Just another day in the end of a life

I pay attention to current events. Today the world avidly watches the Thai boys' rescue and the World Cup soccer matches. I don't care much about soccer (don't tell my English cousins), but I am rooting for those boys to survive their harrowing ordeal in the flooded caves. Last week I told my mother about their predicament and then wished I hadn't. Then I realized, odds are, she won't remember the story. Sure enough, when I told her today that four boys had been rescued safely, she looked at me blankly and I had to describe their plight all over again. Lesson learned: No current events for Mom.

Sometimes she surprises me, though. When I visit every evening, she's almost always got some HGTV program on her TV. She rarely sees the news. Still, last week Mom told her smoking buddy Jane about the effects of the Trump administration's "zero tolerance policy" on little Latino kids; she sounded like she knew what she was talking about. It's funny to see two tiny old ladies get righteously angry over politics while sucking on cigarettes. Did I discuss politics with her? I can't remember. Any day now, I fear I will be moving in next door to my mother. Assisted living, here I come.

Last night the smell of poop met me halfway down the hall. Uh-oh. I entered her room but didn't see her. The stench was overpowering. I immediately switched to mouth-breathing mode, something I've learned to do when cleaning the cat box.

“Are you okay?” I called out.

“I think so,” she replied. I came around the corner that separates the living area from the sleeping /kitchen /bathroom area and found her sitting on her office chair trying to get her feet into the legs of her jeans.

“Was there a problem?”

“Well...”

I quickly figured out that she'd had an episode of diarrhea. She had managed to change her pull-ups before I got there (maybe there is a god), and now she was just about done putting herself back together. (I assume she'd figured out how to put on a clean pair of... oh, boy. Not going there.)

“But what do I do with...?” she said, pointing to the trash basket in the bathroom, where the offending undergarment was giving off major fumes.

I gritted my teeth and dove to the rescue.

“They keep more plastic bags in the bottom of the trash can,” I said. I yanked the plastic bag over the dirty pull-up and tied it closed. I lifted out the roll of plastic trash bags to show her. “See? More bags.” She looked impressed. I thought, why bother, she won't remember this. Sigh.

I fixed up the trash can with a new bag and shoved the bag with the diaper down into it, hoping for the best. It's so weird to wear disposable underwear. I guess I did once. Well, hmmm. I think maybe they were washable cloth diapers back then. When did Pampers get invented? Not that my parents could have afforded disposable diapers on a cop's salary. My poor young mother, washing cloth diapers for four kids. The word payback wafted through my mind. I slid a window open to air the place out.

Mom was a bit worn out after the excitement of changing her jeans, but she was ready to go outside for a smoke. Nicotine rules. We were soon on our way down the hall to pick up Jane. By the time we got back to Mom's room, the smell was gone and we'd both forgotten it ever happened.

The chronic malcontent plans a birthday party

My mother and her smoking buddy (I forget what name I've given her before ... today, let's call her Jane) are typically desperate to get outside after dinner for a cigarette. I am their ticket outdoors to the smoking area. They are always glad to see me. Last Wednesday was no exception, and it happened to be Jane's birthday. A month ago, she had casually mentioned that her birthday was June 27, and then she said “Oh, I don't want anything for my birthday” in a coy way that made me think I would be pretty safe if I brought her a little gift and some chocolate cake and ice cream. So I prepared my bag of goodies and headed over to the retirement place.

I arrived as usual about 6:15. Every evening by 6:20, my mother is done with dinner and complaining that she's full (she doesn't know when to stop eating). After a trip to the bathroom, she's ready to head outside. She stuffs her cigarette case in her jacket pocket, puts her over-sized sunglasses on her head, and grabs her old-style front-wheel walker, we call it her “buggy.” On the special day, I carried an extra bag containing a little gift bag, two containers of gluten-free chocolate cake, and a small container of cashew milk chocolate ice cream (my mother is gluten-free, non-dairy to stave off bouts of diarrhea).

Jane lives in a one-room apartment just around the corner from the front door. My mother rapped on Jane's door: shave and a haircut, six bits. If it takes Jane less than ten seconds to open the door, I know she's been hovering with her cigarette wallet, waiting for Mom's knock. Tonight she bolted into the hall, wallet clutched to her chest, and led the way to the front door. At this point, she usually makes a disparaging remark about her appearance. I happen to like her style: I think her pin curls, mismatched track suit, and sloppy slippers are charming. Her standards are apparently higher than mine. She tossed out a couple phrases, and I reassured her she looked marvelous. This time she didn't argue: She was eager to get outside.

