That 70s chicken

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.

All play and no work

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.”

Me, too, Steve.

A change is gonna come

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.

I’m ready.

Lest we get too judgy

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:

  1. I’ve pared it down to just a few pieces anyway, so it’s no big deal to keep them hanging in the closet.
  2. The pandemic has probably changed career fashion forever. I don’t think my style will be popular with anyone but me.
  3. All the charities I checked want larger sizes, and I don’t want to bother with consignment.
  4. They fit well and look good on me. Sometimes lacking other options, you have to wear your confidence.
  5. It’s more fun to dress up when it’s not 100 degrees. Fall is just around the corner.
  6. 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.

Bouncing back from injury

Although I don’t bounce like I used to, I am recovered from whatever I did to myself when I fell in the bathroom. Now I’m back to whatever I’ve had for the past 10 years or so. In the absence of fractures or other potential mishaps, chronic pain never felt so good.

That means I’m back on the golf tour this week. I also want to get back to swimming and light weights. I visit the physical therapist Monday and will see what she thinks. For the most part, golf has not made my lower back pain worse, but I’m not so sure about the other two. Still, I refuse to lay flat on my back if I have a choice, so that’s that. Onward and upward.

I’m more conscious about calcium since the osteoporosis business. I do eat dairy and lots of other calcium-rich foods, but I decided to add canned sardines to my rotation. Dale has been eating them for years. I like them, especially on a Triscuit!

Do you eat sardines? I would love to hear more ideas – how to enjoy them best, any particular brands or seasonings you like. I’m not afraid to throw some money at a premium product. Although Dale is even more of a food snob than I am, sardines are sort of his bachelor food, and he just buys whatever he sees first.  

I do believe back pain is sometimes connected to our emotions, so I’ve been trying to deal with my anger about the pandemic. I tell myself, yes, I am angry it was politicized. It did not have to go down this way. I’m angry with the people who won’t get vaccinated. I’m angry we’re going back to masks again. I’m angry that it looks like this thing will drag on forever.

But that anger does not make my back hurt! My back is strong. I can do anything I want.

At least that’s what I’m telling myself.

I finally read Victim 2117, the latest in Jussi Adler-Olsen’s Department Q series featuring Carl Mørck. I started it a couple of times but didn’t get too far. Sometimes it takes me a while to get into his books, but when I do, I love them. This one was excellent – quite the dramatic backstory of Carl’s sidekick, Assad.

As I was Googling the book so I could copy and paste the slashed o in Mørck, I discovered there are Department Q movies! Has anyone seen them? Looks like some are available on Amazon. I’ve been re-watching Outlander. I had already burned through the final season of Bosch and needed a complete distraction.

We had to cancel our trip to Lassen Volcanic National Park due to fires in the area. If it’s not one thing, it’s two. Or three. Or four.

For a little while, it felt like we had turned a corner on the virus and life was becoming whatever passes for normal these days. But it looks bad out there. In our zip code, 77 percent have been fully vaccinated, and 84 percent have at least one dose. Yet our positivity and case rates are higher than you’d expect.

Most of those testing positive in our area are between the ages of 18-49. While we’ve all been reading about breakthrough cases, I would assume most aren’t vaccinated. I can’t fix that, so I tell myself to just roll with whatever I have to roll with.

And so, we turn to happy thoughts. Dinner. We have leftover grilled tri-tip and fresh corn and tomatoes from the farmer’s market. I’m making a loaf of sourdough bread, so we’ll cobble together a meal out of that. Dale is making happy hour nachos with fresh jalapeños from his garden. Cheese is medicinal.

We have a nice stash of limes, so I might make a margarita. Have you heard of ranch water? It’s a drink. I have not had one, but I was reading about them. It sounds like a fizzy margarita. Same basic ingredients topped with seltzer water. I guess the fizz of choice is Topo Chico, which I’ve also never had.

I might have to go back to the happy hour laboratory and return to you with a complete report. It’s all about sacrifice.

