Today at 7 a.m. I went to the lab to have my blood drawn. (And what a pretty picture it made!) I was the first customer of the day. As soon as I walked in, the receptionist told me about an 84-year-old woman with brain cancer whose one dream had been to go zip-lining. Then it turned out that the receptionist was also the phlebotomist, which not only made me feel like I'd landed in Oz but also made me a bit uneasy since the woman was clearly deranged. My fears were unfounded: the blood-letting was both quick and painless.

As the phlebotoceptionist was filling the last tube, I told her about my poor mother's inadequate, abused veins. We continued to talk about my mother as I stood up and put on my coat. ". . . She got an offer on the house," I said.

"That's great . . . 709."

Wait a minute, I thought. How does this stranger know my mother's house number? Then I realized that she was noting the time of the blood draw.

When I told her about the coincidence, she laughed and said, "Call your mother and tell her you love her."

I definitely should call my mother, but I won't. Not because I don't love her, but because I hate calling people on the phone. Even if I did call, I wouldn't tell her I love her, because that just isn't done in my "family of origin". At least I don't remember anyone saying it to me. Maybe no one ever did love me, and vice versa, but I always figured it was just so obvious that it didn't need to be said. Of course, given the likelihood that I really don't love anyone (what the heck is this love thing anyway?), it's convenient not to have to lie about it.

So it seems that the defining feature of obsessive-compulsive disorder is doubt. And the key to overcoming this doubt, at least according to Jeff Bell (author of When in Doubt, Make Belief), is simply to cultivate belief: belief that you really did lock the door and turn off the stove; belief that the world really is a friendly place.

This principle seems applicable to those of us with other afflictions. If you doubt your own worth, or doubt that you performed some activity perfectly, and this doubt causes you anguish, then I can definitely see the benefit of exchanging doubt for belief.

Doubt is a tricky thing to get right. The harpsichordist I heard yesterday correctly doubted that she had played flawlessly, but her errors didn't seem to cause her any doubt about her own worth. That may seem like a healthy attitude, but indestructible self-esteem could lead her to continue pursuing a music career when she really shouldn't.

Generally I'd say there isn't enough doubt among the healthy of the world, while some of us are plagued by it. I think Bell and others believe that OCD sufferers should learn to live with a certain amount of uncertainty. But I haven't actually read his book, and probably won't, because I don't have OCD and therefore it isn't about me.

Couldn't have said it better myself, homeless guy.

Maybe life is worth living after all. I mean, if I were dead I wouldn't be able to learn from Wikipedia about the contraceptive and abortifacient capabilities of papaya. Nor would I be able to eat papaya, but that turns out to be a lot less enjoyable than reading about it. It's also a lot less enjoyable than eating persimmons, or just about any other fruit, but one's fruit choices are kind of limited when the (self-)designated shopper is too busy to go to the store.

I had a brief crying spell today in the library, while reading a "true" story about a little girl who watched as her father killed her mother and then himself. Occasional feelings are fine, but this susceptibility to emotional manipulation is just too much. It may be time once again to say yes to mind-numbing drugs.

In library school we learned about bibliotherapy, the practice of finding appropriate books to alleviate people's psychic suffering. The books in question were usually fiction; they would feature characters overcoming common difficulties in inspirational ways. You don't hear much these days about bibliotherapy for adults, but the concept is alive and well in the field of children's librarianship. You can find plenty of helpful resources that list works of fiction seemingly written not as enjoyable stories but rather as guidebooks to handling certain issues: incest, adoption, obesity, divorce (or maybe nowadays it's more disturbing to be the only kid whose parents are still together). While it may be beneficial to read books in which the young protagonists deal with hardships that the reader may also be facing, I suspect it's more often the case that the reader feels better just knowing that he or she is facing problems much less monumental than, say, hiding from the Nazis or being pursued by Voldemort.

