There will be no rolling

Morning sniff walks with the small dog called Maddie are both tedious and fraught. I can only describe Maddie's approach to walking as conflicted. She likes to be in charge. Unfortunately, she's a very small dog. She doesn't see it that way. I can be sure Maddie will do something crazy at least once during our walk. 

We have a routine before we get out the door. First, I say, "Do you want to go for a walk?" I can't be sure but I think Maddie hears that question as bla bla bla walk? She sits on her narrow bony haunches and looks at me with huge brown liquid untrusting eyes. As soon as I pick up the little red harness and leash, she skulks away into the family room, just far enough so she can still see me in case she needs to bolt under the dining room table if I come too close. I dig a little heart-shaped smoky chicken-flavored treat out of the ziplock bag and hold it up. She looks at it, then looks away, then looks sideways at it. She smells it. She wants it. In her mind she's saying, give me that thing, I will rip your lips off, mine, must have it, but wait, no, no, not the evil red constraint on my freedom, no, no, but wait, cookie, mine, in my belly, now!

"Treat!" I say. She knows the word. She gazes back and forth at the little morsel and then at the harness and leash. 

I step back and point to her crate. "Box!" 

She rolls her eyes and slinks into the crate. I kneel down and hold the harness in front of her chest. Up goes her right paw. I quickly position the harness so her foot will come down in the right place. She stiffly raises the other paw, like someone is pulling her marionette strings. I maneuver the harness. Then I lean in and snap the connection at the back of her neck. With one hand I give her the treat. "Good girl!" I say. With my other hand, I grab the leash and connect it to the rings at the back of the harness. She is now my prisoner. 

With that, our fight is over. She plods along with me while I put on my sunglasses and sunhat and grab the front door key. She follows me to the stairs and waits patiently, licking her chops, as I sit on the lowest step and switch my sandals for sneakers. Out the door we go. As soon as the front door closes, she is energized. She strains toward the wide world of enticing smells as I strain to lock the door behind us. 

Mornings in Scottsdale are wondrous. The air is cool and fresh. The sun, my enemy, is still just waking up, a weak imitation of the fierce moisture sucking monster it will soon become. 

Maddie chooses the path and pace. I follow her lead. I know all the routes now. Thanks to Maddie's shrewd discerning nose, I also know all the canine message boards of the neighborhood. Signposts, big metal boxes that proclaim high voltage, don't fence me in, and, of course, the occasional fire hydrant. Certain bushes, rock piles, and clumps of grass are interesting for some reason. At that hour of the morning, sprinkler systems have just watered the many front lawns. The sparkling green is like eye candy to me, a reminder of home. I mean, my former home.

When we get to the green space, the sniff walk takes on new tension. Other dogs are walking their owners along the winding concrete path, and some are not on leash. When I see another dog approaching, I've learned to stop and watch Maddie closely. If she is starting to rev up for a lunge, I rush her up the grassy slopes to let the other dog pass by. Maddie won't take on a really big dog, but dogs her size or smaller are fair game. Sometimes her tail wags, but usually she is on full-body quiver, ready for anything. Her modus operandi is lunge first before they know what hit them. 

At least once per walk, I am yanking the leash so her front feet on off the ground saying "No, no, no, no, be cool, be cool, no barking, chill out," which I am guessing she hears as no no no bla bla bla.

"Oh, is she a rescue?" someone asked today as they called back their tiny spindly legged critter, who I am sure only wanted to say hello. 

I excuse my high strung charge's behavior by saying, "I'm the dogsitter," which is really my way of saying please don't judge me, it's not my fault I haven't done a better job of training and controlling this neurotic chihuahua-poodle nutcase. The dog owner's expression combined confusion, criticism, and pity. Like, that's such a cute dog, what is wrong with you? 

When we are off the main dogpath/bike path and onto the path that goes along the backs of houses, where an alley would go, we both relax and get busy with the business of sniffing. Walk, walk, walk, stop and sniff. Walk, walk, whoa, stop and sniff, something amazing here! Pile of poop! Dead bird! Oh, the odiferous joys!

A dozen times per walk, Maddie gets a look of ecstasy on her face. She stops. Her shoulder goes down. "No, no!" I yell, hauling quickly up on the leash before she does a full-body roll in the grass. "No rolling, there will be no rolling!" I pull her back to her feet. She grins at me and resumes trotting along the verge of the concrete, nose to the ground, tail up sometimes, sometimes tail down, always quivering at the panoply of smells. I assume. After I pick up her leavings, I close my nostrils to all input. 

I think she likes to test my limits. She's already won the fight over the couch (I'm on a foam pad on the floor), and so she probably thinks I'm a pushover for rolling. Wet green muddy grass rich with the fecund smells of dog poop, pee, who knows what else, what could be more fun than to do a full-body roll in that heavenly stink. I've never tried it so I can only guess. 

Living life on the floor

I have one small victory to report. With a little help from my friend, I managed to replace the support struts on my minivan's liftgate without braining either one of us. It's always great when DIY car repairs don't kill or maim anyone. There's enough killing and maiming going on in the world without my car adding to the carnage. In addition to the satisfaction of accomplishing one thing on my endless list of tasks, I saved quite a bit of money. I would have saved even more money if I hadn't had to go to the dealer for a replacement bolt that sheared off when I was about to embark upon my camping trip to Flagstaff. Remember that? That was a fun morning. Not. 

But now the liftgate is working, which is more than I can say for my right butt muscle. I have a severe hitch in my gitalong. In other words, I can barely walk. The pain is excruciating, radiating from a knot in my gluteus . . . I want to say maximus, but I don't actually know. I've stared at the anatomy drawings and all I see is a mushy red version of Autopia, with roads of muscle overpasses and underpasses and the whole thing looks like the Santa Monica Freeway in rush hour. 

I chalked up the pain to arthritis, and I'm probably diagnosing myself correctly, considering my mother had a hip replacement and my brother somehow managed to dislocate his hip while stretching in his sleep. Ouch. Mom got a metal shank in her shanksmare, and my brother got a new ball and socket. Thus, it wouldn't surprise me if my turn was coming soon, even though I'm just barely sixty-seven. This is not the kind of precociousness I admire. 

Anyway, I got to thinking as I was stumbling around my room with my mother's cane, which she never used, having leaped straight over the cane to a metal wheeled walker, figuratively speaking. This pain does not seem to emanate from the actual hip ball and socket joint. I have been consulting with Dr. Google and it won't surprise you to know I now have multiple diagnoses, ranging from benign to dire. Dr. WebMD was equally creative. What did we do before internet doctors, I ask you! Go to real doctors? Ick.

I refuse to quit going out for my evening constitution around the mobile home park, despite the fact that every step burns and despite the fact that the vestibular spasms put me off balance as the waves sweep through my head every thirty seconds. I know I'm a broken hip waiting to happen, but that doesn't stop me. This evening my walk took on a meditative tone as I placed my feet carefully on the uneven asphalt. I would not have seen a snake or javelina or coyote until I was right on top of them, I was so intent on watching my feet. Besides managing the pain, I was determined to follow the directions of my favorite YouTube physical therapist. Apparently, my gait is partly to blame for hip flareups. 

For instance, he advised me to walk with my toes slightly splayed. In my adolescence, I preferred to appear somewhat pigeon-toed, thinking that made me look more like Twiggy. I'm not pigeon-toed now, although I currently walk like a drunken sailor so there's no telling where my feet could end up. But tonight I really tried to turn out my toes, especially my right foot, while I minced along the road with my shortened stride. I'm not sure, but turning out my toes seemed to ease the pain somewhat. I had my head down, so I couldn't tell if people were watching me through their windows and wondering why I was walking like a duck.

More important than the splayed toes, the PT said I should pay close attention to my glutes. Specifically, I should squeeze them alternately while I'm taking each step. Left, squeeze, right, squeeze, so that the muscles support the inflamed hip. Well, I quickly found out I no longer have anything resembling muscles in my butt. My butt is flat as a board (but not as hard as a board, sadly), so there's nothing there to squeeze. I did manage to coax a little you want me to do wha—? from my left glute, but my right glute was MIA, nowhere to be seen. Just a floppy pile of jello. Now I can truly claim to be half-assed. Ha. 

I made it home and collapsed on my foam rubber bed. My mind wandered into the past, as it is wont to do when I'm trying to figure out a medical mystery, and it occurred to me that I have felt something similar before. Not exactly the same, but similarly immobilizing in the buttocks region. Back then, I was both post-menopausal and vegan, which is not a combination I would recommend, but there I was, trying to maintain muscles on little more than soymilk and tofu. Plus, I was jogging almost daily, trying to tighten up my loose quads. It's no wonder my back and leg gave out. My muscles had atrophied from lack of adequate nutrition. That painful time led me to Dr. Tony, the wacko naturopath, which was another painful time, mainly in a financial sense. He flummoxed me with mumbo-jumbo, but he probably saved my life by telling me I'd better get more protein or else head south with the geese. 

Now I'm going to do that thing that doctors hate so much and diagnose myself. Why not? I did it before with the vestibular issue, and they are starting to get on board, so why not diagnose my butt? Here's what I think. I don't think it's hip arthritis creating this stabbing burning pain. It's either a nerve problem or a muscle problem, brought on by sitting for extended periods of time on a $11.00 IKEA plastic folding chair in front of my laptop, which is sitting on a $17.00 Walmart wooden folding table that is just about two inches too tall for the height of the chair. It could be that lack of protein is playing a role, considering I don't get much these days and I'm not willing to eat animal flesh just yet. However, I think the precipitating trigger was my chair and table setup. The writing life is killing me.

