of store in the future. I pretty much figure we're all going to hell in a handbasket (thus the name of this blog), that it's all hopeless, meaningless, and not a little ridiculous. Why plan for a future that will inevitably suck? But I must write a detailed plan for my dissertation study, as if there will be a tomorrow, and a tomorrow after that.

I rebel at the thought of having to follow a written plan. I'm a go-with-the-flow kind of gal. I'm the pot-stirrer who lobs a rock in the pot to see what will happen. I don't write up a hypothesis before I take an action and then dutifully measure the outcome. I just throw the rock (or the comment) and stand back to watch. This is how I run my classes. Some instructors prepare daily written lesson plans. The copy machine spits out these little gems of efficiency while I'm checking my mailbox. I turn away with a sigh. If only I were that dedicated. If only I cared. I know what chapter I'm supposed to cover, that's the best I can do. I just start asking them questions and let the process unfold. I don't check to see if they learned anything. That is what the test is for.

This morning I attended a Webinar on using “icebreakers” to help a class connect and learn. It was sort of fun. All my learning at the rinky-dink online school I attend has been asynchronous, meaning I have no real-time contact with anyone. There are no team projects. Everyone moves at his or her own pace, struggling through the assignments in isolation. Now and then someone will post a desperate plea in the discussion folder: Help! What is the ANOVA assignment all about? Can someone please explain statistics to me in brief and simple terms? So being online with 900+ other learners listening to some woman explain her PowerPoint show made me feel like I was riding something large, rocking along with a crowd of enthusiastic educators toward a bright and shiny future. These were people who really cared about teaching.

Not really my people. Another story for another day. My head is pounding in rhythm with my neighbor's bass line. I finally took pity on my cat, who is trying to sleep in the next room, and turned off New Order. Just like I have to write this dissertation proposal, planning in excruciatingly detailed every move I will make when and if the day comes I actually implement this study, just like that I have to bend over and take what the universe gives me today. Take two Advil and grab your ankles. This may hurt a bit.

Ear to the floor

There's a new noise to complain about at the Love Shack. It's a more or less continuous high-pitched whine, like a blow dryer or a dustbuster. At first I thought I was just hearing things. Getting old. Crazy person, overly sensitive to sound, self-diagnosed with misophonia, any little noise can grate on my nerves. Maybe it's just some kind of ringing in my ears, the kind of ringing that happened when I laid my head on my purring cat for too long. (Fun at first but not recommended.)

I put my ear to the wall between my apartment and my noisy neighbor. When she's home I can hear all kinds of things. I don't even have to try. I hear her blowing her nose. I hear her toilet flush. I hear her getting lucky on Saturday nights. (When the bed starts shaking, I'm tempted to pound on the wall, just for the hell of it.) This time I heard nothing. Hard to believe, but I don't think the noise is coming from her place. Unless her little dog is using the blow dryer to dry his short and curlies.

I made like an Indian, oh sorry, Native American, and put my ear to the floor. Amazing what you can hear when you do that. (If you don't mind getting cooties.) The floor was gently humming.

Was the noise in the basement? I got my laundry room key and went downstairs to have a look. The basement in this old triplex is mostly a dank, dark, unfinished cave. The laundry room is lit by two bare bulbs, festooned with spider webs, dust, and lint from years of tenants' laundry. It's cold in summer, colder in winter, not pleasant. The front side, though, is a different story. In the front of the triplex, a very steep driveway used to lead to a pair of very narrow garages, built for very narrow cars. Think Model T and you might have it. Some years ago someone bricked up the wall with glass bricks. The sun coming in through the bricks refracts the light, illuminating piles of furniture and boxes. (My landlords use the brightly lit front space for storage.) One of the old wooden garage doors is still in place, giving the place some authenticity.