Reading just about anything can be therapeutic for me, because it distracts me temporarily from my petty worries. Librarians know about this ability of books to keep the rabble sedated (like Thorazine, but without the nasty side effects). That's why they have no qualms about filling their shelves with formulaic romances, westerns, and fantasy novels. I don't regularly read any kind of fiction, but about twice a year I lose myself for a few weeks (I'm a slow reader) in the latest novel from one of the two or three authors I enjoy. During that brief period I experience a sense of well-being, or at least withdrawal from the world and its cares. The avid readers that I know probably have those pleasant feelings most of the time. I envy them their peace of mind and obliviousness, but I doubt that spending all my free time reading novels would do much for my self-esteem.

Not surprisingly, the concept of bibliotherapy has expanded in recent years to include feature films. An Oakland psychotherapist has a cinematherapy Web site where you can find movie suggestions for every pathology. "Cinema therapy can be a powerful catalyst for healing and growth for anybody who is open to learning how movies affect us and to watching certain films with conscious awareness." Isn't conscious awareness a good thing to have when you're watching any film (or, for that matter, when you're doing pretty much anything other than sleeping)?

Recently I came across a more mundane (and less literary) use of the term "bibliotherapy": the prescribing of self-help books to patients or clients with particular mental or physical issues. Given the popularity of writing such books (Amazon lists 97,824 titles in the self-help category), I guess it's a good thing for the industry that health professionals are promoting them. For me, reading self-help books offers about the same escape from reality that I get from reading the latest Carl Hiaasen novel: once I'm done reading the book, I soon forget whatever helpful techniques were offered. Moreover, as a literary snob, I prefer to read books that aren't designed for self-help but rather for education about how the mind works. So I read the latest research on behavior, mental illness, happiness, etc., and figure out how it relates to me (because, after all, it's really all about me).

At one time I considered writing a "self-hurt" book, which would tell people exactly what steps to take in order to make themselves miserable. One title I thought of was How to Lose Friends and Alienate People. That title is now taken, though for a memoir rather than an instructional book. I see now that there's also a whole series of books called Self-Hurt, including the titles How to Procrastinate and How to Get into Debt. As usual, I'm relieved to see that someone else has taken up a cause that I've neglected, but the books don't seem to be terribly popular. Maybe that's because they're unusually well-written, but then I've only looked at one of them (which is ranked at Amazon higher than The Official Patient's Sourcebook on Scabies but lower than The Biggest Loser Cookbook). I suspect that a well-written, humorous parody of a self-help book can often be more therapeutic than an author's earnest attempt at curing what ails you.

What I've mainly found is that I never know when something I read is going to offer some therapeutic benefit. It could be an absorbing article in The New Yorker, or a book about people enduring hardships I can only imagine, or even a humorous entry in someone's blog. If it's well-written and tells me something I didn't already know, chances are that I'll feel better while reading it. No matter what I read, though, a few minutes after I put it down I have to return to the harsh reality that is my life.

I'm handicapped by what the psychologists call depressive realism: the inability of depressed people to deceive themselves into thinking that a situation is better than it really is. It would be useful to have a knack for self-deception. Unfortunately I'm compulsively truthful with myself, just as I am with prospective employers and anyone else I encounter. There's no book or movie or magazine article that will cure my many defects, so I settle for occasional literary distraction. Wine and chocolate also work.

I've always found job interviews to be an effective way to project the worst possible image of myself, but yesterday's was the most disastrous ever. As usual, I demonstrated my lack of social skills and my mastery of self-sabotage (I even volunteered that I'd been fired from my last job), but this time I really outdid myself in the ineptitude department: I started a sentence with "As I was just saying to [the other interviewers]. . ." and suddenly I had no idea what I had just been saying. I could not remember the point I was trying to make. It was incredibly embarrassing, and it almost surely cost me the job (I haven't heard officially, but why would they hire someone who's so clearly demented?).

It's time to stop bothering all these well-meaning folks who need employees with working brains. From now on, I'll try to relax and enjoy my premature dotage.

When I had a full-time job, I would work jigsaw puzzles during my breaks, and then I would resent having to get back to work. At a recent psychology lecture I was told that it's best not to take breaks during unpleasant activities, whereas you should always take breaks during pleasant ones so that you'll enjoy them even more once they resume (see alleged evidence at http://groups.haas.berkeley.edu/marketing/PAPERS/NELSON/nelson-mayvis-2008.pdf). I started to think of my work time as a long break between puzzle sessions; I dreamed of being able to stay home and work such puzzles all day.

