Monstrous feverish crowds of networking women

Nothing inspires me to blog more than noise in the neighborhood. I was trying to update one of my websites, which is always a challenge because I am not that skilled with WordPress, and suddenly the Cafe cranked up the volume. The bass is vibrating through the Love Shack, itching through my nerve endings. Is it live music? Is there a person I can blame? Argh.

Oh, hey. It's nine o'clock. The music just stopped. There is a god after all, and its name is Silence.

Today the weather was perfect for jogging in the park. I trotted around my little beaten track and reveled in the warm air on my skin. When I spread my bat-winged arms in sheer joy, I imagined I was getting just the tiniest bit of lift. I felt lighter. I always do in summer. Everything is easier in summer. Even being broke, unemployed, and terrified is easier in summer. It's the most wonderful time of the year.

A couple nights ago, I went out on a warm summer's evening to mix and mingle with a crowd of women at a... I guess you would call it a club? over in North Portland off of MLK near Legacy Emmanuel Hospital. It seems every old storefront in town is being renovated, even in the (former) ghetto. This club was up a steep flight of carpeted stairs from a bar/restaurant, where a bunch of trendy 30-somethings were sitting at little round sidewalk tables, looking oh so hip. I skittered by in my old blue Levis and long floppy olive green rayon men's overshirt, hoping it would conceal my muffin top and wondering what the hell I was doing so far from the Love Shack, going to a club to hang out with a bunch of women. Jeez.

I don't like women. Not groups of women, anyway, and a club full of drinking older gals laser-focused on networking the crap out of each other is just plain frightening. The air reeked of perfume and estrogen. Some wore hats and cocktail dresses. Who were they dressing up for? There were only two men that I could see: the sound board guy and the club guy who moved around tables and checked the lighting as he nervously looked over his shoulder at the women. As if the herd could bolt at any moment. The noise level made it impossible to hold a conversation. I tried, honestly. I roamed and mingled, sipping a salty soda water with lime, wandering from table to table (there were no chairs), barging in on conversations with no shame, trying out my creaky elevator pitch and listening to others breeze through theirs, thinking this is so stupid.

I don't care anymore. You know why? Because I finally figured out that all these frantic, frothing, networking women are just like me: broke, desperate, and on the edge looking down. Successful women don't network; they are too busy working. Or if they aren't working, they are out with their pals, swilling craft-brewed pale ale and ouzo martinis at the trendiest watering hole in the Pearl District. Someplace I wouldn't dare go, even if I knew where it was. Secret handshake and all that.

The music has resumed. I knew it was too good to be true. There is no god called Silence. Pestilence, maybe, but not Silence. Sigh.

I eventually sat down on a red velvet-cushioned bench along the wall of the club and watched the hordes of females buzzing around each other like colorful bees swarming the hive. Pretending they were taking effective action. Maybe they were, and I'm the one who didn't get it. After a while, a young woman came over and sat next to me. Yay, another introvert. We started talking. It was quieter there on the periphery, and I found out she was an arborist and landscape designer—a refreshing departure from the wellness coaches, personal change catalysts, jewelry sellers, and multilevel marketing distributors that I'd met during my attempts to hobnob. We exchanged cards and best wishes before we escaped down the stairs and out into the warm evening.

In spite of the strange interlude which seems to have commandeered my life, I find things to be grateful for. Besides showing up for networking, somehow I have continued to exercise intermittently, eat organic and local, mostly, and get enough sleep. I've managed to scrape together coins to do laundry. I've somehow kept the bird feeder filled and the litter box clean. I've reached a cease-fire with the ants in the kitchen; they know what happens when they cross the line into my territory, and in return for taking no prisoners around the sink, I'm happy to give the occasional passenger a ride from the kitchen to the bathroom, with the couch the final destination. If they bite my neck, the gloves come off. Those are the rules.

So mostly, I'm trundling through these strange days feeling a bemused mix of hope and despair. If it weren't so ghastly watching my savings evaporate, these would be the best days of my life. I try not to think about it too much. I just keep updating my website, making my plans, and hobnobbing with monstrous crowds of women.

I'm a stumpy-legged fish paddling in a dwindling pond

Summer is speeding by while I'm learning the nuances of networking. Another delicious 90° day in Portland. I went out in the mid-morning coolness to meet yet another prospective client, a “life transformation” coach who no doubt thought she was meeting a prospective client as well. (Har har, joke's on her.) By the time the mercury hit 90°, I was safely hunkered in my cave, windows closed, shades down, blinds drawn, with a wet rag draped around my neck and a pitcher of sweating ice tea close at hand. I like it. For me, it doesn't get much better than this. No complaints allowed if you are one of those pale-skinned Portlanders who don't like hot weather. It could be a lot worse; be grateful we don't live somewhere where missiles are falling. If you are one of those unlucky folk, I'm very sorry for you, and I hope you survive.

Here in Stumptown, in this funny little networking pool I seem to be floundering in, I'm afraid of what will happen if we are all each others' clients, and no one is making any money. I fear it might be like eating your own leg for dinner—fills the empty stomach but at the expense of your git-along; maybe that's why they call it Stumptown.

I've said before networking is a long-term strategy. I asked the “life transformation” coach I met with today if she was able to transform her own life through networking. She admitted networking is a long game. She sipped her orange smoothie. I slurped my iced chai. I can read the signs now. There's a certain set to the shoulders and neck, an unmistakable glint of desperation in the eyes.

“How long can you hold out?” I asked.

“Not much longer,” she confessed.

“Me too.”

“But it's not a totally useless strategy,” she said, and went on to assure me that now we were “referral partners.” That is my new favorite jargon, referral partners. I refer people to you, you refer people to me, the miracle of money floods our parched landscape, and all boats rise. Or something to that effect. The point, obviously, is that money must flow in from an outside source, because we referral partners are feeling a mighty thirst. Well, saw off my legs and call me Shorty!

Last week, a brief flare of something occurred (I won't call it hope, because it wasn't). A headhunter found me through the American Marketing Association. She invited me to submit a resume for a market research temp job for an insurance company. I'm like, ok, whatever, I could do it for two months... get up early, pack a lunch, take the bus, get home after dark... yeah, for two months, I could do it. So I trucked on down to the Pearl to meet her in an old funky office building just off Burnside, kitty-corner from the famous Powell's City of Books. While I waited for her to arrive (I was early, as usual), I took some photos through the third-story window. Which actually was openable, by the way. Not that I had any plans to open it, in case you were wondering.

She arrived. We sat across from each other at an old wooden round table in a dinky conference room, just a little too far apart for comfort, but taking up all the space.

“You have an unusual background,” she began. I laughed. Right then, I knew my chance of getting this temp job was next to nil. I've heard those words before. They always mean the same thing: You are odd. You are different. What have you been doing with your life? You don't fit in here. We can't hire you. But I am not a quitter: I soldiered gamely on, answering her questions, addressing her concerns.

“I'll submit you to the client,” she said finally, “Because you never know.”

And that's the thing. We never know. Total flukes can happen. That's how I got the nutty job at the crappy career college, which was pretty much a bend in the road that attracted all sorts of lunatics. I fit right in there with the other misfits.

Well, turns out I did not get the temp job, no big surprise. Not enough of the right kind of experience. I understand. Not every actor who auditions gets the part.

Meanwhile, back in the networking pool, I am endeavoring to scramble onto the sand, so I can perhaps slide over to a different, larger pool, where the fish are bigger and the designer duds they wear so boldly have deep, deep pockets. Enough of these wizened, parched, desperate referral partners! Get back, you wretches. And, oh, by the way, some of the other referral partners I met last week are starting a Meetup for Small Business Owners. They've asked me to be a presenter. I've got 20 minutes. Will you come to my presentation?

The reunion planning committee crashes and burns

You want to bring the crazies out of the woodwork? Plan a high school reunion. I offered to assist, along with a handful of other well-meaning busy alums, and things were going more or less swimmingly (you bring the cake, I'll draw the stupid mascot on a poster, etc.) until two committees made some unilateral decisions, and the self-styled reunion committee chairperson derailed into tall grass.

It's my nature to help from behind the front lines, so to speak, and in this case, my instincts to hang back and not attend any committee meetings were correct. Maybe my intuition is more trustworthy than I thought. In a matter of a few days, a series of one-sided tirades escalated into a bizarre personality meltdown, culminating in the cancellation of the reunion. Wow. It just goes to show, you can graduate, but you can never really leave.

I think it started when someone not on the committee said something they shouldn't have on Facebook about the park that the chairperson had chosen for the event (too far out of town, too dirty, etc.). Our illustrious chairperson immediately lit up the internet with a vitriolic response. Some of it ended up in an email that got forwarded to me. I immediately hunkered down to dodge the bullets whizzing gaily over my head.

