Category: Current Events

Congress or Guy Fieri?

Number 28

Dale and I debated whether we should watch the Jan. 6 hearings on TV. We agreed it was our civic duty, but we also agreed we’d switch back to the Food Network the minute one of us got disgusted. Not that we haven’t already overdosed on Guy Fieri, but he’s typically more palatable than Congress.

Winner, winner. Insurrection dinner.

Bottom line. We were riveted. My beer got warm, and that’s saying something. We rushed to assemble dinner during the 10-minute break. Dale was furiously chopping cilantro for the fresh Pico de Gallo that would accompany our carnitas tacos, and I thought, oh no, he’s going to cut himself.

“It’s back on! It’s back on!” I hollered to Dale, who stayed steady with the knife but was sweating like he was a finalist on Guy’s Grocery Games. I set up the TV trays, and we were back in our seats in time to watch the second hour. I did not leave my chair, not even to get another beer.  

Now I’m kind of wishing we could download the whole season and binge watch it this weekend.

Postscript: I failed to mention the footage was also heartbreaking, and we look forward to the day when the former guy is held accountable for his actions.

My annual physical was this week. We talked about Covid. I said we were recluses the first two years, but now we are venturing out. I’m assuming we will get it. I was thinking about Paxlovid, the antiviral pill and wondering if I would need it.

She didn’t think so. My immune system has mostly likely recovered from two bouts of cancer. I’m 66, and she said that’s still in the lower end of the age-related risk. I have high blood pressure, but that’s it. Still, because of my cancer history and the unknowns related to that, we agreed I would call for the pills if I should happen to test positive. She agreed with our plans to venture out and said we can’t live in a bubble forever.

I told the doctor I liked the neurosurgeon she referred me to for my back, even though I told him the only reason I kept the appointment was in case the shit hit the fan and I needed an existing patient relationship with a neurosurgeon. Not a good situation to be in, but I like to plan ahead.

He got my vibe, and we agreed surgery bad, exercise good. Keep doing what I’m doing.

My only beef was in the post-visit summary, there was a line about advising the patient to lose weight. At 5’7” and hovering just above 130 pounds, I figured it was a pre-populated form, and he didn’t bother to customize it. I was miffed.

She agreed and said normally the doctor double checks the form to ensure the parts that aren’t relevant are deleted. Then she told me a funny story.

One of her patients was having problems with his testicles. She examined him and found nothing unusual. Using her customary medical jargon, she wrote, “Testicles unremarkable.” But she didn’t delete it from the summary patients receive, and apparently, he was more than a bit upset to read that.

Anyway, so far, so good on the annual physical. For some reason, my cholesterol was the best it has been in years. I haven’t made any big dietary changes. The only thing I can think of is that I’ve been eating a lot of nuts. On the golf course, I snack on a mix of walnuts, almonds and dried cranberries.   

Speaking of golf and nuts, I played with a someone this week who might be certifiable. Some seriously crazy stuff coming out of her mouth. I decided to pretend she was my dear eccentric friend and that it was all very amusing. It was actually all very annoying, but my pretense worked! I did not get upset or blow my game, and I found myself warming up to her.

Could this be a new life strategy?

Cheerfulness breaking through

Number 26

I’m emerging from a self-imposed funk, and I started to write about all the racist, sexist bullshit things that are pissing me off right now, but once I go down that rabbit hole, it’s hard to climb back out. I’ll just say this. I don’t believe in conspiracy theories, but from what I’ve seen, we’d be better off if about half of the country is replaced. Bring it on.

Buffalo sent me over the edge, but I’m creeping back toward the middle now. Trying to focus on simple pleasures. Things I can control such as my body (but that’s only because I don’t have a uterus).

Oops, there I go again. Back to our regular programming.

As an avid golfer, I couldn’t wait to retire because I read somewhere you get better and better if you practice and play a lot. I’m a decent golfer, but after a few years of playing three times a week, I’m not much better than when I played twice a month. I must have missed the part that said, “Individual Results May Vary.”

This week I made the momentous decision to cut one day off my weekly golf schedule. And in the end, it really has nothing to do with how well I play. Golf is a time-sucker, and there’s too much competition on the hobby front – swimming, walking, cooking, reading, writing and making art. Oh, and I just signed up for the free version of Duolingo to learn Spanish.