Dealing with low bone density

I like good news and have happily shared my experience of surviving cancer as an inspiration to others. I’m far more reluctant to share unpleasant news, but I’ve decided it’s important to tell the whole story, not just the bits and pieces that flatter my self-image.

As a reminder, I had primary peritoneal cancer (like ovarian) and breast cancer. Both cancers were estrogen-sensitive. I had a total hysterectomy and have not had supplemental estrogen since I was 43 – about 22 years. While I knew this would put me at higher risk for low bone density, I hoped my healthy and active lifestyle would prevail.

Alas, it was not enough. According to my recent bone density test, I have osteoporosis. For me, that diagnosis comes with a lot of baggage. I don’t see myself as frail or fragile, and I don’t want to live like the slightest twitch will result in a fracture.

On top of that, I’ve done a good bit of reading and suspect osteoporosis is over-diagnosed. How a Bone Disease Grew to Fit the Prescription is an NPR article is from 2009. It’s a fascinating read about the origins of bone density testing and the role pharmaceutical companies played in shaping the definition of disease.

There was a meeting of osteoporosis “experts” in Italy, and one of their challenges was to decide what was normal aging and what wasn’t. It was hot, and they couldn’t reach consensus. Someone finally drew a line on a graph, and they said everyone on this side of the line has a disease. Then they split it up into two diseases – osteopenia and osteoporosis, depending on where you landed on the graph.

Doctors soon began pushing bisphosphonate drugs to treat low bone density. I’ve read about these medications, and I’m not primed to sign up. In addition to unpleasant short-term side effects, there are serious long-term risks and not a lot of evidence to suggest they actually reduce fractures.

My results put me just inside the line for osteoporosis. However, results come with two scores. Your “T” score compares you to an average healthy 30-year-old. Like many older women, my “T” score sucked. But you also get a “Z” score that compares you to someone of your age and gender. My “Z” score looked pretty good to me.

I mentioned this when I met with the doctor. I said, “If I’m reading this correctly, I’m in the 90th percentile for someone of my age and gender. And presumably, most of those women had estrogen, so I must be doing something right.” She said yes, but we don’t use the “Z” score to diagnose osteoporosis. I said, yes, that’s part of the racket. We both laughed.

She agreed with my proposal to wait a year and get retested before doing anything dramatic. She said compression fractures in the spine do happen to people with osteoporosis, and that’s always a risk. The doctor agreed the medications also have risks and downsides.

I asked for a referral to physical therapy so I could get some targeted exercises to help me strengthen my spine and hips. At the same time, I mentioned my back had been bothering me, and I needed to get that sorted out. She sent me for an X-ray.

The X-ray suggested the possibility of a compression fracture! I was devastated. Was I wrong about everything? Should I just bite the bullet and start the bone drugs? Will I have to quit golf forever? She sent me for an MRI.

Just to complicate things, after the X-ray but before the MRI, I slipped and fell in the bathroom. I’m OK, but my back hurts more than it did. I figured if I didn’t have a fracture before, I certainly have one now.

Imagine my surprise when the MRI revealed a messed up back with bulging discs and age-related degeneration similar to the messed up back I had when I got an MRI seven years ago. And no fractures! Even after the fall.

All in all, I’m relieved and feeling pretty good about my prospects. I’m eager to start physical therapy. And although I might regret it later, I’m still holding out on prescription meds for osteoporosis. I’ve done more reading on vitamins and have added K and A to my regime. Please know I am not an expert, nor am I suggesting these choices for anyone else because I could be completely wrong.

I think of osteoporosis as an unintended consequence of my cancer treatment, and I’m annoyed, but I’m still grateful it wasn’t a recurrence and look forward to many more years of mediocre golf.   

THC transdermal patches for pain

For various reasons I’ll share in due time, I’ve had a bit of pain for the past few months. I’m careful not to take too much Advil, although it works beautifully. I alternate with Tylenol.

My doctor suggested prescription pain meds, which I rejected. I just kind of felt like I’m not that bad off. I’m still walking and playing golf. When she said maybe I’d like to try a Lidocaine patch, I recalled a discussion about transdermal patches when I attended the cannabis education seminar at Oaksterdam University.

