Dragged into the future

Do you ever wish you could freeze time? Shut off the clock, silence the calendar, you know, take a vacation from the daily detritus of life for a while? Before things get worse? I know it isn't possible. I'm just frustrated at stumbling over an endless stream of stupid obstacles. I want things to be easier. Or at least, not any worse. I realize life isn't so great now for most people on this planet. Life is precarious for all but a handful of humans. I'm not one of them, but still, I know I'm lucky. Born in the right place, right epoch, right skin color. Wrong gender, but I cope. My complaints are luxury problems, compared to what some people are facing. Recognizing that fact doesn't stop me from complaining, but it does put my trivial concerns into perspective. 

What are you complaining about this week, Carol? I'm so glad you asked. Some of my recent challenges are easing up a bit. For example, I've just about got the problem with the street address debacle straightened out. No one was making mistakes with malicious intent. It's good to remember, most humans just bumble along doing the best they can in any given moment, which means in the case of the site manager here at the apartment, little snafus like COVID can put a crimp in performance. That's understandable. No point in getting angry.

Another little snafu. My former landlord sent me some mail from Portland, consisting of three pieces of junk mail (Medicare, Carol, the sky will fall if you don't take action!) and two pieces from the IRS addressed to my mother. The IRS letters were duplicates sent a month apart. For some reason, the good people at the IRS thought they needed to tell me twice that they needed more time to figure out how to respond to the letter I sent them in January. Looking back at my files, I believe the letter I sent them was to inform them of her death. Maybe their computers are locked up trying to parse the impossible task of communicating with a dead person. I don't know what their issue is. I communicate with my mother all the time. I told her the IRS is after her. She didn't seem to care, not enough to respond, anyway.

Now the next thing pulling at me is the horrible prospect of upgrading to Windows 11. I still remember the trauma of upgrading to Windows 10. I had to get help from some professionals, who augmented my old computer so it could receive the gift of new operating system software. This time, Windows Update informed me my computer would not be able to handle an upgrade to Windows 11. They weren't particularly gentle about giving me the news. They have no idea the pain they are potentially unleashing in my technological life. I will dig in my heels for as long as I can. Eventually I will need to get a new computer. It seems like I get one problem ironed out and a new wrinkle appears. I really hate to iron.

Last week I took my car in to a repair shop recommended to me by a Tucson friend I trust. The mechanics at this shop are really nice, which somehow made it hurt a little less when they handed me the estimate. I won't tell you how much I paid to get the fuel injectors cleaned out. Apparently this car was ridden hard and put away wet, not once, but many times. I should have sold it to the Dodge dealer when they offered to buy it from me, but then I would be carless. I've been carless before. I can do it, but it seriously dents my self-esteem. It's one thing to say I'm poor by choice, you know, that old saying about we are volunteers, not victims. After a while, though, it's hard to stave off the waves of self-pity.

All that to say, I'm all in on this car. It's a touchy, sensitive beast, but it's my touchy, sensitive beast. I'll keep throwing money at it and when the money is gone, I'll park it somewhere and live in it. No worries. That was always going to be my backup plan if things here in Tucson go gunnysack. I'm the queen of contingency plans.

In other good news, I'm getting ready to publish my second novel. Too bad I can't tell you what it is, this being an anonymous blog and all. In other bad news, I saw my second adult-sized cockroach in my apartment today. Welcome to Tucson. In other bad news, the vertigo continues to pound my head into a sloshy pulp. In other good news, Medicare!

After a while, it's obvious nothing is all good or all bad. It's just life, dragging me into the future, one day at a time.

Living a life sublime

Howdy Blogbots. You’ll be happy to hear I finally have fast internet. Fast enough, anyway. What a relief. Being on the wrong side of the digital divide is debilitating in all kinds of ways. I’m sure you are greatly relieved as well. Now you can hope I will stop complaining about it.

Here's the story, thanks for asking. After a massive fail by Century Link, I am now a customer of their Tucson competitor, Cox Communications. I’ve learned so much. For example, I now understand what the Century Link technician meant when he said “Cox uses a different system.” It’s cable, dude! Cox uses cable, Century Link uses DSL phone lines. You are probably thinking, duh, Carol, everyone knows that, it’s like the battle between the evil titans Comcast and Century Link in Portland, have you been living under a rock? In my defense, I say, yes, I have been living under a rock of sorts. A rock I fondly called Mom.

Anyway, after a long trek across Tucson to f*ckall woebegone, I found the only Cox store in town, waited in line, paid a $50.00 deposit, and was granted the privilege of renting a cheap plastic modem to take home and self-install.

If you know me, you know that any word with self in front of it makes me quail.

“Will I be able to figure this out?” I asked the rep who took my money and handed me a white box with a handy built-in plastic handle. 

She stared at me over her mask. I could see her mentally shift gears. She opened the box and quickly described the attachment process. I felt like one of those cartoon dogs listening to their owner, where the dialog balloon is nothing but bla bla bla bacon bla bla walk bla bla, except minus the cue words bacon and walk.

I went outside with my little box. I put the box gently on the seat and took a minute to pour a dinky bottle of mechanic-in-a-can into my car’s gas tank. The beast threw a shoe, I mean, a code, that morning. Ding, the familiar check engine light came on, indicating a problem in the exhaust system. Anything from a bad gas cap to an expensive oxygen sensor problem or an even more expensive catalytic converter fail. The light does not identify the exact problem. It’s like when your property manager texts you there’s a gas leak in the building, get out now. It helps to have specifics, like, which apartment do I really live in? So now I have the fun job of trying to discern whether the check engine light problem stems from the work that I had the dealer do on May 19. It’s unlikely that their work is under warranty but it would be stupid not to ask. If they say bring it in, I know what will happen. I have some alternative recommendations for car repair places, none of which is within easy walking distance of the Bat Cave.

My father told me never to fall in love with a car. That is still good advice.

Two steps forward, two or three steps back, then one step forward, then fall in a hole for a while. That is my life in Tucson. I finally get an apartment, but can’t get internet. I finally get internet, but the car goes gunnysack. The neighbors with quiet car stereos have loud car engines and vice versa. The property manager returns from a three-week COVID-19 vacation (yay, she lives!) but fails to respond (again) to my emails. Meanwhile, the waves of vertigo in my head are a constant reminder that I control nothing and nobody.

After a while, does it do any good to use the words good or bad to describe what happens? It’s all just life. Maybe the word stupid would be more apropos. I could equally use the word sublime. Ridiculous and rapturous. Absurd and . . . hmm, I’m having trouble coming up with opposites that express my dichotomous brain. I found some fun words, though: cockamamie, dunderheaded, doltish, nutty. Humans have many words to express their displeasure with circumstance. Absurd, ridiculous, and nutty have a lot of company in the thesaurus. Synonyms for triumphant and celebratory are sparse.

As I walked in the hot morning sun today, eyes on the cracked asphalt to avoid stumbles, I had time to think about what it means to be alone. No one depends on me, not a cat, not a mother, not a sibling, not a friend. Nobody really knows where I am. A few people have my street address, but no one could rush to my rescue, or ask me to rush to theirs. I no longer live my life in the context of someone else’s. I’m effectively alone.

I can hear you, you know. You are thinking, oh, no, there she goes again. She’s going to do that off-putting grieving thing. She’s fallen into that sorrow-shaped hole in the sidewalk. Now the whining will begin and it will take meeting another horny lonely eighty-two-year-old to get her mind off it so she can find the humor in her nutty, absurd, confounding, ridiculously sublime existence.

In my defense—do I seem to be writing that phrase more than usual lately? Argh. I’ll let you decide if grief is a defense for wackiness. Everything has happened so fast (she whined). Ten months ago, Mom went and died, setting off a cascade of actions and events that propelled me to another state. Bam, in slow motion, I'm thrown into a new life. Wait, let's be clear: I threw myself.

I wake up at night confused. I don’t know where I am. What bed, what room, what city, what year. I hope it is grief and not early-stage Alzheimer’s. Nothing makes sense except for the veneer of meaning I paint onto my experiences, and my mental paintbrush lags a disturbing two or more seconds behind reality. (Hence my confusion when I opened the Cox box and saw a coaxial cable instead of a DSL phone line.)

One of my favorite Monkees songs (yes, I’m still a fan) has a grammatically incorrect line that resonates: Where my foot steps down is where is home. Every time I go walking, I look at the blue sky and think, oh my god, how gorgeous, is this my home? It’s a real question with as yet no answer. I don’t know if this is home. And yes, the sky is sublime.

