Category: Relationships

Everyone said just wait until retirement, when you’ll be spending all your time together driving each other nuts. There’s some truth to the prophecy, but we’ve been working our way through it and doing quite nicely. The driving part is where we get into trouble.

Much of our marital success can be attributed to spending time away from each other. Our love of food and cooking puts us in the kitchen a lot but not usually together. I do most of the housework, so there’s a fun solo activity for me. Dale tends to the yard, barely, but I’m still giving him points for keeping me out of it. I play golf and am sucked down that shame spiral two to three days a week.

All that aside, we are emotionally attached at the core and cannot imagine the day when one of us has to go it alone. But the truth is, we actually don’t need much togetherness. Maybe it’s the secret to our 40-year marriage. We each have our own interests, sometimes they align, and if they don’t, we meet up for happy hour in the living room and swap stories.

But then there are the together days. A trip to the market, the library or a local winery. Road trips. This is where driving issues emerge, and I’m the first one to admit I’m a huge part of the problem. It’s not that I’m a better driver, it’s that I’m a terrible passenger seat driver.

Why would you park in that spot when there’s a better one over there?

Slow down! It’s not a race.

Are you sure you parked inside the lines?

Watch out – there’s a car in the next lane!

Something’s going on up ahead – you’d better slow down.

Oh, don’t turn left here. Go up to the next light, where there’s an arrow.

I can drive if you want to just drink your coffee and relax.

In all fairness to me, his sister confidentially shared she was riding with him, he was going kind of fast down the hill outside our neighborhood, and he cried out, “Wheeee!” all the way to the bottom.

I do trust Dale’s driving. It’s mostly my neurosis at play, but wheeee goes against all I stand for when it comes to interacting with a motorized vehicle. Still, I have worked hard to zip it, and Dale agrees I am much better. Now, if I start to say something, I catch myself and stop. Unless, of course, it’s a speak up or die kind of thing.

This morning’s paper had a column on driving with one finger on the wheel – one of Dale’s signature moves. I use one finger, too, but it’s the middle one, pointed straight up.

I hate being a harpy, but then I believe every bridge, every overpass, every onramp, is an invitation to death. I marked up the article when I was done with that section and left it there. Came upstairs and sat down at my computer, when I heard this big laugh. I said, “What’s so funny?” He said, “Oh, the subtle message. Thanks.”

You’re welcome! That’s retirement, I thought, just trying to live through it.

I bought Marie Kondo’s tidying up book a couple of years ago and started folding t-shirts, socks and underwear according to her guidance. But a week later, I stopped. In the meantime, she has made it big on TV, and my drawers are a mess. Socks gone wild!

As I recall, Marie wants us to spend time with our stuff, folding and tucking, and thanking them for performing well. It has been quite a few years since my underwear was involved in anything involving performance excellence, unless you count bladder control.

She also encourages us to get rid of stuff that doesn’t spark joy. Honestly, none of my stuff sparks joy. It’s just stuff – stuff I either need or want, and it resides in my home. I’m careful about not having too much stuff, and I regularly toss or donate, but if I purged on the basis of joy, I’d have a mostly empty house.

But here’s the rub – I do have obsessive-compulsive tendencies, and it wouldn’t be all that hard to push me off the ledge into the dark abyss of tidydom. Under my careful tutelage, records, CDs and spices are all in alphabetical order. I take my vitamins and meds in alphabetical order. A for aspirin, C for CoQ10, D for vitamin D, F for fish oil, L for Lisinopril and M for multivitamin.

Dale keeps asking what the W is for. There is no W. It’s M, and he knows it. There are days he does not spark joy, but I don’t make him leave, do I?

And yes, it’s Dale, who sort of keeps me within the boundaries of normal. He is the moral opposite of Marie. Dale doesn’t believe in the magic of tidying up. I wouldn’t call him a slob or hoarder. That’s a bit harsh. Let’s just say he’s differently organized. Mess-tolerant. Stuff-friendly.

