Category: Uncategorized

Do you need a vacation calibration?

Mendocino Headlands State Park
Navarro Vineyards

We’re back from our trip to Mendocino, and as it happens, the weather was cold and rainy. We were forced to take shelter in a winery, where one can stay until the Pinot’s gone weather clears.

The scenery in Mendocino is spectacular. We hiked around Mendocino Headlands State Park and visited two wineries. As you may know, Dale and I live in great wine country, but the Anderson Valley specializes in wines that are not typically grown near us. That’s how we ended up with two cases of wine – a mix of Chardonnay, Gewurztraminer and Pinot Noir.

The obligatory difference of opinion between us lovebirds came down to whether we should leave the wine in the car overnight. I’m thinking several hundred dollars in wine – take it up to the room in case someone decides to smash and grab.

Dale’s thinking that’s way too much work. Take a chance.

Granted, our room was in an old house with narrow steps. And we are not as young and hearty as we once were. Dale finally agreed and carried our first case up. He was almost to the top, when he stumbled, but he righted the ship pretty well, saved the wine and only got a scrape on his knee.

He was annoyed because he saw no reason why the wine couldn’t have stayed in the car. But my little brain was working overtime, and I said, hey, I have an idea! My suitcase was a sturdy tote with a thick shoulder strap. What if I emptied it out, we put some of the bottles in the bag and shuttled the wine up in shifts?

And that is what we did. Kind of pathetic, but even Dale said it worked out pretty well. Of course, we had to shuttle it back to the car this morning, but downhill was way easier.

We were mostly disappointed in the food. But then we almost always are. Back in our globe-trotting days, we ate some pretty amazing meals. And these days, we are good cooks with impossibly high standards. We ate at a pub one night – our first dinner out since the pandemic! Mediocre fish and chips. So sad when you know how good it can be.

The second night we ate at a fancy place. We both got duck for an entrée, and it was cooked to perfection, but they used five spice seasoning, and I think it overpowered the duck. It just didn’t taste ducky enough for us. They served it with sautéed Swiss chard, which I love, but I didn’t think it was a good pairing.

All in all, we had a fine time, and we’re glad we went, but there’s some room for improvement. For many retirees, travel is their main mission, and they’re good at it. If that’s you, please feel free to skip this next part. But if you’re like us, homebodies with only a moderate itch to travel, you might benefit from what I’m calling a vacation calibration.

When we were younger, we were avid scuba divers. Most of our vacations were at Caribbean beach resorts. We don’t dive anymore, so the beach is less alluring. Yet we keep heading there, partly because that’s what we’ve always done. We do love the ocean vistas and great seafood, but this trip poked a hole in the seafood-is-better-at-the-beach theory.

I also used to be happy just hanging around the pool reading, because it was the opposite of work. Now I can stay home, hang around the pool and read whenever I want. I certainly don’t want to waste time and money to veg in the sun.

Food is a big attraction, but there’s the disappointment factor. I thought, what if we were just so damned hungry, that perfect food wasn’t the objective? What if all we need is something like a burger and a beer, which you can get about anywhere. And that led me to the idea that hiking might be a better focus for our trips. Work out hard, get cleaned up, eat, drink, crawl back to clean dry room and repeat?

That’s pretty much what we did when we were diving, but maybe at this stage of our lives we’re mountain people.

Dale reminded me that we loved Santa Fe, N.M. Plenty of hiking, interesting historical artifacts, great museums and delicious food. All the restaurants within an easy walk of the hotel. There must be more places like that!

So that’s my mission, should I choose to accept it. Continue with the vacation calibration and find a better fit for our changing expectations. While this trip wasn’t perfect, look at the pictures! I mean, how bad could it be?

Give a robot a chance

After we got the engineered hardwood flooring installed downstairs, I read the most important care tip is to keep it vacuumed. Although I’ve so far resisted the siren call of home cleaning services, I decided to give a robot a chance. 

Warning. This is not for people who are on a tight budget. While prices vary considerably, our floor guy said not to get a cheap one … they aren’t worth the money.

We got the iRobot Roomba i7+. I purchased it online from Lowe’s. With tax, total cost was $803.30. It’s kind of a shocker, but I get a rebate from online purchases on my credit card, so it’s not all bad. This model creates a smart map of your home so you can target specific areas without having the robot vacuum the whole house.