Welcome to my slo-mo life

Welcome to the slow motion life of inadequate internet. Haven’t we become accustomed to a certain pace when we surf the Web? Pages load. Maps function. Emails appear. Buttons work. I thought my happy day had arrived when I saw the box containing the modem outside my door. Within minutes I was connected and jockeying for my place on the World Wide Web. However, there’s a kink in the line somewhere, probably right outside my door, judging by the bent cable that comes from somewhere and disappears into a hole into my apartment. After several days complaining via slow-motion chat to the internet provider reps, they finally broke down and agreed the problem was on their end and a technician will arrive next Friday.

I’m not complaining, really. I didn’t think I would get internet here until mid-October. The schedule got moved up when I got the address problem straightened out. Apparently, it takes longer to get internet installed in an apartment occupied by another tenant who already has internet. Who knew.

Well, actually, the address error has not been entirely resolved. The internet provider and the utility company seem to have accepted the new address and adjusted their records accordingly. The property management company, however, hasn’t shown any willingness to make an address correction. I’m trying to be patient. Perhaps they are still working from home. Perhaps they use a third-party vendor to manage their online content. Perhaps they are kind-hearted simple folk who move at a pace different from my own.

I’m expecting in about six months to get a notice saying, well, Carol, it was really nice of you to pay rent for that other tenant all this time, but when are you going to pay yours? It seems like such a simple thing, to acknowledge the error and resolve it. They may be well-meaning, but from my one-sided perspective, this property management company looks like it is run by a bunch of incompetent nincompoops. I’ve recently noticed a desire to use that word nincompoop in my writing. What do you think? Did I choose the right word?

Just when I seem to be circling the drain, the universe brings me something to chew on, something to occupy my mind and my time so I don’t completely implode. Last week, it was the address error. This week it was getting online. In addition, I’ve had a sizeable editing project, which has kept my mind out of the tailspin and helped me focus on being helpful. It is good to focus on something other than myself. I admit, I have wanted to tear my hair a few times.

I dreamed I was hanging out with Mom at her condo, helping her get organized. She sure had a lot of stuff, in real life, and in the dream. Accumulating stuff seems to be a favorite pastime among some Americans. Having just downsized and moved long distance, I am loathe to accumulate more stuff. Nevertheless, I went to Home Depot and Target and got some things to organize my space. My personal rule is never to buy anything I cannot lift and carry myself, so the things I bought fall into one or more of these three categories: they are small, they are plastic, or they can be disassembled into manageable pieces.

After I got my new shelves set up, I sorted through the contents in the boxes and plastic bins I brought with me in my minivan and shipped in the shipping box. Almost all of my clothes fall into one or more of these three categories: they are torn, they are stained, or they are fleece.

I have distilled my options to one of the following mutually exclusive categories: keep it, donate it, or toss it. I guess I left out a fourth category: set it on fire. In fact, I’m starting to realize that burning it down and starting over is metaphorically pretty much what I’ve done over the past six months. If you strip out the emotion, what I did was efficiently and effectively execute on an action plan I’ve had in place for about five years. No room for grief, no room for fear and anxiety, just sort it out, pack it up, move ‘em out, get it done.

If you are human, though, you know that emotions are sort of like your old dog Sam. It is easy to banish Sam to the backyard and tell him to go pee, but it’s very hard to keep him out there once he remembers that being inside is where the food is. All I can say is, I’ve been dealing with Sam this week.

After muddling through some weepy moments, I eventually reached a point of grace, in which I realized nothing is all bad or all good, that life happens to us all, and whiners never prosper. Once again I have the opportunity to embrace my life philosophy that emotions don’t matter all that much. Only actions actually have some influence on outcomes. Screaming because the property management company has failed to meet my expectations doesn’t hurt them. They clearly don’t care about customer service. Screaming only makes my voice hoarse.

I will continue my action plan: to nudge, poke, prod, remind, and cajole, all the while doing my best to be friendly, courteous, and reasonable.

I don’t need to burn it all down to start over in this new city.

The Chronic Malcontent tries to work a program

Last night the power in my apartment went off just after 3 a.m. I woke up when my fan stopped. Dead-of-night silence is inordinately loud. I wandered around in my dark apartment with a flashlight, peered out the window, and soon realized the power was out in the neighborhood. I woke up my phone and looked up a power outage map. Yep. A red square in the center of Tucson for some reason had no power, and me smack dab in it.

Not having power is similar to not having internet. Both feel indispensable when I don’t have them. However, during summer in the desert, you really need power more than you need internet. I went back to bed—or what serves as my bed, call it foam rubber pad on wood platform, bed for short. When I woke up in the morning, I was glad to see my digital clock blinking red. Like magic, the power had been restored.

If I had internet, I would do some sleuthing to discover the cause, just because it would be interesting, just because losing myself in surfing the Web is a delicious distraction from reality. The cause of the power outage was probably some drunk driver downing a utility pole. It happens here a lot. On Saturday nights, drunk drivers crash into all sorts of things—trees, fences, power poles, bicyclists. My friend likened Tucson to a third-world country. I am inclined to agree. We could blame the vortices swirling around the Santa Catalina Mountains. Whatever the cause, the energy in this place on weekends reminds me of being eighteen on a summer night, drunk out of my mind, riding in the car of my handsome boss, also quite drunk, and laughing hysterically as we narrowly avoided ramming a parked car. That’s Tucson. Needless to say, I am not eighteen anymore.

Speaking of distractions, I drove up to Phoenix this week for a visit to IKEA. I thought I might feel anxious about driving. I haven’t done any distance driving since April when I drove the 1,500 miles from Portland to Tucson. However, once I got on the I-10 freeway headed east, I could feel my limbs relax. I was glad to be on my way out of the city, any city. For a few minutes, I daydreamed about what it would be like to have a bedroom, kitchen, living area, and bathroom neatly tucked into the cargo space of my Dodge Grand Caravan. Then I immediately started fretting about how difficult it would be to actually live the van life in the desert southwest. I’ve seen all the videos. The daydream dissolved as reality returned.

IKEA was big and blue, sitting in an enormous flat parking lot under a sizzling sun. Cars nuzzled tightly around the building, leaving the outer reaches empty except for the spaces sheltered by the shade of a few scrawny trees. All taken, of course. I parked in the open so I could find my car again, covered the steering wheel and driver’s seat with my reflectix windshield cover, and hiked to the enormous blue building in 111°F heat. At the entrance, I passed through a veil of water mist, a failed attempt to provide some cooling, and then I was inside.

In the bright atrium, I paused to get my bearings. I pulled out my list. The wide staircase to the showrooms rose in front of me. Should I ascend to dreamland? Not this time. Already overwhelmed, I decided to bypass the showroom and go straight for the crack cocaine, that is to say, the so-called marketplace, hidden behind a generic door under the stairs.

Within two minutes, I was hyperventilating under my facemask. I haven’t shopped like that in many years—I mean, intentional, purposeful hunting and gathering for non-essential items. Shopping frenzies are an artifact of my past. Instead of feeling energized at the endeavor, I felt sapped. Pillows, textiles, bedding, rugs, lamps, argh. Too much. I kept my eyes on my list and navigated the arrows on the floor, keeping my distance from other shoppers, many of whom were maskless.

I used to shop at IKEA once in a while when I lived in Los Angeles. I remember being enchanted with the place, all the myriad décor possibilities, the potential for self-expression everywhere, color, shape, and function, the intersection of everything I loved. As I shuffled around IKEA this time, I wondered what had changed. Was it IKEA or was it me?

Today’s IKEA seemed darker, dustier, smaller, and less enchanting than I remembered. I blame Covid-19. Nothing seems good anymore. The place seemed dingy, dimly lit in some corners. Displays seemed half-hearted, noncommittal. Many shelves were empty. I soldiered onward, finding everything on my list, or reasonable substitutes. I wasn’t all that choosy. A couple rugs, not my preferred color, but good enough. A few bathmats. A little square rug for the closet. A couple cheap floor lamps. A coat rack. A bar stool for my breakfast bar. I didn’t spend much and felt pretty satisfied with my haul. I would have bought more if shelves had been stocked.

Of course, I have changed too in thirty years. I’m wearier, mentally and physically. Plus I’m sort of done with accumulating stuff. I just got done doing some serious downsizing, so buying more stuff seems like a major slip in my downsizing recovery program. Did I tell you, I’m a founding member of Accumulators Anonymous. I’d been doing so well. Sleeping on a foam rubber pad on a wood platform is part of the recovery plan. Beds are so forever. Until they aren’t; then they are so hard to get rid of. Although, now that I think of it, tenants in my apartment building have been dumping mattresses out by the dumpster. Every week, there’s a different mattress, along with the random vacuum cleaner, ripped recliner, and broken big-screen TV. Someone comes and removes them, like elves in the night coming in to do your laundry. Is that a thing? No? Well, we can hope.

