The deadly season is approaching

After an interminable week of debilitating pain, it seems my clenched jaw has finally relaxed. What a relief. There's a thing called TMJ, who knew. Like TMI, but a lot more painful. My cheekbones are dented from my desperate attempts to grind my fingers into the pressure points (I learned that on Dr. YouTube). Pressing on the jaw hinge was a bad idea, I discovered. However, kneading my cheekbones as if my face was made of bread dough really helped relieve the tension. A twice-daily ibuprofen also helped. I'm happy to say, last night was my first night sleeping without a pill. 

In other news, last night was also my first night sleeping on my new camping mattress. I think I described my trip to the Phoenix foam store, how I asked for the firmest foam they had. Well, I got firm, all right. Maybe too firm. It's just one level softer than concrete, far as I can tell. On the upside, the 4-inch slab is good for sitting. On the downside, as a sleeping mattress, it is unforgiving to my arthritic hip. Today I caved and bought a foam topper at Walmart. I may be a stoic but I'm not a masochist. 

Speaking of masochists, I continue my headlong hurdle toward the edge of my personal housing cliff. In anticipation of my impending free fall, my friends and family are sending me Wikipedia links to Arizona towns they think might suit me. I dutifully check them out. Safford, Globe, Payson, Coolidge, Eloy. Lot of cool names. Like any place, each town has pros and cons. Too small, too hot, too cold, too near fire danger, too near a federal prison . . . But lots of interesting history, if you like mining. 

The thing about parking yourself in one place is you are stuck there. I don't know how you live, maybe you go out all the time, but me, I'm prone to hunkering in my burrow, immersed in my isolation. Being alone is my happy place. However, if the burrow I have rented is too hot, too cold, too noisy, too expensive, or otherwise not suitable, then picking up and moving to another burrow is not easy. I know this from experience.

Not so when your burrow is your car.

My generous friends in Scottsdale, the ones with the little dog, apparently feel bad that I might be living in my car for a while. This summer they have trips planned to exotic places. Would I like to take care of the small furry creature while they are gone? Of course, I said yes. I love that little dog, and the house has all the mod cons (plus, the pool got fixed). Lots of reasons to say yes. 

However, when I'm living in someone else's space, I am not inhabiting my own. You might think, oh, vacation, how nice. That is not how I see it. I see myself as neither guest nor employee, but some third thing. Friend, maybe, but a friend who is willing to leave half her life in her car in order to be at the beck and call of a dog and so my friends can enjoy their trips knowing the dog will be well loved. How they can leave their dog for so long is beyond my comprehension, but that's just me. I miss my cat daily.

Another drawback to saying yes to dogsitting is the season. Summer in Phoenix is brutal. In fact, summer is life threatening. It is not possible to live in a car during the summer in Phoenix. Activities are constrained to early morning. The rest of the time, except for brief excursions to the back yard to make sure the dog pees, I have to stay indoors. I tell myself, I will get a lot of writing done. I will get a lot of dog love (and we all know that will be good for a person with early stage heart failure). But I will be stuck in Phoenix at a time when anyone with the means to leave does.

Where would I be if I weren't in Scottsdale? Camping in the national forest outside of Flagstaff with all the other van life nomads, finding sunny places to set out my solar panels and listening to the wind riffle the tall pines.

Dog love or tall shady trees? 

Dog days

I seem to have become a commodity among an underground network of neighborhood dog owners who need a dogsitter. I picture these dog owners talking on the phone: A friend of ours . . . do you want me to ask? Maybe she will . . . And I'm like, okay, I guess, whatever. Let's meet and see if your dog likes me.

So far, in addition to the dog I'm sitting now, I've met a big dog named Juno and a medium big dog named Maya. Both dogs in their earlier years probably could have dragged me off my feet and into the underbrush in pursuit of whatever lizard or rabbit or bird happened to capture their attention. Now, these dogs are old, weary, and slow, with gray muzzles and hitches in their gitalongs. I probably could walk them if they could walk, but they can't, not very well, so the dogsitting job consists of feeding them whatever weird food they require for their sensitive stomachs and letting them out to relieve themselves in the backyard, where the landscaper picks up the piles of poop.

This place (Scottsdale) is so weird. So is this life, come to think of it.

You probably remember, I'm a cat person. You've never heard me mention a dog, unless it was my brother's dog. These dog owners have kids but they don't seem to have cats. I'm not sure why, although I suspect it has something to do with their fear of cat stink in their homes. I try to be understanding, but it confounds me that they would choose to have dogs that need walking when they live in a desert city that regularly achieves 110°F in the summer. I mean, I ask you. Wouldn't you rather scoop a few turds out of a litter box than walk a dog at oh-dark thirty every morning? 

