Poverty is not a moral failing

As I nodded off on the bus today on my way across town, I remembered that 40 years ago, I took Portland buses everywhere. Long before the MAX light rail system was a gleam in the eye of some progressive Portland mayor, sweltering or soaking wet with rain, I lugged my blank canvases and tackle box of paint and brushes to Portland State and back to the east side on huge, loud, orange buses and thought nothing of it. I had no intention of getting a car. I didn't need one. Lots of people live perfectly normal, fulfilled lives without cars. My sister, in Boston, for example. Bravadita, in Gladstone. Of course, it's easier when one has the energy, stamina, and naivete of an 18-year-old.

I made one last effort to resuscitate my Ford Focus (mechanic in a can, poured into the radiator, by my mechanic, Mr. What Have You Got to Lose). It didn't work, despite a money-back guarantee. I presume Ping will get his money back. I also presume I will not. It was worth it, though, to know finally, once and for all, that the patient was truly, irrevocably dead.

“Dead!” my older brother protested when I called him to ask his advice about cars. “Head gasket is fixable,” he said, making it sound like it was as easy as topping off the oil or something. “You just need to do a long block rebuild.”

I'm not entirely sure what a long block rebuild is, but the word rebuild implies this activity is outside my expertise. Not that I couldn't learn how to do a long block rebuild... grrl power and all that. But seriously. Not going to happen, not with these old tired gnarled-knuckle hands. Not with this old tired leave-me-alone-so-I-can-die-in-peace brain.

Ping said drive the car around a bit, to see if maybe the stopleak crap would circulate in the system and do what it was supposed to do. No such luck. The car ran fine on the way to the store. I thought, oh, joy, maybe I can get a few more months out of the old buggy. Part way home, the temperature gauge soared dramatically into the red, and the engine began to wheeze. I flogged it up the hill toward home, thinking, yeah, okay, no problem, I could walk from here, no problem. Sweating, I pulled into my parking spot (nose out to make it easier for the tow truck to cart it off to its next incarnation), shut off the engine, and sat back in the seat. Good-bye, old used up Ford Focus. Not quite Found on Road Dead, thank god, but not First on Race Day, either. To tell you the truth, I never expected the thing to last this long. It's totally possible that when I go out tomorrow to catch the bus, all that will be left of the carcass is a pile of dust.

Hey, bright side: Now I can pretend I gave up my car to support the environment. I admit, over the years, I have had twinges of guilt about (a) burning fossil fuel, (b) polluting the air, and (c) dripping oil and coolant wherever I go. Yech, you say? Well, you can only say yech if you walk, ride a bike, own a bus pass, or your car is electric. Which leaves out about 93% of the adult population of Portland. Otherwise, pot, kettle, shut it, if you get my drift.

When I lived in Los Angeles, many years ago, I used to loftily claim I chose not to drive a car because I was doing my share to save the environment. (That was 1980, before global warming was a thing we worried about. Back then, it was the ozone layer and acid rain.) The reality, of course, was that I said that because I couldn't afford a car but I didn't want to admit it. The moment I could, I got a wheezing, gas-guzzling pollute-mobile (1966 Dodge Dart) and drove it till it dropped (which is apparently my pattern... I can't think of any car I've ever owned that I haven't completely used up. Well, maybe the 1974 Toyota Corolla wagon, which was still hobbling gamely on three cylinders when I sold it).

I told my mother I was considering going carless for the summer. She didn't sound impressed. In her defense, she's still coping with the impending prospect of packing up and moving into a retirement community. She's like a freshman during the last week of summer, scared of all the big kids at the big new high school. Where's my home room? How will I make friends? What if I get lost? Can I bring my eldest daughter with me so I won't be alone?

I told my younger brother about going carless; he was appalled. “How can you go without a car?” he exclaimed.

“People live without cars all the time,” I said. “Your other sister lives without a car. She's never had a car. It's not a moral failing, it's a choice.”

“You can borrow my [old Ford] pickup truck any time during the week” he said magnanimously. Or is it a Chevy? Something old and American-made, uh, no thanks.

“Thanks,” I said. “I'll keep that in mind.”

Last rites for my four-wheeled friend

I'm sad to report, the Focus is dead. Long live the dusty, dirty, moss-covered, drippy, leaking Focus. On Saturday I flogged the old buggy up the hill in 85° weather, watching the temperature gauge jerk toward hot. We were mere blocks from home when the needle sprung decisively into the red. I sat at a light in a line of traffic, listening to the engine wheeze, praying maniacally and laughing, thinking, if this thing dies here, how will I push it out of traffic? After an eternity, traffic moved. The engine light came on (Danger, Will Robinson! Danger!) The clutch slipped, but I got it going up the last hill. As I parked, I could hear the water bubbling in the coolant reservoir. (Stand back, she's gonna blow!) I backed into my parking space and shut off the engine, fully aware that the next time the car moves, it will be behind a tow truck. Found on Road Dead. What's left of the coolant (or maybe it was the oil) was still burbling as I slunk into my house.

The car gave me good service, considering it's a Ford. But I admit to feeling a bit cheated at getting only 119,000 miles out of it. (Well, I only got 59,000 miles if you consider I bought it used with 60,000 miles on it already). I hear lately the lifespan of a car engine is trending toward 200,000 miles. I guess my old 2001 Focus missed the memo. Sort of like me missing the 60s... darn it. I wanted free love and flower power, but all I got was Peter Max peechees, hot pants, and disco.

As part of my grieving process (denial stage), I've been viewing YouTube videos entitled How to know if you have a cracked block. Cracked block? Blocked crack? Wha–? What is a block, anyway? I think it's part of the engine. Or it could be my head. I'm so confused. It's 90° today, too hot to fret over anything, let alone a broken-down car, and stress is stirring up the vertigo in my middle ear. Sigh. (All these things indicate I'm alive; I should be grateful to have such luxury problems, right?) Anyway, I feel mildly compelled to yank the plug on my oil pan and see if water comes out after the oil has drained away. (Definitely a bad sign). Part of me hopes that my mechanic was wrong and that all I really need is a new, properly pressurized radiator overflow container. Clearly I've been spending too much time on the Internet.

Grasping at straws is futile, I know. I need to get another car. But how does one go car shopping if one doesn't have a car? Lucky me, I happen to live a few blocks from “used car row,” also known as 82nd Boulevard. Despite efforts to beautify, the stretch of boulevard I live near has long hosted a number of seedy car dealerships, along with some derelict motels, unmemorable Chinese food places, and the occasional stray hooker. I'm not so interested in the motels, chow mein, or hookers, but I'm feeling fortunate that I have so many options for buying a used car, just blocks from the Love Shack.

In preparation for shopping, I've been reading online reviews of used car dealers.

• Best dealer ever! ★★★★★
• Worst dealer ever! ★
• Got the greatest deal, so happy! ★★★★★
• Don't go here, you'll be throwing your money away! ★
• Treated like royalty! ★★★★★
• Gave us the bait and switch and didn't care the battery died on the way home!★

What the heck? Can any of these reviews be trusted? I guess I would tend to believe the irate reviewers, if for no other reason than because we all know that if something goes right, we rarely take time to tell the world, but if something goes wrong, we feel righteously obligated to exact revenge by telling the entire world in excruciating detail just how Tony done us wrong.

If you live in a city, you can't escape the fact that the world seems to be full of used cars, jamming freeways and hogging neighborhood streets, polluting the landscape and clogging the air. Every size, shape, make, model, color... so many vehicles! Where did they all come from? Who cares! What matters is, how come everyone seems to have one but me?

Do you drive? How would you choose a car? First, you have to decide, new or used? Macy's or Goodwill? Fresh new undies straight from the package... or someone else's faded gray bloomers? I try to imagine what it would feel like to buy a new car. (I've never done it). Is it like first-time sex? Well, I guess it would feel like this: Prestige, respect, handshakes and promises, double-digit odometer readings, new car smell, posh waiting rooms and free lattes, energetic salespeople in khakis and ties, sweet courtship, and then pow! skittish interest rates, sneaky financing, exorbitant monthly payments, bankruptcy, divorce, repo.... gak! That sound was me upchucking.

My father never bought a new car. He always bought used, usually from one particular local dealer who still has a small lot on 82nd and SE Stark. We all know Dad got swindled multiple times; it's the stuff of legend. Dad would come home with a new car every year or so. We kids used to be able to name the list of cars: '58 DeSoto, '64 Oldsmobile Delta 88, '60 turquoise blue Caddy, sporty little dark green '74 Malibu... now I can only remember a few, the ones I learned to drive on. In my mind, the cars blend together in a photo album of brandless, leaky, beat up American cars. (No Datsuns or Toyotas for Dad). The stories of breakdowns on Marine Drive or the AlCan Highway are legendary, part of the dusty memories of my childhood, comical gems that glow like dust motes in my mental attic now that he's dead and can't set me straight on the details. The used car lot where he was swindled lives on. I'll probably check it out, just for old time's sake.

The chronic malcontent suffers from a vestibular disturbance

I had to get out of the Love Shack for a while today. Three reasons: The morning clouds dissipated around noon, good time to go out for a sunshine fix. Second, my own personal ocean in my inner ears (vertigo) was relatively calm. I knew it wouldn't last long, no matter how still and level I tried to keep my head. And third, the boots pounding on the roof were too much to bear. Yep, that's right. Today the Love Shack is getting a new roof.