That is why at this moment, I am sitting on the bed with the laptop on my lap, like any sensible sendentary computer user would do. My bed is on the floor, and now my desk is on the floor too. Maybe my hips will loosen up a little and enjoy life if I give them the job of getting up and down off the floor twenty or thirty times a day. Like they have a choice. I can always crawl to the bathroom if I have to. It's not very far. 

Taking wing

When I first came to Tucson, I couldn't imagine I'd ever contemplate becoming one of those residents who vacates for six months out of the year. I don't remember thinking the actual thought how bad could it be? But I must have, because what I feel now is chagrin, regret, and embarrassment. After a year in Tucson, I begin to understand that I've moved to the Mars. Being a snowbird is starting to seem like a survival option, rather than a way to flaunt how many homes one has. 

I've read that many desert cities swell in the winter and shrink in the summer. Some people have winter homes in the desert and summer homes in the mountains, and they travel back and forth. Two homes! What a concept. Some people take their homes with them wherever they go. I'm thinking of the infamous nomads who live in RVs and vans and trailers, follow the weather, and have roundups to share tips and take videos they post on YouTube to make a few bucks.

Only poor Tucsonans are out in the daytime. They stand on street corners holding up signs in leathery hands. They set up house in the culverts that drain into the washes—not a good place to be in monsoon. Have you seen video of a wall of sticks, trash, and floodwater tearing up trees and shrubs as it moves down a wash? If I ever happen to see the actual beginning of a raging river, it most likely means I didn't get out of the way in time and off I go, headed for the next county. 

It's mostly the poor people who get creamed by speeding cars as they cross the street to the grocery store after dark. Tucson ranks thirteenth on the list for U.S. pedestrian fatality counts. It's not just my imagination. Walking here is dangerous. If you walk in the mid-morning you fry from excessive UV rays. If you walk in the afternoon, you run the risk of heat stroke, not to mention getting torched by lightning if a thunderstorm cell happens to sneak up and dump on you. If you walk after dark, you run the risk of getting mowed down by a texting Tucsonan in an SUV. 

Bicyclists don't fare well here either. Early mornings are most dangerous. They ride in packs, wearing bright uniforms, but that isn't always enough to save them.

Heat is a tangible thing. Along about noon, I wet a tank top, drape it over my head, and stand in front of the fan for a minute. The water coming out of the cold water tap is warm. Really hot days (over 110F) require two wet tank tops. Evaporative cooling works well here in the desert. 

Around 5:00 pm, when I'm done with my Zoom calls, I punch the button on the wall unit and let the roar overtake me. It sounds like a jet is warming up in my living room but it throws out cold air, and that's all that matters. After thirty minutes, the place is cool, but it heats up rapidly as soon as I turn it off. The entire front wall of the apartment radiates heat. It's a wonder the fridge still works. (Knocking on wood now.)

In the mornings, the skies are clear blue. Around 2:00 pm, I usually see big white fluffy clouds starting to boil up to the south. Within an hour, the visible sky is a grungy shade of gray, a color I am very familiar with, having grown up in the Pacific Northwest. In Portland, that kind of sky in summer would indicate 70F, maybe sprinkles, good walking weather. Here, it means 107F, humidity, excessive UV risk, and threat of thunderstorms. Who can live like this!?

Now my computer is notifying me of rain off and on, showing me a little umbrella icon. Isn't Windows cute? If a thunderstorm parks itself over me, an umbrella won't do much good. Thunderstorms here tear down powerlines and uproot trees. So far this season, very little rain has fallen in the actual city of Tucson. Waiting for rain is a useless waste of time. I keep thinking I hear rain but it's just the neighbor kids on their bikes outside my window. Storm cells move through bringing dust clouds but no rain. 

My sister suggested I get in my car and go north. Or up. Either one or both. She's right. I think the only way to survive living on Mars is to be a snowbird. People who don't escape to a summer home in the Northwest clog the roads to 9,000 ft. tall Mt. Lemmon, the local equivalent of Mt. Hood, where the temperature is thirty degrees cooler than in the valley. I see the mountain forecast on the news. People ride on the ski lifts, even though there's no snow. 

I haven't driven up to Mt. Lemmon yet. I continue to wait for monsoon, keeping cool in the Bat Cave and packing for my move next month to the Trailer.

 

Your quest for control is futile

You’ll be relieved to hear, after two weeks of me camping out of an ice chest in the Bat Cave, the maintenance crew carted away the malfunctioning refrigerator and replaced it with a temporary. Like a loaner car, sort of. This loaner fridge is a little smaller, a lot quieter, and smells like an old motel. The handles are slots embedded in the side edges of the freezer and fridge doors. I keep forgetting where they are. Opening the doors conjures foggy memories of family beach trips to cheap motels with musty kitchenettes. I left an uncovered cup of coffee in the fridge overnight and tasted the smell of old motel this morning. Once again, impersonal circumstances confirm I live in temporary housing.

Omicron has come to Tucson. Last night I dreamed I was at a social gathering. In my dream, I suddenly realized nobody was wearing a mask, including me. I went outside, looking for my car so I could get a mask from my stash, but couldn’t find my car. I often lose my car in dreams. Not sure what that means.

Because I survived last week’s COVID-19 booster, I decided to press my luck and get a pneumonia vaccine. My new insurance company recommended it, and my new doctor concurred, so off I went for another jab in the bicep at my local grocery store pharmacy. You never know if you are going to be the one in 30,000 who has a negative reaction, as in, seizure, heart attack, or stroke. This time, the principles of statistics were on my side. I had a good outcome. My arm was sore but I had virtually no side effects, compared to the achy malaise I felt after the COVID booster.

Overall, I am making good progress on my 100,000 mile healthcare self-care checklist. I think I’ve had all the shots I can get for now, so check on the shots. I survived the first dose of the osteoporosis medicine with only some mild heartburn, so check on that too. Next up on my after-holiday list: a visit to an ENT, a visit to a hematologist, and a mammogram. I’d rather have another shot than get a mammogram, but what can you do. If you’ve got ’em, you gotta squash ’em. It’s a law, I think.

Most days, my brain feels like a sandcastle being washed away by waves. The things I knew how to do yesterday are mysteries to me today. How is that possible? Do I have dementia? Is there a vaccine for that? Not yet, although I heard there might be a new pill for Alzheimer’s. However, there is no cure. Mom took a drug to slow the rate of her dementia decline, and I guess this new drug does something similar, affecting other areas of the brain. It’s not covered by Medicare yet, and the annual cost of the drug is $56,000. Oh, thanks, I think I’ll pass. Once I get to the where is my butt stage of dementia, I’ll be opting out permanently with some cheap fentanyl. Of course, we know all about best laid plans. Most of my plans fall into the category of half-assed bungled plans bound to go sideways.

Tucson had its first overnight freeze and its first omicron case this week. I doubt if the two events are connected. Tucson apparently has a winter season. I blinked and fall was over, and here we are at the threshold of winter. Every time I cross one of the many viaducts over the Rillito River, I read the sign with a heavy heart: Ice forms first on bridges. Why would they need signs like that in the desert? Because it gets cold at night here, and on rare occasions, it snows, even here in the city. I’m like, what the hell, Tucson. Baja is looking good to me right now.

My ongoing adventure feels a bit vague. If you know me, you know I like to know where I am and where I am going; that way, I can manage and control my life so I don’t have to be afraid. What do they say about fear? What you resist comes back to tear your lips off? I’m not an experienced camper (although I feel a little more confident about managing an indoor ice cooler). I’d rather get a job at Walmart than have to live in my car in a Walmart parking lot. Although, considering Walmart, I might end up doing both. Who knows.

Living in the wreckage of the future is as futile as trying to live today for a better past. All I have is the present moment. Why is that so hard to accept? Oh, right, because I can still find my butt. Hooboy. The blessing and curse of not having dementia.

Despair is always an option. I reserve my right to wallow in my malcontentedness. However, the sun is out, the sky is blue, and it’s a good time for a slow ramble in the nicer part of the demilitarized zone I fondly call my neighborhood. Tucson homeowners are putting up Christmas decorations. Step by step, the journey continues.

Happy fall from the Hellish Hand-basket

Howdy Blogbots. How's it going? I'm doing fine, thanks for asking. Oh, I have the usual challenges, like anyone in these strange times. Life during Covid kind of sucks. I have Zoom fatigue. Fall started, that's a drag. I mourn the end of summer. I hear some folks are dealing with venomous caterpillars. Jiminy crickets. I have yet to see any Murder Hornets, though, so that's good. I try to stay out of the wreckage of the future, especially about the rather consequential election coming up next month. Got your voting plan? I got mine: Vote early and pray for peace.   

All in all, situation seems normal, that is, in general, all effed up, but I have to say, I'm doing fine. Why so cheerful, you ask? It's out of character for a chronic malcontent, I know. I'll tell you why I'm chipper. In only two short weeks, my maternal parental unit has adapted to the new care home. It's a miracle, proof of god. I was amazed. I credit the dementia and a really awesome caregiver. Mom now seems to like the saintly, endlessly patient, wonderful Eren. 