“If everyone in our committee does not like my leadership, let me know,” she wrote (which one committee member proceeded to do). “After all the hours I have spent.....and the hours I have put in, I am just about to cancel this reunion!” Then she banned two people from attending the reunion. (Can you do that?)

“This reunion is so important to me,” she went on. “Some of us may not be around for the 50th, so the 40th should be colorful and fun. I am so upset right now in tears.”

I found myself wondering if she's perhaps chronically ill? Maybe she's terminal and she doesn't want to say anything? ..... Nah. If she were, she would have let us all know, early and often. Nope, I'm pretty sure she's diagnosable with nothing more serious than a really mucky case of self-centered Little-Hitlerism. Which, unlike many other -isms, is not fatal, although if you have it and finally regain your senses, you may wish it were.

Sadly, things really started to unravel when the chairperson was unable to attend a committee meeting (due to a stress attack brought on by being slandered on Facebook). The remaining three stalwart committee members did what any group of functional adults would do: they got on with the business of planning the reunion. Then they bravely sent out minutes, which were forwarded to me. (I guess I'm the phantom member of the committee.)

Upon receiving the minutes of the meeting she had not attended, the chairperson sent out a response. She typed her rant between the lines of the secretary's minutes.

Secretary: We decided to continue with the planning, in the absence of the chairperson.

Chair: I don't see that you needed me there. You've made decisions! It should have been opinions!

Secretary: In regard to the cakes, if everyone agrees, this is what we'll do.

Chairperson: No! You do not make decisions!!! (You can measure blood pressure by the number of exclamation points, did you know that? It's true.)

Secretary: We'll order one sheet cake from Costco with [name of high school] on it in red and blue.

Chairperson: I told you I was getting the cake. I had a special table for it. It would have been simple if you had listened to me from the beginning. I already decided the cake and I said I was doing it.

(Wow. Just typing this dialogue is raising my blood pressure. I feel an exclamation point coming on.)

Secretary: Sorry, but I don't think we can ban anyone from the event.

Chairperson: It is not your decision!!!

Another email came through shortly after from one of the three remaining committee members, apologizing to the chairperson for upsetting her and tendering her resignation from the committee. And then there were two (and me, lurking).

The last I heard, the remaining two members have yanked the planning from the chairperson's grasping hands, and she's taking nitro tablets and calling her nurse. Well, so maybe she is ill. I guess I will work on being more compassionate.

The moral of this story? Best to let high school remain in the past. You didn't like those people 40 years ago; you aren't going to like them any better now.

Your sweet hopeless dreams have finally come true

I often get spam email in my Outlook inbox. I've set up rules that filter out anything with the words pfizer, viagra, penis enlargement, breast enhancement, or send money now, I'm in jail. Today one email slipped through that made me laugh: “Your sweet hopeless dreams have finally come true.” Isn't that charming? The email read like a poem. Maybe it was a poem, who knows. A sweet hopeless poem surrounded by a bunch of nasty hungry links.

Speaking of sweet hopeless dreams, today I attended a networking-event-slash-sales-event-disguised-as-a-seminar at a venue on Alberta Street in North Portland. If you know Alberta Street, you know that I'm not cool enough to hang out there. But it was broad daylight, not the wildly hip street fair known as Last Thursday, so I felt like I might be allowed to pass unmolested. I hiked hesitantly up some wide metal stairs and entered into an open loft area with pale fake hardwood floors.

“Welcome to the studio!” a small thin dark-haired woman said enthusiastically. She wore a short beige dress made of heavy lace. She looked like a doll. It was hard to tell her age: I filed that information away for future contemplation... wear short lace dress, look ten. Got it.

I was early, as usual. A tall older woman approached me, and we talked for about ten minutes. It took maybe 30 seconds to explain what my business was about. The rest of the time she swamped me with a description of Scientific Hand Analysis. I'm not even sure those words should be capitalized. What is it, you ask? I think it's akin to phrenology, astrology, and idiotology. Not certain.

People drifted in. All women. Huh. We arranged ourselves around some tables, set up in a horseshoe, facing a large blank wall on which was projected a pale PowerPoint slide. The seminar began. The slides remained pale and colorless because there was so much light in the room. The topic of the day was something about delegating tasks and getting organized. I can't remember exactly what it was called—and it only happened this morning. What can I say. I remember certain things and not others. For example, I remember how I felt when the seminar was over and the sales pitch began. I learned a lot from that part, mainly that if I ever use that tactic to sell my services, I hope you will take me out back and shoot me.

The young woman was definitely a pro, no doubt, and it was clear that her main motivation is getting money, lots and lots of money, preferably as she is laying by the pool while her “team” of minions is running around executing the tasks she has blithely delegated to them. She confessed, she thinks she's hilarious. I confess, I was cross-eyed with irritation after the first fifteen minutes of her presentation. I did a little reminiscing about my days as an instructor: Was I ever so annoyingly self-centered?

After the presentation, we went around the table introducing ourselves and handing around our business cards. Out of eleven people, six were coaches of some sort. Two did web design, and one was a marketing consultant. There was also a mortgage broker and a juice enthusiast. I sent around a stack of eighteen cards and got back nine. (That means two people didn't want my card. What's up with that?) I connected with a spike-haired web designer, and we made a commitment to meet next week for coffee. That's what I'm talking about! Networking!

This afternoon, as I was editing yet another chapter of the dissertation that won't end, I reflected on the strange energy that occurs in a roomful of women. Many of the attendees knew each other and entered the room boisterously, greeting each other with hugs and squealed hellos. I watched and listened, playing my familiar observer role. I felt like an alien, but that's nothing new. That is my normal state, especially in a group of women. I always feel like I don't quite belong. Maybe it's my mustache, I don't know. Or that I obviously don't care how I look.

The proprietors of the venue hold these events monthly, and apparently there is a membership group you can join. For a moment I considered it—only $99 per year! That's no bargain when you are an anti-social misfit. I have an erratic history of joining groups, especially groups of women. I was trying to remember what groups I joined in high school. I know there were a couple. I also know I didn't last long. I tried to play the game, but each time I flunked out (by choice) of each group I joined. Someone would pull out a guitar and start singing Neil Diamond songs. Someone else would start discussing periods and makeup. That would be it for me. A few minutes ago, I looked through my senior yearbook to see if I could find myself in any clubs or groups. I guess I managed to avoid all the photo days, because I was nowhere to be found. Was I really there at all? Debatable. It's been forty years, you can't really expect me to remember.

Don't talk to me, I'm networking

I'm starting to get a sense of the networking scene. Tonight I got another perspective on it at a networking event about networking. I know, so meta. Everything is meta these days. Or über. This was an über meta networking event. What was ultra neat about it was the location. The event was held at a new cooperative workspace on the eastside of Portland, out by the river (that's the mighty Columbia, in case you were wondering) under the flight path to PDX, in the uber armpit we call Gresham.

Yeah, Gresham! Who knew! I know, yech. Gresham is where I drove a school bus, way back in the year when the world as we knew it ended (2001). It's funny how things stay the same, round and round. If my business doesn't pick up pretty soon, I may find myself steering the short bus around Gresham once again. I'm kidding. Mostly.

The coop space is in a half-empty industrial park out on a semi-rural road, which means oodles of free parking and no traffic. Inside is a suite of offices formerly occupied by a solar manufacturer (bellyup? I don't know, didn't ask). The anchor tenant in the new coop is a security firm. During the presentation, young men in security guard uniforms marched stolidly past the open door. I bet some of them are proud graduates of the career college that used to employ me.

Before the presentation began, the office manager, a giddy pale girl with brown hair and an annoying giggle, took the little crowd of networkers on a tour of the space. Apparently a bare handful of entrepreneurs has signed up so far: lots of cubicles occupied only by empty "hot desks." I could have access to one of those random desks for only $275 per month. For that sum, I would also get my very own mailbox (not a PO box), access to a really nice printer/copier, and use of several conference rooms and classrooms. If the location weren't so far away (and if I weren't watching every penny slip through my clenched fingers), I would consider signing up. With all those security guards roaming the halls, I would certainly feel safe, out there in bumf--k Gresham.

After the tour, we settled into some uncomfortable plastic chairs in the main classroom space. According to the thermostat it was 77° in the room, a refreshing change of climate from the 92° heat outside.

The presenter noticed no one was sitting in the front row. “Someone should sit in the front row, or else I'll remove the chairs,” he warned. He was an oddly shaped man, with his jeans belted tightly around his bulging middle, longish droopy brown hair and glasses... and what I think might have been cowboy boots.

I was in the third row. “What are the benefits of sitting in the front row?” I asked, trying to be funny but probably sounding snarky. I started to pick up my stuff.

“You'll be closer to me,” he replied. “It will be more fun.”