I don't own the Love Shack, in case you were wondering if I had anything to do with it. I've never seen the roof. It's flat, that's all I know. I can only imagine on a wet day it's a sloggy mess of mushy holly berries, never-decaying holly leaves, maple tree whirly seeds, raccoon nests, and bird poop. On a dry day, it's a dusty toxic mix of all that stuff. I feel sad for the three Spanish-speaking men who have been marching around on the roof ripping stuff apart since 8:45 this morning.

My cat is not amused. He spent the morning hunkered under the couch with a concerned look on his face, probably wondering who won't stop pounding at the door. I've been trying to write. Between the pounding, hammering, scraping, and tearing, and the intermittent growl of the compressor parked at the bottom of my back steps, I was somewhat distracted. My head was starting to vibrate, not a good sign. So I abandoned my cat and my writing project to go for a trot in Mt Tabor Park.

On Wednesdays no cars are allowed. The roads are safe for bicyclists, joggers, and dog walkers. The air today was lush with spring. Spring is a special time in Portland. The leaves are a billion shades of green (and purple in some cases, what are those weird trees, anyway?). The smell of newly whacked grass wafted along the trails, cut by... let's call them workers from the county sheriffs office, brought by van to do community service in the park. I can think of worse ways to do penance for one's misdeeds.

Oddly enough, while I was jogging, my head felt fine. It was only after I stopped moving that the waves of vertigo swept through my head. The lesson is, don't stop moving, I guess. But sooner or later, I get tired (sooner, usually), and I must stop. As I'm typing this, the vestibular ocean in my inner ears rises up and falls back, shaking me like a toyboat. I'm ignoring it.

As I walked up the street toward the park, I realized the roofer has roofed three houses in this one block in two days. I guess the mantra this week is make roofs while the sun shines. These guys are efficient: plan, approach, and execution in a matter of hours. I met the roofer (a non-Hispanic White guy) when he knocked on my door asking for access to the basement so he could plug in his infernal compressor. Beyond that one interaction, I haven't seen him. I imagine he's supervising a dozen other roofs in the neighborhood.

These guys aren't super big, but they wield aluminum ladders like swords and then climb up them like ninja warriors. I doubt if these roofers suffer from vertigo. Dehydration, maybe, but not vertigo. My new theory about inner ears is that my ear crystals are clumped somewhere in the vicinity of the ear equivalent of my toes into boulders that sluggishly crash into all the nerve endings in their path. In other words, ear sludge is creating a slow-motion train wreck in my head. That is why the Epley Maneuver is only partially successful. I fear I'm too impatient, advancing through the moves before gravity can budge the sludge. Either that or I'm doing it wrong. Or I have a brain tumor. Whatever.

A ladder has now appeared outside my front window, followed by heavy pounding. Three guys sure can make a lot of noise. I just plugged my mp3 headphones in my ears: Psychedelic Furs. I sail away on my cerebral sea while my cat stoically endures.

The chronic malcontent leans in... and out

As I shake the cat hair and fingernail clippings out of my keyboard, I reflect on the possibility that sometimes vertigo is just vertigo. It doesn't have to be metaphor for anything else in my life. Right? Like, oh, I don't know...balance, maybe?

Yesterday in a fit of frustration, I put on my jogging duds and staggered up the main staircase to the top of Mt. Tabor. From the summit, I trotted down and around the road, marveling at how level-headed I felt but on the lookout in case the ground suddenly turned into an asphalt trampoline. The sun was warm. The park was crowded with Sunday pedestrians, bicyclists, skateboarders, and dogs. I felt happy to be outside, trudging my trails at half-speed while joggers blazed by me on both sides. Balance, I thought smugly. Take that.

A half hour after I got home, wham, the floor suddenly became jello and I was back on the open seas in a tiny boat. Ho hum, said I. I am quite familiar with the nuances of fluid in my head now. I picture my brain awash in a viscous murky muddy sea, but I know that isn't what is really happening. Dinky little ear rocks are meandering around, sightseeing where they shouldn't be, shredding my balance and creating the loudest, most cringe-inducing silent roar I've ever not heard.

I'm becoming a quasi-expert on performing the Epley on myself. Not expert yet, because if I were an expert, I would have effected my own cure, right? No, I'm still practicing. I love YouTube—every ENT in the world has posted a demonstration of how to do the Epley. It's great. They all do it differently, too, which is somewhat perplexing for the novice, but hey, I'm all for creativity, as long as it doesn't break my neck. So far my neck is still intact, although it is somewhat stiff from trying to hold my head level all the time. (No, I don't think it is meningitis, but thanks for asking).

What is the Epley, you ask? It's a maneuver you can perform to make use of gravity to get the ear rocks to float back along the tube into the hole. Yeah, I know those aren't the technical terms, but hey, I'm not an ENT. You can look up the anatomical terms if you really care. Rocks, tube, hole, that's all you really need to know. It's a bit like miniature putt-putt golf, but inside your inner ear, where it's dark so you have to maneuver by feel. Like, how close to barfing am I right now, scale of 1 to 10?

Actually, I haven't barfed yet, I am proud to say. I know pride goeth, etc. etc., but I'm hopeful that as long as I have to put up with this vertigo crap, that it will remain the subjective type rather than morph into the objective type. Subjective vertigo is where I feel like I'm moving. Objective vertigo is where the world seems like it is spinning around me. Like how you feel when the Roundup starts twirling and you realize you've made a terrible mistake by eating your corndog before the ride rather than after.

The Epley is like a slow motion head waggle followed by a half-pirouette, performed horizontally. You can't picture it? Well, like I said, there are multiple methods to execute an Epley, but the one I am finding easiest goes like this: (while lying on your back with your head hanging over a pillow), BAD side head back and hold 60 seconds, then GOOD side head back and hold 60 seconds, then roll on the good shoulder, look down, and SPIT. Hold until the boat stops rocking or you are thoroughly disgusted.

Well, actually the spitting part is optional, I just added that because usually I've found that I'm not miraculously cured when I roll over and that makes me so angry I feel like I could spit. But at that point, my nose is all but buried in my lime green shag rug and I'm thinking as I'm counting the seconds in my head: ants, cat barf, dust mites. I feel obligated to refrain from adding my spit to the mix, mostly because who knows what will rush in if I open my mouth. Besides, according to my older brother, when I was about five, I proclaimed in my sleep, if you turn over and spit, you'll die, and even though that was 50-some years ago, I'm not willing to press my luck.

The thing about the Epley is this: It's not an instantaneous cure. It takes time for the ear rocks to settle in properly, and some of them still seem inclined to go gallivanting. So if you are going to try this at home, you may have to do it more than once. I also read that you should sleep sitting up for two nights afterward, but I haven't been able to accomplish that feat. Maybe that is why I'm still whining about vertigo. Well, hell. If it wasn't this, it would be something else. Like, ants on my desk? WTF!?

Slow boat to hell

Last week my family came together to talk about Mom. Mom was there, in case you were wondering. It's not like the kids met in a secret cabal to decide what cliff to throw her over. No, we are good kids, now that we are old and tired. We weren't when we were younger, though. We made her life a living hell. I guess it's payback time. All those years of not cleaning our rooms. All those years of biting, kicking, and punching each other. All those years of ignoring Mom yelling at us. Maybe we collectively recognize our cosmic just desserts are about to smack us in the face.

I say we, but really it's more like me. My sister has escaped back to Boston. My older brother has retreated back to the sleepy beach town on the coast. That leaves me and my little brother, and he's got a full-time job, ten cats, three dogs, a rabbit, a dilapidated house, and a wife. Eldest daughter, self-employed, no kids, close proximity to Mom...I leave it to you to connect the dots.

Mom sat on her beige flowered couch next to my sister. My brothers and I sat in the three battered old armchairs that my parents carried from living room to living room over many years. I noticed, not for the first time, how Mom's noisily patterned couch clashed with her Home Depot oriental rug. I blame myself: I helped her choose that rug.

I self-consciously handed around the one-page spreadsheet I had prepared for the discussion and explained my rating system. Before I could start my lecture, my scrawny mother commandeered the floor.

“I hope everyone understands if I want to give Carol a little something to compensate her for being my caregiver,” my mother said to the group. Oh boy. Despite my self-admonition to remain calm, my heart rate increased slightly. A little something could be $1,000. On the other hand, it could be $20 for gas. It's always money, though. It's never a banana cream cake or a slice of tiramisu. Or a trip to the Bahamas. Or enough money to actually make a difference.

I was embarrassed. She could tell. “No, I just mean, you have done so much work!”

“My sister came all the way across the country to help you sort and pack up stuff,” I reminded her, trying to get the focus off me.

“Well, as my designated care-giver, the burden has mostly fallen on you,” she said. “That is why I want to give you something extra.”

Knowing that my sister plans on killing herself when she runs out of money in eight years, I said, “Can we talk about you, Mom? This family meeting is to support you in your decision to move.”

“Okay, okay,” she grumbled. The conversation turned back to evaluating the five retirement communities she and I had toured. My brothers asked rationale questions. We all agreed Mom and I would see a financial planner to talk about the relative advantages of selling or renting her condo. Then we ate Chinese food. My brother left to drive back to the coast. My younger brother went home to his zoo. Mom, my sister, and I sat in a row on the couch and watched a DVD of Singing in the Rain. Then I went home and collapsed.