Like other transdermal patches, the cannabis variety is a thin plastic strip similar to a Band-Aid and is applied to a venous area of the body, such as the inside of your wrist. You don’t actually place the strip on the part of your body that hurts. The cannabinoids are slowly released into your bloodstream for about 12 hours.

Off I went to the dispensary to purchase my own little stash of patches. There were so many choices! Different brands, different strengths, some higher in THC, some higher in CBD and some higher in CBN. CBD is noted for its anti-inflammatory properties, and CBN helps with sleep. You may also choose between Sativa or Indica.

Like many cannabis users, I typically find Sativa more uplifting and Indica better for winding down. But everyone is different.

Although a lot of people get excited about CBD, most of the studies I’ve read say cannabinoids are at their best when they work together. It’s called the entourage effect. For most people, that means CBD is good alone, but CBD with THC is better.

There are key differences between topical creams and transdermal patches. You’re not likely to fail a drug test using topical creams, but you will most likely come up positive using a transdermal patch. Topical creams will not get you high, but you may experience a slight buzz from a patch.

I purchased four patches, each with 20 MG of THC. I chose Sativa, because I find it more energizing than Indica.

A word about dosage. Smoking, vaping or consuming 20 MG of THC will definitely get you high. Too high for my taste. I’m a lightweight when it comes to cannabis and always start low and go slow. For example, I buy Kiva cannabis-infused blueberries coated in milk chocolate for occasional help with sleep. They are only 5 MG, and even after using cannabis several times a week for a few years, I cut them in half.

However, a transdermal patch only releases a little at a time, and the effects are minimal. Even so, the budtender suggested I try cutting them in half or quarters.

For the first one, I tried cutting it in half. I definitely felt a slight buzz, enough of one that I would be careful about driving. But, wow, pain be gone!! I had a productive day and felt great.

Then I tried a quarter, no buzz and not much pain relief. Next, I tried cutting it into thirds, and for me, that’s the magic number. I put it on about 30 minutes ago, and I feel very pleasant but not high, just a little happier than normal. While the pain is not completely gone, it’s unnoticeable … irrelevant.

With my senior/veteran’s discount, cost per patch with taxes at my California dispensary was $10.80. At three uses per patch, that’s $3.60 for all-day pain relief. The budtender said if they worked well for me, to come back on Mondays, when they are 15 percent off.

I am absolutely in awe of this medicine, and sincerely hope this information has been helpful for those of you in search of safe and healthy pain relief. If you don’t want the THC or live in a place where cannabis is illegal, Mary’s Medicinals has a sister company, Made by Mary’s, that sells hemp-based patches. I have not tried them, although they get great reviews.

By the way, I don’t get any kind of a kickback from Mary’s – there are other brands I’m sure are equally fantastic. I went with Mary’s simply because I met someone at the cannabis seminar I attended who was a fan. Sometimes just one personal referral does the job.

Simple foods, simple pleasures

Oil-packed anchovy on a Triscuit with a little freshly grated Parmesan.
Heirloom tomatoes from the farmer’s market.

The news out there is depressing, and I get that it’s someone’s job to report it, and someone else’s livelihood to put their unique spin on it, but I find myself skimming the big headlines and calling it a day.

I’ve never been one to watch the news on TV, but I’ve had a lifelong habit of reading it all – from multiple news outlets – every article, every opinion piece, and I took pride in being well-informed. I don’t know if it’s age, retirement or just a sign of the times, but it turns out such immersion is not uplifting in any way and not good for my mental health.

At this point in my life, being informed makes me weary. I’d rather make food, which often starts with one or two simple ingredients.

Like anchovies. I had some leftover from when I made Caesar salad, so I thought why not put one on a Triscuit and sprinkle it with a little fresh Parmesan? There is only one in this picture because I ate the first one and Dale stole the second one. Holy crap that is good. We like Ortiz anchovies in the jar.

We have been feasting on fresh heirloom tomatoes from the farmer’s market. We’ve already indulged in tomato, basil and mozzarella paninis lightly glazed with balsamic vinegar and pizza with chopped tomatoes as the base instead of tomato sauce. And then there are Greek salads made in the style we enjoyed in Crete many years ago.

