Category: Relationships

The HOA ate my newspaper

We are apparently among the few who still get a newspaper delivered daily. It’s not all that great of a newspaper as newspapers go, but these are trying times for print journalism, and we can’t give it up anymore than we could give up our morning coffee.

While I don’t have firm numbers, I would guess the newspaper is soaking wet 20 percent of the time. Certainly, rain can be the culprit, even when the newspaper is bagged in plastic, but most of the time it’s due to our sprinklers watering the driveway.

Our front yard is maintained by the homeowner’s association, so for quite some time, years, really, we tolerated wet newspapers because it seemed like a better alternative than talking to someone at the homeowner’s association. My husband tried microwaving the newspaper to dry it, but that caused a fire in the microwave, so now he puts it in the oven at 350 degrees until it crisps up a bit.

After one too many wet newspapers, we said, enough is enough! I called the HOA and left a message because no one ever actually answers the phone over there. No one returned my call, but a few days later, there was a leave-behind stuffed under the door to let us know the sprinkler heads had been adjusted.

Not long after, there was another wet newspaper. This time I took a picture and printed it out. I circled the newspaper in red and wrote, “wet newspaper.” I also circled puddles of water at the bottom of the driveway. I wrote our name and address on the bottom and marched gently sauntered over to the HOA.

The outer door was open so you could get in the lobby area, but no one was home. There was a sign that they were out for some sort of something … team building? Maybe even the trust fall but probably not customer service. Anyway, we could leave paperwork in the basket. Which I did. And took some candy from the bowl, too.

I hear nothing, so several wet newspapers later, I went back to the HOA. They were home! I knew the person in charge was Cassandra or Lisbeth or some other sort of new-age name, but to me, she’s Oz. Instead, I got Becky or Cathy, the backbone of the organization, who listened to all my questions and then would go back and talk to Oz and then come back and tell me what Oz said, which was not much more than, “We’re working on it.”

At one point, I suggested they change the timers to water at midnight, so the whole show would be over by the time our newspaper was delivered. She said just a minute, went into the back and returned accompanied by the elusive Oz, whose manicure, by the way, was impeccable.

Oz said they can’t change the timers, but they will replace the sprinkler heads with a different type that should prevent this problem in the future. In fact, it was happening today! Such good news and what a coincidence.

I thanked her and explained that I know it’s probably not a common problem, as we are among the few who still get a newspaper. She said she understood, that she loves the smell of a fresh newspaper.

“I wouldn’t know. We  have to bake ours, and the smell is quite unpleasant.”

Maybe it was something I said, but I don’t think they’ve been here yet. That’s OK. One way or another, this will get fixed. I’m retired. I have lots of time and lots of ideas.

Uncoupling for a few days

After my big spiel about staying safe in the heat, it got beastly hot, and I played a rough 18 holes of golf. I got away with it, mostly because I used all my gear, including a solar umbrella, a battery-operated fan, a spray bottle of water, a cool towel and tons of fluids. That said, I felt weak and dizzy, and I should have stopped. 

I spent the next day resting and guzzling more fluids, and I felt OK after that. I vowed to be more careful going forward. Theoretically, I should be getting smarter about this stuff.

Shortly after, I went to Santa Cruz for a few days of golf with the girls. Quite the opposite weather on the coast. Dag, it was cold! But I was prepared. My knit cap and windbreaker were coveted by many. I did my best to keep up with my exercises but some require resistance bands and weights, and that just seemed like a bridge too far.

We played golf three days in a row, which is unusual for me. I wasn’t sure how my body would hold up, but I didn’t experience any pain at all and am pretty happy about that. I do think the strengthening exercises are helping in lots of different ways.

I’ve never been a big fan of cherries, but one of the women brought a bag for the trip, and they were delicious. I bought more at the farmers market today and made a smoothie with almond milk, cherries and almond butter. Yum. The tomatoes aren’t ready yet, but we can’t wait. That’s a whole season’s worth of happiness.

