There’s a hint of fall in the air, and my thoughts turn to pumpkin. I’m not into pumpkin-flavored coffee or candles that smell like pumpkin pie, but I like both sweet and savory dishes made with this versatile winter squash.
I bought a magazine with pumpkin recipes at the grocery store and found another pumpkin cookbook at the library. So many tasty dishes to choose from! Some of the recipes call for canned pumpkin and some for fresh. I really hadn’t thought about using canned pumpkin for savory dishes, but it’s used commonly in soup, stew and pasta.
After careful study, I narrowed my list to the following:
Pumpkin and Italian Sausage Soup
Pumpkin and Beef Stew
Kale and Pumpkin Soup
Lentil Pumpkin Soup with Spinach and Smoked Sausage
I bought a cooking pumpkin at the farmer’s market, so that was sort of my turning point. I wanted to make something with big chunks of fresh pumpkin and went with Pumpkin and Beef Stew.
The recipe is also an opportunity to use the Instant Pot as a slow cooker, something I’ve been eager to try.
Anyway, the stew is cooking now. I started it early so if the slow cooker doesn’t work to my satisfaction, I have time to finish it on the cooktop. I made a fresh loaf of sourdough to go with.
I had some leftover beef but not enough to save for anything special, so I decided to cut it in chunks, brown it and then freeze it for stock later. It’s in the pan cooling now, and Dale walked upstairs and said he’ll just have that. I asked if he had a bite and he said, “Oh yes. Several.”
Nothing like little nibbles of hard-seared meat.
I like the recipes in the cookbook from the library, but I refuse to buy another cookbook! I think I’ll photocopy those that appeal to me the most.
Other recipes I want to try include Pumpkin Fudge, Wild Mushroom Pumpkin Risotto, Cheddar-Pumpkin Tart and White Bean, Chicken and Pumpkin Chili. I suppose we run the risk of getting pumpkined-out, but I’m willing to take a chance.
Yesterday, I was talking with my golf buddies about what we’ve been cooking. It seems like a happy and politically neutral topic to me. They’re both men who don’t cook, so I probably need to find new material. One guy said, “I can’t believe you’re not as big as a house.”
I said, well, some of it is genetics, I guess, but a lot of it boils down to the choices we make. We both exercise and are careful with portion control. We haven’t eaten fast food in 15 years or so. Haven’t had a soda for at least that long. We eat almost exclusively at home and make most things from scratch. I can’t remember the last time I had a store-bought cookie.
They both looked at me like I was nuts. And so it goes. Another feeble attempt at being social. I believe I’ll go back to, “Nice putt.”
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.
My birthday came and went. In my continuing efforts to stay sane during these unprecedented times, I’ve successfully transitioned from doomscrolling horrible news to foodscrolling delicious recipes.
The cake was/is absolutely incredible. My husband started calling me Cake Boss.
Dale and I each had a piece, and I froze the rest, but I’ve already pulled one out to thaw. As they say when you go winetasting, I’d like to revisit that one, please.
The cake was a wee bit dense. Next time, I would be sure to beat the batter a little longer at a higher speed. Oh, about the buttercream roses. I couldn’t quite pull it off. They look more like tiny piles of fettuccine, which is fine with me. It’s a new thing. Fettuccini flowers. They are delicious.
I have a thing for coconut in all its forms, especially spicy food made with unsweetened coconut milk. Dale likes them well enough, but I’ve improvised a couple of dishes that turned out great, and I believe he is converted.
Yesterday, I started with this basic recipe for Coconut Shrimp Curry with Mushrooms. I got the recipe from the NY Times cooking section, which is behind a firewall. But the link above is the same recipe at a site that didn’t have restrictions.
As I browsed the recipe, it seemed to me I could make it more Thai or more Indian, depending on seasonings and vegetables. I went with Thai and added chopped spinach, fish sauce and lime. Served it in a bowl with white rice and cilantro and toasted peanuts on top.
The broth was thick but reminiscent of Tom Kha Gai. You could add more coconut milk and/or stock to achieve a more soup-like consistency.
If I had gone Indian, I would have added garam masala and maybe some cauliflower.
