The Chronic Malcontent does her civic duty

A summons to jury duty arrived in the mail a couple weeks ago. I had no good excuse, so I checked the "count me in" box on the card and mailed it back. Today was my first day of a two-day stint. Right now I'm hoping for something drastic—a mild earthquake or a burst pipe at the County Courthouse—to give me a reprieve from another mind-numbing, excruciatingly boring day packed in the dim jury room with 120 other bored, sweaty, tired, hungry jurors.

Last night I laid out my wardrobe (long johns, rain pants, t-shirt, sweatshirt, two pairs of socks) and set the alarm for 6:00 am (three hours before my usual get-up time). I made myself go to bed, wide-awake, at 10:00 pm. I slept restlessly, checking the clock every few hours, waiting for the alarm to propel me out of bed. The Courthouse opened at 7:00. The jury room opened at 7:30 am. Drop-dead deadline was 8:00 am. I didn't want to be late.

I made some tea and packed my lunch bag. While the tea was brewing, I looked outside. Was that snow on the ground? Parked cars across the street were covered in a layer of white stuff. The flowerbeds were splotchy white. Was it snow or just frost? In the dark it was hard to see if the pavement was glazed. I watched for the bus, ready to execute plan B (drive to a MAX station to park and catch a train). Eventually a bus went by. Whew.

On the bus ride downtown, darkness gave way to a grim gray cold wet winter morning. I dozed to the intermittent swish of the windshield wipers. In about 23 minutes, the bus dropped me (and a crowd of silent others) at SW Morrison and Fifth Avenue in pouring rain. I paused near a homeless person sleeping under a ragged blanket to fumble on my rain jacket and open my umbrella.

I headed south toward Salmon. Along the way I saw several homeless people sheltering in doorways but was accosted by only one, for a cigarette.

I arrived at the Courthouse at 7:20 am. I sent my backpack, lunch bag, and fanny pack through the security conveyor belt and waltzed through the metal detector. I wondered if they would question my metal thermos, but no, nothing seemed to interest the security guards. I followed the signs around the corner, along a cracked and pitted ancient marble hallway, to the massive wooden double doors of the jury room, where a small crowd of about 20 people were yawning, waiting for the doors to open.

You can picture the rest: Huge long room filled with beat up black leatherette chairs, a half-dozen round tables, three flat-screen TVs hung up high on the walls, a tall shelf of library books, a massive cupboard of board games and puzzles, and a kitchen equipped with three microwaves and a fridge. Along the wall were narrow cubbies for folks with laptops.

I found a seat at a round table near the restrooms. Two other people joined me, a 60-something white man who used to teach social studies at the high school I attended, and a middle-aged white woman with psoriasis on her fingers who said she had a small data business in an office building in downtown Portland. We spent most of the day talking, but I never learned their names. I'll call them Ted and Peggy.

Ted told some funny stories about his teaching days. He knew a lot about a lot of things: art, Portland history, U.S. travel, famous people. Peggy tried to compete. I listened and nodded, encouraging them both. It took about three hours for the discussion to veer toward politics. Peggy had mentioned she enjoyed staying at her various timeshares. Ted casually mentioned that the owners of a big timeshare were right-wing conservatives. He didn't say it in a judgmental way but I think Peggy took it as a jibe and said belligerently, “I love my timeshares. The more conservative the better!”

That little wave subsided, but someone (not me) mentioned the homeless problem. I think it was Peggy. She lives in downtown Portland, in the hilly blocks above Portland State University. She walks all over downtown, so I'm guessing her heart has hardened to the sight of people sleeping in doorways.

“In the past couple weeks, I don't know what has happened, but it's better than it was,” Peggy said.

“Where did they all go?” I asked. I live on the east side, but I didn't have any information about a wave of homeless people moving into my neighborhood because I rarely leave my cave.

Ted said something about Happy Valley, where he lives. Peggy replied with a comment about homelessness being a crime.

“Is it really a crime to be homeless?” I asked, not sure I had heard her correctly.

“Yes, it is a crime,” she said.

“No, it is not a crime,” said Ted.

“You mean, if I became homeless, I could be prosecuted?” I asked, thinking hell, I hope she is wrong, because if she is right, I'm going to be in jail in about three months if my income stream doesn't return.

“No, you can't be prosecuted,” Ted reassured me. Now, I know it is not a crime to be homeless; I just wanted to draw out Peggy's opinions. I wondered if she could hear her own words. She walked back her statement.

“If you start wrecking people's property, then it's a crime,” she clarified. I smiled. Ted smiled.

Then she said something I wish I'd said: “Well, people gotta poop somewhere.” I wasn't sure if she was expressing compassion for people without toilets (and homes) or if she was insinuating it was a crime to poop outdoors.

“We can blame the Democrats for all of this. They shut down the mental hospitals,” Peggy declared. Ted and I looked at each other. At this point my hands were getting sweaty.

“I thought it was budget cuts,” I offered cautiously.

“We really ought to be blaming the Republicans,” Ted said.

“We'll have to agree to disagree,” Peggy said with a toothy grin that looked more like a sneer to me. She had small teeth but they looked sturdy.

“Maybe we should stay away from discussions of politics and religion,” Ted said diplomatically. I ducked my head in agreement. We had a tense silence for a few minutes.

Then one of the TVs showed some news footage of another school shooting, this time in Florida. Before anyone could blame politics, the jury administrator announced it was lunchtime. Ted and Peggy went out (separately) and I stayed behind to microwave my rice and lentil yam stew.

I'm trying to figure out my strategy for tomorrow. Should I sit at the same table? Should I seek out my table mates? Ted's stories were entertaining, but I don't want to be an entertainment hog. Maybe I should let him find new audiences. Should I seek new conversation partners? Maybe I should ask them to disclose their political affiliations first. Maybe I should just sit with my earbuds in my ears and read my library book. We'll see.

At 2:45, the jury administrator called the names of sixty people who would be allowed to leave at 3:00 pm. My name was called near the end of the list. I packed up my stuff and waved goodbye to Ted and Peggy. I ran to catch a bus. The sun came out. I saw a rainbow through the fogged up bus window.

The Chronic Malcontent finds a unicorn

As most of the rest of our beleaguered nation shudders in single digit temperatures, we here in the Pacific Northwest (or as I like to call it, Resistance Country) have been sweltering under balmy skies. I kid you not, some lucky locals in certain Portland micro-climates enjoyed 60°F. And it's just mid-January! I know. Yesterday, even though the east wind was howling, and it actually felt more like 40, the blue sky and sunshine enticed me out of the house and into the park.

I often avoid the park on windy days. I'm no fool. I see the littered remains of pine branches all over the trails when I venture out after a windstorm. We've lost several trees in the past year—the park rangers sawed through the trunks to restore the trails, so I walk through them every time I go hiking. I don't mind some twigs falling on me, but I doubt I would survive being flattened by an entire tree. So, windy days, no thanks.

However, did I mention 60°F !? I couldn't resist. Whenever I take chances, I think about the odds of a bad thing occurring. Yep. I hide out in the safety of statistics. There are lots of trees, but not that many that could fall across a trail I might take at the exact day and time I happen to be strolling by. Plus I'm a moving target! It would take some seriously bad luck for me to get hit by a branch, let alone a whole tree.

I made it to the reservoir unscathed and started walking around the perimeter. Above me was a heavenly mix of blue sky and white clouds. The wind wasn't so harsh in the sun. A t-shirt, a fleece jacket, and a hoodie kept me the perfect temperature for walking. I let my hood down and put on my sunshades. I looked for a break in the stream of jogging stroller moms, runners, and dog-walkers. Let the strolling begin.

It's .56 miles around the main reservoir, which has two side-by-side cells. I don't know how deep these two pools are, but they used to hold a good portion of Portland's drinking water, so I can safely say there are millions of gallons in each reservoir. I aim for five times around and settle for four, most days, depending on how long my bladder holds out. I thought I might be able to make five laps, if I didn't lollygag. As I waited for a break in the traffic, I looked out across the wind-riled water glinting in the afternoon sun. Below me, a line of waterlogged tennis balls hugged the near shore, held by little wind-driven waves.

Today I hadn't gone more than 20 yards when I was brought up short by a puzzling sight. Bobbing at the edge of the water, just barely submerged, was the lifelike head of a white horse. 

At first, my brain stuttered as it tried to figure out what I was seeing. Was it, could it possibly be, no, no way could this be real. Where was the blood and sinews? Where was the gore? I've seen enough CSI: Name your City to imagine what a submerged dead animal might look like. This odd flotsam had definitely never been alive. Judging by its condition, my guess would be rubbery molded white plastic.

