Retirement Confidential

Work of a different sort

A couple of months ago, I wrote I would be changing the tagline of my blog, which was, “Aging badass with health, happiness and cannabis.”

I realize you aren’t breathless with anticipation about such routine blog matters, but your bookmarks might look funny as I work through the changes.

As my retirement journey evolves, I don’t think badass describes me well, unlike The Widow Badass, who definitely owns it and wins the prize for best blog name ever. And then there’s cannabis. I like it and continue to use it recreationally and medicinally but not as much as I expected. It doesn’t seem worthy of such prominent placement.

I’ve come to embrace the term slacker, as in a person who avoids work. Because I am definitely done with that pesky job thing. I changed the tagline to read, “The continuing adventures of a full-time slacker.”

Sounded great to me, but as I started to share the news with you, I looked up the definition, which described people who shirk obligation, particularly military service. Well, that would not be me! Perhaps I am being too literal, but I deleted that tagline and left the space blank. Is blank best?

As for retirement, I seem to have landed in a happy place devoid of ambition. I do what needs to be done around the house and that sort of thing, but the rest of my energy is focused on activities that give me pleasure. I see myself as the face of resistance to over-engineering retirement, which isn’t a contest to see who accomplishes the most.

In retirement, there are no performance reviews.

I updated my About Me profile to read:

My full-time job is to take care of myself, be kind to others, enjoy simple pleasures and indulge in creative pursuits. I like to play golf, walk, swim, cook, read, write, watch TV, listen to music, make art and grow cannabis.

That pretty much sums it up. Maybe I don’t need a tagline. I would love to hear your thoughts, if you should be so inclined.

THE PANDEMIC PRESIDENT

Like everyone else, I woke up to news that the president and his wife tested positive for COVID-19. I seriously hope this gives them some perspective on the pandemic … that maybe science is real? Maybe setting a positive example would be good for America? The other option is that he’ll only have mild symptoms and come back claiming he was right – no worse than a cold.

Whatever. He has been irresponsible, and now here we are.

Pizza!

Dale makes pizza almost every Friday. He makes the dough on Thursday and lets it rise in the refrigerator overnight. Tonight’s is one of my all-time favorites. It’s a white pizza with bechamel sauce made with parmesan cheese. That goes on the bottom, and then he tops it with mozzarella, smoked gouda, red onions, capers and smoked salmon.

We were going through the grocery list, and I said be sure to check the milk because you’ll need it for the bechamel. A few minutes later, he said, “Oh, and I’d better check the milk.”

I just said that.

No, you didn’t.

Yard work

We finished cleaning up the backyard without killing each other. It’s not going to win a yard beautiful contest, but it looks clean and well-maintained. Our unlimited yard waste day is next week, and we have 17 bags ready to go! There are some areas with small stones that have thinned out, so when the bags are gone, we’ll add more stones.

Then we’ll be pretty much done. There are bare spots in the beds along the fence line that could use plants, but now we can take our time and deal with that as the mood strikes us.

Oh, and we may replace the pavers. As for ongoing maintenance, we have a small patch of grass I usually mow with a push mower. It takes less than 10 minutes. An occasional blow and some spot trimming, and the yard becomes quite manageable.

Now the backyard looks good and the air quality is bad, so we’re not spending any time out there, but the smoke is supposed to clear soon. Fall is my favorite season, and it looks like we’re headed for some lovely weather.

I was grumbling about all the labor involved with this yard project, but it occurred to me I would rather take care of our home than hold down a regular job. I’d rather clean my house than work so I can pay someone else to clean my house.

Even though I fared quite well in the business world, I’ve always been somewhat contemptuous of the whole scene.

What does this button do?

Feeling stuck? Ask yourself, “What does this button do?”

One of the joys of retirement is the freedom to do whatever the hell you want. You might not know where you’re going, but you have time to wander aimlessly and see where the road takes you. Lately, I find myself turning into that funky side street looking for more, although there are days I’m happy with a quiet hollow where I can hunker down for a spell.

