Growing cannabis: a 30-day progress report

My cannabis plant looked healthy, but I didn’t see any growth over a week’s time and concluded it needed more light. Dale originally thought there was plenty of light but changed his mind because, oh, I don’t know, it’s practically winter? Dark and gloomy? What a shocker.

I went ahead and purchased an LED grow light and nearly blinded Dale during the installation. He said he would help put it up, but then he started backtracking. Like maybe there was something easier that didn’t involve ladders and finding a joist in the ceiling.

Neither one of us could find the joist. I said I would call a handyman, but Dale thought that was ridiculous. He said they don’t even pull into your driveway for less than $100, making homegrown cannabis not such a bargain after all. I explained I’ve been frugal about this whole project, but sometimes you just have to throw money at it.

Except I didn’t want to spend the money, either. I said I was going to return the light, which I purchased on Amazon – free shipping both ways. He thought that was best. I did the return online, and this particular item had to go to Kohl’s to get free shipping. Lowe’s is on the way to Kohl’s, so I figured I’d return it and then shop around for alternatives.

Dale suggested we go to Lowe’s first, to look for some sort of stand that could hold the light. I said I already initiated the return. What? He didn’t know how an Amazon return works. It’s a small thing, but it’s like discovering he doesn’t know where babies come from.

Lowe’s didn’t have anything that looked promising, and Dale finally agreed we should call the handyman service. I had to cancel the return, which is easy enough, but I hate doing and undoing. I accused him of making it up as he goes, saying whatever’s convenient, and he said I didn’t understand science or nature.

On the way home, I said what about asking our neighbor? He’s a contractor. Surely, he could find a joist. Dale said look, I know it’s legal, but I’m not sure our neighbor needs to know we’re growing pot. I said what if I remove all the evidence and just say we need a hook in the joist so we can hang a plant? Dale agreed that might work.

Our neighbor came over and even he had a hard time finding the joist, but mission accomplished! Dale put in the hook, and we hung the light. We couldn’t find the switch, so I said maybe you just plug it in. That’s what I did, and it worked great, but at that precise moment, the light was pointed directly at Dale’s face. He was fine after a few minutes, but still, I felt bad.

Everyone is happy again. The plant has been growing for 30 days. I think it’s a little behind schedule, due to the light issues and it not being particularly warm in our house. When it was all said and done, we had our usual “repair the damage” conversation. We misinterpret what each other says and both need to ask better questions to be sure we’re on the same page.

Hugs and kisses all around. Our anniversary is this month – 41 years – and sometimes it’s hard to believe we’ve pulled it off. We occasionally make things harder than they have to be, but we do eventually work it out and are on track to ride out eternity together.

With all the recent rain, we both felt cooped up and to accelerate our recovery, I played golf this morning, and Dale went for a run … as in must get out of house, preferably alone. The sun actually appeared! Perhaps the secret of a long and happy marriage, particularly in retirement, is finding that sweet spot between togetherness and personal space.

And good weather.

How to change a flat tire

We were about half-way to the winery when the front right tire blew. The roads out there are relatively narrow, but Dale was able to find a wide spot on the side. Still, the car was not level, its right side tilted down slightly on the gravel ditch, and I didn’t like anything about this situation. 

I asked Dale if he wanted me to call Triple A, and he said yes. Smart! I dialed the number and never spoke to a human. They texted me a link to a map that showed estimated arrival time in an hour. That’s when Dale decided smart wasn’t all it was cracked up to be.

The sun was blazing, and I sat in the ditch on matting we pulled from the car to access the spare tire, which is actually one of those weenie wheels. Dale wasn’t going to wait an hour when he could do it himself. This from the guy who is nursing a bad back. I sat quietly on my mat, sweating and brooding.

Dale got the jack in place and was able to raise the front just enough. He was struggling with lug nuts, when I saw the jack slip. I said, I know you don’t like me to comment, but you should be aware the jack is not stable, and it seems to me the car could fall on you.

Later, as we argued about what happened, I would apologize for trying to keep him alive. My bad.

He did listen to my report on the instability of the jack and stopped to reassess and maybe to get his breath back from the lug nut effort. Just as Dale started tinkering with the jack, a strapping young man in a pickup truck stopped and asked if he could help.

Turns out the guy was an off-duty fireman. With a dazzling smile and effusive good cheer, he stabilized the jack, manhandled the lug nuts and replaced the tire. Before he left, he gave us each a can of cold sparkling water. First responders are special people.