Anyway, mattresses. Maybe they aren’t as hard to get rid of as I think. Still, I’m trying to think long and hard before buying more stuff, even cheap plastic stuff. Well, especially cheap plastic stuff, because although cheap is tantalizing, plastic is bad. It’s a depressing thought to realize that the items I purchased from IKEA, and the plastic in which they came packaged, will outlast me by centuries.

Another month to go until internet. Meanwhile, I am enjoying my new IKEA purchases while battling flies in the Bat Cave.

Reality and wishful thinking walk into a bar

You know how you have a picture in your head of what something will be like after you buy it, and then after you buy it, you realize it is nothing at all like they promised it would be? Like that InstaPot thing, for instance, that was supposed to make all our meals so healthy we would be size 2 in a matter of weeks. Or like those shoes with the toes that were supposed to make us run faster so we feel safe to finally run that marathon before we turn forty without totally embarrassing ourselves. Or like that move to a new state we were sure was going to transform us into a completely different somehow cooler person. That kind of mental picture.

Pictures like that are definitely mental, and so is believing that those pictures could come close to representing reality. The truth is, the InstaPot is not a magic dietary aid—the equation is still calories in, calories out, no matter how we cook it, and what's so great about being a size 2, anyway? Those shoes with the bizarre toes aren't cool and they won't help us run even down to the corner 7-11 if we trip on a curb and fall along the way (I know, it happened to a friend of mine). And I'm here to tell you, moving to a new state is not a cure for anything. Wherever we go, there we are. 

I had this mental image that after I moved to Tucson, I'd go shopping at a mall or thrift store for a new summer wardrobe consisting of soft linens and cottons in dusky desert colors. I'd toss out all my old ratty t-shirts and baggy underwear and get clothes my sister would approve of. I'd get some espadrilles, with low heels, of course, or some leather huaraches in honor of my proximity to Mexico. I'd wear them with socks, of course, because well, I'm still an Oregonian, but I'd do it with pizzazz and panache. 

I pictured myself wearing those new shoes while sitting on a deck or patio sipping iced coffee in the balmy shade, writing my novel on my new laptop. I envisioned myself driving my pristine white Dodge Caravan on adventures around the city, learning my way and finding the hidden gems that only the locals know. I imagined taking tours of apartment buildings, admiring their tubs and closets and basking in the endless supply of frigid air blasting from strategically placed air conditioner vents.

After three weeks in paradise, it is clear to me that in the matchup between dreams and reality, reality wins every time. It's the nature of reality to not be swayed, bribed, or otherwise influenced by the dreams we have in our tiny fuzzy heads. 

Reality is a mixed bag. Yes, I sip iced coffee, but did you know coffee is a diuretic? I'd do better just drinking lots and lots of water. However, the water here tastes like chlorinated salty vinegar. I'm finding ginger and turmeric herbal tea makes a drinkable concoction when cold. My wrists are emaciated but my ankles are swollen, a weird combination that tells me I'm dehydrated and I have high blood pressure. I applied to move my Obamacare from Oregon to Arizona. Arizona Medicaid is unable to verify my identity. I am waiting for them to reject me so I can choose another health insurance company through the marketplace and find a primary care doctor. Hope I live that long.

On the bright side, the car is running great, except for the ubiquitous check engine light, which came on again despite spending $50 on premium gas. I should have known the mechanic-in-a-can remedy wasn't aligned with reality. Wishful thinking goes down for the count once again.

On another sunny note, I found an apartment I might want to live in not far from the trailer park. The property management company wanted an application first before they agreed to show me the unit. No doubt trying to weed out the losers. That is a good strategy on their part. I might be one of those losers, by their rulebook. My income is low and they will discover that I'm a credit history ghost. I'm pretty sure that is why Arizona Medicaid cannot verify my identity. As far as the credit agencies go, I don't exist. Oh, and I can't open a bank account here until I have a "permanent" address. I guess the banks have caught on to people living in UPS Store mailboxes. 

On the brighter side, I have been working on my novel. Why not? It's way too hot to go out except to forage for food at a grocery store. Going shopping for clothes seems like an impossibly heavy lift. I have clothes but they are packed away under boxes in the storage unit. My entire life is in boxes in that storage unit. It's great I have all my stuff, and why did I pay to ship all that crap down here again? I'm forgetting why an IBICO machine was so precious to me. 

Now I sound like I'm complaining, don't I? Well, I am. The joke is on me, for sure. The image I had in my head of a new life in Tucson is unfolding a little differently than I pictured. On the bright side, I'm sure I do not want to return to Portland. At least there is one place on the planet I know I don't belong. Meanwhile, I'm living a life I barely recognize in an amazing yet surreal trailer park in a beautiful yet strangely unfriendly city. Reality and wishful thinking bellying up at the bar. 

Guilty of sitcom behavior

My chest hurts from sneezing and coughing. My nose itches and burns. Have I finally been felled by Covid-19? Thanks for asking. No, it's just allergies—a reaction to one specific allergen, to be precise: black mold. 

Last night I was wracked by rounds of violent sneezes while I sat in my TV-watching chair enjoying SNL. My symptoms calmed down overnight but bloomed again this morning while I made coffee. It seems clear that the allergen is in my kitchen and possibly in the living room, not in the bedroom. I've sprayed the cracks in the kitchen ceiling, I've sprayed the cupboards . . . where was the source of my misery?

Today between drips and coughs, I hunted through the kitchen with my spray bottle of bleach held before me like an automatic pistol. I thought I had sprayed every possible nook and cranny. And then I looked behind my raincoat. The entire wall behind my long vinyl raincoat was speckled with black mold. A-ha! I blasted the mold with my magic mixture of bleach and water. A few hours later, my nose is starting to calm down. Mission accomplished. Until the next time. 

That's a really long way to say, the Love Shack is a toxic waste dump and it's time for me to go.

Speaking of moving, I jettisoned more surplus wood today. Almost all my walls are denuded of shelves, and now the shelves have found new homes with people who think shelves are the answer to life's myriad organizational challenges. I know better. Shelves are the answer to nothing. The answer is to not have so much stuff to begin with. I wish I'd learned that before I spent so much time and money wallpapering my apartment with shelves. My rationale of "getting things up off the floor" echoes as hollowly as my sniffles bouncing off the empty walls of the Love Shack. If you build shelves, stuff will come to fill them. This is what I know. I pass this nugget of wisdom on to you. You know what to do.

Right. Buy more stuff and build more shelves. It's the American way, after all. Gotta keep that economy humming. 

After pondering the philosophy behind landfills and waste streams, I'm leaning toward keeping my bed. It's old, but it's still working perfectly fine, adequately performing the function that a bed performs. It's a low-key bed. I don't expect a lot from it. Compared to those fancy foam things that adjust to your movement and temperature, that ascend and descend when your bed partner decides you are making too much noise, my bed is a total Zen master. It makes no sense to give away my bed or send it to the dump when it is still doing its job. Besides, I'll just have to buy another bed when I get to wherever I'm going, and what if that new bed is louder or pricklier or more demanding? Plus, you know what happens if you buy a new bed—then you have to buy all new sheets, and a plush of ten pillows, and a duvet made of Egyptian cotton. Well, then you can kiss your credit rating goodbye—you have fallen down the rabbit hole at the online furniture store and we won't see you till next Christmas. Next thing you know, there's a truckload of furniture outside your door and some husky dude demanding your signature.

That won't be me. I don't care about mundane things like credit ratings. And I don't expect to have visitors ever again, so I don't care if my sheets and pillowcases don't match. 

Speaking of not caring, I told my sister this week that I wash my clothes in the tub while I'm taking a bath. She said she wouldn't tell anyone, like it was sketchy behavior best kept secret. Was I supposed to be embarrassed? What I see as intelligent efficiency she apparently sees as a social peccadillo. It would not be the first time I've done something to embarrass a member of my family. My father was a master at the embarrassed eye-roll. I'm used to it. I know my sister loves me, even if I do scrub my laundry and take a bath at the same time. It has taken a lifetime of shame and guilt to achieve the nirvana of not giving a rat's ass about what others think of me. Freedom from guilt and shame is even better than freedom from shelves crammed full of stuff I can't take with me, in this move to a new home, or in whatever life comes after. 