I like dogs well enough. I've met a few in my time. In addition to a zoofull of cats, my brother in Portland has raised up a succession of dogs: Ireland, Jack, Lola, Lucy, and now Maddie. I might have missed one or two. We never had dogs when we were growing up, though, so I don't know how he figured out it would be fun to have a dog. Maybe it's because he lives in a high-crime area. In that case, a watch dog makes sense.

Here in this weird enclave in Scottsdale, people leave their doors unlocked. I know. Shocking. I would never, not my door, not anyone's door, but clearly, I don't trust my neighbors . . . or anyone else, really, now that I think of it, probably because I know some people who cannot be trusted. Hm. I never, not if I'm going further than the twenty paces to the trash bin. The way my luck goes sometimes, the one random day some random hungry drug addict-type dude tests the unlocked door and helps themself to some chow (and our laptops), the blame naturally would fall on me. 

So, no. Never. Maybe it's because I used to live in downtown Los Angeles. Anyway, don't assume, that's my motto. My other motto is, if you can't be bothered to lock it up, don't complain later when it's gone. Clearly, the Universe thought someone else needed that thing more than you needed it.

Of course, locking up is no guarantee of security. A determined intruder will intrude no matter how loudly this anxious little chihuahua-poodle screams. However, it's kind of reassuring (and entertaining) to have a four-legged alarm system. Homeland security to the rescue! Trash truck, look out! Smaller dog walking by, beware, could be trouble! I try to offer praise. Dogs take their job seriously, and I want them to know I appreciate their dedication. I've known some cats who were pretty good, but dogs really have honed homeland security to a fine art. 

I'm feeling somewhat untethered these days, so it's good to have a focus. Centering my life on a dog is not a bad thing, especially if I am lucky enough to be able to stay in a lovely air-conditioned house with a washing machine that looks like it could launch me into outerspace. I'm a little nervous, though, I have to confess. Taking care of a friend's dog is one thing. Taking care of strangers' dogs in unfamiliar homes is another thing entirely. Yes, the network has vetted us both, but still. I'm an unknown quantity, and so is the dog owner. I know how I felt about my cat. I'm guessing dog owners are just as . . . devoted? 

Every time I left town, which was as infrequently as I could manage, I was always thinking of my cat and wondering how he was doing, whether my mother was giving him enough love when she dropped in to feed him, whether he was lonely, whether he would hate me when I got home. I'd give just about anything to see my cat again. I loved my mother, but I miss my cat every day. 

How can a pet parent stand to leave, knowing there is a possibility their beloved pet might not be alive when they get back? 

That's a lot of pressure on a dogsitter. 

Fear of freedom

During the several years I was waiting for my mother to die, I daydreamed about what life would be like when I was finally "free." Free of obligation, free to come and go, free to pick up and leave, free to say no. I had contingency plans for contingency plans, trying to manage and control how it would all go down. Of course, that is always a futile quest, but it relieved my anxiety to plan in excruciating detail for the day when I would finally be free, when I could pack up my meager belongings, and drive away from all my problems.

Well, wherever we go, there we are, so you probably aren't surprised to hear that all my problems came along with me, dragging behind my minivan like a scuzzy half-deflated parachute. I thought Tucson would be a place where my creativity could finally flourish. Find a little apartment, enjoy the endless summer, and make good use of my time to write and volunteer . . . perfect, a lovely idyllic dream. 

Tucson didn't turn out to be paradise. You've heard it all before, so I won't bore you with the recap. You remember it all much better than I do, I'm sure. I have to write it out all over again just to remember it, as if I'm watching someone else's biopic. Suffice it to say, rents are too high, summer is sizzling, and after two years, my inner ears have still not settled. This week the ENT admitted she hasn't a clue, which means she thinks I'm crazy. 

Two friends I've recently met in real life (who do not know each other) have looked at me with envy, saying things like "You could go anywhere, you could do anything, you're free." These are friends who have some or all of the elements of modern life: money, family, property, obligations, routines, and commitments. They are not free, or they don't perceive they are free. They have security, safety, resources, a home, and they feel trapped. They would trade all that for freedom. So they say. I wonder how the stars in their eyes might dim the first time they had to poop in a bucket. 

I felt trapped while I was waiting for Mom to die. And let me just say, I didn't want her to die. I wanted her to be my mother forever, because I never grew up, and I still could really use a mother. However, the hungry baby bird she turned into toward the end needed a lot of care and feeding. I knew the moment would come eventually. She was 91 when she finally kicked off. But she could have lived to 100. I would have been there, right to the end, no matter what, still dreaming of freedom and planning my escape.

Be careful what you wish for. In my irritable chafed wizened life, I didn't really imagine that unlimited freedom could have a downside. I just wanted out. Maybe if I had unlimited resources, total big-ass freedom would be heaven. Maybe someday I'll find out. In this incarnation, however, my freedom is not absolute. I have three big constraints: my health, my car, and my bank account. It's the king hell bummer trifecta of puny-ass freedom. Poor man's freedom. Freedom to drive as long as there is gas in the car and I remember to take my blood pressure pills.