On the reading front, I highly recommend Sipsworth by Simon Van Booy. It’s a short novel about a lonely old woman who befriends a mouse. Just a great little story that will leave you feeling good.

The mouse in the book is very sweet, and he inspired me to have a talk with our cat about his demeanor. Riley was a rescue, but he’s been with us for, gosh, I don’t know, eight years? He still acts like we’re trying to kill him.

I asked Riley to be a little more loving. He won’t get on the bed to say hi, but I guess that’s not all bad. He’ll get in Dale’s lap once in a blue moon but not mine ever. He’s longhaired, and I groom him, and he doesn’t make a fuss. All in all, Riley is a good boy, and he’ll let me pick him up and smooch him. Uses his box. Doesn’t scratch stuff. Pukes now and again, but who doesn’t?

The book also made me think about vegetarianism. If you have an animal companion and wouldn’t think of eating him, why is your little friend more special than other animals you gladly consume?  I enjoy meat, but I could see life without it. However, I wouldn’t give up cheese unless it was a life-or-death situation.

Dale and I frequently throw that out for discussion – which would you rather give up? Meat or cheese? Easy for me. Meat. He’s a cheesehead like me but more of a carnivore and definitely on the fence.

We drive each other crazy much of the time, but Dale is still my favorite person, and he says I’m still his. However, I believe breaks are good for relationships, and we haven’t had many of those since I retired. Togetherness can be too much of a good thing. This time, I was gone four nights, and it was a nice vacation from each other.

As your official retirement confidant, I would definitely recommend retired couples periodically schedule solo trips.

I had a great time in Santa Cruz, but I’m glad to be home hanging out with Dale. It might be my imagination, but I think Riley is happy the family is back together again. Maybe that little talk we had did some good.

When chiro doesn’t cut it

If you’ve been looking for a blog post from me, you’ll need to hack into my computer and search the trash, because that’s where everything I write ends up. I just can’t seem to get my shit act together.

In health news, my sciatica flare-up is now behind me. I’m still doing a lot of different stretches and strengthening exercises, and I believe they’re keeping me upright, but I probably need professional help. Seems like Dale said that, but I don’t think he was talking about my back.

A golf friend said she sees a chiropractor weekly, Medicare pays for it and she no longer has sciatica. I’ve always been afraid of chiro, but I made an appointment for an evaluation and took along the MRI of my back. I really liked the doctor, however, he read through the MRI report and said spinal manipulation probably won’t help me and could make it worse.

Rejected! I didn’t think chiropractors turned anyone away.

For you medical nerds, he said the reason for turning me down is the severe stenosis at L4-L5. I appreciated his honesty. He said massages and exercises that address muscles and tissue are good, so I asked my doctor for a referral to physical therapy. I think I’m already on the right track there, but a little fine-tuning seems appropriate at this point. That starts next week.

I’ve been reading a good bit, and it’s not all crime fiction! The list includes:

The Lincoln Highway by Amor Towles. I liked it a lot, but damn, that ending was not what I expected.

An Honest Man by Michael Koryta. After discovering seven men murdered aboard their yacht off the coast of Maine – our protagonist Israel Pike is regarded as a prime suspect. Let’s just say he has a troubled past. Highly recommended.

The Frozen River by Ariel Lawhon. It’s 1789, and a badass midwife in Maine takes on accused rapists, one of whom has been found dead. Or was he murdered? I loved this book!

The Body Keeps the Score: Brain, Mind and Body in the Healing of Trauma by Bessell van der Kolk. This book turned out to be a bit wonky with lots of science and research, but I would consider it a must-read for trauma survivors. Having been raised by wolves, it helped me understand a lot about my own issues.

The Exchange: After the Firm by John Grisham. It was nice to revisit the McDeere’s, but I was a bit disappointed. The storyline wasn’t all that believable, and I think he missed some opportunities to add an unexpected twist or two.