I didn't have the gumption to tell him neither one of those sounded like benefits to me. But I moved anyway, and so ended up the only person in the first row, about three feet from the lectern. Two people were in the second row, sitting five chairs apart. Three people were in the third row, each two chairs apart. A couple people sat in the last row, also not together. Clearly, this was an anti-networking group: We'd managed to spread out among the chairs with at least two chairs between each of us.

The presenter fixed us all with a stare I recognized from many years in many classrooms: Uh-oh, the teacher is getting ready to wax pompous. I buried my attention in my journal, feeling a little too close to the lectern and the somewhat odd man who lurked around it. Wait a minute, no fancy slide show? no handouts? no music and light show? no dancers?... sigh. I guess after the AMA events I'm a little spoiled. “How many of you are introverts?” asked the presenter.

Of course, I raised my hand, not too high, but high enough to be seen; I didn't want to seem like a grouchy student. I didn't turn around to see how many raised their hands, but I would have bet more than half, judging by how desperate most of us seemed to be to carve massive personal space out of the room.

“I bet I have personally shaken the hand of at least 5,000 people in the past ten years,” the presenter said proudly. Dude. Clearly an extravert. Any introvert would have drank the funny kool-aid long before they got to 500.

The evening wore on. Where's the frocked and bearded emcee, I wondered? Where's the funny dude in the purple velvet jacket? The über meta-ness of being at a networking event about networking wore off and turned into an über grind. I did my best to make occasional eye contact with him, so he wouldn't get discouraged, and while I doodled in my notebook, I plotted my strategy to hold my own networking event, a real networking event, one from which the introverts come away feeling invigorated and hopeful instead of weak, morose, and despairing.

Stay tuned.

I am my brand; my brand is me

Solopreneurs work alone, by definition. That means we are the face of our business (...and the hands, feet, wide butt, and bulging belly). We not only represent our business, we are our business. There are no data entry snoids or social media geeks working in the back bedroom. There's nobody but us. Like it or not, we are our brand. As I sit here in my muggy cave of an apartment, looking across the gloom at my plywood shelves and dusty books, as I hike up my pajama pants to my knees and put another cool rag on the back of my neck, I think, wow, if this is my brand, then I am in deep doo-doo.

Thunderstorms rolled through today and left some fresher air. I was going to go out in it, but I was felled by the dregs of a migraine brought on by some food substance as yet unidentified. After I woke up from a nap (during which I met god, believe it or not—whoa, what was that substance!?), I made the mistake of looking at a job search site. As sometimes happens, I found a listing for a job that I could see myself in, and then I felt compelled to take some action and got hopelessly bogged down in customizing my resume, writing a cover letter, and crafting an essay about why I'm the best person for the job. I never think I'm the best person for any job, so right away my effort was doomed. My enthusiasm melted away, and I ended up on Facebook promoting my 40th high school reunion.

Whenever I feel like this, I find myself singing There's a place for us... in an off-key quavery voice fueled by a forlorn hope that there might actually one day be a place for me. It's futile. Both the singing and the dreaming. I'm getting a little long in the tooth to be fretting over finding the perfect job. I know enough now to know that any job is better than no job.

Meanwhile, I've been editing a series of chapters for some music educator who is blazing through his dissertation on the history of choral music in America, a topic I know nothing about, in Turabian format, which is a style I know nothing about. Luckily for me, this author is a very good writer, so I'm mostly fixing his tables and footnotes and curly quotation marks. That means I'm making good money per hour. No complaints. Except I still complain, because that is what I do.

I don't really need a brand. I just need some clients. Once they know me, they will trust me. When they trust me, they will recommend me to others. That is how it works in this business. They won't care that I have a fancy logo or a slick website. They won't even care if I have a business card. They won't care that I work in my pajamas and have hair sticking out of my nose while I'm Skyping. Am I right? Think about it. You grant a lot of slack to people you like and trust. In fact, if they are slightly eccentric, you will justify your opinion about them by embracing their eccentricities and defending their quirks to others. In time, a benevolent mystique will develop around their name. Their logo, no matter how awful, will become precious, like Pez. At that point, they could Skype naked and no one would care.

That's the kind of brand I want. I guess I could save a lot of time and just take my clothes off now.

I'm going to die penniless at 90

This is a great time of year to be homeless in Portland. Not that I'm homeless, yet, just saying. This is my kind of season: day after day of mid 80s to low 90s, fresh breeze, sparse clouds, unfiltered sun, and no rain... ah. Now if I could just get the relentless bass from the cafe's sound system, my neighbor's 1:00 a.m. cigarette smoke, and the invisible grass, flower, and tree spores and pollen to stay outside, everything would be perfect.

Well, almost perfect. I spent the past two days editing a chapter in some guy's music history dissertation, which isn't so bad, compared to some other topics, I guess. (Imagine how I'd be raving if it were... I dunno, The Lived Experience of Autistic Computer Geeks With Co-Axial Redundant Router Tendencies. Actually, that sounds sort of interesting. I just made that up. I have no idea what it means.)

English is the dissertation author's first language, thank the editing gods. So it could be worse. The truth is, I just don't like editing papers. That saddens me for two reasons: First, editing is the work that is coming my way; I can't afford to say no. And second, I'm apparently good at it. I got some praise from the dissertation guy. My reward was the opportunity to edit his next chapter. Lucky me.

Just because you are good at doing something is not a sufficient reason to do it, in my opinion, especially if you hate doing it. Learned that one the hard way when I made my living sewing clothes for ten years. I'd rather live in a chicken coop than do that again. Ditto for driving a school bus. Or working in a nursing home.

Speaking of nursing homes. No, speaking of chicken coops. No, speaking of not liking to do something but doing it anyway, yesterday I drove downtown to go to a local marketing luncheon. I parked 10 blocks away (free!) and hiked along the dusty streets. I wore loose black linen pants, a loose white linen shirt, blister-inducing sandals, and a straw hat on my head to ward off the mid-day sun. I carried a water bottle in case I got heat stroke.

The event was held in a brewery. The smell of yeast and hops was delicious. True to form, I was the first one to arrive (I have a chronic fear of being late). I selected my personalized name tag from the stack by the door. I wandered over to peruse the artwork on the huge brick wall: $1550 for a 30" x 40" unframed canvas caked with paint in a style I could best describe as preschool abstract. Is the artist actually selling this stuff? Jeez. Maybe I should have kept on painting. Oh well. I sat down at a table near the front and watched as the presenters arrived and began milling around the laptop on the lectern, fussing with cords.

A young blonde woman wearing what looked like a shirt-waist throwback to the 1950s but what was probably the height of current fashion hesitantly approached me. “I think we need this table,” she said.

“Would you like me to move?” I asked. It was a table set for seven people. Surely, I thought, there would be room for me.

“Please,” she said.

“No problem.” I gathered up my stuff and relinquished my seat, taking my water glass with me. Take that, you table usurper. I looked around the big empty room. So far, there was one other guest, sitting alone at a table near the back. I had on my reading glasses, so I couldn't tell if the person was male or female, but it didn't matter to me. Rather than sit alone, I wove through the tables and sat down in the chair to the person's right. He/she/it turned out to be (according to his own labeling, offered quite early in our conversation) a gay Jewish writer, recently of Albuquerque, whom for purposes of this discussion, I will call Eli. He handed me a business card without hesitation. I reciprocated, feeling very professional.

The table soon filled up with other guests. Eli handed his cards around to everyone, and even leaped up once or twice to hand his cards to people passing by, making me feel slightly less special, but reminding me that this was a networking event, after all. I wasn't here to make friends. Or eat the food, although I arrived hungry, well, starving, really, and had set a strong intention to eat whatever I could get my hands on.

A woman about my own age wearing tan capri pants, strappy white sandals, and a white blazer sat down in the chair to my right. How does she keep it all clean, I wondered.

“What do you do?” she asked me.

“I'm a marketing researcher,” I replied, ready to hand her a card.

“Oh, so am I,” she said and abruptly turned to the man on her right. She never spoke to me again.

I paid $30 to eat barbecued pulled pork, baked beans, salad, and tofu. During the meal we were educated-slash-entertained by a local marketing guru, who waxed philosophical about innovation while strutting in front of strikingly designed yet obtuse messages arranged on 20-foot tall PowerPoint slides. As far as I could tell, the purpose of the slides was to serve as artsy backdrops for the man in the gray three-piece suit, while he blathered about innovation. I did my best to listen. At first I was mildly fascinated at how he seemed to have prepared the speech so well that he needed no notes. Was it memorized? Was he reading off cue cards? Was he speaking extemporaneously? And what the hell is he talking about?

I usually take notes when I'm at an educational event, and if I can't figure out what to write, I draw pictures: diagrams, arrows, big puffy words, caricatures... the images you see in this blog, for example. Doodling helps me listen. I try to keep my notebook hidden in my lap, but sometimes people see what I've drawn and feel compelled to say something: I couldn't help but notice your drawings. You're very good. You should put those on t-shirts. Yeah, thanks. Maybe you're right. Nothing else I'm doing seems to be working.