The pool at the club where I swim laps is finally warm enough to swim without a thermal top. Without all that weighing me down, I felt like Flipper! I never could find a one-piece that fit, so I ended up buying these tops at Lululemon. They’re not swimsuits per se, but they work great for those of us who have had a mastectomy without reconstruction. I pair them with basic bottoms from Target.

Today is Dale’s birthday, so he’s making fajitas. I was willing to cook, but that’s what he wanted, and fajitas are his thing. I did make cheesecake! We both love it, but sometimes I think we just need a batch of graham cracker crust now and then. I’m thinking about waffles for tomorrow morning. I like this recipe from King Arthur. You can make the batter ahead and refrigerate it overnight.

I’ve been kind of burned out on streaming shows, although the new Bosch series is great. If you like seriously twisted crime fiction, I recommend The Turnout by Megan Abbott. It’s about a family of ballet dancers, and she does for ballet what she did for cheerleaders in Dare Me. It’s all sick and wrong, but that’s why you read Megan Abbott.

On a more pleasant note, I read the first two in a series of Victorian mysteries by Tasha Alexander featuring Lady Emily Ashton. They are a tad tame for me, but I liked them a lot and will probably read the rest. I’m not proud, but I have Tina Brown’s new book about the royals on reserve at the library. The Palace Papers – looks like she dishes on just about everyone, and for some reason, that appeals to me at this moment in time.  

I updated the gallery to include my last two pieces, Number 26 and Number 27. I couldn’t be happier to have discovered the joys of art later in life. With the time I’m getting back by skipping a day of golf, I think I’m going to visit Dick Blick and see what that’s all about. I’ve never been, although I do order from them online.

For many of us, it’s hard to stay positive, yet I somehow manage (for the most part). I’m reminded of the late musician Leonard Cohen, who said, “I’ve studied all the philosophies and all the theologies, but cheerfulness keeps breaking through!”

Undyed and loving it

Manchego and Chorizo Muffins

Whilst relaxing outside with a beer after a round of golf, one of the women noticed I got my hair cut. I took off my hat to show her the full effect, and she was surprised by all the gray. She liked it and said it was pretty, and then one of the perpetual blondes at the table said she wasn’t ready to go there yet.

Go where? To the land of the undyed, where we are forced to walk the Earth looking our age? I’ve heard others say they are too vain or they aren’t ready to give up. I’m plenty vain, but for me, it’s more about the complete package than simply the color of my hair.

I actually believe I look better than I ever have, and just so you know, my prefrontal cortex is kinda hot, too.

Putin on the blitz

Not to take anything away from the Ukrainians, but I’m having a hard time with Russia. Not the people, of course, but I am so angry with Putin. Our planet is dying, the world has suffered through a pandemic – more than 5 million people dead – and just as it looks like we might be getting a break – all he can do is think about killing some more? For a land grab?

I know the whole thing is more complicated than that, and Dale, an amateur military historian, would be more than happy to explain it to me in excruciating detail. However, one more Hitler documentary, and this marriage is over!

Oh, and let’s not forget about all the fucktards who have cozied up to this sociopath over the past years and still have trouble saying anything bad about him. And it’s not just Trump, either. If I’ve learned anything over the past two years, it’s that I know nothing, but I’m thinking the lovefest with Putin has got to be about money. When all else fails, follow the money.

While I’m not a religious person, I join those of you in praying for peace and hoping there’s a way out of this mess.

Savory Baking

I absolutely positively did not need another cookbook, but I’m weak that way. I purchased The Savory Baker by the folks at America’s Test Kitchen.  I was still debating what to try first, when Dale flipped through it and said he was smitten with the idea of Manchego and Chorizo Muffins. It’s actually the first recipe in the book, so I’m guessing he didn’t flip too far. Still, hat’s off to Dale keeping it simple.

The muffins include a variety of flavor bombs, including Manchego cheese, Spanish chorizo, fresh parsley, jarred red peppers and sour cream. I made them yesterday, and we reheated them for breakfast this morning. All I can say is yum.

Next will be Jalapeño Cheddar Scones. But then we would eat jalapeño cheddar dragon poop.

Adventures of a gentlewoman cannabis farmer

I took a break from growing cannabis, because it seemed like we had plenty, but it’s kind of like wine in a box – it goes fast. I started an indoor plant from seed this week, and it will soon be time to buy a clone in an attempt to successfully grow a plant outdoors. Last year’s clone didn’t make it – not enough sun in the flower bed – so this time I’m growing it in a pot in the middle of the yard. That should maximize sunnage.

