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.
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.
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.
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.
Some couples claim they never argue, but that would not be us. We’ve been married 42 years, and we hardly ever agree on anything right out of the chute. Sometimes we lovingly discuss, negotiate and reach compromises, but there are plenty of occasions when we just get mad at each other and sulk.
For example, we’re getting new flooring downstairs, and the choice comes down to Luxury Vinyl Plank (LVP) or engineered hardwood. One of us, a lazy tree-hugging hippie-type, is hung up on the idea of plastic no matter how good it looks, and the other one, a retired business executive who actually cleans the fucking floor, is eager for something easier to maintain.
I won’t say which type of flooring we chose, because I can’t bear to hear any more arguments in favor of one over the other. But after an emotionally draining week of marginally civilized debate, we reached consensus.
That little episode was a reminder that retirement, especially with a pandemic piled on top, can stress otherwise solid relationships for various reasons. You’re getting older, you’re spending more time together, you’re getting sick of each other, your back hurts, you’re worried about money, you’re worried about dying, you’re getting fat, you’re bored – it’s just life, but life encumbered by diminishing resources and a looming expiration date.
But we’re actually getting better at conflict resolution because we agreed to focus on fixing the problem not the person. Why get mad at each other for being exactly who we’ve always been?
For example, I mentioned in my last post our tent is toast, and we need a new one if we’re to continue camping. We have a reservation in July, and time’s a wasting. Historically, I’m the trip planner, as well as the chief outfitter, so the job of finding a new tent fell to me.
While I’m sure there are many hardy tents to be had, I could not find one that meets our specifications. Finally, I spoke.
I’m frustrated with tent shopping.
I don’t blame you.
I don’t blame you, either, for, you know, not helping.
Sorry, momentary lapse. Be nice. Focus on the problem not the person. And then I had a vision. What if we cancel the camping reservation at Lassen and stayed in a hotel outside the park? We’re fully vaccinated. And now we’re talking bed! Shower! Flush toilet! Temperature control! It’s a fiesta in there.
It was an easy sell. Not even a hint of resistance. I’m pleased to report Dale and I will now be enjoying Lassen Volcanic National Park from the comfort of a Best Western. The room includes a microwave and a refrigerator, and there are restaurants nearby. We’ll have choices.
I’ll continue to search for a new tent. Or not. The thing is, I like camping, but after more than a year of lockdown, it’s quite possible I like fiestas better.
While we are professional homebodies, we do like to camp. But not too much. It’s all about balance.
Dale and I just returned from a camping trip at the beach on the Sonoma coastline, and I didn’t take a single picture. Just soaked it all in. I thought I’d share a few tricks that make the experience easier all around, especially if long wilderness excursions aren’t your thing.
To recap our camping history, we started out with a two-person backpacker tent many moons ago and eventually upgraded to Big Daddy, a luxurious base camp designed to sleep six. It’s big (hence the name) and heavy but not a problem for hearty car campers. The tent has an enclosed vestibule but no floor, and that’s where we keep the luggable loo for midnight pee excursions.
When we lived in Texas, where once it gets hot it stays hot, we upgraded to a retro-style teardrop trailer with air conditioning. We called it, “The Toaster.” It was super lightweight, and we towed it with our Honda Element.
We loved The Toaster at first, but it was poorly designed, poorly made, leaked, didn’t keep us cool and gave us nothing but problems. We towed it to California, leaving behind a bumper that blew off somewhere near Barstow.
Most of northern California cools off at night even when it’s hot during the day, so we didn’t need the malfunctioning AC anymore. We took The Toaster on some memorable trips, but it just got junkier and junkier. When I retired, we were moving anyway, so we donated it.
That put us back in the tent camping business. We resurrected Big Daddy and took a couple of nice trips pre-pandemic. Our last trip was early fall 2019. Napa, where it was hot and buggy. Yellow jackets (bugs not the attire) were in abundance, and in a moment of solidarity, Dale and I tore down the tent in 2.5 seconds and drove home.
This time around, I had a hard time finding reservations. People are camping more than ever. Even the spot I found at the beach was a miracle. We had a lovely site across the street from the ocean overlooking the bay, but there wasn’t room for our tent. We had to put it on the asphalt pad, and that actually worked out fine. When I unrolled the tent, guess what I found? A dead yellow jacket.