Unfeathering my moldy nest

In my preparation for leaving the Love Shack, I'm unfeathering my nest in circles, the same way I feathered it, adding a wall of shelves here, a set of bookcases there, all designed to accommodate my growing collection of paper products. I've shredded almost all the paper in the place; thus, I no longer need all these homemade shelves. Taking these things off the walls has been a sweaty chore. I build to last. However, my trusty drill and I have beaten the screaming screws into submission. Only a few more to go. 

Now my living room looks like a lumberyard. Seriously, I have designated a 10 foot by 10 foot space next to my TV-watching chair (used to be Eddie's chair) as wood storage. The space is already jam-stacked with planks and sticks and unusable constructs that used to be furniture. I've become a woodchuck! Well, maybe a reverse woodchuck. All I know is all this wood is going to get chucked. Actually, woodchucks don't chuck wood, but whatever. 

I was tidying up my desk tonight when I was suddenly blindsided by a fit of sobbing. It didn't last long. Weeping makes my nose drip and clogs my throat. If I wail too long, I'll barf. I hate to cry but I hate barfing more, so that works pretty well to keep the histrionics to a minimum. It's my loss and I'll cry if I want to, but not for long. Moving on.

I picked up ashes and death certificates on Monday. Next up on the list, getting Mom's taxes done, learning about probate, and sending copies of death certificates where they need to go. Just a bunch of busywork. It's okay. I need a sense of purpose. When I get done with my tasks, I continue going through drawers and cupboards, sorting and tossing. So far, I have eight boxes ready to go to the thrift store. I hate to give them my vintage cardboard boxes. Those things came with me from California in 1997. I see labels pasted upon labels, showing me the trail of possessions I thought were too precious to leave behind. Mostly paper. What can I say, I've always loved paper. 

You know who else loves paper? Mold. 

By the time you see mold, it's too late. Spraying with bleach is a feeble remedy, a sad desperate grab at temporary relief. Within minutes the mold is growing back, like alien spores on an episode of Star Trek. The original Star Trek, I mean—that's all I get on broadcast TV. I hope I'm gone before my landlord has a chance to see the job ahead of him. He's going to have to tear the entire east side of the apartment down to the studs. That means kitchen and bathroom. I really don't want to be around when he rips down the beige speckled Formica tub surround, which bulges with whatever is growing in the walls. Alien life, here on earth. I think about it sometimes as I'm soaking in the tub.

It is good I'm leaving this place. To those of you who think I'm crazy to leave during Covid, I invite you to consider that staying here would not be healthy for anyone. Even I have my limit. I can put up with a lot of discomfort because I really don't care where I live, as long as I'm warm enough and have hot water in the tub. And internet, of course. Dust, spiders, and cat hair, who cares. Rust stains and missing porcelain in the kitchen sink, no problem. No hot water in the bathroom sink? No worries, as long as there is hot water in the tub. 

This is why I'm hopeful I will find new digs somewhere in a warmer drier place without much problem. My standards are more than reasonable—you might say they are low, compared to most white Americans. This means I have more options. And less disappointment. I recommend it. 

I'm seeking the balance between living like a woodchuck in a grubby burrow and living like an entitled melodramatic demanding whiny white American. Somewhere in the middle of America there must be a place in the sun for me. 

Welcome to another stupid cold holiday season

 Hello, happy holidays to my seven blog readers. You sly anonymous folks, you know who you are. I've been anonymously writing this blog for some years now, hiding behind the moniker of The Chronic Malcontent (like about a hundred other bloggers). Now we are all living anonymous lives, hidden behind plaid and paisley masks, or tasteful cotton chambray, perhaps. Or maybe you use one of those disposable things I see lying on the ground in the Winco parking lot. Whatever we are covering our faces with, we are all hiding, waiting for this stupid cold Covid season to be over. 

I'm done trying to figure things out. I'm taking things as they come. You want to be stupid? Go right ahead. You want to complain? Right on, go for it. I support your right to be loud, stupid, and annoying. 

I'm taking my cue from my mother, living in the moment, not looking behind me, not peering ahead. She's the Zen Master of the Senior Vista Villa, or whatever the place is called. 

"How are your fellow inmates?" I asked a few nights ago as we sat outside the back door under the porte-cochère, six feet apart, me masked (plaid), her bundled in fleece blankets against the December chill.

"Those idiots are so dense!" she said with disgust. 

"Why, what are they doing?" 

"They do it all wrong," she complained. "The contract gets moved, and then everything goes haywire." I nod in agreement, even though I have no idea what she is talking about. 

"Are they messing with your puzzles?"

"You have to keep your eye on Vivian," she said. "She will try to get out the door if you aren't careful."

"You mean, she'll try to make a run for it?" 

"Yeah, she's a real pistol. Sometimes she tries to sit in my place." 

"At the table?"

She nodded, lips pressed tight. Clearly, the drama does not fade once we hit the nursing home stage. It's just like junior high all over again, only the mean girls are toothless and wear house slippers. 

"Well, if she takes a swing at you, you scream bloody murder. Erin won't stand for it."

"Yeah, she runs a tight ship." High praise. Moving Mom to this care home was traumatic for everyone but almost three months later, she's doing better than fine. She's happy and thriving. 

So, what about me? Thanks for asking. My life is no more precarious than it has ever been, hence my strategy of living in the moment. Nobody controls the future, nobody can determine outcomes. I try not to be stupid but hey, I'm human. Sometimes I don't wait as long as I should for the vents to clear the fog off my windshield before I tentatively drive the eight blocks to the care home. 

Every day brings new opportunities to remember that the Universe does not care what I think or feel. Gosh. I wish I could go back in time and have a little do-over. All the energy I have wasted whining about things over the years could have been spent writing ten novels or painting fifty portraits of my cat or planting a garden or waxing my car or my upper lip. Combined! I've been operating as if my complaining about how unfair life is and how mean people are and how stupid everything is has one tiny bit of influence on the Universe. The Universe does not care. Now I know. It's not about me. It's never been about me. I'm glad I figured that out before I catch Covid and die gasping in my bed.

The great benefit of living in the moment is that I'm free to pursue what interests me. I wish I'd done that back when I was eighteen, instead of doing what everyone else thought I should do. Oh well. All those choices brought me here. What a long strange trip it's been. 

The Chronic Malcontent is choked by luxury problems

Off and on over the past three months, people in other parts of the country have asked me if Portland is on fire. Each time, I scoff and say, "Don't believe everything you see on the Internet." I would think of the small areas on the city that have drawn protesters and picture the rest of the city going about its business, peaceful, untroubled, dusty green under summer blue sky. This week was different. This week, with the exurbs on fire, I started thinking about what I would be able to pack into my car if the wildfires marched across the county line toward the Love Shack.

It's great to have the luxury of planning ahead. Not everyone in this west coast conflagration has been so lucky. I didn't seriously think my apartment was in any danger, but . . . well, my sister asked me if I had a bug-out bag ready. I said "yes" but then I thought, hey, when was the last time I checked that bag? There might be a jar of ten-year-old cat kibbles in there, along with some crumbling protein bars. Maybe a roll of toilet paper or two. Hmmm.

This has been a long week, and it's not over yet. I can't believe today that my biggest worry on Tuesday was a power outage. An unusual late summer windstorm blew in from the east on Monday. When I got back from my evening visit to my mother, I saw my neighbors standing in the gravel road in back of my apartment building, properly socially distant, staring up at a transformer on a utility pole. 

"You might not want to walk down this road," a new neighbor said, obviously not recognizing me in my dapper plaid mask. I ignored her and walked on down the road to peer up at the transformer with the other neighbors. 

Roger, our local sage, said with relish, "There was a crash and a pop. Then the power went out."  Great. I went inside and flipped some switches. Yep. No power. Good thing I had closed down all my open Word files before I left. The computer was now a dead dark hunk of metal.

The wind kept howling all night and all day Tuesday. I sat in the dark with a little battery-powered LED lantern, whining in brief texts to my Twelve Step friends about how terrible it was to be without power. Ha ha. Periodically I dialed the power company for an update and watched my phone lose a little more juice. We are aware of an outage in your neighborhood. It is currently affecting one-hundred and thirty-four customers. Because of the scope of the problem, we are unable to estimate a repair time. 

Two huge crane trucks and some other gear arrived at 10:00 pm on Tuesday night. I was so happy I went outside to welcome them with a happy dance. The air was breezy and balmy, clear and delicious. I watched them beep and bang and pound and rumble and three and a half hours later, like a miracle, my power was restored. 