Lady Tan’s Circle of Women by Lisa See. Based on a real person, this work of historical fiction tells the story of a girl in 1400s China who becomes a doctor. I enjoy anything by Lisa See, and this one did not disappoint. But man, that foot-binding is some bad shit. And eunichs! Lot of wrong going on there.

Now that I’ve branched out a bit, I’m thinking of trying science fiction again. High on my list is Dune, which we have at home in paperback. I asked Dale if he thought I could get through it, and he said yes, if I can keep track of the characters.

Well, that’s easier said than done.

In another important retirement development, Dale and I settled our argument regarding crumbs on the floor and the process for removing them. He used to think they disappeared by magic, but he now understands a vacuum cleaner is involved. And I do not have a vacuum cleaner attached to my hand.

To make everything easy-peasy, we sprung for a Dyson cordless stick vacuum and put it in a place with easy access for quick clean-ups. Now, everyone can participate in the vacuuming of crumbs!

Beds don’t make themselves

For a retiree with nothing to do, I’ve been busy. I passed on golf so I could get cracking on the Christmas cookies we send to Dale’s sisters in Maine. It’s quite the process making the dough, rolling it out, cutting the shapes, baking the cookies, making the royal icing, decorating the cookies and then letting the icing dry for a day or two.

I finished them yesterday. The cookies are drying on racks, so that monkey is off my back. Tomorrow, I’ll put them in tins, and Dale will add a few things to the box and get the packages shipped. That’s on him.

Years ago, my sister and I happily agreed to no gifts, and I’d like to spread that around.

This week starts with golf on Monday, golf on Tuesday and golf league party on Wednesday. I haven’t been to the party in a couple of years … well, since Covid. But I thought I’d put my life on the line and hope for the best.

One of the women in my group once said I dressed for golf like I was going on a hike. Not an insult, per se, but my goal is to show up at the party looking like something other than a hiker.

I donated to Joe Biden’s campaign. I hate all the begging that comes after, but I didn’t want to face myself if Trump wins, and I did nothing to help stop it. I do believe our democracy is at stake, so if there’s ever a time to step up, this is it. If I can find some sort of volunteer job with the Democrats that doesn’t involve getting shot at by Republicans, I’ll probably sign up for that, too.  

Last week’s household drama was about making the bed. I like a tight bed with hospital corners. I want to slip into bed like a perfectly folded letter slides into a crisp envelope. I sleep with two pillows and sometimes put a quilt over my side of the comforter for extra warmth.

Dale doesn’t believe beds should be made. Why bother?

I believe our differences are rooted in our military experiences. Dale and I met in the Army. He was an officer, and I was enlisted. His training included a place called summer camp, if you can believe that. How lovely for them. Enlisted people go to basic training, which sounds more like it, no?

He may have mastered strategic warfare or whatever, but this much I know. Only one of us learned to make a proper bed.

You, of course, know it’s important to redistribute the bedding. Sometimes, during the night, one person will steer the bedding to his or her side, a practice we call Grand Theft Covies. Another issue is fluffing the comforter so the filling goes back up to the top, where it keeps you warmer.

When making the bed, all that has to be fixed. It doesn’t take long, but you’ve got to commit.

I was kind of cold one night and realized the comforter filling was all down at the bottom. Dale was the last one who made the bed, so I asked him in the morning.

Did you fluff the comforter?

What?

I explained the finer points of comforter fluffing, but even as the words left my lips, I was thinking it was probably a case of too much information. However, he surprised me. Later that afternoon, I heard the delicious plop, plop of the comforter being fluffed! Oh, clever me.

Over dinner that evening, Dale said there was something he needed to say. As the proprietor of D&D Lodging, he regretted to let me know he was charging $1 for comforter fluffing, and an additional dollar because he had to remove the quilt prior to fluffing. So much work. Then he said, “And as you know, I have long waived the fee for the extra pillow.”

