Busy getting something done

Do I exist? I'm beginning to doubt my identity. Google certainly does, and I'm pretty sure Google runs the world, so it's no wonder I am starting to think I need a verification code every time I do something, just to make sure it's me doing it and not some hacker from Podunk. I blog every week, you'd think Google would catch on, but no, something shifted in the alignment of the planets and suddenly Google is asking me to verify my identity. Are you really who you say you are? Is anyone, really? How would you know? 

You might scoff but I don't take Google for granted. I've been locked out of two Google properties simply because I can't verify my identity. There's no reasoning with Google, because there is no one there at Google. The company consists of a bunch of bots, rolling up and down aisles night and day blowing dust off servers. You could go and knock on the door, but even if someone came to let you in, you'd still have to prove you are you. What do you mean you don't have that phone number anymore? Don't you know your phone number is more precious than your social security number? No, I didn't know that. Too late for me.

So now I question my existence.

When I used to teach business classes at a career college a long time ago, I ran across a concept that haunts me still: the idea of efficiency versus effectiveness. I think I was the only person really floored by the idea that I could appear to be super busy but never do anything worthwhile. 

I can spend my days doing the things on my calendar task list, showing up for appointments, fulfilling my volunteer service commitments, paying my bills, maintaining my body and my car . . . and the things I think are important don't get done because they don't make it onto my task list. It's an insidious form of self-sabotage, to avoid acknowledging that things I care about don't get the attention they deserve. Whatever they are, doesn't matter. Some things are hard to do, and so I avoid doing them. 

Some people are very effective. They use their time wisely, they manage their resources well, and they accomplish the tasks that are important to them. Other people are very busy getting nothing done. I think I'm somewhere in the middle, most of the time. I ponder this conundrum while I'm watching Facebook videos of baby sloths being rescued by kind humans and returned to their smiling sloth mothers. Baby deer stuck in a fence, rescued by kind human and his companions with smartphones. Baby monkey stuck in a pond. Baby elephant in a hole. Baby moose stuck in the rapids, heading over the falls, oh no. Facebook has my number, for sure. And how many of those videos were taken by humans who created the dire situation and then filmed themselves coming to the rescue? Oh, cynical me. 

I was thinking today as I was riding my bike around the mobile home park in the dark that it really doesn't matter what I do, or if I do anything at all. Effective or efficient, who cares? Nobody cares. I'm not being tested. I'm not being surveilled. Nobody is counting the diminishing words in my vocabulary and going, she lost ten more words this week, assisted living, here she comes. It's kind of a relief to realize as long as I pay my bills, nobody will chastise me if I choose to do nothing. 

It's called retirement, I guess. I've been retired in my mind my entire life. I was born retired. That is, I was born believing I should be allowed to do what I want whenever I want, and that includes the privilege of doing nothing at all. You can imagine how well that has worked out. 

The sunset tonight was astounding. Wish you were here, Mom. 

The unicorn head is somewhat worse for wear but still grinning

Yesterday I braved impending wind and rain to slog around the reservoir. It wasn't terribly cold; I had no good excuse to stay home except the gray clouds piling up in the sky. As I scurried around the half-mile track, I noticed the north cell of Reservoir No. 6 had been drained for cleaning. A layer of mud coated the bottom, and crows and ducks were digging for tasty tidbits in the muck. In my typical oblivious fashion, though, I failed to notice the item lying on the mud in one far corner of the reservoir. Yep, it was my old friend, the severed unicorn head.

I wrote about this remarkable object last January. Back then, I posted a photo of the creepy thing on my Facebook page. The next time I walked around the reservoir, the plastic head was gone; I assumed some vigilant park ranger had managed to snag the head and drag it out of the water. Apparently that is giving too much credit to our over-burdened park budget. Now it is clear the head filled with water and sank, bobbed along the bottom over the ensuing months, and fetched up in the mud, still grinning. I posted another photo of it to document the event, more evidence that plastic does not decay, even when shaped like a unicorn head.