I skulked through the basement, listening carefully while dodging spider webs and a smelly wetsuit (my noisy neighbor is a surfer, did I mention that?). All I heard was the usual cracking and sighing of an old crumbling shack. Nothing in the basement was making the whining noise, although I could still hear it. It was in the walls, in the floors, not loud, just an insidious whine that set my teeth on edge.

I heard it best in my bedroom and bathroom, which means it is probably something in my silent neighbor's apartment. Her name is Mary. I rarely see her. She's a ghost, compared to Joy, my neighbor on the other side (the one with the pooping dog). What is Mary doing over there?

Maybe it's a dentist's drill, maybe she's practicing to be a dental tech. No, maybe it's a hair dryer, maybe she had a stroke while sitting under a hair dryer and now she's a mummy, toasting in the heat while the dryer whines on and on. I know, maybe she's got a roombot! That would be cool. Except wouldn't the whining sound change as it bashed into walls and ran over shoes and stuff? I don't know. If I had a roombot, my cat would shred my favorite books, destroy my clothes, and then hide under the bed till next Christmas.

I have no idea if the whining is actually constant. I do leave the Love Shack once in a while. I don't know what happens when I'm gone. My cat could be watching porn for all I know. My cat could be in cahoots with my neighbor. With both my neighbors! To drive me crazy. Does that sound crazy? Well, whatever. After three days of the mysterious whine, one day I came home, and it was gone.

Then a few days later I got home, and it was back. Looks like I'd better learn to live with it. I'm trying. I've managed to set aside my curiosity about its source long enough to take my afternoon naps between morning and evening classes. I've written a note, in my mind, several notes, actually, something along the lines of: Dear neighbor, what is that odd sound, do you hear it? Is it perhaps coming from your apartment? If so, would you please SHUT IT OFF!

This weekend the noise is off. Not on. Whatever. I don't even know what makes the noise. Maybe it's my ears after all. Maybe it is a function of how much salt I eat, or how much sleep I get, or how addicted I am to Scandal. I don't know. I'm beginning to think the universe is testing me to find out how spiritually evolved I am. The doctoral saga. The career college meltdown. The dog poop. The whining noise.

On the bright side, my sister's boyfriend has surfaced in SE Asia and reports he is intact. She's ecstatic, despite winter storm Nemo burying Boston in two feet of wet snow. I'm happy for her. Love is a wonderful thing. So I hear. Hmmm. I'm not sure I can trust my ears on that, either. Oh well.

Hold the presses: I need to slow my chi down

Chi? I suppose I should write it as qi. Would you have a clue what I'm talking about? I don't, but apparently I need more houseplants. In the world of feng shui, the chi around my house shouldn't move too quickly, and a few fluffy fern-like things will do the trick. Except for the fact that I live in a cave. Hmmm. As I was flipping channels, I heard some commentators say ferns will slow down my chi, but they didn't say what to do if you live in a cave.

Well, living under boulders seems to be de rigeur these days. So maybe there's a plant that will restore my chi in the darkness of a cave dwelling. Chia pets, maybe.

I worked on my dissertation proposal this evening and got hopelessly bogged down in my study of systems thinking. I'm pretty good at finding sources, and very skilled at downloading them and saving them with meaningfully coded file names. I can do that all day long. I can even read them and highlight interesting bits of text with the cute little highlighter pen tool (if the pdf files are not too old and funky). But ask me to read critically and synthesize the bits of information into coherent observations that I can place strategically into my paper to support my argument... well, really, you are asking too much from this old parched brain.

Parched. Drink more water. Apparently, it will help your brain function better. I'm off to take a swig. Be right back. I'm back. It took longer than I anticipated, because first I had to re-fill my water bottle. Then I had to put on the teapot, because I decided tea would taste better than water, although I can't seem to find a tea that I really like, because I'm not doing dairy or soy or rice or almond or oat or hemp and without something white in it, black tea is so... robust. Then I had to give the cat a back rub. Then while I was choosing my tea flavor, he stole my chair, and I had to negotiate its return. So you can see what drinking water can lead to.