And what's more, it was not just a horse. I finally noticed between its two charming ears the horn sticking out of its forehead. Oh my, this was the head of a unicorn. Whoa. Not how I expected to see my first unicorn.

I took a picture of it with my cell phone and kept on walking. Five times I passed the unicorn head. Each time I neared its location, I watched to see if anyone else had noticed it. Little clumps of people would stop to marvel, take a picture, and move on. When I got home I Googled “unicorn head in reservoir” but didn't get much, although I did see images of unicorn heads that you can buy online. Yikes, why would you buy a unicorn head? Apparently people hang them on the walls in their daughters' rooms. Here you go, honey. I bagged that unicorn you've been bugging me about since you were five. Is it just me, or is that creepy? 

When I walk I have lots of time to think about things. However, I rarely reach any decisions or figure anything out. And I am relieved to report I don't rely on magical creatures like unicorns and other sparkly higher powers to rescue me. Because that poor old drowned unicorn is not going to be rescuing anyone. I can just imagine some female adolescent furiously heaving the head over the iron railing into the water. I wanted a pony, not a severed unicorn head, dammit!

Meanwhile, yada yada. Life goes on, death creeps closer, the bank account dwindles, and winter returns tomorrow. Spring is great, but it never lasts.

Blue in a sea of red

Merry happy, Blogbots. An inch and a half of snow has shut down the city and trapped me (well, my car) on this hill. What else is there to do but whine, I mean, blog? Are you weary of Christmas music yet? I am currently suffering from a Mariah Carey earworm. The only known cure is to replace it with another earworm, preferably something I can sing, or at least hum. I'm cranking up some old Emerson, Lake, and Palmer. (Oh, what a lucky man he was!) Fortunately, my neighbors seem to be absent.

With my feet ensconced in my dry rice microwaveable foot warmer and wearing four layers of fleece, a hat, and fingerless gloves, I'm ready for the day. I'm a little concerned, though: I'm down to my last pair of fleece pants, the ones that stink. I suffer the relentless thrift store stench that never seems to shake out of the acrylic fibers because the plaid is so darn cute. Nobody sees me, why I care I can't say. I washed them in white vinegar and that helped for a while. I don't understand the dynamic of thrift store odor; I suspect it has something to do with chemistry.

Last night I braved the snow, freezing rain, and wind to shuffle two blocks to the house of some my father's relatives. My family has spent every Christmas eve with them since I was a child. I won't say all the memories are great, families being what they are. I'm closer to my mother's side of the family than I am to my father's. Plus I went away to L.A. for twenty years, which took me off their radar. I doubt I was missed by any of these relatives, although to their credit, last night they welcomed me into their home with open arms.

In her latest incarnation as a decrepit, demented, fleece-wrapped elf, my mother opted to stay in. Home. Whatever we call it for a person who lives temporarily in a retirement place before moving on to that great all-you-can-eat Christmas buffet in the sky. Not that I could have fetched her, given the snowy roads. If the buses are not braving this hill, I'm sure not. I could get my car down, no doubt, considering the undeniable force of gravity, but getting back up would be problematic. I wasn't willing to risk it. My relatives' house was only two blocks away, though, and I was pretty sure I could trudge that far on my own power, if the streets weren't too slippery with ice.

I found no ice, just lovely virgin snow crunching underfoot. The wind was cold. Freezing rain pellets stung my cheeks. I started to hustle. Huffing along the snowy sidewalk, I marveled at the brightness of the streetlights. Who needs a moon when you have streetlights on a blanket of new snow?

This portion of my father's family centers on two sisters. I've blogged about them before, I believe. They share a split-level duplex. They both have husbands, children, and grandchildren. They both have health issues. When Amy (not her real name) and her husband lived in a big house around the corner from me, we came together every year in one big family celebration. Then Amy and her husband sold that house and moved to the duplex, next door to her sister, Nan. Christmas celebrations got split down the middle. For the past few years, my mother and I have navigated both celebrations via the shared garage.

This year was rough for both families. Amy survived some serious health issues. I wasn't surprised that she and her husband broke with tradition this year and opted to visit a son who lived elsewhere. Last year Nan's oldest son died in a tragic accident involving police and guns. After such a crappy year, I didn't know what to expect when I entered Nan's house and went up the steps to the living room. I was ready for anything from a melancholy dirge to a drunken brawl.

Besides Nan and her husband Drake, Nan's 40-something daughter Joyce was there with her husband Ed the Vegetarian and their two pubescent girls whose forgettable names both start with K. Three people I did not know were sitting on the couch. I assume they were family friends, not family, else someone would have explained our connection. Nan introduced me to Bob, his wife Marlene, and someone named Charlie, who may or may not have been a son, a round-faced middle-aged man wearing a red sweater and cowboy boots. Bob was a tall, thin cancer survivor who went outside to smoke three times in one hour. His wife was built like an apple on stick legs and sported an impressive set of dentures and a deep loud voice. She and I secretly competed for ruffled potato chips.

Nan sat solidly in an easy chair by the front window sipping frequently from a glass of red wine. Drake was hiding out in the kitchen, cooking hot dogs and baked beans with a glass of whiskey in his hand. After awkward greetings, I grazed the buffet table, trying to get my share of ruffled potato chips while avoiding two small dogs who lolled on the floor. One was Gunter, an old fat black-and-brown dachshund who pestered anyone with a paper plate in hand; the other was a white short-haired poodle-like thing named Paige, who skulked morosely under the table, waiting for crumbs to fall.

Everyone looked and sounded cheerful enough, considering the year's calamities, with the possible exception of Drake, who I suspected was somewhat sloshed. Nan and Drake collected antiques earlier in their lives. Besides a six-foot Christmas tree, the place was cluttered with old-fashioned holiday decorations. A huge nativity scene occupied a coffee table. I sat carefully on the couch between Bob and Charlie, hoping my butt wouldn't accidentally sweep some priceless wise man onto the floor,  wondering at what point it would be acceptable to leave.

Then someone mentioned the NFL football players.

“If I were those owners, I would fire those a-holes,” shouted Bob, obviously forgetting (or not caring) that there were two children in the room.

“It's disgusting how they are disrespecting the flag,” agreed my cousin Joyce.

Nan, Charlie, and Marlene concurred loudly. Drake sat silently in his chair, frowning and fiddling with a smart phone. I also sat silently, observing how a rising tide in my body was compelling me to object. What would I say? How would I say it? I quickly filled my mouth with potato chips and prayed to the higher power of dysfunctional family gatherings to deliver me. Visions of Christmases (and other holidays) past welled up in my shredded memory: Dad yelling at NFL players on TV (for completely innocent reasons). Mom arguing with Grandma over how to cook a turkey. My siblings and I hiding out in books and bickering.

I realized that my relatives were most likely Republican, Trump-supporting, conservative Christians. Here I was, the blue misfit, surrounded by a sea of red, wondering how this was possible. Then I remembered, hey, my father was adopted! I'm not related to these people at all. For a second that made me feel better. However, I suspect my genes are very similar to theirs, no matter who was adopted. We are all so very white. The main difference between them and me, I suspect, is that I am not proud of it.

Nobody asked me my opinion, and I did not offer it. Shortly after, someone suggested it was time to open presents. Even though the dessert had not yet appeared, I knew that was my cue. I slipped into the bedroom to get my sweater, looking forward to getting back to the Love Shack.

Even then, I couldn't escape. Charlie offered to walk me out. I thought he would leave me at the bottom of the stairs, but he shuffled along next to me, all the way back to my apartment, in his red sweater and cowboy boots. Partway along the walk, even though he must have been freezing, he stopped and exclaimed how beautiful the snow looked in the light. I had a moment of wonder at that, but the pelting rain had picked up, the snow was crunchy with a layer of ice, and I wanted to be alone. I waved vaguely to indicate we had arrived my place and he could abandon me with honor. Charlie grabbed me in a hug, smelling of aftershave and alcohol. I extricated myself gently, trying to maintain my holiday cheer, and hurried toward my back porch, retracing the footprints I'd left earlier in the evening. I assume he found his way back to the party.

The end of the year, the end of the world

The care facility called me tonight to tell me my mother was “confused.” I wasn't sure what that meant. The nurse's aide said, “Can you come over?” So at about 8:00 pm I went out into the dark night to drive over to see my mother, wondering what I would find. The air was cold, close to freezing, but the sky was full of stars, the kind you know are there but can't see if you live in a city.

