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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.

Taking a stand

I have nothing eloquent to say about the death of George Floyd and the subsequent protests around the country. What happened to George is horrible and wrong.

I have nothing kind to say about Trump’s reaction or his visit to the church for a photo op … and our government’s violent response to peaceful protesters.

While I’m not sure how to articulate my feelings about this tragedy and our long history of racial injustice, I can’t just go on and pretend it didn’t happen. Now more than ever, I believe it’s important to take a stand against racism.

I support Black Lives Matter. I want to be part of the solution, and I’m looking for leadership and inspiration from all corners of America and beyond to show us the way.

10 tips for safe walking

Special items I purchased for pandemic walking include a lightweight mask and a hip belt that holds my phone, hand sanitizer and water.

If you like to walk or walk because what else can you do in the middle of a pandemic or you must walk in order to get where you’re going, my guess is you probably want to live through it. With potentially contagious neighbors out and about, bigger cars, distracted drivers and pedestrian fatalities on the rise, negotiating the streets or trails on foot is risky.

Although I’m retired now and walk for pleasure, I commuted by bus and foot to my job in Silicon Valley. I walked to the Caltrain station from my home to catch the bus and then hopped off a mile or so from my work location to get some exercise, repeating the route at the end of the day. I left my home in darkness, and in the winter months, I returned in darkness.

Safety was and is my number one priority. As a two-time cancer survivor, I’m tough to kill, but I am not going to make it easy for anyone. I live in a suburban area and average about five miles a day on routes that include sidewalks, crosswalks and off-road trails.

Here are my 10 tips for safe walking:

  1. You never know what’s going to happen out there. Wear some sort of a pack, if possible, so you can keep your hands free and eyes on the road. I wear a FlipBelt that holds my phone, hand sanitizer and a small bottle of water.
  2. Current evidence suggests you don’t need to wear a mask when exercising outdoors as long as you keep a proper social distance. While six feet is the standard, I double that during exercise. When it’s crowded out there, I wear a mask. I like the ExerMask from Happi Mask Co. If you don’t wear the mask, keep one in your pack in case you encounter an unusual situation requiring extra protection.
  3. Pay attention. Observe your surroundings. See who is coming ahead of you, and turn around periodically to see who is coming in from behind. Give people, dogs and snakes a wide berth. Stand to the side as far as is safe and let everyone pass. Wait until they’ve gone at least 12 feet before getting back on the path.
  4. Assume cars have the right-of-way no matter what. Sure, the law says cars must yield to pedestrians, but you can’t assume they will, even if you have the signal to go. Look both ways before crossing. Pay special attention to cars on your side of the street, to your left, making a right turn in front of you.
  5. Do not assume drivers see you. Make eye contact with drivers before crossing. Wave to get their attention. I do not recommend thumping the hood of their cars. People do not take kindly to such gestures.
  6. Cross only when the signal indicates. Use your elbow to push the pedestrian button and avoid crossing on a “stale green.” That’s when the clock is counting down, and you may not have enough time to cross safely. Even if you’re super fit, you never know. You might trip or stumble.
  7. Don’t wear ear buds or headphones. Practice situational awareness. Pay attention to the sounds of the street. Cyclists who ride on the sidewalk are a particular nuisance for walkers and runners, but it’s hard to be mad when they’re just trying to have fun and be safe. Listen for them and get out of the way.
  8. Don’t use your cell phone unless it’s an emergency or you’ve stopped in a safe place. Walking and talking is not a good idea, especially when you’re crossing the street.
  9. Wear well-fitting walking shoes (not flip flops or high heels) and add reflective gear at dawn, dusk or at night. If you’re on a budget, orange safety vests and reflective straps are inexpensive. When I was commuting, I wore a full front-and-back vest with blinking LED lights that went over the outside of my pack.
  10. Don’t yell or use hand gestures to express your frustration with bad drivers. You goal is to stay safe and healthy, and you just never know how people will react. Smile and wave when drivers do the right thing.

Even though I am super-vigilant, I’ve had a couple of close calls out there and find that taking precautions and giving up ear buds isn’t all that bad when you consider the alternative.

Happy walking!

Fun and games

Of course, we’re both in a funk of sorts. I had a meltdown about a week ago and have since felt reasonably calm and content. It was during the meltdown I said, “I’m just gonna go outside and ask people to spit on me.” I call that my rock bottom, and it has been nothing but up since.