The beauty of retirement is that it’s all possible. When I was working, I restricted my range of experiences because time was limited, and my dance card was full. I still have plenty to keep me entertained and want no part of real work, but now l feel like a curious kid at the control panel asking, “What does this button do?”

For example, I wanted to try my hand at something artistic. I had never even been tempted by visual arts, but I thought, well, it’s now or never. I can’t draw or paint, but maybe I can do something else artsy, and it might be good for me.

I piddled around with stuff that didn’t stick, until I spotted pallet scraps headed for the trash and began to wonder what I could do with them. I bought a cheap woodburning tool and began to experiment with doodle-like designs. Because, seriously, I can’t draw. Next thing you know I’m adding color, and now they look kind of cool.

You may have noticed most of my hobbies are activity-based. Things I like to do. A skill, a game, a task. But what about things I’d like to know?

Surely, in all my journals, I’ve made a list of things that interest me. But, nooooooo. My lists are about things I like to do or things I’m good at. Yesterday, I created a new list, “Things That Interest Me.” I started with the usual suspects. Golf, cooking. Another list of activities. Caught in my own trap!

Perhaps a better list would be, “What Do I Like to Read About?” That’s a very different list. I love to play golf, but read about it? Not so much. Cooking, yes, I love to read about food and cooking. I like to grow cannabis, but I only want to read enough to produce a healthy crop. I have no real passion for the details of gardening.

I read a lot of crime fiction, and I actually do like to read about crime fiction as a genre, but in terms of nonfiction, most of my knowledge on any single topic is superficial. I know a little about a lot.

It would seem my intellectual curiosity has limits. That has certainly been the pattern, although I do see signs of progress. I attribute this to retirement. I just hit the three-year mark, and I’m getting used to having extra room in my brain. And right now, I’m excited by the prospect of taking a deeper dive into something that intrigues me. But what?

While I haven’t found that ONE BIG THING, I have an emerging interest in Tejano music. And that materialized by asking, “What does this button do?” I heard some music, I liked it, I went looking for more, I found new artists, new sounds and just kept pushing the button as the story of this music unfolded before me.

Sometimes I get excited about things, and then my interest fizzles. I’m eager to see how far I’ll go this time around. Tejano music might stick, because I like to listen to it while I work on my art, so there’s a synergistic effect.

Aside from using synergistic in a sentence, I’m actually tapping into my old work skills and starting a Tejano music spreadsheet to organize bits and pieces of information I’ve picked up along the way.

But no PowerPoint presentations. That’s a bridge too far.

Sleep medicine

I haven’t been sleeping well, but it’s looking like all I needed was a medicinal dose of Trump’s tax returns. After the big reveal in the New York Times yesterday, I got mad, but then I got happy, and then I went to bed and slept like a rock.

As Gloria Steinem said, “The truth will set you free. But first it will piss you off.”

We celebrated truth and potentially justice this morning with Dale’s amazing breakfast sandwiches: pan-seared sausage patties with melted cheddar cheese on toasted English muffins. I like a little Dijon mustard on mine. Dale goes for the yellow.

Just so you know, Dale did ask first if I was up for these tasty treats, because on occasion I have accused him of trying to kill me. But that’s all in the past. You know, those dark days when clean arteries were a higher priority. Today, there was no hesitation in my response, which was, hell, yes.

The patties were sizzling when I noticed the trash smelled funny, so I said I’d take it out. Dale said, oh, no, that’s OK, I’ll get it. I’m like, not a problem. Happy to do it. I took out the stinky trash, and he put in a clean bag.

More coffee?

Please!

Your breakfast is ready!

Thank you!

Here, you can have the front section of the newspaper.

Oh, look, more about those pesky taxes.

You look cute this morning …

Maybe I slept so long I woke up in the wrong household. This place is peaceful. The people are rested and happy. Optimistic. Is this what life could be like in the future?

I have blamed the news for keeping me up at night, but in this case, a bit of investigative journalism was the best sleep medicine I’ve had since, oh, I don’t know. 2016? November, I think.

A dissent against yard work

Off for a round of golf wearing my dissent collar.