Although I do imbibe, my favorite use for cannabis is for balm, which is featured on my downloads page. It’s a little miracle cream for all parts achy. You can buy the commercial product where it’s legal, but it is more expensive than making it yourself. I am not a fan of CBD-only products. If they work for you, or that’s all you can get, who cares? But I have found products made with the whole plant to be more effective.

I attended a cannabis education program when I first retired, and I see the same folks are offering an online course to earn a budtender certificate. OK, so I don’t want to be a budtender, because that looks too much like work, but maybe I’d like to know what they know? Let’s just say I have a learning orientation.

The self-paced course might keep me from ruminating on all the gloom and doom. I mean, I know that’s what Jalapeño Cheddar Scones are for, but every little bit helps.

Trying not to worry

Riley

It feels like everything is going to shit, that maybe this is the beginning of the end, but I keep telling myself not to worry about things I can’t control. And I am reminded of a scene from Lord of the Rings:

“I wish it need not have happened in my time,” said Frodo.

“So do I,” said Gandalf, “and so do all who live to see such times. But that is not for them to decide. All we have to decide is what to do with the time that is given us.”

As I’ve muddled my way through retirement, I’ve pretty much let go of the idea that I need to accomplish anything. Just hanging out, enjoying simple pleasures. Trying not to worry but worrying anyway about Riley, our cat, and why he likes Dale better. It can’t just be about the food.

However, sometimes I get this idea – I can’t quite reach it – but it feels like something might be pulling me in a new direction. As per usual, I have few clues as to what that might be.

My prediction is that I’ll discover something special to write about, I’ll do some sort of long-distance walk or I’ll find a new focus for my cooking obsession. As I reflect on these speculations, it occurs to me all are a search for a singular passion, which I don’t appear to have. Always the dabbler, we’ll just have to wait and see what comes of my magical thinking.

I’m trying not to stress out about anything. Maybe retirement doesn’t need to be orchestrated. Just live it and do your best to stay healthy and happy. Or maybe it’s a cycle, and you just have to ride out each phase until the next one appears. I don’t know, but I’m open to endless possibilities.

I do these deep breathing exercises in bed before I even get up. It’s almost a form of meditation, and I think that’s when all will be revealed. Until then, I continue to putz around, taking care of things that perhaps don’t matter in the big picture but seem to provide a sense of steady comfort.  

Whatever happens, my hair will look good. When I got my hair lopped off in early December, the stylist said I would need regular trimmings about every six weeks. I eagerly signed up, even though I’ve previously been resistant to the whole salon regime. They say never surrender, unless you’re 66 and your hair looks like crap.

I canceled my first trim due to Omicron. My hair still looked better than it ever did, but I absolutely loved the shorter bob. The rescheduled appointment was this week! Our Covid numbers are way down, but at this point, I didn’t care if Godzilla breezed into town, I was getting a haircut. I’m delighted with the results. And yes, I wore a mask.

This might be the vaccine microchip talking, but I’ve actually had an urge to go shopping. Like not online and for real. It’s hard to imagine I could need anything beyond what’s delivered to my doorstep, but going to the mall seems like such a quaint thing to do.

Although we didn’t have much money, my mother loved clothes and was always good for a trip to The Broadway. It’s gone now. I vividly remember waiting outside with great anticipation for the doors to open before a big sale and was always enthralled with the lingerie section upstairs, where there was a big glass case of fancy peignoir sets. Oh my!

The peignoirs were gone, too, by the time I got old enough to wear them. I do like fancy undies and may splurge if I should make it to said mall. Although I remember the owner of a lingerie store telling me, “If you wait until you can afford it, you’ll look like hell in it.”

I’m well into the second half of that sentence, but I also need swimwear, which is difficult to order over the internet and particularly difficult for me since I chose to go flat after my mastectomy. It will take an N95 and perhaps medication to get me through swimsuit shopping.

I’ve gone back and forth on the whole streaming music thing, and I have no qualm with anyone’s decision one way or the other. There are no saints in this story. However, I’ve decided to give Spotify the big FU for supporting Joe Rogan and switch to Amazon Music Prime.

While I don’t think my decision puts a dent in the universe and in no way settles the myriad issues over music streaming in general, I’ve read Amazon pays artists slightly more. But that might be smoke and mirrors. At the end of the day, go with your gut and try not to worry.