That mighty wind wreaked havoc up and down the west coast, fanning any flames that might have been easily squelched on a normal day. Within hours, it seemed as through the entire world was on fire. Homes were destroyed. Lives have been lost, the tally as yet unknown. Houses, cars, trees, people, and animals have transformed in four days into an enormous smoke cloud that is now choking the air, blocking out the sun. It looks like hell. 

As I said, I'm one of the lucky ones. The wind died and stopped pushing the fires north. I put away my collected bug-out bag gear and battened down all the hatches to keep the smoke out. I thought I did a pretty good job. I didn't go out of the apartment for two days. I didn't even go visit Mom. Then I talked on the phone today and realized my place is not the hermetically sealed sanctuary I thought it was. I'd been coping with the bad air quality by shallow breathing. 

Today I got the dreaded text: Your mother needs bread. 

I knew it wouldn't be fun going outside, but I thought, how bad could it be? Lots of people are outside. Lots of people smoke cigarettes. Mom smoked for seventy-five years and look at her. Apart from dementia, she's in pretty good shape, for a ninety-one year old smoker. An hour in the smoke would probably not kill me. I checked the air quality. Hey, just barely into the Hazardous zone. Come on, Carol. Quit whining.

The stench of smoke hit me like a wall when I opened the door. My plaid face mask was just for show. It did nothing to keep out the smoke, of course—it's made from old cotton pajama pants, for crimony sake. The air sat white and heavy, like the worst L.A. smog I'd ever seen, and I lived there in the 1980s, so I've seen my share of smog. I trudged to my car. It was covered with a fine ashy dust, but that's normal for my car, since I only wash it once a year. I turned on my headlights to be safe and trundled off to Mom's with two loaves of frozen gluten-free whole wheat bread and the baby monitor. 

I left the bread outside the kitchen door. Mom was just back from dinner. We chatted through the baby monitor. Half of what I said she said she couldn't understand but it was still nice to see her. I started coughing. She told me to get going. I gave her the peace sign and headed for home. Driving up the hill I passed a bicyclist wearing a face mask. I had to be impressed. Not sure if it was supreme courage or colossal stupidity. I didn't linger to see if he passed out at the top.

Now I know I can go out into the smoke and make the trek to see Mom. However, I now know I must differentiate indoor clothes and outdoor clothes. The smell of smoke followed me into the Love Shack, and not that sweet campfire smell that used to cling to my brother's Boy Scout uniform when he came home from camping. This smell is terrible, maybe because I know what is in it. I breathed in a lot of horror and grief and even after a bath, I can still feel it in my lungs. 

Blood on the keyboard

Oregon gave away free money earlier this month. I didn't find out I qualified for some until a couple days ago, long after the funds ran out. I don't care. My main concern is laundry. I haven't been able to get near the bank to replenish my stash of quarters for two weeks because of that free money giveaway. Long lines of unsocially distant desperate people wrapped around the bank every time I trolled through the parking lot. No way am I going to stand in line for quarters. So I'm doing my laundry by hand in the tub.

I guess in a pandemic I need to make some allowances for comfort. Wearing cardboard underpants is one of those allowances. My skivvies are stiff and ripply like crepe paper but I'm getting used to it. Once I've broken them in, it's really not much like wearing hair shirts. I'm not suffering. It's like being back in college. Back then I was oblivious because of substance abuse. Washing clothes in the sink was part of the adventure. Now I'm oblivious because of exhaustion and old age.

Speaking of self-flagellation, I am hopeful that my family and I have found a new facility to receive our maternal parental unit. With the expert help of a placement advisor, we have located a care home in my neighborhood. We haven't signed anything yet. We have some questions to ask. But I'm hopeful that the search is successfully ended and in about thirty days, the chore of moving the old lady and her stuff can begin. I wish I could just put her into storage. I wonder if my vertigo will ease up when this task is finally done. 

Speaking of exhaustion, Portland is coming undone. It is unsettling to see Portland in the national news for so many weeks. My first thought is, ha, the joke is on you, to all the people who moved to Portland for its mellow laid-back vibe. Then I remember violence is a tragic expression of an unmet need, and I feel sad. I can't unravel all the needs entangled in the nightly riots I see on the news. I can't stop picking at my cuticles. Yesterday I felt something weird while I was typing and saw blood on my keyboard. 

I'm starting to create conspiracy theories in my head to explain the madness. Unsubstantiated theories comfort in times of distress. Maybe liberals are a little behind in the production of creative conspiracy theories, but I'm sure if we do a little brainstorming, we could catch up. Like, for instance, what if the rioters who are looting and breaking things are really minions of Mordor out to make the peaceful protesters look bad? Yeesh! Would humans actually do something so cunning and cruel? Today my brain wandered into the bizarre possibility that they sacrificed one of their own for the cause. How insane is that? But, I ask you, is there evidence to the contrary? I mean, can you prove the moon isn't made of green cheese? 

My protection is to hide in my burrow, keep my head down, and attract as little attention as possible. I wash a few pairs of socks and a couple t-shirts every night, marveling at how everything I wear is some shade of gray, even when it started out white or black. After I wring out the water and hang things to dry on hangers from the window sill over the tub, I watch the news and cringe when the Eye of Sauron looks our way. I feel sick when I realize how many wackjobs live in this city, possibly just yards away from my doorstep. My illusory bubble is evaporating. I wear my pastel plaid face mask and imagine I have a target on my back.

Summer is ending and I haven't properly sweated yet. I've cried some, though. I miss my cat. I miss my mom. I never thought I'd say it, but I miss being around people. 

The chronic malcontent butchers the scientific method

Howdy, blogbots. How are you holding up in this bizarre war of masked versus unmasked? Have you figured out which team you are on or what exactly we are fighting for? In light of everything plaguing human civilization, including this new plague, politicizing facial coverings sure seems like rearranging deck chairs. I can't assimilate any of the strife so I'm opting out for a while. My sister sent me an excellent video of fluffy white sheep grazing in a green vineyard under a blue sky. Have you seen it? I recommend it if you are feeling like committing murder. 

Speaking of wishing you were anywhere but here, I'm sure you are tired of hearing me whine about vertigo and ear crackling. Yep, still going on. I've had no luck treating the vertigo, even after carefully studying the mechanics of the inner ear. Just goes to prove the old adage, knowledge avails us nothing. You'd think I'd have everything figured out, considering my lofty education level. Inner ears are complicated mechanisms, and my "knowledge" is in the social sciences, not the medical sciences, which explains so much about me. Including how I've haphazardly applied the scientific method in my attempts to treat my malady.

You've already read about the many treatments I've tried, most gleaned from those helpful folks out in cyberspace, thank you, all you BPPV and ear crackling sufferers. Sadly, the only thing that reliably produces silence is immersing my head in hot water. The golden silence gained from tubbing lasts a good fifteen minutes. Not quite long enough to get to sleep but certainly better than zero. I've tried without success to replicate the conditions outside the tub by pouring hot water into my ear while leaning over the kitchen sink. I get wet but the hiss goes on. I admit, I've considered hot oil and hot wax, but I'm pretty sure that would lead to a sheepish trip to the ER, which is not where we want to be at this point in the burgeoning plague. 

Ever hopeful, I've been trying other things willy-nilly without keeping good records, so I can't really tell what might be working. For example, someone on the Internet suggested chewing gum. I went to the store to buy gum. Gum is an impulse item, found near the cash register. Who knew! Generally I ignore everything that is not related to arranging my groceries on the conveyor belt according to how I want the items to appear on my receipt. It's easier to do my record-keeping that way—the zucchini and broccoli aren't disrupted by the toothpaste and coffee filters. Nice and organized, you should try it. 

Anyway, so there I am actually forcing myself to look at the impulse items. I have no idea what I'm looking at. I see something that looks like it could be bubble gum. I don't care, I grab it and toss it on the belt. When I get home, I'm sort of excited to see what it feels like to chew gum. I haven't chewed gum in years. What a miracle it would be if chewing gum was all it took to open up my dysfunctional Eustachian tube. I opened the package and discovered what I had purchased was some sort of chewy candy. I sucked on it, disappointed, peering at the package. Two hundred and forty calories! Per piece! I spat it out in the trash and chucked the package after it. 

I refused to admit defeat. On my next weekly foray into the dangerous grocery store, masked and gloved as usual, I applied myself again to the challenge of identifying gum at the checkout line. I found some! Sugar-free, this time, spearmint flavored. That sounded good. I bought the economically priced jumbo pack, feeling rather pleased. When I got home, I peeled off the plastic, unwrapped the silver foil covering, and popped a stick into my mouth. Yum, spearmint. Weird, though, to be chewing on something that wasn't intended to be swallowed. Still, I'm not a quitter, so I chomped diligently on the wad, monitoring my ear to see if it seemed inclined to settle down.