My passion for cooking surprises me. Sometimes I wish I had gone to culinary school, but I grew up thinking cooking was a girly thing, and I wanted to break free from stereotypes. I suppose that’s why I joined the Army. Then 50 years later, you don’t care if it’s girly or manly or gender-neutral. You know what you like, and if you’re lucky, you get to do it.
While I might take a class here and there, my achy breaky parts are not likely to withstand the demands of culinary school. So, I’ll continue to poke around in the kitchen in my primitive fashion.
I’ve mentioned before we have years and years of Gourmet magazines. Some time ago, we ordered special binders to keep the years together with an annual index. It seemed like a good idea at the time, but the heavy bulky binders are unwieldly, and the individual issues don’t exactly stay put.
I didn’t mind all that until my back started bothering me. Sitting for long periods is about the only thing that makes my pain worse, so much of my foodscrolling has gone low-tech. I still spend plenty of time at the computer, but I try to take little breaks throughout the day and lay flat for at least 15 minutes or so.
What a perfect opportunity to browse real cookbooks or actual Gourmet magazines! I remember back in the day when we subscribed, way before computers, I’d save the new issue to read in the bathtub. That, and National Lampoon. I miss that one.
The thing about Gourmet is that I’m eager to try some ambitious cooking projects, and it seems like a good place to start. But you can’t really rest comfortably with a 5-inch binder full of magazines.
We finally decided the binders were worthless at this point, possibly from having been moved across the country multiple times. On a bad air quality day with nothing better to do, I pulled all the magazines out of the binders and tossed the binders.
Then I lined up the issues on a bookshelf from oldest to newest, left to right. I had annual indexes for some but not all. If there was no annual index, I photocopied the index page of each magazine. Then I put all the indexes together in a magazine holder like you see at the library.
The idea is you grab the pile of indexes and browse those until something piques your interest. Then you go pull an individual magazine, lying upon the 43-year-old corduroy comfy couch to squander the afternoon daydreaming about food and what you’ll try next.
I took a little detour with my latest pallet scrap. I mostly draw squiggles and such because I’m not skilled at representational art. If you handed me a salt shaker and said, draw this, I probably couldn’t.
This piece includes a few attempts to capture something real, as well as a loose interpretation of something real. On the real side might be the beer mug and the slice of pizza.
As for loose interpretation, pink cats perhaps? Also, on the right, I was going for a cracked egg with a runny yolk. I didn’t quite pull it off. Dale thought it looked more like a cheeseburger! I think of it as a distressed white orb with yellow oozing out of it. You may think of it as you like, and that is the beauty of art.
Outsourcing for retirees
It’s a pre-Christmas miracle, but it appears Dale’s life will be spared. Instead of madly throwing poisonous darts at him for sticking me with the seasonal clean-up of our backyard, I threw money at the problem and hired someone to do it for us.
Of course, that’s my job, too, and it isn’t easy. You find someone, you call them, you leave a message and they never call you back. I ended up going with one of the higher-end services, simply because they answer the phone. Hopefully, they will make up for it with speed and proficiency.
Dale and I will still “share” routine maintenance, but it feels good to know someone else will do the heavy lifting for a change.
While I’m not ready just yet, I am also going to hire a monthly housekeeping service. When I first retired, I took great pride in doing all the housework – partly because I hate spending money on something I can do myself, partly because I think there’s honor in doing your own shit work and partly because any kind of movement is good.
All that to say I actually don’t mind some of it, but again, I need help with the heavy lifting.
We’re having work done in the kitchen soon and getting new flooring downstairs. Assuming we live through that and don’t kill each other in the interim, I’ll wait until the work is finished before I start the search. Finding contractors is practically a full-time job.
What tasks do you outsource? Worth it?
Thinning hair
As I approach 66, I’ve noticed my hair thinning around the temples, and I thought it was something new to worry about. Because, you know, I’m always on the lookout. Then I saw pictures of me from several years ago, and it appears my hair started thinning early into the Trump administration.
So far, so good. I wear it longish and parted in the middle, so it’s really only me who sees the thinning. And I looked at click bait pictures of older women’s hairstyles, and even those touted as having great hair had some thinning action going on. It looks fine. It’s normal.
