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.

What's with this twiddling thing?

Hey, all you chronic malcontents, here's a question for you:  Is there some new meaning of the word twiddles? Like, is it a new euphemism for doing the nasty? (Or having fun, depending on your point of view, I guess.) The reason I ask is that I can't understand why one of my posts is getting so many page views. One post is getting five times as many hits as any other post. Maybe it's the word frets? I don't get it.

Well, just thought I'd ask. Although, because this is an anonymous blog, five times as many hits adds up to a whole lot of not much. Don't worry, I won't be selling out to advertisers any time soon. Just keep on drifting by, and I'll keep on ranting about my strangely malcontented life.

It's late. I've been working on revising my website today, learning WordPress as I go. I am proud of myself, I wrote a few lines of code to fetch an image. Wow, look at me go, I'm like coding now! Oh, wait, isn't that jargon for oh, oh, my heart just stopped? Well, I'm so tired right now, I could be dead and not know it.

I've been receiving the Oregonian newspaper for free for a few months. I think it's a promotional effort to motivate people to become subscribers. The newspaper has reinvented itself into a magazine-style format, complete with minuscule fonts and color photos of car wrecks and unpopular politicians. It looks to me like the paper is gasping its last breath and will probably expire shortly. I'd feel worse about it, but today in the advertising inserts were two slick perfume ads. You know what I mean, those flyers where you lift up a corner and peel back a strip to release the scent? Well, if your nose is anything like mine (large, constantly clogged, bristling with nose hair), you would smell that scent (and I use the word scent very loosely) the moment you carried the paper into the house.

Which is exactly what happened. Once I realized my error I quickly isolated the offending ads and shoved them out the back door. The cat watched me with some confusion. I don't usually dispose of paper by throwing it out the door. But we are both interested in maintaining the integrity of our indoor air quality. All this is the long way of saying I'm going to call those numskulls at the Oregonian and tell them I don't want their stinky paper, even if it is delivered free to my front door (only once into the garden, not bad) four mornings every week.

Oh, and in other news, I got paid for all the academic editing jobs I did in May, and I used the money to join the AMA. That's the American Marketing Association, in case you thought being a Ph.D. suddenly allows me to practice medicine. Har har. I am now a fisherman. My strategy is to go where the fish are. Next week I will attend a local marketing event and hobnob with the hoi polloi. Yay. More networking.

I'll keep you posted. Meanwhile, stop twiddling! It's probably bad for your health, whatever it is.

The adventures just keep on coming

This morning I rose before the sun for another adventure in downtown Portland. I still can't believe I did it. I don't mean attending the event, which was a digital marketing “breakfast” at Portland State's Urban Center, no, that was easy. All I had to do was sit there, swill coffee, stare out the window, and draw pictures in my notebook. No, the hard part was getting up at 5:15 a.m. when it is dark as sin outside, preparing a hasty meal, and rushing to the MAX station to park my car and shuffle onto the Green Line... a replay of last Friday's events, except without my trusty companion Sheryl. I always have an out-of-body experience when I get up before it's light out: Is that me getting out of bed? Is that me fixing food at this ungodly hour? Am I really leaving the snug and cozy Love Shack to brave the MAX line journey downtown? Again!?

The show wasn't all that inspiring, and the food was the usual coffee, pastries, and watermelon chunks, but what do I expect for nothing except time and lost sleep? There was no fee to attend. The bus tickets were a gift from Bravadita. It was an experiment. An experiment in adventuring, urban style.

The meeting room was small, but I had a great seat by the enormous floor-to-ceiling windows. The mini-blind was rolled up far above my head, so there was nothing but glass and the view of the plaza outside the Urban Center. Water in the lovely Joyce N. Furman Memorial Fountain rippled ceaselessly down a cascade of steps. I could only find one photo of the fountain, and the site was a bit funky loading. You can look it up if you want. It is an interesting feature of the all brick plaza.

If you look at this photo, you'll see a little bit of the plaza. Look in the upper right corner, see those big windows? I was sitting the fourth window from the left, just out of camera shot. See that streetcar below? I saw several of those chug along while I was trying to learn about digital marketing. The streetcar was way more interesting to me for some reason. I had no idea there was so much machinery on top of those things. Every time you see cops and villains duking out on top of a train, it's always a smooth surface, good for fighting. Not so with these streetcars. Just in case you were thinking of engaging in a little fisticuffs on a moving train.

My brain has been mush all day, thanks to the early start. There's so much to talk about—the dearth of faculty for my study, the likely ending of unemployment benefits, the looming monster of my dissertation. So much to complain about, worry over, mangle between clenched teeth. But I'm too tired to work up a really frothy sweat. Lucky you! Maybe tomorrow. I've got another networking event planned for tomorrow night—I'm going after the organizational development crowd. They won't know what hit them. And then Thursday morning, I have a coffee date with a guy I met at the networking event I dragged Sheryl to on Friday. He's going to try to sign me up for his multi-level marketing company. I can hardly wait.