Several of the articles I reviewed tonight were written by Chinese scholars responding to a western author who is known for a lifetime of study of soft systems methodology. (You're like, soft what? I know, me too.) These Chinese guys are super-smart, even though their English isn't always so great. I can tell they really know how to parse a thought. I mean, they are analytical to the max, rambling for pages on the ontological and epistemological meanings of hard and soft systems methodologies as they discuss why Checkland is a loser. I'm like a pre-schooler next to these guys. But every now and then, they can surprise me. After several long erudite paragraphs about the nature of reality, one guy concluded, “If there is no commitment to realism, it will be a really bad thing.” I burst out laughing when I read that sentence. Yes! I totally agree! Ignoring realism is not a good thing. And I love how you say it so we can all understand it! Thank you, Mr. Wu (2010, p. 196).

I talked to my mother earlier tonight, during one of my many breaks. She described her trip to the store as a prowl. I like picturing my skinny little mother prowling. She's like the opposite of a prowler, of course. That is why it's so funny. Here's another funny story about my mother. My little brother (who lives near her) told me she had a run-in with a neighbor over some dog poop. Apparently my mother saw her neighbor's dog pooping somewhere it shouldn't have, and no one cleaned it up. So my mother bagged up the poop and took it over to the neighbor's condo, where she was preparing to hurl it over the fence onto her patio. Unfortunately for my mother, the neighbor caught her in the act. Busted!

Mom never told me this story, which indicates she either forgot (possible) or she was so embarrassed at getting caught that, in spite of my recent run-ins with a neighbor's dog poop, she chose not to tell me (more likely). I won't ask her about it. I don't want to embarrass her. But I like this feisty old mother of mine. She's pretty fun since my dad died. I think her chi is a lot better now. I guess being liberated from a half-century long semi-crappy marriage can do that to you. Plus she has a lot of houseplants.

I really stepped in it this time

There's nothing like stepping in dog poop to make you appreciate those easily overlooked moments when things are actually going pretty well. I was having a few of those moments. You know what I mean. Those mornings when you get up on time, and there's no cat barf to slow you down. When students show up and do their work without complaining. When computers work properly. When it snows prettily and doesn't stick to the roads. Those moments.

You're going along and going along, and everything seems tolerable. And then, blam, dog poop. You step in it. It happened to me on Thursday morning. Somewhere between my back door and my car, a landmine lurked, but I couldn't see it in the pre-dawn darkness. It wasn't until my heater kicked in while I was on the way to work that I smelled it. Then I knew I had stepped in it.

Luckily it's only a fifteen minute drive to work. When I parked my car, it was almost daylight. I opened the door and stepped out onto the pavement. A gloppy mess of poop covered the entire front of my left shoe, and not surprisingly, it was all over my clutch pedal. Agh. (I have an expression of eeewww on my face as I type this.)

I tried to wipe the mess off my shoe in the wet ivy that edged the parking lot, with mixed results. Better than nothing. I got out my spray bottle of white vinegar and sprayed my shoe and then my clutch pedal, trying to catch the stinky drips with paper towels. Once inside the building, I made a beeline for the restroom, where I washed my shoe under tepid water, trying not to breathe through my nose.

All morning I walked around school thinking, I'm tracking little invisible pellets of dog poop all over the carpet. When I found myself crossing my leg, I quickly put it down, for fear someone would see the muck in the tread of my shoe. I imagined the smell of dog poop wafting behind me like Pigpen's dust cloud. As I drove home for my mid-day nap, I breathed through my nose all the way, hyper-aware of my shoe on the filthy clutch pedal, permanently grinding the poop into the grooves.

When I got home I looked for the evidence of my mishap. It had rained hard and snowed, and I found nothing definitive, no skid mark, no telltale smashed pile. The path was clear, and believe me, I scrutinized it carefully. Nothing on the path itself, but the churned up grassy area right in front of my driver's door looked suspiciously mushy. The poop could have washed away into the dirt and grass, what was left of it, anyway: I inadvertently took most of it with me to work. Or I suppose someone could have cleaned it up.