I haven't worked a single jigsaw puzzle in the three years since I quit that job, mainly because I would be ashamed to be seen wasting my time in that fashion. Instead I do crossword puzzles, which are marginally more respectable. Those are getting depressing though, as the only clues I find easy are the ones involving old TV shows ("'WKRP in Cincinnati' role") or celebrities ("Singer Washington"). Geography? History? Art? I just guess at those.

Tomorrow I have an interview for a job that I may or may not want. The job itself would probably improve my self-image (which fortunately isn't based on how much I earn, as this job pays the proverbial peanuts), but it would also greatly restrict my freedom to go to lectures, work puzzles, etc. Then again, work would occupy less than a third of my awake time each week (including the 10-minute walk there and back each day), so maybe it's not so bad. It would definitely be good to escape indentured servitude and start paying my share of expenses. Or would it? I hope I can figure that out sometime in the next 24 hours.

I just read in a book called The Liar in Your Life that many (if not most) people lie on their résumés, and it's even more common to lie during job interviews. This and other forms of "cosmetic deceit" are meant to improve one's image, says author Robert Feldman (though it could be argued that job seekers lie in order to improve their bank balances and that therefore such lying should be called larceny). I'm not capable of lying, either in writing or in person, which is probably why I don't get jobs. The only "cosmetic deceit" I practice is dying my hair, which I see more as self-defense against age discrimination. (I was planning to be cosmetically honest this time, but then someone told me I don't look a day over 60.) I figure that if they hire me thinking I'm 10 years younger, then, as my hair turns gray again, they can think the job is aging me fast.

There's also a correlation, Feldman writes, between social success and lying. This explains so much about me, my daughter, and Bill Clinton.

It's really too bad about panhandlers. They've pretty much ruined the chance that strangers on the sidewalk will get any assistance from me. As soon as someone I encounter says "Excuse me" or "Hello," I quicken my pace and avert my eyes. There's no hope for someone who just wants to know what time it is or who, Dog forbid, might be having a medical emergency. Sure, I could stop and acknowledge all the beggars--heck, I could even give them money--but I won't. Maybe I'll change my habits if I get a job, but that seems unlikely. I tend to get even stingier when I have a steady source of income.

I was out for a walk in the neighborhood, and I remembered how desirable it had looked on Google Maps. Then we moved in and learned that there are roving bands of shouting students running up and down the sidewalks at all hours. And living in this building seemed like a great idea, but then I realized that it's full of people who are imposing, intimidating (i.e., accomplished), annoying (this morning someone had left the dryer coated with pink dye), or, worse still, friendly.

I'm beginning to see a pattern. Whenever I picture how lovely something will be (lunch, law school, going to the movies, marriage, working in a library), I forget that I'll have to deal with irritating, loud, smelly, demanding, scary, boring human beings. In fact, almost everything I've done in life has been ruined by the very existence of people. Which I guess is only fair, since a lot of people's existence has been ruined by me. If only I had the courage to finally just say no to all social interaction, I and everyone else would be a lot better off.

I ordered a miraculous toilet seat that supposedly lifts off effortlessly for easy cleaning. Lifting it off required a great deal of effort, but not nearly as much as replacing it. After several attempts I managed to get it back on, but during one of the attempts I heard/felt something pop in my upper left abdomen. I think it's just a pulled muscle, but it's still pretty painful 5 days later, so it could be a hernia, ruptured spleen, or some other bodily damage. It will be fun to explain to the medical professionals how it happened.

I was going to rant here about something related to my own personal freakishness, but I've already forgotten what that was. Consider yourselves lucky, whoever you are.

In the spring of 1993 a family in Kent, Wash., took in a stray, pregnant cat who was barely out of kittenhood herself. She soon produced a litter of kittens, and when they'd reached an adoptable age, the rescuers placed a newspaper ad, which I read in my Seattle kitchen.