My hair has pretty much grown back from my post-vaccination haircut, and I like it in its as is condition. Sadly, I did not get the extended warranty. However, I’ve decided if my hair eventually goes, it goes. I was bald when I was on chemo, and I looked pretty damned good. Oh, that’s right. I was 43. Oh, to be young with cancer!
Just kidding. I dreamed last night I ran into some guys I used to work with who had thinning hair, and they had all retired and shaved their heads and looked fantastic. I said I was going to do the same thing, and Dale was cool with it. I told Dale about the dream this morning as a way of thanking him in advance for his support.
When Rain is Rain
We had unexpected rain, and I got so excited, convinced it was the Miracle in September – the miracle that would put out California’s raging forest fires. It was midnight, and I opened the front door to stand on the porch and watch it come down, silently saying a prayer for relief from the seemingly incessant burning.
By morning, the media reported it was barely enough rain to register on any meter that matters, and lightning sparked a few new fires. I was devastated, thinking life sure does suck lately.
I mentioned my disappointment about the rain to Dale, my life partner of more than four decades, who has annoyed me more during the past 18 months than all the other years combined. I’m told the feeling is mutual. These are testy times, indeed.
He said he didn’t think of it that way at all. He thought, rain! Rain is nice. I like the sound of it. The air smells pleasantly damp. It was like we got a little hosing off. And even though it didn’t put a dent in the fires, it was good for our yard. Our little piece of the pie.
Sometimes rain is just rain.
And that, ladies and gentlemen, is how I get over being mad at my husband.
My birthday is this month, and I will be 66. My full retirement age for Social Security is 66 and two months. I had been planning to start receiving my monthly payments as soon as I reached full retirement age and was excited about the prospect of a paycheck, but now I’m having second thoughts.
Some financial experts suggest it’s smarter to start withdrawing from your IRA and hold off on Social Security until you reach age 70. According to this NY Timesarticle, living on retirement savings in the early years and holding off on collecting benefits is likely to increase monthly income over a lifetime.
There’s also a discussion about marginal tax rates and provisional income if math is your jam, but I’m a journalism major. No can do.
If I wait until I’m 70, my monthly checks would go up by about $800. It sounds nice, but I’m not sure it’s worth waiting for. With my husband’s military pension and our savings, we are not dependent on Social Security, so I’m inclined to skip all the analysis and just go with what feels right.
I suppose I’ll chat with our financial planner before making my final decision. What variables have you considered as you make this choice?
Sugarfest 2021
In other news, I’ve decided to bake my own birthday cake. I’m going to make the three-layer coconut cake from Sally’s Baking Addiction. Everything about it is totally decadent. Even the buttercream roses on the top are insanely me. The more frosting the better.
However, I watched the video for how to make the roses, and I don’t think I can pull it off. I have some Russian piping tips my sister gave me, and those look easier. I will be watching lots of YouTube videos to build my confidence. Here’s a sample.
While we’re on the subject of baking, I spent a lot of time indoors last week due to the air quality, so I decided to make cookies decorated with royal icing. I have quite the collection of cookie cutters and other paraphernalia.
I haven’t made them in a couple of years, mostly because my wrists were sore the last time I made them, and I wondered if I would even try again. However, my wrists have improved, so I went for it. My lack of practice shows. The icing on the chili pepper is too thick and lumped up in places, and the icing was a little sloppy at the bottom of the ladybug.
Imperfect but cute and delicious. Not a bad thing to be. By the way, I made chocolate dough and added a teaspoon of espresso powder. Next time I’d use a little more. You can’t taste the coffee, but somehow it makes the chocolate taste better. We keep them in the freezer, which helps with portion control!
Golf Giveth and Golf Taketh Away
Yesterday I played golf in what is called an alternate shot tournament. I had a partner, and we took turns teeing off. One of us on odd-numbered holes, and the other on even-numbered holes. Then we took alternate shots until the ball was holed.
On number six, my partner teed off. The shot was plenty long enough but in the left rough. We were still 140 yards out, and it was my turn.
I hit a 7-wood, and we watched it fly toward the green. She thought it got stuck in some thick grass in front of the green, and I thought it hit the green and rolled past the hole. When we got up there, she went one way, and I went the other, and we didn’t see it. I jokingly said, maybe it’s in the hole.