I'm beginning to see my ongoing vertigo as a metaphor for my out-of-balance life. The vertigo started about the same time Mom made her choice of retirement community. She had told me, even before we all met, which place suited her best. In our family discussion, we all agreed she chose the best deal, but she'd already made up her mind. She chose the least expensive option, which oddly was the one that had the best food. She also chose the one that would allow her to rent a second bedroom in preparation for the time when she might need a live-in caregiver. (All eyes can now swivel toward me.)

The mere possibility that I might choose to give up my sacred sanctuary, AKA The Love Shack, to move in with my scrawny maternal parental unit has been percolating in my brain since she made her choice. Nothing has happened yet, nothing is different, but I think some part of my psyche recognized that the metaphysical rug is quite possibly about to be pulled out from under my feet. Hence, vertigo.

Of course, it could just be I'm more likely to get vertigo because I'm female and in my late 50s. It could have nothing to do with emotional stress and fear of the future. It could have nothing to do with the prospect of leaving my nest to orbit my mother and watch her die. I mean, how can you know if your emotions are killing you? I think we know in general stress has physical consequences, but how do you know that your stress is killing you? Could it just be random chance? Of course it could.

Life is constantly killing us. That's not random chance, that is 100% guaranteed certainty.

The perils of cleaning

Our scrawny maternal parental unit is preparing to move into a retirement place. More on that another time. Earlier today I was sitting in a stuffed armchair in my mother's spare bedroom, riffling through a shoe box of used postcards my mother had saved over the years. Some were from me to my parents, written years ago, sent, and forgotten. It now appears my mother kept everything her children ever gave her, from kindergarten to adulthood. I read the postcards while attempting to keep my head motionless, trying not to rile the evil calcium carbonate crystals roaming like marauders through my inner ear. No easy feat. Suddenly, I heard my sister scream from the kitchen.

“What?” my mother called from the other bedroom. Spider, probably, I thought. I waited. My sister shouted again. Curious now, I got up to check out the ruckus. I found my sister in the living room, pointing at the pantry cupboard in the corner of the kitchen and doing a funny little dance.

“A mouse! A huge mouse!” she gasped. Ah. That explained the dance.

My mother was digging around in a big plastic bag that my sister had dropped on the kitchen floor. Apparently the mouse came out of the bag. I looked gingerly into the pantry cupboard. The dark, dusty floor at the back of the pantry looked like a place a scared mouse might be hiding. My mother kept digging in the plastic bag.

“Do you have a broom and a paper sack?” I asked, shouldering my mother aside. I began unloading a dozen cartons of rice milk from the bottom of the pantry cupboard, keeping an eye out for a large mouse.

My sister handed me a broom and dustpan with surgical precision.

“Can you block the doorway with something?” I asked. My sister quickly assembled a stack of boxes and lids. Wow, I thought. She's good.

It took a minute to move all the rice milk cartons onto the counter. My plan was to offer the mouse a nice cozy place to hide in the paper sack, hopefully with minimal coaxing from the broom. Then I could take the mouse outside and set it free near someone else's condo. I poked behind the old wooden box that had held the rice milk and saw something scuttle into a corner.

“Oh for crying out loud. It's tiny!” I said. Hovering anxiously in the hallway behind her barricade, my sister looked slightly chagrined. While I was standing there chuckling and feeling superior I noticed a stream of ants marching along the edge of one pantry shelf. What the—? Oh no!

Mouse first, then ants. I moved the box out of the way and raised the broom. The mouse ran past my shoe, around the corner of the pantry, and disappeared under the dishwasher. I straightened up.

“He's gone,” I said.

“Back to his family in the crawl space,” my mother muttered darkly.

“Did you know you have an ant problem?” I asked her.

“What?” She didn't sound particularly outraged. About either the ants or the mouse, now that I think about it. What's up with that?

From out of nowhere, Mom produced a spray bottle of insect poison and started spraying it randomly on the various boxes of crackers, cans of soup, and open cookie bags that were stuffed on the pantry shelves.

“What the hell!” I shouted and grabbed her arm. “Are you crazy? Good god, woman, that's your food!”

My mother retreated in a hurry, and I got down to the self-righteous business of clearing everything out of the pantry cupboard. My sister appeared from time to time with cardboard boxes to corral the stuff I pulled from the shelves. Among the items: half-used bags of brown sugar, two bags of loose generic puffed rice cereal, a bag of dusty granola, beat up box of stale graham crackers, half a can of baking powder, unopened jar of Tang (the astronaut's breakfast), and three bottles of corn syrup of various flavors and vintages. Three cans of chunky soup, four cans of tuna, a can of pears in syrup, and a can of water chestnuts. Unopened bag of white flour, unopened box of white sugar. Plus one can of pickled beets.

My sister loaded the boxes of stuff out to the patio, where she and Mom sorted, saved, and tossed. Meanwhile I washed down the shelves with some kind of cleaner, standing on a chair to reach the topmost shelf. I dried the shelves with a paper towel, and then I sprayed all the surfaces with the ant killer and shut the pantry door to let it steep.

We adjourned to the patio for a few minutes to regroup. Mom praised us. I apologized. My sister laughed. Some time later, when the pantry was dry, I laid down newspaper liners and loaded back the stuff they deemed worth saving, which took up about half the space it did before. Mom retired for a nap. My sister and I went out for coffee.

We didn't see the mouse again.

Let's make like squirrels and get flattened

Today the maternal parental unit and I went on our fifth and likely final tour of our local retirement community options. I prepared myself with a banana and a quick Epley maneuver on the floor of my apartment. (I'm getting good at it, after almost three weeks of incessant vertigo. Who knew life would come down to managing the rocking boat in my brain?)

Mom told me she was pretty sure she wouldn't be choosing this place (she didn't say why), but it was the last place on our list, and we aren't quitters. So off we went in unsettled spring weather to search out a parking place and meet the marketing director.

Nicole, a tall young brunette in a knit pantsuit and flat shoes ushered us into an office off the main foyer. First, she gave us the marketing collateral: a folder containing floor plans, pricing, amenities, map of the campus, activities calendar. Typical stuff. I zeroed in on the prices. A one-bedroom ran just over $2,500 a month. No big surprise. Meal credit of $150 per month. Jacuzzi, pool, hair salon, bank, computer room, chapel, weight room... typical stuff. Ho hum.

We sat at the requisite round conference table. “Do you have any questions?” Nicole asked my mother.

“What if I got a two-bedroom and had my daughter live with me?” Mom asked, gesturing in my direction. My heart fluttered a bit.

“We'd have to make an exception if she's under 55.”

I wasn't sure whether to feel flattered that Nicole thought I was under 55, or anxious that it was permissible that I could move into a retirement community, or terrified that my mother was actually considering having me move in with her. Somewhere along the way, something apparently has shifted in my mother's mind. I took a deep breath and tried to imagine living in a retirement community with my mother.

“A two-bedroom is $3,000 a month,” I ventured.

“Yeah, but we would split it,” said Mom.

“That's out of my league, Mom,” I said, laughing a little. Thinking to myself, we've now left earth. Approaching Planet Marjorie, galactic home of magical thinking. Normal rules do not apply.

“I just have one unit open to show you,” said Nicole, standing up. I think she realized then that we were looky-loos. “It's a deluxe one-bedroom apartment.”

“Do any of the one-bedrooms have bathtubs?” asked my mother.

“No, only the two bedrooms,” replied Nicole. That's when I realized, my mother doesn't want me, she wants the tub. Getting a two-bedroom and a roommate (caregiver) is the only way she'll get her coveted bathtub. The pieces clicked into place.

We took the tour, saw the one bedroom (spacious, airy, open, lots of storage). However, now that I've seen five places, I have developed some expectations. This place we toured today met most, exceeded a few (great location and village atmosphere), and fell short in one, namely, Nicole, after graciously explaining the options and showing us one apartment, failed to offer us a free lunch in the dining room. Mom and I were both surprised, but we decided to stay and pay for our own lunches, just to find out the quality of the food. Their dining room is open to the public, like a restaurant. We took a four-top near some other diners, clearly residents. A young Asian kid in a white shirt and tight black pants served us black coffee, and then we waited patiently for our server to take our order.

Mom looked perky in a red fleece jacket. She took off her white knit cap and multicolored knit gloves to eat. Don't get the wrong impression. Ladies in the 1940s, maybe even into the 50s, used to wear hats and gloves to lunch with friends at Yaws and Meier and Frank's tea room. My grandmother, maybe, but not my mother. She's not a tea room kind of gal.

I ate a cheese sandwich. She had a half a turkey sandwich and took a piece of cherry cobbler home with her in a bag. As we ate, I managed my vertigo and watched my mother eat her fruit with a knife and fork, thinking, I don't know anymore what kind of gal my mother is. She doesn't look like the mother I grew up with. This person is much smaller and thinner. Even her face looks different since the new teeth. She now has an endearing overbite. Actually, with her knit cap covering her wiry gray hair, she looks like a wrinkled 12-year-old with dentures. She's an adolescent who loses emails, phones, and car keys, an adolescent who assertively wrangles her old green Camry around corners even though she can barely reach the pedals.