At that time we were seeking an understudy for our only cat, Fathom, so 9-year-old Naomi and I went to look at the kittens. None of them seemed right for us, but I felt an immediate bond with the mother, maybe because she was of sealpoint Siamese heritage, just like the cats I'd grown up with (her kittens were a more dilute variety, in shades of grey and black). The family was happy to let the teenage mother go; the kittens were old enough to be on their own, and their mother showed very little interest in them.

It was Naomi's turn at cat-naming. She had recently read a book (The Incredible Cat Caper) whose young protagonist had a female Siamese cat named Simba. It was our bad luck that years later the Disney folks would give that name to a male lion.

Given that Simba's early experience with cats probably included aggravated rape, it's no wonder that she had a lifelong aversion to others of her species. Sometimes Fathom, frustrated by her refusal to socialize with him, would grab her and forcibly lick the top of her head. Her vicious reaction to this indignity finally convinced him that they would never be buddies. After Fathom's death a few years later, we eventually got a feral calico who continually made friendly overtures that Simba continually rejected.

With people, though, Simba was convivial to the point of clinginess. Almost every night while I was eating dinner she would hover nearby and, as soon as I pushed my chair back, leap into my lap for a dose of attention. When I was out working in the yard, she would often lie in the sun or shade nearby until I was ready to go back in. And while I was in the shower she would often sit on the toilet seat and converse with me.

Simba and I lived together in at least seven different places over the years. She always adapted well and rarely complained about the hundreds of 2-hour car rides we took on the weekends. The longest we were ever apart was the year that I lived in a no-pets-allowed apartment in Seattle. She never exacted any kind of revenge for my abandoning her or forcing her to move from place to place. She always forgave me.

In recent years she had become less active. She had also lost most of her teeth (Siamese are notoriously susceptible to gum disease) and, last year, was diagnosed with kidney insufficiency. The one constant was the voluminous amounts of fur that were deposited wherever she settled for more than a few seconds.

In April we made our longest move together, from Seattle to Berkeley. As usual, she adapted beautifully. Then, over the summer, I spent several weeks away, and she spent two months mostly alone in the apartment while it was being remodeled. I paid her very little attention, but she didn't seem to want much; by then her main activity was sleeping.

Ten days ago I noticed that she hadn't eaten for a while and seemed to have lost weight, so we took her to the nearest animal hospital. The diagnosis: chronic renal failure. With an antibiotic and daily fluid injections we managed to bring her back from the brink, but she never regained much strength or interest in life. After a week, she started on a steep decline; by Saturday she could barely walk, and she refused all food and water. So this morning we took her back to the hospital for a lethal injection. (The vet who performed it was named Rope, which seemed appropriate for an executioner.)

After it was over we were told that we could spend as long as we wanted with Simba's lifeless body. Maybe I'm emotionally defective, but two seconds seemed plenty long enough. Also, I could have paid over $100 to have her ashes returned to me in a wooden box, but I opted for the cheaper "communal" cremation. So not only am I emotionally bankrupt but I'm a cheapskate to boot.

What I mainly felt was relief that she wouldn't be suffering anymore. As soon as we got back to the apartment, I gathered up all her things (carrier, litter box, food, etc.) and offered them for free on craigslist. Tonight a young woman who said she was about to get a kitten came by and picked it all up.

I suppose it just hasn't hit me yet that my constant companion of 16 years is gone. I'll probably wake up at 4 a.m., feeling depressed and guilty for not doing enough to keep her alive.

One good thing about mourning the loss of a constantly shedding cat: If I decide to wear black, I won't have to worry about getting cat hairs on my clothes.