And it was!! So, we had an eagle 2 on a par 4. We would go on to completely fall apart on the back nine, but I will remember that shot for a long time.
Wishful Thinking
I’m feeling hopeful that maybe we are turning the corner on COVID. I mean, not everywhere, but maybe some places? I read today 80 percent of eligible Californians are at least partially vaccinated. In my zip code, about 80 percent are fully vaccinated and another 10 percent have one shot.
That said, our numbers are still terrible. Cases per 10,000 people approaching 40 percent in our county. Yet, there are some case rates in the hundreds, so I guess it’s all comparative. I am shocked by how many people go out and about as though the virus doesn’t exist.
I do wonder if the virus will run out of people to infect. Or maybe Delta will run its course and the virus will subside, transitioning to something more like the seasonal flu. I have no basis for these comments. Perhaps nothing more than wishful thinking.
But you know what? There’s something to be said for wishful thinking. I have been on both sides of the attitude spectrum, and nothing good ever happened when I thought the glass was half-empty.
The Caldor fire is about 40 miles to the east of us and moving further east, which is good for us but not good for Tahoe. The winds shifted yesterday, and while the fire is still moving in the other direction, our air quality has taken a turn for the worse.
I’m learning to accept the realities of living in a state that burns, but it’s hard when there is so much beauty to behold, and you can’t even go outside. The fires are life-threatening for some, but for us they are mostly inconvenient and just plain scary.
The smoke stresses me. I took the top picture first thing this morning, and it was creepy not to even see the hills above our house. The wind shifted yet again, and later you could see the hills. The Sago palm is in both pictures, but you can only see it in the bottom one. I immediately felt better when the air started to clear. I think it’s a primal reaction.
Fortunately, there is plenty to keep me amused inside. We’re out of cookies, and we can’t have that. I’m whipping up a batch of our go-to cookies with peanut butter, chocolate chips and sea salt. I’ll probably play some Wii golf on our vintage system.
I used to talk bad to the Wii when things didn’t go my way, but I found out there’s no modern substitute that replicates the motions of golf, so I made nice with the damned thing to ensure it doesn’t talk to the other appliances and quit on us.
Playing Wii golf helps me with the mental side of real golf. I practice visualization, staying calm no matter what and lowering expectations. I’ve written before about my fear of competition, but I forced myself to play in the women’s club championship this year. While I didn’t play my best golf, I held steady and finished tied for sixth overall.
Playing and not choking was a big step forward for me. I’m sure others in my group were feeling sorry for me, as I did mess up a few holes and can certainly score better under ideal conditions, but I couldn’t be happier that I pretty much held it together over three rounds – the format was best two out of three.
Have you thought about what you fear and whether you should push yourself in that direction?
Learning to manage my expectations with golf is helping me manage fear and loathing in a more general sense. As I said earlier in the week, it’s all about showing up. I stress about the attempted recall of California’s governor, Afghanistan, drought, fires, smoke and COVID, but I’m also choosing to read less about it, and that helps.
When all else fails, stick your head in the sand.
Dale and I talked about what it’s like to live here now, and we’re not ready to bail. I can’t think of a place that doesn’t have some sort of natural disaster looming. It seems to me we’re all going to have to accept climate change is here, and it’s going to alter our lifestyles. So, we adjust and keep going.
We live in a suburban area, and while anything is possible, we figure a forest fire is unlikely to impact us directly. There’s a lot of asphalt between us and the woods. I’ve taken to looking out the window in the morning to a) see if there are any dead bodies in the pool; and b) see if there are any fire balls rolling down the hills.
Even if the fire did start charging down the hill toward us, we would have time to evacuate. That’s how I settle my mind. If the house goes, the house goes.
Then you’ve got excessive heat, power outages. One thing we are considering is a standby generator. If we’re going to live in a fortress, we may as well fortify the fortress so as to live in the style to which we have become accustomed.
We’ve been debating the advantages and disadvantages of a portable rig versus a unit that hooks up to our natural gas supply. The portable rigs are less expensive but not exactly cheap, and then you have to deal with extension cords and all that. I’m thinking, we’re getting older, and we’d be better off with a built-in standby system.