But because we are married, and people who stay married have learned to compromise, I’ve lowered the bar and somewhat willingly sink toward his standards of cleanliness and order. It’s just too hard to fight about it. Dale makes an effort to meet me in the middle. The house is never as tidy as I would like it, but it’s not the frat house of his dreams, either.

So, I don’t know. Is Marie married or living with someone? That can’t be easy. In our 40-year marriage, we’ve found it is sometimes hard to find joy in each other, let alone each other’s stuff. We’ve reached a détente of sorts. It’s like whatever, do what you want, keep what you want. Let’s just love each other until this party is over.

Sure, we’ll have to deal with it at some point. Or the estate will. When we lived in South Carolina, the owner of an antique car museum passed away, and they were interviewing his widow on TV. The reporter asked if she was keeping the museum. She said, “No, that’s his dream, not mine.”

Dale and I still crack up about that. I joke that five minutes after his last breath, all the books about World War II will be gone. Stacks of them. Sometimes I even day dream about how I’m going to do it.

Donate? Sell online? One must be prepared.

This week is our 40^th wedding anniversary, and while we aren’t particularly sentimental, we wanted to do something special to commemorate the occasion. We booked an overnight trip to Bodega Bay, a beautiful seaside town we can drive to in about 2.5 hours. 

One of the many perks of retirement is schedule flexibility and going places during the week when prices are usually lower. I checked for every night in every hotel using every travel site on the Internet until I got a good deal. Tuesday night was the least expensive, and even then, it was outrageous. Bodega Bay is not cheap. We like the area because it’s beautiful, close to Sonoma and we love the oysters.

We took the scenic route and stopped for lunch at a beautiful cove where the restaurant specializes in all things seafood. We had clam chowder and split a dozen oysters on the half-shell. Our table overlooked the water. We splurged and each had a Blood Mary. The view was amazing, so we said what the hell and ordered another.

Four Bloodies, soup and oysters added up to one of the most expensive lunches I have ever enjoyed. But Dale had cashed our annual check from USAA, so it was practically free. Then we headed north to our hotel. We were a little early, it was chilly and raining, so we were pleased our room was ready. Perhaps emboldened by the Bloodies, I said, this is our 40^th anniversary, I don’t suppose there are any upgrades available?

I’m not normally one to ask for stuff, but I figured you don’t get it if you don’t ask. She went in the back and emerged smiling, confirming a complimentary upgrade to an ocean view room with a fireplace and a luxurious over-sized tub. Bingo!

The room was gorgeous with a spectacular if foggy view. I believe I said in my outside voice I certainly planned to take a bath, but I didn’t seize the faucet in time. Dale announced, I’m taking a bath! Oh, how nice for you. I suppose that will use up all the hot water, but go ahead. Enjoy.

Well, if he gets the tub, I thought, I’m going to relax in the sumptuous robe I saw hanging in the closet. I was prancing around singing “Mama’s got a brand-new robe” and decided to pass on the bath, as it just sucks the life out of me anyway. I needed my strength for the next round of oysters. I crawled into bed wearing my new robe and started to read.

Dale’s in the tub, and I could hear all these bubbles, like a whale surfacing? I honestly didn’t know what to think. He was in there a long time. I thought this is it, after 40 years, I discover his dark secret.

Shamu emerged from the bathroom with no curious afterglow, so I assumed there are manly bathtub things I don’t understand. We hung around until it was time to go for dinner. This time I had scoped out a place with fried oysters on the menu. Fabulous.

On the way back to the hotel, I asked about the noises from the tub. He’s like, what do you mean? I explained the bubbly whale-like sounds I heard, and he said, “Oh, that. I may have farted.”

Oh! Farts! Not some kinkster bathtub sex ritual. What a relief. 

Other than food, we typically don’t do Christmas in a big way. Dale buys and decorates a tree. My tradition is to sit around and watch the action while drinking single malt scotch. The ornaments are a mishmash of family treasures, homemade gifts, impulse buys and beautifully crafted wood ornaments we collected in six years of living in Germany.