Dining out after 786 days

I’ve had a jones for writing since I was a little kid. Some of it was about making my voice heard, putting my stake in the ground, as I grew up with parents who were mostly disengaged, and I had a hard time developing a strong sense of self. That, and because I was bad at math.

At 66, I believe I’ve finally let go of demons and old resentments and am happily enjoying my hard-earned retirement. If I can ignore the pandemic, politics and pandemic politics, life is good. And when things are good, the urge to write seems to fade. Just chill, I tell myself. The less said, the better.

Then I go down into this rabbit hole and think, well, I already suck at so many things, and I should only have to suck at one thing at a time. Maybe I should pull the plug on the blog.

And yet she persists. Why? Well, it’s kind of like the John Lee Hooker song, Boogie Chillen.

One night I was layin’ down

I heard mama and papa talkin’

I heard papa tell mama let that boy boogie-woogie

It’s in him and it got to come out

It’s in me, and it got to come out. I’ll continue to have some hits and misses along the way, but that seems to mirror just about everything else in life, doesn’t it? All things considered, I think it’s important for all of us to remember the entire journey is a practice run.

And so, we return to the stuff I try best to ignore. The pandemic, politics and pandemic politics.

I swim in a heated outdoor pool at a health club. The water is reasonably warm, but I’m always cold, so afterward I hop slide gently into the hot tub to warm up. Yesterday, there was another guy in there, about my age or a bit older, plenty of distance from me, but I could tell he was trying to figure out a way to start a conversation. I kept my mouth shut.

He finally asked if I was a marathon swimmer. That seemed innocuous enough. I said no, I only swim about 30 to 45 minutes a couple of times a week because physical activity helps me manage pain.

Dumb! Too much information. What about no, and then a full stop?

The pain comment set him off on his Marine Corps experiences, and it was a very dark conversation, indeed. I just listened. I finally said, well, maybe pain is like Covid, we have to learn to live with it.

That set him off on Covid and mask requirements. All I said was, seriously, masks are the least of my worries. He spewed something about the Bill of Rights, and I asked if he wore a seatbelt. He was a big guy, and suddenly he emerged from the hot tub like Shamu, said that was a ridiculous comparison and proceeded to socially distance himself into the locker room.

This is not my first unpleasant hot tub conversation. It’s like the Wild West in there. I do think there are a lot of angry people who were marginally managing their lives, and Covid blew up all their coping mechanisms. Now, all bets are off. I’ve got to learn to give one-word responses so I don’t end up engaging in these shenanigans.

As for living with Covid, for the first time since December 2020, Dale and I ate in a restaurant! We’ve talked about it but could never quite summon the strength. Dale tends to be non-committal, so after two-plus years of yeah, maybe, I finally said, “I’m going to have lunch out on Tuesday. Would you like to join me?”

It actually went uphill from there. He asked me to cut his hair beforehand. I got dolled up and wore real clothes. It’s an upscale restaurant, but I didn’t think Taco Bell would be a good dry run.

We had planned to eat outside, but it was cold and windy, so we reluctantly went inside. The atmosphere was lovely, and we had the dining area practically to ourselves. We each had a Bloody Mary, extra spicy, please, and we shared two appetizers – Kung Pao Calamari and Tuna Wonton Nachos.

With tip, it was $67.77. Not cheap, and you know I’m not good at math, but I counted 786 days of not eating out. Is that about 8 cents a day?

It was a nice outing, and now we are trying to develop a long-term strategy for living with this thing. We don’t want to get stupid just because Omicron is fading, but we need to be less risk-averse than we’ve been. How are you assessing risk?

Here’s some important retirement information. Understand your partner’s strengths and weaknesses and work with them. It would seem dropping ideas on Dale doesn’t work. I need to make specific plans and invite him to join me – I think Dale preferred it that way, at least I got a yes out of him, although he did suggest I was easy for coming home with him after the first date.

Spotify, I hardly knew you

I’ve only had a Spotify account for a few weeks, and already there’s trouble. Sadly, I used up my lifetime quota of moral outrage, so I thought I’d parse this out instead to see if there’s a middle ground.  

Neil Young was the first musician to pull his songs from Spotify in protest over Joe Rogan’s podcast, which I’m told spreads misinformation about COVID and accompanying vaccines. I would not know personally, because I do not listen to Joe Rogan.