We haven’t called for quotes yet, but our climate is such that we could live without air conditioning or heat for a couple of days. A small unit that powers the refrigerators and maybe a few creature comforts might be all we need.
If all goes well and we continue to take good care of ourselves, I believe we could last another 25 years or so, even with all the bad craziness. However, I’ve decided if I’m here for the finish, I’m going out with a giant bowl of Lucky Charms. Perhaps with a chaser of Frosted Flakes.
I’m trying to pay less attention to the news for all the reasons you might suspect and decided to browse our vintage cookbooks instead. What could go wrong, other than a few arteries snapping shut?
The first cookbook I grabbed was The Galloping Gourmet featuring 1970s celebrity TV chef Graham Kerr. I remember watching the show with my sister, who learned to make Chicken Kiev. The recipe was in Volume 1.
Basically, you make a compound butter with cayenne pepper, lemon, parsley and garlic. Roll it into a log and wrap it in plastic. Freeze.
Then you pound out a chicken breast fairly thin and stuff it with slices of the frozen butter. Roll it up and use toothpicks if necessary to keep it secure. Dip in flour, beaten egg and then breadcrumbs. Deep fry until golden brown.
It was DELICIOUS, but it made a huge mess, and we don’t really eat that way anymore. I read Mr. Kerr also doesn’t eat that way anymore. I do love me some fried food occasionally, but we mostly use chicken breasts for soup, salad, stir-fry – that sort of thing. And by the way, chicken breasts are ginormous these days. We should have split one.
I guess I’ll keep poking through the stacks, but I can’t imagine making that again. I’m not even sure why we’d keep the books. We have the whole series! Looks like the set sells on eBay for less than $20, and I can’t be bothered. I suppose I’ll donate them.
In other critically important food news, our second refrigerator crapped out after only eight years. Same as our washing machine, so maybe that’s all you get out of them these days. The repairman came three times and couldn’t fix it.
For a replacement, we went to Lowe’s. Why? We’ve always had great luck with Best Buy, but for some reason we picked Lowe’s. The salesman was great, but the delivery system sucks.
Our refrigerator was supposed to arrive Monday. They were supposed to call Sunday to give us the window of time for delivery, but they never did. After Dale called them, they said 8 a.m. to 7 p.m., which is bullshit. Then they called at 4 p.m. or so to tell us the truck broke down, and now we’d have to wait until Wednesday.
Today is Wednesday, and we still don’t have the refrigerator. Again, they didn’t call. Dale had to hunt them down, and they said there were still issues with the truck. I guess they only have one? Now they have promised it tomorrow, stating they’d call with the delivery time. Yeah, right. So, we’ll be hanging around all day waiting for the appliance delivery man or someone like him.
I realize whining about a second refrigerator is a first-world problem, but still.
Just to keep things simple, Dale is making paninis tonight – tomatoes, basil and whole milk mozzarella cheese sandwiches drizzled with a balsamic vinegar glaze. Yum.
I’ve been wanting a metal pie pan for ages and finally caved. I deserve a metal pie pan, or at least that’s what I told myself.
I saw one in the King Arthur catalog. I like the corrugated bottom and am eager to try it out. I didn’t buy it from King Arthur, because they charge for shipping, and I found the same one on Amazon Prime.
The pan was $19.99, while the King Arthur version is $16.95, so the difference is probably a matter of cents. I do like King Arthur and purchase from them frequently, but I try to be selective. For example, these measuring cups were not cheap, but they are fantastic. And, of course, flour, cocoa — the usual suspects.
I’ve kept journals for years, although I often quit mid-way through, leaving lots of empty pages behind. However, I’ve kept the journals and periodically go back to raid them for fresh paper. I found one this week from 1994. I was 39 years old, and I was already dreaming about retirement.
Well, not retirement per se, but it seems I already wanted the exact lifestyle I enjoy today. All play and no work!
I slept like a baby last night. I worry sometimes because I do so enjoy my sleep. But on weekends, I don’t mind getting up, because I know the day is mine. But getting up and going to work, knowing that time belongs to someone else is not motivation for getting up. But what else can I do?
Work isn’t that bad. I don’t know why I hate it so much. Maybe I just wasn’t born for work. I’d rather play!