We have a deliciously comfy queen-size air mattress with a rechargeable pump and inexpensive zip-together sleeping bags. We try to do all our camping in favorable weather, so we don’t need high-end sleeping bags.
Dale & Donna’s patented camping formula is a two-night stay – more manageable in terms of food and other necessities, and also so the cat doesn’t get mad.
Our custom is to cook steaks one night and make steak sandwiches the next. A big breakfast of bacon, eggs and toast. Of course, we could modify the menu and come up with something just as easy. The key is not to add an extra night.
I have learned that trying to wash dishes at most campsites is a major pain in the ass, so we don’t. That’s one of the reasons we like the two-night stay. I have an old laundry bag, which I line with a plastic garbage bag. Dirty dishes go in there, and we put them in the dishwasher when we get home.
Most of the tent sites we get don’t have hookups, so we have a French press coffee maker. Load coarsely ground coffee into the bottom of the pot, boil some water on the camping stove and pour that over. Let it steep for a few minutes and slowly depress the plunger to separate the coffee grounds from the liquid. Delicious!!
On the morning we depart, we get up and go. Because we’re homebodies. We’re done. No breakfast, but we stop and get coffee for the road.
Most of the campgrounds we visit have flush toilets and coin-operated showers. I have this little cosmetic case that was part of a set I received as a gift when I graduated from high school! I used to love traveling with the various pieces, because no one has that color. The rest of it is gone, but I still have this little guy for camping. Flops and other shower stuff fits in the bottom, and there a little tray that sits on the top to hold your toothbrush, etc.
We take music, books, games. Some places are great for hiking. On this trip, we had a lovely walk along the beach. We drove into town just to see what was there. I do like the woods, but all in all, the beach was quite pleasant. The sounds alone are worth the price of admission.
I’ve written often that we don’t have a travel Jones, but we concluded after this trip that in some form or fashion, it’s important to get out and about. To change your routine and your surroundings from time to time. See things from a different perspective. It’s good for your brain, it’s good for your relationship.
That means we’ll continue to camp. The two-night stay is perfect for those of us who want to experience the great outdoors but still prefer the creature comforts of home.
However, we need a few upgrades. Our little camping side table that holds valuable happy hour consumables disintegrated, and we tossed it in the dumpster before we departed. The tent poles are warped, and Big Daddy is sticky and nasty with age. We figured he’s close to 20 years old! The zippers are starting to come loose from the sleeping bags, which are also about 20 years old.
The hardest replacement will be the tent. We loved Big Daddy, which is actually the Eureka Lodge. We would get the exact same tent, except they quit making them a long time ago. We have some shopping to do.
I admit I’m a little envious of the trailers, vans and fancy rigs one sees camping, but we don’t go often enough to justify the expense. Granted, we live in a mild climate, and rain or lack thereof is somewhat predictable, so that does make things easier.
We miss the old Honda Element and now drive a Honda CRV. The Element had more room, because you could remove the seats. However, we bought a cargo carrier that goes on the CRV’s trailer hitch and gives us more space for stuff. We keep all our gear stored in tubs and shelves out in the garage, and packing up, as well as putting away, is no big deal.
Yes, you can still enjoy camping without an RV and be quite comfortable. Just don’t overdo it and make sure you are comfy. We’re thinking some new equipment should fix us up just fine.
A lovely cloud formation above the hills behind our house … a scene I would not have even noticed when I was working.
Have you taken stock of your retirement to see what, if anything, you might want to change? Retirement is definitely a journey, so I paused to reflect on where I started. Since I don’t know where I’m going, we’ll skip the whole destination thing, which is overrated anyway.
In it to win it
A few years before I retired, I wasn’t even thinking about retirement. Although I didn’t find my job particularly satisfying, I was in it to win it and figured I’d be the last man standing. The hero at the end who turns off the lights.
The cumulative effects of life pushed me in the other direction. I was paid quite well, but the expectations were ridiculous. In some ways, I didn’t mind, because I figured that’s what it takes to make that kind of money. Not bad for a kid who grew up with a dad who didn’t work much and a mom who worked for minimum wage.