Several other musicians backed Neil Young, and news reports said customers are canceling their accounts, whether it’s in solidarity with Neil Young or just because they don’t like Spotify anymore for various and sundry reasons.

I respect Neil Young’s position and have no gripe with his protest. It’s his music, sort of, because as it turns out, he apparently sold a chunk of his publishing rights in 2021, so I imagine his request to pull the music wasn’t as simple as all that. Anyway, as an artist, he definitely has a dog in this hunt, and his behavior is consistent with everything I know about Neil Young, who after all, wrote Ohio after the Kent State shootings.

Then there’s Joe Rogan. I had never even heard of him until all this blew up, and I’m glad I’ve kept to myself, a busy retiree thinking important sourdough thoughts.

They say he’s spreading misinformation. Yeah, well, take a number. Neil Young said the misinformation is killing people, and that might be true, but if listeners are basing life decisions on what Joe Rogan has to say, God help them.

A lot of us are like, fine, your choice if you go down that rabbit hole. Although I agree with Neil Young, I don’t think the world needs him to figure out who is dumb and who isn’t. However, people who won’t get vaccinated are making it even harder to get past the pandemic, and one could argue they are not just killing themselves, they are killing us.

Up to this point in the arguments, I’m kind of on the fence with regard to keep or cancel Spotify. Are they the good guys? The bad guys? Sure, they’re in it for the money, but who isn’t? It’s my contention no one – not Amazon, not Apple nor any other service you may care to peruse – can pass the purity test.

Just look at the junk that comes out of Fox. Can anyone shut them up? Are they screaming fire in a crowded theater? Dang, that pesky free speech thing is hard.

Whether it’s a television station, a bookstore, a music streaming service or home goods delivered straight to your door, there’s always the risk you will encounter shady business practices, vile content, unethical investments, deviant behavior and more. When you see it, you have to decide – is this my battle to fight?

As for Spotify, kudos to Neil Young, but I have decided this is not my battle. At least for now. Perhaps I can purchase moral outrage futures so I will be ready when the shit hits the fan, as we say in the Pekar household.

But for now I’m going to continue to ignore Joe Rogan and enjoy the music that makes me happy.

Your thoughts?

The Great Resignation

Have you been reading about The Great Resignation? Droves of people are quitting their jobs, much of it as a result of the pandemic. While lots of factors play into their decisions, including child care challenges, it sounds like workers have discovered the joys of a slower pace and aren’t going back until they find something with more balance.

You’ll notice I didn’t say work-life balance. In one job, I wrote talking points for the president of the company about his efforts to change the culture of the workplace. He asked me to “socialize” them with other executives, and one VP took issue with the term work-life balance. He said, and I quote, “Work is life.”

As for resigning, we get it, don’t we? One of the reasons I retired earlyish is because the rat race was wearing me out, too. But I was 62, and my husband and I had enough money saved to presumably last the rest of our lives. These are young people gambling with their futures … holding out until employers bend.

I’ve never understood why 40 hours a week isn’t enough. In my last job, you were expected to put in at least 50, preferably more. My boss had some sort of document readily accessible on her smartphone that could instantly tell her who was putting in the most unpaid overtime … and who wasn’t.

She would check on weekends to see if your Instant Messenger light was green, which usually meant you were online and working.

Granted, I was highly compensated, but my hourly rate was down there with fast food. Not really, but you like to think you’re paid more because you bring extra value, not because you are willing to give up having a life outside of work.

Fast food reminds me of a funny story.

We had just returned from working abroad, and I interviewed for a job at an insurance company in Columbia, S.C. They made an offer, and I countered.

I made more money than that at my last job working in Egypt.

Well, that was overseas. You can’t compare us to overseas.

I made more money than that when I lived in Alabama.

Well, that was aerospace. You can’t compare us to aerospace.

I accepted the job anyway, but when I later told the story to a coworker, he said his response would have been:

I made more money than that when I worked at Captain D’s.

Well, that was fast food. You can’t compare us to fast food.

That story still makes me laugh.

Anyway, I want the workers to find their bliss, but I can’t say I have much hope. I suspect they’ll enjoy some time off, run out of money and once again be at the mercy of the man.

It’s a tough predicament, and I have no love left for what’s become of the workplace, but I have some amazing memories and am still exceedingly grateful for all my experiences.

And the money. Oh, and retirement. Definitely retirement.

Another year to live!