The evening was pleasant enough, partly sunny, but I'd heard rain was on the way. The wind was starting to kick up a bit in advance of the rainy edge of a low pressure front spinning at the Idaho-Oregon-Nevada border.

The smoking area consists of three plastic chairs, two of which sit side-by-side under a black iron structure that used to hold a lawn swing. It has two built-in side tables. Nearby is a square table that the aides sometimes sit on to take their smoke breaks. I pulled the table over and used it as my staging area.

First, I pulled out the little gift bag and handed it to Jane with a flourish. It was pink with paisleys. The tissue paper was red and white stripes, like a candy cane. I know, clash. It's what I had. I don't keep wrapping paper anymore. Inside the bag was one container of Pepperidge Farm Mint Milano cookies, Jane's favorite. The gift was the presentation: I'd given her cookies before, but never in a cute little gift bag with clashing tissue paper. She made appreciative noises.

I had a plan, and so far, so good. Instead of trying to cut cake and dish it up on the patio table, I had pre-cut the cake at home and put it into two plastic containers that previously held Gelato (yum, moment of weakness... well, two moments of weakness). The containers were the perfect size for tiny pieces of chocolate cake, with lids to keep it all secure. I even covered up the Gelato label with some festive neon red bond paper. Again, it's what I had.

“How about some cake and ice cream?” I said, reaching for my bag of goodies. The wind at that moment knocked the bag out of my hands onto the asphalt. I grabbed it up and rummaged for the plastic forks and containers of cake.

I opened up the lids so Mom and Jane could see the little morsels of chocolate cake.

“I'm so full,” said Mom.

Suddenly, the wind whipped the plastic forks and napkins out of the bag. Two white forks skittered away on the pavement. The napkins sailed off across the parking lot. I gave the old ladies the cake containers and dashed after the napkins. I rescued the forks and wiped them off (I know, yuck... three words: six-second rule, so there).

Slightly winded, I returned to the table with the napkins, well, paper towels, really... I don't buy paper napkins anymore. Not to be outdone by a little breeze, I jabbed a tiny yellow birthday cake candle into the chocolate icing rosette on top of Jane's cake. I used Mom's Bic lighter to light the candle, singing my thumb slightly in the process. I'm not experienced with lighters. I handed the container to Jane. The candle fell over and extinguished itself on the side of the container. She looked a bit overwhelmed.

“Ready for some ice cream?” I asked gaily.

Both ladies were valiantly holding their containers of chocolate cake and trying to light their cigarettes in the shelter of their elbows to ward off the wind. I could see that cigarettes were going to win out over cake. I gave up on the ice cream and suggested they put their cake containers on the side tables. After a few tries, both ladies were puffing on their cigarettes.

“Now, let's sing to Jane,” I directed. I began to sing the Happy Birthday song to Jane in my usual off-key voice while my mother harmonized in a gravelly tenor. “Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you, happy birthday, dear”—my mother looked at me blankly, and I loudly filled in “—Jane! Happy birthday to you!” Jane beamed. Mom looked relieved.

We spent a few blissful moments hunkered against the rising wind, and then I heard my mother utter the words I have come to dread: “Uh, oh.”

“Do we need to go?” I asked, thinking dang it, couldn't her bowels have waited five more minutes?

Mom handed me her still lit, half-smoked cigarette. She might as well have been handing me a live grenade. I stubbed it out, wondering to myself, what is smoker protocol? Do we keep half-smoked cigarettes or is that tres gauche? Meanwhile, Mom was up and moving. I quickly backed my chair out of the way. Jane hurriedly stubbed out her smoke and stood up, somehow managing to hang onto her gift bag, chocolate cake container, and her wallet. I grab up my bag and stuff the ice cream and Mom's cake inside.

Meanwhile, Mom was beelining for the front door, head down, moving fast. We hustled along in her wake. I poked the doorbell. (The front door is locked at 5 pm.) We waited for the Med Aide to buzz the door open. I wondered if Mom was successfully holding it. You know, it. Finally, the door swung open, nearly bashing me in the hip. Mom plowed through. Jane and I exchanged a wave. “Happy birthday!” I cried and followed my mother down the hall to her room.