In Tucson, I traded my freedom for a series of ledges on which I could wipe my brow and catch my breath. I fought off roaches and ducked bullets at the Bat Cave. Now I hunker inside a safe but stultifying gated community and dream of my next launch into the stratosphere. At this time I have no ledge to land on. All I know is, I'm headed west. As I my heart pounds and my ear crackles, I am organizing my few possessions. I'm breathing each moment, ignoring the washing machine in my head, wishing I had half the energy of my dynamo housemate, and wondering what the hell I am doing.

I just got off the phone with a friend. Maybe a ledge in the San Fernando Valley has found me, I don't know. More to be revealed. I'll keep you posted. Meanwhile, I whine, but I'm getting things done. I pulled up my britches and bought my own ISBNs. I learned how to format an epub book (for the second time) and uploaded it to a place where librarians might see it. I paid cash for two crowns (and had them installed). I defeated the check engine light with a bottle of mechanic in a can. I walked two miles without falling down once. I started my taxes. I ignored the one inch of snow and celebrated the return of 70F and blue sky. Life happens in the moment, I know. I have to stop trying to run ahead, but old habits die hard.

The Chronic Malcontent waits for summer

Two weeks after spending an afternoon in the ER, the maternal parental unit came out of quarantine and joined her fellow inmates in the dining room for the first time in three months. Earlier in the day, the nurse called me to tell me they were changing Mom's care plan to allow her to take her meals with other people. Mom hasn't been eating well in her room. She'd just as soon sleep as eat. Consequently she has been losing weight. 

I wasn't there to see her triumphant entrance to the dining room. I could have peered in the window but I didn't want to scare anyone. I assume all social distancing protocols were followed. When I visited Mom at her window after dinner, parental baby monitor to my ear, she said it was nice to go to the dining room but she still couldn't talk to anyone. I can only imagine what any conversation might have sounded like. Even on a good day, she doesn't always make sense. Well, who does, really. Nobody is having good days, these days.

Speaking of sense, when it comes to vertigo and ear infection, nothing makes any. I can't figure it out. I thought if I treated the vertigo, the ear rustling would cease. I studied some videos of the ear canals to see where my renegade ocotonia were vacationing. Wow, I know we studied the ear in elementary school but I'd forgotten how complex a structure it is. Amazing. And so tiny. It feels as big as the ocean when waves of vertigo sweep through my head. Who knew such a tiny contraption could reduce me to head-banging.

Three semicircular canals. Remember those? Horizontal, posterior, and anterior. Somewhere in there, maybe in more than one canal, are some wayward ear crystals dancing on nerve endings they were never supposed to see. I'm trying to think of them fondly as little dudes gone astray, enjoying a walking tour without proper permits. I'm not feeling much benevolence. It's very hard not to want to rip them out of my head like the lousy gravel that they are.

YouTube is great. People, especially chiropractors, naturopaths, and physical therapists, are so helpful, if you can endure the interminable ads. I found conflicting remedies but in desperation, I tried them all. The Deephead, the Epley, of course, my traitorous maneuver that never works, and a new one, the Barbecue Roll. I now know where my mastoid bones are, and I know what happens if you use a vibrator on them (temporary clanging bells). 

This is nuts. 

I'm trying to treat the vertigo on the theory that the ear hissing will subside, because the hissing seems to be linked to the vertigo. The hissing is rhythmic but not regular. It's as if someone is tapping you on the shoulder every five to thirty seconds, saying "Hey." More like, "He-e-e-e-e-e-e-y-y-y." For three to five seconds, a really long h-e-e-e-y. Like, hey, don't forget me, here I am, hey.

I'm a doctor's worst nightmare: the self-diagnosing patient. What did we do before WebMD? I think my Eustachian Tube needs a major overhaul. I'm ready to try the Modified Muncie, so you know how far gone I am. That's where you poke your tonsils with a finger to massage the malfunctioning Eustachian Tube opening. I'm also treating the ear infection with Valsalvas, antihistamines, nasal sprays, hot packs, ginger tea (by mouth), nasal rinses (with distilled water so I don't get amoebas in my brain), and ear lavages with alcohol and white vinegar. 

The only time I get relief is when my head is immersed in a hot tub of bathwater. These conditions are difficult to replicate sitting in front of my computer doing Zoom calls. I'm operating under the assumption that heat opens the Eustachian Tube and stops the ear rattling. Therefore, I have a new remedy in the works. It's only in the design stage so don't get too excited. It's called the Fire Turban. I don't have much hair anyway, so if something gets singed, probably my usual black hat will cover it.