Near the door, on the way out, I connected with the president of the local marketing chapter and expressed my interest in volunteering. I've filled in the website registration form. I've emailed the volunteer coordinator. Now I've personally informed the president of the chapter. I don't know what else I can do, so I'll just let the universe take it from here. If I'm meant to volunteer, it will happen. I'm a little desperate: These marketers are members of my target market. Before they hire me, they need to know me and trust me. My best bet is meeting them in person through service.

A few minutes ago, I invited the president of the chapter and the writer to connect with me on LinkedIn. Within five minutes, both did. I guess people are using smartphones to manage their social network, unlike me, still slogging along on the pay-as-you-go, no-data-for-you-loser plan.

Someday my ship is going to come in. I know it. It may be a rubber dinghy, and it may end up crashing on the rocky shore of my financial ruin, but by god, when that damn boat goes down, I'm going to be on it.

I may be down but I'm not out

Wouldn't it be nice if after you earned a Ph.D., the world stepped up to hand you a perfect job? On a silver platter would be nice, thank you. Can't they see how special I am? Sadly, as you may have guessed, this is not the case. Which explains why today I got up earlier than normal, put on slacks and a jacket, and trundled downtown on the bus to the temp agency. After I filled out a quarter-inch stack of forms and aced a safety test (talk about leading questions! for shame), I met with a blonde woman named Norma, who was very enthused about the upcoming three-day weekend.

“I'm marching in a parade tomorrow,” she said.

 “Oh, really? How nice.”

“With my llamas!”

“Wow, llamas,” I echoed uncertainly.

“Yes, I dress them up in ribbons and I put bells on their feet. My boy llama hates that.”

I don't think I would want to piss off a llama, boy or girl, but whatever. I was more concerned that I had forgotten to take off my little black cap when I went in to the interview. Although clearly wackjobs are allowed at this agency. Maybe that's a good sign? As long as I don't have to feed a llama, I'm cool.

Finally, the dreaded question: “So! What are you looking for?”

Uhhhhh... world peace? Thin thighs? A rich uncle? How about a job that doesn't suck? I'd settle for that. I didn't say any of those things. I don't remember what I said, but it must have been acceptable, because she moved on to her next question, busily scribbling my answers on the sheet in front of her.

“Do you know Visio? Do you know SharePoint? How about Lotus Notes?”

“Lotus Notes!” was my intelligent response. I knew bell-bottoms had returned, but...

The interview questions were a strange melange of queries, reassurances, and semi-vicious probes. I wasn't exactly eviscerated, but I got the feeling she was impatient with me. I suspect I was the third or fourth hothouse flower she'd seen today, the day before her precious three-day weekend, and she was just about at her limit. I took pains to assuage her snippiness by assuring her I just wanted to make a contribution somewhere, whatever the hell that means. She seemed to accept my peace offering. Later I began to think maybe she was just slightly jealous of me. Maybe she would like to be an unemployed teacher, or an unsuccessful solopreneur. Hey, it's not too late! As I handed over my passport and social security card to be photocopied, I found myself hoping that someone would suddenly dash through the lobby and steal my documents. Take my identity—please!

On the way downtown, I sat in the back of the bus in the seat that overlooks the front part of the bus. There wasn't much to survey in the bus domain in front of me, but I thought about many things as we bounced and jiggled toward the Willamette River. For instance, I wondered how far I would fly if the bus driver had to suddenly slam on the brakes. Then I thought about how my wide derriere would probably anchor me in the seat and felt better enough to move on to my next thought, which was a conscious awareness that I might feel worse after going to this interview. I told myself if nothing else, the whole adventure would provide material for my blog. So far, both predictions have come true. I did not feel better after signing up with the temp agency, and I now have something to blog about.

When I finally dragged up to my back door, feeling like a poorly dressed loser, I found two little cartons of raspberries on my back porch, wrapped in Winco produce bags, which means my mother visited while I was out. She no doubt saw my car but couldn't get me to come to the door when she knocked. When I got inside, I dutifully called her on the phone.

“Hello, Mudder,” I said when I heard her voice.

“Whaaaat!?” she replied, which is not the usual way she answers the phone when I call, so I knew she was perturbed at getting what she perceived as a brush off. I expect it from your brothers girlfriend, but not from you! She asked if I had got the berries. I said, yes, thanks. She wanted to know where I was, and I told her I went downtown to sign up at a temp agency. She was rabidly interested, no big surprise. I managed to deflect most of the interrogation into a discussion about her ill-fitting dentures. We made plans to go for a drive to Silverton tomorrow to see the Oregon Gardens (open year round, so they say). If nothing else, the weather will be good, and it will give me something to blog about.

Summer: Time to reunionize

Summer is reunion time. Close family, extended family, and high school classmates, our relatively short summer in Portland brings us all together. (Don't blink.) My summer is shaping up to be an immersion into my past, whether I like it or not. It's a convenient although not entirely comfortable distraction from marketing and job hunting, the two activities I'm pursuing with roughly equal fervor, which is to say, not much. When I'm not marketing, networking, or job hunting, I'm entertaining my sister for a long weekend, seeing cousins I haven't seen in 30 years, and getting ready for my 40th high school reunion.

Two weeks ago, my immediate family rallied around a rare visit from my sister. The high point, besides seeing my siblings all together in one room, was visiting my only girl cousin on my mother's side of the family for a brunch at Elephant's Deli. All in all, it was a lovely visit that required a week for me to recover from, gastronomically speaking.

My mother had only one brother, which makes it easy to keep track of family on that side. My mother had four children, as did her brother: thus, I have four cousins, one of whom is the girl cousin I adore. I stopped keeping track of additions to the family after the first generation of cousins. My cousins had children (my cousins once-removed), and their children had children (my cousins twice-removed). They are all so removed, I've given up all hope of remembering their names. I'm lucky I remember they exist.

Things are a little more hectic on my father's side. Adoptions, age gaps, my widower grandfather marrying a succession of sisters... it gets really confusing, especially come to find out my father was adopted—a fact that apparently everyone knew but us. The people I called Aunt So-and-So and Uncle Such-and-Such weren't really relatives at all, which could explain why my immediate family felt like outcasts at Christmas get-togethers. (Although I swear my adopted father and his so-called cousin could have passed for brothers in their younger years, leading me to wonder who my father's father really was. But that's speculation with no satisfactory ending.)

Somehow I became Facebook friends last year with a younger cousin on my father's side. A few weeks ago, I happened to notice that she was planning a family reunion. Even though we aren't close and I only see her once a year at Christmas (her mother was like a sister to my father, but they were really cousins a generation apart), I decided to invite myself: What could she do, say no? I invited my mother, too. “Sure,” the cousin replied, “but bring your own meat.”

My mother begged off at the last minute, claiming digestive problems (you can get away with that when you are almost 85) and up until the time came to go out the door, I seriously considered doing the same. I'm not really a social person. But my curiosity won out. I remembered the cousins I spent Christmases with when we were children, pre-teens, and teenagers. Boy cousins I had crushes on. Girl cousins I envied for their Barbie Dreamhouses. Eleven cousins I hadn't seen in thirty years. Do they still have hair? Do they still play with Barbies? I wanted to know. So I went to the park, bringing a salad and some chips scavenged on the way from the grocery store.

I looked across the wide expanse of green grass at the crowd of people milling around a long line of picnic tables. I didn't recognize anyone. Was this the right family reunion? This could get embarrassing. I hesitated behind a tree, examining the faces. At first, they all looked like strangers. Then I saw the Facebook cousin and her family. Yep, this was my family. People looked in puzzlement at me as I approached the matriarch of the family, a tiny wizened wrinkled woman in a blue track suit.

“Hi, do you remember me?” I smiled at her.

“Of course I remember you,” she said. “You're Carol Mary. You look just like your mother.”

People clustered around then, some to find out the identity of this stranger talking to their mother/ grandmother/ great-grandmother, and some to greet me with exclamations and hugs. For me, recognition took time; thirty years changes people. Hairlines recede. Hair turns gray. Waistlines expand. But smiles stay the same. I recognized the kids I spent Christmases with, a little grayer, and in one or two cases, gayer, but all still the same. Kids in grown up bodies. Just like me.

For the next three hours, I moseyed from cousin to cousin, group to group, introducing myself and snapping candid photos. Memories began to flood back. We reminisced. The dread cousin Jimmy turned out to be a pretty nice guy, mellowed by cancer and a reduced life expectancy. His scary wife turned out to be an overly protective untreated Al-Anon. Who knew. I met cousins, cousins once-removed, twice-removed, and thrice-removed... four generations buzzed around the picnic tables, along with a dog or two, barbecuing burgers, grazing the salads, nibbling at cookies. Some moved more slowly than others—the oldest one is 91, the youngest hasn't figured out how to stand upright yet. Adoptions didn't matter. We were all family.