My latest piece of art made from a scrap of wood. You can’t see it in the picture, but there’s metallic paint in the grid at the bottom, and it looks really cool as you walk by the wall where I hung it.

The condo collapse in Miami is just heartbreaking, and while condos seem like a desirable accommodation for retirees, it leaves me wondering if I would ever live in one. I’m confident there are many upsides to condo living, but I’m not liking the whole shared ownership thing.

Who is ultimately responsible? I suppose we will find out when the lawsuits roll out. I’m reminded of an old Gallagher joke: They needed a con, and they needed some dough.

Speaking of cons, I was pleased to see the Trump Organization and its CFO indicted for tax fraud. Of course, I’m just one of the little people who dutifully pays her taxes, but it’s good to see cheaters held accountable. Everyone suffers when people don’t pay their share.

I had a good laugh over Trump’s comments at the Florida rally about not paying taxes on fringe benefits and asking whether you had to. “Does anyone know the answer to that stuff?” he asked. Um, yes, we do know, and presumably, he does, too. If your employer gives you a $100 gift card, they take taxes out, and you declare it as income. At least that’s the way it works for the little people.

Waiting for him to fall feels a little like all those old guys waiting for the Cubs to win the World Series. You hope it happens before you die.

Speaking of death, or avoidance thereof, last week was my annual oncology check-up, which I passed with flying colors.

Cancer number one was Stage 3, Grade 3 Primary Peritoneal Cancer (PPC) in 1999. This cancer is considered virtually identical to ovarian cancer, except it grows in the lining of the abdomen. To make things easy, I usually just say I had ovarian cancer.

Ovarian cancer is hard to detect. The CA-125 blood test is one tool, but it is not accurate, so it’s not used for routine screening. Coupled with a transvaginal ultrasound, it can be used as a screening tool for high-risk patients. I wasn’t considered high-risk when I was experiencing symptoms, and no one ever did a CA-125 on me prior to my diagnosis.

My CA-125 was elevated, which would have been a trigger for more tests. Presumably, they would have found my cancer a year or so earlier. But life can be interesting. By waiting another year, I landed with an exceptional doctor who successfully treated me for a disease than often kills its victims within a couple of years.

After two surgeries and six months of chemotherapy, I have been disease-free for 22 years and counting. The CA-125 has proven to be a good tool to monitor ovarian cancer once you’ve already had it. Ideally, it should be in the single digits. Mine has been 6 for many years now, and it was once again 6. Every time I see it, I tear up with gratefulness and relief.

This is my commercial interruption for ovarian cancer screening. If you are at increased risk, ask your doctor about a transvaginal ultrasound and CA-125. If a doctor suspects you have ovarian cancer or you need surgery related to ovarian cancer, see a board-certified gynecological oncologist. This is not a job for your favorite OB/GYN. 

One of the reasons survival is not as good as it should be is because women aren’t being treated by the right specialist.

Cancer number two was non-invasive Ductal Carcinoma in Situ (DCIS). Some people don’t even think this qualifies as cancer, but my oncologist assures me it is. Lumpectomy and radiation is the typical treatment. However, I am BRCA 1 positive (like Angelina Jolie), and the risk of the cancer returning in a more virulent form is much higher for me.

My treatment was a mastectomy, which was presumably curative. Once a year, the oncologist examines my chest and lymph nodes, but that’s it.

And so it goes. Another year to live!

Accepting risk and reality

The CDC now says vaccinated people in the U.S. can go maskless indoors or out. States and retailers are still determining how that plays out on a local level, but it comes down to this. You don’t know who’s vaccinated and who’s not, so what we have here is the honor system.

Good luck with that.

Mostly everything I know is wrong, but if I’ve learned anything over the past few years it’s this. A big chunk of my fellow Americans, perhaps as many as 70 million of them, are delusional. I do not have confidence people will do the right thing.

In the words of the dB’s, “You better wake up, wake up, wake up. That time is gone.”

How to process? On one hand, I am fully vaccinated and well-protected against getting sick or dying from the virus. However, I am more risk averse than some. We still haven’t been out to eat. But let’s assume I’m reasonably safe and can go anywhere, do anything.

The vaccine works, so I should be good. If unvaccinated people want to cheat the system and go maskless, what’s it to me? Let them mingle and infect each other. Darwinism at work.