I’m looking forward to Christmas. Not because I like Christmas but because I have 11 days off! I love it. I plan to write and practice piano and walk. Maybe throw in a little cooking. And reading, of course. I do love life when I can do the things I like.
I sure wish I didn’t have to go to work today. I love staying home. Maybe I should have married money. But then I would be embarrassed to be a kept woman.
I’m feeling happier. I’ve come to the realization my self-worth is not wrapped up in what happens to me at work. It’s not my soul in there. I know I have to have a job, and I want to be good at it, and I want to get promoted and all that, but it’s not my purpose in life.
For the record, I was not a real piano player. I was learning to read music and play the piano with a special “piano” keyboard and program that plugged into my Mac. I learned three or four songs and had Dale videotape my recital. I would go on to express regrets about my performance.
It seems I blew Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star.
On the bright side, I would go on to have a successful career doing pretty much what I was doing when I complained about it in 1994. While I worked hard and had a strong drive to succeed, I was always ready to goof off and had lots of soul-affirming hobbies and interests. Ultimately, I accepted the dualities of work and play, but I never felt like I found my purpose.
Still, I’m glad I stayed the course in my career and didn’t chuck it all to live off the land. Money doesn’t grow on trees, as my mother used to say, and my job was key to building our savings. But all the fun stuff I did over the years is what truly prepared me for retirement.
The fun meter isn’t exactly pegged these days, what with fires, smoke, COVID … have I forgotten anything? But I still love retirement, and reading my old journals was a great reminder to quit whining, relax and enjoy the privilege of life.
As for purpose, I heard the musician Steve Earle talking on his Sirius radio show the other day, and he said he has always believed he was put here for a purpose, but he’s no longer arrogant enough to assume he knows what that is. Instead, he said, “I just show up.”
Number 22, a gift for my sister, who just retired. Congratulations, Cheryl!
I woke up the other morning thinking, “I should get a job.” I used to like people. Maybe I could learn to like them again.
Yes! I could quit using cannabis, pass a drug test and get back in the workstream. I’ve read there’s a shortage of employees. Except I haven’t read anything about trying to lure back the 50 and 60-somethings they drove out in favor of snappy young talent. So, there’s that.
Oh, and then dealing with all those problematic young people. They are in charge now, and I liked it better the other way around.
I suppose I’d be the new troublemaker, asking for all sorts of special accommodations. You know I can’t sit in a regular chair for hours on end. And such ridiculous expectations. Forty hours a week, seriously? I could maybe squeeze in some Spider Solitaire, but when would I have time to swim, cook, walk, play golf, take naps, stretch or work on my art?
Clearly, a desk job is out of the question. Not good for my health.
Then I thought, I could be a budtender! I could get some training online and apply for a job at a dispensary. I imagined myself, silver hair flowing, adorned in turquoise jewelry, imparting sage cannabis wisdom.
Except being a budtender is a fancy name for working retail. Horrible hours and crummy pay. Sometimes they want you to work at night! What about dinner????? Not to mention whiny customers, and that’s kind of a deal-breaker for me. Any filters I may have had in the past are gone. It’s like retirement truth serum. Now I just say what I think, and I assure you, it won’t be good for sales.
The truth is, I love retirement. Time and freedom is a hard-earned gift, and I have no interest in going backward. My guess is the job idea is more about the ongoing isolation of COVID. Maybe a subconscious yearning for pre-pandemic life?
Except it will be post-pandemic life. Something new, different, maybe better in some ways. I mean, why not? An uncertain future, for sure, but with any luck we’ll still be here to explore it.
Number 21 — my latest creation of wood-burned art embellished with color.
Repurposing career clothes
Although I did experiment here and here with repurposing some of my career wardrobe, I quickly lost interest. I don’t dress that way anymore, basically living out of one laundry basket full of casual and athletic wear.
And yet … I’ve decided to keep what’s left – a jacket, a suit, a few skirts and a pair of slacks. At least for a little while longer. Reasons, in no particular order:
I’ve pared it down to just a few pieces anyway, so it’s no big deal to keep them hanging in the closet.
The pandemic has probably changed career fashion forever. I don’t think my style will be popular with anyone but me.
All the charities I checked want larger sizes, and I don’t want to bother with consignment.