Next month is my 40th high school reunion. That should be interesting. I'll keep you posted.

Coming off a bender

While my sister was in town for a long weekend, the centerpiece of her visit was food. When I contemplate that statement, I wonder what images it inspires in your mind? Do you picture family feasts, home-cooked spreads, gourmet meals at local five-star restaurants? I mean, it's not often my sister comes to town. My older brother actually drove in from the coast for the occasion, so the entire family (all five of us) was all together, an occurrence rarer than a lunar eclipse. It would have been a perfect time to celebrate with fabulous food. That is not what happened.

The only one who knows how to cook in my family is my sister. I doubt it occurred to her to consider cooking a meal to celebrate the get-together. It certainly never occurred to me, because that isn't how it's done in my family. Cooking was our mother's job, and because she despised cooking, we grew up with canned green beans and hamburger patties.

Our idea of social food is Chinese take-out. My older brother has food allergies. I'm not supposed to eat sugar (among other things). My sister and mother eat like tiny birds. My younger brother will eat anything as long as it isn't from the vegetable family, and my father the compulsive overeater has gone to the all-you-can eat buffet in the sky. Even though we all have our preferences, food is still the center of the social time.

Food is a family thing, even when some family members have food issues. Or maybe that is where some family members get their food issues, I don't know. Just like money is a family thing, food is one of the sticky threads that snags you in childhood and trails after you the rest of your life, no matter how far you run. In my family, it doesn't matter how you feel, but it matters a lot how you look. People notice how you eat. Everyone notices if you gain a few pounds.

I picked my sister up from the airport on Thursday evening and delivered her to Mom's condo. As we pulled up to the back parking area, there was our scrawny mother talking with two older women. Mom stopped waving at her mini-roses and started waving at us. The two neighbors, who held two tiny yappy dogs on leashes, became the audience for the minor family drama that ensued.

Mom introduced us to the neighbors. We shook hands and petted the tiny dogs. I retrieved my sister's suitcase from the boot of my old Focus and started dragging it toward my mother's back door.

My mother grabbed my sister in a hug, gleefully saying to the two women, “This is my skinny child!”

I thought perhaps the neighbors looked a little uncomfortable, but I didn't stick around to find out. I rolled my eyes and kept moving into the house. I heard the subtext, loud and clear, though: This is my skinny child (and there goes my fat child!).

We aren't known for social grace in my family. My sister is the anomaly: She conducts herself like a princess wherever she goes (she's been to Europe, after all), but the rest of us are tooth-picking, armpit-scratching, conversational disasters. (Which could explain why my sister prefers Europe). We're all well-educated, but I fear we still exude a slightly sour aroma that indicates we hale from the wrong side of the tracks. No matter the Ph.D., my collar is blue and probably will be till I die. I mean, you can take the girl out of the public school, but... know what I mean?

I'm a chip off my father's block, so food has a special hold over me. This is why I don't buy anything but fish, chicken, turkey, and vegetables. If there is anything else in the house, I will eat it. Going out to eat is like taking an alcoholic to a bar and saying, oh, it's okay, just this once, have a beer. Live a little!

“I need to gain a few pounds,” my sister said as we perused yet another menu. Meanwhile, my mind was running in circles: Salad? I don't want any stinking salad! Could she tell how much I wanted the chocolate cake? (Or the french fries? Or the wheat bread? Or the cheesy pizza?)

“You only live once,” she said, as if she read my mind. At that point, she might as well have had little devil horns coming out of her perfect blonde hair. And a cute little pitchfork aimed at my bulging belly.

The rest of the weekend was the typical culinary nightmare. I get why my food-allergic brother avoids social situations. It takes monumental willpower to turn down food when you are out to eat with the family. It's just not done. Food is love. (And if you aren't feeling the love just then, you can focus on your food.) Food is the glue that holds family times together. If you don't eat (just a little bite of this amazing Belgian chocolate!), then you aren't on the team. You are undermining the team experience.

Clearly, I have no willpower. I know that. This is not news. As I wait for the wheat, sugar, dairy, soy, and corn starch to clear out of my overloaded system (the five fingers of death, according to Dr Tony the nutty naturopath), I reflect on powerlessness. My mother loaded me up with leftovers (week-old glop in a Chinese takeout carton, an unopened box of wheat-filled, sugar-laced granola), which I (eventually) tossed into the trash, but not after once again trying (and failing) to demonstrate that I can live life like a normal person.

As I recover from this bender, I wish I could say that I won't jaywalk again. But even on a good day, my mind is trying to kill me. Sugar may be a slow death, but it's death all the same.

How to know if there is a vortex in your bathroom

My sister came to town for a long weekend. The fun began Friday evening when I picked her up at the airport, and ended this morning at 7:00 a.m. when I dropped her off. She travels light, like the veteran globetrotter that she is. We were lucky to see her: Portland was just the next destination after Boston, en route back to Europe where I suspect she left her heart. She graces us once a year, if she can. She looks better than ever. Every time I see her, I wonder how she manages to remain young while I am speeding into old age.

Speaking of perplexing occurrences, I am not sure, but think there might be an energy vortex in my bathroom. I'm not an expert. Maybe it's a tiny black hole, or an electromagnetic event horizon. Or a really small localized Bermuda Triangle. I checked a map of energy vortices and it appears that the nearest one is Sedona, although many people claim Oregon has an energy vortex of its own. I've never been there, so I can't say. But I have been to my bathroom, many times, and I'm here to tell you, something wacky is going on in there.

It's not a big bathroom. The tub runs across the end of the room, under the window, where I have built a large wooden window seat for the cat. The sink is on the left-hand wall, the mirror is on the right-hand wall, and the toilet is behind the door. The original taupe ceramic-tiled floor was amateurishly covered before my tenure with black and white linoleum squares (same as is in my kitchen), which are now spotted with kitty litter and paint splatters from many coats of dingy ivory enamel. Overhead is your typical mold-spotted, pock-marked, spider-infested ceiling. It's a nondescript room, despite my attempt to describe it. The vortex appears to be on the wall just to the left of the toilet.

Time out while I go rescue a house fly. He looks a little groggy, like he's been batted about the forehead one too many times by a deceptively lazy cat.

Ok, now I'm back. Where was I? Oh, yeah. Energy vortex. My sister managed to survive three nights in the guest room at my mother's condo (which might be sort of like a small black hole, considering how it sucks life energy from visitors foolish enough to linger). She would have been welcome here, vortex or no. Maybe she wanted to avoid going home covered with cat hair and dust mites. Can't blame her. Maybe she just wanted to avoid hurting our mother's feelings. Whatever the case, she decided to brave the condo. The first night she was attacked by fleas. At least, we think they might have been fleas. Or maybe just one really energetic flea. I think a linen change resolved that issue.

My mother's condo gets only evening sun through one living room window. The master bedroom has one east-facing window smothered by huge pine trees. The rest of the place has a few small north-facing windows. So, what I'm saying is, the place is a cave. Maybe that is why my mother resembles a mole: She stays up late reading by one dim lamp or playing Castle Camelot in the dark. She sleeps late, swathed in fleece and slippers, buried in the dark depths of her huge bed. If she didn't snore occasionally, you wouldn't know she was there.

Maybe energy vortices run in my family. I never thought of that before. That could explain my mother's condo. Maybe that also explains the problem in my bathroom.

Here's the deal. I've had a battery operated clock on the wall next to my toilet for several years. I installed it while I was still working, when it was important to keep to a schedule. Now that it's not so important, I pay less attention to time, although I have battery-operated clocks in every room. One day a few months ago, I happened to notice the clock in the bathroom had gained time. Like, a lot of time. Twenty minutes of time. It's just a cheap battery-powered clock; I figured it had lost its clock mojo or something, although it seems to me that clocks usually lose time, rather than gain time. But what do I know about time? I installed a new battery, moved the hands back to the proper time, and hung it back on the wall. Within a few days, it had once again gained 20 minutes.

I took the clock off the wall and set it on the toilet tank, propped it against the wall. Weeks went by: It kept perfect time. I hung it back on the wall. Within a few days, it was 10 minutes ahead. That's when I started to think there might be something odd going on in my bathroom.

I'm guessing the neighbor also has a vortex in her bathroom, right on the other side of the wall. I know by the sound of her toilet flushing that not much space separates our facilities. Maybe she's hung a large magnetic bathroom ornament on the wall, directly opposite my clock. If I see her, I'll ask. In the meantime, I'm going to hang the clock on a different wall and see what happens.

I just Googled "battery-operated clock gaining time" and found out I'm not alone. Other people have encountered the mystery. A few offered some lame explanations. The last commenter said, "Maybe you are at the nexus of the universe or something." I like that idea. Maybe my bathroom is at the nexus of the universe. Or something. I can think of worse places to be.