Like a mail-in election, results were not immediately forthcoming. I tried again with another stick. Then I had lunch. About an hour before it was time to visit Mom at the nursing home, I started feeling some alarming pains in my gut. Things clenched and unclenched, as they are wont to do, I won't give you the sordid details, but I was pretty miserable standing outside my mother's window, clenching my butt cheeks while she was in her bathroom trying to unclench hers. (I am sure I have never written the word clench so many times in my life.) As I danced in agony on the pavement, I called the Med Aide on my cellphone to send help to Mom stuck in her bathroom. She got help, and ten minutes later, she collapsed exhausted on her couch. I made it home, and after another trip to my bathroom, I looked up xylitol on the Internet. I'm sure you won't be surprised to hear that xylitol can cause digestive distress among some subset of the population. It's like winning the reverse lottery. 

No more gum for me. 

My sister suggested maybe I needed a dose of negative ions. I remembered that my therapeutic light box emits negative ions (according to the manufacturer), so I plugged in the box and pressed the button. The green light came on and a slightly acidic smell wafted toward my nose. Is that how a negative ion smells?  How would you know if you were receiving a dose of negative ions? I'm asking out of curiosity. I can't imagine I'd be able to differentiate a negative ion from a coronavirus, could you?

I also heard that spices can open up sinus congestion. Ears, sinuses, Eustachian tubes . . . now I really get why those Ear Nose Throat doctors cover the territory they do. It's like a miniature version of the universe, all connected. I put some hot red pepper in my tea. That produced a coughing fit, which made tea shoot out my nose. You don't see that everyday. I hope the next time I get an ear infection, I remember to reread this blog post. I'm sure I will forget.

Well, I give up. This afternoon I sit in the dark cave surrounded by votive candles lit to honor St. Eustachian, the patron saint of crackling ears. The blinds are drawn against the heat of the day. Summer is here, more or less. It's 90°F today. We'll have a few days of heat, and I hope that will help my head stop swimming. Maybe the heat will burn out the ear infection as well. If the heat doesn't work, my last resort is telemedicine. You know what that is, right? Some kind of newfangled way to talk to a healthcare professional. Stay tuned. 

The Chronic Malcontent waits for summer

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

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

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

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

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

This is nuts. 

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

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

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

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

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

What to do about vertigo and ear crackling

If you clicked on this link in the desperate hope of finding a solution to the ear crackling torture that is keeping you awake at night, you've come to the right place. If you didn't, skip the next few paragraphs. Let me just get this out of the way for all you folks who are on the verge of shoving a pencil in your ears to get some peace and quiet. 

Here's what I discovered today after a week of hell. First, I assume you have vertigo. As you know, vertigo is the result of ear crystals shaking loose and wandering into parts of your ear canal where they don't belong. The antics of those wayward crystals will really make you appreciate that there is fluid in your ears. You will feel actual waves rolling through your head. If you happen to have vertigo and then are unfortunate enough to get an ear infection, which happens to me sometimes in spring allergy season, that infection can cause ear crackling. Guess what I discovered today: The ear crackling responds to the waves of fluid you feel moving in your head when you have vertigo. Treat the vertigo, and you treat the ear crackling. There. Go do the Epley Maneuver on your head and feel better. You are welcome.

Here's my backstory, thanks for asking. Again, skip ahead if you've heard all this before. I've had garden variety vertigo for about six years, I believe from bumping my head on the door jamb of my mother's old green Toyota. Some time after I first got the vertigo, I started hearing a loud crackling noise in my right ear. I thought the noise was related to the vertigo but I couldn't find any information on it. Novice that I was to the off-balance experience, I freaked and went to an ENT, who couldn't hear the noise and clearly thought I was mental. He put me in the gravity chair, whirled me around, and sent me on my way with a recommendation to take antihistamines and stop whining. After a few months of misery, summer came, the ear infection cleared up, and the ear crackling finally went away. The vertigo has remained. We have a truce.

Say, is it okay to resume my self-obsession? I forgot to ask. I'm not qualified to write about anything but myself, and even that is iffy. If you are hoping for an essay on current events, sorry, I've resumed my normal position, that is, with my attention laser-focused on my own parched existence.

Back to my story. A week ago my right ear began to spit and hiss and soon was crackling merrily like a New Year's Eve noisemaker. Zzzz, zzzz, zzzz. I could get it to go faster by leaning my head forward or backward but the only way I could get it to stop completely was by immersing my head in a tub of hot bathwater, which I always do before bed. I mean, I immerse my whole body, not just my head, that is to say, I take a bath. It helps me sleep. So for a few blessed minutes, the ear crackling stops and I enjoy pure silence, except for the unnerving sound of my erratically beating heart (am I having a heart attack? what is my heart doing? If I'm having a heart attack, I'd rather not hear it, please). Each night, grateful for the quiet in my right ear, I have survived my fear of a heart attack. Inevitably, though, I have to get out of the tub. As soon as I lay down in bed, the crackling cranks up. With all that racket, it's almost impossible to sleep.

I have tried everything I can think of, like I said in my previous post, short of sacrificing a chicken. Here are the remedies I have tried in addition to the hot bath head immersion: sipping warm coffee, sipping warm tea, leaning to one side, leaning forward and backward, blowing my nose, popping my ears, leaning over a pan of boiling water with a towel over my head, jumping repeatedly in one place, taking an allergy pill, spraying two kinds of nasal spray in my right nostril, rinsing my nose with the neti pot, squirting an earwax removal remedy in my ear, wrapping a scarf around my head with a hot pack of microwaved rice strapped against my right ear, eating hot soup, eating hot oatmeal, pouring a mix of alcohol and white vinegar in my ear, putting a vibrator my head, and banging my head on a pillow.  

Today I did a little reflection. You know I'm an analytical kind of gal, or if you don't know that about me, now you do. I thought, this ear crackling can't be a random diss from the universe. What could account for the way the crackling crackles? Sometimes it's a fast sequence of pops, like the noisemaker. Other times it pops and hisses and spits with more space in between. I can get it to speed up and change tone by bending over, so it seems gravity affects the crackling. Why does it stop when my head is immersed in hot water? There is some kind of rhythm at work here, but it isn't affected by my heart rate or breathing. 

Finally it dawned on me. It's the vertigo. The waves of vertigo that I hardly pay attention to anymore are crashing through my head and setting off the crackling. Once that theory occurred to me, it wasn't hard to start paying attention to the vertigo, and sure enough, they were related. Like waves crashing on the shore, only in this case, crackling on the shore.

I immediately performed the Epley on my right ear and enjoyed fifteen minutes of silence. It was a miracle. Maybe there is a god. It didn't last, but my good mood did. Now I know this annoying noise is not random. It's not personal. It's not me winning the reverse lottery. It has a rational cause.

Vertigo for me is affected by gravity, movement, low air pressure, temperature, and stress. All those things are working on me in the spring. Gravity and movement, check. I can't avoid gravity, and I rarely stop moving, even at night. I'm up and down several times depending on how much tea I've had. So, yep, gravity and movement. Let's see. We had a tornado yesterday so air pressure is definitely a factor. Plus, our temperature is ten degrees below normal for this time of year. So that leaves stress. Am I stressed? I have discovered that I vibrate when I'm on the phone. Who knew. Now I know. Vibration sets off ear waves, which cranks up the crackling and makes me completely insane. So maybe I am mental. Huh.

On Wednesday if all goes according to plan, I'm taking the maternal parental unit to the dermatologist to get her face scraped and repaired. It's an all-day ordeal. I'm bringing everything. Literally.

I can't help remembering taking my senior cat to get his ears cleaned. Two days later he was dead. Mothers aren't cats, I know, but we love them both the same.

Looking for the new normal

Ah, ah, ah, ah, stayin' alive, stayin' alive. Sing it with me. Come on, Blobgots, I mean Blogbots, you know you want to, let me hear you bellow it out from your Zoom rooms. All you tiny squares, you. Dance too, if you feel like it, because I guarantee you, few of us are watching. It's too hard to see you against all your household detritus. You might consider noticing all the knick-knacks and gewgaws on the shelves behind you. Because we are. Oh, and please, some of you should dust off that ceiling fan, because that is all we can see of you when you Zoom on your smartphone.

I Zoom in front of a black curtain, because, well, you know, it's basically curtains for the human species from here on out. I don't know about you, but I am finding out a pandemic definitely complicates the chore of living. Everything seems more difficult. Maybe because everything is. I deserve a medal for just getting out of bed.