She's upset that she's forgetting stuff and losing things. My mother, saddled early on with four kids and a domestically helpless husband, learned to be a master organizer. She managed all the schedules, made the lunches, albeit scowling resentfully, but the trains ran on time at our house. What I am saying is, her standards are high. You can imagine how she feels when she fails to meet her unreasonable standard now she's almost 86. She is scared. Her world is unraveling.

Old age is like riding a roller coaster in the dark (think Space Mountain). You can't get off. You can't see the track as it plunges into the abyss until you are screaming and falling. You are definitely not in control. You are along for the ride, hanging on for dear life, hoping that when the thing stops, they can pry your cold dead hands off the omigod bar. You don't get a do-over, and you can't go back even one inch, the only way out is forward full speed ahead. It does no good to drag your feet. All that means is you are a bystander as your life passes you by.

When we got back to her condo, I cleaned up Mom's cluttered computer desktop at her request, and explained that if she trashes an email, it's gone forever. She handed me the stack of marketing folders from all the places we've toured. “You won't lose them. I will,” she said. “Oh, and take this stuff with you, too.” She's jettisoning the extra clutter in her life. Her life is shrinking along with her spine. Meanwhile, the piles of clutter at my place continue to grow, a problem for another day.

As I drove away in the rain, a squirrel ran across the street in front of my car, straight under the wheels of the car coming toward me. Bam. It happened fast. I looked back in the mirror: the little body was in the street, not moving. The other driver had no idea he just crunched a squirrel. For a brief moment I imagined going back. What could I do for an injured or dead squirrel? The heavens opened up in a massive downpour. I kept going and finally made it back to the Love Shack. Fifteen minutes later, the sun came out.

I'm back... in the land of the upright, that is

Maybe my throbbing right inner ear knew that I meant business when I made a doctor's appointment. Maybe my ear decided to cooperate, knowing the gig was up. Whatever the reason, today I am gently swaying rather than violently swirling. That is a good thing. What am I talking about? Vertigo, baby. The silent dismemberer of intentions, the invisible destroyer of brain capacity, the soul-sucking energy vampire that overwhelms your brain with sneaky waves of fog and water. Ugh. It sounds horrible, doesn't it. It is horrible. I hear it's pretty common. I wonder how many people are laying on their kitchen floor tiles, puking into buckets, and hoping death will come for them soon.

Today, at last, the happy day of my doctor's appointment, and as all happy days do, this day dawned bright and clear. My main concern was that I should make it to the doctor's office without driving my car up on a curb or taking out someone's brand new Prius. My mother was supposed to be on standby to give me a ride if the ocean in my head turned stormy.

Luckily, I felt pretty okay, calm inner seas. I called my mother to notify her that her chauffeur services would not be required. She wasn't home. Later I found out she was out getting her hair cut.

I talk to myself a lot. Do you do that? For the past almost two weeks, I've been talking to my inner ear, berating it, begging it to behave, threatening to send it to the doctor. My ear, like all minor-league demi-gods, has responded by laughing. And then swamping my mental boat with 30-foot waves.

I know I'm giving free-agent characteristics to my inner ear, but I've spent so much time talking to it, I'm fairly sure it now has a rudimentary intelligence. If I listen very closely, I can hear it muttering something. Sounds like redrum, redrum. No, I'm kidding. It doesn't say that. I am officially hard of hearing in my right ear, according to the doctor's tuning fork. (I haven't seen a tuning fork since grade school. How cool are tuning forks?) If my ear said anything, I didn't hear it.

The doctor directed me to pinch my nose shut and blow, ten times a day. Apparently, I have a case of airplane ear, my sister says, who is the expert on world travel by plane. Who knew there was a name for that icky pressurized pain? As a special bonus gift from the universe, I also have chronic ear crackling, kind of a soapsuds-in-your-ear sound, which I can hear just fine, oddly enough, considering I'm almost deaf in that ear. I've had that for over a year.

“And you didn't see anybody for it?” the doctor asked, gazing at me quizzically. Subtext: WTF?

“No, I thought I would handle it the way my father handled his physical ailments: by eating 10 maple bars and doing bicep curls with 20-pound dumbbells.”

“And how well did that work out for him?”

“Not so good. He died from a heart problem he could have had fixed.”

I didn't really say that. I thought it, though. I did tell her that my father's cure for everything was to lift weights. She didn't look impressed. No doubt she could tell that I wasn't really following that regimen very closely. She prescribed an antihistamine. Take it for a month, she said. And she wrote a referral to an ENT specialist. I left feeling no less dizzy, but for some reason, much, much better.

I managed to glide through the grocery store, hanging onto the cart like an old lady with a walker, before going home and crashing into bed. In about 30 seconds, the tsunami flooded my brain. The elevator floor fell out, and down I went, going with the flow. Bring it on, I moaned. I waggled my head this way and that, trying the Epley Maneuver in a last ditch effort to wrest control back from my evil inner ear. Let 'er rip, I groaned. Do your worst. I waited until the waves receded to a gentle rocking. Then I went to sleep for two hours.

When I woke up, the fog was lifted. The waves had calmed. The mental boat is still gently rocking while I write this, but now I seem to have found my sea legs. I don't know what happened. Timing, probably. The evil little calcium crystals in my inner ear probably finally dissolved, or moved, or settled down, or whatever the hell they do when they are behaving, and I'm returned to my full upright and locked position. I have no idea what happened today. Any mystery with a happy outcome seems like a miracle. I'm not complaining. Yesterday sucked, and tomorrow may be a repeat of yesterday, but today I won the battle for my equilibrium. Yay me.

Sail on, sailor

This just in: getting old sucks. Where do I start? Well, let's start with the reason I haven't blogged this week. I'm sailing rough seas in a tiny boat. I'm on an elevator that sometimes goes sideways. What am I talking about? I've got one word for you: vertigo.

That's right. My right ear is infected, somewhere deep in darkest Africa. Tiny calcium crystals have shaken loose from their moorings and they are wreaking havoc among the delicate and sensitive and completely blameless little hairs and nerve endings that tell my brain that we are upright in a crazy world. I'm swaying, I'm staggering, I'm flailing from doorpost to chair back. This is a righteous drag. Although, looking on the bright side, I haven't puked yet.

I'm not going to write much today, because sitting at the keyboard makes it worse. Who knew typing was such a balancing act? Tiny motions, little movements of my head, my hands, and I'm swirling again. I can't find my place in time and space. I can feel my blood, though, crashing in my head. It's loud in here. Once again I discover the truth: my mind is trying to kill me.

I have a doctor's appointment on Friday, if I can last that long. And I have a 55,000-word paper between me and freedom. I almost turned it down, but it will pay my rent. Beggars, choosers. This is a torture I never imagined, editing with vertigo. I'd cry, but I need to hold my head still.

I have so much to catch you up on: At the top of the list is the ongoing saga of finding my mother a place to live. My sister is coming to town in two weeks. The siblings are going to be together, all four us, to discuss the situation with Mom. My poor old scrawny mother will probably feel like it's an intervention. Luckily, she is still a free agent: it's her money, her life, her last years. I hope she goes out fighting. But not with me, I don't want to be the caregiver she gifts with a black eye. Just so we are clear.

Meanwhile, my car is still going, my cat is still operational, the weather alternates between awesome and abysmal (it's spring in Portland). Everything has a new uncertainty these days, when vertical is no longer something to be taken for granted. A symptom of old age, so I read. I'd like to see this experience as a sign of my increasing wisdom, but I'm pretty sure I peaked in my 40s. Downhill from here, folks, in a hellish hand-basket.

The chronic malcontent runs in circles

I ran the paths in Mt Tabor Park yesterday. Well, let's be honest: I trotted. First, I trotted around the big reservoir on 60th Avenue (0.56 miles, so we aren't talking marathon here). Facing west, I saw layers of gray clouds over the West Hills above Portland. The wind in my face was chilly, and I wished I had a hat with ear flaps. Must have been 63°. Brrrr, said the hothouse flower.

I turned the corner of the reservoir, heading north, and suddenly saw bright blue reflected in the water below where a murder of crows was lustily bathing. Lo, the clouds had parted in the east. Between a bank of fluffy white clouds rushing northward before the wind was a thin swathe of amazing turquoise sky. Brilliant, glowing, azure turquoise, beyond blue, definitely not the sky blue color in your crayon box. A brilliant glowing window into the universe.

The clouds rolled on and the blue sky disappeared. But I was happy as I panted and sweated, knowing that just a few thousand feet above my head, the entire sky was that mind-boggling blue.

Today, the clouds fled. Rain is due tomorrow, I think, but today was delicious. I went out in it as the sun was setting to soak up light and warmth, like a hothouse flower, like a horde of other Portlanders who bloom when the sun shines. Sunshine makes everything more tolerable. I even saw my neighbor to the south, whom I rarely see. The only way I know he is still alive is the growing collection of beer, wine, and tequila bottles in the yellow recycling bin. Which he often forgets to put out on collection day. I wonder why.

When I got back to the Love Shack, the living room was glowing with golden light. My cat lay in it, happily wrestling with his blue rug, glorying in the rays. Five minutes of light, and then it was gone. The sun sunk below the eave of the building across the street. The living room turned gray. The cat got up and left the room.