I relate to that unicorn head in the sense that I am feeling somewhat worse for wear but still grinning. Despite the cold wet spring, despite the lack of editing jobs, despite my mother's continued decline into dementia, I continue to show up for my life. I won't say I do it skillfully and some parts aren't pretty, but I haven't given up, even though sometimes I feel buried in mud to my chin.

I've started visiting the maternal parental unit every evening. I never know what I will find. Last week she was sitting outside when I arrived. She knew me, but not how she planned to get back into the building, considering the door gets locked at 5 pm. This week I found her in the hall. Some of her less demented peers were trying to help her figure out something. Mom was missing her upper dentures. Have you seen a loved one with no teeth? She certainly looked different. I found myself thinking of Granny Clampett and later realized I was humming the Beverly Hillbillies theme song.

Mom has lost seven pounds in five months. Now she weighs the same she weighed when she moved to the place one year ago: 96 pounds. Apparently weight loss can change the fit of a person's dentures. I made an appointment to take her to the dentist.

Mom had a successful trip to the dentist to get the upper plate realigned. By successful I mean she had no accidents and didn't die in the chair. The dentist prescribed a saline rinse twice a day. When I visited Mom the next day, I found a cup of salt on her counter. She pointed to it. “Someone left that here,” she said. I looked at it and figured out it was salt. It seemed clear to me at that point that the staff at the care center assumed Mom was capable of measuring half a teaspoon of salt into warm water, taking out her upper dentures, rinsing her mouth several times, and spitting out the salty water in the sink. Well, you know what happens when we assume.

We managed a partial rinse, and another one last night, before I called it good on the saline rinse. When I asked her, “Does your mouth hurt now?” she said no. I left the salt on the counter, though. Argh. I should not have done that.

Last night we sat outside, her smoking and me trying to dodge the smoke. I noticed she wasn't wearing socks. She didn't seem to care. She was more concerned that her cigarette holder was almost empty. When she was done smoking, I called for someone to let us back into the building. We made it back to her room. I got her some socks, which she managed to put on successfully. She couldn't figure out how to refill her cigarette holder. For the first time in my life, I opened a pack of cigarettes.  I was surprised to see those packs hold a lot of cigarettes.

As we were sitting on the couch, Mom pointed to the little box on the coffee table that her hearing aids came in. “What about that?” she said. The box was empty. I looked at her ears. No hearing aids. Yipes. I went over to her bedside table. Yep, there they were. Whew. $4,600 worth of electronics. I helped her put them in, silently berating myself for not noticing their absence.

I walked her through the process of sitting on the couch, taking off her shoes, putting her feet up, and covering herself with blanket. “What do I do now?” she said, looking up at me.

For a moment I was at a loss. Then I thought, what would I tell a two-year-old?

“Watch TV. Sleep if you can. I'll see you tomorrow.”

Last night I took a bath to relax before bed. Suddenly my right ear began to ring with a shrill tone. It didn't stop. My head felt lopsided. I was half-deaf in my right ear. With visions of urgent care in my mind, I squirted some nasal spray up my nose and went to bed, hoping for the best. Sometime during the night my ear cleared. I woke grateful to feel my old friend vertigo (three year anniversary this month) rush in to challenge my morning balance. Here's me, still grinning.

Wearing our blue collars on our sleeves

While I wait for my hemorrhoidal printhead to dry from a deeper cleaning than recommended by the manufacturer (a sitz bath in warm water), I have some time to reflect on the latest reconnaissance into the world of retirement community living. Hooboy. I got a few words for you people: Don't get old.

Today the scrawny maternal parental unit (my mother) and I wended our way to the surprisingly charming suburb of Milwaukie, where we had an appointment with a marketing person at a sprawling complex overlooking the Willamette River. We waited in the comfortable waiting area/library. I enjoyed the view out the huge windows: green grass, resting Canadian geese, and blue sky. My mother circled impatiently back and forth between me and the front desk, eye on the clock, until suddenly we heard a voice calling her name. A former neighbor from the condo, whom I had never met, was shuffling toward us from the elevator.