Things are looking up. I've almost but not quite forgotten the heart-stopping stomach-dropping moment when Mom glared at me and demanded, "Why did you do this to me?" That memory lingers because of the heavy emotional load I unintentionally attached to it. It will fade. Like all my memories now, it will fade. It's the curse of age, but it's also a blessing. I've forgotten most of the stupid things I've done and said. All that lingers is a frisson of humiliation and a desire to immerse myself in Time-Life Midnight Special music infomercials. I imagine Mom feels somewhat the same, except for the urge to sing along to Aretha and the O'Jays.

I'm slowly regaining floor space in my living room as I redistribute Mom's unwanted gear to the local thrift store, mostly old clothes pockmarked with cigarette burns. Some things I incorporated into my habitat—for example, staples, paper clips, sticky notes. Some I tossed—three little boxes of gummed reinforcements, for instance. Maybe I could have sold those on eBay as antique office supplies. Hmm. My former couch now turned writing desk is littered with stacks of old cards and letters sent to her from friends and family over the three and a half years she was at the retirement home. I need to go through all those, scan the ones that are meaningful (not the dozens of cards that say "Love and hugs, Dorothy"), and fill up the recycle bin. It's a task made for winter weather so I'll save it for a few more weeks.

Almost every evening since she moved, I've been walking the ten or so blocks from my place to Mom's place. I set my phone to alert me at 5:45. I don my walking gear and head out into the neighborhood. It takes thirteen minutes going (mostly downhill) and about seventeen minutes returning. Most nights Mom comes outside and we sit in chairs six feet apart, me wearing a mask, and discuss the meaning of life. Well, sometimes the topic is, Who is that walking a dog out there past the gate? Her memory is still stuttering but I think her ability to be in the conversational moment has improved. She sounds like my mother. It is beyond thrilling to see her in person. 

Tonight a windstorm blew up from the south, bringing some tepid rain. My rain gear isn't great, but I brought an umbrella (bright blue, a gift from Mom's health insurance company), which snapped inside-out after a block. I turned around, popped it back open, and kept going, peeking up once in a while to make sure nobody with Covid was coming toward me. Oddly, I was the only person out walking. 

I made it to the care home without mishap, slightly unsettled by the tall fir trees whipping in the wind and rain. I wasn't expecting Mom to come outside, but there she was, in her black fleece jacket and knit cap. It was a short visit. Even though our patio chairs are under cover of a large porch, Mom didn't want to sit out in the chilly wind for long. Still, she was glad to see me. She wanted to hug me. She seems to barely come up to my waist now, so strange how old people shrink, so I turned my face away and patted her on the back. It's a great relief to know she no longer hates me. 

Living on the edge with a notebook on my head

I'm sitting at the computer with a notebook balanced flat on my head to remind me to sit still. It's another ploy to defeat the vertigo that drives the waves that set off the crackling in my right ear. Apparently I move my head around a lot and that upsets the ear crystals. It's harder than you might think to stay perfectly upright. Plus it hurts when the notebook slides off my head and hits my hands. As a preteen, I used to mince across the bedroom with a book perched on my head. (It's what girls did in the early 1960s before they got the message that love was free and didn't require poise.) This is not that. Maybe a neck brace would be better. However, I don't happen to have one, and I know from experience, wrapping a long scarf tightly around my neck is not an ideal solution.

Speaking of breathing, yesterday I went for a walk in the park after visiting my sleeping mother. I've avoided the park, mostly, because I want to avoid people. But I'm tired of wandering the neighborhood. I wanted to see my reservoir. I donned my plaid mask like a good citizen, jammed in my mp3 player's ear buds, and hiked into the park. I saw dozens of people, and not one was wearing a mask. Maybe they all feel invincible in the outdoor air? Maybe I'm the overly cautious canary?

Amazingly, no one was on the trail through the trees. I had the 87°F shade all to myself. Early summer is a luscious green season here in Portland. I came down the hill above the tennis courts and saw all three courts occupied with players. No masks, but some nice social distancing going on, okay (nods in approval). When I came out into the sun by the big reservoir, I saw a some people strolling, a few running, but fewer than I had anticipated. I saw not one wearing a mask.

Excuse me, time out while I remove my suddenly chirping smoke detector from the ceiling. I may have ear troubles but I'm not deaf. Oh darn, I don't have a replacement battery. I guess for a few days I'll be living on the edge. Oh well, aren't we all. Hold on while I put the notebook back on my head. There.

Where was I? Oh yeah, walking around the reservoir, contemplating the nature of virus particles. How many times have you passed someone on the street or in the hallway and held your breath so you didn't inhale their perfume? Or their body odor, halitosis, farts, whatever cloud they left in their wake? Come on, you probably do it instinctively. It's a social-dissociative mannerism adopted to help us maintain our personal bubble and the illusion of safety. 

I did the same in the park yesterday. I passed a chubby shirtless tanned man walking his bicycle. I passed a man and woman, obviously a couple, who walked shoulder to shoulder. I passed two young women walking while looking at their phones, ignoring the beautiful reservoir mere feet away. I passed several people walking dogs, singly and in small family groups. After I passed each person or group, I held my breath to avoid inhaling their perfume plumes, covid clouds, and fart mists. 

I walked three times around instead of my usual four because it was getting dark and the wind had kicked up. Low pressure was moving in. I could tell because my vertigo was cranking up. I think I'm going to start a local weather blog. Are you interested in checking the weather in a small region, say, a ten foot diameter circle around me? Great. I'll just access my right ear. Currently, the weather around me is medium crappy. That means, it's not raining, but it's not sunny, either. It's medium crappy. I think tomorrow high pressure will build in and the hiss in my ear will lessen. 

Wow, holding your neck in one position is really hard on the back. Sadly, it doesn't seem to be helping much with the vertigo waves, either. So much for that remedy. My best option is still to immerse my head in a hot tub of water. It's very difficult to do that outside the tub, though. I've tried. Big mess.

Mom sleeps most of the time, less like a napping cat and more like a soon-to-be dead person. When I visit in the evening, she is always sprawled loosely on her couch. Sometimes her mouth is open. Sometimes she twitches. Once she took her life-alert pendant and wrapped the ribbon around her hand quite neatly without opening her eyes. A few times lately, her TV has been on. Last night someone had turned on her air conditioner. 

I talk into the baby monitor: Hi Mom, howdy, Mom, Mom, Mom, wake up, Mom, it's me at the window, look, Mom, it's me. I watch and wait. I try again. Wake up, Sleeping Beauty, Mom, Ma, Ma, Mommy, wake up. Sometimes she'll twitch. Rarely does she open her eyes. Sometimes I sing, but I don't yell. It seems cruel to make her wake up just to entertain me. If I were her, I would prefer to sleep through to the end. I stand at the window, a morose peeping tom, and watch her chest rise and fall. Proof of life.

Snowmageddon or something not really that spectacular

Winter finally arrived, only a month late. Snow is on the way! Yesterday, in anticipation of Snowmageddon, Portlanders swarmed the grocery stores to stock up. I am proud to say I was among them. That means I can write with firsthand knowledge about how it feels when you are twentieth in a line of overflowing shopping baskets, gazing at the faraway checkout stand from the meat department at the back of the store. In some parts of town, I heard there was a run on kale. Not in my part of town. As far as I could tell, people were stockpiling beer and ice cream. I bought next week's fresh veggies, fruit, eggs, and yogurt a few days early, hoping I won't have to go Donner party on my cat before the Snowpocalypse melts.

I woke to two inches of snow today feeling optimistic about the state of my pantry and relieved that braving the crowds at the grocery store wasn't a total waste of time.

Today I had occasion to attend a workshop at a nearby church. My car was buried under a couple inches of snow and more snow was on the way, so I decided to walk. I have snow boots, how bad could it be? I put on tights, sweatpants, and rain pants, two pair of socks, two t-shirts, a fleece pullover, and a fleece cardigan. Over that I wore my fleece hooded jacket, topped by a lightweight windbreaker. I had a hat, a scarf, fingerless mittens, and gloves. I loaded my backpack with my gear and left the Love Shack for my half-mile hike.

The first thing I noticed was the wind. The temperature was above freezing but it felt colder. As I clomped past my buried car, it began to snow. Just little spit balls blowing in all directions, nothing like the big fat flakes that came down overnight. I thought, how bad could it get in half a mile? The bus was still running. . . I could always hop on the bus if I got too cold.

The sidewalks were an unpredictable mix of uncleared, shoveled, trampled, and salted pavement. I had to watch my feet, which was sort of fun because they looked so big and wide. I never wear snow boots. I got these mid-calf high, lace-up boots after the last huge snowstorm took us all (well, me) by surprise. After shoveling snow in my soggy Merrels, I swore I would get some serious snow boots, and I did. They have cluttered my closet for eleven years, until today. 

Feeling like Bigfoot, I arrived at the church, clomped up some steps, then down some steps, and found the workshop room. There was no one there. I peeled off a few layers and replaced the snow boots with some indoor shoes. I optimistically arranged a few chairs in a circle and sat down to wait. Pretty soon another person arrived. Yay, I thought. A kindred spirit. We can commiserate about the weather.

“I'm from New York,” she declared. “This is nothing.”

I pretended like the pile of outerwear in the corner belonged to someone else. We exchanged a few stilted statements, mostly about how crappy Portland is and how great New York is. I drew bug-eyed yeti in my notebook, thinking, well, if New York is so great . . .  and prayed for more attendees to rescue me. Pretty soon the woman gathered her things and stood up.