In denial about the continued uninhabitability of our apartment (the contractor keeps having to redo things that didn't work or fix things that he broke, and the guy who built our bed can't deliver it till Sunday because he has a day job managing oncology clinics), I went ahead and moved all our food back downstairs. So now we have nothing to eat in our temporary apartment, and it would be very difficult to cook and eat in the "new" apartment, especially with workers and their stuff in the way. So for most of the day I've been suffering from low blood sugar and indecision about where to get food. I finally went to the grocery store and bought a giant Hershey bar (and a can of special food for my dying cat). A few squares of chocolate gave me the energy to do a little more packing and moving, and then I started reading reviews of local cheap eateries and wondering if we should go to one of them. Meanwhile Jonathan is doing his income tax return that was due six months ago, and he can go for days without eating, so I feel like there's something wrong with me that I can't think about anything but food and that I'm too hungry to do anything about finding it. Whine, whine, whine. It's amazing that my ancestors survived.

The "worst October storm" in 47 years, they say. Are November and December storms even worse? I thought I had escaped windy, rainy winters by moving south. At least it isn't unbearably cold, and today the sun is back for a while.

Speaking of going south, Simba has end-stage renal failure, which means that she doesn't eat or drink much, doesn't wash, doesn't play, and needs to be injected with fluids every day. At what point do you decide that your cat's quality of life is so poor that she should be euthanized? For me I think it will be the point when she no longer has the interest or energy to crawl into my lap. That could actually be now: she's lying next to me, ignoring me and not reacting much when I scratch her head.

I take full responsibility for Simba's decline in health. She'd been managing just fine with her bad kidneys until she had to spend two months living alone in an apartment (at Berkeley Town House, where she easily met the age restriction) plagued by noise, dust, and noxious odors. There was also a constant procession of contractors, but she was probably happy for the company and sorry to see them go at the end of each day. I was out of town for more than half of the remodeling period; the rest of the time I was living in an apartment six floors up and only visiting Simba occasionally. It's no wonder that she had a sudden turn for the worse, from which she's unlikely to recover.

The veterinarian offered us the option of hospitalization for two days, at four times the cost of home-only treatment. The results would probably have been about the same. Funny that the doctors at Vanderbilt didn't give my mother that choice before hospitalizing her. She received about the same treatment that Simba is getting, mainly rehydration and an antibiotic (plus a few other perks like a transfusion and hospital food).

My mother and Simba have both reached the stage where their main occupation is maintaining health. I think that if I ever reach that stage I will stop eating (Jane Brody says that's a lovely way to go). It's ironic that cats and people at the end of life tend to get the best food they've ever had: Simba mainly eats canned, fish-based cat food, and my mother gets one sumptuous meal a day in the Richland Place dining room. At least this makes slightly more sense than eating a 3,000-calorie meal just a few minutes before being murdered by the State. But don't get me started on the subject of who deserves to eat; often it isn't I.

Seems more like pledge month, and the worst thing about it is not that I can't reach the radio's on-off switch without expending great effort, but rather that I'm one of the deadbeats who hasn't yet pledged (I rationalize that I gave to another public-radio station 6 months ago, but I'm not even sure that's true, and I'm too exhausted to try to confirm it), so I don't even have the right to resent the begging.

AIRPORT DIARY

Sittin' in the Nashville airport, listenin' to my schmaltzy iTunes songs, featuring all the usual suspects: R.E.M., They Might Be Giants, the Roches, Springsteen, Barenaked Ladies, Uncle Walt's Band, Elvis Costello, Belly, Randy Newman, The Autumn Electric (I'm their Number One Fan) . . . Sure beats the constant announcements from country music stars telling me how to behave in an airport. But it takes too long to charge the computer this way, so guess I'll shut it till I'm on the plane. After the iMac and phone are charged, guess I'll head to the saloon for one last Nashville beer before hitting the scary 9/11 skies.

Now I'm in the Gibson cafe. Alas, my table is not one that's shaped like a guitar pick, but its proximity to an outlet for Epicac the iMac more than makes up for that disappointment. I'm drinking a $7 beer (including tip) whose name I didn't catch, but the server said it was a wheat beer. It came with a twist of orange, so it's clearly exotic and worth the money. I just got a phone call from my airline, advising me that the gate has changed from C-19 to C-18.

The TSA guy looked at my boarding pass and said, "Oakland? It doesn't say Oakland what." "Oakland, Oklahoma," I said.