Mom was lounging on the couch watching Wheel of Fortune. When I announced myself, she said hello. She appeared to know who I was, but I felt I should check, just to be sure.

“How are you feeling?” I asked her, thinking to ease into it.

“I don't know. I don't know what is happening,” she said.

“Do you know me?”

“Yes.” No smile.

“Do you know where you are?”

“In the care center,” she said, frowning.

“Did you eat dinner?” I knew as soon as the question left my lips that I'd asked the wrong question. What I should have asked was, What did you have for dinner? Oh well.

“I don't know. I guess so.” I asked her if she was hungry and she said no.

She stretched out on the couch and I covered her with a blue plaid blanket. Some months back, she had stapled a bright pink sticky note to the blanket warning the laundry person not to wash the blanket because it was wool. I noticed the sticky note was under her chin but didn't say anything.

Her half-open eyes glinted in the light of the television. A creepy chill crept up my spine. Many years ago, I worked in a nursing home for about eight months. I saw that half-mast look in the eyes of people who were in the process of dying. Maybe I was mistaken. It could have just been the angle of her head on the pillow. Right.

She started rubbing her stomach. I asked her if she was in pain and she nodded but didn't seem able to explain. After a few minutes, she said she needed the bathroom. I helped her find her walker and navigate the few steps to the bathroom. I wondered what I would do if she needed more help than I was prepared to give. Eventually I heard the toilet flush and she came out. She looked mixed up, lost, and very, very tired.

“Maybe you would like to go to bed now?” I suggested. She said that sounded good. She pulled back the covers and lay down.

“Do you want pajamas?” I asked.

“If I die, I want to die in my clothes, fully dressed,” she said firmly. She took off her glasses and set them on the nightstand.

“Do you want to take out your hearing aids?”

“No, I want to hear when I die,” she said somewhat snarkily.

“Do you want me to stay a while?”

“I don't care.”

I turned out the light and sat on the couch for a bit, wondering if I should stay or go, if she was imminently dying or just sleeping off a bug. I didn't relish the idea of spending the night on her couch. How does one know what to do? Clearly she was taking care of business. Whatever was going on, it wasn't about me.

I found her favorite aide and smoking buddy, Queenie, eating a snack in the activities room.

“After dinner, I asked your mother if she wanted to go outside for a smoke. She said NO!” Queenie sounded as surprised as I was. Mom never turns down an opportunity to go out for a smoke. That is when I knew for sure that all was not well with my maternal parental unit.

I went back to Mom's room and turned off the television. I grabbed her little lantern, turned it on, and edged toward her huddled form on the bed. Was her chest moving? Were her eyes open? If I got too close, would she wake up and freak out? She was a silent lump, but I'm pretty sure I could see movement that looked like breathing. Okay.

Queenie said the aides are supposed to check on each resident every two hours. The way she said it made me think that rarely happens. She said she would leave a note about my mother. I drove home. We'll see what happens. I'll go over there tomorrow and see how she's doing, if she's still alive.

Live long and prosper: Merry ho ho from the Chronic Malcontent

We are cruising toward winter here in the Pacific Northwest. It's dark by 4:30 now. At the care facility where my mother lives, the administrator locks the door at dark to keep the riffraff out. We don't want riffraff getting in and upsetting the old folks. That would be like inviting a fox into the hen house. Every old person is a target, sitting alone, waiting for dinner, waiting for someone to put them to bed. Any bozo could wander in off the street (and has, so my mother says) and create extreme havoc.

Until last week, I've been escorting my mother outside to the smoking area. Queenie, one of the aides, showed me how to set the door so we can get back inside by pressing the disabled paddle. Mom carries her cigarettes and I carry a little LED lantern to help us navigate the dark to the little shelter that covers two plastic chairs. That was our routine for weeks, but last Sunday that all changed.

As I was getting ready to head over there to visit and change her hearing aid batteries, I got a call from the med aide: your mother's fallen and she's on the way to the ER.

“I don't think it's serious,” Debbie said. “She said she fell and hit her back on the chair. I'm sure she'll be back tonight. We'll save her some dinner.”

As I found my shoes and jacket, I thought, oh boy, here we go. This is how it begins. And ends. Except this will be the third time we've done this, so maybe nothing really changes. Maybe I just get more efficient at managing my anxiety.

When I entered the ER, Mom was already there, ensconced in a bed with a blanket over her. She looked pissed. I found a chair and did my best to calm her down.

“I must have missed the chair,” she said in disgust. “I need to use the bathroom.”

After a while, the doctor flung back the curtain and came into the tiny space. He was the same ER doctor she had the last time she was there. She didn't remember, but I recalled the dimples. He got her up on her feet and had her shuffle a few steps. Her eyes were round with fear.

After the doctor gave her a pain pill, a young male tech took her off to x-ray, bed and all, and I went outside to find a cell phone signal so I could call my brother and let him know the scoop. Clouds were dissipating. The super moon was bright in the sky, not quite as large as I expected after hearing everyone rave about it, but it was still a pleasant sight, especially after being in the windowless emergency room.

I went back inside. Eventually she returned, riding the bed like royalty. Some long minutes later, Dr. Dimples came back and said good news, nothing was broken. After a trip to the restroom with a borrowed walker, she was pronounced ready to go home. She agreed to sit in a wheelchair. I rolled her out to the front door and told her to scream bloody murder if anyone bothered her. I ran across the parking lot and brought my car around.

I drove her back to the care facility (three blocks away). I unloaded her at the door and called someone to come and let us in. Mom entered the place like a homecoming queen. People came out to greet her, ask how she was doing. She hung onto my arm as we slowly trudged down the hall to her room, her acolytes trailing behind.

The next evening I visited her just before dinner to see how she was doing. She told me her brain had “slipped another notch.” I wasn't sure what that meant. We went outside to the smoking area. I realized it was the same time she had fallen the day before, and it wasn't even close to being dark. Suddenly I had a sinking feeling I knew what had happened. She didn't miss the chair in the dark. She fainted and fell, hitting the chair on the way down. Why did she faint? Because she most likely had a mini-stroke. After examining her a few days later and hearing my theory, her doctor concurred.

Now, ten days later, I think she's doing better. She's blazing up and down the halls with her walker. She promised her doctor she would use it, and so far she's keeping her promise. She has agreed that she won't go out after dark to smoke without a staff person with her. Cognitively, I think her brain has settled more or less back where it was. She was a little more demented than usual for a few days, but last night she was able to make snide remarks about the Christmas decorations going up at the White House (“You mean those people are volunteers?”), so at least the snarky brain cells are still functioning.

Every time I leave her, I tell her I love her and tell her to stay out of trouble. She laughs. Last night, as I walked to my car, the new motion-sensor lights by the smoking area came on. I looked back. Mom stood in the window, in her tatty red fleece jacket, left hand raised in the Vulcan hand sign for live long and prosper.

Right on, Mom.

Happy Thanksgiving from the Chronic Malcontent

Howdy, Blogbots. Happy Thanksgiving. I hope you are fortunate enough to spend the day doing something you love with people you love.

Here in Portland, it's a balmy 60°F. Windy, yes, and wet ... but warm! In fact, a third day of balminess! In spite of my chronic vertigo, I don't want to miss a minute of this bizarre gift of global climate change. After lunch (actually, breakfast, but who cares?), I dressed in wind-breaking waterproof layers and went for a walk around the big reservoir (0.56 miles around) in Mt. Tabor Park. It's my favorite meditative walk.  Five times around is usually all I can do before my bladder kicks me back up the hill toward home. Sometimes I even run a bit, but not today. I'm tired.

Yesterday the air was calm. The water in the big ponds was still as jello, barely jiggling. The hills and trees and clouds were perfectly replicated in the water. Today, not even close. The water was lively. Leaves flew everywhere. The colony of ducks snoozed on the concrete berm at the water's edge, out of the reach of dogs and children. A few raindrops splattered my glasses but off in the distance some part of the city to the south was enjoying some short-lived sunshine. Typical fall day, except for the balmy temperature.

As I was walking around the reservoir musing about what I'm going to do if I run out of money, an older guy in an overcoat came toward me the other way, pushing a big stroller filled with a wide-eyed toddler under a pink blanket. I smiled at her and kept going. When I passed them again, the man asked me something. I had my earbuds in and he didn't speak loudly, but I could read his lips.

“Is she asleep?” He pointed to the kid in the pram.

I looked at her big round eyes and said, “Nope.”

He winced. I chuckled and kept walking.

The next time around, the kid's eyes were half open. Progress. I don't know what happened after that. It was time for me to head back up the hill. I hope the kid finally fell asleep. I'm sure her grandfather could have used some rest. It's a half-mile around that thing!