I had a heck of a time figuring out how to cancel the Triple A call. I tried the same number I called the first time, except now it didn’t recognize my cell phone or our account number. The queue to speak with a person was 20 minutes. Finally, I went back to the link they had texted and revisited the map, where there was a cancel button.

All this while headed to the winery, because Dale was adamant we would continue on our original path. By this time, I just wanted to go home, and ever the worry wart, I wondered how far we should drive on the weenie wheel.

I was also pissed I had to deal with Triple A as he manned up and insisted on changing the tire himself. And, of course, I was continuing to ruminate on what would have happened if our fireman-savior hadn’t come along.

The winery turned out to be a pretty good idea.

It wasn’t until later in the evening that we began to deconstruct the events. I originally blamed Dale for the whole thing, principally because I had to deal with the Triple A drama while he played around with the tire. However, I realized mid-way through the argument I was equally culpable.

I wanted to rely on Triple A roadside service, and I was angry I didn’t get my way, which was clearly more sensible. Dale acknowledged he hadn’t changed a tire in 30 years, and maybe at age 70, jacks and lug nuts were a bridge too far.

We talked about having control issues associated with retirement, work or lack thereof. Dale and I both had jobs with lots of responsibility, and the attributes that made us good at those jobs don’t go away simply because we aren’t working anymore. We’re getting better at talking about it, and that’s progress.

I like to think we both learned something about flat tires or possibly life, although I suspect I learned to say, “I’m calling Triple A.” I suspect he learned to say, “Oh, lug nuts, I had a little trouble last time, but I got this.”

1.28 arguments per toilet

Retirement home

Prior to retirement, we were living on the outskirts of Silicon Valley.

As in cha-ching.

While I had the income to support a hefty mortgage, we knew we’d have to move when I retired. Lots of factors went into our decision. I wrote about it here. We are quite happy with our choice, but we both made compromises that sometimes come back to bite.

I wanted a new house, because I didn’t want to deal with maintenance issues. Dale wanted an older house, because he likes well-established neighborhoods with trees. He doesn’t want to deal with maintenance issues, either, but trees! Golly, they’re green! I caved, and now we fight about maintenance issues.

replacing toilets

Our 20-year-old house is in great shape, but we are gradually upgrading original appliances. The current project is replacing all three toilets in our home, and so far, we’ve only had 1.28 gallons per flush arguments per toilet.

The toilets are heavy, and neither one of us should be schlepping them around. We’ve been buying them one at a time, and we managed to get them in and out of our Honda CRV without cruel or unusual punishment. We used leverage to scoot it up and down from the back end of the car and then drag it into the garage.

Two down and one to go when the brawling began. I just don’t know why this stuff is so hard for us. We can’t get through it without some sort of disagreement. The big one this time was about the downstairs toilet, where there are size limitations.

We already knew we’d need a round (not elongated) bowl. As for height, we like standard, although that’s increasingly hard to find. It seems most people like chair height or so-called comfort height. Depending on which brand you select, the difference is only an inch or two. However, the downstairs toilet has a ledge over it, so an inch or two could make a difference.

I went out to the garage and looked on the boxes of the other two. The height from floor to top of the tank lid is 30 ¾. We measured our current toilet, which is just over 28 inches tall. I didn’t think we could stay with the same style, because you have to be able to get the lid on and off, but Dale said it would “probably” work.

This is where I struggle. I’m like, what if we’re wrong? That will not be pleasant. I just wanted to talk through options, but he was annoyed with me for venturing into territory I know nothing about. However, I view this as my strength. While it’s true I know next to nothing about most home maintenance issues, that leaves me without preconceived notions, so I’m willing to explore previously unentertained options.

Except Dale does not find any of this entertaining. He got snooty with me, and I got snooty with him. I truly did not know the answer, but I wanted to talk through the questions. What if we unpacked one of the others and just set it up to see if it would fit? The cuckoo birds came out when I said that.

Then I had a scathingly brilliant idea. I’ll go to the Lowe’s website and compare all the measurements. As it happens, the other two toilets we purchased were comfort height. The same toilet in standard height is 28 ¼ inches floor to top of tank lid. Perfect for our space!

Dale agreed and off we went to Lowe’s. He won’t shop at Home Depot anymore because the co-founder is a Trump supporter. I’m not willful enough to do it on my own – I’m a slave to convenience – but if Dale is doing it, I’m proud to follow along. Anyway, Lowe’s had the toilet. We also purchased wax rings and supply lines, and as Gandalf said, my heart tells me they have some part to play, for good or ill, before this is over.