Going to the hardware store for bread

Events conspire to reinforce my belief that everything is going to hell in a stinky hand-basket. Planes. Mountains. Smithereens. Blown head gaskets. Dripping green stuff. Decrepit mothers. Rising rents. The cafe across the street that I've loved to complain about for the past year closed for good last week. Everywhere I look, I see the fabric of the world (or the world as I know it) falling apart. I know my perception is an illusion, a curious artifact of my puny hiccuping brain.

Here's the deal. If I look for trouble, I shouldn't be shocked or dismayed if find it. When I watch a TV show that is set in a hospital, I shouldn't be too surprised or grossed out if every scene is about someone puking up blood. Ditto a cop show about cops chasing bad guys, week after week, nothing but bad guys. When I watch the news, I should expect to see mostly tragedies, not because the world is mostly full of tragedies, but because most of what happens in the world is not newsworthy. Life happens. Move on.

Like a baby planet nucleus, I can make every bad thing about me. Me, the center of the universe. As if I have any control or influence on events that happen halfway across the globe. My sister arrived safely in Berlin. As I trotted along the paths in the park today, I thought to myself, whew, we dodged a bullet. But no, not true. Bullets are flying constantly. There's no dodging the bullets life continuously shoots at us. No, wait. Not at us, that's not true, either. Life isn't out to get us. Life shoots bullets at everything. Some bullets are called bee stings, some are called asteroids. Some miss, some hit something. Sooner or later, we all get hit.

We never hear stories about planes that don't crash, or cars that don't mow people down, or people who aren't bombing or being bombed. We don't hear about rivers that aren't flooding or cats that are peacefully sleeping on keyboards. We could write about that stuff. We could make shows about that stuff. Then what would we have? Something like My Dinner With Andre, maybe, something truer to life yet excruciatingly, mind-numbingly dull. Anybody who likes stories knows that there's no story without conflict. I mean, I could tell you about my terribly tedious boring yawn of a day, but where would be the fun in that, for you or for me?

My last editing project was a thesis about antitrust law in Saudi Arabia, the European Union, and the United States. Ninety pages of mediocre maundering on mergers, markets, price fixing, and dominant position... I kept waiting for the juicy stuff. Come on, kid, where are the corporations that broke antitrust law and were taken down by the Justice Department in a hail of badges and bullets? Where are the stories of the sad-sack CEOs who shed crocodile tears for the juries to avoid going to federal prison? Where are the stories about the consumers who lost their life savings to crooks and creeps and cretins in the crazy world of commerce? What about the hapless foreign businessmen who are rotting in Saudi jails for collusion?

Nope. Not there. Ninety pages of ho-hum, Bluebook legal citation style. Three days of yawn torture. $20.00 in my pocket in exchange for each hour of my life energy. Worth it? I don't know. What is my life energy worth? Try plugging a toaster into me. I'm pretty sure you will be disappointed. If you were expecting toast, that is.

And to prove we are all in the hellish hand-basket together, whats-his-name Malik pulled a Mike Nesmith and left One Direction. The wailing and suffering and angst made the 11:00 news last night. The new announcer read the story in a bemused voice to an audience that was possibly equally bemused. I know I was. Bemused. Perplexed. Confounded. There's no making sense of life, but I feel compelled to keep trying.

Tethered to the wreckage of the future

I should be editing right now, but my head hurts. When I start thinking I should do a find-and-replace to swap out every other word with shut up!, I know I need to take a break. Lately I've been obsessed with waffles. Now I know which carbs are waffle-friendly (hint: not coconut flour or rice flour, but kudos to oat flour). However, carbs are not Carol-friendly. It's confounding how fast pounds come back when I start eating carbs. I fear if I want to keep wearing the Levi's without the scoche more room, I'm doomed to a life bereft of bread. And pasta. Pancakes. Waffles....

The last paper I edited was a dreary treatise on the causes of terrorism in Palestine. In the last few paragraphs, the author made a half-hearted attempt to propose a solution, but you could tell it was whistling in the dark. I am beginning to understand why we don't want certain Middle Eastern parties to have nuclear weapons—it's pretty clear that if they had them, they would feel compelled by their god to use them.

That's kind of how I feel about carbs in the house: if carbs are there, I have to eat them. It's a compulsion, all right, although I doubt it comes from any god I would want to believe in.

I'm dreaming of carbs as the solution to what ails me because I can't face the excruciating reality of facing my fears. What fears? Well, thanks for asking. Here's the short list: Fear that my mother is disintegrating. Fear that I will lose her before I'm ready to let her go. Fear that she will outlast me and hog the parched bit of life I have left. And now I can add fear of getting fat to the list. Argh.

My sister politely scoffed at the idea of me moving in with our mother. Ah, she knows us too well. I can't stop remembering that day I brought my laptop over to Mom's and worked on a spreadsheet of her finances while she prepared and ate a piece of toast. By the time she was done eating that buttered blackened crunchy stinky thing, I was quite willing to throttle her. I am dreaming if I think we could coexist with one refrigerator. Or that I could pare down my already parched and puny life and cram it into one spare bedroom. It's not much, but it's all I got.

Days are numbered. Do you realize that? We learn that as we get older. It's a concept that can't be explained to young people.

Speaking of young people, I heard on OPB that the Millennials outnumber the Boomers. 100 million of those nasty little upstarts, compared to only about 75 million of us Boomers, and dying off daily. Oh, alas, alackaday. Boomers are no longer the center of the playground, no longer the heart and soul of rock 'n' roll. Even no longer the target market for wrinkle creams and liposuction. At some point, what is wrong with us Boomers can't be fixed or hidden. All we are good for is caring for old decrepit dried up parental husks. And keeping our Gen X children and Millennial grandchildren afloat (but I never had any of those, thank god.) Then we settle in our parents' retirement homes like old beat up worker bees. Some of us won't find a cell to call home and will have to flail around on the ground until someone takes pity on us and plucks our ragged wings. I can do that for my mother, but who will do that for me?

Oh, sorry, that's a little melodramatic. Speaking of beat up worker bees, there's a middle-aged bearded guy standing on a corner up by the gas station. He holds a sign that says Postal worker. Please help. I wonder what that is about? Does he need help because he is a quasi-government employee? Is it a veiled threat that he could go postal on my car at any time? I wonder what my sign would say, were I to write something with a marker on a dirty piece of cardboard. Yard sale here, probably.

Endings precede beginnings. Everything ends, but new things begin. I don't always see the potential in an ending because I'm caught up in trying to fix my past or control my future. I think coming to grips with my mother's mortality and with my mortality is a phase. Once it passes, I can get down to the business of living. Finally. If there's any time left.

Compelled by the obsession... or is it, obsessed by the compulsion?

I may have mentioned that I've been editing dissertations to earn money. Although I'm happy to be earning, I am fairly certain this isn't a long-term career gig for me. Editing uses up parts of my brain that have been rapidly deteriorating since menopause while leaving the creative parts of my brain to wither from lack of use. I managed to put three hours into formatting a paper about student retention in online college programs (ho-hum). Then I started going through a box of old mementos my mother gave me as she begins her downward spiral into a retirement community. After looking at photos of myself from elementary school, high school, and college, I felt a bit queasy. So I began my own downward spiral, which tonight consisted of cleaning my egg beater with a toothpick.

I don't see very well anymore, especially not up close, so I don't notice things like detritus on dishes and grimy goop on my egg beater. I admit, possibly I also don't care all that much about squalor at the Love Shack, but that is another topic. The other day, though, while I was beating the crap out of my morning eggs, I noticed little black flecks of... ucky stuff flying into the eggs. Just a couple, not a lot, looked like pepper, but I don't pepper my eggs, so WTF? I looked closer at the egg beater and realized all the grooves on the dang thing were black with grime. The only clean part was the part that went into the eggs.

Thoroughly grossed out and embarrassed (knowing that I would have to blog about this eventually), I set the egg beater into a container of water and dumped in some ammonia. I let it soak overnight. Tonight, when I'd had enough of formatting the 28th Word table of incomprehensible research data, I decided: It's time. I grabbed a small handful of toothpicks and set to work.

While I picked and poked at the crevices in the egg beater, I could hear my neighbors carrying on a conversation outside my open kitchen window. I couldn't see them, and they couldn't see me, but the acoustics in the back are perfect for eavesdropping. Susan and Pat live in the house directly behind the Love Shack. They are musicians. Or at least, Pat is. When the weather is good, I see him perched on his porch, strumming a guitar. He seems to be into a sort of folk rock fusion groove. I just made that up. I have no idea what kind of music he plays. He's got long hair and a beard, though, and he wears tight jeans, pointy black boots, and a black leather vest. Maybe you can figure it out.

Susan was talking with a male visitor about a plant in her yard. A car engine was rumbling. Suddenly, I heard the voice of Roger, the neighbor to the east of Pat and Susan.

“I really liked your music!” he said enthusiastically. “It reminds me of some guys I knew in college.”

Susan's visitor murmured something I couldn't hear. Roger went on, “Yeah, the guitar player quit the band and started growing organic vegetables, or something. You gotta remember, I'm 68 years old. We were all hippies back then.”

Susan must be in her 40s. I imagine to her Roger seems like a decrepit old man. I finished one side of the egg beater and flipped it over. The dishwater was cloudy with gross black specks.

Roger's voice echoed across the driveway. “The drummer, though, the drummer just disappeared. They went to his house and found it was empty, no clothes, no furniture, everything, just gone.”