Mom was thrilled to be recognized by a resident of the establishment. They embraced like old chums. “Keeta, this is my daughter,” Mom said, and added as an afterthought, “and my caregiver,” which evoked a sideways look at me from Keeta and conjured up images of me emptying bedpans and fixing toasted cheese sandwiches. (Not going to happen.)

Keeta had moved to the retirement place a couple months previously and claimed to be ecstatic about her new digs. I could see Mom looking hopeful. A moment later, the marketing gal arrived: Meg. Tall, long brown hair, tight skirt, long beige cardigan, big feet in mid-height heels. Big smile. She told us she was a replacement for the usual marketing person, who was on a well-deserved vacation. I don't know what she did before, but I'm guessing it wasn't sales: Immediately, she goofed. She led us to her air conditioned office, invited us to sit at a round conference table, and showed us the price list.

“Coming to live here is like buying into membership at a country club,” she said. My mother stared at her, waiting, for what, I don't know—a sudden laugh to indicate the woman was joking? Even though the numbers were on a nicely designed sheet right in front of us, it took us a moment to catch our breath. Country club living is not really on our radar. We've been to some weddings at country clubs, that's the extent of our interaction with the golfing/country club jet set.

“The smallest studio unit will cost about $58,000 to buy in, plus about $1,600 per month,” Meg said with the air of a person who has no idea that what she just said indicates she comes from a completely different planet in the solar system. Maybe you could call it the White Collar Planetary System. “A one-bedroom in the main building will start at about $120,000,” she went on. My mother sat silent, staring at the prices, which only went up from there. I was thinking, where are the places for the failed losers from the Blue Collar Outcast Asteroid Belt?

“What do my friends in the Plaza pay? They have a patio,” my mother whined.

“We don't have any units available in the Plaza,” Meg said chattily. “But if one came open, it would be about $220,000 to buy in, plus about...” At that point, I zoned out, boggled by the zeros.

During the ensuing lull, I asked, “Can we look at some units?” in a slightly squeaky voice. Might as well see what we will be missing, I thought. Before we slink out the door tripping on our own tails.

Meg willingly took us on a tour of three different units, all in the main building. She strode ahead of us, not talking, long legs swishing in her tight brown skirt. I wondered what she did when she wasn't filling in for the marketing guy. She was dressed like a salesperson, but acted like anything but. Oddly, though, she wasn't apologetic. Nor did she seem to begrudge us the time. I got my clue when she asked, “Do you have time for lunch today?” I wondered if all she wanted was the free food. Crass of me, I know.

The first unit we looked at was a mess, recently vacated, a meandering layout consisting of a living room with attached kitchen, a den, two bathrooms, and a long hallway leading to a bedroom. It was nice enough, but way too much space for one scrawny little old lady intent on not cooking. No patio. I could tell my mother really wanted her tiny patio, and I know why: She's trapped by her addiction to cigarettes. Even though smoking is not permitted anywhere on the grounds, I could tell by the way she didn't look at me that she thought she could sneak a smoke if she just had her own little patio.

The next unit we looked at was a one-bedroom with a great view of green grass, swirling water, and the big houses on the other side of the river. The room was “styled” with upscale decorations completely unlike anything my mother owns. Pleather couch, glass coffee table, glazed dish of rocks. So not like my mother's 1980s floral couch, worn watermelon-colored velour chairs, and Home Depot area rug.

“Can we see something smaller?” I asked. We hiked the hallways to look at a studio. It was cozy, but better than many places I've lived. A huge black wood entertainment center filled one wall.

“This comes furnished,” Meg said, and reached up to pull down what turned out to be a Murphy bed platform. My mother's eyes just about rolled up in her head. I could see the thought bubble hovering: Is this what it comes down to, pulling my bed down from a horrible black entertainment center?

Finally, we went in to lunch in the dining room, a lovely large space, light-filled, windows on three sides, and a spectacular view of the river. I took the seat facing the view. I could have stared out that window at green grass and blue sky all afternoon. A magnolia tree just outside was setting enormous purple blossoms. I could see why people wanted to live there.