Did the poop belong to my neighbor's dog? At the time, I wasn't positive. But now, today in the cold light of day, I found more poop in the same place. Little dinky poop, lots of it, almost like she encouraged her wretched little mutt to poop right there, right in front of my car door, right where I would be most likely to step in it. Could this be payback for the times I scooped the poop on the path and left it on her back steps? Could she be retaliating because late one night last week I pounded the floor with a hammer in a frustrated frenzy, hoping to get her to turn her music down? Does this mean... war? At the Love Shack?

Time for action. I spent some time composing a polite note. I posted it in the basement laundry room. I described my poopy experience and asked for help to find a solution. I didn't get mad. I didn't blame anyone. I tried to be both diplomatic and humorous. I'm not sure if I succeeded, though. You know how when you are really, really ticked, but you are trying to pretend like you aren't, and everything comes out sideways? This could be one of those times. Still, I intend to give my landsharks a copy of the letter. Might as well put it all on red.

I'm over it now. What can you do? The world is full of invisible poop. I mean, think about it. There's no way to know how much poop you stepped in during your day today. It could be everywhere: on your shoes, on the bottom of the wheely backpack you dragged along a sidewalk, on library books, on the vinyl seat at Denny's, on doorknobs, faucets, and coffee cup handles. Everywhere. Why bother to care? As you already know, we are screwed. See previous post about volcanoes, and then google Krakatoa.

On the bright side, my cat has been thoroughly entertained by all the new smells in my apartment.

Don't try that: Try this!

Winter is about slogging through. Winter is two steps back for every tiny step forward. Winter is sniffles, frigid feet, fogged spectacles, and layers of stifling fleece. I'm already whining and we haven't even had a proper freeze yet. The temperature gadget on my computer desktop says it is 52° in the Rose City today. But with the damp sinus, chill bone factor, I would rate it ten degrees colder. And wetter.

I'm just pissed off because I stepped in dog poop this morning as I bravely lugged my laundry to the basement. Drat that wretched little neighbor! And her accursed dog, too! Dang it, I'm starting to sound like the Wicked Witch of the West. Grrrrrrr. Where is my book of spells? Maybe I can cause her to fall out of bed every morning at 4:00 a.m.

Last night I politely knocked on the wall at 12:30 a.m., hoping she would hear it and stop her incessant pounding. Her dog barked like a fiend on the other side of the wall. Maybe I can rig up something to knock on the wall every hour during the night. Her dog will drive her insane. No evil spells needed.

It's finals week at the career college. What, again, I can hear you saying. Didn't you just complain about finals week? Yep. That was ten short weeks ago. And here we are again. Most students have kept up with the workload. They are cruising into this last week with a smug look on their faces, especially the ones who are graduating: the proud soon-to-be owners of an Associates of Applied Science degree in blablabla. Others, however, are freaking out. I actually had to fill out a drop form on a student last week: one week to go and she apparently has bailed. I recognize the syndrome. I'm guessing she suffers from the I'm too scared to graduate and face the world syndrome. Failure to launch. I predict she'll either quit school and get a job at McDonald's, or she'll come back next term and take the class over again. And quite possibly bail one week before the end.

I get it. School is a safe oasis in a big scary world. I'm the last person to judge. Haven't I spent the last seven years in graduate school? Don't I complain every other post about how terrified I am at the prospect of finishing? Is not one of my biggest fears the fear that I will sabotage my years of effort, waste my $50,000 investment, by quitting just before the finish line? Is not my second biggest fear the fear that, despite all this higher education, I will remain unemployable?

Wreckage of the future again, I know. You can't trust a Magic 8 Ball, that's for sure. Nor a horoscope. Nor a weather forecast. But one thing I know: it's great to have plastic shoes that can hose off with water. If that is all I have learned from my day of whining, well, maybe that's enough.