Susan's visitor said something in response. She lives in a cute little house. I saw the inside once, before she and Pat moved in. Before Roger moved into the next little house in the row. I frequently see him tending to his many potted plants. For some reason, he rarely acknowledges my presence, even when we are within ten feet of one another. I don't understand that.

“But hey, I really liked your music!” Roger repeated loudly. I finished cleaning the egg beater. Susan's visitor got into his car and drove away.

Cleaning my egg beater is a sign. I'm regretting the past and trying to control the future. Some significant endings are bearing down on me: my mother, my car, my apartment, my lifestyle. Nothing stays the same forever, I know. But I'm worried at the prospect of change. I used to think I welcomed change—why else would I be a chronically malcontented pot stirrer? But now I think I'm just like most of the other people on the planet: terrified of losing what I have or not getting what I want. It's just plain old self-centered fear.

It's spring in P-town. Everything is blooming (including my sinuses). I have another paper (18,000 words) to edit after I finish the one I'm working on (32,000 words). I would like to get off this bus, but I don't know how.

Next week, Mom and I are touring another retirement place. Neither one of us thinks it would be a good fit. I think she wants the fancy place on the bluff over the river, the one with the gazillion dollar buy-in. She said, “I can sell the condo.” And she's right, she could sell the condo. On what she has left, she could survive maybe five years, if nothing went wrong. Maybe that is the best option when you reach 85. Put it all on red and let it rip. You don't know how long you have left. Might as well enjoy it while you still can.

Meanwhile, she's offloading the 55 years of crap her four kids gave her...back onto her four kids. Last week, the bed in the spare room was covered with four stacks of photos, homework, and other mementos of childhood. One stack for each kid. I'm lucky, I got to take my bag of old pictures, photos, and poems with me, because I live nearby.

My mother kept just about everything, it seems. There are mementos from just about every milestone in my life: high school graduation, college graduation, letters, long-forgotten photos of me and former boyfriends. She kept a tattered piece of notebook paper on which I had very carefully written in a childish scrawl, “Captain Robert Gray sailed into the mouth of a big river. He named it the Columbia.” There is even a plaster imprint of my kindergartener-sized hand. My mother kept everything. Which is why it is painful to see her letting it all go. I know every ending is followed by a new beginning. But apparently I don't like change.

I do like my shiny clean egg beater, though. Obsessions and compulsions may be underrated.

Wearing our blue collars on our sleeves

While I wait for my hemorrhoidal printhead to dry from a deeper cleaning than recommended by the manufacturer (a sitz bath in warm water), I have some time to reflect on the latest reconnaissance into the world of retirement community living. Hooboy. I got a few words for you people: Don't get old.

Today the scrawny maternal parental unit (my mother) and I wended our way to the surprisingly charming suburb of Milwaukie, where we had an appointment with a marketing person at a sprawling complex overlooking the Willamette River. We waited in the comfortable waiting area/library. I enjoyed the view out the huge windows: green grass, resting Canadian geese, and blue sky. My mother circled impatiently back and forth between me and the front desk, eye on the clock, until suddenly we heard a voice calling her name. A former neighbor from the condo, whom I had never met, was shuffling toward us from the elevator.

Mom was thrilled to be recognized by a resident of the establishment. They embraced like old chums. “Keeta, this is my daughter,” Mom said, and added as an afterthought, “and my caregiver,” which evoked a sideways look at me from Keeta and conjured up images of me emptying bedpans and fixing toasted cheese sandwiches. (Not going to happen.)

Keeta had moved to the retirement place a couple months previously and claimed to be ecstatic about her new digs. I could see Mom looking hopeful. A moment later, the marketing gal arrived: Meg. Tall, long brown hair, tight skirt, long beige cardigan, big feet in mid-height heels. Big smile. She told us she was a replacement for the usual marketing person, who was on a well-deserved vacation. I don't know what she did before, but I'm guessing it wasn't sales: Immediately, she goofed. She led us to her air conditioned office, invited us to sit at a round conference table, and showed us the price list.

“Coming to live here is like buying into membership at a country club,” she said. My mother stared at her, waiting, for what, I don't know—a sudden laugh to indicate the woman was joking? Even though the numbers were on a nicely designed sheet right in front of us, it took us a moment to catch our breath. Country club living is not really on our radar. We've been to some weddings at country clubs, that's the extent of our interaction with the golfing/country club jet set.

“The smallest studio unit will cost about $58,000 to buy in, plus about $1,600 per month,” Meg said with the air of a person who has no idea that what she just said indicates she comes from a completely different planet in the solar system. Maybe you could call it the White Collar Planetary System. “A one-bedroom in the main building will start at about $120,000,” she went on. My mother sat silent, staring at the prices, which only went up from there. I was thinking, where are the places for the failed losers from the Blue Collar Outcast Asteroid Belt?

“What do my friends in the Plaza pay? They have a patio,” my mother whined.

“We don't have any units available in the Plaza,” Meg said chattily. “But if one came open, it would be about $220,000 to buy in, plus about...” At that point, I zoned out, boggled by the zeros.

During the ensuing lull, I asked, “Can we look at some units?” in a slightly squeaky voice. Might as well see what we will be missing, I thought. Before we slink out the door tripping on our own tails.

Meg willingly took us on a tour of three different units, all in the main building. She strode ahead of us, not talking, long legs swishing in her tight brown skirt. I wondered what she did when she wasn't filling in for the marketing guy. She was dressed like a salesperson, but acted like anything but. Oddly, though, she wasn't apologetic. Nor did she seem to begrudge us the time. I got my clue when she asked, “Do you have time for lunch today?” I wondered if all she wanted was the free food. Crass of me, I know.

The first unit we looked at was a mess, recently vacated, a meandering layout consisting of a living room with attached kitchen, a den, two bathrooms, and a long hallway leading to a bedroom. It was nice enough, but way too much space for one scrawny little old lady intent on not cooking. No patio. I could tell my mother really wanted her tiny patio, and I know why: She's trapped by her addiction to cigarettes. Even though smoking is not permitted anywhere on the grounds, I could tell by the way she didn't look at me that she thought she could sneak a smoke if she just had her own little patio.

The next unit we looked at was a one-bedroom with a great view of green grass, swirling water, and the big houses on the other side of the river. The room was “styled” with upscale decorations completely unlike anything my mother owns. Pleather couch, glass coffee table, glazed dish of rocks. So not like my mother's 1980s floral couch, worn watermelon-colored velour chairs, and Home Depot area rug.

“Can we see something smaller?” I asked. We hiked the hallways to look at a studio. It was cozy, but better than many places I've lived. A huge black wood entertainment center filled one wall.

“This comes furnished,” Meg said, and reached up to pull down what turned out to be a Murphy bed platform. My mother's eyes just about rolled up in her head. I could see the thought bubble hovering: Is this what it comes down to, pulling my bed down from a horrible black entertainment center?

Finally, we went in to lunch in the dining room, a lovely large space, light-filled, windows on three sides, and a spectacular view of the river. I took the seat facing the view. I could have stared out that window at green grass and blue sky all afternoon. A magnolia tree just outside was setting enormous purple blossoms. I could see why people wanted to live there.

Mom ordered half a turkey sandwich and ate about a third of it. The marketing gal ordered the turkey and arugula wraps. Feeling adventurous, I ordered the tofu sandwich, which I discovered to my chagrin was two tiny pieces of fried tofu with some shredded carrot and radishes on two over-sized pieces of sourdough bread. It was the strangest combination of food I have seen lately, apart from what I fix in my own kitchen, I mean. I quickly figured out it was best to eat the tofu and condiments separately from the bread. Four bites, I kid you not, and my plate was empty. I assume I'll eat like a bird when I get to my mid-80s, if I live that long, but meanwhile, I think anyone would agree, I am a healthy eater. Walking out of the dining room, I was feeling the worst of combinations: heart flutterings from wheat and sugar (in the sauce on the bread) ...and hunger.

Meg led us back to the front entrance and took her leave, saying in a half-hearted manner, “I really think this would be a good fit for you.” My mother and I politely thanked her for lunch and sped for the door. Even before we set foot outside, my mother said in her deep, smoker's voice, “Well!” and I knew we were in agreement. Not the right place for Mom.

My printer appears to still have hemorrhoids. Darn it. What fresh hell is this, first my old Ford Focus, now my old Canon printer? Argh. Plus yesterday my landlord raised my rent (don't tell Mom). Do I have a sign on my back that says Kick me, I can't get up, I'm a blue collar loser? Feels like it. Apples... trees... it's never enough, no matter how far I try to run.

All hail the limited nuclear option

I've had a problem with ants at the Love Shack since I moved here over ten years ago, but with these warmer winters, the little beggars have been relentlessly staking out territory in every room. The kitchen, of course, would be an ant's first target: That's where the cat and I consume and spill the most food. In the living room, trails of ants congregate around the couch (where I spill food) and around the occasional pile of cat barf that blends into the rug so I don't see it.