They fit well and look good on me. Sometimes lacking other options, you have to wear your confidence.
It’s more fun to dress up when it’s not 100 degrees. Fall is just around the corner.
These are not normal times, and you never know what will happen. Post-pandemic renaissance? Apocalypse? I might need nice clothes.
The joy of movement
I visited the physical therapist, and all in all, it went well. I have some nits to pick about the process, but I heard what I wanted to hear. Basically, she said I have good mobility and should continue to do everything I want to do in terms of golf, swimming, stretching, walking and weights. With regard to osteoporosis, she said to avoid jumping and jarring movements but otherwise keep moving. Her team can help me with strength and balance.
They stretched out my problematic left buttocks area and decorated it with Kinesio tape, which presumably helps with muscle pain and inflammation. I must say it seems to be working! They put the tape on while I’m face down in the “child’s pose.” Of course, I can’t put the tape on myself, so I had Dale take a picture of me in case we need to replicate. He took the picture, but I’m not sure he’s on board with taping me. It’s not like I’m asking him to shoot an apple off my head.
I played golf twice, and I could definitely feel the burn, but I think it was just the normal aches and pains of returning to exercise after a 10-day rest. I tried to take it easy, forget about the score and feel the joy of movement. I will try swimming today.
Note to fellow retirees – be gentle but move as much as you can as often as you can. Mobility goes away quickly and is difficult to recover.
The limitations of movement
Movement is one of the reasons I don’t outsource housework. I do most of it, but Dale does make significant contributions to our efforts. The balance inside the home isn’t really an issue, but I did talk with him about adding some additional chores to his list. He’s always cooperative, but it annoys me that I have to spell it out for him.
Yardwork is a different story. This is where the limitations of movement are hitting home. I tend to be a workhorse, and as I always joke, Dale likes to put on a clean shirt and go bye-bye in the car. For the record, he does laugh when I say that!
Our neighborhood association maintains the front yard. We don’t have a huge backyard, and the pool takes up most of it. Dale has always said it wasn’t worth the money to hire someone to mow and blow such a small area. Especially since I ended up doing it most of the time. But there’s also pruning – and in previous years, that also fell to me.
Newly armed with spunk and MRI results, I said that time is gone. Beyond mow and blow, count me out. Shortly after my proclamation, he actually mowed and edged. I didn’t even know he knew how to use the edger. In the spirit of cooperation, I got out the blower and cleaned up. See how nice it is when we work together?
Message received. It went in one ear, stayed there and didn’t go out the other.
That means I’m shopping for some sort of landscape service. Although it’s not a big financial commitment, my first thought was I’ll start collecting Social Security later this year, and I could just pay for it from that account.
But my second thought was no way – why is it my responsibility? I know he truly doesn’t care who pays for it, he’s like yeah, whatever you want, but I remember all those bags of yard waste from last year, and my less kind self wants to see him cough up some cash. Reparations, if you will.
Oh, shit, this is bad
Lest we get too judgy in our aging years, Dale announced this morning he couldn’t find his keys, which include both house, car and mailbox. We looked everywhere, including the neighborhood mailbox, because he has left them there before.
Alas, no keys.
My smug self was thinking I would keep the mailbox key separate so as to avoid such a situation. But that’s me. Then I went down the path of we’re getting older, him especially, and this is likely to happen more often. Lost things. Kitchen fires. Who knows? From there, I plummeted to, “He’s got dementia. Oh, shit, this is bad.”
We went to a few doors asking if anyone picked up keys from the mailbox. Nothing. One neighbor was like, oh, shit, this is bad, and I said, indeed, I’m trying not to be judgmental. Another neighbor said to check with the Homeowner’s Association – people sometimes turn in lost items. Dale tried calling, and a recording said they were closed. I said, “Well, let’s just drive over there and see. I’ve got my keys.”
I reached into my purse and pulled out my keys. Except they were not my keys.
Wait! These look like your keys!
They are my keys!
We both burst out laughing. Apparently, he’d left them on the counter downstairs after picking up the mail, and when I was scooping stuff up after I came home from golf, clearly exhausted from exemplary play, I thought they were mine and dropped them into my purse.
One would assume he’s now thinking, looks like Donna has dementia. Oh, shit, this is bad.