How to be thankful for an annoying neighbor

Hi, how was your Thanksgiving? Mine was awesome, thanks for asking. As you might expect, I am not a big fan of the holiday season. It's loud, smelly, inconvenient, and crowded, clearly not designed with the needs of a chronic malcontent in mind. However, I was thankful for a few things last Thursday. One was that I got to spend the day alone. How cool is that! I didn't even go outside of my apartment. The triplex was silent: no big parties going on at the Love Shack. I luxuriated in my solitude, like a happy speck of bacteria in a delicious petri dish. Yum.

What's that you say? I'm a dysfunctional, antisocial wackjob? Aw shucks. You only say that because you have an expectation of what Thanksgiving is for. For you (I'm guessing), Thanksgiving means warm connection and interaction with family and friends, maybe over a ritual meal involving a cooked bird whose butt is stuffed with mushy croutons. If you are really lucky you have alcohol flowing, and after the requisite gorging on pumpkin or pecan pie, you can loll around on the couch complaining about how much you ate while you watch Netflix on a big screen TV. SO much to be thankful for.

I, on the hand, having experienced many years of similar rituals (minus the warm connections and big screen TV), am utterly and fervently grateful that I don't have to do that anymore. For the record, let me just say in my defense, I was willing to take my mother out to eat, fighting the crowd at one of the more festive McMenamin's like we usually do. But good old mom was under the weather, so for my demonstration of willingness (I called her on the phone), I was given dispensation by the universe to spend the day as I pleased. And so I did. I spent the day revising my paper, and it was excellent.

I have good news to report on the status of my dissertation concept paper. A few more revisions and it might be ready to send on to the committee. Does that sound familiar? I think I've written those words before. I think what we are doing now is called polishing. My sister buoyed my spirits by reminding me that every time my chairperson returns my paper for more revisions, it does not mean my paper has been rejected. On the contrary, it means I am in the process of working with a competent editor to make the paper the best it can be.

It's so hard to focus. My neighbor is home. I feel like she's in my home. The air vibrates with the bass of her music. She stomps from one part of the place to another. Maybe she is dancing. Some kind of dance involving stomping. Maybe she's dancing like no one is watching. No, I think she may be rearranging her furniture. Well, who can blame her. That is one of the top ten most fun things to do. I can't do it now, because I'm packed in like a gasping sardine with all my books and binders, but I remember how much pleasure I used to get from a fresh room configuration. Now if I could just do that with my life.

Now she is sneezing. The roar comes through the wall, loud enough for me to feel compelled to say Gesundheit! Next will come the nose-blowing. It's classic Three Stooges nose-blowing, like a foghorn. I hear it best when she is in her tile-lined bathroom, where the echo is truly impressive. I fear for her brains.

I think she is in her bedroom closet now, just on the other side of where I sit at my computer. I hear thumping, shuffling, shoving, punctuated by sneezes. Wow, she must be stirring up a lot of dust. I can relate: That is how I react whenever I clean. Maybe she's doing her annual housecleaning. (Jeez, woman. Cover your mouth!) It's weird—even though I resent the hell out of her stomping and loud music, and even though I'd like to squash her wretched little pooping machine of a dog, I feel a strange sense of kinship with this vigorous young neighbor. Looks like we have something in common. I sneeze, too.

And there you have it, how to be thankful for annoying neighbors. Find the one minute, trivial thing you have in common and forget about all the reasons why you want to kill them. You can certainly be thankful you aren't in jail for beating them to death with their own stompy shoes. And if you do happen to be in jail for that crime or something similar, well, a roof, a bed, and three squares is a blessing some people would trade their citizenship for. So no more complaining about annoying neighbors! My new approach will be to bless her journey with love and kindness. I'm good with that. As long as I don't have to interact with her face-to-face.