Dale doesn’t do meltdowns, but I would say his low point was after we got back from the grocery store, because that was his happy place, and it’s not anymore. It also turns out Dale is much more extroverted than I am. He misses even the smallest interactions with clerks and neighbors.

We’ve talked through it, not without pain mind you, but we’re still a unit, committed to getting through this healthy, happy and together. I read about relationships being stressed right now, and my favorite line was something like this:

Don’t search for the perfect partner. Try to be the perfect partner.

I could tell Dale needed some comfort food and suggested burgers. We have everything for that, and he jumped right on it. We’re taking an indulgence break and will have burgers tonight. Then it’s back to broccoli on Friday.

We talked about playing board games, and I did an inventory of our toy chest:

  • Risk
  • Monopoly
  • Othello
  • Scrabble
  • Yahtzee
  • Backgammon
  • Dominoes
  • Pente
  • Cribbage

Most of these have been sitting idle for some time. This might be the 70s talking, but I don’t remember anything about Othello or Pente. Dale doesn’t like Scrabble or Yahtzee, my two favorites, so we’re going to start with backgammon. We used to play a lot and have a beautiful board we bought in Egypt. We’ll need to brush up on the rules.

We both used to like cribbage, but his mother was a fanatic, and we both got burned out on it during one of her visits many years ago. Perhaps enough time has passed that we can try it again.

Other unexpected items that showed up in the toy chest during my inventory include:

  • German flag
  • Survival cards
  • Mexican game with cup and ball on a string
  • Multiple decks of playing cards
  • Phantom of the Opera mask
  • Latin dictionary
  • Arabic at a glance
  • English-French dictionary
  • Eisenhower postage stamps

How about you? Are you playing any games while in confinement? What’s in your toy chest?

An impeachment rant

I’m trying to detach from the news and all things impeachment. It’s not that I don’t care. Of course, I care. But it’s no secret I loathe Trump and all he stands for, and I just don’t see the Senate holding him accountable for anything. For every new piece of evidence of his misdeeds, there’s one more excuse.

It reminds me of when we came back to the United States after living in Cairo. We had moved to South Carolina, and I was looking for a job. I interviewed with an insurance company, and they made me an offer that didn’t even come close to my salary history.

I said, “Thank you, but I made more money than this at my last job in Egypt.” They said, “Well, that was international, you can’t compare us to a poor developing nation on the other side of the world.”

Then I said, “Thanks again, but I made more money than this at the job before that in Alabama.” They said, “Well, that was aerospace. You can’t compare us to rocket science.”

That’s when I almost said, “Thanks, but I made more money than this at Captain D’s.” And their response might have been, “Well, that was fast food. You can’t compare us to fried fish.”

And so it goes with my reaction to Republicans defending Trump. I might say, “But you are choosing to ignore evidence he betrayed his oath of office, abused his power, obstructed justice and compromised our national security.” And they might respond, “Well, that’s Trump being Trump. You can’t compare that to being a good president.”

“But it’s your job to be impartial and help protect the country!”

“Well, that’s democracy. You can’t compare that to an opportunity to undo everything a black man did and stack the Supreme Court for decades to come.”

That’s the end of my political rant. Back to our regular retirement programming. Tune in next time to see if I continue with Netflix after my 30-day trial is over! What’s up with Grace & Frankie? And Outlander! Does the sex ever stop?

Cheerfulness breaking through

I finally broke down and watched the Peloton ad, which has been much maligned for being sexist. I’m usually the Top Gun of my class when it comes to identifying sexist bullshit, but I just can’t get excited about this one.

Husband buys wife a fancy exercise bike. She starts exercising. Changes her life. I guess because he gave it to her, and I guess because she didn’t request it, that implies he wants her to change in some way, and the bike is a not-so-subtle message to get off her ass and ride?

It’s a stretch, even for me, a lifelong feminist. I’m thinking, yay, a present! A bike seems more realistic than a car or diamonds, and no one seems to get upset about those ads. Maybe there’s a minimum.  

I’m not seeing dark forces at work here, and now that I know what the fuss is about, I’m moving on. There was a time when I would get fired up about everything, but like Leonard Cohen, I found over the years that cheerfulness kept breaking through.     

Still, in the spirit of sexist conspiracy theories, I vote for the Trintellix ad, in which a woman is depressed while dealing with dirty laundry, two small kids, a husband who doesn’t seem to do much, an office job with a bunch of men standing around looking important and a broken copy machine she has to fix.