Now all we have to do it get a plumber in for the job. We could probably do it ourselves, but this is one of those situations where our relationship is more important than the cost savings. Time to throw money at it.

Neither one of us behaved particularly well, but Dale made up for his part of the drama by making breakfast tacos with homemade chorizo. Sure, feed me, and I’ll gladly fight with you about toilets. I made up for my part by getting out of his hair and playing bad golf in the mountains. Something about bad golf whips me back into submission.

Oh, and he got bonus points for trimming the Sego palms … a difficult job with lots of sharp pokeys. I regret to say he’s probably used to sharp pokeys after living with me for 40-plus years.

electric cars

Since we’re talking about technical things my girl brain doesn’t understand, I thought I’d share this article about electric vehicles written by John Kent, a wonderful friend I used to work with. He is obviously putting his retirement time to good use. John’s writing is great, and he has almost convinced me my next car will be electric.

How not to buy a toaster

We keep appliances until they are absolutely, positively dead. The Betty Crocker toaster finally croaked, and we were trying to remember when we bought it. Was it when we lived in South Carolina? Mount Pleasant? If our memories are correct, that would make it about 25 years old.

The toaster has served us well, and now it’s time for a new one. This is where Dale and I take completely different paths. Although he sometimes lacks motivation to get other things done, he is Johnny Mission when it comes to replacing broken appliances.

I was gone all day, but Dale immediately went out and shopped for toasters at Bed, Bath & Beyond. He didn’t buy one, though, because he thought I’d want a vote … which is a polite way of saying he figured I wouldn’t like whatever it was he bought.

Dale does not appreciate my approach to purchasing new appliances. I get online and do research. I check Consumer Reports, Good Housekeeping and The Wirecutter. Oh, and Amazon reviews. I want to know test results, best overall, best value, unusual quirks.

My process served me well when our hand blender died, because I learned the biggest and baddest would not have worked for my small-batch mayonnaise. A simpler and smaller model was perfect.

I was like this before I retired, but now I’m more zealous than ever. I liked being in charge when I was working, and I guess I still like it. Dale also liked being in charge when he was working, and I don’t think he appreciates the idea of reporting to me. Sometimes in marriage and in life, you will lead, and sometimes you will follow. Retirement is an opportunity to work on the follow part. I’m getting there.

We had the toaster discussion last night. He said I know you. You’ll get online and try to find the perfect toaster with all the bells and whistles. And then I surprised myself. I said, yes, that is what I would normally do, but I’m not going to do it this time. The toaster is in your court. Whatever you choose is fine with me.  

Really? Yes, really. And when I let go, I felt good. It’s just a toaster, but it’s my husband’s free will. I mean, that’s how we ended up with a red food processor, and life hasn’t come to a screeching halt. Let him be the natural born predator that he is. Set him free to hunt it down, kill it with a credit card and drag it home.

This morning I asked him about the toaster he liked at Bed, Bath & Beyond.

Did it come in colors?

Yes.

OK, what colors?

White and chrome.

Which one did you like better?

White.

That’s cool.

I was thinking chrome, but I kept my mouth shut. We will soon be celebrating the arrival of a brand-new white toaster of unknown origins. I have nothing to do with it. Just following along.

Words, friends optional

When the game Words With Friends first came out, I was hooked. I was also quite good at it, and soon enough some of my friends didn’t want to play with me anymore. I decided to play with a random partner.

We began the game, and I used all my letters two turns in a row. The person at the other end went ballistic, sending me messages through the app about cheating. Called me horrible names even I with a foul mouth would not repeat here. I did whatever you did back then to end the game so it counted as a win for the other person.

Apparently, that was not enough. More horrible messages. I shut down the game. Somehow the person managed to send me messages anyway. I finally had to delete the app. I’ve never played again. Dale said I was a bit obsessive anyway, so it wasn’t all bad.

Then along came the NY Times, which I am still reading for free through this link. I have an account, and I have the NY Times app on my phone. You do not need to subscribe to anything to have an account.

To read for free, I log out of my account, click to redeem the code and then log back into the app. That gives me about four days of reading pleasure, and then I simply do it again. It just takes seconds.