“I'm going to look for some coffee,” she said. “See you later.” She did not return.

After a while a friend arrived.

“The buses can't go faster than 25 mph when they are chained,” she explained as she peeled off her layers. Outside the sky had cleared and a brittle sun illuminated the snow in the churchyard.

We talked about footwear and bus travel as we waited for more attendees. And waited. And waited. Finally after an hour we decided nobody was coming. Snowmageddon had apparently frightened everyone off. Or they simply weren't interested in the topic. Who knows. My friend and I donned our outwear and parted ways on the street, she heading downhill and me pointing uphill into the east wind. It took almost thirty minutes but I made it to the Love Shack intact. As my glasses steamed up, I congratulated myself on my intrepidness: only one blister. Time to eat lunch and blog!

The evening stretches before me, a rare luxury of time and no deadlines. I don't have to be anywhere but here. The temperature is expected to plummet to 20°F at sunset, which means all the roads and sidewalks will become ice rinks. Bones are brittle, and cars are hard to stop on ice. I'm staying home. Tonight will be my first night off from daughter duty. I'm not sure if I feel relieved or anxious.

Last May I began to visit my mother nightly in anticipation of her looming demise. As you know, she didn't die. I kept visiting daily, thinking this could be the last time I see her alive, and she kept on living. Just goes to show, you never know. You could claim that my visits are keeping her alive. It's like feeding a feral cat. Once you start, you can't really stop. On the other hand, you could claim that visiting her daily gives me a purpose. Both claims could be true.

It's almost six o'clock. In three minutes, the alarm on my phone is going to go off, notifying me it is time to put on my shoes and head out the door. But I'm not going. I am suddenly feeling sick, like I'm failing. I should be there. I know it's not safe to drive but I feel terribly sad to miss our evening visit, even if all we do these days is watch M.A.S.H. reruns. What if she dies tonight? Argh.

She won't. She too is intrepid. Like the Energizer Bunny, she carries on. She probably won't even notice I'm not there.

I would love to go a-wandering

Bless me, Blogbots, it's been weeks since my last post. I've been busy. I put fleastop on the cat. I went to the bank multiple times. I did piles of laundry. I ate a lot of eggs and vegetables. I got a mammogram. I watched cable news on YouTube. I drank gallons of coffee. I edited a few papers. I whined. I moaned. I complained and gnashed my pearly grays. And I visited my mother at the retirement home every day at 6:17 pm.

Every day feels new and old at the same time. How is that possible? Most of the time I don't anticipate what is coming, I just let it smack me in the face. I set an alarm on my phone to remind me of go-time: Six o'clock. I'm in the car listening to NPR by 6:07. In 10 minutes I am parking under the big tree that drops crap on my windshield, wondering how did I get here?

As I walk to the back door, I realize, whoa, here I am again. Same door, same code, same echoey click as the door shuts behind me. Same hallway of worn brown carpet, same fried meat odors lingering in the air. Same old people coming slowly toward me from the dining room, some shuffling behind big-wheeled walkers, some being pushed in wheelchairs, all with dazed expressions on their wrinkled faces. I can guess what they are thinking: Who is this girl? and What did I just eat for dinner?

“Howdy howdy,” I say as I pass Nurse Debbie who sorts and dispenses medications at a big rolling desk outside the dining room. She usually waves. Sometimes she says howdy howdy back at me. I don't know who started saying hello that way, her or me. Now I say it all the time. Ugh.

As I pass the dining room door I peer in to see if my mother is still at the table. I rarely see her there. Dinner is almost always over by 6:18. Striding down the hall, I note the framed art hanging on the dingy flowered wallpaper walls. There are prints of paintings of blurry milkmaids standing with cows or sitting on fences against pink clouds interspersed with framed mirrors hung at odd levels. Narrow tables occur at intervals, flanked by chairs, places to rest when the wallpaper is too much. Now I get why they are called occasional tables.

Mom's apartment door is always open during the day. I never know what to expect when I get there. Will she be sacked out on the couch? Will she be sitting up watching M.A.S.H. reruns on TV? Will she be in the bathroom or rummaging around in a cupboard or lying broken on the floor? See what I mean about every day being a new adventure? I don't predict what I might find. I take it as it comes.

Today wasn't much different from any other day, except Mom was anxious to get outside. She hadn't had a cigarette all day. She hustled down the hall to Jane's apartment and rapped on the door. Good thing Jane was ready, because Mom was already moving away, head down, hunched over her walker, one thing on her mind: gotta scratch that nicotine itch. Jane and I stumbled along in her wake.

Jane looked the same—crookedly drawn eyebrows, uneven eyeliner, big earrings, cut off gray sweatpants, a garish print fleece jacket, and loose house slippers. Her daughter gave her a perm last week, so now her wispy gray hair has a bit of kinky curl to it. She likes to wear it up, but sometimes she lets it go loose. All she needs is a long glittery flounced skirt and she'd make a killing telling fortunes.

Lately, Jane has seemed more paranoid than usual. Tonight she hardly had time to suck on her cigarette before she was complaining about “the kids upstairs.” Before you think, oh right, another demented old lady, there really are kids living upstairs at the retirement home. Apparently there is an apartment on the second floor that the owner rents out to a friend who has three or four kids, ranging in age from about thirteen to maybe eighteen? I can't tell, who knows. A couple boys, a couple girls of varying heights, all with some amazing hairstyles. They seem like polite children to me, but I must admit, it's weird to think that a pack of kids have free run of the retirement place. I don't think the kids are going through drawers looking for spare change and trying on adult diapers when the staff aren't looking, but I can't fault Jane for being paranoid.

I tried to think of something to say to reassure her . . . uh, que sera sera? But she was already moving on.

“Why does the moon do that?” Jane asked me, pointing to the three-quarter moon.

“Do what?”

“Sometimes we can see it, sometimes we can't.”

“Well, it has to do with the rotation of the moon around the earth and the earth around the sun,” I stammered, thinking, what the hell do I know about how the moon works.

“Oh, yeah,” Jane said. “I forgot it did that.” She seemed satisfied with my answer. Whew. I was wondering if I needed to make a mobile of the sun and the planets.

Mom meanwhile was off in la-la-land, dazed as usual halfway through her cigarette. She shrugged her shoulders when I caught her eye.

Every night we sing songs as she walks me down the long hall to the back door. Tonight I tried Blood Sweat and Tears' You Made Me So Very Happy. She didn't know that one. 

“From the 1970s,” I said.

“I was too busy raising kids,” she said. So we fell back on our old favorite, The Happy Wanderer. I looked up the lyrics. We take liberty with some of the verses.

I love to go a-wandering
Along the mountain track
And as I go, I love to sing
My knapsack on my back

Val-deri, val-dera (I sing boundaree, bounderaaaa, and Mom sings Bowseree, Bowsaraaa)
Val-deri, val-dera
Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha

I want to go a-wandering

Until the day I die

And as I go, I love to sing

Beneath the clear blue sky

Don't whine. Advice from the chronic malcontent: Get busy

Today as I was slicing a bulbous slippery yam, the knife slipped and chopped down on my left pinky. Afraid to look, I wrapped a wad of paper towel around my finger, gripped it hard, and did a little dance of pain. I had visions of the decision in front of me . . . would I prefer to lose the tip of my finger or would I prefer to pay the cost of going to the doctor? Hmmm. Finger . . . money. . . So hard to decide. For a few more months, I think, I still have health insurance, unless the Republicans figure out how to get along. Luckily, two band-aids did the trick, and now I'm typing, woohoo, look at me go. Dodged that bullet. Knife. Whatever.

Do you worry about losing your health insurance? At first I was worried, but now I am resigned. Soon my health insurance plan will be once again don't get sick and be careful with knives. I remember surviving years with no health insurance, with just the L.A. Free Clinic as my medical provider. Of course, I was a lot younger then.

The reservoirs at Mt. Tabor Park are full of water. The wind comes from the west and ripples the surface, reflecting the sky. We haven't had rain in over a month. Two nights ago, as the sun was setting, I was striding around the reservoir, enjoying the cool air. Suddenly I spotted a duck marching along the path ahead, followed by a brood (paddle? army? platoon?) of five barely fuzzy ducklings, trucking along in the gloaming, looking for a way to get down to the water. Runners and walkers went by, barely noticing the duck as she marched in a zigzag pattern toward me. Whenever she stopped, her kids would plop down on their fuzzy butts, hunkering until Mom started moving again. I didn't move, and she waddled right by me. She looked like any young mother with five infants: thin and frazzled.

As I was walking along the park trail last night, I had a disconcerting thought: I have passed my peak. My prime has come and gone. My best years are most likely behind me. If I was ever going to succeed, it most likely would have happened in my 40s. If I was going to be a great painter, a great writer, it would probably have happened by now. I don't have the energy to feel bad about it. Now I'm 60, and I no longer care about things like career, ambition, making a difference. I just want to survive until I can start taking social security. If there will be such a thing when I'm 62.

Like many cities in this new bizarre era, Portland is having a housing shortage. Decrepit motor homes and campers line many city streets. Tent cities mushroom around freeway interchanges. Residents are furious. Some houseless people aren't good neighbors, apparently. At the behest of irate taxpayers, city officials are passing laws prohibiting camping, parking, sleeping on sidewalks. Where are these people supposed to go? I feel like I'm about three months away from living in my car. I can't move into my mother's spare bedroom anymore. The sale of her condo is pending.