There’s a pill for that.

Ortho consultation

I’m a bit apprehensive about the upcoming week. I finally get to see an orthopedic specialist on Monday. I broke both my wrists in 2012, and since then I’ve experienced periodic pain. I’ve never been sure if the pain is related to the fractures or carpal tunnel syndrome.

Usually when my wrists act up, I wear braces for a couple of days, and I’m fine. This time, I put a lot of pressure on both wrists attempting push-ups during my new member “fitness evaluation” at the club I joined, and my wrists pretty much hurt all the time now.

The interesting part is that I’ve been playing some of my best golf ever and swimming, so it’s not incapacitating. I’m fearful the doctor will tell me I can’t completely recover without a lot of downtime, meaning no golf. I’ll do what I have to do, and it’s better to deal with it in the winter when golf kind of sucks anyway, but I’m hoping I can play through it.

I definitely don’t want surgery.

Jury Duty

I got a summons for jury duty. I’ve only been summoned once before, and that was in Texas. Move around enough, and it takes them time to find you. In Texas, I went to the jury selection room, where more than a 100 people were being processed. When they finally got to the end, it was down to me and four others. They said we could go home.

Of course, I’m proud to do my civic duty, and it could be interesting, but I dread it just the same. The summons has a little warning about dress code. “Jurors are to dress appropriately as an officer of the court.” Whatever that means. No tank tops, shorts or bare feet, so I’m good on that front.

I’m instructed to call tomorrow to see if my appearance at the court house is confirmed, postponed or canceled. If it’s on, I have to go in first thing Tuesday morning. Ugh. Maybe I should have submitted an excuse:

I’m retired. I can’t start anything at 8:30 a.m., and I no longer have a relationship with appropriate attire. Can I watch it on TV and text you my thoughts?

OK, boomer, so you’re a veteran

I was a journalist in the U.S. Army from 1974-1977. My husband is retired from the Army. We both like to joke we won the Cold War. In any event, we did our part, and on this Veterans Day, I would like to thank all those who served. Obviously, that would exclude President Bone Spurs.

Since I retired, I’ve noticed weekends and holidays are a blur. An overheard conversation at our house:

Is it Friday?

No, I think it’s Saturday.

Um, no, it’s Friday.

Yeah, you might be right.

Whatever.

I reminded Dale it was Veterans Day weekend and Monday was a holiday, basically because we like to avoid crowds. He said he was pretty sure Veterans Day was one of the holidays that isn’t adjusted to make for a three-day weekend.

Who knows? I went upstairs and Googled it. Ha! We were both right. The holiday doesn’t move, but this year it happens to be on a Monday. So, here we are. We have no special plans because when other people go out … we stay home.

I’m in the middle of a pretty good Jack Reacher novel. The gym is probably a safe bet. I’d like to get in a swim and might tidy up the garage. Based on the number of boxes out there, we could start our own Amazon delivery service. We’re starting to think about Thanksgiving. I’ve pretty much settled on Pumpkin Cheesecake with Bourbon Sour Cream topping for dessert. It’s an old Gourmet recipe from the vault.

Oh, and in my idleness, I’ve been reflecting on the OK, boomer business. While I definitely don’t think boomers should curl up and go away, I’m not offended by the dismissal, either.

When I was working, I heard boomers speak to millennials and gen Xers with arrogance … comments such as, “I have shoes older than you” or “I’ve been working longer than you’ve been alive.”

Boomers, in my opinion, are an important voice and should continue to express themselves, but sometimes we need to shut the fuck up and let the younger generation have their say, even if they’re saying we suck.

What was that Army expression about getting even? Payback’s a medevac.

Halloween? Enough already.

A few days ago, our upstairs window was open, and I heard a horrible plaintive wailing, possibly from a mortally wounded animal or a child in distress. It sounded like it was coming from the street in front, so I went outside. I stood a long time and just listened. Sometimes there was nothing, deadly quiet, but then that awful piercing cry resumed.

Later, Dale and a neighbor were talking out in front, and they heard it. The two of them walked around, probably talking more than listening, but still. Nothing. The sound was haunting the entire neighborhood, but no one could figure out what it was or where it was coming from.

While I was on the phone with my sister complaining about the strange sound, she said maybe I should call the homeowner’s association. It was the middle of the afternoon, unencumbered by darkness, so I decided to risk it all. I said, “I’m going outside. If I lose you, I’ll call you back.”