I'm afraid I won't finish my beer (which tastes like scotch) in time to pee before boarding. I'm always afraid of being late (not just for planes), and then I'm almost always early. Only when I don't worry am I late, so clearly the worrying pays off.

Every other paragraph of this post contains the word "clearly." Oops, now it's 3 out of 5 paragraphs. Clearly I need a thesaurus.

On the plane now, where every passenger has a row to himself (except for the woman who brought along her dog, presumably a service animal). Never underestimate human superstition. Not only am I flying on 9/11, but I'm sitting in Row 13. Take that, you nonexistent gods and goddesses.

They're so unbusy onboard that a second flight attendant just asked if she could get me something to drink. I told the first one I would have coffee. I'm not sure I want coffee, but it would be nice to have something warm. I just had beer, so I guess it's time for a stimulant. My life is all about going from one drug to the next, from the highs to the lows, from jittery to mellow.

At least I won't have to crawl over other passengers or wait in line behind them when I need to pee.

Now I've written the word "pee" twice in this post. Clearly I'm not very original or couth.

The flight attendants just offered me 13 packets of peanuts. Unfortunately the peanuts are all honey-roasted, so I only took three packets. Fortunately there are also pretzels, one of my comfort foods. It's something I have in common with Lia the Indonesian exchange student: She brings a container of pretzels to the dinner table, knowing that she'll be fed something weird and inedible, like cheesy grits or ricey salad. I guess it's lucky for her that I'm gone now.

But I'll probably be back. Moving day is next Thursday; then there will be several days of unpacking, restocking, reorganizing, hanging pictures, etc. So if I get there in two weeks there will still be plenty to do, not to mention doctor appointments and "activities of daily living" that I can assist with. I don't feel too bad about ducking out on preparations for the move, because I actually think it's kind of a dumb idea. Why make a sick person sort through all her belongings and relocate when she probably has just a few months to live? But maybe we'll all be pleasantly surprised by her longevity.

The pilot is a mumbler. The only part of his last monologue that I understood was "Springfield in about 8 minutes." So, by my calculations, we could be anywhere in the U.S.

The coffee's strong. Good thing the night is young, at least in California.

Part of me thinks I should have stayed in Nashville, especially if I'm going to turn right around and go back in a couple of weeks. But a bigger part of me is glad I had the experience of flying on 9/11.

OTHER STUFF

I realized today that I've truly been a failure wherever I've tried to fit in, whether into a social group, a family, a workplace, or any traditional role like wife, mother, librarian, or friend. I remember one night in high school when some girls that I hung out with were all at a sleepover; I hadn't been invited, so I spent the evening hanging out awkwardly with a couple of boys who, for more obvious reasons, hadn't been invited either. Even with my so-called best friends I always felt like a freak.

This phenomenon of never feeling at home, at ease, or even like myself has kept me from staying in any place, marriage, or job for very long. I really am a freak and a misfit. I feel particularly out of step with the world today, including nearly everyone on Facebook, everyone who eats at McDonald's, most heterosexual men, and everyone who doesn't get why we need government-sponsored health care. I guess that doesn't leave very many people for me to feel in sync with.

So the question is: What is it about me that makes me such a bad fit for evey situation in which I've put myself? I can think of three possibilities:

(1) I have a personality disorder (rooted in narcissism) that causes me to act and feel like someone who doesn't belong anywhere.

(2) I really am a very strange person who isn't fit for human society.

(3) I really fit in about as well as the next person. It's just that the next person doesn't waste time moaning about being a misfit.

I suspect that the answer is some combination of all these factors. Since this is the year that I'm working on self-acceptance, I'll just have to accept the fact that, for whatever reason, I'm not capable of having normal human relationships or accomplishing anything in life.

One symptom of my freakishness is a tendency to feel irrationally threatened by someone else's popularity, normalcy, and achievements. It's especially inexcusable when that person is the one I'm supposed to feel closest to. The people I really love and feel close to don't inspire these feelings of panic, dejection, and defensiveness. What's going on here? Am I really that insecure?

In a word: yes. It's of supreme importance to me for people to think I'm smart, funny, and accomplished. This is very sick. What can I do about it?