Being stuck at home means I'm excruciatingly aware of my physical presence in relation to the outside world. Did I bring the virus home with me today from the grocery store? Are my surfaces clean? Did something come in on my shoes, besides the usual bird poop and pollen? Did I scoop some of the virus into my lungs this week? Is this violent set of ten sneezes from breathing in birch tree pollen or COVID19? Did I transmit a tiny bit of virus to my mother's hearing aids, even though I wore a mask and gloves and sat outside the nursing home on a hard wooden bench when I swapped out the batteries last Sunday?

This stupid virus has made me ultra-conscious of my body. I'm experiencing corporeal disintegration  in real time. I can't point to any specific injury or illness. Rather, I'm riding a slow decline. The changes I see and feel are so gradual, I hardly notice them, until suddenly I realize it hurts to stand up, it hurts to bend over, it hurts to stretch, it hurts to breathe. Every damn thing hurts but not enough to take a pill and not enough to conclude it's the end. It's so odd to witness my activities become more and more constrained, like I'm standing outside myself watching the erosion of a shaky earthen dam. Do I try to patch the holes? What would that look like? People much older than I am push back against age. I doubt if I'm one of them. One marathon was enough for me.

Life as I knew it ended in January when my cat died. Already reeling from shock, it didn't really feel much more shocking when the virus came to town. First my cat, and then the pandemic. My response was, right, that makes sense. Total catastrophe is the only logical outcome. Finally, the chronic malcontent is vindicated. Since COVID19, it seems as if the world has joined me in my grief. My sadness is magnified a thousand fold everywhere I look. Even the stories of heroes, supposed to be uplifting, make me weep with despair. Nothing will ever be the same, not for me, not for any of us. I'm grieving a loss of innocence—I guess it is the illusion that the world was safe, that I was in control of my life, that I could predict what would happen next.

For some reason, I woke up the other night at exactly 3:45 a.m. and saw the final super moon of the year at its apogee, blazing brighter than a streetlight through the trees over the shoulder of the mountain. During the four-hour lull when the buses stop running, nights are dead silent up here on the hill. It's so loud I can hardly think. I am both alive and dead, like Schrodinger's cat, hunkered in a box originally of my own making but perpetuated by obligation, circumstance, and COVID19. I can't fully live until the maternal parental unit dies. But once she's gone, the box is open. I'm set free (assuming I outlast her), but the price is her death. And where would I go, how would I move, in a pandemic?

She's having a harder time getting up from her couch to visit me at the window. She shifts her fanny , then leans forward until she's got both hands flat on her coffee table. Slowly she gets her feet under her. I say, “Use your walker!” She pretends not to hear me. Bent at ninety degrees, she shuffles toward the window by hanging onto to her coffee table, then along the top of her flat-screen TV (pausing to read the sticky note I put there many months ago: Turn the TV on and off here, with an arrow pointing to the button), and finally, reaching the window. Clutching the window sill, she straightens up to look at me and smiles. She knows me. I'm never sure, until she smiles.

I remember when she used to walk me to the back door and we sang She'll be coming round the mountain together, me the thready alto, her the raspy tenor. The past two nights, she hasn't felt inclined to come to the window. I don't know if two data points make a pattern. Maybe we have a new normal. Every damn day is a new normal. After a while, normal ceases to have any meaning.

Wishing you all the best in this stupid cold season

On Friday night, Mom was just leaving the dining room as I came strolling down the hall from the back door, dripping from a strangely balmy rainstorm.

I slowed down and matched my pace to hers. “How was dinner tonight?” I asked.

“Well, it's over with,” she replied, leaning heavily on her walker, eyes on the floor.

“Ha. That's funny,” I said. “Was that a joke? That was a joke!”

I couldn't see her face. My view was of her hunched shoulders. I admired her red fleece top, very festive.

I made a mental note to remember her joke so I could report it to you. She often says funny things, but I don't remember them. I enjoy her jokes in the moment, receiving them as they occur. Sorry you miss most of the good stuff. Her jokes and observations evaporate from my brain almost as fast as I suspect they evaporate from hers. I can't tell if I'm getting early dementia or my brain's memory failures are a sympathetic response to help me feel compassion for a woman I spent most of my life denigrating, avoiding, disparaging, or sucking up to.

The holiday season is barreling at us full speed, propelled by anger and fear. Fear that we'll miss out, that it won't be good enough, we won't get it all done, we won't get what we want. Anger that other people refuse to bend to our will (get out of our way, give us more love, stop believing stupid things). Anger that time and space are oblivious to our desperate need to find the right something for someone who could not care less.

Some years back, my family abandoned giving gifts to everyone in the family (all six of us, plus my one brother-in-law and my one niece), resorting instead to choosing "Secret Santas." That went over so well we eventually evolved to avoiding giving gifts altogether. After Dad died, there seemed to be little point.

The relief at opting out of the season of consumption overtakes me when I perform my weekly hunting and gathering chores (Winco). I feel no mania. When I'm at Mom's, watching TV with her, we remark on the proliferation of holiday commercials exhorting us to buy stuff, from perfume to trucks to burgers. No product is exempt from the season of giving. We marvel at the ploys marketers use to persuade us our lives will be perfect if we just buy that thing. Trucks barreling through snow (ugh, yech, who would want to do that?). Slim-limbed women in golden evening gowns soaking together in a giant Roman bath (like, what?). As the anti-Christ of marketing, I am chagrined to realize that the marketers' ploys have succeeded, at least with me—alas, I can remember the brands they were advertising. Curse you, marketing machine!

Here we are at the end of a year even more bizarre than the last. My friends have stopped watching the news, opting instead for deep dives into Netflix, where they settle among empty pizza boxes like traumatized goldfish sinking into crusty sediment. I don't have Netflix or pizza. I find relief reading library books in the bath.

Back in her room, she settled into the black hole of her couch and pulled her blanket over her. I turned on the TV. Friday night television leaves us bereft, now that MeTV has opted for College Football at 6:30 pm. No Flintstones, no Stooges, it's a real entertainment wasteland. It's either HGTV or golf.

“No more golf!” Mom said firmly.

Desperate, I switched to the Smithsonian channel, which was showing a program about World War II. We watched as Allied bombers blew up some buildings.

“I don't think I should watch this, do you?”

Our last resort is to watch the young man we have nicknamed Dimples, the tattooed host of the lottery dream home show on HGTV.

“Okay, I guess we are stuck with Dimples,” I said.

“Who?”

Her eyes were at half-mast. I snapped a photo of her coffee table with her in the background zoned out on the couch. On her table in the foreground of the photo, in this order: tissue box, fake flickering candle, Christmas stick (two ornaments on a bit of pine tree I found in the street, stuck in a bud vase), a bushy red poinsettia plant ordered by my sister from France and sent from California the day before, and a foot-tall dark green crocheted Christmas tree strung with tiny objects that look like they belong on a charm bracelet. In the background, my mother dozing in a red fleece top with her mouth open. If that doesn't say happy holidays, nothing will.

On Sunday night, M.A.S.H. will return and the world will align once again on its proper axis. It's winter solstice. We can put up with a few more days of these obnoxious commercials as we do our best to ignore this stupid cold season.

Happy Thanksgiving from the Hellish Hand-Basket

This afternoon as I was eating under-cooked apple-and-raisin oat bran muck out of my beat-up thrift-store stainless steel pan, I contemplated . . . oh, darn it, now I don't remember what I was contemplating. I lost my thought remembering the dusty aisles of the many thrift stores that have provided me with clothing and household goods over the past forty years. Practically everything I own has been used by someone else. I return some of the things I use to thrift stores when I feel I've received my money's worth. However, like a good American, most things—for example, people, clothing, cars, and time—I consume until they fall apart.

The holiday season thunders ponderously at me like a freight train through Sullivan's Gulch, first Thanksgiving, followed by Black Friday (also known as Buy Nothing Day) and Christmas, followed closely by New Year's. I dread the season of disruption. Even on Monday, Winco was packed with milling shoppers intent on acquiring frozen dead birds and pie tins of sugar and fat. Merry ho ho, says the Chronic Malcontent.

I can't even complain about the weather. The center of the bombogenesis is to the south of Portland. A little breeze and some rain and we throw up our hands while our neighbors in southern Oregon can expect 100 mph winds and a foot of snow. Oh, poor us, we have to use our windshield wipers. Speaking of wipers, I closed a bank account yesterday and treated myself to new wipers front and rear. The Autozone guy came out in the mizzle (misty drizzle) to put them on for me. He said I should clean my hatchback window once in a while. My wipers would last longer. I said okay, but I probably won't. That rear wiper was only five years old. (Clearly, I don't care much about seeing what happens behind me.)