The old gray maternal parental unit floats on the stream of life

Today I've been cleaning in preparation for the arrival of my sister. She's coming in tomorrow evening from Boston for a long weekend in Portland. I hope she notices that I cleaned the white squares on the black-and-white checkerboard linoleum floor. I also baked some chicken in the ancient oven in case she feels like nibbling some desiccated poultry while she's here. I hope the smoke dissipates overnight. Tomorrow I'll stir up some dust with my like-new vacuum cleaner. She'll like that, I bet.

Eddie, my cat, lies on my lap while I'm trying to type. He looks up at me and says what he often says, "Do you work here?" It's almost as plain as that Internet cat that says, "Hey." Yep, Eddie talks. I'm not sure what he's wanting... a drink, maybe? A back rub? To be a guest blogger?

Here, dude. You take over.

He apparently wanted a back rub. I complied, and now he's enjoying a snack in his personal lounge (a built-in sideboard in the kitchen, complete with bird-watching window, three entrees, a huge jug of water, and two containers of well-mown hand-grown oat grass. I should have such a life.)

Tonight an odd thing happened. My cell phone buzzed. That in itself is odd, because I rarely get phone calls on my cell phone. Odder still: It was my mother. Wha–?

"Hi Mom," I said guardedly.

She said, "Where are you?"

I said, "Where am I supposed to be?"

"Aren't you picking up your sister at the airport?"

"No, Mom, that's tomorrow night."

"Really? What day is it? Thursday?"

"No, Mom, today is Wednesday."

"Are you sure? I don't get a newspaper anymore, so..."

She sounded chagrined and just a tiny bit worried as she realized her error. I am feeling perplexed and slightly unnerved. I get that she loses track of the days. That's easy to do when you are retired. Or self-employed.

I wonder, is this a sign of a pattern, a portent, a harbinger of things to come? Or is this just a one-off, put it down to her carefree retired lifestyle and the excitement of seeing her youngest daughter? I hope she doesn't flagellate herself with this episode. Well, at the rate things are going, she might not even remember it tomorrow. I don't know if that is looking on the bright side or the dark side.

There's a certain relaxation that can come with old age, I think, for some old folks, anyway. I worked for a brief time as an activities director at a care center, and I met many interesting people. Most couldn't walk. Many couldn't talk. Some were anxious and worried. And some cruised through their remaining days, drifting blissfully along on the stream of life, from ice cream cone to nap to chocolate cake to ragtime music to family visit to fresh flowers to more ice cream, through the clockless days, winding down gently to death. I wouldn't mind going out like that, floating on the breeze.

We are all at the epicenter

In the past few weeks I've heard or seen a reference to what you should do if you have six hours to chop down a tree (spend four hours sharpening and two hours chopping, according to Abe Lincoln). Apart from a brain hiccup where I mixed up Abe Lincoln with George Washington (“I cannot tell a lie”—although I now understand that quote is attributed incorrectly? What the hell, people!), does anyone besides me feel just the slightest bit queasy at the idea of chopping down a tree?

I mean, we're losing trees at an alarming rate all over the planet (80,000 acres of rain forest daily is a lot of trees to be losing), and we all know that losing trees is a bad thing, so why would you even talk metaphorically about chopping down a tree? I predict that in five years using the idea of sharpening an axe to chop a tree to metaphorically refer to honing your performance through preparation will be so politically incorrect that people will shun you with hisses if you dare mention even the thought of tree demise. Tree destruction=not cool. Maybe axes will be outlawed. Maybe you'll have to have a background check to purchase an axe. Maybe there will be a National Axe Association, to help us retain the right to bear axes. Axes don't kill trees, people kill trees.

Speaking of which, just a few miles from here, here being the east suburbs of Portland, Oregon, a kid shot another kid in yet another high school shooting. Nobody wants to think about it (ho hum, another one down, tsk, tsk). It's interesting, however, to watch the amount of news coverage. It occurs to me that the media attention flows outward in concentric circles from the epicenter of the carnage. The closer you are to the incident, the more media coverage spews out over the airwaves. Since I'm within the ten mile radius, I was treated to extensive news coverage. (I watch the 11 o'clock news on the local ABC or NBC affiliates; I won't watch CBS news since they let Meteorologist Bruce Sussman go).

The reporters and interviewees said essentially what they always say when preventable tragedies happen, yada yada, hearts go out, prayers stay in, etcetera, nothing new there. Here on local TV, there were long, soulfully lingering shots of grieving high school students holding flickering candles (it's windy in Troutdale, out there at the doorway to the Columbia River Gorge), whereas on national TV you might see just a couple seconds' worth of flickering candles. I got to see how people ingeniously created little lanterns by shoving a candle through the bottom of a Dixie cup. Clever! And there seemed to be more in-depth explanation in the days that followed, compared to what I've seen for shootings in other places. This go-round included some curious introspection by the reporters (Should we divulge the identity of the shooter or not? Are we glorifying the act, or are we simply reporting the news? Ah, hell, everyone else is showing his picture, so rather than be left behind, we'd better show it, too.) I've had my fill, as no doubt you all have. Enough already. In 20 years, we won't remember. Unlike O.J.'s trial, which is getting a lot of airplay this week, too. If there was any rain forest left, I'd run away to it.

Last night I went to the local AMA-PDX MAX awards at OMSI. Those are a lot of acronyms for what turned out to be a relatively fun event, even for me, the chronically malcontented introvert. I wore my jeans, which aren't quite as skinny as I'd like, but actually can be buttoned, and over that I wore a long shirt so I didn't have to worry about the muffin top. They made me a name tag for my $45. Plus tickets for two free drinks! I asked for an iced tea; the server had to rummage through the kitchen to come up with a bottle of ice tea, guess they weren't prepared for any teetotalers. Along the walls, multiple tables laden with appetizers (salmon, asparagus, cheese in bizarre formations, and pizza!) I had two little pieces of pizza (cheese and wheat... heaven!) and found a spot at a long tall table.

Almost immediately a young blonde kid wearing, I kid you not, a purple velvet blazer brought a plate of salmon and asparagus to the table opposite me. British accent, a little dorky, my kind of guy. Come to find out he volunteered his marketing and design skills to create all the promotional items that were associated with the event. I told him my strategy of insinuating myself into an organization through volunteer work; he's already doing it! We exchanged cards. I feel heartened to know I'm on the right track. All I need is a purple velvet jacket.

OMSI stands for Oregon Museum of Science and Industry, in case you were wondering. AMA is the American Marketing Association, and I have no idea what MAX stands for. It was an awards ceremony, emceed by a fascinating creature named Poison Waters, who wore a slight beard, a tiara, and a gold lame evening gown. Most of the attendees were much younger than I, but there were a few grizzled oldsters (men, not women) rocking buzzcuts, plaid shirts, and long shorts.

I topped the evening off with strawberry shortcake, the effects of which I'm still feeling today, but all I can say is... you only live once, so yum. Won't be doing that again anytime soon, but mmm mmm.

Tonight I helped my mother update her Facebook profile with a picture and a cover photo. (Look out Internet!). She repaid me with home grown lettuce. Next week my sister the world traveler comes to town. Soon it will be summer. Nothing is different, but the air smells like hope.

Keeping Portland weird with the World Naked Bike Ride

You've probably seen the pictures by now, the streets of Portland clogged by naked people riding bicycles. It's called the World Naked Bike Ride. I don't know any more about it than you do, even though they've been doing this since 2004, and I live here. I guess people take off their clothes and ride bicycles all around the world to inspire people to ride bikes (naked or clothed, I presume either one is ok). My guess is that even though Portland may not be the only city offering annual naked bike rides, Portlanders are probably the most enthusiastic, especially if the weather is fine.

Yesterday was a perfect day by Portland late spring standards: clear blue sky, 79°, really great weather to get sunburned on your ass if you aren't wearing shorts. I was wearing jeans, because I can now (lost a few pounds, yay me), and as I was driving through the neighborhood I came upon a small traffic jam. Was it an accident, a pedestrian...? Oh, wait. Gleaming bikes, glistening skin... yep, those people are starkers. I caught some fleeting glimpses of flopping genitalia and one tanned behind as the owner bent over to fix something on a fallen bike. Just slightly surreal, and then the drivers got over it and we all moved on. Just another wacky day in the city of weird.

I've had dreams before of traipsing through town in the altogether, thinking nothing of it, and then gradually coming to the disconcerting realization that no one was naked but me. Invariably in my dreams, true to my inner empress, I refused to indicate that anything was wrong, staring belligerently at anyone who raised an eyebrow. That feeling of isolation and alienation is my normal state when clothed, and I imagine it would be about a thousand times worse were I to be unclothed in public. Well, fortunately, you won't see me parading my lily-white cellulite-riddled skin out in the open anytime soon. I don't want to blind anyone. I don't even like to show my arms, flapping as they do in the breeze. I'll condescend to wear (long) shorts to go jogging sometimes, but only if the temperature exceeds 80°. Those are the rules. You have rules, too, don't deny it.