After even half a cigarette my mother's brain is short on oxygen and functioning at less than optimal. In her room, she parked her walker and headed into the bathroom. I sat on the couch to watch Flip or Flop with one ear open. When I heard my mother say, “Oh boy,” I knew that was my cue to step in and offer my services. I didn't want to, but ... it's my mother.

Breathing through my mouth, I helped her navigate the sequence that stymies her when her brain has flown south: first, the shoes come off, then the pants. Then off comes the stinky adult diaper (apparently, they are called pull-ups, not diapers). “Roll it up, put it in the trash can,” I said. (Lucky for me, she can follow directions, she just can't initiate them.) I held out the container of baby wipes. “Now wipe it down,” I said,  motioning vaguely to the offending area. She got busy and managed to do something. I wasn't quite willing to inspect the damage, but I'm pretty sure it was better than it was.

I handed her a fresh pair of pull-ups. She stared at them. I bent down and helped her guide her feet into them. I helped her stand up. She yanked them awkwardly up to her waist and beyond, like a two-year-old navigating unfamiliar clothing. “Now your pants,” I said. She sat back down on the toilet and we collaborated to get her pants back on. I put her slip-on Merrells in front of her feet. She slid her toes in and stood up.

“Flush,” I said, and she flushed, watching whatever was in the toilet disappear. She closed the lid. “Wash hands,” I said, waving her toward the sink. She washed her hands.

“How do you feel?”

“Much better,” she said.

“Let's watch the end of Flip or Flop,” I suggested. We sat side by side on the couch.

A few minutes later, she patted me on the knee and said, “Thank you, daughter.”

No soup for you, white people

Today was a day of glorious sunshine. Tomorrow we return to clouds and rain. It is summer in Portland. We don't tan in Oregon, we rust. Perfect weather for the annual Naked Bike Ride (no, I did not participate, not wanting to blind people with my pasty white skin.

Speaking of white, we're at it again! We just don't seem to get it. I can hardly stand to watch the news. Photos of kids in cages and sound tracks of weeping parents and toddlers is shocking to some of us. But for a few moments at a time, I can imagine how others might see those images as just another liberal frothy emotional manipulation. Sobbing children, how trite, can't those liberals come up with something more original?

♫ This land is your land, this land is my land, as long as we are white men, we own it all. From the murder of Natives to the enslavement of Africans, we took this land, and now it's ours. If you are white, this land was made for you and me. ♫ Tra-la-la...

We bumped the Native Americans off their land and did our best to exterminate them. We kidnapped people from Africa and enslaved them, raped their women, and sold their children. We put Japanese Americans in internment camps, after taking their property. Even in our modern era, we repeatedly mow down young black men (and sometimes women) whose main crime is being black. And now we're valiantly attempting to teach those brown-skinned parents not to come here by taking away their children when they come seeking asylum and the American dream.

It's utterly mind-boggling, until I realize that this is what happens to any group with virtually unlimited power and resources. The powerful always win over the powerless. Human greed and fear of the “other,” combined with military and physical superiority, means entire groups of people are exploited, subjugated, imprisoned, or killed—or all of the above. 

I've been feeling a bit of rage.

Violence is a tragic expression of an unmet need. I keep reminding myself that some (not all) white men are afraid of losing what they have (power, safety, security, wealth) or not getting what they want (power over other people's land, wealth, labor, and lives). It feels terrible to not get what we want—ask any two-year-old. But when grown men with power (and guns) act like cranky nap-deprived two-year-olds, I start thinking of heading for the hills. 

Where would I be safe? How long can I hide behind my white skin? Sooner or later, we'll have to make amends. I'd give up soup for a year if I thought that would do it, but I suspect it won't. The best I can offer is the fact that I did not propagate. 

The Chronic Malcontent stumbles down memory lane

 As I grind my teeth and wait for a chat rep from the phone company to magically fix my billing issue, I thought I could use the time to catch up on my blog. Most evenings, when my brain is mush and I can't think, I work on my scanning projects. I'm scanning old documents, photos, letters, and artwork in a unique form of Swedish death cleaning. I'm not Swedish, nor am I dying, but preparing for the end of one life and (I hope) the beginning of another seems appealing to me as I get older.

I've been scanning letters. My letters. My mother (may she not live forever) saved every letter I wrote to her from the time I left home to the time I returned, twenty years later. When she embarked upon her own death cleaning (without the death part), she gave me back all those letters, two heavy shoe boxes stuffed with envelopes. Hundreds of pages. I couldn't throw them away without peeking at some of the things I wrote when I was twenty years old. Behold the slow-moving train wreck of my youth. Once you look, it's hard to look away.