I'm reminded of at least two stories I've heard, one perhaps true and the other definitely from a children's book. The idea of both is to avoid perfection by deliberately doing something imperfect every day. Too bad I can't remember what the point of this exercise is. I suspect that I could benefit from such deliberately humiliating experiences, but I'm not sure how. After all, my self-esteem is already running on empty.

I don't think I would have this irrational anxiety if I were gainfully and meaningfully employed. Not only, though, is such employment not an option for me, but I think I would resent the obligations of having a job. And, as usual, I would feel that whatever my s.o. (superior overlord) was doing was more worthy of praise than my own occupation.

Clearly (there I go again) it was a mistake to get mixed up with someone so smart, charming, energetic, and accomplished. I should have gotten out while I could. Oh, wait: I still can. Just like I always do. But maybe I'm tired of looking for ways out. Maybe it's time to grow up and face the music, smell the coffee, and take the bull by the horns.

I used to job-share with two other women at a one-person type shop. One day the counterpart that I was taking over for said, about a customer she'd seen that morning: "She has no personality." At the time I thought I knew what this meant. After all, we were in a business where the name of the game is superficiality. A lot of the graphic designers we dealt with seemed fake and appearance-obsessed, but most exhibited at least some interpersonal skills and humor. The woman in question was apparently lacking in both these attributes.

Now, though, I understand the concept of 'personality' better (and not just because I studied it this summer). Now I know that your personality is mainly a combination of traits that are fairly consistent over time and in different situations. And now I know that personality is exactly what I lack. Instead, I put on a different persona for each situation I'm in. There is no core set of traits, tendencies, and beliefs that I or anyone can point to as being consistently me. With such a squishy set of central characteristics, it's no wonder that I feel helpless and anxious when someone else is getting heaped with accolades: There's nothing about me to praise, or even to like or, for that matter, dislike. I'm totally a function of whatever situation I'm in, totally dependent on others' reactions to me to let me know how I should b thinking, feeling, and behaving.

How do I stop this nonsense? I thought psychotherapy might be the answer, but I've tried that, and I've tried drugs. And I've occasionally gotten temporary relief with these interventions. What I haven't gotten is a personality that I can unashamedly show the world and continue to accept, no matter what I think the world and its denizens may think.

Could be that it's just a matter of time. I'm a firm believer in developmental stages, not just in childhood but also moments in adulthood when you're suddenly able to do something that you struggled to do before. Whether it's playing tennis, getting a job, or maybe even learning how to be a member of society.

In a more traditional sense I guess I got stuck about halfway up the hierarchy of needs, and it may take more than time to get me to the top. But maybe I don't want to reach the top. Maybe I've found life more interesting as a perpetually anxious outcast. Maybe, but, now that I've wasted 50 years, I can't say that I've found it more satisfying.

Over the past 35 years, people in my mother's kitchen have asked each other some variation on the following question at least a thousand times: "Are the dishes in the dishwasher clean?"

On the countertop above the dishwasher sits a toaster oven. Today I noticed, and pried off the metal side of the oven, an adorable 2-by-2-inch square work of art with the words CLEAN and DIRTY on it (sort of like this, but square and artsy: http://www.amazon.com/CLEAN-kitchen-DISHWASHER-MAGNET-indicator/dp/B000PEZYNE). The heat from the toaster oven had melted the glue attaching the magnets to the paper backing; I pretty much destroyed the device in removing it.

This potentially useful but hidden gewgaw is emblematic of the insanity that prevails in this house: Piles of stuff hide other piles of stuff that might be useful if anyone knew they were there.

Of course, what someone probably figured out is that such an item works only if you remember to use it.

On the plus side: In a cabinet in the den, under the Scrabble game and some less-used games and the Last Whole Earth Catalog, I found the scrapbook that used to be my favorite plaything when I was about 4. My mother had encouraged me and Ann (two years older) to cut out photos of house interiors and exteriors from home-and-garden type magazines and then to cut out people and pets to live in the pictures--sort of a DIY two-dimensional dollhouse. I spent hours moving the people and a dog from room to room, working hard to get the perspective just right (no 35-foot women in my kitchen!). We even gave all the characters names (though I'm pretty sure there was a perky woman named Marge who is now AWOL; she may have been part of Ann's set).