I used to live with a nihilist. We liked to travel around looking for natural hot springs. We found a few, many of which were clothing-optional. These secret pools were written about in books: Hot Springs of the West, etc. They were always at the ends of long dusty trails or situated high on the flank of a steep, snake-filled scree. People packed in beer and got high and sweaty, sitting up to their necks in steaming sulfur water. Yeah, those were some kind of days. My personal favorite was Hot Creek, a foggy confluence of a cold stream and hot geothermal water bubbling up from below. Every now and then, a fumarole would shift and boil some hapless bathers alive. Hence the large sign on the trail leading down to the river: Bathe at your own risk; 271 (or some ungodly number) people have died here. Nothing like fear of parboiling to really relax you on your vacation.

Being naked in public gives you a new perspective. Ask any two-year-old. The wind and sun on your skin, nothing between you and your human life. I can almost understand the appeal of nudist groups. Wouldn't it be nice to live in a world without judgment or shame? Until it gets cold and you have to put a shirt on. Back to the real world.

What's with this twiddling thing?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Another new hat: Who am I now?

It's humbling to realize that even after 57 years walking around on the planet I have gained so little knowledge about my own preferences and working styles. A week ago, if you had asked me what kind of work I prefer, I would have said, “Well, thanks for asking! I like to work alone. I'm a control freak. I like to work in my pajamas.” And all that is true. Based on those preferences, I would have expected editing to be a perfect job for me. But after editing 200 pages of poorly written, convoluted scholarly tomes by wannabe academics, I learned that that is not the whole story, not by a long shot. I am an introvert, I am a control freak, I do like to work in stinky pajamas... and I'm a creator, not an editor. Beam me up, Scotty! I've had enough editing to choke a Klingon.

Editing someone else's mess of a dissertation is like trying to sweep kitty litter off a linoleum floor with a toothbrush. You have to find every... last... speck to get the job done right. And just when you think you've found every dinky stinky grain, you see a little dollop of poop caught in a corner. Poop like generating the list of references using a third-party non-APA-compliant software program. Poop like non-APA-compliant tables and figures. Poop like stringing five verbs in a row, all ending in -ing, in a sentence that takes up half a page. That kind of poop. A bigger broom won't do it.

Apparently, I'm a pretty good editor. I'm thorough, and I know my APA. (I ought to, after eight fricking years in graduate school.) My problem, though, is that I'm too slow. It takes me a long time to do a thorough editing job, especially when I have to create styles, reformat tables, and generate Tables of Contents, Tables of Tables, and Tables of Figures... wha—? (Tables of tables? I mean, Lists of Tables! Whatever!)

When you are getting paid a set amount per job, the more hours you spend, the less you make per hour. On the last job, the 150+ page dissertation (I know, what am I whining about? My massive wretched tome was 390 pages!), I calculated I earned about $16 per hour, when it was finally put to bed. That might sound good to you, but that's gross earnings. So, subtract federal, state, local, and self-employment taxes, and I netted a measly $10 per hour. And PayPal takes its cut, too.

So, time to find another hat. I keep finding out what I don't want to do. Year after year, job after job, I fall into the wrong jobs. That seems like a really painful, tedious way to discover one's calling, don't you think? How many possible occupations are there? A few hundred? Probably more like a few thousand. I don't have time to try them all in a colossally misguided process of job elimination.

Only one job lasted a significant amount of time. That was the teaching job at the career college, almost ten years. The job started out great, perfect fit, better than I'd ever had, certainly better than, oh say, driving a school bus, sewing bridesmaids dresses, or playing bingo with old folks in a nursing home. Or gardening, or waitressing, or secretarying, or chaufeurring, or admin coordinating... teaching was way better than all those occupations. And for a few years, despite the shenanigans of management, it continued to be a good fit. Until the marketing classes went to another campus, and I got assigned to teach keyboarding, term after term. By that time, the death rattle was echoing through the halls, and nobody was surprised when corporate pulled the plug last year. End of story. Old news.

On the bright side, it only took a week to realize that I'm not cut out to be an editor. No more spending years doing something I hate, resenting it, and plotting revenge. The downside, though, is that apparently in 57 years I haven't progressed an inch toward anything resembling self-awareness. It's easy to say, you can take the girl out of the art [world], but you can't take the artist out of the girl. (If I can still call myself a girl. I can, can't I? Clearly I am still about twelve.) That old platitude doesn't quite work in this case, but you get my drift, right? I make my own messes, I don't clean up other people's. I'm a creator, I'm a maker, I'm a writer, I'm an artist. You betcha. That and $5.50 will get you a frappuccino at Starbucks.

Tomorrow I'm off to yet another startup workshop (free!) to find my true calling. It's across the river in The Couve (Vancouver, WA), a green and magical land where you can pump your own gas, so maybe I'll find what I'm looking for there.

Be careful what you ask for

I told the Universe I would walk through whatever door opened, financially speaking. That leaves a lot of wiggle room for the Universe, I realize now. But you know how it is when you are desperate for income: you start throwing out blanket-sized prayers and making promises to whatever deity happens to be on television at the moment. And before you know it, the Universe (or random chance) responds. With something you were perhaps not expecting, or wanting all that much, like a pie in the face or an e.coli infection.

No worries, neither one has happened to me yet, although I got a robocall earlier today from the City of Portland warning me to boil my tap water. Wha—? Seriously, boil my tap water, here? In the City of Cleanest Water in the World? Oh boy. And wouldn't you know it, the culprit is one of those hundred-year-old reservoirs just 200 yards from my front door. A broken pipe, a little breach, or some nut peeing in the water, whatever the cause, all that lovely Bull Run water is now contaminated with e.coli bacteria, and the City of Portland is on a boil-water alert for the first time ever. A big thank you to my good friend V., who called me to tell me about the alert, else I would have never known, and probably swilled e.coli infested coffee all day long. In fact, ugh, I have! Oh well. If you don't hear from me in a few days, send out the hazmat team.

I spent the last two days editing academic papers for writers whose first language happens to be something other than English. One 7000-word project was through an agency, the other (12,000 words) directly from the author. I've been sitting at my computer for two solid days, editing, commenting, highlighting, spellchecking, formatting... and I must say, this is the stupidest way to earn money I've ever thought of. I'd almost rather be a gardener (I did that for a few months years ago, when I was still young and limber). As my wrists solidify into concrete and my eyes grow gritty with weariness, I am reflecting that I got what I asked for. And now I'd like to give it back, but I don't have any other income right now, so I'm stuck.

It could be worse, I suppose. It has been worse. Driving a school bus was worse. Sewing clothes for overweight, underappreciative female Los Angelenos was definitely worse. In comparison, this has some perks. I get to swelter in my own stinky sweat. I can listen to my music (Grace Jones, John Foxx, and new Coldplay). I can bury my nose in my cat's furry tummy. I can fart all I want and pick my nose. Really, it's not so bad. But I haven't found the balance yet: I haven't been out of the house for two days. I fear the blood has pooled to my ankles. I can barely move, so it's hard to tell. I should probably be drinking more water, but well, whatever.

On the bright side, however, I have sold a whopping two ebooks! Thank you, dear friends. I don't know who you are because the $15.98 has not yet been posted by Smashwords to PayPal, but someday I hope I have a chance to thank you, if not in person, then with a big sloppy email kiss. Mwah! It is very difficult to promote a book anonymously, I have discovered, so I'm not even trying. Meanwhile, I'm contemplating my next book, which will not be anonymous. This time I'm going to ask the Universe for great big wads of cash and see what happens.

Fitna on the condo board

Today I ate chia seeds and after a wave of dizziness, I felt much better than I did when I posted the last morose post, so yay for chia seeds. I don't really want to blog about chia seeds, though. Tonight I went for a jog in the park, intent on enjoying the last of the balmy weather before the rains return. It was a half-and-half sky, half blue, half white, with streaky high clouds moving in from the coast, a sign of weather to come. As I exited my back door, my neighbor Kirsten waved me down to tell me that her landlord is selling the duplex she lives in. She and her husband might have to move. As she spoke, her chin began to quiver.

“I've planted over 500 bulbs in that garden,” she moaned, waving at her wild and chaotic yard. I didn't say it, but I learned long ago, all the yard work we do for landlords increases no one's wealth but the landlords.

“There will be other gardens,” I said cryptically.

“What will we do? Where will we find another place like this?”

“It is natural to want to hang on to what we have,” I said. “It's hard to let go.”

I left her gazing dolefully at her flowers and sipping beer out of a can. I enjoyed my trot more than usual, maybe because of the chia seeds, who knows. I smiled at everyone, which is a rare state for a chronically malcontented person like me. A bit of sunshine caught me on the way back. Kirsten was still out front, talking to another neighbor. I ignored them and headed along the path to my back door. I heard her voice calling and turned to see her waving at me.