I scanned one box over the past week, wrestling the dusty pages out of dirty envelopes, many addressed to "Mommy," from "Kidlet." I guess I was a very immature twenty-year-old. I don't remember much, to be honest. My memory works in Polaroid snapshots, not Sony Betamax. I recall moments, images, a dress, a song. How they connect I have no idea. Reading snippets of the letters from my earlier self helped me remember events I'd long forgotten.

Back then, everything was art. The letters, the envelopes, the scrawling calligraphic marks on the page. I drew pictures of clothes I designed and made at fashion school. It was 1978. Disco, leggings, spike heels, permed hair. Los Angeles was the place to be for a wannabe fashion designer. The voice coming through the letters was that of a child, a naive, foolish, optimistic child who was willing to live life on the edge—because what a creative life it was.

Like a child, I complained about everything. I was in a constant snit about something someone had done or failed to do. Until I read my own words, I didn't remember any of these snits . . . or most of the people. As I read, the places I lived, the people I knew started to resurface in my memory. The apartment on Romaine, where I lived in 1978 when I got hired at the department store. The apartment on Orange, where I lived in 1979 when I got fired from the department store. My month as a Dupar's waitress. Enrolling in fashion school. Working late hours doing paste-up for California Apparel News. Sleeping on the bus. Leaving fashion school after one year.

In 1980, I sent home photos of me with my friends, prancing around in tight-legged vinyl jumpsuits with shoulders the size of small turkeys, hennaed hair spiked half a foot above our heads. We showed our designs in fashion shows. We thought any moment, we would become famous. We thought people would be banging on our door in droves, demanding amazing costumes they couldn't sit down in.

The second box contains letters from the mid-1980s. I haven't started scanning those letters yet. I believe I was somewhat calmer then, perhaps more realistic. I was no longer making bizarre artfashion costumes that left the wearer drenched in sweat and unable to pee without wardrobe assistance. I'd lost my enthusiasm for fashion. By then I'd sold my soul to the custom sewing business and enslaved myself to making other people's designs and altering their stinky clothes. I myself was the worst-dressed person in L.A. To this day, I hate to sew.

Something corrosive happened to my soul when I became mired in a money-losing business doing something I despised. My good friend said, "It's never too soon to stop doing what you hate and start doing what you love." Even though I haven't quite managed to live up to that creed, I still think it is the best advice I've ever received.

I'm not the manic wackjob I used to be. I said I don't want to burden the world with more paintings, and that is true for now. One thing I can do, though, is write, and those letters are a vast hoard of rich and energetic descriptions from a life I barely remember, a life that might be fun to write about and read about. Maybe she, me, the young naive maniac with a passion for fashion will find her way onto the pages of some story, a book, a memoir, who knows.

It's almost enough to know that once, I had passion for something. Misguided, maybe, but I was a believer. I believed in my art, as only the young and innocent can do, before they find out it's hard to earn money making art. Life is real, rent is due, and we can't live on apples and cheese quesadillas. Money and art don't mix in my world, they never have, but that doesn't mean I won't figure it out someday.

Still making art? Fear no art. Art is for everyone.

One of life's perplexing questions, right up there with why men spit, is how every day, I somehow manage to get a blob of toothpaste on my shirt. I can't figure it out. I never notice when it happens. I only notice it when I'm in a social setting. I happen to look down and see a circle of dried white stuff and think to myself, dang it, it happened again. Is this one of the signs of aging? I don't need a toothpaste blob to tell me I'm getting older.

Speaking of feeling old, this week I received an email from an old friend. I met Mary (not her real name) when I was seventeen years old working as the reservation-taker at a popular dinner restaurant. The restaurant had an Irish musical theme; Mary was of Irish descent and loved to sing bawdy Irish drinking songs. She was several years older than I, with much more life experience (a failed marriage, a small child). For some reason, Mary took a shine to me and decided she would support my budding career as a painter by buying two of my paintings.

Forty-four years, we are still friends, although I moved away, she went to work for a bank, and we lost touch. However, over the years, Mary managed to accumulate a storage attic full of junk, some of which was art I had made in the 1970s when I still believed I could make a career of making art. Mary believed in me whenever my enthusiasm flagged. We spent many hours in my parents' basement building picture frames to nail around my brightly colored impasto acrylic-covered canvases with the intention of selling the paintings at the Saturday Market, a gathering of craftspeople and artists displaying their wares under tents and awnings haphazardly erected in an open parking lot, come rain or shine. I rewarded Mary's devotion to my art with art, which she apparently stored in her attic.