Robo, as we call him, is self-emptying. When he’s done with a job, you hear a giant whirl and the dirt, dust and cat hair go into a tower at the docking station lined with a bag you only have to change once a month or even less. The sound is loud, but it’s just for a few seconds.

I loves him. He had to do several tours of the whole house to map it out, but then I was able to go into the app and customize it. The rooms are labeled, so I can tell him to just vacuum the kitchen and breakfast area, which is where we make most of the mess.

When Robo does the whole house, he usually has to go back to the docking station to recharge. Then he’ll finish the job after he’s all juiced up. He really does a great job, and I almost want to give him a tip!

The hardwood floors are perfect for Robo. We only have two area rugs. One is a flokati, and I’m probably going to program Robo to skip him. He doesn’t get stuck or anything, but I’m not sure it makes a difference. The other rug is a tighter weave, and Riley, our cat, loves to hang out there. He is a long-haired cat and very fluffy. It has always been hard to get the cat hair off.

Robo kind of stirs up the cat hair on the rug and leaves it in clumps. It’s an improvement but not a solution. We’d be better off without any rugs, but we like it, and most importantly, Riley likes it. I just have to go back with the regular vacuum periodically to get the rest of the cat hair.

I mainly wanted Robo to help maintain the hardwood floors. Upstairs is carpeted, except for the bathrooms. Robo could map the whole upstairs, too, and he has a feature that supposedly will keep him from falling down the stairs. But at $800, I’m looking for a sure thing. I could create a keep-out zone, but only after he maps the area, so I’d have to watch and make sure he doesn’t get to the stairs.

While I may eventually go that route, for now, I put him in a room, press the “clean” button and close the door. The smaller rooms are easy because he doesn’t fill up the bin or run out of juice. Our master area is bigger, and both scenarios are possible. When I hear him quit, I take him back to the docking station and let him empty the bin and recharge.

I’m impressed. It’s amazing how much cat hair he manages to find. I even love the vacuum tracks on the carpet!

I hesitated to share my experience with the robot vac because I know not everyone has an extra $800 to burn. But if you do have some spare change, so far, I think it’s a retiree’s best friend. The house is cleaner, and it’s easier on your body … leaving you with more time to have fun!

The micromanager at home

Still knee-deep in the hoopla with regard to the kitchen remodel. In a surprising development, I’ve learned dust is like dry shampoo and makes my hair fluffier. Just another pro-tip from Dale and Donna’s cantina.

As far as dealing with contractors, the remodel brings out the overzealous project manager in me, the queen of rumination.

I’d like to introduce some corporate concepts. In my dream world, we’d have a communications plan that starts with a daily 8 a.m. stand-up. Wouldn’t it be nice to know what was happening? Who would be there and when?

Maybe a war room with the project plan taped to the wall. FAQs. Here’s a sample:

Q: What can I expect the first day?

A: Contractors will arrive at a designated time known only to them and immediately begin demolition. You won’t know what hit you.

Perhaps a lessons-learned meeting at the conclusion of our project? Oh, how I hated those. I mean, enough already. It’s over. But no, we all dutifully marched in for the dreaded hot wash. One of my co-workers said hot wash sounded so harsh. Why not call it a cool cleanse?

I believe Dale and I will be, enough already, it’s over. No hot wash for us. Go away and never come back.

And yet.

This project has been a bit of a wake-up call for me. While I was not a micromanager at work, those dark impulses decided to play out at home. We used to see it a lot in the kitchen, when Dale was cooking and I arrived on the scene to make sure he was doing it properly. And he is the better cook!

Fortunately for Dale, I backed off. But I still find myself offering guidance in all sorts of activities when he’s perfectly capable of figuring it out all by his own self.

The flooring is scheduled to be installed tomorrow. I have a doctor’s appointment, and I was going to cancel. Dale asked why. I said I need to be here to make sure he’s doing it right. Dale laughed, “Seriously, you know how to install floors?” I didn’t even tell him I read the label for the glue, just in case.

Ridiculous. I do think this is a control thing that got worse after I retired, and I have new appreciation for Dale being at the butt end of it. May I suggest those of with the tendency to meddle learn to back the fuck off?

Think of me as the advance party here to perform reconnaissance and report back from the field … a bit of intelligence to ease your retirement journey.