Last year, my mother and I went out to her favorite restaurant for Thanksgiving dinner. I'm pretty sure she ate turkey. I'm pretty sure I ate eggs and pancakes. Or maybe that was Christmas. Maybe it was both. I can't remember. It doesn't matter. Now we are in a new era. The era of eating out at restaurants with my mother is over. Now we are in the era of eating alone.

Tonight I will visit my mother at the assisted living place. We will sit outside in the dark smoking area on plastic chairs with a little LED lantern to give us weak light. As she lights up her cigarette, I will ask her if she had turkey today. I'm relatively confident she will be able to tell me. As her brain flakes away, the only thing left to talk about is the food. I can count on her to have something to say. She knows she doesn't like the food, even if she can't remember what she ate.

I guess that sums up my experience of life so far. I can't remember all that much about it, but I know I didn't like it. Eggs and pancakes would probably fill the hole for a little while. Except I only eat pancakes when I go out for holidays with Mom. I've lost my dining partner. Today I'm alone.

The chronic malcontent may be a hothouse flower

My shrimpy maternal parental unit braves the wind, rain, and cold multiple times a day to indulge her nicotine habit. She likes being outside. She's like a wild animal, bundled in five layers of fleece. The bulky sweaters and jackets make her look bigger than she is. Her outer layer is an old red fleece zip-front jacket pockmarked with cigarette-ash craters. When she lights a cigarette, she shields the lighter in the crook of her arm. I asked her if she has ever set herself on fire. She said no. Ha. As if she would tell me if she had.

Yesterday I put on long johns under my wind pants and a second hat over my first hat so I could sit outside with her in the pitch black smoking area. The iron shelter covers two iron-backed chairs (which you have to navigate to mainly by feel) and offers no protection from the sweeping east wind. Mom doesn't seem to care. The need for nicotine outweighs her desire to be warm.

I told her I had been to see my doctor for a checkup. She didn't seem particularly interested so I didn't give her any details. Like how I discovered a blob of toothpaste on my shirt front when the medical assistant was taking my blood pressure. I didn't tell Mom how disconcerting it was to realize that (1) I don't look in the mirror anymore so things like toothpaste blobs go undetected, and (2) that my perceptions have narrowed to the point that I don't notice things like toothpaste blobs anymore. No use telling all that to my mother. She would just roll her eyes. Welcome to my world: Get over it. 

I may have mentioned, my neighbor to the south of me got a girlfriend. She's an enthusiastic, energetic creature. They have a sliding door in their bedroom closet (I'm guessing), and she seems to get a thrill out of opening and closing it. It sounds a bit like someone is sending a bowling ball down a really short alley. Then slam! The door hits the end with a bang. Then she does it again. I think she's probably getting dressed. You know how it is, girls and their closets. My closet has a door, but I don't bother closing it. Half the closet is taken up by two rolled up carpets, removed from my main living area last summer during an effort to reduce fleas and dust. I guess I should get rid of them. But where do I put them? This is the ongoing problem with stuff.

Anyway, I digress. My neighbors have a new noise. It started a week ago. I'm not sure what it is. It sounds like a cement mixer. Between 10 and 11 pm, every night, a rumble begins and doesn't end until morning. You know how a jet sounds when it is taking off from a runway? The Love Shack is about eight miles from the airport. When the windows are open, I can sometimes hear jets taking off and landing. It's a rumbling roar that lasts just a few seconds. Right. Like that. Except my neighbors rumbling roar doesn't stop.

The first night I heard the rumble, I was dumbfounded at how loud it was. The sound reverberated through the floorboards and walls of the entire Love Shack. I put my ear to the wall. Could it really be coming from their bedroom? Yep. How on earth could they sleep with that racket going on? I banged on the wall between our apartments. Of course, that accomplished nothing but sending the cat slinking under the couch.

Every night, the rumble commences around 11 pm news time. I'm aware of it as I watch the news, as I watch Stephen Colbert, as I watch HGTV. I can hear it in my bathroom while I'm taking my before-bed bath. I can't get any further away from it than my bathroom. I can hear it in my bedroom as I'm lying in bed, wishing the damn plane would just land already.

At first I thought it could be a treadmill or some other piece of exercise equipment. But who would run on a treadmill all night? I doubt they actually have a cement mixer in their bedroom, so I'm going to guess that it is some kind of heating device that has a rumbly forced-air motor and the contraption is sitting on the wooden floor. They turn it on to heat their bedroom, and they turn it off when they get up in the morning and go wherever it is they go during the day. The rumble is not present when I get up at my more leisurely hour. Sometime during my sleep cycle, the machine, if that is what it is, is switched off.

Am I a hothouse flower like my mother? I certainly wouldn't want my neighbors to freeze just to preserve my precious silence. Last night I practiced a new tactic: I blessed their relationship and wished them pleasant dreams. Oddly enough, my rage subsided. Funny how that works.

The chronic malcontent receives a challenge

I let a friend read my anonymous blog. The next time I saw her she said, “I have a challenge for you.” I thought she was going to ask me how to cook an artichoke or replace a plastic wheel cover, but no such luck. “I challenge you to write a blog post about the opposite of the chronic malcontent.”

I gaped at her. What would that be? Would that be my ridiculously happy inner optimist? She seemed awfully certain such a persona bubbled somewhere inside me. My brain instantly fried at the idea.

I'm sure as I gaped I rolled my eyes. Although I've sought spiritual help for that particular character flaw, my eye-rolling habit hasn't eased up much, probably because eye-rolling expresses so eloquently what I am so often thinking and feeling without my having to say a word. “I'll give it some thought,” I said, not willing to promise something I couldn't deliver.

I didn't want to admit I've worked hard over the years to erase my inner optimist. As a founding member of Optimists Anonymous, I can claim many years of continuous abstinence from optimism. Like all members of Opt-Anon, I've trained myself to look only on the dark side. I sing only dirges, if I sing at all. Mostly I just moan. I admit, sometimes I smile. But I'm crying on the inside.

We've got a lot to cry about these days. Lately, I bury my nose in my cat's fur and groan. What's my problem? For once, it isn't about me. I want to know, how can optimism cure the illnesses of the world?

I have deep sadness for all the people who suffer everywhere, too many to name. I'm sure you do too. Tragedy isn't about optimism or pessimism. How I feel affects nothing. I weep at the photos of California burning. I moan at stories of Puerto Ricans dying from lack of clean water. I gnash my teeth and wail at the photos of Rohingya women whose children have been snatched from their arms and thrown alive into fires. It is all too clear, life sucks and then we die.

I want to move to a village of women, surrounded by a wall of thorns, preferably somewhere with affordable health insurance and endless sunshine. I might be willing to blow my Opt-Anon program to sing and dance with my arms waving free. I might even take my top off, who knows, and help with child care.

The end feels near, but quietly near: I expect to go out with a whimper, not a bang. Apocalypses are for dramatic people. Us bland folks just wither, shrivel, and blow away with civilization's dusty hair balls. Meanwhile, I keep my head down and trudge the road of malcontented destiny. It doesn't matter how we feel, people. Nobody cares what we think. It's all about action. Gotta keep on truckin' til it's over.

The chronic malcontent feng shuis the crap out of her desk

You know things are heading south when feng shui-ing your desk seems like a solution. Today as I was avoiding writing an article I'm not sure how to start, I ran across a video by a blonde white woman who wanted to feng shui her desk so she could be more productive. I thought, Hey, I want to be more productive. Is that all I need to do, feng shui my desk? What the hell is feng shui, anyway?

As I started writing this post, I suddenly wondered, Hey, have I already written about this? I did a quick search on my blog, and sure enough, back in 2013 when I was whining about waiting for my Chair to tell me to resubmit my wretched massive tome for the umpteenth time, I wrote about feng shui-ing the Love Shack. Did it work? I finished the dissertation, if that means anything.

This time, I just want to write a short article. Maybe I don't have to do the whole place. I'm thinking just my desk. Like the rest of the place, my desk is swamped with clutter and detritus. Sticky notes, toothpicks, half-empty ballpoint pens, used tissues, unfiled papers... Is it hampering my productivity? Probably. I will apply feng shui principles to fix my desk qi. Chi. Whatever.