In the bedroom, as I believe I have previously mentioned, the ants found an art project I did some years ago, which consisted of large jellybeans glued to a frame. I forget what the frame was framing; it was the colorful jellybeans that I liked, especially when sprayed with clear lacquer so they were bright and shiny. Like brand new jellybeans! Apparently, the lacquer on one of the beans finally disintegrated, thus opening the door to a swarm of ants, who marched out of the crack between the ceiling and the wall to raid the sugar in the jellybeans. This plundering of my art must have been going on for years, judging by the trail the ants left behind. I never knew; it was all happening up near the ceiling, and really, who checks for ants up near the ceiling?

And then, the bathroom, which you would think would be uninteresting to an ant, but I've bemoaned the sad fact that ants have congregated on my toothbrush before. Lately, a few scouts can be found wandering in the empty tub, for what reason I do not know. Lousy beggars.

Anyway, all that was to say, I've had a few problems with ants. I've been using bait traps, and that worked for a time, but after a while, I think the ant nests developed an immunity, like Portlanders develop an immunity to rain. One day a few months ago after feeling particularly dejected at ants biting the back of my neck, in my typical malcontented fashion, I happened to mention the situation to my friend Carlita. She recommended a product to spray inside and outside the Love Shack. I got some of that product. I sprayed. Carlita, I can't thank you enough. All hail the limited nuclear option!

For a day or two after I sprayed the window by the cat food, the ants were wobbling around like the walking dead. Then they all keeled over, like they had been mowed down with an unseen fist. With glee I swept up their tiny desiccated carcasses into little piles. The next day I swept up more! Ants fell out of the sky into the cat's water and floated there in little clumps, stiff and lifeless. A few desperate ants crawled up my shirt to lodge a complaint on my head, to no avail, of course. Once you've killed, it gets easier to kill again, I've heard. (Did you know ants smell rather pungent when you shmush them?)

Hallelujah, is all I can say. Yeah, it's a bit toxic, especially if you spray into the wind, but it's worth giving up some brain cells to finally beat back the relentless hordes. I'm thinking of taking up a foreign language to offset the loss of neurons, hoping to stave off Alzheimer's a little longer. Russian, maybe, or Spanish. (And if that ploy doesn't work, at least it will be easier to communicate with the CNAs in the nursing home. Although, who will be left standing to send me to a nursing home, I wonder? I live alone, so odds are nobody will know if I descend into dementia. But while I sit around wondering what day it is, at least the Love Shack will be ant free!)

Shmushed

I just finished editing and uploading some hapless doctoral student's wretched massive tome. Now I have a few minutes before The Walking Dead comes on the local re-run channel to reflect on ants, editing, and stupid people.

I'm feeling a little disgruntled. I counted up the hours I spent on the editing project and calculated I earned just over $16.00 per hour. You might think that is a pretty good wage. If you think that, you would be wrong. Don't forget that at least 40% must be set aside for taxes.

While I was in the bathroom staring at the whiskers hanging out of my nose, I reflected on the possibility of writing a little program that would edit a dissertation for me according to a frivolously random algorithm, replacing commas with semi-colons and periods with exclamation marks. My edited product might defy the rules of grammar; but it would certainly read more energetically! Grammar-shmammar, that's what I always say. To my cat when he's licking his butt in the chair next to me.

The most recent editing project, and the source of my disgruntlement, consisted of the first three chapters of the client's dissertation and her proposal. It's rare to edit the dissertation before approval has been granted to field the study. I get the feeling that this client's brain is not firing on all cylinders. No doubt she is exhausted from smacking her children, placating her husband, and making empty promises to her committee. Or maybe she's just not ready for prime time.

I edited the proposal first, so I would know what the study was about. That took an entire day. On day 2, after I was part way through the dissertation itself, I happened to see an email from the agency guy in my inbox: Hope you haven't started the proposal: the client has an updated version. Enjoy! My yowl of horror and dismay inspired my cat to leave the room for a while. I did a quick document-compare and found very little had changed. No harm, no foul. Thank you, editing gods.

Speaking of editing gods, where were they last week, I wonder, when I won and lost my first (and probably last) dissertation coaching client? All gods are fickle—driving gods, dieting gods, ant-killing gods are just a few of the wingnuts that rule my world...but few gods are more unpredictable or capricious than the editing gods. This is the story.

I got a call on my cell phone from someone I didn't know. That happens occasionally. I rarely hear the thing buzz. My business number rolls over to a Google Voice number, and Google Voice sends me a transcript of the message. I always chuckle when I read Google's attempt to convert someone's quickly spoken words into text, especially if the person has an accent. Which was the case with the message that prompted the ensuing fiasco/learning opportunity.

I deciphered the message by listening to it and heard a man's voice say, “My professor recommended I get a coach.” After some back and forth by email and phone, I met Alphonse last Saturday at a local college campus (not the one he was enrolled with), where we sat at a picnic table in the sun and tried to understand each other. He told he he was enrolled in an online doctoral program in Education at someplace based in Colorado. He needed a coach and some help with APA formatting, he said.

“Do you have a copy of the APA book?” I asked. I held up my tattered and annotated copy. He looked perplexed.

Alphonse is from Kenya and retains a strong accent even after two decades in the U.S. It takes me a while to get familiar with a new accent. Meanwhile, I read lips. His lips were thin, and his teeth were perfectly white. His gums glowed pink, like there was a light on inside his mouth. He laughed a lot. Too much, and way too loudly. I hadn't been out of the house much lately, so I felt a little shrunken at his exuberance.

“Here are two of my assignments that need editing,” he said, holding out two bent pieces of white paper crammed with lines of single-spaced text in a variety of barely readable fonts. I could feel my eyes crossing (which in retrospect was an important clue, if I ever decide I want to do this again). He told me he was in a doctoral program, which led me to assume that he actually qualified to be in a doctoral program. I mean, I assumed he could write at least at a college level; he had to have a master's degree from somewhere, right? So I didn't do more than glance at the assignments he showed me.

Caught in my assumption, I failed to see red flag #1 (poor writing skills) and forged bravely into the muck, agreeing to edit his school assignments, which two days later got me into a frothy brouhaha with his professor, a faceless academic working at a two-bit for-profit university (not unlike the one from which I matriculated), who thought I had written Alphonse's assignments for him. More on that in a moment.

My second error was assuming that because Alphonse could use a cell phone, he could use a computer. Specifically, that he could send and receive emails with attachments. That assumption led me to refuse to receive the flashdrive he tried to give me, stating instead, oh, just email me the files. I'll edit them and send them back to you! Tra la la. Thus, red flag #2: poor computer skills. It's difficult to instruct someone how to download a file over the phone.

Red flag #3 involved his concern about how much my services were going to cost him. Duh. If a person has to ask, obviously they can't afford me. But at that point, I was more interested in the process of acquiring a real coaching client than I was in making money editing. Curiosity won out over chasing the cash. I have yet to be paid, but it's only $67.00, so I'm not too concerned.

As you can imagine, the fact that Alphonse couldn't send and receive email attachments meant he had to physically drive to my apartment and deliver a flashdrive to me. The first time, I met him in the street. He handed off the little gizmo and departed in his Toyota Prius. The second (and third times), in utter frustration, I invited him into my sacred space (red flag #4! Luckily he wasn't allergic to cats) and attempted to teach him how to do some things on my computer: send and receive an attachment, do some online research at the county library, and log into his university course room and upload a file. Alphonse sweated, mopped his brow, and laughed and laughed.

Without a doubt, Alphonse has the worst writing skills I have ever encountered. I do not lie when I say the editing I did for him was essentially a translation from a bizarrely poetic foreign language consisting almost entirely of... well, see for yourself.

This passage, by the way, was formatted entirely in bold. This was one of four paragraphs, all similar. After weeping a little, I began to pick my way through this verbal minefield and eventually produced a concise, neat translation that more or less represented the ideas I was able to glean from the essay. I felt I'd done a stellar job editing difficult material, and allowed myself a smidge of prideful satisfaction, which quickly dissipated when I got a call from Alphonse telling me his professor wanted to talk to me about the editing I'd done for him.

After some phone tag (on a holiday!), I connected with Dr. Bob, who calmly and with arrogant complacency commenced to regal me with his professional pedigree: program director, wrote the curriculum, president of a college, founded a college... yada, yada. By this time, I had looked him up on the Web and I knew exactly who he was: an academic wannabe stuck in the for-profit higher education world. And a bully, too, I found out.

I don't bully easily; I bend, I don't fight back. I didn't argue with Dr. Bob. I couldn't have gotten a word in, even if I had wanted to. I knew I had done nothing wrong: Alphonse hired me to edit his essays, and I had done my job as an editor; however, from an educator's point of view, I had made it possible for Alphonse to cheat. Once I saw that editing his papers was not going to help Alphonse toward his goal of earning a Ph.D., it was clear I had to release my new coaching client.

Meanwhile, Alphonse decided he didn't like his online university and the bossy Dr. Bob and began taking steps to transfer to a local university in his neighborhood. He emailed me yesterday that wanted me to edit his admissions essay. I declined. Alphonse has called my cell phone three times today. My cell phone was dead; forgot to charge it up. Ha. Maybe there is an editing god.

This is way too long, so I'll tell you about the ants another day. Hint: The word of the day: shmushed.

If I wait long enough

I realized last night as I tried to fall asleep after watching back-to-back episodes of The Walking Dead on the re-run channel, few things give me more pleasure than posting to this blog. I return to this blog like returning to a old friend, the kind of friend who listens unconditionally, thereby giving me space to say the next stupid thing that comes to mind. How rare is that, to find that generous a friend?