I've decided to stop dreaming of my future after I move to some hot, dry desert town. It's making me crazy to imagine moving but not be able to take much concrete action. While I am slowly downsizing, I am trying to enjoy my mother while I can. It has to be enough, to just be here now. That is how she is living these days, fully immersed in the moment. I call her the Zen Master.

I feel like I'm holding my breath. I'm waiting for the signal that tells me it's time for a change. Meanwhile, I'm in a slowly degrading holding pattern. My resources are draining out of my leaky life, drip drip drip.

Well, the good news is, I don't have to care about anything. I don't have to believe in anything. I just have to show up, one day at a time, and do the work. Time to get busy.

#where'sthebarf?

I've been wearing the same tired old pair of winter shoes for five years. I love my beat-up Merrills. They've taken me through mud puddles and ice puddles, across cement sidewalks and gravel driveways all over NW Portland. These shoes are shaped like torpedoes, which means these shoes aren't great for running, but I can kick things with them, like falling trees, attacking dogs, and marauding children, although I haven't actually had to do much of that. The black suede is gray and crusty with dirt and dust. Sadly, the soles are wearing down. I estimate they might give me another five years of service.

I know what you are thinking—five-year-old shoes, and you think they will last another five years? Are you nuts? More to the point, are you completely outside all bounds of respect for fashion?

I can hear your incredulity. I'm amazed you can conjure so much incredulity, considering the state of our national politics, but hey, more power to you. Whatever gets you foaming at the mouth. It takes more than out-of-style shoes to get my heart rate up, but I respect your indignation, whatever prods it to the surface.

I used to be a slave to fashion. To be precise, I was a slave to other people's ideas of fashion. I used to make custom clothing for a living, back in one of my former lives as a . . . well, let's just name it what it was—seamstress!—in Hollywood. Yep, the one in California. My clients brought me pictures of gravity-defying outfits (inevitably designed for a size zero) and demanded I make the outfits for them (in polyester satin, sans beading, in size 16, for my daughter's wedding, which by the way is next Saturday). I know I don't have the right to use the word slave, considering my skin color and life of lower-middle class blue-collar privilege, but maybe some of what I felt in those days was a ghost of slavery. I certainly felt trapped in a horrible job, bent over hot machines doing the bidding of harsh judgmental mistresses.

I guess I have associated fashion with pain, embarrassment, and resentment, which might explain why my current modus operandi is to use things till they disintegrate. It's how I treat my automobiles: drive 'em till they drop. It's how I treat my clothes: wear them until they shred into tiny pieces. So it's no big surprise that is how I treat my footwear.

All that is the long way to announce, in honor of spring, I bought a new pair of walking shoes. I bought them online, which is always a crap shoot, I'm sure you know—the convenience of purchasing in my pajamas is often outweighed by the disappointment of shoes that don't fit and look stupid.

In this case, when I opened the box and saw my new all-black walking shoes, I thought, hmmmm, these look like . . .  old lady shoes! They might as well be Easy Spirits! Humph. Even I have my fashion limits. I'll wear bell bottoms or pegged trousers, I don't care what the shape of my pants is, but I draw the line at wearing Easy Spirits. Probably because they were my mother's preferred brand, before I sold her on the style benefits of Merrills.

I tried these new style-less shoes on with my thick running socks, thinking, well if they don't feel perfectly awesome, I can wrap them up and ship them back, no questions asked. I trotted around the carpet, testing them, tuned to every rub and pinch. My right foot is wider than my left, don't ask me why, which means I must compromise between loose fit on the left and tight fit on the right. I guess my left foot is a 6 1/2 but I buy a size 7 to accommodate my wider right foot. When I buy running shoes, which I wear with a thicker sock, I usually order size 7 1/2s. That means I occasionally look down and experience a shock at how long my feet look.

I trotted around my living room for three days, wondering, should I send them back, should I keep them? Finally, I decided to send them back and try again. I got out the box and checked the soles of the shoes to make sure they were clean . . .  oh, no. What? Between the grooves on the left shoe was smashed an all-too-familiar sight: cat barf! No way!

Well, you know what they say: you step in it, you bought the shoes. Resigned, I took the shoes out to the store yesterday for a little spin and was pleasantly relieved: no blisters, no pain. Today I took them out for a 2-mile hike around the reservoir in the rain. The shoes warmed right up and melted to the shape of my foot. By the time I got home, they fit perfectly.

But I have looked all over my place and I still can't find the pile of cat barf I stepped in. I guess if my sinuses weren't so clogged with allergies, cat hair, and mold spores, I might be able to sniff it out. Maybe someday, or not. I never claimed to be a great housekeeper, a fact I hope my sister remembers when she comes to visit this summer.

I don't care how I look anymore. My shoes might look stupid, but they feel great. I'm greatly relieved. Freedom from pain is worth looking old and foolishly out of style.

The chronic malcontent marches to a different drum

Yesterday was the historic women's march in downtown Portland. I wanted to go, but I had meetings in NW Portland, 2 miles away from the action. The march was supposed to last until 4:00 pm, and my last meeting ended at 2:00 pm. I thought, hey, I'll just leave my car here and take the bus over to the route, maybe walk the last leg with the crowd. What could possibly go wrong?

After waiting impatiently at the bus stop for about 10 minutes, no buses in sight, I thought, hey, I'll just walk down and intercept the protesters somewhere near the waterfront at the end of the route. Action is the magic word, after all. I like to walk.

I'm not much of a joiner, but I wasn't going to miss out on history in the making, even if I only caught 500 yards of the route, skulking at the end of the pack. So I trudged on down to the river, equipped with hiking boots, a long hooded raincoat, an umbrella, and my old intermittently functioning Sony Cybershot digital camera. The rain was steady but not terribly cold, just a typical winter day in Portland. After the snow, ice, and 20-degree days we had last week, the air felt almost balmy. I was glad to be on the move toward something.

As I got closer to the route, I saw groups of people and families coming toward me, dragging waterlogged signs and wearing funny pink hats. They were talking and laughing, clearly done marching, signs forgotten. I crossed under the Burnside Bridge in Old Town, at the site of the Saturday Market, now vacant for the winter season. On one side of the MAX rail line, a horde of people were lined up to catch the train. On the other side, sheltered by the bridge overpass, was a line of sleeping bags and makeshift tents: a small contingent of our very large homeless population, wrapped like mummies, most likely too exhausted and demoralized to protest for better lives.

I caught up to the marchers as they walked east on Pine, a couple blocks from the river. I found some vantage points off to the side to take some photos. Then I walked with some other loners through parking lots, not of the crowd but with the crowd, so to speak. Moving in the same direction, anyway. I carried no signs. As I stopped for a light at a street corner, a young girl with blonde wisps poking out from under her hood gave me a wide grin and said "Hi!" Somewhat surprised and not a little bemused, I returned her greeting and crossed Naito Parkway to the Tom McCall Waterfront Park.

The fast-moving Willamette River was the color of a day-old McDonald's latte, punctuated with floating branches and logs. By now I was pretty done with crowds, and my feet were killing me. I took some pictures to prove I was there. Marchers milled around in clumps, proudly displaying their signs: Women's rights are human rights, Not my president, and my favorite, Viva la vulva. Some marchers were still on the move, headed south toward the Morrison Bridge, where some kind of stage was set up. Music and voices boomed over a sound system. I skirted all that by walking along the river front, heading toward the bus line that would take me back to NW Portland and my car.

At the bus stop, I commandeered the butt-sized bus bench to rest my aching legs and feet. I would have given up the seat to someone else who needed it. A woman with a walker joined us, but her walker had a built-in seat, so I stayed put. Someone with a smartphone said buses were delayed because of heavy loads. I waited a few minutes. Then I thought, I could be here all day. Maybe the streetcar would be a better bet.

I heaved myself up and started walking away from the river, toward 10th Avenue, where I knew I could catch the streetcar to NW Portland. The rain slowed. I heard a drum beat and realized I was watching the end of the marchers, the last walkers moving slowly north on 4th Avenue. I took some photos of overflowing garbage cans and piles of discarded protest signs and kept moving. By now my right ankle was bruised from the unforgiving ankle support of my right boot. My left heel burned with a blister. My step was neither lively nor steady at this point.

At 10th Avenue, I found the streetcar stop flooded with hopeful wanna-be riders and no streetcar in sight. I walked slowly along 10th (downhill, thank god). I contemplated going into Powell's Books to see if the giftcard I'd carried in my wallet for two years was still good, but I feared if I stopped moving, I'd not be able to start again. By this time, I knew that my chances of catching the streetcar were slim to none, so I put my head down and decided to power on through.

The rain stopped. The wind came up, but the breeze refreshed me. As I trudged over to Johnson and turned uphill to head back to 24th Avenue, I wondered what if anything I had learned about marching, protesting, and political grievances. If I were a truly evolved human being, probably I could have transcended the murderous pains in my legs and feet and focused on the meaning of life and the pendulum that swings us from love to hate to love to hate. But the untrained human mind is easily distracted by pain. Nothing much came to me except... shoes. I need better walking shoes.

Eventually I spotted my car halfway up the block. I plodded to it, opened the door, and sank wearily into the driver's seat, wondering if my feet would ever forgive me.