To him, size matters. Dale wants the biggest tree this stinking desert has ever seen. Although in recent years, he has re-calibrated his expectations. We downsized when we moved to California, so sadly, his Rockefeller Center days are over. Yes, we live in an expensive state, but look what we save on trees!

In the end, the tree is beautiful, but if it were up to me, I’d skip the whole thing. One year we were burned out and just put a few presents under the coffee table. I loved it.

Other than the tree, we don’t decorate for the holidays. We slap a nutcracker on the mantel and call it Christmas. Last year, our first year in this home, the neighborhood was festooned with shiny objects, so we may go crazy and add some outdoor lights.

Although I don’t help with decorating, I do pack the ornaments back in their boxes after the holidays, so there is work involved. I used to hate that part, but now I like examining the little jewels as I eagerly tuck them into slumber. Oh, how cute! You’re dead to me.

In spite of all his fuss, Dale is a huge procrastinator. For his sisters in Maine, there are still unwrapped presents sitting on the dining room table. I’ve done all I can to prod him along, but it’s out of my hands. And the tree – his pride and joy – has not been purchased yet. He believes it’s wrong to buy before December (um, it’s December) and usually doesn’t get around to decorating it until the week before.

I try to just go with the flow, although if I were a Christmas person, you can be sure this show would be timely and organized. Sometimes it’s hard to believe he spent his career in the Army. However, his easy-going attitude is an antidote for my somewhat obsessive nature.

Gifts aren’t a big deal either. Maybe a few stocking stuffers, a CD, a book, a pair of socks. For California cold, Dale likes lightweight fleece, but he’s hard to fit, and size does matter. He’s 5’6”, and most men’s clothing is way too long for him.

It’s a shame, because he looks really good, if I must say so myself, but clothes seldom fit him properly. I spent some time on the Internet yesterday in search of tops more suitable for his frame. I was trying to keep it a surprise, but I finally caved and decided I would measure Dale’s chest.

He was at his computer, and I said, hey, can you please do me a favor and stand up?

Dale was like, sure. He started to get up, and he could see the tape measure in my hand.

I said, “I’m just going to measure your penis.”

The look on his face was priceless. My whole body still hurts from laughing so hard. It hurts now. He really almost lost it. I said, oh, just kidding. I need to measure your chest.

Several hours later, I was still laughing, snorting actually, and he gave me the high-five. Humor always wins. Our 40th anniversary is this month, so I guess we’re doing something right.

I’m disgusted with politics. I can’t help but think regardless of where you land on the political spectrum, you are disgusted, too. I want to be a responsible well-informed citizen, but I have to stop paying attention for a while and reconnect with the joy of life.

For starters, I am going to visit my sister, Cheryl, for a long weekend. She lives in California but way north, not quite a six-hour drive. It’s a pretty drive, as long as there are no fires. Dale likes to visit as well, but she is single, and it’s more like a girl’s weekend when I go alone. We can be the odd Pekar girls, we can even watch musicals, and we don’t have to witness Dale passing judgment with his eyebrows. The eyebrows speak!

We have fun activities planned. Probably hanging out in our jammies doing movie marathon. We’ll also eat at a grungy Chinese restaurant that makes the most amazing Orange Peel Beef. There’s some sort of street fest we may attend. I’m bringing all variety of clothes. It’s always in the 60s up there, and I get cold easily, so I will be bundled up. Cheryl will probably be in short sleeves!

I’m excited we’ll be seeing a live musical production of Young Frankenstein, one of my favorite movies of all time. I can almost recite the entire script. Maybe that could be my talent for some sort of post-menopausal pageant. We always did Halloween up big in our family, which was actually pretty scary without the costumes.