Where do I start? I guess with the Bagua. Okay. I'm imagining my desk divided into nine quadrants. Tic tac toe. Right ahead of me is the career quadrant. What do I see there? My keyboard. The color for this quadrant apparently should be black. My keyboard is black! Right on, sister. I'm feeling more energetic already. What's next? The lower right quadrant is for attracting helpful people and travel. Hmmm. Right now, that quadrant is occupied by my desktop scanner and a beat up cardboard box of pens, sticky notes, highlighters, and binder clips. What does this mean? Maybe that I'll soon be traveling to the office supply store for more paper clips and tape? No doubt that is where the helpful people will be found.

The next quadrant is for creativity. Uh-oh. Another box placed to control the clutter, this one larger, made of clear plastic. This box corrals my mother's checkbook, my digital camera, postcards I never sent advertising my book, and miscellaneous pamphlets. Maybe with the exception of my camera, I don't see a whole lot of creativity going on in this quadrant.

The upper right quadrant should have something pink, for attracting love. I'm not seeing any pink. This is where I keep my receipts, stacked up on a dinky chest of drawers that holds stamps, erasers, and other miscellaneous office supplies. Behind the chest are the local phone books. Every year I get new phone books. I use them once or twice a year, but I can't say I love these phone books. No love going on here that I can see. Well, my mother's receipts are stacked next to mine. Maybe that is evidence of love.

In the upper middle quadrant, we have fame. The color for fame is red, and this is where the light should be placed. Yay, this is where my clip-on gooseneck lamp leans out over my computer monitor. Finally, something in the right place. But my lamp is black, not red. Darn it. Maybe I should change the bulb out for a red bulb? That would be creepy. Can't see how that would bring me fame, but who knows how this feng shui stuff works. Maybe I need to be willing to work by eerie red lamp light in order to become famous. Do I want fame? Maybe not that much.

The upper left quadrant is for wealth. Gold, purple, green... nope, I see the monster black tower of my computer's processor, taking up the entire quadrant. I guess I could call it a wealth black hole... I recently upgraded my computer's brain. It runs much faster now, but I am somewhat poorer. Maybe I can line up some gold trinkets along the top of the box, that might help.

The middle left quadrant is for family. Half of my printer takes up that entire space. My cordless phone sits there too, my lifeline to family. Okay! Color should be green. Sigh. Moving on. The lower left quadrant is for knowledge. The rest of my printer takes up that space, and no, it is neither green nor blue, it's black. But it prints in blue or green on a good day, does that count?

Finally, the middle quadrant is reserved for health. My computer monitor sits solidly in that space. Where else would I put it? The color should be yellow or earth tones. Once again, I fail. My monitor is black, although it can show yellow and earth tones, on occasion. It's just black around the edges, right? Do they even make yellow monitors? I know, I can arrange a bunch of yellow sticky notes around the edge, like a frame. That oughta do it.

I'm feeling a bit disappointed that my desk isn't easily feng shui-able, until I remember, hey, feng shui is magic! I don't have to see these colors to make them fix my qi. I can tape colored paper under each quadrant, under my desk! I know, how cool is that! It's kind of like think and grow rich! Do what you love and the money will follow! Visualize world peace! We all know those work like a charm. Just knowing the colors are there is apparently enough. It's like taking vitamins. it's all about faith.

Okay. Did feng shui-ing my desk work? Do I feel more energized? Am I more productive? Hey, I wrote a blog post, does that count? What about that article, you say? Well, it's lunchtime. I'm hungry. The sun is shining. I need to get my laundry out of the dryer. Maybe I'll take a nap. Maybe feng shui takes some time to work. Oh wait, I forgot. I need to clap my hands in all the corners of the room to dispel negative qi. Back in a moment.

Okay. Wow, suddenly I feel so tired. Too much sorrow, too much feng shui. Exit, stage right.

The chronic malcontent visualizes whirled peas

Howdy, Blogbots. How's it going? Are we there yet? Where's there? I mean, have we made it to hell yet? Sure feels like we'll be there soon, the way things are going.

My tiny parched brain doesn't know what to think anymore. I've given up thinking. Thinking is highly overrated. Even a worm can think. I think. I've decided thinking gets me nowhere. I'm done with feeling too, have I mentioned that? No more feelings. Thinking and feeling, I'm done.

What's left? Besides sitting like a blob in front of Facebook? Well, thanks for asking. These days my new diet is action. For example, today I went for a walk in the park for a half hour. I would have gone further, but my toe hurts. Guess I haven't managed to stop feeling completely. Darn it.

Yesterday I took my computer to be upgraded with a new hard drive. I tried not to feel anything as I dropped off my baby (a heavy, bulky, black desktop tower) at a computer repair outfit in North Portland. Withdrawals set in on the drive home. Within an hour, I was feeling a lot of feelings. Anxiety and fear, mostly, as I imagined that the computer repair guy (who seemed like a perfectly nice young man) had downloaded all my data and would soon be draining my bank accounts.

Today I picked up the upgraded computer. He showed me how fast it was before he unplugged it from his shop monitor. I didn't hear much; I was mesmerized by the image of my sister's smiling face on the screen. My desktop wallpaper is set to show photos. I have many thousands of photos. I felt a bit like I'd taken off my clothes in public and pranced around naked. No, I have no naked pictures on my computer, it's not that. It just felt like a weird invasion to see my private family photos on the computer geek's monitor.

The old hard drive remains in the belly of the beast, a ghost frozen in a moment in time, available in case this new solid state hard drive fails. My life as of yesterday, encased in amber, as it were.

Summer swept back into town today with the east wind. The recent rains reined in the Eagle Creek Fire somewhat, so I smell no smoke on the air today. So lovely. I get why people move here. Tomorrow we'll have one more day of lovely warm breezy summer air, and then the rains will return. Back down into our burrows we'll go. I get why people leave this town after a few winters.

I brought the demented scrawny maternal parental unit some gluten-free chocolate chip cookies. That made her smile. I hope they don't tear up her innards. She's been doing better in the diarrhea department, thanks for asking. Next week she has a dental appointment to get her six teeth cleaned. We discussed underpants strategy. It's odd to talk diapers with my mother. I don't mind if I say something stupid like everything will be fine, because I know she'll forget it in five minutes.

My neighbor, a quiet young man named Everett, got a girlfriend. Lindsey is not quiet. She's a door slammer. She's not angry. She's just active. Maybe I can learn from Lindsey—action is my new magic word, after all. Although stomping isn't really my thing. Still, I can tell by the way she lets her closet door slam that she's a liberated spirit. I want to be a liberated spirit. I'm not sure what that entails, but it sounds like fun. I wonder if Lindsey does much thinking and feeling. A couple weeks ago, as I was walking back from the park I noticed she had left her house keys in her front door. I politely knocked and pointed out the keys hanging from the doorknob. Then I introduced myself. That is how I know her name. Otherwise we probably would never have met. I hear her slam doors and stomp around, but I never see her. She's a noisy ghost.

I finally bought a new keyboard. The old one was full of cat hair and detritus. The spacebar often got stuck, which is not great for accurate editing. I replaced it with a cheap one, like the cheap one I had. The only difference is, I left the new keyboard in the plastic cover. Ha. I know you can buy keyboard covers, and if this thing falls apart, I guess I'll get one. Meanwhile, I'm typing on plastic. It's got a distinctive plat plat sound. Since I got it, I can see the dents over the keys I use the most. That spacebar really gets a workout. And the C and V keys. Probably copy and paste. And the D key for some reason. Don't know what that is all about. The main problem with typing on plastic is the shine. I can't see the keys. On the best of days, I'm not a great keyboarder. Sometimes I just shut my eyes and type. Remember, it's all about action, Blogbots.

The chronic malcontent can't breathe

The wind turned again and brought the pall of smoke from the Eagle Creek Fire back to Portland. Last night the smell of smoke woke me. I got up and closed the windows I could reach in the dark. I feel sick imagining that I'm breathing the ashes of dead animals and burned up trees. It's beyond campfire smell. This is the smell of running for your life. This is the smell of the end of days. My chest is heavy. My sinuses are clogged. I want to throw open the windows to bring in some fresh air, but the air is cutting up my throat.

Good news, rain is on the way. Tomorrow with any luck, a bit of rain will wash the smoke out of Portland skies and start to tamp down the fire that rages 40 miles away. So far, over 40,000 acres have burned—not the biggest wildfire in the state, but certainly the one with the stupidest origin: fireworks set off by an oblivious self-centered teen. The fire has burned a few structures, a couple homes, shut down the highway for days, and forced hundreds of people to evacuate their pets and livestock. Right now, the fire is about 35% contained.

Bad news, the rain will drench hillsides barren of any growth, and all those dead trees and debris will slide down the steep hillsides to end up in creeks and across roads. I hope not in anyone's backyard, but gravity does what it will.