Today I looked up my route on Google maps to see how far I actually walked. I'm embarrassed to report, my route was two miles long from my car to the waterfront. I walked another half a mile south to the Hawthorne Bridge. Then I walked back to NW Portland, more or less along the same route. All together, my trek was easily five miles long. The march itself was only 1.3 miles.

The chronic malcontent muses while jogging: Don't try this at home

Today for the first time this spring, I put on my jogging togs and headed for Mt. Tabor Park. As I marched up the hill, I tried not to notice how tight my running shorts were or how my belly bulged over the waistband. I plodded up the main staircase, admiring my black polyester (or are they nylon) pants with the modest belled bottoms and racy white stripes, thinking these pants will be around until the apocalypse. I made it to the top of the staircase. I only had to pull the band of my sports bra out to give my lungs some room to expand twice on the way. Progress!

The cloud-filtered early afternoon sunlight was warm, and I was overdressed: long t-shirt, short jacket, long pants, baseball cap. Ready to start trotting. Any moment now.

Finally, I urged my legs to a trot, first trot of the season. Argh. I was aghast at how creaky my ankles and knees felt. The pain reminded me of my vegan debacle, from which I thought I had recovered. Mentally I reviewed my diet. Have I been eating enough protein? I've been doing protein smoothies almost every day, plus my usual eggs... hmmm. I heard Bravadita's voice in my head: Americans eat too much protein, more than they really need (those selfish hogs). So, add in my broccoli and maybe I'm getting 45 grams of protein a day? I don't think that's enough, sorry, Bravadita. My joints are telling me I need more protein. And probably more water, too.

As I trotted down and around the hill, feeling every little sinew between my hips and ankles, feeling every scraping bone and twinging muscle, I lamented the loss of strength, stamina, flexibility...and even as I lamented those prized assets, I knew if I really wanted them badly enough, I could get them back. At that point, gravity sucked my facial skin into a sinkhole somewhere around my knees and my brain along with it. Save that conundrum for a rainy day.

Still, I had to count my blessings: the vertigo was bad this morning, but it calmed down while I was finishing the final edits on a small job, an insubstantial treatise on the casual carpooling phenomenon now occurring in San Francisco. (Who knew! People are so amazing.) My jagged jogging didn't seem to stir the accursed ear rocks up much, I'm happy to say. I'm going to try not to move my head much while I type this and hope for the best.

After my choppy scoot down and around the road, I walked once around one of the reservoirs, admiring the deep green water, noting the occasional floating cup lid and tennis ball, and then headed up one of the dirt trails toward the northeastern flank of the mountain. As I walked, I began to feel sad, and then I remembered why sometimes I don't like to go walking: Walking gives me time to think, and when I have time to think, I feel sad.

First, I grieved the loss of my mother (she's not dead yet, she's actually doing better, but that doesn't stop me from indulging in the wreckage of the future). Then I grieved for the plight of people suffering at the hands of terrorists. Next, I grieved for the plight of animals suffering at the hands of mean people. Finally, I grieved for the plight of the planet, weighed down by humanity's greed and selfishness. All this grief I felt as I sauntered along the dirt paths wearing polyester (or nylon) pants, listening to an mp3 player that I charged with electricity generated by coal plants (and maybe some hydropower—this is the Pacific Northwest, after all). And now I'm blogging about my sadness while enjoying a cup of tepid coffee (think I'll heat it up in my microwave) and listening to Ultravox's Hiroshima Mon Amour on Window Media Player. Oh, how I suffer.

Pre-worrying solves nothing, but planning and action can help ease my fears about the future. I fear my mother's decline and eventual demise. I fear the impending earthquake and tsunami. I fear my landlord will evict me this summer so he can triple the rent and I'll have to move in with my mother. I fear my crappy car will croak; it's a Ford, after all—found on road dead. I fear I'll never finish my book (I'm almost done). I fear ridicule for my attempt to write a screenplay (but I submitted it to a contest anyway). I fear I'll soon be size extra fat instead of just medium fat (I still went jogging).

Nobody knows the future, except for the one thing we all know and don't want to talk about: We all will die. We don't know when, we don't know how, but we know we can't escape it. The essential, mind-blowing question is (and has always been), how do we want to live until we die? You know what they say: A life lived in fear is a life half-lived. Do I want to get to the end and realize I was a bystander in my own life? How many of us just trudge through our days without letting ourselves feel anything? I know that's what I do. I don't feel much rage anymore—I go straight to sorrow.

I don't like to feel sorrow, so I avoid feeling anything. But I've learned that the sun only comes out after I feel the sorrow, after I acknowledge the pain of living life, after I let myself feel the feelings. Then I can shrug, take a nap, have a blueberry smoothie, and get on with the business of living.

Rewind

I've been away from the blog for a while, immersed in life and not feeling energetic enough to share. The vertigo is destroying my frontal lobe, grinding off layers of brain matter with every wave. Well, I know that isn't really what is happening; I know vertigo is an inner ear problem, not a brain problem, but that is how it feels: like heavy ocean waves are beating the inside of my brain. I've found the symptoms get worse with stress. Ha. Does anything get better with stress. I ask you. Really. I'm asking. If you know, please tell me.

What am I so stressed out about? Thanks for asking. The usual crap: weather, earning, creativity, cancer (Bravadita's), transportation (lack thereof), and my mother.

Actually, news flash, the weather has been pretty excellent: mild late summer days punctuated by a little bit of much-needed rain. Really not much to complain about. It's that rich moment just before the leaves go golden. I guess it's really the turning of the earth and the angle of the sun that puts the melancholy in me. Sometimes I wish I could sleep until April. I've heard naps can be good for you. Maybe not that long, although I'd be willing to try it.

As far as earning goes, I am still editing other people's massive dissertation train wrecks for money. I don't like it, but I can say with a bit of pride that I'm getting better at it. I'm sure that is good for the clients. For me, maybe not so much: I don't think just because I'm good at something, that means I ought to do it. I got caught on that hook for years... sewing, typing, driving the short bus. Ack! My good friend said to me in 1989, “It's never too soon to stop doing what you hate and start doing what you love.” Those oddly convoluted words granted me permission to stop sewing for a living, an activity I detested. Maybe I can find another set of equally interesting words to set me free from editing. Hey, it could happen. All I have to do is finish my book, market it, and watch the cash roll in. Said the crazy insane woman.

I'm doing a fair amount of walking these days, compared to before my car went to Ford Focus heaven. I was sort of hoping to have achieved buns of steel by now. I'm sad to report that is not yet the case. I'm still working on it. Now I've almost convinced myself that I don't need a car, that in fact, I'm a better planetary citizen without a car. That doesn't stop me from eyeballing the shiny not-so-gently loved cars parked in the used car lots I walk by on my way to my weekly meeting. I'm just looking. Mostly at the little yellow striped mini. It's gone now. Oh well. Another missed opportunity.

My younger brother gave me a bicycle he wasn't using, in exchange for one I gave him that was too big for me. The exchange was leisurely, taking place over the span of ten years or so. In the interim, he seems to have lost the helmet I gave him, so I need to get a new bike helmet. Plus the bike he gave me has no front brakes and the seat is stuck too high. But it's got great big fat tires and it's small enough so that falling off it doesn't seem like it would be fatal. I wonder two things: Will riding a bike will retrain my brain to find its balance? And is this bike stolen?

I've saved the best (or worst) for last. Last month you may recall, my siblings and I moved our maternal parental unit into a lovely apartment in a large retirement community. I remember feeling a great sense of relief when we finally got pictures hung. Apart from the ongoing telecommunications nightmare requiring me to check in with the cable company every day, I thought things were going pretty good. Unfortunately (for me), my mother has hit the reset button on her move.

I accompanied her to her doctor's appointment last week. As I helped her fill in the forms in the waiting room, I started to get a bad, bad feeling that all was not right in retirement village heaven. Depressed, lonely, bored. Depressed, lonely, bored. In a warehouse for old people.

In the exam room, she sat on the exam table in a gown, with her old lady blue jeans half on her legs. When the doctor came in, she kicked her feet like a kid and said belligerently that she wanted to move back to the condo.

The doctor asked her to stick it out another month, but I knew that was a waste of breath. My mother is a bulldog. You wouldn't know it to look at her tiny 93-pound frame, but when she wants something, she goes after it with a single-minded focus. Maybe that's because she can only hold one thing in her mind at a time these days. The move pretty much destroyed her short-term memory. She may be hoping it will come back if she moves back to familiar territory. Logical. She reminds me of what a cat does during an earthquake: run until the earth stops shaking. Wherever the cat hunkers down equals safety. Right now Mom's world is shaking. The condo represents safety.

Most of my blog viewership has departed, leaving only a few friends and family members, all of whom are over 50, I believe. So you get the word rewind. I don't need to explain. If you are under 40, you may not be familiar with the word rewind. Just think of your parents' VCR. Or that old 8-track tape player in your basement (antique!). My mom wants a mulligan. A do-over. A reboot. She's calling a moving company tomorrow to help her rewind time.

My first thought was, how could she do this to me? Fortunately, my second thought was, how can I support her in her quest to be as happy as she can be in her final days? My third thought was, what the hell am I going to do when my turn comes?

A phone company and a cable company walk into a bar...

