Category: Life

On our way back from Tucson a week ago (has it only been a week?), the four of us wanted to stop for dinner in Casa Grande. The initial decision was to go to Olive Garden, but upon arrival it was obvious we weren't going to be seated any time soon. That led to a discussion of where else to dine, and one, well actually two of our party suggested Cracker Barrel.

I have never set foot in one of their establishments, having long since decided to boycott the chain for its past misdeeds to the GBLT community. I didn't want to go that night either, but I was outvoted.

The fact that the place was nearly deserted at 6:30 pm on a Saturday should've set off red flags, but for some reason it didn't.

After getting past the gut-wrenching kitsch, we were seated and after being handed menus, I can honestly say there wasn't a single item listed that I wanted to consume. I finally settled on a cheeseburger, assuming that would be a safe choice. Ben went with biscuits and gravy, and one of our friends went with chicken fried steak. When our food finally arrived—easily 30 minutes later—our friend took one bite of his chicken fried steak and asked his roommate to have a taste.  "It's like it was fried in stale oil." Roommate agreed, and it was sent back to the kitchen and exchanged for something different.

Ben described his biscuits and gravy as "flavorless." My cheeseburger was wholly unremarkable. The bun—much like our friends steak—was stale and the French fries were mushy, like they'd been sitting under a heat lamp for hours.

Lesson learned. Don't compromise your morals, because in the end it will get you nothing.

…you've come to talk with me again.

I need to keep this in mind as I head into week four of unemployment, because yes…this has forced me to admit that I really was very unhappy where I was. It was beyond time to move on, and as I've said many times in the past, "If you know it's time to make a change in your life and you don't, the Universe tends to do it for you."

I had two good in-person interviews and one relatively decent phone interview last week. I haven't heard anything back on any of them. I know I won't hear anything about the phone interview until late this week at the earliest; the next step will be an interview in person, and the hiring manager is out of town at the moment. I should hear about the other two today or tomorrow.

Tomorrow I have to attend a mandatory "Employment Reorientation" meeting at AZDES in order to continue receiving my meager $240/week unemployment benefit. (Colorado paid more than twice that.) When the notice arrived the other day, Ben quipped, "'You've been selected…' Because you're OLD and don't know how to use the internet to find a job."

That's the only way I can describe my core emotional state for the last eighteen months.

On edge. Anxious. Can count on one hand the number of times I've gotten a good night's sleep since election night. And yet, no matter what new horror or dismantling of a sacred American principle is brought about by the illegitimate occupier of the White House or his minions with each passing day, that feeling of dread never goes away. It's never that other shoe; there's still something more, something worse ahead. It's that gnawing feeling that we haven't sunk as low as we're going to before this nightmare ends and the cancer that is eating away at this democracy is eradicated. (At least I still have that hope.) What's even more depressing is the knowledge that the 15-20% of Americans who constitute Trump's core base will be cheering every step as we descend into that darkness, even if it consumes them in the process.

I'm convinced that if bombs start raining down on us, the cognitive dissonance instilled by Faux News and its ilk on his base will guarantee that they'll go to their graves secure in their belief that it all Obama's fault…or Hillary's…or the "damn Liberals," never once accepting that it was the Orange Russian Wig Stand in the Oval Office and his malignant, sociopathic narcissism that brought about their destruction.

Is this what PTSD feels like? Seriously, I'm asking. The anxiety, the difficulty sleeping, this general feeling of doom that some days just permeates everything. And it's not just me…from the few discussions I've had at work, I'm starting to think that 80-85% of the country must be going through this in varying degrees.

As I've written before, until November a year ago, I used to enjoy Twitter. Now I can't stand to be on the platform for more than a couple minutes before I want to either start smashing heads with a metal folding chair or just sink into deep depression at the absolute stupidity displayed by my fellow humans.

And yet I still manage to find joy and peace in things both large and small: my husband, our doggies, music and the machines I use to listen to it, photography, leaving work in the afternoon, WestWorld and a dozen or so other entertainments…

I'm now officially OLD.

Turning sixty is not the same as turning fifty.