Soon enough I was seduced by the puzzles. I now subscribe to this section only for about $20 a year. My favorite is called Spelling Bee. The goal is to make as many words as possible using the letter in the middle. You get little rewards along the way … starting with beginner and ending at genius. Extra points for using all the letters in a single word. My goal is to find the pangram and make genius by 5 p.m.

So, yes, I can be a bit obsessive. But it’s fun! It’s like Words with Friends but you don’t actually need friends. The perfect game for a loner (but not the serial killer type).

It’s not that I don’t have friends, but they seem to be scattered all over the world. Dale and I are not good at making new friends. We’re not joiners, we don’t have children and we don’t go to church. I guess you could say we don’t thrive in large group settings. I wonder why we both ended up in the Army. But that’s another story.

Anyway, there is hope.

I met two women playing golf. We all liked each other and thought our husbands might like each other, too. None of the men played golf, which is unusual. All are studious types who enjoy reading, music, cooking and gardening. We set up a dinner date!

Honestly, I wasn’t sure we’d know how to behave. It has been so long since we’ve mingled with anyone as a couple. Dinner was at one of the couple’s home Tuesday evening. We had a fantastic time. The men are all unique characters, but they had so much in common it was almost creepy. I knew it was good when they started quoting lines from Commander Cody songs.

It’s funny. We didn’t really want to go because we are so used to our little routines. But it was great to socialize, and now we want to branch out. Maybe it will be our turn to host the next dinner.

All in all, I think the first step to being social is changing your mindset. We’ve become reclusive. I mean, I freak out if the doorbell rings. Step 2 is the hard part. How do you actually make new friends? Have you been successful? What’s your secret?

Aging in front of each other

There’s a monster cottonwood tree behind our house. I believe this tree is also known as a poplar, but it is not popular in our area, because it drops fuzz bombs into our pools. The annual dropping of the cotton is about over, and thank goodness. One can scoop the pool and an hour later, it looks like a feather bed.

I made up a song to lighten the mood (sung to the tune of Here Comes Peter Cottontail). You can sing it while you scoop … a fun exercise for the aging homeowner!

Here comes Mr. Cottonwood,

Fucking up the neighborhood.

Aging in front of each other

One of the weird things about getting older is watching your partner get older while you remain impossibly young. Just kidding. We’re both aging – aging well – and grateful for the opportunity – but still, once you’ve purchased pre-moistened butt wipes, you kind of see the world in a different way.

Dale came home from grocery shopping with a nice haircut, and I complimented him. He just turned 70, and I said, “You don’t look 70 at all!” He got all puffy and happy, pleased with the positive feedback. Something compelled me to add:

“Although you do look old when you run.”

Ouch. I felt bad, but he got me back a few days later. Dale was cooling off after a run and said, “Just so you know. I tried to run like I was 69.”

The man is hilarious. And a helpmate.

Babs, it could be your hippocampus

Dale alerted me to an impending disaster involving my hippocampus, a part of your brain that has nothing to do with the amount of weight you gained in college.

The hippocampus is apparently integral to spacial navigation. Evidence suggests relying on GPS turn-by-turn directions gives the hippocampus a free ride, but it needs to be active to protect against cognitive decline. You can read about it here.

I have never had a good sense of direction and happily celebrated the advent of GPS. A little voice telling me where to go and how to get there? What could be so wrong? Now, however, I’m left wondering if my hippocampus is congenitally deficient, and does that mean I have a higher risk of Alzheimer’s?

Dr. Dale doesn’t think so. I just need to exercise it more, you know, run like I’m 69. He suggested I use my cellphone GPS to get directions but put it away and drive from memory.

This week I played golf at a course I’ve been to before, but I always use GPS to get there. I did what Dale said, and I was there and back again with no detours. I do think it’s a good thing to pass on the turn-by-turn, unless I’m in a completely unfamiliar area. At that point, it’s a safety issue.

All this pleases Dale, and not just because he cares about my welfare. He likes real maps with grids and weird directions like north, south, east and west. And all that nonsense about where the sun rises and sets. I liked it better when the voice just told me which way to go. Left or right.

Letting go of grudges

It occurred to me I spend a lot of time cleaning up after our cat, Riley, and he doesn’t even like me.

My husband said I was being too harsh. Of course, Riley likes me. Maybe. But he definitely likes Dale better. Riley jumps up on the table in the morning to say hi to Dale, but unless I have butter nearby, I don’t even get a passing meow.