I told myself, I can do this! If you learn to manage it, the stress of a high-pressure job beats the stress of living from paycheck to paycheck. I like to think I managed it well, but after being diagnosed with cancer for the second time, I began to question my choices.
How much is enough?
With no kids, my husband’s pension and healthy retirement savings, it became a question of how much is enough? I created a spreadsheet that mapped out cash flow for years to come, and it looked good to me. We met with a financial advisor because I am a journalism major and can’t do math.
He confirmed my numbers and agreed it all looked fine. Still, he said, it wouldn’t hurt to work a few more years. Cushion, he said. Then he talked about medical expenses, possibly the biggest financial risk if retiring before qualifying for Medicare.
Dale is retired military, so I was covered by Tricare until I reached age 65, and then Tricare would be my secondary after Medicare. The financial guy called it the gold standard. And yet, he said, it wouldn’t hurt to work a few more years.
Then I mentioned cancer. Twice. That stopped him in his tracks. Retire, he said, you will never regret it.
Although the rational side of my brain accepted the financial advisor’s recommendation, the emotional part of my brain still wasn’t sure. Then a chance encounter helped me turn the corner. Sometimes all the good reasons in the world don’t matter until something stabs at your heart.
A chance encounter
I went to play golf as a single and got paired with a woman in her 50s. Fit, healthy, happy, she looked great, played great. I asked what she did for a living, and she said, “I don’t work anymore.”
Well, hello there, tell me more!
It turns out she had a high-stress job that involved a lot of travel. She was eating poorly, not exercising, 15 pounds overweight and feeling terrible. The job paid well, but it sucked her soul. One night, after assessing her finances, she realized she was spending money just because she had it. And that habit fed a vicious cycle of working more and more to pay for stuff she didn’t need anyway.
In spite of frivolous spending, she managed to save well and had a solid nest egg. She thought, all I have to do is change the way I live, and I’ll never have to work again. I can still hear the resolve in her voice, the way she said, “I’ll never have to work again.”
That woman’s story spoke to me like nothing else had. That’s when I knew I was done.
Is that all there is?
All in all, I’m where I want to be on this road to nowhere. No mortgage, and we’re in good shape financially. I feel busy but not too busy. I play golf, walk, swim, lift weights, cook, read, write, watch TV, listen to music, make art and grow cannabis.
Now that we’re fully vaccinated and the pandemic seems to be waning, we’re about to embark on our first camping trip in quite some time. I’m not up for flying anywhere just yet, but I can see some road trips in our future. We live near world-class wineries and enjoy tasting.
I don’t think I could have planned a better retirement, and yet lately I feel something is missing. Perhaps more social interaction? I’m terrible at mixing and mingling and usually can’t wait for it to be over. I never imagined I would take up art, but now I kind of wonder why it took so long. Hours alone, just me and the voices in my head slaving over some dot of color – it’s perfect.
A sense of accomplishment? That used to bother me, but I’ve changed my self-talk and decided I’m just fine without adding more feathers to my cap. Granted, this one is a moving target, as I continue to struggle with the urge to beat myself up for being just average.
Purpose? I don’t want a job, but I have some core skills, and I do like to help. By now you’re all saying, volunteer! While I suppose that’s the answer, I’ve avoided it because it’s one more intrusion into my otherwise quiet life.
We’ll have to see how this rolls out. Is this a gap worth further exploration or just a turn of mood that will evaporate as mysteriously as it arrived? Either way, I highly recommend stopping to assess your retirement journey.
What’s good? What’s missing? We may not have to work anymore, but let’s make sure retirement is working for us!
I’ve had a bit of the cobbly mobbly and self-medicated with TV. While I have been among those who complain actors make too much money, entertainment is a valuable service, is it not? As far as I’m concerned, they earn it.
Amazon Prime and Netflix are my two principal sources of distraction. I’m a tight wad about “paying by the drink” on Amazon, so I’m always on the prowl for free movies and shows. But I’ve had the cobbly mobbly, so all bets are off.
In the “free to me” category on Amazon, I watched (again), Bull Durham, Cinderella, Blue Hawaii, Dances with Wolves, Seabiscuit and two versions of Heidi. I love Heidi.