The chronic malcontent suffers a bout of misophonia

Lots of noise in the apartment next door. At first I thought the Love Shack had been invaded by an elephant. I couldn't believe my landlords would rent to an elephant. But they've rented to nutcases and wackjobs, so why not elephants? Ok, whatever. When I finally laid eyes on the new tenant, I was surprised to see a young, not overly large female. She just sounds like an elephant. Which is so weird, because she has a tiny little poodle who is completely silent.

So far, the new neighbor, ironically named Joy, is bringing no joy into my life. She stomps around on her hardwood floors with what sounds like careless, reckless abandon, early in the morning, late at night. She has no rugs. And she plays her stereo. Oh my gosh, her stereo. The thumping bass vibrates the air in my apartment. I don't hear the song, just the bass. It's like the subwoofer on a teenager's car stereo...you can feel it from half a mile away, even if you can't hear the music. I can't get away from it, the pounding of my neighbor's bass. In the tub, on the john, in my bed, at my computer, the thumping is everywhere. Argh.

I met her briefly by chance in the parking lot.

“By the way,” I said, after we had introduced ourselves and after I had greeted Bismark, the silent black poodle, “the walls in our place are paper thin. I can hear the bass on your stereo sometimes. Do you think you could turn the bass down?”

She made some noises that indicated to me either she didn't know how, or she didn't care, or perhaps both. I didn't have a good feeling about it.

Sure enough, since then she's continued to be noisy. Plus, she lets her dog poop in the backyard in the dark. And she left her laundry in the dryer (well, to be honest, I do that too, and so has every other tenant in the nine years I've lived here. I guess I'll forgive her that transgression. But she didn't clean the lint trap!) To top it all off, she sneezes incessantly (does she know the Willamette Valley is the grass seed and hayfever capital of the world?), and then she blows her nose like a trumpet. Sneeze, blow, repeat. Did I mention she stomps? And she plays her damn stereo. In other words, she's alive.

Tonight I was trying to write my zombie concept paper, you know, that stupid paper that won't lay down and die. Stomp, stomp, bang, crash. Ok, she's got a zest for life, I thought to myself. One can hardly fault a girl named Joy for living enthusiastically. Then the stereo came on. I felt rage well up within me. It was too early to pound on the wall—I figure after 10:00 pm I'm within my rights to pound on the wall, three warnings and then I call the cops. But it was only 7:30 pm. The air vibrated with the bass. And I vibrated with fury.

So I did what any passive aggressive worth her salt would do. I turned on my stereo, set the bass to MAX, and let it rip. New Order crashed through the place like a tidal wave, surprising even me. (I hardly ever turn up the volume.) The cat left the room. I sat there for a minute, savoring the assault. Take that, you... you, loud neighbor, you! I couldn't write with that racket going on, so I got up and jogged in place for a couple minutes until I felt my frustration ebb away. Wow, I have a pretty good stereo system. That thing was loud.

Eventually I couldn't take it, and I turned it down. Naturally, the bass of her stereo was still throbbing under the bass of my stereo. Dueling stereos. Defeated, I turned the thing off and plugged in the headphones of my mp3 player. I knew she would win. I have misophonia. I'm at a disadvantage. I could turn it up full blast, and she probably wouldn't care. She probably can sleep through anything. She probably doesn't mind if someone chews gum near her, or eats an apple, or crunches crunchy snacks in her classroom, or unwraps a crackly candy wrapper.... no, I bet none of those things drive her insane. Me, I'm a basket case, a cranky, snippy, snarky chronic malcontent. No wonder people think I'm a misanthrope. I don't hate you, really. I just can't stand the noise you make.

Where can I go where it's quiet? Sometimes I want to puncture my ear drums. But I'd still feel it, the relentless pounding of her stereo. Someday I'll find my cave, my desert shack, my battered RV, my little piece of peace and quiet. And if sweet Joy suddenly turns up dead, stuffed in the dryer, well, all I can say is, I wasn't in my right mind, and anyway, she deserved it.