For one thing, I feel it. Fifty was sort of a milestone, but it didn't feel appreciably different than any other birthday. Sixty, however…let's just say many parts of this body that I was never even aware of now ache on a regular basis. Bending over to get anything off the floor is a chore, and if I have to get down on the floor to do something, getting back up again is always an interesting exercise.

My energy level—while back to "normal" from what it was a few months ago—is still shit. I think about going out to wander downtown and take photos like I used to do years ago and I immediately think, "Nah. Not gonna do that." At the same time I know I need to do that if I'm going to avoid having to start buying all my clothing at Destination XL. (My daily after-work bowl of chips-n-salsa is directly to blame; I readily admit that.) But I watch all these home improvement shows on television and think, "Okay, these folks are half my age, but still…where do they get the energy to do that?"

And time. Where has that gone? Thirty years ago how did I somehow manage to find several hours to do nothing but work on my tan every week and still have other interests and a life?

Getting a good night's sleep is a rarity. I don't know if that's directly attributable to age or just general anxiety. Almost every morning since January 2017 my first thought upon waking has been, "What has the asshole in the White House done now?" I'm starting to think that pretty much everyone who didn't vote for the Orange Russian Wig Stand is suffering some degree of PTSD these days, and the damage that he's continuing to do not only to our country's reputation around the world but also to our collective unconscious is going to take a long time to repair—even if he's removed from office tomorrow.

The no-longer-suffering-fools-gladly attitude that sprouted when I turned fifty is now in full bloom, but there is still only so much bullshit you can call out on a daily basis.

I'm now older than either of my grandfathers were when I was born.

I've also developed that "old man shuffle," although truth be told I may have always walked that way and it's only because I've only recently seen myself on video that it's now so obvious. (My parents were forever telling me to "pick up my feet" when I was a kid, and based on the wear patterns on the soles of my shoes I suspect it's always been this way.)

I'm really ready to retire. My sister—five years younger than me!—is retiring at the end of this school year. Lucky bitch. Three friends have also called it quits. I've had enough workplace bullshit; I don't care if your PowerPoint won't open. Despite what you believe, THE WORLD IS NOT GOING TO END BECAUSE OF IT. Unfortunately retirement is still at least five or six years away—more likely ten if I want to get the maximum Social Security benefit available. And that's assuming that Social Security is still a thing at that point…

And I guess that's it.

One of the things I've been struggling with in this Trumpian episode of The Twilight Zone we now find ourselves living in is a complete and utter lack of passion about pretty much anything (my relationships notwithstanding) that I used to throw myself into with abandon.

I still enjoy writing/blogging (such that it is) and there are television shows I get caught up in, but when it comes down to actually creating, the fire's gone out.

I have a friend (well, actually two friends) who gush over my painting and photography (one of whom has a fantasy of me opening my own gallery, bless her heart) and are constantly asking when I'm going to start putting brush to canvas or taking photos again. I tell them both that the Muses have (hopefully only temporarily, I tell even myself) forsaken me for whatever reason—but I worry sometimes that it goes deeper than that.

I've been in such a funk since the 2016 election I simply don't care about creating much of anything any more. I mean, why bother? The world has gone to hell and the Cheeto-faced Shitgibbon in the White House is well on the way to undoing an entire generation's worth of American progress and obliterating our country's standing in the world in less than two years —with no end to this destruction in sight.

PAINTING

I simply have no passion. There is no fire burning within me to create the way it used to. I now consider the amount of work required to produce a painting and immediately think, "Ain't nobody got time for that." I shouldn't be thinking of it as work, at all, for chrissake! It should be an expression of joy! (My last painting—Ben's portrait—was actually done nearly ten years ago, so it can't be based wholly on the illegitimate presidency of the Orange Russian Wig Stand, but this lack of desire to pick up a paint brush has certainly been exacerbated by it.) I've had other dry spells that have gone longer than ten years without producing a single painting, so I'm not worried that the Muses have abandoned me completely, but more and more I look at Ben's portrait and catch myself wondering if that actually is my last painting.