For the salads, I coarsely chop cucumbers, onions and tomatoes and arrange them on a plate. I sprinkle the top with oregano, add a couple of slabs of feta cheese and then sprinkle more oregano. Then I put Kalamata olives around the edge of the plate.

Each of us dresses our own salad at the table with good olive oil and red wine vinegar. A key component is crusty homemade bread for dunking and perhaps a glass bottle of cheap red wine.  

Tonight is tomato pie. I start with a homemade biscuit crust and add well-drained sliced tomatoes, grated cheddar cheese, fresh basil, chopped chives and a sauce made from mayonnaise thinned with a little lemon juice. Top with more crust, slash and bake. Heaven. Absolute heaven.

The recipe is from the August 1992 issue of Gourmet Magazine. We subscribed for years and have a pile of them. It wasn’t even written as a recipe but shared in narrative form. I didn’t feel like typing it up, so I did what any lazy retiree would do – I found it on the Internet. I peel the tomatoes and add a teaspoon of table salt to the crust.

For more food pleasure, check out the What’s on Your Plate challenge at The Widow Badass and Retirement Reflections.

It seems to me simple pleasures really are the foundation of a happy retirement, no matter what’s going on in the world. I especially like to play golf, walk, swim, cook, read, write, watch TV, listen to music, make art and grow cannabis. It’s like a variety pack of amusements to keep me entertained for years to come. If one falls out of rotation for one reason or another, I’ve got backups.

The unexpected pleasure of dryer lint

One of three shop vacs full of dryer lint.
Even with the shop vac, the technician would have to reach in with his hand and pull more out.

I try not to worry too much about the big stuff – fire, drought, mean people, the Delta variant. When I go to bed at night, I free my mind and visualize playing my favorite golf course hole-by-hole. It takes a couple of weeks to play 18, because I usually fall asleep after one or two holes.

The visualization exercise has been good for my sleep and good for my game. I wonder now what else we can improve through visualization?

The myth of self-esteem

I loved this column by Carolyn Hax. A person who doesn’t feel pretty or smart asks how to improve self-esteem, and Carolyn blows up the whole concept of self-esteem because it’s an irrelevant ranking system.

Carolyn asks, “Do you feel smart around people who are less accomplished? Pretty around people who are less attractive?”

She concludes by saying throw away all measures of value, period. Our value is absolute. We exist therefore we matter. No more than anyone, and no less.

The unexpected pleasure of dryer lint

They say don’t sweat the small stuff, but actually, it kind of works for me. Let us draw our attention to, oh, I don’t know, dryer lint? Allow me to explain.

We bought our home when I retired a few years ago. The house is about 20 years old. That’s like 65 years old in people years. You know, the point at which things start to go wrong.

Actually, the house is in good shape, but just like us, things need tending to. One odd thing we noticed for quite some time were water spots on the sliding glass door that leads to the patio and the same sort of spots on an adjacent window.

We’d clean them off, and they would come back. The door is just under the outside portion of the dryer vent, so we scientifically studied our laundry habits and concluded the spots were related to moisture from the dryer vent. Maybe it was blowing back at the house and onto the door and window?

As it happens, we had a handyman service scheduled to install some lights and a few other minor jobs. We mentioned the problem and wondered if the vent might be clogged. Not that we had any idea how that could contribute to the water stains, but it sounded plausible to us.

Mr. Handyman said a clogged vent could absolutely be the issue, and they could “blow it out.” He said it might work, might not, but we all figured it was worth a try.

Our technician first hooked a hose up to the inside portion of the dryer vent and used a shop vac to suck out the lint. At first, only a little came out. Then he went outside and used a snake-like tool to probe the vent and free up the clogs. He had to go back and forth, between the inside vent and the outside vent multiple times to loosen the debris. He said the vent was packed tight with lint from one end to the other.

Eventually, clumps and masses of lint emerged from both ends of the vent. Twenty years of lint, one might assume. I watched the whole thing with complete and utter fascination, dashing back and forth to watch the latest bomb drop.