Meanwhile, life goes on, despite the disasters, natural and human-caused, that seem to pick at my fragile serenity. It's always some damn thing, isn't it? The airbag light won't go off. Sleekly sluggish giant rats come to feed at my bird feeder (can we say Lyme Disease?). My mother's diarrhea plague persists. The new wheelcover (replacing the one broken by the tire company when they sold me new tires) rubs against my wheel, click, click, click. My computer glasses no longer quite work because my arms got shorter or something. Dang it.

The poorly paying editing jobs stack up like planes circling Laguardia. The keyboard space bar sticks because of all the cat hair under the keys. One of my molars repeatedly shudders at cold or hot, bringing up visions of root canals and crowns. That's just stuff in my tiny parched world. Expand the lens out a few hundred feet and it's enough to make a person want to move to Mexico.

In fact, if things keep going here the way they've been going, I wouldn't be surprised to see the trickle of ex-pats moving south become a full torrent of people seeking asylum from Make America Great Again. The place is getting a little too damn great for me.

Oh, poor me, I live in the richest country on earth. Poor me. Of course, I'm not rich, but somewhere here, there are rich people, I'm pretty sure. I don't happen to know any, but I'm sure they are around somewhere. Not that they would do anything for me if they saw me on the street with my hand out, but I'm sure they donate to good causes. I get solicitor calls all the time for a woman who lives on the west side of town who happens to share my name. Somehow my phone number got attached to her address. I know she donates to many good causes. Good people are out there. Even though I'm pretty sure she also voted for Trump.                 Dang it, there goes the space bar again. Hold on, I gotta hit it to make it stop adding extra spaces. There.

I'd like to take a deep breath and start the day over, but the air in here is just a bit smoky. I hope when I wake tomorrow, the rain is pouring and the smoke is gone. I hope we all find freedom from suffering and the flies finally abandon my kitchen. I hope my airbag light magically goes off and I can go for a walk in the rain.

A cluster f--k of cluster flies

Howdy, Blogbots. What's new? Yesterday I dropped by my mother's former condo to tell the new owners where they could find the remote device for the garage door (hidden above the kitchen sink to thwart would-be garage burglars). I met the middle-aged son of the old folks who bought the place. Standing on the back patio, peering into the interior, I saw an old gentleman sitting on a folding chair in the kitchen. It was awkward and weird to see strangers in my mother's home. As I stood there, I remembered all the stuff my brother and I moved, gave away, and donated—the armchairs, the end tables, the kitchen table, the dishes—to clear that space and make way for a new family.

I hope the new owners will be happy there. I hope I never have to see that condo again. I almost left them my phone number—I had it on a card, in my hand. I saw the son notice the card. Something held me back. My desire to be helpful warred with my desire to be done with the whole thing. Just a bad dream. It never happened.

Meanwhile, the money is in the bank, my mother is waiting for the end of the world at the assisted living place, the spacebar on my keyboard is sticky, and I need to figure out how to live in the present. Same old.

I went for a walk in a rustic sprawling nature park with Bravadita. She's an unemployed cranky cancer survivor and I'm waiting for my mother to die so my life can begin. You can imagine how our conversations went as we plodded along dusty trails under hot sun. She complained about her roommate. I complained about my mother. Did we figure anything out? Pretty much, life sucks and then you die.

Yesterday evening I pulled all my scrap lumber out from behind my bedroom door. You might wonder why I have lumber in my bedroom. You mean, you don't? Well, I build stuff sometimes. Over the years, I've built a couch. I built some tables. I built some shelves. I built my cat a window seat so he could look out the bathroom window. That window seat fell down a few weeks ago. Hey, I said I build things, I didn't say I was a good carpenter. Whenever I build stuff, I understand why a former carpenter boyfriend was so angry all the time.

A few days ago, I built a new window seat for the cat. Compared to the old window seat, this arrangement is sleek and elegant. Just unpainted wood that I can take apart and recycle when we move out of the Love Shack. The cat seemed pretty happy to have his perch back. I felt good that I used some of my scrap lumber. Reuse, recycle.

So now I'm looking at the random piles of mdf, plywood scraps, 1 x 2s, a few 4-foot shelves, and one solitary 8-foot 2 x 4, all stacked around my living room. I'm amazed I was able to fit this much wood behind my bedroom door. My brother is supposed to come over today and haul it away. I'm not sure where he plans to take it. I sort of don't want to know. I just called him to remind him of the plan. He was watching TV. I'm skeptical he will feel like motivating in this heat.

I found some old paintings I did in 2001. I felt bleak and unhappy when I looked at them, so I covered them with white primer. I will give the boards away to some aspiring artist, along with some fancy paper, Bristol board, acrylic paint, and miscellaneous art supplies. I'm letting go of the past to make room for the future. Tra la la.

My sister visited Portland for 11 days. She stayed with me in the Love Shack. It was an experiment to see if we could possibly stand to be roommates when we are old. Unfortunately, Portland was sweltering under a heat wave, and I have no air conditioning, only a ceiling fan to stir up the hot air. She wilts in the heat. We spent a couple days at the mall, walking around looking at stuff. I like the heat, mostly, although 107° F was pretty warm, even for me.

I'm sure my sister won't move to Tucson to live with me when we are in our 80s. It's unlikely I'll be willing to move to anyplace that gets snow and ice in winter. Seems like Portugal might be a good compromise.

My sister helped me organize some of the stuff in my apartment. Under cover of darkness, we dragged out to the curb a heavy coffee table (yes, that I had built) that was taking up space under a table in my bedroom (so much stuff in my bedroom!). The coffee table was dark green, with wheels, and a built-in fish pond, I kid you not. Yep, a fish pond. Or you could plant succulents in it, very versatile. I was anxious that the thing would remain unclaimed for days and I would have to pay to have it hauled away. Happily, the table was gone early the next day. Now I know my curb is a black hole into which I can jettison other items I don't want. Very handy, living on the busiest bus route in the city.

The air is smoke-filled today because of wildfires burning in the state. Hot air and smoke is not good, but neither is 40 inches of rain and 130 mph winds. I'm feeling for the Texas gulf coast right now.

During the heat, I've had a problem with flies, not regular house flies, but particularly big, slow, noisy, intrusive flies called cluster flies, so-called because they congregate in clusters. I don't see them clustering, except after they are dead, shot out of the air with an alcohol mist. So cool and refreshing. Cluster flies (or any flies, or ants or spiders) don't care much for being sprayed with alcohol. Every time I spray a huge fly and watch it die in the bathtub, I feel a bit of my residual good karma peeling away. No doubt I will reincarnate as a cluster fly.

Only blogbots visit my blog these days. And my sister. And Bravadita. My blog heyday is past: my viewership is bumping along the bottom. I've lost the focus. I'm in waiting mode. I can only complain about being in waiting mode for so long. And nobody cares anyway. The days are punctuated with blips of energy: selling the condo, hosting my sister, seeing the eclipse. I dream of moving to the desert, as if I will be a different person after I move. I've done enough geographicals to know that wherever I go, there I am. I take all my quirks and foibles with me.

My new philosophy is to pare my life to the bone. Simplify everything. Discard irrelevance—furniture, dishes, books, art, clothing, thoughts, feelings. My future happiness lies in taking action. Don't think much, don't feel anything, just take action. Action is how change happens. I can't think my way out of life. I can't think my way to success—clearly, or I would have done it by now. No, thinking is highly overrated. And who needs feelings, they just get in the way. Feelings just block me from taking action. I'm jettisoning all my human weakness to emulate robothood. We'll see how that goes. It got the lumber out of my bedroom, so maybe it's starting to work. I'll keep you posted, Blogbots.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Nothing left to lose

Yesterday as I was watering the wilting mini-roses at my mother's condo garden, I thought about how I would like to die, if I have a choice. Not too many people get to choose the time and place of their demise. I doubt I'll be the exception. Still, it doesn't hurt to set some parameters. For instance, if I knew I would end up in a nursing home where there's no Internet and nothing but gummy string beans to eat with my parboiled chicken, I would definitely opt out.

My mother isn't dead, but wishes she were. “I'm no use to anyone,” she said. “I don't know why I'm still alive. I'd rather be dead.”

I have mixed reactions when she says things like that. My inner two-year-old wants to scream, No, you can't die! Who will take care of me? My terrified inner demon wants to find the nearest cliff to shove her over (the longer she lives, the less money she'll leave behind). My inner adult wants to treasure every precious moment with my scrawny maternal parental unit. I could be wrong, but I sense she is winding down toward the end. I try not to think about it. I don't want to feel my grief yet.