The chronic malcontent has a close encounter with the Mall of America

Greetings from the Chronic Malcontent. There is more than one of us, as you may have discovered. I'm the one that illustrates her prolific whining. I may not be much of an intellectual, but I can illustrate the crap out of malcontentedness.

I returned from a weekend in Minneapolis, vacation capital of the world... well, maybe not of the world. But you got your Mall of America there, and that counts for a lot. I stayed in a hotel right across the street from the Mall. It was a very wide street, too wide to walk across. The hotel provides a shuttle to and from the Mall every half hour. I did not make the trip, but I did take a photo of the giant Mall of America sign to commemorate the moment the shuttle from the airport sped by on the way to the hotel. In my photo, the three-story sign is barely discernible, lost against the massive edifice of the Mall.

Time divides into two time streams when you travel. Do you find that to be true for you? There's the home stream, where life carries on in the usual routine. Back at the Love Shack, the cat dozes on the window seat. The cat gets up, stretches, jumps up the strategically placed chairs to the food court, crunches some kibbles, licks a paw. Looks around, wonders what is missing, slurps some water from the jug, jumps down, goes to another sleeping spot, curls up, and falls back into a doze. That's life at the Love Shack.

The other time stream is me, moving and being moved through the world of transportation. Parking the car in the Economy Lot (remember Red Lot, F9!), waiting for the bus to the terminal, looking back with some melancholy at my largest asset, hoping it will start when I return. Hoping someone will find and reclaim it if I die somewhere en route.

Falling into line at the security checkpoint, hoping I don't look so eccentric I am pegged as a suspicious character. Shoes off, hat off, jacket off, boarding pass clutched between dry lips, stand on the footprints while they take an x-ray of my naked body. She's clean! Not even an underwire bra! Rushing to grab my shoes, my hat, my backpack as the crowd shoves from behind.

All of that just to be allowed to the gate. Continual fear that I will lose my identification, my boarding pass—oh, no, where's my boarding pass? On the floor of the restroom, where I dropped it. Whew. Still there. (One thing you can count on is people don't pick up anything that doesn't look like money.) The flight to Phoenix was delayed 20 minutes. I'm late! There was just enough time to hit the restroom and rush down the hot gangway onto the plane. I would have liked to have stayed in that warmth, that light, but no, gotta go!

I arrived Friday evening, met my friends, ate horrendously expensive hotel food, slept in a fabulously comfortable hotel bed, and then repeated the entire journey in reverse and in the dark on Sunday evening. The plane lifted off into the setting sun at about 8:50 pm. I wondered if we would keep up with the turning of the earth, speeding along at a standstill like Alice and the White Queen, but no, it got dark. I was barely awake, but I couldn't stop watching for the clusters of lights far below, all the little towns in the middle of nowhere. How can they... what do they do out there, so far from anyplace worth mentioning? Gather string and make it into large balls, I guess.

Back through Phoenix at almost midnight. The place was lively, packed with travelers, like a galactic hub, so much activity. I found my gate. We boarded. We taxied and taxied and taxied, clear around the huge terminal, and back to a gate. Wha—? Something's wrong. Passengers began to mutter when they realized we had been diverted from the runway. Eventually the pilot fired up the intercom to tell us an “alarming” passenger had been removed, and all is well, we are cleared to depart. Yikes.

We leaped into the darkness, headed for Portland, and two and a half hours later, we landed so softly I wasn't sure we weren't still airborne. It was 2:00 a.m. The Portland terminal was deserted except for cleaning crews, vacuuming in circles. A far different picture from lively Sky Harbor. We shuffled en masse through the empty terminal, beyond weary. The bus to the Red Lot arrived, driven by a maniacally cheerful driver, who commented after her third joke fell flat that we must be very tired. Someone muttered, “Plane...an hour late.”

My car was waiting where I'd left it, looking strangely desiccated in the fluorescent light. The air inside was dry and flavorless. The engine started with a hesitant cough. After a detour or two, I found the place to pay the $30 that would allow me to exit the parking lot, and I wended my way home through empty streets. I pulled into the parking area at 3:00 a.m. I staggered to my door in the dark, wondering if someone would hear me mumbling and come out to shoot me. My cat met me at the door, like he'd been expecting me.

And that's the story of my weekend. The reality show of my life began again on Monday morning, with calls to the career college, resubmissions to my Chair and the IRB committee, laundry, shopping, rent... life picked up almost where I left off. But I am not the same. I've seen the Mall of America. I've seen a real Minnesota potluck. I've seen the half-moon and the brilliant stars from 36,000 feet. I know my place now, and it is good: I am a speck on the skin of a big, mysterious, and beautiful planet. It's not a bad place to be.

Don't ban guns, ban people

The fragility and unpredictability of life hits home this week, with the Oregon mall shooting and now the mass shooting at a Connecticut elementary school. I'm struggling to process these tragedies, as many people are doing right now. Reading the comments section of the online news articles illuminates some fundamental philosophical differences in the solutions people propose.