Mom ordered half a turkey sandwich and ate about a third of it. The marketing gal ordered the turkey and arugula wraps. Feeling adventurous, I ordered the tofu sandwich, which I discovered to my chagrin was two tiny pieces of fried tofu with some shredded carrot and radishes on two over-sized pieces of sourdough bread. It was the strangest combination of food I have seen lately, apart from what I fix in my own kitchen, I mean. I quickly figured out it was best to eat the tofu and condiments separately from the bread. Four bites, I kid you not, and my plate was empty. I assume I'll eat like a bird when I get to my mid-80s, if I live that long, but meanwhile, I think anyone would agree, I am a healthy eater. Walking out of the dining room, I was feeling the worst of combinations: heart flutterings from wheat and sugar (in the sauce on the bread) ...and hunger.

Meg led us back to the front entrance and took her leave, saying in a half-hearted manner, “I really think this would be a good fit for you.” My mother and I politely thanked her for lunch and sped for the door. Even before we set foot outside, my mother said in her deep, smoker's voice, “Well!” and I knew we were in agreement. Not the right place for Mom.

My printer appears to still have hemorrhoids. Darn it. What fresh hell is this, first my old Ford Focus, now my old Canon printer? Argh. Plus yesterday my landlord raised my rent (don't tell Mom). Do I have a sign on my back that says Kick me, I can't get up, I'm a blue collar loser? Feels like it. Apples... trees... it's never enough, no matter how far I try to run.

My mom took my groove thang

The fog burned off to reveal an unusually balmy January day, perfect for touring potential retirement communities. (Not for me, for my mother! Argh, what are you thinking! I'm not even 60!) I picked my mother up at 10:45 this morning; she was outside waiting for me. She climbed nimbly into the passenger seat, wearing black slacks and a bright red fleece jacket. Her pockets were stuffed with her stuff: keys, cigarettes, lighter, wallet, used tissues. She was ready to go.

Our destination was a nearby retirement community that takes up about three city blocks in SE Portland near the MAX transit rail line. Some of the place consisted of regular apartments, some apparently was assisted living and memory care units. We were going to look at the independent living apartments.

We finally found street parking a block away. My mother navigates curbs warily, but otherwise she is a steady and determined walker. I trotted along in her wake to the lobby. She'd been to the place before to visit friends so she knew exactly where we were going.

Inside the front lobby we met Doug, the senior placement advisor I found on the Internet, and Kerrie, the marketing coordinator for the facility. Doug was tall, middle-aged, exuberantly gray-haired and wore a name tag on a lanyard around his neck. He looked like a chubby basketball coach. The marketing person was an energetic mid-40s woman with fluffy whitish-blonde hair like a bubble around her face.

“Hi, Welcome to the X Retirement Community!” she said enthusiastically shaking my hand. I noticed she had clear braces. I wish they had had clear braces in my day. “I'm Kerrie. Let's go have lunch and then I'll take you on the tour!”

She led the way down a brightly lit hall toward a archway, over which was a sign designating the space beyond as the dining room. “This is our dining room!” she said proudly. The room was large, but not cavernous, more like a group of rectangles and squares configured into one space. It was just past 11:00 am, so many tables were empty. There was plenty of light, and the chairs were on wheels.

My mother and the marketing gal both ordered the Chinese chicken salad. I ordered a cheese omelette with bacon. Doug the senior placement guy ordered a gardenburger. The food was a long time coming, but there wasn't a lack of things to talk about, with two marketing people at the table (I'm not counting me). I didn't have to say much. Mom wasn't shy: She bragged about her four kids (“My kids are so smart!”). She told them about her stint as a young scrub nurse for a mean doctor (“He threw a bloody sponge at me!” she said indignantly, and added, “He was Jewish.”) Cue eye roll.

Finally the food arrived. Not the worst omelette I've ever had, but definitely not inspired. Compared to the first retirement place we toured, though, I'd give it five stars. Authentic edible food. Good sign.