And I bet you can guess who pays the tab! Yep. My mother. The phone company and the cable company are fighting over who gets to be my mother's telephone service provider. There can only be one winner here: The apartment building is wired for cable voice, not for phone company voice. We are trying to get her old number ported over to the new apartment. But the phone company is hanging onto her for dear life.

When two bullgods clash, humans are no better than ants scurrying for cover. The Titans toss lightning bolts while I sit with my mother's cigarette smoke-infused Trimline phone to my ear, tentatively dialing 0 to talk to a representative. Their messages fly through the ether, barely missing each other: While I'm on the phone with the phone company, the cable company is leaving me messages at on my home phone, telling me that this entire frustrating telecommunications hell is happening because the phone company won't let go. I picture some muscle-bound demi-god holding my scrawny twig of a mother over a fiery abyss (laughing loudly, of course, because you can do that when you are a demi-god). Luckily, Mom is oblivious. Her main concern these days is selling the condo. The fact that her phone never rings doesn't seem to bug her as much as it bugs me. Probably because she's not the one trying to get through to her on the phone.

Through a strange technological twist of fate, my mother can dial out on her cable-company phone line, but no one can dial in. The disembodied recorded voice says, “This number is not in service.” Not what you want to hear when you are trying to reach your 86-year-old mother. We are stuck halfway between the two companies. Meanwhile, Mom is paying her bills like a good soldier and wondering why I looked so stressed out.

Meanwhile, Bravadita has had a bad week. On Wednesday, she had a breast removed. Wait, that sounds so bloodless. Let me rephrase: Her left boob was trying to kill her so the doctors cut it off. With scalpels. She lost a lot of blood. Then they put some wadded up padding in its place and sewed her back up, with some drains left hanging to squirt out the leftover juices. What the hell!

Vertigo was bad yesterday. For the first time since this whole stupid vertigo thing began last May, I had objective vertigo in addition to subjective vertigo. That means not only did I feel like I was on a boat on the ocean, but the ocean and the boat were spinning around me like an invisible hurricane with me in the middle. For a few minutes I sat very still. As I squeezed my eyes closed, feeling my stomach begin to roil, I saw my life disintegrating into complete disarray. Wreckage of the future, here I come! Next stop, bus bench, shopping cart under bridge. Then I did the Epley Maneuver on my head, first one direction and then the other. The waves subsided. The hurricane stilled. I sat up, a little wobbly, and carried on with my editing job like nothing happened. Because, really, my life is good.

Meanwhile, as our planet groans with the insults we heap upon it daily, people are uprooted across the Middle East, fleeing for their lives from a disaster the United States helped to create: You broke it, you bought it seems to apply here. I pondered the state of the union and the state of the planet on this 14th anniversary of another bad day as I walked in 90°F heat 30 minutes to get to my meeting. I think I would be willing to open up my home to some refugees. Maybe a couple of teenage girls. We could talk about makeup and boys. I don't mind sleeping on the couch. Maybe I could eat some yummy Syrian food. Maybe they would be inspired to vacuum occasionally. I hope they like cats.

After the phone call to the phone company, I was wrung out. Because it was almost dark, Mom let me take her car. As I left, she slipped me an envelope full of cash (not enough to do more than buy some groceries and put gas in her car, but enough to prove she loves me). When I got home my smoke alarm was chirping loudly, and my cat was waiting by the door, glaring.

Dog days

Now that the maternal parental unit is ensconced in her new digs, I have been waiting for the other shoe to drop. It would be too easy if all the stress was over. Finally, on Wednesday the family grapevine lit up: Mom thinks she's had a stroke. Naturally, my first thought is, after all we've done for you, you go and strokes out? True to form, I can make anything, even someone else's disastrous health problem, all about me.

Being carless, I waited on the phone rather than rushing (which would consist of walking or riding a bus) over to the retirement community, as if my presence would solve anything. It sounded like a crowded bus station through the phone: my brother's wife Deanna, a family friend Shirlene who is a nurse, and in the background, my mother's voice, loud and clear. That is not the voice of a stroke victim, I thought to myself, as Shirlene offered to come get me and drive me over to Mom's. Because somehow it was assumed I would want to be there to add my two cents to the pandemonium.

I declined the ride and walked over after I finished eating my breakfast. You can't tackle old senile mothers on an empty stomach. When I got there, everyone else was gone and Mom was snoozing on the couch. She woke up when I opened the door (I have a key).

“Shirlene said I was dehydrated,” she said with a little smirk.

I did my typical eye roll.

“I'm waiting for the cable guy,” she said. “I've been waiting all afternoon!”

“It's not even 1:00,” I said.

“Wake me up when he comes.” She laid back down on the couch, on her side with one elbow bent and her hand in the air. That can't be comfortable, I thought, but hell, for all I know she usually sleeps standing on her head. This might be a down day for her.

She woke from time to time, whenever there was a noise. The dryer buzzing. A car alarm echoing somewhere across the quad. Each time she was irate to find the cable guy had not yet arrived.

To be fair, she wasn't interested in watching television. She wanted her landline phone. The apartment building uses the cable company for telephone service. She'd been without a proper phone for four days, and she was ready to toss her little pay-as-you-go burner cell phone out the window. No matter how many times I reminded her, she couldn't seem to remember that to hear me talking on the other end, she had to hold the cell phone to her ear. I don't know, you figure it out. Maybe if they made cell phones look like brick-size cordless phones, she would get it.

Eventually the cable guy showed up and installed her phones. When I left, at her bequest, I took her car. Wheels! Zoom, zoom.... but I didn't need anything. Nowhere to go, really, nothing to buy. I drove home and parked it. The car sat on the street outside my apartment all day Thursday.

Friday morning, she called. “Can I have my car back?” she said, just a tiny bit belligerently, as if daring me to keep her key.

“Of course you can have your car back,” I said. I drove the car over and parked it outside the driveway at her building. She was outside on a park bench having a cigarette. I watched her walking toward me, a diminutive stick of a woman bearing no resemblance to the mother I used to know.

She took the car key happily, and didn't offer me a ride home. I didn't ask for one. I walked home under partly sunny skies.

Moving the maternal parental unit

Last week I was volunteering at a business conference for a nonprofit group of which I am a member. When you volunteer, you meet the members behind the curtain, the ones that help and the ones that hinder. I hope I did more helping than hindering. I was accused of rolling my eyes. You can interpret that any way you want. Of course, I would bet you would have a similar response if most of the comments you heard from the attendees went something like this: This is a great conference, where's the Diet Coke?

After four days of hospitality hell, I was ready for some downtime. But it's time to move the maternal parental unit into her new apartment at the retirement community. This morning she was supposed to call me when she got up, but she forgot. I called her at 11:00 am. “What are you doing?” I asked as soon as I was sure she knew who was calling her. (Who else but me says “Hello, Mudder” when she answers the phone? I dread the day she doesn't know me.)

“I'm putting things in boxes,” she replied.

“You were supposed to call me when you woke up.”

“I forgot to write it down,” she replied.

“I'm coming over.”

“Let me come get you!”

“No, I need the exercise!”

Now that I am carless, we have this conversation at least once a week. I've stopped trying to explain my actions. My explanations don't stick. Although her memory seems to be selective. Today we met a nice man named Bill who held the elevator for us. Mom told my younger brother about Bill. She apparently remembered everything Bill had told us about himself (moved in last week with his wife, lived in a condo downtown for eleven years, still living out of boxes).

Back to the story. I dressed in lightweight gear, shouldered my backpack, and walked over to her house (roughly a mile and a half) in muggy heat. My plan was to help her pack and take a load over in her old Toyota Camry.

When I arrived, she was gamely stuffing things into boxes with not much care for what was in each box. I watched her for a minute and then pulled her car out of the garage, backed it up to the back patio, and loaded a few boxes into the trunk. When I went back inside, she was in the dim bedroom, peering into a shoe box, muttering something about having shoes she's never seen before. I looked at her shoes. They all looked the same: black leather slip-on loafers from Naturalizer. I opened up a dusty box: well-worn 50s-style black suede pumps.

“I'll never wear those again,” she said firmly, shoving the shoes into the box with the slip-ons.

“Then why are we moving them to your new apartment?” I asked.

“I don't know.”

We drove over to her new place, a few miles away, and she told me where to park. I unloaded the trunk and the back seat. She held the door open. Then she held the inside door. Then Bill showed up and held the elevator door. All the doors started pinging at us for holding them open.

“They ought to have a freight elevator!” my mother said for the millionth time.

“It's unlikely they will put one in now, just for you, Ma,” I said.

She opened the door to her new apartment and found something to hold the door open. I loaded bags and boxes, walking back and forth from the elevator lobby to her apartment. I said hello to two different old ladies who were strolling the hall, one with a wheeled walker and one with a wheeled shopping cart of the smaller variety, the kind I had intended but failed to purchase.

Back in the apartment, I set a couple small shelves in the walk-in closet and started unpacking the sheets that had been stored on them back at the condo, until my mother stopped me.

“Those sheets are for the twin bed,” she said.

“Then why did we move them?” I said. “Your bed is a full-size bed.”

“Well, I still have a twin bed at the condo!”

“Yes, but you are giving that bed to Reggie,” I reminded her. Reggie (not his real name) is my 60-year-old brother, who apparently got dibs on the twin bed in the guest room. I looked at the stack of flowered sheets, pale green and pastel pink, thinking, yes, Reggie will enjoy sleeping on those.