It’s funny how two sisters can be so different. We did the 23 and Me genetic test, fully expecting a shocking result that we aren’t actually sisters, but we are. She was good in math, and I was good in English. I’m athletic and can barely sew on a button. She’s the queen of crafts, sewing and quilting.

Every surface of her house is embellished. In honor of my visit, she is combining her fall and Halloween decorating scheme, so I can feel the full impact.

Cheryl takes after my mom’s side of the family in terms of health and body shape. She represents the diabetic apples, while I take after my father’s side – the cancerous pears. We’ve both had odd medical maladies, and neither one of us has children. We joke the gene pool stops here.

Like many sisters, we have had our share of challenges. She was a rather pious girl, while I was a foul-mouthed brat. I said something particularly awful to her once. I used a word that got Samantha Bee in trouble, and I was only 12 or so. She went off to her room crying, and emerged all red-faced and puffy to say, “Donna, I hope God can forgive you, because I can’t.”

Cheryl and I have both chilled out as we’ve gotten older and burned off the sharp edges. We’ve learned to appreciate our differences as well as our shared heritage, as now proven by DNA. And we are always there for each other when the shit hits the fan.

The last time I saw her I went to help as she recovered at home from major surgery. I’m not much of a nurturer, but she was desperate. I’m sure she would agree it’s a low point in your life when you have to count on me for care giving.

That visit included projectile vomiting, which I had to clean up. I mean, that’s what I was there for. She found it hilarious that I immediately went to the drugstore to purchase latex gloves and a face mask. She’s still getting mileage out of that story.

But seriously – it was bad. I still can’t eat Butternut Squash Soup.

Here we are after all this. I’m 63, and she’s 65. Sisters! My mother always said all she ever wanted was for us two girls to get along. It has been touch and go over the years, but now I believe my mother would be pleased.

Our camping trip was this week – it was supposed to be for two nights, but it was actually zero. There was a wee bit of drama.

The state park campground is in the heart of Napa Valley. Instead of our usual day hikes, we would visit nearby wine towns and indulge in eating, wine tasting and other decadent behaviors.

Weather was predicted to be reasonably cool. We got there in the early afternoon, and it was hot. No problem – this is California. It will cool off at night.

I have this amazing camping checklist – you know I do – and it includes everything we might think to bring, including the air mattress and pump. But the list did not include a checkbox to charge the pump, and what we had was a dead pump. I had a regular power cord and a car charger.

Our site did not have electrical hook-ups, so Dale went to the restroom and plugged it in there. He was either bored or looked suspicious loitering in the men’s restroom, so he returned to the campsite and said that wasn’t going to work. We could leave it charging in the bathroom unguarded, but he figured somebody would decide they needed it more than we did.

Dale decided to use the car charger. I said, and I quote: “Won’t that drain the battery?” He said in his manly, technical voice, “Not at all.” An hour or so later, the battery was dead.

The good news is we had enough charge to inflate the air mattress. Dale was pissed, presumably at himself, as is appropriate. I would have just parked my ass in the bathroom. I said maybe AAA will come out tomorrow morning – it’s not like we’re in the woods. Dale said yes, I guess that’s what we’ll do.

We were almost to happy hour when the bugs kicked in. Yellow jackets, specifically. By the time we started dinner, they were everywhere, so we ate in the tent, where one of the little bastards stung me.

In his haste to escape the yellow jackets, Dale took the steak off the grill too soon. Like raw. We had salad and baked potato, so we wrapped up the steak and put it in the cooler. He could have put it back on the grill, but those yellow jackets love steak, and they don’t care if it’s rare, medium or well-done.

It was around 6:30 p.m. and not cooling off at all. We were complaining about what a miserable night it was going to be and began to reminisce about other miserable tent experiences adventures over the course of our 40-year marriage.

He likes to bring up Lake Wallenpaupack in Pennsylvania, where I forgot the air mattress, and we slept on rocks. He dreamed he was a paraplegic. I recall a steamy summer’s night on the shores of Lake Guntersville in Alabama, where I dreamed he was stealing my oxygen.