My mother probably found this activity suggested in just the kind of magazine we were cutting up. Ann soon lost interest in it, but I, perhaps because of the fact that the whole world looks two-dimensional to me, found it endlessly fascinating (that and watching the kids dance on the Buddy Deane Show were my two favorite activities). Now that I've been reunited with it, I know how I will spend the rest of my days.

If your mother is in the final years (or months) of her life, weakened by metastatic lung cancer, unable to find anything amid the disorderly files, papers, books, dishes, etc., crammed into her 4-bedroom home, don't put her and you through the mentally and physically exhausting ordeal of sorting through all that stuff in order to move her to a small apartment. Let her finish her life peacefully in squalor and chaos. It will be much easier to deal with all that stuff when she isn't around. Yes, by moving her you save her the worry of keeping up the house, and she gets all the amenities of living in a luxurious continuing care retirement community. But trust me: it isn't worth all the work you and she have to go through to get her there.

I just learned this while listening to the radio while searching on the Web while eating lunch. "Multitaskers are suckers for distraction," says Professor Clifford Nass of Stanford. We "high multitaskers" are impairing our cognitive processes. This explains so much.

As life purposes go, I can't think of any that are more virtuous than drinking as much as possible of the liquor in my mother's house before she moves out in three weeks. We can't sell the stuff or give it away (at least not on CraigsList or FreeCycle). It would be a shame to pour it all out, especially the half dozen bottles that have never been opened. We could throw a party, but all the drinkers we used to know are either teetotal, housebound, or dead.

Some of the open bottles probably date back 35 years to the night that my mother and some of my friends needed a few more ingredients for the exotic drinks they wanted to make. My father went to the liquor store, where he encountered two itinerant Children of God in the parking lot. He gave them a ride to a local shelter for Jesus freaks, but it was either closed or full, so he took them home with him. All this transpired while I was in my room, obliviously studying for a calculus test. When I finally went downstairs, I saw my friends (Michael and Merry and perhaps one or two others) sitting with my parents around a table loaded with an assortment of liquor bottles. The two born-again Christians were sitting a safe distance from the demon rum (and gin and Triple Sec), but were being quite sociable. In fact, if I recall correctly (it would be a first), one of the young men ended up staying at the house for quite a while, even doing some painting or other improvements.

Back in the day, my mother would drink Jack Daniel's every night before--and sometimes during--dinner. On more than one occasion she had more than one or two ounces of the stuff, on the rocks. Her day would always start with a cup of black coffee, and she usually drank a few more cups of that before switching to sourmash in the evening. (A scandalized acquaintance once told me that this preference for black coffee was unfeminine.) A child of the South, she would also drink iced tea on occasion.

Nowadays she has a cup of decaffeinated tea with breakfast; in the evenings she drinks water. She cites vague medical reasons for giving up both caffeine and alcohol; given the dozen or so prescription drugs she takes, I suppose an adverse interaction is possible. Here's what gets me though: She claims to have no desire for the substances that were once so integral to her life. Maybe when you're no longer a wife, a scientist, a practicing lawyer, a practicing mother, a politician, or a very active activist, you can get by without psychoactive drugs.

At the place she's moving to, there's an organized cocktail hour every Friday, and I'm sure many residents don't limit their consumption to the weekly get-together. So maybe she'll want to take a few bottles with her, just in case she has thirsty visitors. That would sure make my job a lot easier, and it could spare my liver some abuse.

It's like magic! I send my doctor an email (because she asked me to send her the title of a book I mentioned), and I get no reply. Then I send her another email (because I need some prescriptions she neglected to give me), and I get no reply (and no prescriptions). She says she values communication with patients, so maybe I'll try calling her cell phone at 2 a.m. and see if that works any better. It's a good thing she's only been my doctor for a week, so it won't be too traumatic for either of us when I find a new one.