After the free lunch, the marketing gal led us up and down elevators and along long hallways to show us the amenities: laundry rooms, libraries, game rooms, dance floor, gym with personal trainer, hair salon, garden courtyard with fire pit, hot tub, two restaurants and a cafe (with tiramisu!), and a bar with a big screen TV.

Then we invaded the apartment of a genial geriatric named Yvonne, who was happy to show her one-bedroom apartment to us in exchange for free meal tickets to share with her seven children. I hesitated in the kitchen area, loathe to walk on her light beige carpet with my dirty outdoor shoes.

“Go on,” Yvonne said. “I do it all the time.” I looked at her feet and saw she was wearing slippers. I took my shoes off and took the rest of the tour in my socks. As I shuffled through her living room, bedroom, bathroom, and back to the kitchen, my eyes slid off the knick knacks of her life: photos, her desk, her perfectly made bed, her wall decorations, her shower and sink, and her well-organized closets. My mother boldly examined every detail, every closet, and especially the bathroom.

“I would really miss a bathtub,” she said with doubt in her voice. The marketing gal immediately jumped in. “I know what you mean, I would die without my Epson salt bath every night!” I looked askance at her. She plunged on, “We have a huge spa that might work for you!” She proceeded to remind us about the hot tub, a communal pool of warm water and bubbly jets in the next building. My mother looked skeptical.

Despite her misgivings about the lack of tub, by the time we exited into the hallway, my mother and Yvonne were arm in arm. It was charming. I think my mother was trying to imagine herself living there, making new friends. She's a chummy extrovert; it's like breathing to her to embrace a total stranger. I think when a person is over 80, they automatically become family. At least compared to young almost 60-somethings like me, who of course cannot be trusted. (Hey, eeew, I'm older than the president!)

Next we looked at a studio apartment and then we went back to the marketing woman's office to talk prices. First the tour, then the sales pitch. My butt was dragging a bit, but Mom still seemed pretty chipper.

We sat around a cramped table in a tiny conference room. Kerrie pulled out a folder of papers. She took a breath and dove in: “The one-bedroom apartment that we looked at is $2,650,” she said, “but it didn't have a balcony. I think you would really want a balcony. The narrow balconies are an extra $25 per month, the wider ones are an extra $50 per month. Plus if you keep your car, it's another $40 per month. And there's a one-time move-in fee of $1,500. And a refundable deposit of $1,000 to get on the waiting list. But you get a $300 meal credit per month to use at either of the restaurants or the cafe.”

We sat quietly for a long moment. I watched Kerrie watching my mother.

“We also have a special studio apartment that is more like a hotel room, with just a little kitchen area,” she said. “People sometimes move into that studio to wait until a bigger unit becomes available. That runs only $1,450 per month, and you get a $500 meal credit because you don't have a full kitchen.”

When it became clear that we weren't committing to anything right then, the conversation trailed off. Doug walked us up the street to our car, reassuring us the whole way that he was happy to show us more places, just let him know when we were ready.

“We need to figure out the money,” I said.

“I understand,” he replied, shaking my hand. He drove off in his little Toyota Prius, and my mother and I drove off in my old Ford Focus, which I guess can officially be classified as a beater, now that it is terminally ill. “Maybe this whole process will give you some ideas for when the time comes for you to move into a retirement home,” she said. I nodded, thinking, yeah, driving off a cliff before that time comes seems like a viable option. Or a bottle of Jack and some pills. I didn't say that, of course. I know she worries about who will take care of her children—we have no children to take us on tours of nursing homes.

As we drove home to her condo, my mother said, “That place is too posh for me.”

So, there you have it. My mother is now officially Goldilocks. The first place wasn't good enough for her, this place is too good. I hope the next place will be just right. After dropping her off, I went home and collapsed. Who knew this whole moving mom thing would turn out to be such an energy suck? I can't find my own life now, I'm so caught up in hers. I guess I'll watch TV and try on other people's lives for a while, until I can move back into my own skin.