You’re welcome.

Your retirement elevator speech

Number 24

Unlike some people, I never knew what I wanted to be when I grew up. I didn’t have a singular talent or focus. My best subject was English, and I was decent writer, so I went with the only thing I was any good at and majored in journalism. That led to a surprisingly lucrative career in corporate communications.

But like so many others, I tried to define myself through work. And even in retirement, I’ve struggled with it. Perhaps it’s like this for everyone. Maybe you were a nurse or an engineer, you think, well, that’s what I did. That’s who I am. But if I’m not doing it anymore, who am I now?

I didn’t think of myself as a writer. I was a communications professional by trade, and writing was one of my competencies. My skills served me well, but it didn’t seem like enough. Part of me always thought or hoped there was a brilliant writer in there somewhere waiting to be released from the tyranny of having to earn a living.

It has been four years now since I retired, and my secret genius is nowhere to be found. At first, I was like, bitch, show your face! But I don’t know. Lately, I’ve been thinking, good riddance. Why should I hang onto a dream I fabricated as a child because it’s the only thing I could come up with at the time?

Retirement is different for everyone, but it can be a journey toward freeing ourselves from expectations and accepting we don’t have to be more than we are. Shedding layers and perhaps defining our self-image.

When I was working, we were supposed to have an elevator speech – a quick but memorable sound bite to introduce ourselves and convince someone we were all that and a bag of chips.

I never came up with a good elevator speech, but I’ve been working on the new and improved retirement version. Here goes:

Most days I’m a decent human being with a multitude of interests who enjoys life and sometimes writes.

What’s yours?

Messing with your face

I played golf with some women I hadn’t met before and afterward, we sat socially distanced around an outside table and enjoyed a cold beer. Soon enough, the topic turned to faces and what to do about them as they age.

One woman was an advocate of Ultherapy. She goes annually and pays between $3,500 – $5,000 for a procedure to tighten everything from the décolletage up. The process is painful, she said, and they give her Valium before, during and after. But you walk wobble out looking good.

The other woman was furiously writing notes on her scorecard. She could definitely see Ultherapy in her future, but for now, she was sticking with Botox. I mostly listened, but then I asked a question.

While in the waiting room at the dermatologist for my skin cancer check-up, I overheard a woman talking about some sort of point system, and she wanted her points carried over from a previous provider. What’s up with that?

According to my fellow golfer, points are part of a rewards or loyalty system for Botox and other injectables. The more the merrier!

I’m in no position to judge, but the whole discussion made me sad nonetheless. I mean, life with all its trials and tribulations, and it all comes down to this? Wrinkles? Messing with your face?

Somehow, I think the prettiest girls – the cheerleaders and the beauty queens – have the hardest time accepting the inevitable ravages of age. I was the weird kid with bad teeth who wore men’s corduroy bedroom slippers to school, held my fork like it was a weapon and wrote poetry in spiral-bound notebooks I kept under the bed.

It’s a miracle I’m walking upright. But like good whiskey, I’ve aged well.

Nobody at the table asked me what I did about my face, because I’m pretty sure they could see the answer would be nothing.

Not that I am without vanity. I like clothes and care about how I look overall. In fact, I’ve been thinking more about how I am going to re-purpose my work wardrobe. I have some ideas that may be in the category of corduroy slippers, but I’m willing to give it a go and may even post the results on this very blog.

I might have to consult with one of my young fashionista friends – they always tell it like it is.  

cold-weather comfort food

With some rain expected this weekend, the temperature is supposed to drop into the low 50s, and I think of it as the last hurrah for cold-weather comfort food. And yes, I know 50s is not cold. We call it California Cold.

I’ve been keeping a list and crossing them off as we cook our way through:

  • Stuffed cabbage
  • Macaroni & Cheese
  • New England Baked Beans
  • Venison Meatloaf
  • Beef Stroganoff
  • Porchetta Pie
  • Chile Verde
  • Moussaka

I love eggplant, so I lean toward moussaka, which is a casserole made with ground lamb, browned eggplant, tomato sauce, grated sheep’s milk cheese and bechamel on top. Dale likes it, but not as much as I do.

Nostradonna predicts Dale will vote for porchetta pie or chile verde. I love both, so it’s no big deal one way or the other. I make the pie, which is actually several freeform savory tarts made with chunks of pork, pancetta, carrots, onions, fennel and fresh sage.