I pulled my earplugs out of my ears.

“Are you talking to me?”

“I just wanted to thank you for your words of wisdom,” she said, still holding a can of beer. I walked out to the garbage can area to meet her. A breeze of beer breath wafted over me. I can't remember the last time I had a beer. (No, I wasn't blacked out. I just don't like beer.)

“I'm always happy to dispense words of wisdom, whether anyone likes it or not,” I smiled.

“You always seem so calm,” she said dreamily, and then she started to cry. I gave her a hug on impulse, not something I usually do, but she seemed comforted, judging by the way she held on to me a bit too long. Maybe she was using me to stay upright, I don't know.

Luckily at that moment, another neighbor, a woman with fake platinum hair whose bearded husband is a guitar player, came out to dump something in the trash, and Kirsten shared the sorry tale of woe with her.

“I've been talking to Carol, because she's so calm,” Kirsten said. The woman (whose name might be Susan) looked at me with no recognition at all. She has really nice skin, I thought to myself. The woman put her empty bowl on top of the trash can and came over to hug Kirsten. I took that opportunity to make my escape.

It was a day for sharing stories, apparently. My almost 85-year-old mother called me shortly after I had changed back into my usual garb (pajamas). Her voice boomed out of the phone.

“The Board Chair said some terrible things to me at the condo meeting last night!”

“What did she say?” I asked.

“She said she heard me say some denigrating things about one of the homeowners. Who happens to be her friend,” my mother sputtered, lisping slightly because of her dentures. “I don't remember saying anything about the homeowner!” Which, I thought, doesn't mean you didn't do it; it just means you can't remember doing it. But I didn't say that.

“What did you say?” I asked.

“I said, 'I'm moving!'”

“Whoa.”

“Then after the meeting, two other Board members came up to me and told me she had done the same thing to them! Accused them of saying something negative about her friends.”

The righteous anger was beginning to pile up in big frothy bubbles.

“What are you going to do, Mom?”

“We need to vote her off the Board!”

“Better check your condo bylaws before you start rounding up a posse,” I warned.

“I've got 'em here someplace. But they are so hard to understand. Can't we just hold a special meeting or something?”

“Probably. But you need to follow the guidelines in the bylaws. This is for the good of the condo association, right, Mom? It's not because you don't like the woman. It's not about revenge, right?”

“I've got two Board members who are on my side,” she said excitedly. “I gotta go.”

If you remember a couple posts ago, I reported that my mother has become a reader of this blog. If she remembers how to find it again, she may read this post and declare that I have failed to accurately report the events I'm describing. It's true I have taken some artistic license in the pursuit of laughs. I've definitely shortened the conversation, and of course, being the malcontent that I am, I've tried to make me look smarter at her expense. Because that's what daughters do as payback for all the years of hell, am I right? But seriously, Mom, if you read this, sorry for taking advantage, but you set it up so nicely, I really couldn't resist. Watching you instigate a mutiny of the condo board is priceless. Rock on, Mom! Fitna on the condo board!

Exhaling at the speed of life

I'm a living example of efficiently working at being ineffective. I stay busy. I'm proud to say I'm not quivering in a closet, waiting to be hauled away to the poorhouse. For one thing, I only have one closet in the Love Shack, and it has no place to sit except in the laundry basket. I'm not that far gone. And secondly, what used to be the county poorhouse is now a swanky hip hotel, with a movie theatre, a brewery, a concert venue, a 9-hole golf course, several restaurants, and a multitude of bars. I went to a marketing conference there a few months back. I definitely can't afford it. I don't think there are poor farms anymore, are there? Well, there's always the Burnside Bridge. Under it, I mean: I'm not planning on jumping, in case you were worried.

I'm not lazy. I do a lot of stuff. I make long lists of to-do tasks and knock them off, one by one. That's good, right? No skulking in my one and only closet. Something is not quite right, though. I feel like a cartoon character, with spinning circles for legs, tearing up the air four inches above the pavement, going nowhere, fast. My logical left brain says I just need to work smarter, find the right strategy, I need to figure it out. My right brain is twirling in confusion, alternately euphoric at being saturated with freedom and morose at the prospect of losing it.

I feel like I've stopped breathing. For the past few months, with no income, my sense of accomplishment at finally finishing the Ph.D. is slowly seeping away. I'm deflating, a belch here, a hiss there. Nothing is coming in to replace what is trickling away. I say to myself, I'm living on air, and it feels true. Stored up air. Air from last year, when I still had a job. Musty stale air, sluggishly metallic as it seeps out of my checking account lungs.

Over the weekend I applied to three jobs: instructional designer, student adviser, and online professor at an unreasonably snobby for-profit university. In a few weeks I'll receive three politely terse emails (if I'm lucky) stating that my qualifications were not a match for the position.

I also recently published the Hellish Handbasket ebook, Welcome to Dissertation Hell. So far there have been 27 sample downloads. That's cool. But no sales. That's not so cool. That indicates to me that people are reviewing it and not finding a compelling reason to buy. Why does that sound familiar? Everything I've done: close, but no cigar. A-minus: Magna not summa. Vinyl, not leather. Just a few pounds away from thin. Just a little too angry, a tad too bitter.

I know if I just hold out and keep taking action, sooner or later, I'll begin to inhale again, and my blues will brighten. In the meantime, I hoard my stale dirty air.

Uh-oh. Can I get the cat back into the bag?

I would like to shout out a big welcome to the newest Hellish Handbasket reader: my mother. Yep. You heard right. My scrawny almost-85-year-old Wild-West mother is back online and tearing up the broadest band she's ever had. Speedy doesn't begin to describe her presence on the Internet. With one breath she's complaining that she can't remember how to use her computer. With the next breath, she's leaving snide comments on Facebook and forwarding chain emails to her entire contact list. Way to go, Mom.

A few nights ago, my mother and I were talking on the phone. I don't remember who called who, but as she is wont to do, she asked me what I've been working on. My first thought was to change the subject. My second thought was to lie. But sadly, I don't lie well, especially to my mother, so I took a deep breath and told her about the Hellish Handbasket ebook, which I had just published.

“Oh, what is it about?” she asked.

“It's called 'Welcome to Dissertation Hell,' and it is a collection of selected posts from my blog,” I replied.

“Oh. You know, I don't think I've ever seen your blog,” she said.

“You've been offline for a while,” I said, trying to steer her away to a different topic.

“Where is your blog?”

Suddenly, in a nanosecond, my future life as a demented person who wears her underwear on the outside of her clothes in public, on Trimet, passed before my eyes. Dirty red underbelly alert! Alert! Not... happening. My brain worked feverishly as I considered and discarded 50 lame reasons why I shouldn't give her the URL to my blog. In the end, I came up with zip. Zilch. There was no good reason to exclude my curious mother from reading my anonymous blog. The thought of telling her she couldn't read it felt worse than the thought of her reading it. Still, I made a half-hearted attempt to dissuade her.

“You know I blog anonymously, right? That means you can't tell your condo friends, 'My daughter has a blog.'”

“OK.”

“And you know I write about personal things, right? So you can't be offended.”

“OK.”

So, I sent her the URL to this blog in an email, hoping she would accidentally delete it or corrupt it or something. Well, I can hope, can't I? No such luck.

The next day she called.

“Hello, Mudder,” I answered, as I always do when I hear her voice blasting through the phone.

“You sound like you are the most frustrated person who ever existed!” she shouted. Oh Lord Kumbaya. She read my blog.

“Ma, relax, it's therapy for me,” I tried to explain.

“You are frustrated!” she accused.

“OK, I'm frustrated!” I agreed. “But it's also an exciting time in my life! It's not bad! It's good!”

There was a moment of silence while we both pondered our next move. In used car sales transactions, the person who speaks first loses. So I took a breath and waited.

“Your younger brother tripped over the cat and fell down the stairs,” she said. Whew. Won that round. The equivalent of a 1968 Dodge Dart, I guess. That is to say, not a huge win.

So now I'm outed to my mother, which may possibly be worse than being outed to the entire world, because only mothers can press all the buttons that put us into that special orbit we experience as frustration. I'm not worried she'll reveal my identity... it's out there in the ebook. And who cares if a few silver-haired old ladies know who The Chronic Malcontent is? Not me.

My fear is that knowing my mother is possibly going to read this blog will cause me to censor my words. I don't want to hurt anyone's feelings, certainly not hers. I don't think I've said anything too derogatory toward her, have I? Besides calling her scrawny. Which I'm sure she would agree with; anyone can see the woman is a stick.

Well, no use fretting over the wreckage of the future. The cat is on my lap, but he would fight to the death to avoid going into any bag, so it looks like I'm going to have to let this one go. I surrender, Mom. Welcome to my blog.