And Elvis, so beautiful before it all went bad. His girlfriend in the movie wore a dress with a fitted bodice and a flared skirt, and in one scene, she flings off the skirt to reveal the fitted bodice is actually a one-piece swimsuit, so leaving the skirt behind, she jumps in water for a swim. Why don’t they make those anymore?
On Netflix, where it only feels free, I watched (again), Legally Blonde, The Queen’s Gambit and My Fair Lady. I liked The Queen’s Gambit better the second time around. Not sure why, but it seems I was less concerned about what was going to happen and could just stay in the moment and watch what was actually happening. This might be an important life lesson.
I love the music from My Fair Lady, but the story doesn’t hold up over time. Professor Higgins was an asshole. She should have married Freddy, although he was a bit of a stalker hanging around on the street where she lives.
New to me were Ma Rainey’s Black Bottom and Rebecca. Ma Rainey’s Black Bottom was excellent. Not a feel-good story but exceptionally well-done and quite powerful. Chadwick Boseman, who recently passed away from colon cancer, was remarkable.
Rebecca is a remake of the classic. I liked it!
Last night I did not dream I went to Manderley again, but instead, I started watching the second season of the French show Lupin on Netflix. Omar Sy plays a gentleman thief with an ax to grind. He’s a good actor, and I find him to be quite sexy. So far, so good.
And that takes us back to Amazon, where I’m waiting for the final season of Bosch to drop. In the meantime, I had to throw some money at it. I watched News of the World with Tom Hanks. I recently read the book and loved it. Usually, the movies aren’t as good as the book, but this one was great and followed the book pretty much exactly (as best as I could tell).
I’m happy Tom Hanks chose acting as his profession, and he can have all the money. He really is good. If it ever turns out he’s a creep in real life, it’s all over. Civilization screeches to a halt.
I also threw some money at Kate Winslet, because damn, she deserves it. I watched Ammonite for the second time. That’s twice I threw money at it. She plays British paleontologist Mary Anning. The story takes place in the mid-1800s and delves into her professional and personal life, including a same-sex relationship with Saoirse Ronan.
No, I swear I didn’t watch it twice just for the steamy sex scenes. But stop me if I go back for a third. It’s such an interesting story, the scenery is spectacular and Kate Winslet captures the soul of a woman on the edge of shutting down emotionally. You can see and feel both her pain and her hope that maybe she can let someone in.
Whilst we’re on the Kate Winslet trail, I paid for the first season of Mare of Easttown, which was originally on HBO. She plays a deeply troubled detective in the Philadelphia area trying to solve a murder and the case of a girl who has disappeared.
Good story, great acting and in my humble opinion, Kate does a damned good job with that unique Pennsylvania accent. It’s all about the O’s.
While this week was a wee bit hot temperature-wise, nothing on the weather horizon looked dastardly. And yet … we lost power for 14 hours and internet for almost two days. I worried about refrigerated and frozen stuff, but in all honesty, living without the internet was harder.
The internet was still down when I decided to get a pedicure. Did I mention they have internet? I was able to catch up on my email, do the NY Times puzzles and otherwise get my fix of news – all for the Classic Pedicure at $35. I pay an extra $5 on top of that for a shiny buff as opposed to color. And then there’s what I call pandemic tipping. Just give a little more if you can.
I don’t get color on my toes because swimming in chlorinated water erodes the polish rather quickly. That’s what I said, anyway. I’ve recently concluded it’s also because I prefer the purity of no color. I think of it as Beauty Base Zero from The Hunger Games. That raw base before you add layers of makeup or whatever, except I like a blank canvas as the end state.
The toes thing is top of mind because I may not continue with swimming. I’ve been estrogen-free since my first cancer diagnosis in 1999, and that puts me at higher risk for low bone density and osteoporosis. Swimming is not a weight-bearing exercise, so it doesn’t help in that department. However, I figured it was good for my back and I enjoy it, so I’ve continued with swimming.
The back is another story. I had an MRI a few years ago, and it showed a variety of age-related degeneration, mostly in the lumbar area. One doctor said I’d need surgery eventually, and another said just about everyone’s back looks like that once you reach a certain age. My back rarely hurts, so I’ve chosen to ignore it.