Dale makes the chile (along with homemade flour tortillas). He usually roasts the tomatillos and chiles outside on the grill, so rain may alter those plans. An alternative would be his Texas-style chile, made with chunks of pork and beef in a rich sauce and no outside grilling component. We love the chili topped with grated cheddar cheese, finely diced onion and buttered saltines on the side.

My neighbor made fun of me teased me about being busy, so busy, as she said in a not completely flattering way. I’m not sure where that’s coming from, but yeah, my days are full. Not stressful but busy and fulfilling in a good way.

Granted, golf sucks up a bunch of my discretionary retirement time, but so does cooking. All those recipes! What to make? And then shopping for ingredients and actually getting in the kitchen to weigh, chop, bake, roast, simmer and sear. And then being forced to eat such deliciousness.

I can think of worse ways to live.        

Airing of workplace grievances

Some of us chose retirement, and others were squeezed out or forced out of jobs earlier than they had hoped. Or maybe it got so bad you just said, screw it, I’m out of here.

If you’re still sad or angry about what happened to you at work, perhaps it’s time to accept and forgive. Here’s my spin on it. Almost like a variation of Festivus with the airing of workplace grievances. It helps to laugh.

Even though I made it to the finish line relatively unscathed, I had one awful job toward the end of my career that left me feeling quite bitter.

I try not to think about it much, but last week I was digging through files on my computer looking for an old picture of me with adorable hair, because you, know, the struggle is real, when I found a folder marked MFR.

What was this? I double-clicked, and there it was. A detailed chronicle of the one job I’ve tried to forget. A Memorandum for Record is what I called it – a long and painful documentation of bad behaviors and harassment that pretty much left me crying every day for a year.

As I read through my notes with fresh eyes, I finally realized it wasn’t all about me. I was caught in a web of complex corporate norms and cut-throat politics.

There were bad actors in high places, weak lieutenants and one low-level sociopath who lived on the blood of destruction. Everyone else operated under the theory that only the whale that surfaces gets harpooned.

In the end, I came out whole, better than whole, so I decided to accept and forgive. I just said, this is it, no more. Bitterness is not an emotion I want to live with. And I’ll say this, something about letting go just makes you feel better in every way. I feel lighter. A weight has been lifted.

True, there’s no forgiveness in my heart for the sociopath or the person who provided top cover, so acceptance will have to suffice. I decided to just accept that what happened happened and release myself from the internal drama … almost like being an observer, watching the whole thing from afar. As a result, they no longer live rent-free in my head. That seems like a fair trade.

Anyway, that’s my perspective, and I guess it applies to just about any negative emotions we can’t quite dump. Maybe we can move on if we keep trying.

Enchilada Sauce

As promised, I’m sharing Dale’s recipe for enchilada sauce. We freeze it in small tubs and use it for enchiladas … hence the name. But we also use it as a sauce for huevos rancheros or combine it with chunks of browned chicken to make a filling for various tortilla dishes.

We buy our dried chili peppers from Pendery’s.

Dale’s Enchilada Sauce

Print Recipe

Ingredients
  

  • 10 Dried Ancho Chili Peppers
  • 2 Dried Aji Amarillo Chili Peppers Optional, but they add nice flavor and heat
  • 2 Canned Chipotle Chili Peppers in Adobo
  • 1 tsp Adobo Sauce From the canned chipotles
  • 3 Cloves of Garlic
  • 1/4 cup Diced Onion
  • 1 tsp Cumin
  • 3 cups Chicken Stock
  • 1 tblsp Lard

Instructions
 

  • Seed and stem the dried chili peppers. Put the peppers in a saucepan, cover with water and bring to a boil. Turn off the heat and let them sit for 10 minutes. Drain.
  • In a blender, combine the peppers, adobo sauce, garlic, onion, cumin and one cup of the chicken stock.
  • In a saucepan, melt the lard and add the blended sauce. Cook over medium heat for about 10 minutes, slowing adding the remaining two cups of chicken stock.
  • Cool, and refrigerate or freeze.

Post-Thanksgiving cooking fiesta

Homemade marshmallows dipped in chocolate.