So, after all that, we had a great laugh. Of course, there are no fees, but just the same, he planted a seed. Like somehow this is going to cost me. Now when it comes to making the bed, I’ve been racing to get there first.

Maybe he is smarter than me after all.

Requiem for a tent

The tent is going back. After painful thoughtful introspection, we realized we’re both less tolerant of bugs, rain, heat, bears, snakes, outdoor plumbing and other unpleasant elements we used to find charming. The other reason is getting a camp site reservation in California is difficult if not impossible.

I know it can be done, but it takes a more dedicated soul than I to plan six months ahead and set the alarm so you’re up the second the sites go live. And then do that for weeks until you land a spot.

Since I didn’t start six months ago and don’t hop out of bed like I used to, I spent the last several days shuffling through the leftovers. The interface is frustrating, and I came up empty-handed. I even tried the far-flung places you’d think no one would visit, the ones where the mosquitos have names like El Hefe, and they’re booked solid for the foreseeable future.

This little exercise pushed us closer to finding our retirement travel mojo … which is surprisingly difficult for some of us. Dale and I have decided we mostly want to focus on seeing the natural beauty of California and other not-too-distant places, but we’re not going to rough it anymore. Sometimes a simple motel in a nearby town and sometimes a resort. Maybe even privately run glamping sites, where you stay in an Air Stream or something like that.

We’ll be spending more money, for sure, but I think we should be able to keep the costs reasonable. I guess reasonable is a sliding scale. What seems reasonable to me now was shockingly outrageous only a few years ago. But the truth is, like many retirees, we are not spending down our savings. It’s a good problem to have, and we’re ready to kick it up a notch.

I’ve planned a few trips, including Yosemite and Death Valley (yes, in the summer). All from the comforts of a resort. With a bed. A pool. Air conditioning. Restaurants. It was shockingly easy to make a reservation once you decide to throw money at it.

In other news, we had our second Shingles vaccine, and it kicked our butts. We’re both better now, but it was a rough night. I had the chills, and we were both quite achy and miserable. But at least we checked that one off the list.

Easygoing

A few weeks ago, I got wind of an art exhibition for veterans in my county. I debated whether to apply, partly because I’m not sure critics would view my stuff as “real art.” Anyway, I did apply for the exhibit, which is in May. They accepted me, but then I was miserable for a month worrying and fretting about how others might react to my embellished wood scraps.

I tried to tell myself, do the thing that scares you and all that, but life is already pretty scary, and I don’t need to pile it on. It’s not a popular sentiment, but these days I’m all about making things easier. I fought the good fight and made it to retirement. I used to think big deal. Now, I think, hell yeah, big deal.

Retirement, they say, comes in phases. I’m in the easygoing phase and am doing my best to bypass the harder-than-it has-to-be-phase.

Although I rarely quit anything, I mean, do it until it hurts, I withdrew from the exhibit and feel great about the decision. Art is just a thing I do, no more, no less. I enjoy sharing it with you, but I don’t need to beat the streets seeking new audiences.   

Number 36

I was working on Number 36 whilst churning through all this, and I was so grumpy, trying to make it better. Normally, my mantra, is hey, it was just a piece of scrap wood, now it’s something else. So what if it’s not perfect? But thinking about judges and shit messed me up. I simply need to hang out in my garage and do what speaks to me.

So, number 36. What can I say? I love cats.  

Speaking of easygoing, I hate buying new stuff, but I do appreciate tools that make jobs less of a chore. The weather is starting to get really nice, so I took it upon myself to clean up the patio furniture. I used a brush and garden hose to get some of the dirt off, and then it was all over. You see the difference, clean versus dirty, and what can you do but keep going?

I was worried about my back and wrists, which are both sensitive. I called to Dale, who was conveniently absent for the ritual washing of the patio furniture. I asked about a power washer. Would this clean up without a brush if I had such a tool? He said yes, and I said let’s go.