Her email message last week was something like this: It's been too long, let's get together, I have some of your art to share with you. Yes, she used the words "share with you." Immediately I recognized the code for Please come take your stuff back. I replied affirmatively, we set a time, and I drove over to her house in northeast Portland, expecting to take back the two paintings she paid $50.00 for back in 1974.

I walked into a chaotic scene. Her living room looked like a thrift store. Every surface held junk. The couch was obscured by artwork of various sizes and shapes, not all of which was mine, I was relieved to see. Mary gestured at a stack of paintings I had not seen since high school and early college.

“I had no idea you had so much of my artwork!” I exclaimed, thinking to myself, do I owe her forty years' worth of storage fees?

“I'd like to keep these two,” she said, pointing out two small painterly paintings, one of a stream coming down a hillside and the other of a beat-up wagon in an overgrown field. I pondered both pictures, not remembering either one. Certainly I had no recollection of painting them, but my signature was on both, so there is reality for you.

“Keep what you want,” I replied generously, thinking to myself, will all this crap fit in the trunk of my car? I saw some drawings I'd done while in fashion school (yes, I went one year to fashion school, you would never know by looking at me). “Just let me take some photos of them.”

I used my fancy new smartphone to take photos of the two little paintings. Then I gathered up an armload of the paintings and drawings she no longer wanted and hauled it all out to my car.

Was I ever so naive that I believed I could make a life for myself as a painter? Apparently so. I was in art school, everyone I knew was a painter, so I painted. We all painted, constantly. That first year of art school I produced scores of paintings. Most of them are lost to history. Maybe they hang on walls in houses somewhere. Maybe they clutter up attics and basements. I don't know. I wish now I had not been so prolific. At night I dream of the paintings stored in my own basement (well, my landlord's basement), the cast-offs of my mother and now my friend Mary. I wonder, how do people get rid of art? I don't mean, how do they haul the junk to the dump? I mean, how can they bring themselves to part with art that others have made? I don't mean crafts that disintegrate into plaster dust or knick-knacks made of construction paper and pipe cleaners. I mean authentic art, made by authentic artists seeking to express themselves through visual media. I have art from people I knew in college, people I knew in Los Angeles. Would I call them and ask them to take their work back, I don't want it anymore? No, never, not in a million years.

But now, after downsizing my mother into assisted living, I know that we don't take anything with us. Nothing last forever, not people, not stuff, not art. Art used to be made of organic materials; art used to decay. Modern humans make too much stuff, and none of it decays. There is no room for all this stuff. My old paintings are junk now, trash, stuff nobody wants. And because the paintings are largely made of acrylic paint, they will never decay, they will never turn to compost to help grow the next garden. I thought I was making art, but what I really made was pollution.

Never again, people.

The tiger in the grass at the self-scan checkout

I like to scan my own groceries. Call me a control freak, but I feel empowered when I'm the one moving my broccoli from basket to bag. I like feeling the weight of the zucchinis and realizing, dang, those things are expensive this week. Maybe I should eat more onions. I like having time to bag my stuff the way I want, with frozen peas protecting the eggs, and onions protecting the apples. Unfortunately, my pleasant buying and bagging experience was upset today by an interaction I had with an employee at my favorite grocery store, Winco.

I used to think Winco was for losers. My mother shopped at Winco. Then I started shopping for her and found out I could save a lot of money shopping there. Now I shop at Winco weekly. Winco is an employee-owned store. Usually that means people who work there are friendly and helpful. However, it also apparently means that certain employee-owner control freaks are adamant about enforcing the fifteen-items-or-less rule at the self-scan checkout.

I don't go grocery shopping to make trouble. On a sunny day, I tend to smile at everyone, whether they smile at me or not. Sunshine makes me bold. My default sunshine mode is friendly. However, on a sunny day, I don't feel inclined to back down from a confrontation when I think I'm right. If it had been raining today, I might have given in and wheeled my eighteen items to the regular checkout line. I would have slunk out without making eye contact with anyone, another browbeaten customer who will daydream about returning later with a gallon of gasoline and a Bic lighter.

Just kidddding. I'm not violent. But today I felt energized by the sunshine and ready to fight for my right to scan my own. Here is what happened.