It’s the post-Thanksgiving cooking fiesta at our house. I made marshmallows and got them all shipped off today. There were a few left over, so I decided to dip them in chocolate. The dipped version wouldn’t survive the trip to parts unknown, so I don’t want to hear any complaints if you were on my mailing list.

However, if you’re hankering for chocolate, I melted some chocolate chips in a small pan and added just enough cream to loosen it up a little. Dip and done.

For the turkey, we had cold turkey sandwiches and hot turkey sandwiches with gravy. Dale froze one whole breast and trimmed up the rest of the meat, which we’ll use in soup and some sort of casserole. Some of the options are turkey enchiladas, turkey pot pie and turkey divan.

I made stock out of the turkey carcass this morning. Tonight is Comfort Food Tuesday, so we’ll skip turkey tonight and have burritos or chimichangas from Dale’s homemade refried beans. This last batch was made from black beans. He sometimes uses pintos. I like them both!

While we do use canned beans for some dishes, we mostly start with dry beans and cook them in the Instant Pot.

Dale also made a salsa from his homegrown Trinidad scorpion peppers. They are among the hottest peppers on the planet, as measured by Scoville Heat Units. As a point of reference, jalapeños have 2,500 to 8,000 SHU’s. The heat level varies considerably from pepper to pepper.

Trinidad scorpions, depending on which variety, register from 1 to 2 million. As in, kids don’t try this at home. The first time I tasted Dale’s salsa made with these peppers, I sat on the stairs and cried. He has since learned a little goes a long way, and now I actually love it.

That means I’ll make soup tomorrow. It has carrots, celery, mushrooms, turkey and barley. I have this one little trick that makes the soup especially delicious. When I’m straining the stock, I save some of the meat and the cooked vegetables and then whiz it up into a paste in the food processor. We call it the flavor bomb, and I add a couple of spoonful’s to the soup.

I’ll make blue corn muffins to go with the soup. We got hooked on blue corn anything while visiting New Mexico, which in my opinion, has the best Mexican food in the U.S. Blue corn can be hard to find, but it’s worth the trouble. I purchase blue cornmeal for muffins and blue corn masa for tortillas on Amazon.

Stupidity gone wild

The virus is getting bad around here. It seems lots of people are getting together for big social events, and it will probably get worse in the weeks to come. We’re super-cautious to begin with, but we had a serious conversation about whether we need any course corrections.

We’re still going to the grocery store. We don’t do “big” shopping, and that may work to our advantage. One or both of us will shop for just a few things and get in and out quickly. Masks, hand san, social distancing.

My sister and many others wipe down the groceries or even quarantine non-perishables in the garage. I mean, you gotta do what feels right for you, but everything I’ve read says that’s not necessary. Just wash your hands again after you put the groceries away.

Even though I believe my swim protocol is safe, it’s one less place I need to go, so for now, no swimming. I’m still golfing and continuing to be very, very careful. I decided not to play in the women’s group until things improve, mostly because that’s the only time so many women are on the course. We hit from the same tees, so you have be careful your playing partners don’t get too close. And then all those women using the restroom …

I went out yesterday as a single and played with some men, which makes it easier as far as tees and restrooms go. I overheard them complaining to the starter about me joining them. Spoiler alert: unless it’s your own private course, that’s how it works.

For revenge, I outdrove them, birdied the first hole and then had a string of pars. They were pretty nice after that.

New slippers

Finally, with all this staying home, I decided to upgrade my slippers, or as Dale calls them, garden shoes. I never go barefoot and wear Crocs or Birkenstocks around the house. A stiff shoe is good for my back and knees.

I’m one of those people who buys everything in black, but I decided to cut loose this time. I don’t know if it’s retirement or the pandemic or what, but I bought pink fur-lined Crocs, and I love them!!

It’s funny how a small thing like fuzzy pink slippers can lift your spirits.

Election fatigue

The U.S. election has been particularly brutal this year. Of course, I’ve made no secret of my utter disdain for Trump. I fear the worst if he is reelected. However, I’ve read conservatives fear the worst if Biden is elected. Both sides have deeply seated emotions that are on full display and propagated in news outlets and on social media.

It got me thinking about how things used to be. I seem to recall my parents did not tell each other who they voted for, although I remember a Goldwater bumper sticker on the car. That was just posturing. Who you actually voted for was your own private business. Dale said his parents were the same, and he only learned his father was a Democrat years after he died.