Dale feeds him, and I suppose that explains why Riley is a daddy’s cat. But I deliver fresh tuna juice to him wherever he may happen to be resting. That ought to count for something. Riley is a long-haired cat, so I groom him at least every other day. I pre-heat his spa table (the clothes dryer). I try to be a good mother.

Sometimes he likes it, especially those long, slow strokes on the chin, but sometimes he doesn’t. My goal is to keep him mat-free. If I should find what we call a protomat and loosen it with my army of cat grooming tools, he’s still gentle and tolerant but not very happy. I wonder if he holds a grudge.

Speaking of grudges, I found this article about letting go of your grudges fascinating. I assumed I don’t hold grudges, but as I started to think about it, more than one came to the surface. I was appalled to find myself in the category of nurturing a grudge … holding onto it like a pet.

The good news is you can train yourself to forgive and move on by reframing the result. And lucky for us, retirement is a good time to de-grudge, because you don’t really want to spend the rest of your quality time stewing over stuff that went down a long time ago, do you?

My grudge involved a mentor who steered my career in an unwelcome direction. As a result, I had one dreadful year, the worst experience of my life including cancer, but when all was said and done, I ended up in California, where I wanted to be all along. And I got to retire! Maybe it’s time to let go.

The article links to a quiz that ranks your grudge on a scale of one to 10. I took it twice for the same grudge, as described above, and it was a four the first time I took it and a three the second time. Maybe even taking the quiz helped me see it wasn’t as awful as I thought. I’ve reframed the experience as a success story, a survival story, and I am now working on personal forgiveness for the grudgee.

I have to say the political atmosphere in the U.S. and around the world makes me sad and angry. I partially blame social media, so that would be another grudge. But I do think the current situation is bigger and deeper than social media, which just escalates the underlying causes.

There’s a meanness I don’t recall seeing in my lifetime. Hostility expressed at the speed of light about every little thing – way beyond holding grudges. My heart breaks every time I hear anti-Semitic, racist, homophobic bullshit. And I’ll just say this. It’s a good time to be post-uterus.

I’ve had this John Prine song on my brain. The Lonesome Friends of Science:

The lonesome friends of science say

“The world will end most any day”

Well, if it does, then that’s okay

‘Cause I don’t live here anyway

I live down deep inside my head

Well, long ago I made my bed

I get my mail in Tennessee

My wife, my dog, my kids, and me

John Prine

On the bright side, I went for a walk and June is bustin out all over. All this darkness, yet there they are, luscious flowers, springing with life. The Maui hiker survived! Navy pilots are reporting unexplained flying objects. Let’s hope they are aliens and way nicer than us.

Our he-she shed

The garage is not exactly my She Shed, but I have been gradually encroaching on Dale’s turf with my arts and crafts stuff. He was all for it until I said I wanted to tidy up.

First he called me Marie, which is my middle name, but he was referring to Marie as in Kondo. I explained I don’t want to purge, and there’s a lot of shit out there that does not give me joy. We need it anyway. I just want to find a home for everything.

Dale is resistant to such efforts. One time he went to visit his sister, and by the time he reached the airport, I had already cleaned his desk. He was pissed, to say the least. I keep my hands off of his desk now.

This time, I break it to him delicately. “There’s something I want to do, but I need your support.”

He gives me the arched eyebrow. “I want to tidy up the garage, but it means messing with your stuff. I promise I will not throw anything away without your permission.”

“There are tools I don’t recognize. I’ll gather unknowns into a pile and review with you one-by-one.”

Heavy sigh. He says, “I knew this was coming.”

Long pause.

“I guess.”

My green light. So excited. Since we still share this space in the name of love, I’ve decided to call it our He-She Shed. Ambiguity appeals to me.

The garden fork is my latest work of art (or something like it). I actually tried to donate the old fork prior to its transformation, and it was rejected for being dirty. So, I cleaned it up and painted it.

Chores and wars

My husband and I have very different ideas about how chores should be done around the house. Before I retired, we didn’t argue about it much, mostly because I was gone a lot and didn’t have the energy to fight. Now that I’ve been retired for more than a year, I’m tanned, rested and ready.

Let’s just say we have had a few unpleasant disagreements over housework, yard work and home maintenance. I’m kind of a worker bee, and he is anything but. During one of our altercations, I accused him of being lazy, and he came back with, “I’m not lazy! I’m unmotivated.”

It came to a head this week because I said we are finally going to fill those small holes in the drywall leftover from a previous owner. He’s like, whatever, dude. Let me know when it’s over.