The sign above the six self-scan stations says "Express Line: About 15 items." I usually don't bother to count my items. No other cashiers have bothered to count the items in my cart and enforce the fifteen-item limit. The only time the number of items is an issue is when a certain employee is manning the self-scan department. He's a small man, younger than me, I'm guessing, with sandy hair, a sparse mustache, and a stink-eye expression I know only too well from years of looking in mirrors.

When I wheeled my half-empty cart to an unoccupied self-scan station, he stood up straight in his red apron and sent me a look I've come to recognize. Uh-oh, here it comes, I thought. We've had this conversation before.

I waited. Wait for it. I picked up one of my items. Wait for it.... yes.

“This line is for fifteen items only,” the man in the red apron said. I smiled. Bring it on, I thought. Only one other station was occupied. If there had been a crowd or a line, I wouldn't have bothered revving up for this, but energized by sunshine and righteousness, I felt lively.

“I have eighteen items,” I said, lifting my chin at him.

“The sign says fifteen items."

“The sign says 'About' fifteen items,” I said.

He squinted his eyes at me and looked flustered. “About fifteen means fifteen,” he said.

“No, about fifteen means about fifteen,” I replied firmly. I waited. If he told me to leave, I would leave. However, he threw up his hands and surrendered.

“Do what you want,” he said and turned away, furious.

For a moment, I felt guilty, like, wow, should I back down? Should I not have argued? Am I a bad person? Then I thought, hey, I'm the customer here. I don't care if he owns the whole store. Nobody is being harmed by my scanning eighteen items instead of fifteen. And if the employee-owners really cared so much, they should change their damn sign to read "No more than 15 items! Carol, that means you!"

I efficiently (and I admit, somewhat triumphantly) scanned my eighteen items, but as I scanned, I realized I might have missed an opportunity to make someone feel better by letting them win a trivial argument. Instead I indulged my desire to stand up for my consumer right to pitch a fit.

I could have backed down. However, would that have been better? He may have felt triumphant for a while at winning the argument, but sooner or later, an insidious guilt may have crept into his mind, guilt over providing bad customer service. Guilt might have ruined the rest of his day. Thus, I saved him from a day ruined by guilt. Right.

Somehow, though, I sense that he is not likely a guy who would chew up his insides with guilt. If he's like me, he probably turned that moment of defeated frustration into a full day of passive aggressive resentment. Us control freaks get a lot of mileage out of being angry.

Either way, no matter what I did, odds are, he would have been angry, because he's likely unhappy with the fact that his life (and all the people in it) are out of his control. No matter what he does, customers won't behave. Cash machines balk. Nothing I do or don't do will change his outlook if he is as unhappy as I am guessing. He's probably a frustrated artist. Maybe his mother is dying of dementia in a nursing home. Whatever it is, it's not my problem. I didn't cause it, I can't control it, and I can't cure it. He will have to find his own way through the swampy customer service cesspool.

I can wish him well and bless his journey. Next time I see him manning the self-scan checkout, I will attempt to avoid making his life hellish if I can. I might even split my groceries into two batches, no more than fifteen items each. But I won't stop scanning my own groceries.

The unicorn head is somewhat worse for wear but still grinning

Yesterday I braved impending wind and rain to slog around the reservoir. It wasn't terribly cold; I had no good excuse to stay home except the gray clouds piling up in the sky. As I scurried around the half-mile track, I noticed the north cell of Reservoir No. 6 had been drained for cleaning. A layer of mud coated the bottom, and crows and ducks were digging for tasty tidbits in the muck. In my typical oblivious fashion, though, I failed to notice the item lying on the mud in one far corner of the reservoir. Yep, it was my old friend, the severed unicorn head.

I wrote about this remarkable object last January. Back then, I posted a photo of the creepy thing on my Facebook page. The next time I walked around the reservoir, the plastic head was gone; I assumed some vigilant park ranger had managed to snag the head and drag it out of the water. Apparently that is giving too much credit to our over-burdened park budget. Now it is clear the head filled with water and sank, bobbed along the bottom over the ensuing months, and fetched up in the mud, still grinning. I posted another photo of it to document the event, more evidence that plastic does not decay, even when shaped like a unicorn head.