Even after a stint in the Army and 20 years as an Army wife, I can’t recollect any serious political conversations with friends or colleagues. A bit of social commentary for sure, but we mostly talked about beer, food, family, work, travel, music, romance and sports. It was fun.

Back when we were having those get-togethers, we assumed no one was exactly like us, so we made an effort to find common ground. With the internet, a lot of people found their tribe, and now they don’t want to socialize with anyone who doesn’t think, act or look like them.

It’s all quite tiresome. While I continue to support causes and candidates I care about, politics has become a dreary topic of conversation. I’m burned out. Aren’t you? I noticed there are no political yard signs in our neighborhood, and I love it. It seems rather peaceful in our little bubble.

Politics and neighborhoods … maybe it’s like marriage. Not everything needs to be said.

A mysterious visitor

Dale had an unusual experience last week, and no, I’m not talking about yard work.

He went to get gas and was parked by the tank, about to fill up. A neatly groomed older guy – Dale said maybe 60s – approached him. The man was wearing shorts Dale said were a little shorter than what’s in fashion (as if Dale would know) and a shirt tucked in. No mask.

The visitor said, “I’m from another area, and I’m not sure how this works. Do I go in and pay?”

Dale asked him if he had a credit card, and the guy said yes. Dale explained he could pay at the pump. The guy got his credit card out and fiddled around with the machine, finally asking Dale if he could help him. Dale showed him how it worked. Before the guy pressed the button for gas, he said, “Oh, is this unleaded?”

By this time, Dale is wondering what the hell? But he said in his nicest Mr. Know-It-All voice, “We haven’t had leaded gas in the U.S. in more than 20 years.”

The guy said, “Oh, OK, thanks.”

Dale’s telling me this story, and I said, “Are you sure he didn’t say he was from another era?”

We both laughed, but that leaves us with some decisions to make. Who was this unmasked man, and why was he so clueless? Here are your choices:

  • Time traveler
  • Alien
  • Recently incarcerated or otherwise institutionalized
  • Other?

I’m voting for time traveler and an unlucky one at that. Time travel should come with a warning: Beware 2020. As for the other choices, it seems like even someone institutionalized would be more savvy, and I’m pretty sure aliens don’t have credit cards … let’s hope not, anyway.

No place like home?

Crazy hair

Dale hasn’t had a decent haircut in months, but then neither have I. He feared he was starting to look like Ted Kaczynski (the Unabomber). The closest comparison for me would be Saruman. Quite the pair we are. It sounds like the beginning of a joke. The Unabomber and Saruman walk into a bar …

I’ve gone after Dale’s hair a couple of times with the beard trimmer, but it was not the right tool for the job. I finally caved and purchased a real hair trimmer on Amazon.

Wow – what an amazing tool! I cut his hair this morning, and it looks fantastic. He normally likes a #3 at the barber shop, but I started out with a #4 to be on the safe side. At just under $50, we’ll recoup our investment in no time.

The comparison to Ted is interesting. When we lived in Texas, we visited Big Bend National Park and took a side trip to Terlingua, a quirky ghost town. According to local lore, Ted’s brother, David, the normal one, lived in a hand-dug hole in the ground for a couple of years while he built his cabin nearby.

I’m not sure what David is up to these days, but Ted is in prison, and it looks like he’s getting regular haircuts.

let her eat cake

Dale’s off to order my birthday cake. My birthday is Sunday, but I requested a Saturday pick-up. Extra points if you can guess why. My sister got it in 2.5 seconds …

So, I can eat it for breakfast Sunday morning! Duh.

I have a picture of last year’s cake and asked if he wanted me to text it to him so he’d have a visual aid. He’s like, I think I got this. White cake, white buttercream frosting, puffy 3-D roses, as in not flat, but absolutely no red. You’d be amazed how a simple cake order can go wrong, but all that’s in the past.

Rewarding Disloyalty

Michael Cohen’s book, Disloyal, comes out today. I don’t expect many new revelations, but I’m getting it just the same. Partly because I want to reward Cohen for being disloyal to Trump and partly because I keep thinking there’s a tipping point, and maybe just one more book or one more article will do the job and boot the man out of our lives forever.