I couldn’t wait to see more stuff come out. Kind of like Dr. Pimple Popper. Our technician filled three shop vacs full of lint and then some, declaring the job complete only when there was full air flow through the vents. At the end, it was almost like birds singing.

I’m so glad we had this done. I’m amazed our dryer even worked, and one would have to assume all that lint is a fire hazard, even if it does live in a moist environment.

Cost was about $275. We haven’t done a load of laundry since the intervention, so we don’t know whether it solved the problem. But either way, 20 years of dryer lint is a special kind of entertainment we shall probably not see again in our lifetime.

Another year to live!

My latest piece of art made from a scrap of wood. You can’t see it in the picture, but there’s metallic paint in the grid at the bottom, and it looks really cool as you walk by the wall where I hung it.

The condo collapse in Miami is just heartbreaking, and while condos seem like a desirable accommodation for retirees, it leaves me wondering if I would ever live in one. I’m confident there are many upsides to condo living, but I’m not liking the whole shared ownership thing.

Who is ultimately responsible? I suppose we will find out when the lawsuits roll out. I’m reminded of an old Gallagher joke: They needed a con, and they needed some dough.

Speaking of cons, I was pleased to see the Trump Organization and its CFO indicted for tax fraud. Of course, I’m just one of the little people who dutifully pays her taxes, but it’s good to see cheaters held accountable. Everyone suffers when people don’t pay their share.

I had a good laugh over Trump’s comments at the Florida rally about not paying taxes on fringe benefits and asking whether you had to. “Does anyone know the answer to that stuff?” he asked. Um, yes, we do know, and presumably, he does, too. If your employer gives you a $100 gift card, they take taxes out, and you declare it as income. At least that’s the way it works for the little people.

Waiting for him to fall feels a little like all those old guys waiting for the Cubs to win the World Series. You hope it happens before you die.

Speaking of death, or avoidance thereof, last week was my annual oncology check-up, which I passed with flying colors.

Cancer number one was Stage 3, Grade 3 Primary Peritoneal Cancer (PPC) in 1999. This cancer is considered virtually identical to ovarian cancer, except it grows in the lining of the abdomen. To make things easy, I usually just say I had ovarian cancer.

Ovarian cancer is hard to detect. The CA-125 blood test is one tool, but it is not accurate, so it’s not used for routine screening. Coupled with a transvaginal ultrasound, it can be used as a screening tool for high-risk patients. I wasn’t considered high-risk when I was experiencing symptoms, and no one ever did a CA-125 on me prior to my diagnosis.

My CA-125 was elevated, which would have been a trigger for more tests. Presumably, they would have found my cancer a year or so earlier. But life can be interesting. By waiting another year, I landed with an exceptional doctor who successfully treated me for a disease than often kills its victims within a couple of years.

After two surgeries and six months of chemotherapy, I have been disease-free for 22 years and counting. The CA-125 has proven to be a good tool to monitor ovarian cancer once you’ve already had it. Ideally, it should be in the single digits. Mine has been 6 for many years now, and it was once again 6. Every time I see it, I tear up with gratefulness and relief.

This is my commercial interruption for ovarian cancer screening. If you are at increased risk, ask your doctor about a transvaginal ultrasound and CA-125. If a doctor suspects you have ovarian cancer or you need surgery related to ovarian cancer, see a board-certified gynecological oncologist. This is not a job for your favorite OB/GYN. 

One of the reasons survival is not as good as it should be is because women aren’t being treated by the right specialist.

Cancer number two was non-invasive Ductal Carcinoma in Situ (DCIS). Some people don’t even think this qualifies as cancer, but my oncologist assures me it is. Lumpectomy and radiation is the typical treatment. However, I am BRCA 1 positive (like Angelina Jolie), and the risk of the cancer returning in a more virulent form is much higher for me.

My treatment was a mastectomy, which was presumably curative. Once a year, the oncologist examines my chest and lymph nodes, but that’s it.

And so it goes. Another year to live!