I was lying in bed this morning. Smoke from the fires has dissipated for the time being, so the window was open, and the air felt cool. For a minute, maybe less, it felt normal. Like none of this had happened. A normal summer sliding into fall. No pandemic, no fires, no civic unrest, no one encroaching on anyone’s right to live in peace.

A normal election year. Two reasonably sane people running against each other without undue malice. You pick one or the other, but your choice is not an existential threat.

Cozy in bed and feeling happy. What if I just stayed there?

But I got up to read yesterday’s news, which we pay to have dropped on our driveway every morning. We saw the news about RBG, and we’re feeling very sad. I have to distance myself from the shenanigans involving her replacement. Maybe a third justice will be the last thing Mitch McConnell has to deliver for the Dark Lord before shuffling back to hell, where he belongs.

I got a cup of coffee and began to read. Dale had the section with weather. In a bright perky voice not common in our house anymore, he said, “The fire danger map looks good!”

You know what they say in golf. If someone gives you a putt, take it. I mean, if that’s all there is … I’m clinging to the image of a shrinking fire danger map. And the sound of Dale’s happy voice.

In other upbeat news, I ordered a hot-shit woodburning tool, as mine was merely adequate. My chronically weak wrists were starting to hurt, and I read a better tool with higher temperatures is much easier to manage. Plus, I think you get cleaner lines.

There were several high-quality products to consider, but I went with the Burnmaster. With a name like that, what choice did I have?

I started to do a whole post about yard work, but I didn’t want to dwell on the disparity among workers in our household. We were going to throw some money at it but decided to clean up the yard ourselves. While some of us worked like an animal, others preferred to put on clean shirt and water the basil.

There was an ugly incident in which the less motivated person was shamed into doing his part … sort of a mini performance improvement plan. I am now comfortable with our progress, as well as the participation level. He pruned the Sago palms, which is not an easy job.

My counterpart hard job was to attack the giant overgrown rosemary plant, which I call Rosemary’s Baby.

It looks like it’s actually the neighbor’s plant poking through our fence.

Just a fraction of the debris from Rosemary’s Baby.

I don’t know what I’m doing, so I just started treating it like some sort of delicate Bonsai and went after it with pruning shears. I barely put a dent in it and gave up for the day. When I went in the garage, I saw a tool I’d never seen before.

Well, hello! Who are you?

Dale said it was a chain saw. Really. How long have we had that? Forever. Does it work? Yes. Would it work on Rosemary’s Baby? Probably. And you didn’t think to suggest this?

I know what you’re thinking, as in, you don’t know what a chain saw looks like? Hey, I was busy earning a living, writing drivel for very important corporate bobbleheads, thank you very much. My brain was full.

Anyway, just call me Dances with Chainsaw. I love that thing! I’m almost done with Rosemary’s Baby, and now that I’m almost down to stubs, it looks as though it’s not even our plant. There are no roots on our side – just thick branches breaking through the fence.

I guess I’m OK with that. Psychologically, I’m done. This is the last time I am cleaning up the yard. In the future, money will be thrown. I don’t mind a little mow and blow, but I prefer to save my wrists for fun retirement hobbies.

Which is why the rosemary debris is sitting idly today while I go and play golf. My personal tribute to RBG and perhaps a dissent against yard work.

May she rest in peace.

Vaccine-related unpleasantness

There’s a bit of vaccine-related unpleasantness going around. Trump, who is not a doctor but plays one on TV, is at odds with medical experts about the COVID vaccine. When will it be ready, who will get it and will it work? Is a mask just as effective? Should we just stay home and wait to die?

I’ve had my own encounter with vaccine-related unpleasantness, but it’s just a coincidence. Usually I get fever and chills the night after my annual flu shot. When whoever was administering the shot asked if I had ever had an adverse reaction, I would say yes and explain. A few years ago, a nurse said that’s not an adverse reaction or a side effect.

The nurse failed to pony up a name for it, but she suggested I premedicate with Tylenol 48 hours prior, and since then, I have not had what we’ll call vaccine-related unpleasantness.