I relate to that unicorn head in the sense that I am feeling somewhat worse for wear but still grinning. Despite the cold wet spring, despite the lack of editing jobs, despite my mother's continued decline into dementia, I continue to show up for my life. I won't say I do it skillfully and some parts aren't pretty, but I haven't given up, even though sometimes I feel buried in mud to my chin.

I've started visiting the maternal parental unit every evening. I never know what I will find. Last week she was sitting outside when I arrived. She knew me, but not how she planned to get back into the building, considering the door gets locked at 5 pm. This week I found her in the hall. Some of her less demented peers were trying to help her figure out something. Mom was missing her upper dentures. Have you seen a loved one with no teeth? She certainly looked different. I found myself thinking of Granny Clampett and later realized I was humming the Beverly Hillbillies theme song.

Mom has lost seven pounds in five months. Now she weighs the same she weighed when she moved to the place one year ago: 96 pounds. Apparently weight loss can change the fit of a person's dentures. I made an appointment to take her to the dentist.

Mom had a successful trip to the dentist to get the upper plate realigned. By successful I mean she had no accidents and didn't die in the chair. The dentist prescribed a saline rinse twice a day. When I visited Mom the next day, I found a cup of salt on her counter. She pointed to it. “Someone left that here,” she said. I looked at it and figured out it was salt. It seemed clear to me at that point that the staff at the care center assumed Mom was capable of measuring half a teaspoon of salt into warm water, taking out her upper dentures, rinsing her mouth several times, and spitting out the salty water in the sink. Well, you know what happens when we assume.

We managed a partial rinse, and another one last night, before I called it good on the saline rinse. When I asked her, “Does your mouth hurt now?” she said no. I left the salt on the counter, though. Argh. I should not have done that.

Last night we sat outside, her smoking and me trying to dodge the smoke. I noticed she wasn't wearing socks. She didn't seem to care. She was more concerned that her cigarette holder was almost empty. When she was done smoking, I called for someone to let us back into the building. We made it back to her room. I got her some socks, which she managed to put on successfully. She couldn't figure out how to refill her cigarette holder. For the first time in my life, I opened a pack of cigarettes.  I was surprised to see those packs hold a lot of cigarettes.

As we were sitting on the couch, Mom pointed to the little box on the coffee table that her hearing aids came in. “What about that?” she said. The box was empty. I looked at her ears. No hearing aids. Yipes. I went over to her bedside table. Yep, there they were. Whew. $4,600 worth of electronics. I helped her put them in, silently berating myself for not noticing their absence.

I walked her through the process of sitting on the couch, taking off her shoes, putting her feet up, and covering herself with blanket. “What do I do now?” she said, looking up at me.

For a moment I was at a loss. Then I thought, what would I tell a two-year-old?

“Watch TV. Sleep if you can. I'll see you tomorrow.”

Last night I took a bath to relax before bed. Suddenly my right ear began to ring with a shrill tone. It didn't stop. My head felt lopsided. I was half-deaf in my right ear. With visions of urgent care in my mind, I squirted some nasal spray up my nose and went to bed, hoping for the best. Sometime during the night my ear cleared. I woke grateful to feel my old friend vertigo (three year anniversary this month) rush in to challenge my morning balance. Here's me, still grinning.

The Chronic Malcontent jumps a little

My sister has been challenging me since she first appeared on the scene as a rival to my position as the only girl in the family hierarchy. I was not quite two when she showed up, this blonde squalling red-faced thing, so I hadn't had a lot of time to consolidate my power. I've been struggling to keep up with her ever since. This week my sister challenged me to do the 7-minute exercise regimen she found on the internet. Well, she didn't come right out and say, hey, you fat slob, you should do this. She coyly remarked that she had tried it twice. That was all I needed to galvanize my shaky legs into action.

In this routine, you do 30 seconds of about 10 exercises—pushups, curlups, planks, jumping jacks, and some other stuff—all in seven minutes. First, jumping jacks to warm up. I managed 30 jumping jacks successfully without falling over or crashing into anything. The second exercise was the "wall sit," where you put your back against the wall and "sit" against it. I held it for about five seconds before my legs gave out and I ended up on the floor. After it took me 30 more seconds to get up, I realized I might not be ready for this particular exercise routine.

Exercise is not my favorite pastime. I'm not naturally thin. Food is my drug of choice. To my perplexity, my sister has always been slender and feminine. While I played softball and volleyball, she learned ballet and figure skating. As I got my hands and clothes dirty with paint, she studied painters and paintings and learned how to handle artifacts with fastidious care. I have photos of her wearing white cotton gloves while holding a framed painting of some saint or monk or duke. I was the dirty, mud-covered female in the family. She was the refined child—who (I'm gleeful to report) still cringes when I swear.