Except it has been acting up lately, and I wonder if swimming is contributing to the problem. I suppose it could be something about my swim stroke that is off, but can I fix that at this age? For an exercise that doesn’t help with bone density? I’ve stopped swimming for a few weeks to see what happens. It does seem to be improving, but I can’t say for sure swimming is the problem.
I’m hoping some targeted exercises will fix me right up, so I made an appointment with my primary care physician so I could get an appointment with a specialist so I can get an appointment for an MRI so I can get an appointment for physical therapy.
In the meantime, I’m just muscling my way through it. Sometimes it feels like everything is going to shit. Golf and walking are fine (so far). Plenty of stretching, but even then, you have to be careful not to fix one thing only to mess up something else. I’m also careful not to take too much Advil, but I am eternally grateful for blue buddies.
Since the internet came back up, I’ve gorged myself on news and decided I didn’t miss much. Angry people everywhere. Jerks misbehaving on airplanes, the former guy raising his ugly head, Marjorie what’s-her-name saying or doing anything, guns, shootings. Not to mention a pandemic, which I regret to inform you is not over yet.
As all the spokespeople on TV are now keen to say, these are unprecedented times. The same people who are sending thoughts and prayers after some whack job shoots up a workplace.
More and more, I find refuge in my bubble of golf, art, food. I’m making fish tacos tonight and just finished a batch of homemade tortillas. In the picture, the tortillas are still a little blonde, but they’ll get a good char when I make the tacos.
As I was finishing up, Dale moaned, “God, I love that smell.”
An old John Deere wagon overlooking the Zinfandel vineyard.
Understanding your limitations
When it comes to competition, some people rise to the occasion and perform their best. Others don’t. I’m among those who typically choke if you tell me there’s a prize involved.
I play in a weekly golf league, but most of the time it’s low stakes and quite manageable for someone like me, who does not embrace competitive sports. When I’m relaxed, I’m a pretty good golfer, but every now and then my league hosts a more formal tournament, and I can barely get through it.
The tournament ended yesterday, and I feel a huge sense of relief. I’m free again! Now, I can just play the game. Of course, more evolved humans can do that anyway, but I have some sort of blockage. When I first retired, I tried like the dickens to enjoy organized golf events, but for the most part, I prefer life in the slow lane.
To spare myself the drama, I may just opt out in the future. Let others scramble for the title while I enjoy a relaxing game of no-stakes golf with people who like to play their best but don’t care about winning or losing.
I view this as a retirement success story. Seek to understand your strengths and limitations and course correct as you go. Eliminate what isn’t useful or pleasant.
Camping
Speaking of the slow lane, Dale and I enjoy tent camping, but more than a year of hibernation put the kibosh on that. Now that we’re fully vaccinated and the range of possibilities is broadening, we decided to go for it. The only thing is, it’s really, really difficult to get a camping reservation in California during normal times, and now everyone has discovered the great outdoors. Places like Yosemite and Lake Tahoe are almost impossible.
Some people are willing to drive five hours for a first-come, first-served campsite. That would not be us. And that is why I spent the better part of a week tackling the reservation system, which includes ReserveAmerica.com, Recreation.gov, ReserveCalifornia.com and a cornucopia of sites managed by individual counties.
I should have started this in January, but I was pretty busy not doing much of anything. Despite being late to need, I finally got one reservation for a Sonoma County beach campground toward the end of June. In July, we’ll be going to Lassen Volcanic National Park. We may have the worst sites in the campgrounds. I don’t know, and I don’t care. We have reservations!
While I may sound like a tough outdoors girl what with tent camping and all, I do not leave the tent at night. We have a great tent with a little screened room attached to the sleeping area, and this is where I store my Luggable Loo. Because even tough girls have to pee.
My low-tech fitness tracker
My low-tech fitness tracker.
Although I avoid competitive sports, I love exercise in general and consider fitness part of my retirement lifestyle. The problem is I found myself doing too much of some things and not enough of others. With some activities, you need to do them at least twice a week to gain any benefit.
I finally made up these little cards to help me see what’s on track and what isn’t. I just started it this week, so we’ll see how well it works. I mean, it’s Thursday, and I can already see some big gaps!