PHOTOGRAPHY

I also can't tell you the last time I went out with my camera—or even just my phone—for the express purpose of simply taking photos.

No, wait. That's a lie. It was about ayear ago when we drove down to Picacho Peak to photograph the poppies. Prior to that it was December 2016 when I went out out to see the architecturally interesting White Tank Library.

In those rare instances when the photo bug has bitten me, more often than not I go to grab my camera and discover the battery pack is dead and needs to be charged. By the time it's charged the urge has passed. (Granted, for 90% of the types of photography I do, my phone will suffice—and more and more it actually surpasses the results I get from my DSLR—so I can't really use the dead battery defense as much as I'd like to, but you get the drift.)

I used to make photo books for those same friends as holiday gifts; this last year I hadn't taken enough photos I considered worthy enough to even bother putting one together. I miss doing photography, but not yet enough to get me out and about and wanting to take photos simply for the sake of taking photos.

Don't get me wrong. I still take hundreds of photos every year—but none are done with any planning or purpose. And damn few are what I would personally consider high art (worthy of actually printing out and framing).

My friends respond to my current lack-of-creativity with, "Well you need to do something to get your mind off this horror show." Yes, I know. But right now I simply have absolutely no desire to make anything, and therein lies the rub.

Because I got nothin' else at the moment.

There are ten stoplights between my house and work. (I know, it's a short commute.)

Of those ten, I will always stop at three in particular—no matter when I leave, or how many of the others I have to stop—or don't stop—at.

Beyond that, it's a crap shoot. Some days I can breeze through with only four total stops, other days it's six. On rare occasions I hit only those three lights red, and on very rare occasions I end up stopping at 9 out of 10 (one intersection is always green).

But on average I stop at five lights on my morning commute.

Wasn't that exciting?

…and we are not amused.

No energy today. Slept in until 10 a.m. Got up and mowed the front yard before it got too warm. Started laundry. Vegged in front of the computer/television the rest of the day. Fighting the urge to take a late-afternoon nap right now…

There is a quote that is something along the lines of If it feels life is drawing you backwards it's only because the Archer is drawing back his arrow to let you fly. Or something. I know I either blogged the original quote or sent it to multiple people in an email, but I'll be damned if I can find a trace of it anywhere.

I kept that quote in mind as I was slogging through my employment at DISH, knowing that things couldn't get much worse and the only direction I could go was up.

The other day it dawned on me that this could also be an apt description of society and civilization as well. Sometimes it just needs to feel like everything is going backward in preparation for a truly monumental leap forward.

Maybe that's what is happening with the current situation in these United States. The longer 45 is in office, the more we're drawn backward, but once he's gone we'll spring forward and regain everything that was lost and more with an energy and intensity not seen since the end of World War II.

At least that's what I'd like to believe.

I am finally coming to grips that I am no longer a young man. I am no longer in a targeted demographic and not only have the leaves fallen from the trees in the seasons of my life, the first cold blush of winter is fast approaching.

Last week a dear friend whom I've known since we were both in our early 30s turned 60. I sent him a birthday greeting inscribed:

Turning 30: We couldn't wait. We were now adults.
Turning 40: We laughed it off by exchanging nose hair clippers as gifts.
Turning 50: We rationalized it. 50 is still middle age, right?
But damn Skippy, 60 is OLD!

And with us both being part of that generation that was decimated by AIDS in the 1990s, I hastened to add, "But all that really matters is that you're still here and I am so happy because of that!"

My dad always told me that the 30s were the best years of one's life and that I should live them to the fullest. Unfortunately I squandered the greater portion of that decade pining over a man who would never give me what I wanted and trying desperately to fill the void that left behind, but when I look back I'd have to say that yes, in spite of that I still worked those years for all they were worth. [oink]

But it wasn't until my 40s—and the cancer diagnosis halfway through that decade—that I finally became comfortable in my own skin. Instead of constantly beating myself up over not ever losing those 20 pounds so I would feel confident enough to wear a tank top to the Pride Parade, it was far easier (and more satisfying) to just accept who I was, love it, and move on.