I walked to the front porch, still in my Minnie Mouse jammies, and just stood quietly, listening. My sister was still on the line, and I put the phone out in the air so she could hear it. Oh, yeah. She heard it, too. What in the world could this be?

As I faced the street, the sound seemed to be coming from the house on the right. They hadn’t been home in some days, and I began to worry. Maybe their cat was hurt. Maybe they were inside butchered and dying. I walked up to the garage and put my ear to the door. I could hear the wailing, but it wasn’t coming from the garage.

The sound was fierce, and my heart was racing. “Cheryl, are you still there? It’s getting louder. I’m closing in on it.”

Ever-so-slowly, I turned away from the garage and found myself staring down at an evil black cat, spinning and wailing. However, now I could now see the cat was plastic. And presumably battery-operated. Probably with a timer. Possibly with remote speakers, because this thing could crank out some noise.

“I’m going to put ze phone down,” I said to my sister, channeling Teri Gar from Young Frankenstein, as in, “Put ze candle back.” And then I looked around to see if anyone was watching. The coast was clear, and I carefully picked up the cat. I found a switch on the bottom, and I turned it off.

And then there was peace.

I hope I’m not morphing into a curmudgeon, but Halloween? Enough already. I dread the trick-or-treaters, but there’s no way out.

Less worry, more fun

We were fondly reminiscing days after the flat tire fiasco when Dale said, “You want to know what was worse?”

I meant no but said yes.

“We only had 16 miles left in the tank.”

And then we began to laugh, because we both know that would have put me over the edge. I can’t bear a low gas tank. He may as well have said zombies followed us home. So many things to worry about. Gas, zombies, impeachment … there’s no end in sight.

I am a worrier, but I am trying to lighten up. It’s not that retirement and aging aren’t scary, but I say let’s do our best to tame the fear and live joyfully.  

Money is the big one, the big “worry bead” as they used to say at work. It’s funny how I fretted about money the whole time I was working, but now I have confidence in our finances and hardly give them a thought. Of course, I only got this far because I spent 35 years worrying we would not have enough money to retire, so I focused on saving and investing.

Saving and investing worked! Sure, there’s always a risk, but mostly I can relax as long as the world doesn’t blow up or one of us does something radically stupid. Living within your means and knowing there’s enough money to get by as long as you don’t go crazy makes for a happy retirement.

Growing up in a family with very little money, I always feared not having enough. It’s like near-empty gas tanks. I can’t take it. My friends would quit jobs because they were too stressful, and I used to say the stress of a job is nothing compared to the stress of living paycheck to paycheck. I endured some miserable jobs, but I never bailed until I knew we had enough to make a clean break.

Maybe there’s no such thing as true financial freedom, but we feel pretty good … reasonably secure. We paid off our mortgage in May, and that also reduces stress.

I know there are lots of fancy formulas that help people decide whether it’s smart to pay off their mortgage. Some financial experts say if your interest rate is low, then it makes more sense to invest your cash. I am not a financial expert. This is how a liberal arts major does retirement math. 

Our payment was about $1,000 a month, roughly $12,000 a year. About half of that was property taxes, which we now pay separately. Let’s assume that frees up $6,000 of cash flow, and then I’m not even going to include what we saved in interest, because calculating interest hurts my brain.

I kind of think that’s $6,000 I can spend on fun stuff I didn’t want to sign up for when we had a mortgage. Here’s my annual commitment so far:

Unlimited golf pass $2,000
Fitness club membership $1,020
Massages $1,500
TOTAL $4,520

I’ve got nothing else on the horizon, so there’s actually a surplus! I ran the math by Dale to see if he thought I was loco, and he said, no, I get it. Makes sense. I’m sure someone could deconstruct my logic. After all, the money is being spent one way or the other.

But the thing is, a mortgage is an unwavering commitment. It doesn’t go away unless you pay it off. Without a mortgage, however, indulgences are optional. There’s much greater flexibility in how you spend your retirement income. If we find ourselves short on cash, I can always back out of my sports memberships and massages. Life is still good.

And then there is the peace of mind in knowing you don’t owe anybody anything. If the shit hits the fan, we could sell this house and downsize in some form or fashion. The proceeds can continue to fund our retirement.

Having had cancer twice, I am all too aware the bubble could burst in a flash. But for now, we are healthy and solvent, and that adds up to less worry and more fun … which is not a bad retirement mantra.