“I'm going to unpack the bathroom stuff,” Mom said, disappearing around the corner.

I repacked the sheets and took the box to the door, along with the boxes we'd emptied.

“I'll sort this all out later,” Mom said as I watched her shovel lotions and bandages and deodorant and toothpaste into cabinet drawers. I turned and admired the perfect white tub.

When she was done with the bathroom, we unloaded the one box of kitchen gear and food she had packed. I set it all on the counter, thinking it was impossible to organize the kitchen with one box of miscellaneous utensils, five half-opened bags of cereal, a can of water chestnuts, and some bread crumbs. As I shoved it against the wall, I realized I had moved all these cans and bags after the mouse meltdown last June. (See a previous blog post.) When the box was empty, we went down the elevator and out to the car.

“Shall we make another trip?” I asked as we were heading away.

“No, I don't think so,” she replied. I drove us to my apartment, and she took my place in the driver's seat. She fiddled with the mirrors, although I'd left everything the way it was.

She blew me a kiss and took off down the gravel road, sideswiping a yellow recycling bin and an empty green yard debris garbage can on wheels. Bam. They rattled but didn't fall over or get dragged, so it's all good, right? She didn't slow down. I'm not sure she realized she'd hit them. I stood watching her go.

“Drive safe,” I muttered to her tail lights. Tomorrow I expect we'll do it again. Hopefully sans recycling bin abuse. Saturday my younger brother plans to rent a truck so we can load up some furniture. Then the fun will really begin. Stay tuned.

The chronic malcontent flirts with terminal uniqueness

I'm sitting in the Love Shack, hunkered down under the ceiling fan with my feet in a bucket of cold water. The temperature outside is 96 °F. cooling down from something higher than that. It's about 90 in here, still not time to open the doors and windows. Hence, the bucket of water. Aaaah.

It's Friday. Now that I am living a carless summer, this is the day I typically take a 40-minute walk to meet a small but dedicated group of people to talk over some stuff. It's really too hot to hike the city sidewalks, but I am willing to go to any lengths. And the bus doesn't go there. So I walk.

Walking is good, because I am in a contemplative mood. What am I contemplating? Thanks for asking. My friend Bravadita is facing the challenge of her life—cancer. I don't understand it. I can't figure out how to think about it. I want to figure out how to deal with it. Stupid reaction, especially because it isn't me on the firing line. It's so typical of my brain to try to make everything about me.

What does one say to a friend who got blindsided with a diagnosis of cancer? To answer that question, I turned to the higher power: Google, of course. Type in what to say to friend with cancer... bam! About a billion webpages on the topic. See, never fear, the Internet is here. Here is what to say to a friend who has cancer:

I'm here for you. 
What can I do to help you today? 

Boring.

There's a much longer list of what not to say. Here are a few:

You just need some omega-3s and a few hours in a sweat lodge. 
How long do you have? 
Can I have your Gucci pumps when you are gone? 

Yeah, I can see how those responses might be a bit gauche.

Time out. My feet are numb. This plastic bucket (formerly a kitty litter container) isn't quite big enough for my size sevens. Ouch. Toe cramp. Sorry, I shouldn't be complaining about a tiny thing like a toe cramp.

That's one of the problems with my life. I want to pretend I'm the sickest, saddest, most decrepit human on the planet, but there's always some sad sack whose life is sadder than mine. What's up with that? I can't complain about losing my memory because my 86-year-old scrawny twig of a mother really is losing her memory: so not fun. I can't complain about a toe cramp, because Bravadita has frigging cancer. I can't complain about anything really, because I'm not dead. I'm alive, much as I try to pretend otherwise. And, as far as I know, I will probably be alive tomorrow. Argh!

Don't misunderstand me: I don't want to be dead. I just want to be special. Special would lend some meaning to my humdrum boring life. But only a certain kind of special, mind you. I don't want the reverse lottery kind of special: you know: cancer, amputation, brain amoebas, bus bandits. I don't want to be special enough to get hit by a car while I'm crossing Burnside, or to die in a plane crash that is never found, or to be pancaked into my basement by a 9.0 earthquake (all things I worry about, no matter how unlikely). No, if that is what comes from being special, I'm okay with ordinary. Let me hide out in the masses, a drop in the ocean of life, a worker among workers. Uniqueness can be terminal.

Hunting and gathering in the heat of the day

This morning I had a choice: take a bus to buy groceries at Gateway, or walk a mile to the big store on Glisan. Choices, choices. Waiting for a bus would be boring, especially in the blazing hot mid-day sun. The bus would be air-conditioned, though. Tempting. Plus, I like the store at Gateway. I've shopped there for years; I know where everything is, which is reassuring. Waiting for a bus to take me home, somewhat boring. But at least I wouldn't have to lug groceries home on foot.

Seems like a no-brainer, right? Well, besides saving the $2.50 bus fare, the main factor that swayed me toward walking was the depressing spread of my ass. I need exercise. The only way I would be inclined to get moving is if I had a purpose: the hunting and gathering of food, or what passes for that activity in the modern age of Western civilization in East Portland. Plus, oddly enough, the vertigo seems to be better when I'm walking. So, at a little after high noon, I embarked upon the approximately one-mile journey to the store on Glisan Street.

Are you wondering if I was pushing my shiny new red shopping cart? Thanks for remembering. No, I did not, and I'll tell you why: The thing is huge. And heavy. I might as well steal a shopping cart from the store. It's quite a device, though, I must say. It folds up flat for storage (although the only place left to store things in the Love Shack is on the walls). It's quite sturdy. It's impressively shiny and red. Did I mention it is huge?

Unless I can figure out how to put a motor and a steering mechanism on the thing, I can't see myself wheeling the red shopping cart up hill and down dale to the store. I parked the red cart next to the other rarely used appliance in my bedroom, the vacuum cleaner. I've ordered a folding handtruck from Sears (I know, I'm insane). Until the new device arrives, I'm relying on my new backpack and two cloth grocery bags. I don't know how Bravadita does it: Despite being a pedestrian (by choice), she always seems so stylish, carrying the most lovely, functional bags while hiking the city in designer shoes. Sigh.

After making sure I had a bottle of water and my straw hat, I set out into brilliant 80° sunshine. Most of the trek to the store is downhill. It's not bad, walking downhill. Moving at the speed of walking, you can see things. I noticed used cars parked along the curb (none for sale). Now I know what a Pontiac Vibe looks like: just like a Toyota Matrix. Huh. I noticed lots of people grow vegetables in their front yards. The gardens are glorious, a direct contrast to the lawns, which are already crumbly gold fields of straw, even though it's barely summer. A long hedge of honeysuckle filled the air with a sweet delicate scent, blending interestingly with someone's crappy perfume and the smell of a decaying squirrel carcass.

I paced along, measuring my progress from shade patch to shade patch, winding through the hilly neighborhood down to Stark, then quick like a bug across Stark, then over to Burnside, and finally a few more long blocks to Glisan (our blocks are rectangular here on the Eastside). A few short blocks up the hill is the big store, on the other side of the street. A fancy pedestrian crossing, complete with flashing lights, gives the pedestrian the illusion that she is safe if she steps out into the street. There is no stoplight. I gave a special WTF, jackass! wave to the driver of an SUV, who waved back as she barreled through the crosswalk mere feet from my toes. I can see how pedestrians, especially those older than about 30, get killed while crossing wide boulevards: Once you step off the curb, you've got nowhere to go if someone doesn't stop. One little hitch in your gitalong and bam! you are flying into the gutter, a broken mess.

Luckily, that did not happen to me. I made it across the wide boulevard with no mishaps and entered the store from the parking lot, looking like all the other shoppers who came in cars to shop for groceries. I sank into air conditioned comfort. I don't know where things are in this store, so it seems bigger than it really is. Wandering the aisles, I saw lots of things I thought I needed and wanted. I limited myself, however, to what would fit in a tote basket, knowing I would have to carry it all back home.

Shopping as a pedestrian is different now. I'm making new choices. I have a list. I can't afford to forget anything; it's not like I can just hop in the car and zip back to the store if I forget eggs. Today I bought smaller versions of things, and fewer of them. Where I used to buy three cans of organic garbanzo beans, now just one. Instead of the large size olive oil, the half size. The smallest cabbage. Two onions instead of four. One dozen eggs, instead of two (I eat a lot of eggs).

I always go through self-checkout so I can avoid interacting with others. I also like to pack my own bags. As a pedestrian, I need to devise a new packing system. I put some heavy stuff into the backpack and distributed the produce between the two cloth bags, one for each shoulder. Apples, onions, broccoli, zucchini, carrots. Heavy but evenly balanced. I took a long swig of water, put on my sunglasses, and headed for the door.

The heat of the day hit me like a fist in the face. For a long moment, as I crossed the shimmering parking lot, the thought occurred to me that I may have taken on more than I could handle. I trudged slowly back up the hill, well aware that my next conscious thought might be from a hospital bed. But the heat was just tolerable. The space between pools of shade was just doable. The weight of the two bags was just about balanced. The sweat rolling down my back was soaked up by the backpack. My feet were hot, but the soles weren't melting, quite. I stopped once to drain my water bottle and let the sweat roll down my butt crack. Then I hoisted the load and plodded the last three blocks to the Love Shack. I guess I'll have to do it all again in about four days, or when the zucchini runs out. Bright side: I can always take the bus.