The Med-Aide at the retirement home asked me tonight if I would be joining my mother for Thanksgiving dinner on Thursday, which occurs at lunch time. (For the old folks, lunch is called dinner and dinner is called supper. I don't understand that.)

I must have looked confused. “We need to know how many people to plan for,” she explained.

I tried to imagine resentful family members clumsily helping the old folks shovel pureed turkey and stuffing into their toothless mouths. Yeah, that sounds like fun.

“Oh, no thanks,” I said. “I'll visit after dinner. I mean, supper. Like I usually do.”

I wonder how many family members will show up. If anyone new arrives, Mom will notice. She notices everything that departs from normality. Like when I move something on her coffee table. Like when I almost leave behind the grocery bag I used to lug in her Cheerios, almond milk, gluten-free bread, and dairy-free ice cream. Like when her neighbor came into her room and put his hand on her forehead. (Dan is on bed-rest, now, confined to his room, possibly not long for this world.) Mom may be demented but she's not blind. She notices stuff.

I read some advice on a blog that appeared in response to my Google search on How do I make a decision. The blog author indicated I should focus less on doing and more on being. I sat with that idea for a few moments before I snorted derisively, startling my cat who was sleeping on the top level of his six-foot cat tree where the weather is much warmer than it is down here on the plain.

Being versus doing. Ha. I have dedicated my life to the quest of being, avoiding the chore of doing in the process, resulting in several kinds of being I didn't really want, for example, poverty. If I could sit around and just be all the time, don't you think I would have? Eventually, I get hungry. My car runs out of gas. No, focusing on being doesn't cut it, not for me. I'm all about the action.

Which is why I felt compelled to Google How do I make a decision. Like most creatives, I feel pulled in multiple directions. How do I choose my focus? You should interpret that question as, How can I prod, bend, stretch, or torture my creativity into producing some income? A friend called me tonight to suggest I apply for a job at a fabric store across town. Having spent some of the worst years of my life working with fabric, I had to swallow the bile and say thanks, but I'd prefer to find something closer to home.

I could ramble on but my high-tech foot warmers (microwaved rice-filled socks) have lost their heat and my feet are getting cold. I'm wearing two hats, finger-less gloves, sweatpants, a fleece jacket, and a wool shawl knitted by my mother on oversize needles. The space heater labors continuously to cut the chill. I am such a hothouse flower: It's at least 40°F outside, not even freezing.

Hey, here's my cat, ready to take over blogging. Time to microwave my foot warmers.

Happy Thanksgiving from the Hellish Hand-Basket.

Happy Independence Day, if you can stand it

Happy Independence Day, blogbots. I hope your Fourth of July celebration is . . . celebratory. If that is what floats your boat. Laser shows, fireworks, rumbling tanks, sloppy BBQ ribs dripping with carcinogenic sauce . . . whatever works for you. May you enjoy your day. My little leaky boat is floated by peace, quiet, and solitude. I will be hunkered down in the Love Shack, helping my cat ride out the artillery barrage that will begin at dusk. To each her own.

My schedule for tomorrow is unusually busy. I have two entire things planned. I don't know how I will manage. In the morning, I plan to Wire with my sister, who is stateside in Boston. In the evening, I will visit my maternal parental unit, as I do daily at 6:15 pm. After that I would like to bury myself in the bathtub, but I have a self-imposed obligation to write 2,000 words per day. What's that, you say? Thanks for asking.

For the past couple weeks, I have been torturing myself with my own personal NANOWRIMO commitment. If you don't what that is, no fear. It stands for National Novel Writing Month. Officially, it happens every November. I tried it once, a few years ago. I did not reach the word count goal of 50,000. I am still working on that book; it's the book of blog posts about my mother. Unfinished. You are reading one more chapter right now. How cool is that.

In Big Magic, Elizabeth Gilbert wrote, “When an idea thinks it has found somebody—say, you—who might be able to bring it into the world, the idea will pay you a visit. . . . This idea will not leave you alone until it has your fullest attention. And then, in a quiet moment, it will ask, ‘Do you want to work with me?’” (pp. 35-36).

An idea came to me in a dream. I had a choice: say yes or say no. I chose yes. Sorry, I can't tell you what it is about. I can tell you it is a novel. That is all I will say.

My self-imposed commitment is to write (at least) 50,000 words before my sister arrives on July 22. To achieve that goal, I have to write at least 2,000 words per day. I've been writing almost every day for two weeks. Today is Day 14. I have 28,000 words.  I will add, there's not much magic involved in flogging oneself to write 2,000 words per day. This is a classic case of stop whining and just do it.

I work better when the temperature is at least 80°F. It's 71°F and overcast. The sky is gray and gloomy. It's cold in the Love Shack, but I refuse to drag out the space heater. It's July, for garsh sake. Two days ago, we had a tornado a few miles away. Just a little bitty EF0, lasted only six minutes, only managed to go a mile. Tore up a bunch of trees and power lines. How endearing. Summer in Portland officially starts July 5. It can't get here soon enough. I'm so ready to be warm.

When I came strolling down the hall at the retirement place, Mom was still in the dining room, sitting alone at her table. I went in to see what was going on. She said she was late getting out of dinner because she had to run for the bathroom. I use the word run loosely. More like, shuffle along with the walker, squeezing her butt cheeks as she goes. Unsuccessfully, apparently. Luckily, a staff member was there to help clean her up and get her back to the dining room to finish her dinner. Everyone was sympathetic. The Med Aide patted her shoulder when she brought her a little cup of pills.

We watched Property Brothers. I made snide comments about people spending $1.2 million on a house. Mom said she didn't know what was going on. I get the feeling she loses a few more brain cells every time she gets stuck in the bathroom and can't figure out how to leave. Every day I shudder through about five minutes of hell, knowing for certain that I am going to end up just like her, but minus the helpful daughter.

She hasn't walked me to the back door at all this week. I left her sitting on the couch, watching MASH. Tomorrow is my sixteenth anniversary of moving to the Love Shack, the beginning of my personal independence. I dread the day I lose it and so I try to cherish every drop.

Happy Thanksgiving from the Chronic Malcontent

During the holidays, people like the idea of connecting more than they like the reality of connecting. A friend sent me a nice email to express her appreciation for our friendship. She suggested we talk on the phone sometime soon. I emailed back my willingness and eagerness to connect.

“I'm cooking right now,” she replied by email. “Let's catch up soon.” We all know that means: I fulfilled my obligation of reaching out and making contact. Now I can relax and feel good about myself without actually having to endure an in-person conversation. Real time? Nuh-uh, no way. Too busy. Too real.

It's Thanksgiving. I'm guessing a lot of Americans have pulled or are right now pulling their turkeys, hams, or tofurkeys out of the oven; dressing them with stuffing, mac and cheese, yams, or whatever the preferred side dish is in their part of the country; and yelling over football with family in anticipation of gorging and then hitting the stores.

I got a late start on the day (I spent an hour video chatting with my sister who is in France, nine hours ahead of me), so I just now finished lunch (apple, blueberries, yogurt). In twenty minutes, my smartphone will alert me that it is time to visit Mom. You know the drill. I will drive over there in the dark rainy night, interrupt M.A.S.H., and valiantly sing and smile and encourage her to ... what, keep living? No, I don't do that, but I don't discourage her either: Mom, don't die, what will I do without you? No. Yes. Argh. I'm conflicted.

One thing I know I will not do tonight or tomorrow is go shopping. I feel a certain smug satisfaction in claiming that every day is Buy Nothing Day for me. Even when I had money, I avoided large crowds of shoppers. Now that I'm four months from living in my car, life is pretty simple, which might be why I've chosen this lifestyle time and again over the years. Decisions are easy. Shelter, food, transportation. What else is there? Oh, yeah, healthcare.... my healthcare plan is pretty much don't get sick. However, thanks to the ACA, I have basic health insurance. Something to be thankful for on this day made especially for being thankful. Thanks, Obamacare.

Every week, my sister encourages me to make time for my creativity. I counter each suggestion with a reason why it won't work. She doesn't get mad, though. We've come a long way. We still give each other advice, but we no longer get irritated when we don't follow it. After we ended the video chat, I realized I had an excuse for everything because I'm terrified.

Ho hum. Nothing new. Same old fear, same old resistance. It's time to listen to my own best advice: Don't think, don't feel, just do. Stop whining and get busy. This blog post represents my creative effort for the day. Ten minutes to go time. Don't think, just do.