About this time, he started blaming me for the air mattress pump. After all, I had a history of poor air mattress management. I created the checklist, so I guess it was my responsibility to do everything but sniff his underwear to make sure they were clean.

I was mad and said so. Why bring that up? Am I the only one who can charge a pump? And he said, “Well, I didn’t say anything about the heat.” Oh, so the weather is my fault, too?

As I started to explain the rationale for separate vacations, a neighboring camper came over and asked if we needed a jump start. We thanked him profusely and said perhaps in the morning. But then in a sudden vote of solidarity, we said yes, now! We’re leaving.

By the time the car was started, I had disassembled the tent. Dale let the car run while we gathered up all the loose pieces, giggling as we mushed gear into the car as fast as we could. Then we hit the road. We would be home in two hours and sleep in our own insect-free bed with the luxury of air conditioning.

Pulling away, we were still laughing, and Dale said, “I’m happy!”

I was surprised to hear myself saying, “Yeah, me, too.”

Shortly after I retired last October, my husband and I began to drive each other nuts. Readers enjoyed my funny posts about fighting over fish sauce and oatmeal and trying to kill him with bacon. Oh, and Fitbit couples therapy, when I earned the Zip It badge for keeping my mouth shut. The stories were fun to write and made Dale laugh as well.

I haven’t written about our relationship lately – mostly because it has been great! For sure, we are soul mates, but we have our differences, and it seems we found our retirement balance. We relish the warm and wonderful moments just hanging out enjoying each other and this chilled life we both love. It’s like we’ve rediscovered our younger, sillier selves. The people we were before life knocked us around.

I’m sure I will be writing about more marital mayhem, but while the going is good, I thought I’d share some perspectives that might help you avoid the same mistakes.

Moving

In retrospect, I think moving right after I retired compounded the issues. The closest we ever came to breaking up during our 40-year marriage was during one of our 20-something moves. Moving is stressful all by itself, and when you add that to the unknowns and fears of being newly retired, crankiness kicks in.

We would still move, as we were able to reduce our living expenses considerably, but I’d recommend either waiting a few months until retirement feels more comfortable or talking through these unique challenges in advance.

Habits & Behaviors

When you’re both working, you miss a lot of the little things people do when they are by themselves. Or you ignore them because you have more important things to worry about. Without the distraction of a job, you can put all your focus into identifying and correcting your partner’s flaws! Don’t. Just don’t.

You are with this person for a reason, so either accept them as they are or have a serious discussion on what needs to change. Dale is the silent type, while I like to talk things through until I am speechless and comatose on the couch. But we both agreed these picky fights had to end. To get there, he started to talk more, and I started to listen better, and now if we start to go down that path, one of us will say, no, we don’t do that anymore. It’s not worth arguing about. And we let it go!

We were driving to the Smart & Final the other day, a store that is in an area of town we don’t go to much. He was about to make a left turn into the parking lot, and I said, oh, isn’t this where we had the big fight about how to make left turns?

Dale said, yes, it is. And we both laughed.

Togetherness

We love to be with each other, but we also like our alone time. And suddenly, neither one of us had it. I started playing more golf. He doesn’t play, so that’s my thing. People always ask me what he does with his time, and usually I say, oh, I don’t know.

Dale has the gift of being pretty happy with not much going on. He reads, plays computer games and works around the house or yard, but his big hobby is dinner! Shopping for it, preparing for it, cooking it. I like to cook as well, and I thought, oh, great, we’ll be doing this together! But it took me awhile to realize the joy of cooking is mostly a solitary experience for him. Now I let him run the kitchen, and if I have the urge, I let him know I want to do dinner on a certain day.

I attribute our success to deep and open communications, but I asked Dale what he thought the biggest difference was and he said you stopped criticizing my driving. I probably could have skipped the soul-searching all together.

So, there you have it. To keep your retirement relationship strong, sometimes you have to talk, and sometimes you have to Zip It!