My resentment slip is showing again

I had a 20-minute chat with my new dissertation chair this week, before all the end-of-term madness began. She actually called me. If there was any doubt before, right there you can tell she's not an adjunct. Adjuncts expect you to call them. Of course, makes perfect sense. They don't get paid extra for talking to students on the phone. Or via email for that matter, which is probably why I received communication from the previous chair that I would describe as both terse and sparse.

This new chair, let's call her Dr. C, sounds like a real firecracker. A regular pistola. Judging by her photo, she's half my age, and five times as peppy. I didn't have to say much; she did all the talking. I took notes like the good student that I am, and watched the next year and a half of my life get sucked down the drain.

Yep. Looks like this is going to take a lot longer than I thought.

She was properly sympathetic that my concept paper, submitted to the University with zero feedback from my former chair (I picture Dr. G. dusting off her hands with satisfaction at having passed the problem on to higher committee) has been kicked back to me with a “re-submit.” No big surprise, I guess. I have been blundering around out in the back forty for quite awhile now. Yuck. That's a disturbing metaphor. You know what happens to critters who blunder around out in the back forty. Yep. Hamburger.

Still, Dr. C. seems like a good egghead. She said she's a methodologist. I don't care what she calls herself. I can get along with all kinds of people. Wait. What? Oh, a methodologist! Considering my current approach is grounded theory, I'm sure she will have a lot to say. Oh boy. I feel another bout of inadequacy coming on. Deep breath. I told myself when I started the dissertation sequence that I was going to treat my chairperson as my client, do whatever it takes to please the client, you know—the old the-customer-is-queen ploy that marketers use to make you feel so special you want to reciprocate (i.e., buy things). I'm going to make this process so easy for her, she will feel like her pay-per-hour just doubled.

Ugh. Thinking of pay-per-hour just got me really depressed. My original vision of teaching online for a not-for-profit university has been pretty well shattered by now, what with the reports of poor treatment of adjuncts and the deep-seated mistrust of for-profit education. So much for retiring to an internet-connected adobe hut in the California desert. The hut probably is attainable, although I fear it will be made of cardboard rather than adobe. The California desert, though, is starting to feel like an impossible dream from my earlier, stupider days. Well, at least I learned something from this six-year-long, $45,000 journey into higher education.

It's cool to be old!

Even though I haven't yet received the thumbs-up on my concept, I'm forging ahead with the dissertation proposal. Some of the proposal material is just recycled concept paper material: the problem and purpose statements and the research questions. A minute ago I was working on the outline for the literature review section. I hit a wall. My brain veered off in another direction, my eyes followed, and on my desk I saw the envelope I received from AARP today.

If you are under 40, you may not know what AARP is. Nor should you. AARP is for old people—like me. At least, that is how it feels. I started receiving letters from AARP about two weeks before I turned 50, and they haven't let up since. They are a relentless marketing machine, cranking out their fake plastic cards with frightening efficiency. I fear, though, that they have no idea how their marketing campaigns are being received.

Hello, AARP! Marketing 101: know your customer. All AARP knows about me is that I'm over 50. They don't care who I am, what I'm like, or how little or how much I enjoy the prospect of growing old. (Does anyone actually enjoy the prospect of growing old? Can you picture a 30-year-old sighing and saying, “Gosh, I can't wait until I turn 50!”? No, I can't either.) If AARP bothered to ask, they would know three things about me. One, I may be 55, but I act like I'm about 12, ergo, I'm not old. Two, I don't care about getting discounts on places like Disney World, because (a) I have no time for vacations, and (b) all my disposable income goes to pay tuition. Three, the idea of receiving a magazine sporting denture-wearing, white-haired, trail-hiking seniors on the cover makes me want to hurl. Dentures are stupid, white hair should be colored or pulled out by the roots, and who has time for hiking when retirement is an impossible dream? Get real, AARP.