And with apologies to my dad, I would have to say that my 50s—despite the career ups and downs—has been if not the best, then at least the most…satisfying so far.

Now I'm not even remotely close to having one foot in the grave yet, but if I am to be completely honest with myself—based solely on the lifespans of the men in my family—and barring anything unforeseen (accident, incurable terminal illness, being sent to a Nazi Death Camp or Nuclear annihilation stemming from an ill-timed Presidential tweet), I probably have about another 25-30 years ahead of me.

And I'm okay with that. Being this age affords me the luxury of no longer suffering fools gladly and allows me to speak my mind perhaps more often than I probably ought to and still get away with it. Of course it also has drawbacks, almost all of them physical. I can't go bounding up and down stairs the way I used to. Getting up off the floor has become a major proposition. And the knees. OMG, the knees. But considering the other myriad health issues I've dealt with over the course of my life, this stuff is small potatoes.

And I love small potatoes!

 

But reversed…

Wish me luck.

…even with as much as I hate snow, the idea of this (i.e. living in the middle of nowhere, away from all the insanity) is looking better and better.

I doubt I'm alone in this…

Can 2016 just nut and call me an uber already?

— ian jacob (@IamIanJacob) December 8, 2016

I just can't any more.

I'm tired of having to "Mark All As Read" the entire contents of the Politics folder of my RSS Reader multiple times on a daily basis without actually opening anything. After the abysmally depressing things I read today (and still reeling from the knowledge—glaringly obvious to anyone who didn't vote for the joker in the first place—that not only is Trump fundamentally unqualified to be President, he and the Cabinet of Deplorables^® he's surrounding himself with are fundamentally unprepared for the Presidency) tonight I deleted all the feeds completely.

Gone.

I'm sure that come tomorrow I'm gonna be jonesing for an outrage fix, and I'll still go to the various websites manually now and then to stay informed, but the daily—nay, hourly—barrage of horrible news has become too much for me. When the possibility was raised today that any number of America's nuclear-capable enemies might take immediate advantage of Trump's ineptitude following his swearing-in, it was the straw that broke the camel's back.

https://twitter.com/voenixrising/status/798941066682470400

And considering this news, reading nothing but whining coming from the tech blogs over Apple's new MacBooks, I have a feeling that my "Tech" folder may be next on the chopping block.

…actions have consequences.

We've filed for bankruptcy.

Obviously this was not a decision that we came to hastily, but rather one that we've been mulling for nearly a year. The single greatest precipitator of this was the loss of income we've both suffered by moving back from Denver. Ben knew beforehand that he'd take a cut in pay by returning to Phoenix, but I foolishly believed that while I knew I wouldn't immediately return to my pre-Denver salary (earned through years of raises at a single company), I would at least match what I was making in Denver; not have to return to what I was making in the 1990s.

Unfortunately our financial obligations were based on maintaining something close to what we'd been making in Denver, not to a combined yearly income loss of nearly $20K.

While we were pretty good at juggling our bills, it was obvious we were both slowly sinking into a black hole of debt that nothing short of a much better paying job, a winning lottery ticket—or bankruptcy—would ameliorate.

This is something I've never had to deal with before, so I am understandably upset—even though almost everyone I know (family and friends alike) have gone through bankruptcy at least once and has come out the other side okay.

Ben fell behind on his car payments to such a degree that the creditor was not only threatening immediate repossession, but also was also totally unwilling to even consider discussing reaffirming the loan until he brought it current—something we were financially unable to do. So Ben turned in his car. This was a sad day for both of us because many fine adventures were had with Marvin. (My Anderson is long paid for and considered exempt property, so I'm still good on the transportation front.)

Because of this (and any number of other things that have happened over the past nine months) 2016 will henceforth be known as The Year Of Suck in this household.  And we haven't even gotten to the elections yet—that with Herr Drumpf's recent rise in the polls in key swing states basically bringing him within the margin of error with Clinton—has me terrified.

"Never underestimate the stupidity of the of the general public." ~ Scott Adams, (American Cartoonist, b.1957)