I’m only documenting fitness-related stuff I need to do regularly to maintain some level of proficiency. Some activities are scheduled in advance, and the rest are as the mood strikes me. I don’t like a strict regimen.
My goal for golf practice is only once per week, but for everything else, I’m shooting for 2-3 times per week. The “R” under swimming means I have a lane reservation. I mark the box with an X after I’ve completed the activity. Weights are usually the first thing to slip, so this cheat sheet helps me stay committed.
Wine Tasting
Today was a lazy day, so Dale and I went to a winery. We live adjacent to Amador County, which produces amazing wines just as delicious as those from Napa and Sonoma. And a lot less expensive! They charge $5 for a tasting and deduct that if you purchase bottles, which we almost always do.
This area specializes in the lighter reds – Zinfandel, Barbera, Sangiovese, Primitivo, Tempranillo, Petit Syrah and a variety of house blends. The venues are typically gorgeous, and it makes us all the more grateful to live here.
While we were tasting, Dale spotted the old John Deere wagon facing the Zinfandel vineyard. Kind of cool.
The person who poured our wine asked what we had planned for the rest of the day. I said, oh, not much. Dinner?
I love retirement and the slowness of it all, so we’ll have to see whether my fitness tracker helps or hurts. Surely, we can accomplish a few things without becoming a slave to the schedule. Right?
Wall of art.Number 17. For some reason, this wood was hard to burn and hard to color, but I like how it turned out. I gifted it back to the guy who gave me the wood. I want it back.Number 18. Unlike the damaged scraps I normally work with, this is a piece of poplar I purchased.
Although I can’t quite summon the strength to call myself an artist, I am happy to spend quality retirement time experimenting with artistry. I’ve been at it for about a year now. Consider this my periodic plea to make room for art in your life.
It all started when I scavenged a pallet from my neighbor’s debris. I had no idea what I would do with it, but it’s like that Progressive ad when Jamie cries with joy, “Who gives away free wood?”
One day I woke up and decided I would burn it. An art form known as pyrography, although my version is a far cry from the traditional works of this genre.
I got a book from the library and decided to purchase an inexpensive woodburning tool. I sanded the wood a little bit, made some primitive marks and called it art. That first attempt quickly escalated to drawing more complex designs with the woodburning tool and filling them in with color.
At first, I used cheap colored pencils, and although the result is fine, the shades are more muted. I didn’t get the explosion of color I wanted until I threw some money at it … in the form of Faber-Castell Polychromos oil-based colored pencils. Then I added some acrylic paint. Then I threw more money at it and bought a high-quality pyrography tool. We like to call it the BurnMaster 5000.
The big question all along has been what to do with this stuff. I have given away a few pieces to mixed reviews. While I try not to get into the trap of love me, love my art, I was disappointed to learn my in-laws thought it was weird and didn’t know what to make of it. Ditto for a guy I play golf with.
That’s when I decided no one gets this stuff anymore. I’m going to be an art hoarder. I hung a couple on the fence in the backyard, but the sun just made them almost disappear. So, I brought them in. I found an empty hallway wall and bought a bunch of Command strips. The rest is decorating history.
For the record, I do not have the decorating gene. Our house has no theme, décor, color scheme or anything else that looks intentional. However, this wall is intentional, and I like that. I will keep adding until it’s full and then find another wall.
Experimenting with art has been one of the best discoveries of my retirement. Sure, it’s relaxing, but it also stretches me to think in new ways and challenges me to accept imperfection. I almost exclusively work with found wood that is damaged in some way, but a friend recently gave me some wood that was really hard to burn and color.
To reward myself for finishing the monster, I purchased a beautiful piece of poplar at Home Depot. Yes, it was easier to burn and the colors absorbed beautifully, but I missed all the dings, dents and quirks of my abused and discarded scraps. A psychologist could have a field day with that one.
Speaking of abuse, my dentist was asking me about retirement – you know, those rare pauses where you can actually speak – and I said we were not high-rollers. No big travel Jones. That life is mostly about simple pleasures. I had shown him pictures of my art. We always manage to talk golf. Cooking.
He said, “So, all you really need are greens fees, art supplies and food.”