Off we went to Ace, where we killed it with a credit card and dragged it home. It was pretty easy to set up and worked like a champ. I probably saved my back and my wrists and maybe Dale’s life, because you know, cleaning patio furniture – so not his thing.

Then there’s the lawn. We have a small patch of lawn in the backyard. It used to be thin and scraggly, and we I mowed it with a little push mower. Then late last fall, we had a yard makeover and got new sod. This is the real deal. Thick and hardy.

Here’s the agreement I made. I will mow and blow, but that’s it. Nothing else. Nada. Either we throw money at it, or it’s Dale’s job. Mostly that means we threw money at it and have a service that takes care of the rest. Just another marriage-saver tip from Retirement Confidential.

The new grass had time to grow over the winter, but I hadn’t mowed it yet. When the rain finally stopped, I got out the push mower and almost collapsed. I couldn’t get it through the grass. I did do it, but I had to use my whole body and stop several times to catch my breath. I thought, well, the grass is just thicker because of the rain.

A week later it was a bit easier to mow but still awful. I told Dale I thought we should get a small electric mower. He said nah, it would probably get easier. He reminded me of my father, who used to smoke and drop ashes on the floor, suggesting it was good for the carpet.

I said, OK, will you please try it once and see what you think? And that was when we decided to buy an electric lawn mower. It’s small thing, light as a feather and whips through that grass with ease.

Key word. Ease.  

High school. Has it really been 50 years?

The weather is turning gnarly, so I visited the library to load up on mystery novels. I keep telling myself to act like a big girl and read something literary, and occasionally I do, but inevitably I return to my low-brow life of crime.

One might say I’m attracted to the simple and seedy. I grew up in an underfunded and dysfunctional working class family. Certainly, I read my share of literature in school and later, after I hit escape velocity, but it’s not like we sat around the kitchen table discussing Finnegans Wake.

My dad read sleazy pulp fiction, and my mother enjoyed her True Detective magazine. Not saying I didn’t sneak a peek at their reading material from time to time. We children may wander, but sometimes it seems all roads lead back to the source.

I’ve been thinking about connections to the past since I was contacted by two friends I haven’t heard from in decades. They found me through the blog to reach out regarding our 50th high school reunion in Southern California. I haven’t attended any of the previous reunions and can’t imagine going to one, but I was pleased to hear from them just the same.

Both live in California. I joined the military after high school, and most of my friends went to college here. A few went to out-of-state universities, but I’m pretty sure they all came home after graduation. I also returned … 40 years later. Let’s just say it was a circuitous route.

One of my old friends lives in Santa Barbara, so we caught up via telephone. It was a great conversation, and I’m really happy we took the time to share our stories with each other. I always thought she had her shit together, and she always thought I did, so it was fun to confess neither one of us had a clue.

My other friend lives closer, and we’re going to meet in the middle for lunch next week. I’m looking forward to it! Socially speaking, I do better one-on-one or in small groups, as opposed to hanging out with a couple hundred people I barely remember at some sort of party venue. So, lunch. This is good.

What are your experiences with reunions? Do tell! It will be like a Clint Eastwood movie. The good, the bad and the ugly.

Trust issues

I shuffled Dale off to Maine yesterday. The idea of Covid travel stressed me out, so I elected not to go, but then I had “cancellation remorse.” By the time I was semi-comfortable with the idea of going, it was too late.

Hmmm. Too late. How convenient.

My sister-in-law was incredibly understanding when I apologized for canceling and called myself out for overreacting. She said, “You are not overreacting. You are just taking appropriate precautions. I am immune-compromised, but I have not had my medical blinker on for possible death more than once like you have.”

She’s referring to my diagnosis of ovarian cancer in 1999 and breast cancer in 2015. She gets it. Right? She’s not just saying that to be nice?

It’s not that my immune system hasn’t recovered; it most certainly has. I don’t trust that something won’t get me again. Staring down cancer twice changes you, and I’ve decided to accept I will always be influenced by those experiences. I’m not crazy.