I'm holding out for summer, my solution to all my problems. I've always believed summer will cure what ails me, which is why I moved to Los Angeles when I was twenty. You can imagine the rest. Usually summer starts on July 5 in Portland, but this year, summer is late, and according to the forecaster, it doesn't seem to be wafting over the horizon any time soon. Man, I need some high pressure. It's my last resort. If I don't get some relief when summer finally arrives, then I'll give up. I crawl to my doctor (virtually of course, via a telehealth appointment I'm sure will cost me $100) and I'll admit defeat. 

Next weekend is the first class of my five-week series on business tips for artists. Luckily it's on Zoom so I can keep my feet warm with my heated rice-filled foot warmers. I'm a little anxious that I will be distracted by waves of dizziness and relentless hissing in my ear. It will be hard to explain to the class if I suddenly break down weeping. Well, we either survive or we don't. Meanwhile, we are intrepid: We carry on.

The chronic malcontent goes through the car wash

A good day is when I get everything done on my list. A great day is when I get everything done plus one. Despite 97°F heat today, I got two extra tasks done today besides the items on my list, so that makes today one for the archives. Okay, I don't keep data on my task completion rates (unlike some people I know); still, accomplishing tasks on the to-do list gives me a lot of smug satisfaction. Like, take that, World! Jump back, Entropy! I got this handled.

I experienced only one moment when I thought I may have performed one too many tasks. That was while I was taking my car for its annual car wash. That was one of my two bonus achievements today. It seemed serendipitous. I just happened to drive home on a different route, which goes by the car wash. I happened to notice there was no line at the car wash. I happened to have a coupon for a free wash. I happened to be able to locate the coupon. Really, it seemed like the universe was lining everything up for me. I thought about how nice it would be to show my mother that I had finally washed my car.

I pulled up to the kiosk. The idle girl plucked my coupon from my fingers, looked at it skeptically, and issued me a receipt. I pulled my car into the track. The feral man grabbed the ticket from under the wiper, mouthed “neutral,” and off we went. We, meaning my car, with me inside.

On the plus side, I had remembered to detach my radio antenna and roll up my windows. However, it quickly got warm inside the car. I thought about the unhappy intersection between flesh creatures and hot cars. Dogs and babies, for example. Middle-aged flabby women. I reassured myself that the car wash was not in direct sun. It would be highly unlikely that anything bad would happen. It couldn't be any worse than riding the Pirates of the Caribbean. I pictured myself overcome by heat and humidity and made sure my car door was unlocked, just in case the guy at the end of the line had to yank me out and resuscitate me.

Sitting too long inside a car inside a swampy car wash in 97°F heat could have produced a less-than-optimal outcome in the form of me red-faced and unconscious from heat exhaustion. Fortunately the ride was only three minutes long, and I had a bottle of water to suck on when the humidity started to rise. I admired the soapy bubbles, and before I had time to start to pant, we emerged into the hot air blower unscathed. I watched little beads of water rush away from the windshield. My wipers jumped energetically but remained attached. The guy at the end gave my side mirrors a cursory swipe, probably realizing only the top layer of dirt had been removed and that it would take a lot more than a three-minute car wash to restore the shine to this old Ford Focus.

The car died as I was looking for a driveway to get back on the street. Or maybe I just killed the engine by letting the clutch out too fast. I spent a long thirty seconds trying to start the car again. Eventually the universe lined up the ignition, the starter, the battery, and the engine, and off we went. I followed a slow bus up the hill, pausing patiently when the bus stopped to drop off and pick up passengers, annoying the hell out of drivers behind me who thought I should have gone around. No, I'm all about respect for buses. Further, I know that drivers coming down the hill are notoriously rambunctious.

I parked my car in the dusty gravel lot by the Love Shack and paused to admire the sheen of a poorly washed car. I replaced my antenna and noticed dust was already settling on the hood and roof. Oh well. No worries, at least, not for another year. I think I still have one more coupon.

It was refreshingly cooler inside the apartment, but I knew it wouldn't last long. We don't have air conditioning here at the Love Shack. We have a ceiling fan. The big front window has three layers of protection against the western sun in the form of crinkled Mylar shades, a wide vinyl roll-up shade that occasionally rolls up by itself, and cotton drapes (well, actually they are Home Depot cotton paint dropcloths but nobody cares). The three layers are enough to block about half the sun's rays from penetrating the main room. The air gets progressively hotter as the afternoon sun moves toward evening, and the ceiling fan does an excellent job of stirring it up so the heat infiltrates all corners.

Soon I'll go out again to drive over to the retirement place and take the old ladies out for their after-dinner cigarette. We'll complain about the heat and the food, then go back inside and relax into the coolness. Jane will shuffle off to her room. Mom and I will watch Fixer Upper or Flip or Flop for ten minutes. Then I will go back out into the blazing evening sun and drive home. Summer in Portland. These are my halcyon days. It doesn't get much better than this.