Where to go when the volcano blows

I had a brief driveway conversation with my neighbor, who also despises Trump. Fully masked and well over six feet apart, we were wondering where we can go if he is reelected. I don’t think Canada or New Zealand will take us. Too old, not enough money.

Then we started talking about the pandemic, the fires. I said Dale has started to call me a fair-weather Californian. I love this state, but I do confess … lately I’ve been wondering if it’s worth it. Dale pointed out no place feels worth it right now, and of course, he’s right. And no matter where you go, there’s some sort of natural disaster looming. Nothing is perfect.

We’re actually in a pretty good place in terms of risk. Out of the city but not in the woods. Reasonable cost of living by California standards. Lower risk of flooding and earthquakes than many areas around here.

My neighbor said a house down the street sold for a high asking price in one day. I asked who was buying. She said Bay Area people who can now work from home – they can get a lot of house for their money here in the outer reaches of the Sacramento suburbs as opposed to San Francisco.

It sounds tempting to sell, but where would we go? This is our home, and we’re here for the long haul. I put a lot of time into researching retirement locations, and even with all that’s going on, Dale and I are both happy with where we live.

In closing, I’ll leave you with my new email signature. You heard it here first!

Stay safe, and vote once.

Groundhog Day all over again

I’ve been dreaming about going back to work. These are real nighttime dreams – not aspirational thinking. In one dream, President Obama asked me to come back to Texas, where I was needed in the defense industry. I said yes, I mean, for America, sure, but when I woke up, I was like, fuck, that was dumb.

In reality, I have no interest in a job. I thought a lot about why I’m having these dreams, and I believe it’s about a search for distraction. We’re living this Groundhog Day existence, and I’ve grown quite sick of the whole thing. Pandemic, fires, air quality, racism, politics – you name it, and I’m sick of it.

Work is the ultimate distraction. For years, a job served me well in my quest for something else to think about besides the crap that infiltrates my brain.

I’m convinced some people don’t want to retire, because then you don’t have that distraction anymore, and you kind of have to figure out who you really are. What’s your core value as a human being, and how are you going to spend your time on the planet?

Heavy stuff. In many ways, work is easier. Wouldn’t you rather be mad at your boss than mad at yourself?

That said, I’m still all about resisting the pressure to conform and perform. I’m post-job, living the Bohemian heiress lifestyle, dabbling in what amuses me, and I’m all the better for it.

Methinks it’s just a touch of cabin fever right now. I do believe we will get through this mess one way or the other, and I look forward to celebrating in grand style. Maybe even get on an airplane and go somewhere.

I know. Crazy talk.

lost in space

We actually have a favorite sausage market in Sacramento, but it closed after a big fire earlier this year. The brats were as good as any I had in Germany. A friend recommended another sausage market in Lockeford, a rural community about an hour from our house. Dale and I decided to take a road trip.

I had my phone, but I wasn’t sure about cellular service, so we packed a real map, and I wrote down the general directions. In the town of Ione, we got to a critical juncture in the journey – left, right or straight ahead – and the phone flipped out. First, it said I lost cellular data. Then it started telling me to make all kinds of crazy turns.

We tried straight ahead, and that didn’t work. We turned around and came back to the juncture, turning right. There was a remarkable absence of highway signs, and we weren’t sure we were on the right road, but to quote Bruce Springsteen, we took a wrong turn, and we just kept going.

The landscape was dry and barren and looked like Mars.

Dale was excited to pass Rancho Seco, a decommissioned nuclear generation plant. Oh, the sights to behold! And we can now say we’ve been to Galt, all 5.9 square miles of it.

In the end, we added about 30 minutes to our trip. We found the sausage market, loaded up and got on the correct road going back. I was curious to see where we’d land when we hit Ione, where we made all the wrong choices.

As we drove into the town, it became clear we should have made a left. Well, now we know.

Dale grilled one of the brats last night, and it was delicious, but I actually prefer the brats from Sac, which were emulsified like a hot dog. The brats from Lockeford were chunky. Still good, but I need to see if the other place is rebuilding. One can only hope.

lime squeezing happiness

To end on a bright note, as proof positive there is still good in the world, I bought a new citrus juicer, and it’s the most amazing kitchen tool I’ve purchased in years.

I highly recommend this little gadget, especially if you have weak wrists and enjoy lime-based cocktails (just an example). It sucks the juice right out and leaves a little more than a hockey puck as residue.