“Our records show you haven't yet registered, even though you are fully eligible.... Your admission is guaranteed as long as you're 50 or over.” Oh brother. I know marketing-speak. Let me translate for you. “You are fully eligible” means You are old and “Your admission is guaranteed” means you are getting older by the minute, so better register now before you drop dead and it's too late. Argh, AARP! Rub it in, why don't you. Can't you think of a better way to recruit?

AARP, you gotta make it seem cool to be old. Your product has a perception problem, because you've positioned yourself as a service for old people. Nobody wants to admit they are getting old, certainly not the eternally young baby boomers. If you don't believe me, just check out the clientele shopping at Forever 21. We will be pretending right up to the end. I shed tears when Davy Jones died, for god's sake. I'll always be about 12. OK, so that's 12 in dog years, but you get my drift. I'm not going gracefully into this dark night. My butt may be dragging on the ground when you haul me to the nursinghome, and my voice may be thin and screechy, but I'll still dress like a nut and demand internet and organic vegetables. Because that is who I am, AARP, and growing old is just going to make me more me!

Take a little advice from a perennial student of marketing, AARP. Put some wackjobs, weirdos, and freaks on your magazine covers. Offer discounts to places like the 24 Hour Church of Elvis and Darcelles. Don't scare me by talking about social security—I know it won't be enough for me to live on. Tell me instead about how great it is to finally not care what anyone thinks about me. Tell me that I can finally say what I want, dress how I want, and eat what I want. Tell me it's cool to live alone, to go to college, to make art, to just say no to cosmetic surgery—and cosmetics! I want to be part of “the vanguard of a movement to change the way society looks at and deals with growing old.” You can do it, AARP. If you need some copywriting help, I'm available. I'd even pose for a cover, although I draw the line at showing skin. Just so you know.

Eat, poop, complain: the chronic malcontent shares again

Spring is here, but you wouldn't know it. Typical Pacific Northwest spring. Snow, hail, rain, wind, and the occasional fleeting sunbreak just to taunt us into leaving the house without an umbrella. Actually true Oregonians don't bother with umbrellas, did you know that? Umbrellas just blow inside out, or get left in cafes and buses. I had a really nice one when I was in college (the first time around), huge and striped yellow, red, blue, and white like a loud golf umbrella, the kind of umbrella that would belong to a golfer who would step right in your line on the green and laugh about it. Left it on the 19 bus, I think, or in the Portland State library. Now I don't bother, who cares, it's just water. On some level, I must deserve to get sopping wet. Otherwise I would drag up and move to Palm Springs.

There is more than just the weather to complain about when one is a chronic malcontent. This week, while I wait for the mysterious committee to reject my concept paper, I'm back to bitching about the basics: I'm female and 55. Need I say more? Every stupid stereotype about aging females is true. I won't dwell on the particulars except to say that I expect to show up to work in the very near future sporting a luxurious mustache on my upper lip. Be sure to watch for that.

More of my life lies behind me than lies in front of me. I'm feeling pretty inadequate. Most people by the time they join AARP can reel off a list of accomplishments: a career, some real estate, an SUV or two, maybe a couple of mostly grown kids, a spouse or two or three, a 401K. Soon, they will be enjoying retirement in a 40-foot Winnebago with their significant other/soulmate, heading for an all-amenities-included campground in Sedona. These people did everything in the right order: college, career and family, then retirement. They zipped through time like a speedboat, crossing the ocean of life in a straight line. They didn't dawdle, they didn't detour. They got the job of working done, and now they get to live the American dream.

I didn't cut through time like a speedboat. My path has been more like an old lumbering wooden trawler, weighed down by barnacles and bottom feeders (AKA my relationships). My career boat wandered from port to port and foundered any number of times trying to steer around the rocks of commitment. Each time I abandoned ship: When you don't have a career, every job is a temp job. When I look back at my wake, I don't see a graceful symmetrical fan spreading out behind me. I see a wobbly, wavering path littered with the flotsam and jetsam of my erratic life.

When I look ahead, the only RV I see in my future is a broken down bus or conversion van, parked in some  dusty campground where it ran out of gas. Actually, as long as it is warm and dry, that doesn't sound too bad.