Dale, who was an absolute saint getting me through my illnesses seems to think I’m invincible. Like, what could stop me now? Covid schmovid! He said he was perfectly OK with whatever I decided, but methinks that was a wee bit of bullshit. He wanted me to go, and I wanted to go, but in the end, I made the best decision I could for my particular neurosis.

By coincidence, my key word of the year is trust. I didn’t make a formal announcement as other bloggers do, because I didn’t trust that it mattered or that I would even care about it six months later. Here we are at the mid-point of the year, and I would say I hit the mark with this one.

Let’s just say I have trust issues.

I want to trust others more and not assume I know what they think or what they are going to do … as in Nostradonna predicts. Getting out of the prediction business would be a good start. I cannot read minds! I also want to trust myself more and not always question or ruminate over all my decisions.

And so it has come to pass – I am reasonably happy with the decision I made, and I have a week or so to enjoy being at home by myself. Before he left, Dale said he always enjoys it when I go away, so we’re on the same page in that regard. I’ve actually never been in this house by myself, and so far, it’s kind of nice. Just me and the kitty, who I believe is mourning Dale’s absence and looks at me like I’m spoiled cat food.

But after a week of me piling extra kibble into his bowl, I believe we might be friends.

No big party plans. I played golf yesterday, but it was exceptionally hot, and I wanted to save myself for Wednesday’s league play, so I quit after nine holes. This is progress. The last time Dale went somewhere, we were living in Texas, it was exceptionally hot, and I quit after 27 holes, but only because I was throwing up.

But that’s the old Donna. The new, retired version is much smarter. Prudent, shall we say. I will swim or do my deep water running today, but that’s about it. Trying to stay hydrated.

One fun activity was tidying up the freezer. Dale saves little plastic-wrapped globs of pork and chicken fat for various dishes, and he just tosses them in the freezer willy-nilly. I guess he knows where they are, and I try not to mess with his space, except it’s my space, too. This morning I scooped them all up and put the individual globs in a Ziplock.

Oh, and orphaned sesame seed buns sealed with twist ties in their original bags. I found a home of them in the Land of Zips, and they seem much happier there, hanging out together in a neat little package.

I’m imagining Dale’s return and the eventual discussion about the fat globs not being where they were. How buns last longer in their original bags. Where are the used twist ties? We’re using too much plastic.

But I’m making this up.

Purging old slides

Pussy Baby, the benchmark cat.

Early in my husband’s career, someone gave him a huge stash of 35mm slide film, so that’s what he used when he took pictures. Free is good. He was still burning through the film when I met him in 1976, but I guess he was close to the finish line, because most pictures of our life together are prints.

We’ve been hauling those slides around for 43 years and have never looked at them. I’ve wanted to do something about it for ages, but Dale is typically resistant to my purging efforts. However, when I was visiting my sister last month, she loaned me a slide projector, and I convinced him it was time to go give it a go.

I closed the blinds in our guest bedroom and set up the projector in there. I loaded the first tray, and I flipped through them while Dale said keep or toss. We didn’t really come up with a good system for tracking which was which, so if he said keep, I pulled the tray out and retrieved the slide. Then we’d resume the slide show.

We tossed almost everything. Most were taken before he met me. There were lots of photos of marginally scenic landscapes taken from the window of a car. Mountains, woods. Darkened living rooms with fuzzy people and empty beer bottles. One guy, Bones, was a frequent flyer.

I said, wow, you wasted a lot of film on Bones. Or let me rephrase that … a lot of film on Bones wasted.

There were a few pictures of Dale that were very cute, but we have the same era covered in our scrapbooks. Same for me, except for the cute part. I truly got better looking as I aged. It was like Dale bought Donna futures.

Oh, and whoever convinced me to get bangs and perm my hair should be shot.