Until this week. One thing I learned through my flu shot ordeal is to keep my mouth shut. Never complain, never explain. This year, I premedicated as usual, but seeing as how I am now 65, I got the jumbotron dose.

I guess because of all the vitamin T percolating through my system, the fever and chills took longer to kick in, and it wasn’t as bad. Just a few hours of unpleasantness.

Still, kind of a drag for something that supposedly doesn’t exist. Gee, that sounds like COVID. Again, just a coincidence.

People who MENSTRUATE

I started Troubled Blood, the new Cormoran Strike novel by J.K. Rowling writing under the pseudonym Robert Galbraith. This is the fifth, and I’ve read them in order, as any good anally retentive reader would do.

While I like it a lot so far, I am wondering about the title, considering the current media buzz regarding the author, and well, blood.

It would seem Rowling is in a bit of a row with the trans community. She doesn’t believe you get to decide whether you are male or female. Something about the definition of a woman being “people who menstruate.” Seriously, this is not a fight worth picking.

As for me, I believe menstruation sucks and am glad to be done with it. Periods and disabling cramps brought me no joy. I never pulled out a bloody tampon and blissfully sighed, “Thank God, I’m a woman.”

I certainly don’t want monthly bleeding to be my legacy.

Here lies Donna, a proud woman who bled like a pig.

Art

The image above is my latest piece of woodburning art. I find great pleasure and a certain sense of peace in transforming trash wood into something unique.

Just keep going

I hope this doesn’t come across as preachy, but I was feeling sorry for myself and thinking about how much all this sucks, when I took a moment to reflect on my first cancer experience. Like many others with cancer on their resume, I gained perspective the hard way. Perhaps there’s a nugget here that will resonate with you.

The year was 1999. I was 43 years old. I had outpatient surgery in March – an attempt to figure out what was wrong with me. That’s when they discovered I had an unusual form of ovarian cancer that forms in the lining of the abdomen.

Lots of doctor appointments, lots of tests, lots of unknowns and lots of fear. The big surgery was in April. I learned it was Stage 3, Grade 3. The survival statistics were terrible – about a 30 percent chance of living five years.

I went home to recover and prepare for chemotherapy.

The treatment was basically six months of intravenous chemotherapy, which I think I finished toward the end of August. I fared pretty well through the ordeal, but it was no pleasure cruise. Then I had to recover enough from the chemotherapy to face another surgery in October. Although all signs indicated the cancer was gone, it has a high recurrence rate, and the doctor wanted to do what is called a second-look.

They go in and biopsy the crap out of everything. If all is clear, you’re done with chemo. If they find microscopic cancer, you get more chemo. I had no evidence of disease and have been fine ever since, except for breast cancer in 2015.

For the first two years after treatment in 1999, I went to the doctor every two months for a check-up. That included a pelvic exam, blood tests and sometimes a CT scan of the abdomen. After two years, I graduated to every six months, and that went on for three years. After five years, I started going once a year, which I still do, although now it’s just a blood test and a howdy-do.

After every appointment ending with an all-clear, I’d think, another two months to live! Another six months to live! Another year to live! It was kind of a joke, but life was what happened between appointments.

I wanted to share this because it made me feel better about life’s most recent curve balls. We’re what? Six months in? I know it’s not the same. My illness didn’t impact the world or the economy or anyone’s job. As I was recovering, I could go to restaurants and parties and otherwise lead a normal life. I was lucky.

Still, statistically speaking, the odds were against me. I could cocoon myself in a bubble, but the very real threat of getting sick and dying was with me for years, no matter what I did. I learned to live with ambiguity, and I just kept going. I’m certainly not alone. Somebody reading this or someone you know is living with a life-threatening illness or a deep personal tragedy, and yet they just keep going.

Maybe that’s it in terms of the message here. Just keep going. And this might be a cop-out, but I try not to think too much about the big picture. It’s too big. There are smarter and stronger people who can take on the world, but when the shit hits the fan, I do better by focusing on small things that make me happy.

It’s like I’ve been saying all along. Simple pleasures. I don’t know any other way to get through this.

No place like home?