Some folks say we should ban guns. That is the obvious first thought, isn't it? At the first mention of banning assault weapons, people shout, “Guns don't kill people, people kill people!” Well, duh. But it seems like banning guns might be a good first step. Or would have been a good first step. Now, of course, it is too late. In this modern age, every other teenager and half the pre-teens already have or in five minutes can get their mitts on the assault weapons of their choice. Barn door, horses, etc. Strengthening a ban on assault weapons may help 20 years down the road, as current models jam, melt, or get turned into lampbases and as new middle-schoolers have a harder time getting access. We may not have 20 years left at the rate we are going. I wish we could go back to cap guns.

I chuckle at the argument from the rabid gun supporters who say, “Cars kill people! Maybe we should ban cars!” Actually, I think the idea has some merit. I would gladly give up my car if my neighbors would give up their assault rifles. Hey, what if we all drove two-wheeled cars? Besides being super fun, we'd probably wreak a lot less havoc if we decided to jump the curb and mow down pedestrians on an urban sidewalk.

Well, we all know the problem isn't caused by cars or guns. The problem is crazy people. And stupid people. The stupid people leave their guns laying around for their stupid children to find and blow their stupid heads off. The stupid people fail to lock up their guns, so their stupid children find the guns and take them to school, where they accidentally on purpose blow away their friends and enemies. Stupid people let their crazy friends borrow their guns. The answer is simple. Ban stupid people and their stupid children.

But that is only part of the story. What to do about the crazy people? The crazy people sometimes look like non-crazy people. And what is crazy to one person might be perfectly rational to another. Just like defining stupid, defining crazy is hard until the person in question pulls a Columbine. Then it's easy to say, he was crazy. And his family was stupid. (If, of course, his family survives, which is often not the case.) So what do we do?

Ban people. It's the only solution. If crazy people and stupid people are the problem, and if they are walking hidden among us, there's no hope for society as we have fashioned it. From now on, to minimize the current pressure on crazy people, we should no longer be allowed to congregate in groups, so we present less of a tempting target. We should all stop talking about our fear of being randomly cut down in our shoes. Crazies feed on fear. The media should be silenced; crazies feed on publicity. And finally, we should not be allowed to propagate. Procreate. Whatever the word is. Because people are the problem.

The end.

Of course you know I'm being my usual snarky chronically malcontented self, right? I love people. Even the stupid ones. Even the crazy ones. Even as I weep for the dead, I pray for the souls of the living. And vice versa.

Never fall in love with an Internet service provider

After weeks of Internet connection trouble, the monolith known as Century Link, arrived on my doorstep today and commandeered my Internet life. I could have opted to keep my Internet service provider, a local company I love, but I would have to settle for half the speed I'm paying Century Link for.

So I did the prudent, logical thing. I said goodbye to my ISP. I had to break up by email, because I was weeping too hard to speak. What the heck? I laughed even while I cried. I'm just a customer! Customers come and go. Why do I feel like I am losing a friend? I didn't weep when I cancelled my 24 Hour Fitness account. Why am I so sentimental over cutting my ISP loose?

After I wiped my tears, I pondered the question. It could be I'm weeping over other things that are lurking in my subconscious. Like the entire past six years of the graduate degree grind. That would be enough to make anyone gnash their pearlies and wail to the moon. It could be I'm grieving the loss of my eyebrows concurrent with the growth of a mustache. Argh, enough said. It could be I'm teary because, I don't know, because it's not 90 degrees, I'm not young enough, thin enough, or smart enough, and my car is over ten years old? Hell, the world is going to hell in a handbasket: It could be anything!

Except, I don't cry much anymore. Mostly my life is remarkably serene. There have been a few bumps—the deaths of my father, my friend Karen, and my cat Meme. I cried at those events, and still feel sadness when I think about them. I remember I cried when my 1987 Honda CRX blew its engine. (That was a sad day, let me tell you.) But I am not sure why I am classifying my ISP among that special group of angels. I've never even met the guy who ran interference for me with Century Link. It seems somewhat ironic and terribly unfair that all his excellent customer service just lost his company a customer.

What I've learned from this startlingly soppy experience is that business is based on relationships, and relationships are built on trust. I trusted my ISP. I felt great comfort when I received terse, polite emails from him, knowing he was handling everything for me. I pictured a geeky guy hunched over a computer, monitoring my Internet connection with one hand while waving a laser sword at Century Link with the other.

Oh mi gorsh. Can you believe it? My Internet connection just went down again. I really hope Century Link is working on the line somewhere, because now I have no one to turn to, no one to call. I have the Web equivalent of a flat tire, and nobody to call to come rescue me. I just broke up with my hero, my knight in shining armor, my beloved ISP. I'm stranded on the information highway! Curse you, Century Link!