It's strange to watch her decay. The river of life was carrying her along, and she was staying afloat, more or less, until about six months ago. She knew her mind was eroding; hence, the move to the retirement center in early April. In the past few months, she's grown increasingly fragile, like a little boat made of twigs and sticks. The current is moving as fast as ever, but her vintage craft is listing and taking on water, coming apart at the seams. It's her brain, mostly, that is disintegrating, although her body is weakening too.

She may yet surprise me. Somehow despite intermittent uncontrollable diarrhea attacks, she's managed to gain two pounds since she moved into the retirement center. I don't know where she put them, she's as skinny as ever. We are all applauding her, clapping her on the back (gently), congratulating her achievement. (I wish people would do that for me.) It is pretty great that she's gained some weight. But at what cost, I wonder? No dairy, no wheat, no coffee, no orange juice... no cherry pie. No wonder she feels like life is not worth living.

Tonight I met my brother over at her apartment to meet with the real estate agent and go over the two offers that came in on my mother's condo. I know nothing about real estate, but I managed to glean some knowledge after Googling prepaids, reserves, and closing costs. I don't think the real estate agent knows much more than I do. My brother bought a house about twenty years ago, so I consider him the expert. My mother's formerly extensive knowledge has gone to that great landfill in the sky. She sat passively on the end of the couch while the real estate agent, my brother, and I discussed the merits of the two offers.

I hope the Universe treats my mother gently as she goes down with her ship. That is what I want for me. I don't have the funds to move into a fancy place like Mom's retirement home. I doubt if Medicaid will be there for me should I need it. So my alternative is to die in place, wherever that may be. Apartment, motorhome, sidewalk, park bench. I will attempt to make sure my footprint is super small and easy to toss in the trash for whoever finds me, if I haven't lost all my marbles before then.

The chronic malcontent takes a vacation

I took a weekend off and visited Albuquerque, NM, for a reunion with some friends. Traveling was sufficiently stressful to distract me from the miasma of my normal life. I got to think about something other than my mother's diarrhea. Instead, I pondered airports, security lines, screaming babies, irate travelers, hotel pillows, and yummy but indigestible food. All in all, it was great to get away, even though it will take three days to recuperate from the trip. Worth it!

On Sunday, two planes, a train, and a bus later, I walked into my apartment, which smelled like mold and neglected cat. On Sunday, Portland was just starting a far-too-short heat wave. I threw open the windows and reveled in the warm air. My cat lolled on his blue cotton rug, ecstatic at my return, showing me (almost) unconditional affection in exchange for tummy rubs. It doesn't get much better than that.

Today the temperature dropped 30 degrees, compared to yesterday. My feet are freezing. If I close my eyes, I can just barely conjure the feeling of the plush hotel pillows, the smooth sheets, the sound of the pesky fan that intermittently shattered the silence. My vacation memories are receding quickly into the past, muscled aside by the demands of the maternal parental unit.

I visited my mother on Sunday evening. We are developing a ritual. I show up just after dinner (they call it supper at the assisted living place). Mom is either sitting outside in the smoking hut or stretched out on the couch, watching television. On Sunday, she brought me up to date on the state of her bowels.

The blue skies of Albuquerque were fading fast in my mind as I listened to my mother's tale of intestinal woe. We discussed the menu. She couldn't remember what she had eaten for lunch. I asked if she'd eaten anything the night before. She couldn't tell me. I'm pretty sure her late night snacking wasn't helping.

“We won't be able to figure out if certain foods are causing this diarrhea problem if you are eating all this junk,” I said, looking at the cookies and crackers in my mother's cupboards and fridge.

“I know,” she said. She agrees with everything I say these days. Sometimes I see a look on her face that indicates she may be hearing a foreign language coming out of my mouth.

On Monday morning, she called me.

“It was bad today,” she said morosely. I knew what it referred to.

“I'm coming over tonight,” I said. “That's it. No more dairy. No more wheat. No more junk food.”

That evening, I raided my mother's cupboards and fridge. I took everything except two boxes of saltine crackers, which I placed on a shelf high beyond the reach of her skinny bent fingers. I took her Mint Milano cookies. I took her generic cheerios and rice krispies. I took her chocolate muffins. I took the crackers that her friend Tiny had given her, and the lactose-free yogurt. I took the graham crackers. And I took the last bit of her cherry pie that had been sitting on her counter for two weeks.

I packed all the food in two bags and put it in my car.  Then I went to the store and bought gluten-free bread and Cheerios (the real thing), gluten-free wheat-free crackers, some vegan substitute butter, some frozen fruit popsicles (with no high fructose corn syrup), and two bananas. I took it all back to Mom's apartment and unloaded the loot.

We took the Cheerios and bread down to the dining room where residents can use a big refrigerator to store things. Mom already keeps her rice milk there.

The night cook was cleaning up after the evening meal. She saw the box of Cheerios and said, “Don't put that in there. It goes here.”

Finally we got everything stowed. Mom collapsed on the couch, worn out from the walk.

I went home, tossed the pie, and saved the cereal for the birds, squirrels, and rats. I ate the crackers for dinner. I stored the Mint Milanos into my own refrigerator. After one day of eating Mint Milanos, I gathered up all the cookies and muffins, put them in a trash bag, and walked them out to the big garbage can. Thank god I'm not so far gone I will dig in the trash for Mint Milanos. But I confess, it did cross my mind. I'm a little stressed out.

I have this recurring fear that my mother and I will end up in adjoining rooms in some linoleum-floored Medicaid facility far from friends and family, slobbering into bibs, unable to recognize each other. And the food will be parboiled crap, full of gluten and sugar. And I won't be able to protest.

The vertigo scrapes the inside of my head constantly. Tomorrow I am taking Mom to the doctor. I fear I will fail to tell him everything that needs to be said, because I can't remember things anymore. Being a caregiver is hard. A weekend vacation isn't enough. I can't imagine how parents do this everyday for 18 (or more) years. All I can say is, It's a good thing I never had kids.

Getting down and dirty with the Chronic Malcontent

My maternal parental unit has got the squits. Ever since she moved to to the retirement community, she's been plagued with explosive . . . well, gosh, I don't know how else to say it. Diarrhea. There, I said it.

Few things are funnier than the human digestive process, but when it's your scrawny stick of a mother whose 87-year-old sphincter can no longer hold back the surging tide, well, it's not quite as funny anymore. My nose scrunches as I write this.

I visit her every other day, usually right after lunch or dinner. I walk out to the smoking area with her, and walk back inside with her as she hustles to make it to her toilet. Last night we made the trip twice before her stomach would let her settle and enjoy her cigarette.

I make feeble jokes to lighten her mood. She's bored. She wants to go for a ride, but no way am I letting her get in my car. I try to persuade her to consider wearing adult diapers (she isn't against it, she just forgets).

A couple weeks ago, I got a call from Nurse Katy: “Your mother had a fall. She's headed to the hospital in an ambulance right now.” Mom had passed out and ended up on the floor outside her bathroom with her pants around her knees. That is the way she was brought into the emergency room, half-naked with a flowered sheet wrapped around her tiny skeleton.

As stints in the ER go, it wasn't bad. The techs and nurses were patient and kind. By the time Mom had some fluids in her, she was feeling better. She motored to the bathroom three times using a walker, head down, hospital gown flapping in her wake. Three hours later, she walked out under her own steam, wearing little orange skid-proof socks they give people in the ER who have somehow managed to arrive with no shoes. The tech said, “So long, Slugger.”

Since then, we've been doing tests, trying to figure out why the food she eats runs straight through her. Well, when I say we, I mean, she poops in a bucket and the staff at the retirement place send it to a lab, where some poor schmuck (probably a graduate of the healthcare program offered by the barely functional for-profit vocational college I used to work for) pokes around in the poop, looking for the pony (germs). I don't know, I'm guessing.

The lab tests came back negative. No pony.

My brother, who has lately been experiencing some diarrhea of his own, blames it on “a bug” going around. How Mom managed to get the bug when none of her neighbors have is a stretch, but whatever. We all have our theories. My brother's is a bug. I blame the food. After my five-year slow-motion train wreck with Dr. Tony the Naturopath, it is understandable I might see food as both the culprit and the remedy.

The only person who has no theory is my mother.

She can complain of feeling bad, but she can't form a theory or undertake a regimen to address the problem. That mother is gone. In her place is this new mother who lives completely in the moment (or sometimes in the past). Thoughts are heavy things to carry into the future. She prefers to leave them behind. She's like my cat. Whatever is happening right now is her reality. Don't they say we should all try to live more in the moment? Instead of trying to live for a better past or trying to control the future? So Zen. Who knew all you need is dementia!