Crazy hair

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

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

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

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

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

let her eat cake

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

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

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

Rewarding Disloyalty

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

Where to go when the volcano blows

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

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

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

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

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

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

Stay safe, and vote once.

Music to burn wood by

This will be a short post because I’ve been screwing around all afternoon trying to get this image set up so when you click on it, a light box pops up, and you can see the details. How hard should that be? It might work … try it!

I messed around with the gallery, too. Hopefully an improvement, but my brain is fried at this point.

I’m excited to share this latest sample of my pallet art. I hope it’s not too boring. My goal is part show-and-tell and part inspiration. I had absolutely no interest in art prior to retirement, and now it’s becoming a big part of my life. I even dream about it and wake up with new ideas.

In this example, I drew all the images with a pencil first. Mainly because there’s a lot of layering … and it’s easy to mess that up in real time. Then I burned in all the pencil lines with my woodburning tool. After all the burning was done, I used a combination of standard pencils and oil-based pencils to add color. Finally, I sealed it with two layers of spray-on varnish.

My favorite one so far! For some reason, I’ve become addicted to Tejano music with lots of accordions. I dedicate this piece to Flaco Jiménez, one of the best accordionists in the business. His music keeps me burning.

Hoarding unflavored gelatin

Unflavored Gelatin Shortage?

Toilet paper, hand sanitizer, disinfectant wipes and other commodities that were off the radar for awhile seem to be back in stock, but have you looked for unflavored gelatin? I couldn’t find it online or in any store I visited. I did a Google search and found some food message boards with people asking if anyone else has noticed a shortage of unflavored gelatin.

I use unflavored gelatin to make marshmallows or occasionally something like a salmon mousse. I like to have some in the pantry, and I was completely out. After a couple of weeks, our local store had a box – but it was a 32-pack.

Bought it. It felt sort of like hoarding, but marshmallows can’t be silenced.

Although I don’t know what the issue is, in some ways, the 32-pack seems like a pretty slick marketing move.

Convince people there’s a shortage. No more of the little orange boxes to be found. Then introduce the jumbo supply of unflavored gelatin, and your sales immediately increase. I’m no marketing expert, but even I can see the flaws in this theory. The jumbo box is actually a lifetime supply, so when the surge is over, it’s over.

All that to say, I see marshmallows in my future.

Cannabis Kitty

In other serious matters, my cat has discovered marijuana. I have a small plant growing indoors, and all of the sudden, he was like, gee, I wonder what that is? Riley likes to sit on the window ledge and chomp on the leaves. He does not seem worse for the wear.

I researched it, and it seems lots of cats like to chew on the leaves. But they aren’t getting high, because the THC has not been activated by heat, and the leaves are pretty benign to begin with. I’m trying not to stress about it.

Welcome to Medicare

I’m officially on Medicare! I will turn 65 later this month, but Medicare went into effect today. I mentioned it to Dale when I got in the car with him to run an errand, and I said, “Don’t make me have to use it.” We have serious differences about how to drive and how to park.

But we do agree politically, so at least it’s not like living in the Conway family (of Kellyanne and George fame). I think I’d have to run away from home.

Anyway, the premiums are either deducted from your Social Security or paid quarterly. Unless something changes, I don’t plan on taking Social Security until my full retirement age, which is 66 and two months. I made my first quarterly payment.

I didn’t know this at first, and you might not either, but some of us pay more for Medicare than others, because they base it on your income taxes. My company paid out some long-term incentives that increased our income for two years after I retired, resulting in a higher Medicare premium.

Our income is back to retirement normal now, so the system should catch up and reduce our premiums within a couple of years. We file jointly, and Dale’s are higher, too, but he doesn’t notice, since it’s deducted from his Social Security.

This will also be the first year of getting the super-sized flu shot for those 65 and older. Yet another exciting milestone! I guess I’ll wait until late September or early October so it will last the whole season.

Groundhog Day all over again

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I know. Crazy talk.

lost in space

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

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

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

The landscape was dry and barren and looked like Mars.

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

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

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

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

lime squeezing happiness

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

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

Retirement Confidential