We kept less than a dozen out of several hundred. There were two of his childhood pet, Pussy Baby, wearing a little hat Dale’s mother knitted. I call him the benchmark cat, because all cat stories eventually lead to Pussy Baby.

Other keepers included a few from a military ceremony, a picture of his grandmother’s house, Uncle Harvey by his lobster boat and an image from Little Big Horn, because he said it meant something to him.

Just so you know, in 43 years of marriage, he has never mentioned Little Big Horn.

I’m happy that’s done. It wasn’t as bad as I thought it would be, mostly because we just zipped through them and said toss, toss, toss. I was worried he’d want to hang onto everything, but he surprised me. Dale said he found the whole thing a little depressing – reflecting on an era that is long behind us and you look around and wonder if it’s any better. And the whole aging thing.

I said, hey, you looked good! I, on the other hand, looked awful. What did you see in me aside from my caustic wit and unlimited potential?

He said, “I thought you were beautiful.”

So, purging. It’s not all bad.

The road to Paso Robles

A word of warning to retired couples:

Travel planning can be treacherous, and I implore you to stay calm. Nothing good happens when you get angry. And why would a person get angry when planning fun activities, you ask? Because usually one person is the hard-working travel agent in this relationship, and the other person is a pain the ass.

We’ll call him the client.

Yes, now that we’re starting to leave the house again, travel planning has defaulted to me. On the heels of our successful jaunt to Mendocino, I was feeling a little smug and thought it would be nice to plan another road trip for June. Even though we thought we were done with the coast, we both wanted to give it another go.

Beach, we can’t quit you.

Dale, the client, didn’t have any other ideas or demands, so I happily went to work. After a bit of research, I proposed a three-night trip to the Central Coast. I consulted with him at every stage of planning, and we agreed to stay in Morro Bay. From there, we’d take a day trip to Paso Robles for wine tasting and another day to see Hearst Castle. Dale has never been, and even though it’s a tourist trap, I think we would enjoy it.

I presented the client with a range of hotel choices, dinner options and timetables. We agreed on everything, and I booked it. Then I booked the cat sitter. All was right with the world.

As we sat of an evening enjoying a libation, I mentioned one of my golf buddies is somewhat of a wine expert and just got back from Paso Robles. Perhaps I could consult with him on which wineries to visit?

The client said and I quote, “To tell the truth, I’m getting tired of going to wineries.”

Imagine my head exploding at the speed of light.

WHAT???????????

He was all about how he’s entitled to have an opinion, which is technically true, but I just spent two days going through every nitty gritty detail with him, and he never once thought to say wineries were not appealing to him at this particular moment in time? Maybe another time, when we feel like dropping a wad of money on shit we don’t care about?

It turns out I hadn’t cracked the code. As the designated travel agent, one must learn these things. Just because I said we could or would take a day trip to Paso Robles doesn’t mean we must take a day trip to Paso Robles. He thought those were options for him to consider over the next few weeks, and he was waiting for me to present more.

I’m more task-oriented. I wasn’t thinking, oh, how much time and energy can I squander presenting the client with a cornucopia of amusements to consider? I was thinking, nailed it! Done!

As it happens, I was just about out of oxygen and bleeding from the brain when I said I was going to start calling him Big Bird, because he waits until the end and then comes in and craps all over everything.

That was harsh, I agree, and certainly, I will not attract new clients with this kind of attitude. In my heart of hearts, I know you can’t say these things in your outside voice.

Of course, I don’t want new clients. I just want this one to speak up sooner. When I finally relaxed and heard him out, I found myself in agreement. As is often the case, I could totally see his point. I mean, there’s more to California than wine, right?

Part of me wanted to cancel the whole damned thing, but the trip is on. I went back through the travel books, and there’s plenty to keep us amused with or without Paso Robles. Which, by the way, is still on the table, with wine or without wine … but not a done deal.

A bit nebulous for me, but there you have it. The road to Paso Robles.