Simple project, right? I filled the holes with Spackle, and let it dry. I didn’t sand it smooth, because our paint is textured. I tried to dab it on in the same fashion as the texture. In a motivational peak, Dale found some paint in the garage labeled, “Downstairs.” I gave it a big stir and used a paper towel to dab over the Spackle.

I did the first hole, and it looked great, except it was the wrong color. Upon closer inspection, it would seem there are two colors on the downstairs walls. One lighter and one slightly darker. I used the darker paint on the lighter wall.

Of course, I did.

Suddenly, Dale goes all Sherwin-Williams on me and says we’ll have to paint the whole room. I said, no, really, these are small holes, and if we can get something close, I’m sure it will look fine. He said you’re always such a perfectionist. It won’t be good enough for you.

Then I said, “I am not frozen in time. People change and evolve, and I am less of a perfectionist than I used to be. Look at that caulking around the kitchen floor tile! Have you heard me complain? I just squint and look the other way.”

He seemed doubtful but pried off a tiny chip of paint from a corner of the wall where the movers dinged it, and he wrapped that in plastic. And off he went to the store. This might be when I said his favorite part of chores is to put on a clean shirt and go bye-bye in the car.

Dale returned to reveal that in order to match the paint, they need a chip the size of a quarter. Again, he starts up with this thing about painting the whole room. I said that’s crazy talk! Just do the best you can. I’m sure it will be fine. He went back to the store and returned with a quart of paint.

I dabbed it on with a small wad of scrunched up paper towel, and it looks about perfect to me. Because I had all that crap out anyway, I went around the downstairs – the lighter color rooms and the darker color rooms – and filled and painted to my heart’s content. The previous owners were hole-crazy. In some places, it looks pretty damned fabulous, but in others, it’s just fabulous.

I’m attributing my new tolerance for imperfection to art, where I continue to have fun under-performing. But some of it is age and expected longevity, I think. I want to be a responsible homeowner and enjoy a nice house, but I really don’t worry anymore about resale. Whatever happens, happens.

By the time we leave this home, we’ll probably be dead or moving to assisted living. Somebody younger and more anal-retentive can take over. In the meantime, I believe Dale is feeling a wee bit guilty and is now on board with my yard work strategy. Details to follow.

Learning to relax

I’m bummed so far less than a handful of people are taking a chance on my free art. Alas, perhaps this is the life of a struggling artist. I suspect it’s more of the case: cannabis – they’re just not into you. Please be patient. Next on the docket: Art Chokes.

Maybe because I live in the West Coast bubble, I forget cannabis isn’t widely accepted. Not gonna decorate your house with it. Using cannabis wisely is part of our lifestyle. Not everyone’s, for sure. If I want to give away cannabis art, I suspect I’ll have to cast a wider net.

What’s the alternative to giving it away? I’m a beginning crafter, so I have no illusions about making any money. But I’ve discovered making art (or something like it) relaxes me. My sweet Dale set up a CD player and speakers for me out in the garage, where I’ve been working. I hung a pretty wind chime that’s too loud for the yard.

Writing is as good a hobby as any, but I can’t write and listen to music. Working on craft projects and amping up the tunes is bliss. Long-term plan is to keep pursuing all creative endeavors. Add that to cooking, walking and golf – and my retirement dance card is filling up quickly.

I have a few tiles completed. I’m getting better at the image transfer process and have been scoping out thrift shops for other potential substrates. So far, I bought an old wooden cutting board and a metal tray. Prices vary considerably among the stores – I thought Goodwill was the most expensive of the bunch.

Looks like I’m not going to stop, so what do I do with all this stuff? I know there are artists and crafters out there who create all the time. Any ideas?

As to the value of all this, I’ve always been a wound-up person. Dale said yesterday he has seen a huge change in me since I retired. I’m way more relaxed about everything. It’s true, and I sometimes wonder if my former colleagues would read about my life and feel sorry for me. Oh, Donna, not the power player. Writing that bloggy thing! Doing crafts! Smoking pot!

Yes, happily. I’m proud to have worked hard for a living, and I am exceedingly grateful to have made enough and saved enough money to quit. Once you have enough to get by without a job, time becomes more important than money or stuff.

I still have a long way to go. My temper flares over stupid things. Dale said, well, yeah, but consider how long you worked in that pressure cooker. You’ve only been retired a year and a half, and look how far you’ve come. Give it time.

Is he the Yin to my Yang, or is it the other way around?