But part of me thinks, OK, if enough of them get sick, that gives the virus more time to grow and prosper. More opportunities for variants to emerge. Possibly less protection for the rest of us and probably more time in the pandemic zone.

One has to assume the CDC has thought through all this and is willing to take a chance. Maybe this is the “one big thing” it will take to get more people vaccinated. Or it’s a ruse so we can pretend this is over and party like it’s 1999. And here’s a crazy thought: What if this really is the science, and we just have to believe?

Dale and I will stay the course, wearing masks to shop indoors but loosening up on other activities, because, after all, that vaccine counts for something. Life goes on. We made a pact we will go out to eat this week, but we’ll dine outside. We’re thinking about a road trip.

As a 22-year ovarian cancer survivor and six-year breast cancer survivor, I take illness and death seriously. But I also recognize you can’t allow yourself to wallow in the unknown, which we all understand you can’t control anyway.

Enjoying life – and enjoying retirement – means we have to accept risk and reality and find our safe and happy place somewhere in the middle.

That seems doable.

Blissful disengagement

I’ve always been opinionated and have a well-documented history of wanting to be right and willing to prove it, but now I find myself deep in the ease of retirement, enjoying the simple pleasures of disengagement.

Every time I get a desire to weigh in on some burning issue, I think, “What good would come of that?” Sometimes I’ll say something anyway, and I almost always regret it. Lately, I’ve gotten better at saying less, and you know what? Life goes on.

For example … I saw a LinkedIn post about safety in the workplace. The author said, “Too often, safety is the privilege of a few – not a right enjoyed equitably by all.” Somebody commented there was no correlation between safety and privilege, and I was about to jump on it, explaining, for example, how women are not safe in the same situations (walking alone at night, a hotel room on the ground floor) where white male privilege somewhat shields them from the same fears.  

Then I asked myself that important question. What good would come of that? I stayed out of it, and when I went back later to see what transpired, that person’s comment had been deleted. Time marched on without my input.

Last week, I mentioned to a golf buddy that California was currently lowest in COVID cases in the continental United States. A full week later, he tracked me down in the parking lot to show me statistics he pulled up on his cell phone clearly showing California had the highest number of cases in the U.S.

OK. Got me, except I said currently not cumulative, but c-words are tricksy. And maybe I misread something. Who knows? I opted for the quick escape, “Oh, interesting, thanks!”

For a third example, I begrudgingly attended a golf rules clinic, because golf is all about the rules. I only want to know enough to avoid someone else giving me a bunch of crap because I did something wrong. However, in my infinite stupidity, I mentioned to another golf buddy that I attended a rules clinic.

He asked if I learned anything. I said, yes, lots, but it’s hard to remember them all. Oh, but sure, let me dig for an enticing tidbit.

Yay! Here it is! Fresh off the memory merry-go-round!

One surprising thing was about teeing your ball up in the teeing area. If you purposefully make a swing at the ball, and it dribbles off the tee but remains in the teeing area as defined by the rules of golf, you count the stroke, but you can still tee it up for your next shot.

No, that’s not true.

Well, I probably got it wrong. It was a lot to process. All I know for sure is there was a difference between if the ball stays in the teeing area or rolls out of the teeing area.

But you said you get to tee it up.

Yes, but I retracted that comment. Now I’m saying I don’t know.

That seemed to satisfy him, but when I got home, I looked it up. As it turns out, I was right, and I started to copy the rule and text it to him for his further edification. But what did I do instead? I asked myself a simple question. Say it with me.

What good would come of that?

Because I am not a rules expert and don’t aspire to be one. Why would I set myself up for that argument? My regret is bringing it up in the first place. And even if I were to make this mistake again, there’s still an exit strategy. When he asks me what I learned, I say, “You know, I can’t recall.” And then I laugh. We all laugh. Because the rules of golf suck.

The final reusable straw came this week over food. The website Epicurious will no longer post new recipes using beef because of the impact cows and beef consumption have on climate change. I started to go down the slippery slope of engagement, when I read through all the comments on the New York Times article.

As is often the case, there are more than two sides, and I can pretty much understand each perspective. But anything I might have said has already been said. Plus, not everyone is as genteel and reasoned as I, and the discourse can be quite snarky.

Who needs that? I know there are important issues that will sometimes demand I step up and take a stance. And I’ll do it. But most of the time, my presence is not required.

In the meantime, I’ll just kick back and work on improving my retirement skillset – blissful disengagement.