Happy Earth Day from the Chronic Malcontent

As a long-practicing dermatillomaniac, I assess my mental state by how many raw open bloody wounds festoon my cuticles on any given day. A few nights ago I noticed all ten of my fingertips were devoid of wounds. I was astounded. The pressure was apparently too much; the next day I counted six open wounds and two hangnails I hadn't yet been able to yank. Sigh. As my cuticles go, there goes my serenity.

Why am I so anxious? Thanks for asking. As a self-described chronic malcontent, I always have a tenuous relationship with relaxation, peace, and serenity. My normal state is morose discontented fretfulness, as evidenced by the deep vertical furrow between my eyebrows. (Today I met a man who has a matching brow furrow! I didn't say anything to him about it, of course, but I felt better, somehow, knowing I'm not the only one who wears a sure sign of malcontentedness for everyone to see.) Anyway, fretful anxiety is my default state.

The past two weeks have been unusually unsettling. First, we've had one day of sun to five days of rain. Portland is waterlogged. Not flooding, just saturated. Sun breaks happen, and I turn toward them like the hothouse flower I am, but within minutes the clouds roll back in and it's pouring. We had a crap winter—way more snow and ice than usual, and so far spring has been wetter and cooler than average. I dream of Arizona daily.

Second, my maternal parental unit chose an assisted living place to move into, and thus on April 7 we made it happen, me, my brother, and two hired movers—professionals who had all the equipment, a fancy truck, and knew what they were doing (minimum charge $300). I arranged the furniture, hung the paintings and photographs. I got a senior-friendly microwave. I built her a dinky round wood-top table to replace her kitchen table so she would have someplace to eat her Cheerios. I'm still fetching things from the condo. Today it was gardening tools.

Her brain works intermittently. She has had a few good days. One day last week, she said she took a shower and only sprayed the aide once. We had a good laugh at that. I brought her some of her old sheet music (stored at my house for the past year) and she tentatively picked out some tunes on the grand piano in the common room. I sat with her in the outdoor smoking area, talking about nothing in particular, as rain drops fell on the rhodies behind us. The air smelled like spring (as long as I was upwind).

Most of the time, though, my mother is depressed and cranky at losing her independence, even though it was her idea. She knows she can't get mad at me, because then who would fetch her cigarettes, but I can tell she sure would like to get some resentment off her chest. I'm the one that sent her to that prison. She hates the food; she can't figure out the schedule; everything is in the wrong place... she copes by going to bed. I don't think a whole lotta gardening will be going on, but she's got her clippers now, just in case. I hope I don't hear any complaints about Mom whacking the rose bushes.

Third, last week, my cat's eye got infected, and now we have the thrice daily ritual of me trying to hold his twisty body still for the few seconds I need to rub ointment on his cheek in the general vicinity of his eye. It's a battle I'm not winning, but his eye is looking much better, so some of the goop must be finding the mark. I call him Squint Eastwood. I'm just grateful I don't have to give him a pill. If you have ever tried to pill a cat, you know what I mean.

A few days ago, I went for a walk around the Mt. Tabor reservoirs (.56 of a mile in circumference). The walk started out sunny, ended up rainy, ho hum, what's new. Someone had dragged an old well-used black leather office chair up the path to the reservoir and left it there in the walkway, where runners and walkers detoured around it. Maybe whoever donated it to the park thought people would like to sit there to watch the sun go down beyond the hills. Ha. Joke. What sun?

I walked past the chair a few times as I made my circuit, hunkered in my rain gear, watching it get wet. On my fifth circuit, the rain was pelting down and no one was nearby, so I grabbed that old chair and dragged it to a spot next to a park bench. I felt quite satisfied as I walked around the reservoirs one more time. I felt I had beaten back a tiny bit of the chaos, now that the seating was arranged to my liking. I hope no one saw me indulging my inner OCD tyrant.

As I was driving to my meeting today in my fossil-fuel burning car and remembering picking up trash in front of my elementary school on the first Earth Day in 1970, I thought about how hellish old age really is. People don't talk about it much. People don't talk about the food that goes through you so fast you don't have time to make it to the bathroom before it's dripping down your leg. Nobody wants to think about how it feels to see your contemporaries pushing wheelchairs and walkers up and down the hallways, heads bent, eyes dull. In the morning, you hear the hollering of Bingo numbers from the activities room. In the evening, you hear the droning of prayers over the dying woman in the room next door. You hear the chatter of the aides (the jailers) swooping by in their colorful scrubs, and for a moment you think, what weird hotel is this place? Then you remember, this isn't a hotel. This is where you go to die.

I am becoming more and more certain that if I am able to make the decision and execute it, I will opt out sooner not later, rather than wait until it's too late. I don't want to end up warehoused in a barracks for old people. Sure, maybe I would have some of my furniture and pictures around me—my Mom's place looks strangely familiar with her old flowered couch and chair, but you can't fool her. It's still a prison, and she knows it.

Don't jump

Howdy, blogbots. I'm taking time out of stressing about my mother's impending move to assisted living to reflect on my morning adventure. Today I took a bus downtown for a SCORE workshop on social media marketing. I signed up over a month ago, not realizing it would happen in the middle of one of the more hectic weeks in my life. But I have trained myself to show up to the tasks on my calendar. So off to town I went.

I think the bus driver was new. He meandered sedately from stop to stop, easing the bus to the curb with care. He greeted every passenger with a bright Good morning! Traffic was bottlenecked at a construction mess around SE 33rd. The driver inched the bus between parked cars and oncoming trucks. At any moment, I expected to hear the side of the bus take off a parked car's left-side mirror. I held my breath until we came out the other side. At 12th, the bus driver traded places with a new driver, who adjusted his seat and mirrors and took off in a roaring cloud of dust. I guess we might have been running a few minutes late.

The bus filled up as we headed toward town. I enjoyed the view from my window seat. No rain today, yay, but not much sun either. Just a sky of hazy white clouds, the kind with the capacity to surprise: burn off to clear blue sky or sprinkle rain all day. Traffic slowed as we neared the Hawthorne Bridge. Trucks and buses haven't been able to cross the Morrison Bridge for a few years because the deck is crumbling. This summer, our city plans to fix the mess, so as of April 1, most car traffic is now diverted to the Hawthorne Bridge until next fall. As you can imagine, there was quite a traffic jam.

The bus crept across the bridge. I had a great view of the boats moored along the river's edge. I wondered what kind of people could afford the condos built along the river. I wondered how many people have been living on their boats since the housing crash in 2008. The river was calm but murky. March was the fourth wettest month on record, so the rivers are all running high.

Suddenly I heard several passengers' crying, "No, oh no, oh no, no, no!" People along the right side of the bus began energetically popping up in their seats. I was on the left side of the bus. I thought, is a bicyclist trapped? A pedestrian fallen in the road? What is happening?

The bus driver stopped the bus. "Open the door!" Some passengers pounded on the back door. They burst out the door and then I watched through the window as they grabbed a man who was attempting to climb over the railing of the bridge. One rescuer grabbed the man in a bear hug, and I caught a glimpse of a face—red cheeks, grizzled chin. I thought I saw shame and chagrin. The man twisted away from the men who were attempting to restrain him and marched unsteadily along the bridge sidewalk toward the pedestrian off ramp.

Meanwhile, multiple people were calling 911 on their cellphones to report a suicidal man on the Hawthorne Bridge.

Eventually the bus continued into downtown. I got off at the next stop and hiked up to the Courthouse at SW 6th and Main for the workshop, which was pretty much a dud for me personally. I will probably forget to blog about it, so in case you are curious, here are the highlights: no breakfast, no coffee, memorable bus ride, old courthouse, three attendees, no refreshments, obese presenter obsessed with food, mediocre PowerPoint, sales pitch for Constant Contact, ended ten minutes early, caught bus, home by noon.

The real story (besides the suicidal man) is how I could take a morning off from the job of orchestrating my mother's move to assisted living. Like I said, I do what is on my calendar. I signed up for this workshop over a month ago, long before we found the facility and started preparations to move.

Last night Mom's brain was mush. She'd stayed up to 3 am going through stuff to keep and sell in a yard sale. She was barely coherent when I brought her six more empty boxes. I was worried. Taking a morning off seemed a bit irresponsible, but hell. I can't manage my mother's brain. This morning I called her and she sounded much better. I guess she got some sleep and ate some food. I am hopeful that she'll survive this move and thrive in the new place. Stay tuned.

#where'sthebarf?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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