Our usual challenge involves writing. My sister is a prolific writer, although she might not agree. She just delivered her second book to her publisher, a year-long labor about something to do with medieval books. I helped her choose the cover design but I can't remember the title. Her audience is small—maybe a handful of libraries and world-class scholars. Not surprising, she will make little to no money for her efforts. But did I mention, published!?

My writing projects are all over the map. I need multiple pen names to encompass my diverse interests, few of which ever reach daylight. It's safer to keep them hidden in the dark.

Speaking of writing, I rarely blog anymore. I can't find my words. Interesting events happen, interesting people cross my path, but I don't write down the stories, and they fall away into the past. My memories are mostly dust. Yesterday's memories are already crumbling. As I wait for the next phase of my life to begin, my brain is processing my experience in a new way, the way an engine processes gasoline that has some water in it. That is to say, not well. Stuttering, stumbling, confused, apprehensive. Day by day, I resemble my mother, in thought and in appearance. Except I'm three times her size and still allowed to drive.

Recently I spent a few hours scanning some family photos and negatives. Pictures of relatives, far away in space and time. Lots of photos of my mother as a child, a teen, a young adult. She looked like a happy child, a contented teenager. She went on outings with her friends, to the beach, to the mountain. She went camping with her family, slept in a canvas tent, rode horses, caught fish. I suspect she would have been happier not to have been burdened with four children in six years. I have tried to compile a book of blogposts about her, but I was stymied when I got to the ending. I mean, I know what the ending will be but I'm not ready to write it.

Speaking of endings, Mom just received a clean bill of health from the nurse practitioner who comes out from the insurance company for an annual house call visit. For an 88-year-old smoker with moderate dementia, Mom is in great shape. Her heart is strong, her kidneys are pumping. She coughs like a demon but her lungs are clear. She could live a long time. At this rate, it is likely she will outlast me. Especially if I don't exercise once in a while. Guess I'd better get back to jumping jacks. Some action is better than no action.

The Chronic Malcontent resists

Winter came late to Portland this year. As I wait for the snow to melt (again), I crank up the bass on my old New Order CD so I don't have to listen to my neighbor's stereo reverberating through the bones of the Love Shack. While the cat hunkers down under the couch, I fish for cat hair between the keys on my keyboard with the sticky edge of a yellow sticky note. I guess I'm a bit stir-crazy.

I finished a couple editing jobs yesterday. After I submitted the second job, I immediately started cleaning. I vacuumed my two rooms and the hallway, I washed cat blankets, I swept up cat litter, I cleaned the mold growing along the edges of the tub, I scrubbed the toilet. I recycled a foot-high pile of reports I will never read again. I even started a new batch of wheat grass for the cat. When I finally stopped for dinner, I felt righteously deserving of something special. Mmm, waffles.

Later I fell asleep on the couch in a carb-induced haze with the murmur of angry town hall voices in the background. I dreamed of buying a decrepit hovel in Italy for $1.00. Growing beets and broccoli. Washing in creek water. I'm ready to drag up on this town. Any town. Anywhere where people congregate and spit hatred at each other. I want out of the tribe. I want to belong to no tribe.

Speaking of tribes, my sister and I Skype weekly. (I like my sister, so for her I will make an exception and let her into my tribe. Or maybe I should beg her to let me into her tribe, she's way cooler than I am.) My sister travels to Europe almost every year. These days she's in Munich, nine hours ahead of Portland. Her day winds down as mine begins.

We usually discuss our progress on our current research and writing projects. I have a long backlog of ideas, some half-started, many of them suggested by my sister. She's a dynamo when it comes to brainstorming writing projects. Today she suggested I write an illustrated memoir about our mother. When she said it, my heart skipped a little, possibly because my heart is old, but more likely because the thought of writing such a book crowds too close to my heart. Mom disintegrates daily into a stranger.

I was born to write and illustrate books. I've known this since I was nine. The thought of actually fulfilling my destiny terrifies me. The financial logistics of living my purpose are baffling. I don't know how to live in the world of money. After we ended our call, I went back into frenetic cleaning mode. I'm trying to ignore the images in my mind. I can see them so clearly I want to weep. The book is practically written. All I need are some drawings. And the ending.

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.