What shall I tell you today, friend? Would you like to hear about the unseasonably warm weather we are having here on the west coast? No, probably not, not if you live on the east coast, where you are slipping on ice or buried under seven feet of snow. I'm sorry for you, truly. Out here on the frontier the air is downright balmy. I still fear winter will return with a vengeance, but the trees, shrubs, and daffodils apparently don't agree. Nor does my cat, who after fluffing up during the month of January is now shedding like it's spring. The National Weather Service informs me that it is 56°F here in the Mt. Tabor area of the Rose City, and it's only 1:00 p.m. This is bizarre. My conclusion is that I don't have to pack up and move to a warmer, drier climate; apparently if I wait long enough, my preferred climate will come to me.

Still, it's a mixed blessing: I enjoy these warmer drier days, but I know we need snow on our mountain if we will avoid water shortages next summer. And if I were a skier or snowboarder or a snow resort operator on Mt. Hood, I would be totally bummed. The sun is trying to shine right now. I'm opting for living in the moment.

But enough about our warm winter. What else can I tell you?

My scrawny old mother and I are still trying to find a retirement community for her to join. On Tuesday morning we met at a third place, just up the street from her condo. I was a bit perplexed at not being able to find its website, but our senior placement adviser, Doug, had assured us he had placed many happy old folks there. Mom was skeptical, but doing our due diligence, we thought we should at least go look at the place. The sky was blue, the sun was warm. Great day to tour an old folks' home.

I got there early. I parked on a side street and started walking around the parking lot of the two-building complex. As far as I could tell, the place consisted of artists' lofts, studios, and gallery spaces. I didn't see any wheelchair ramps. No blue-haired women pushing walkers. No wobbling old bald men soaking up the sun. The place looked quiet and deserted, and the signs around the parking lot advised us to park elsewhere.

I turned and spotted my mother trotting toward me. She wore her trademark red fleece jacket and thrift store faded blue jeans with tidy creases permanently sewn in. She sported huge dark glasses over her regular glasses and a knitted cap on her short gray hair. I wore much the same thing (sans the huge dark glasses and the creases in my jeans).

“Where do we go?” she said.

“I don't think it's here anymore,” I replied. “All I see is a gallery, and it's closed. That building says 'Lofts' and that building says 'Studios.'”

A long-haired young woman wearing Uggs was scuffing slowly along on the sidewalk near us, smoking a cigarette. I stopped her and asked if she knew anything about the buildings.

“Yeah, I live here,” she said neutrally.

I asked if there was a retirement community here. She said no, not anymore, and wandered on her way. Mom and I did a 360, eyeballing nearby buildings. Nothing but houses and small apartment buildings, nothing big enough to house 100+ old folks. The buildings were here, but the retirement community was gone.

I walked Mom back to her car. We agreed it was a good thing that we hadn't driven clear across town to see a place that wasn't there. She had more errands to run: post office, day-old bread store, library, I don't know what all... errands that keep her connected to the world (and driving on city streets). I watched her motor away and walked back to my own car. I drove home, made lunch, and continued editing a paper on evaluating the differences between Ed.D and Ph.D. degrees. Ho hum.

Meanwhile, Doug the senior placement adviser is AWOL, not responding to email or phone calls. I am imagining that he got tired of wrangling needy desperate clients who want the best facility for the least amount of money.

We'll carry on without him. Next up is a place in Milwaukie where Mom has some friends. It has a garden. I'm hopeful that eventually we will find the right place. I don't want to let this search drag on too long. The old mother I used to have, the one with stained bent teeth, bulging biceps, and a determined stride has been replaced by a stranger with perfect dentures, sagging arms, and a wary, wobbly step. I guess if we wait long enough, none of this will matter. But I want her to be safe and happy in her last days, at least until the money runs out.

I used to imagine that someday—and I am not proud of this—that someday after both parents were gone, that there would be some money for me and my siblings. If I just waited long enough, maybe some of the pressure of scrabbling for a living would ease. Maybe I would be able to retire, or at least not worry so much. If I just waited long enough.

Now that scenario seems pretty unlikely. Now that I know how much money my mother really has, and how much income she receives, I see that there is no safety net there, no ease, just more of the same. Of course, we all know that I'm not required to worry. Everyone has challenges but suffering is optional. That thought doesn't really make me feel better, but it does motivate me to pull my head out of my own butt just a little. I guess that is a start.

And I know that if I wait long enough, none of this will matter. It's hard for a chronic malcontent to have hope these days. Climate change, terrorists, Russia, nuclear war, and stupid people who care more about money than about people... the odds are not looking good for the human species—or any other species on Planet Earth. I carry on as if my tiny life matters, but I know that in the end, nothing matters. I'm a speck. Suns explode, planets are hit by asteroids, new havens appear in distant galaxies, and life (most likely) carries on. There is no question we all die; the question is how to live until then. I'm still working on it.

Two ants shuffle into a bar

The balmy temperature has invited relentless droves of ants to once again infiltrate my kitchen. My puny barricades of diatomaceous earth and half-hearted moats around the cat food dishes are not working. Scouts wander the walls and ceiling over my kitchen table. Lone soldiers reconnoiter the table cloth, despite my efforts to thwart their access. Every hour I pluck and squash a hapless forager from the back of my neck. Why do ants feel compelled to go up?

Last week I expressed my frustration to my friend Carlita. “Get some of that spray stuff!” she recommended and told me the brand name. I got some at the store. It's a gallon jug with an attached sprayer device, a very clever delivery system. I kept it in my car for a few days (along with the gallon of anti-freeze, which my mechanic recommends I mix with water and put into my radiator reservoir when it falls below min). A couple days ago, I brought the ant killer spray into the house and set it on the floor by the kitchen door. I took time to read some of the instructions on the label. This weekend, as I reapplied diatomaceous earth and cleaned up scouts, I occasionally glanced at the jug of death juice.

Finally, tonight, I had enough. Start small, I thought. I'll do the cupboards under the sink and next to the sink.

I got onto my knees and started pulling junk out of the cupboards: four rolls of cheap paper towels; a jug of bleach; a jug of ammonia (do not mix!); a gallon of distilled water (for the neti pot); alcohol in a spray bottle (for killing ants, moths, and fruit flies); about twenty sponges of various types and a scrub brush thing that doesn't work (not enough bristles); a near-empty bag of diatomaceous earth; a few vacuum cleaner bags in a box (hepa filters); an old toothbrush; a very old and rusty SOS soap pad saved in a clear teacup; two thermoses and a thermos jug with two compartments for keeping food separate and hot (never worked); an empty tray with sections for serving fresh fruits or veggies, with clear lid (why?); four white plastic bowls with green lids in graduated sizes; one stainless steel mixing bowl; two measuring cups, one plastic, one glass; two ice cube trays; a cat food dispenser; a cheap Osterizer blender base and clear plastic container (lots of protein shakes have been made in that blender); a stainless steel sieve; and a big white plastic bowl (the fifth one of the set) holding a big white plastic colander of roughly equal size, which I use for washing broccoli and collards.

After I pulled all the stuff out onto the floor and counter, I saw a gruesome sight: splotches of mold and about a billion dead ant bodies, resting in small drifts around the edges of the cupboard. Hmm. I swept out the dusty carcasses and set about my task of creating a perimeter barrier with poison.

I detached the sprayer nozzle from its holder on the side of the gallon of pesticide. I pulled out the curly hose and attached it to the cap of the jug. I flipped up the switch and started pulling the trigger, aiming around the edges of the space under the sink. The juice flowed freely up the tube and sprayed neatly where I pointed the nozzle. I held my breath, but couldn't smell anything much.

I moved to the rest of the empty cupboards. Pretty soon, my throat started to feel just a teeny bit scratchy. I felt a righteous urge to keep on spraying. When I felt my mission was complete, I closed up the cupboard doors to keep the cat from investigating and backed away. Then I opened the kitchen windows wide, just in case.

I let the juice dry for a good hour before I opened the cupboard doors. While I waited, I cleaned all the junk that had been stored in there. A few things I chucked in the garbage (SOS soap pad). Some I put into the thrift store bin (the disappointing thermos). I found some plastic baskets and organized what was left.

I took time out to heat up my dinner: ground turkey and wild rice leftovers. While I ate, I read a book my mother had checked out from the library. The title of the book is What to do with your Old Decrepit Mother. Well, not that, precisely. The book is a guide for people who need to care for aging parents. The author outlined what to expect, where to put them, how much it will cost, what questions to ask the care facility... She also told the sad tale of her own aging father. By the time I finished eating, I was completely ruined.

I put my dish on the stack of unwashed dishes in the sink and peeked into the sprayed cupboards. Everything looked okay. Still moldy, but nothing shocking, like no dead squirrels. I started loading the junk back into the cupboards. It didn't take long. While I worked, I wondered why the author of that book didn't suggest the ancient resolution for old parents: taking them up the mountain and throwing them off a cliff. Maybe I haven't got to that part yet.

Knowing my luck, the ants that used to travel through those cupboards on the way to some other kitchen location will simply detour around the toxic barrier. There are more cupboards to do before my perimeter defense is complete. Plus the other side of the kitchen, around the table and the cat food area. Maybe I'll feel up for tackling that job tomorrow. Or not.