No bad cookies

Homemade peanut butter cookie with chocolate chips.

I keep thinking it’s my birthday. You know, singing it twice to get the full 20 seconds when you wash your hands. Interestingly, Dale had never heard the version with you look like a monkey, and you act like one, too.

Crazy. Just to mess with me, he used to say he was in the witness protection program, and sometimes I wonder. Where did he really grow up? Who were his parents? Why doesn’t he know the monkey lyric?

The golf courses have closed here, so I’ve been taking long walks instead. Keeping my distance, certainly. There are a fair number of people walking, running and bicycling, but it’s easy to stay spread out. The college girls are home, jogging in their incredibly short shorts.

I saw one girl from afar, and I just kept staring. I’m sure she thought I was some sort of perv. I was convinced she was wearing support hose or something over her legs, because they were so damned perfect. When I got close, I could see it was just bare skin. Unblemished, undimpled. What a concept.

As for golf, there was a day when a closed golf course didn’t stop me. When we lived in South Carolina, it was common for a few people to show up at closed golf courses on a holiday and just walk the course alone. But when we moved to Texas, that was not allowed. Probably wasn’t in South Carolina, either, now that I think about it.

My favorite course locked the gate on holidays, but I played anyway. I parked on the side of the road and managed to climb over the gate with my pushcart and clubs. No one came to get me. I had a security clearance at the time and lived in fear of getting arrested and having my clearance pulled.

I thought about doing it now, but it’s illegal with the current order to stay home and just not smart. Plus, the restrooms are closed. That’s not a problem for men. The world is their toilet. I’ve actually seen men urinating on the fairway. Another reason not to play, wondering where your ball has been and all that.

Wii Golf is one of my favorite hunker down diversions. The dress code is relaxed. Jammies are allowed, even preferred. I’m trying not to overdo it. It’s like toilet paper rationing – one or two games a day. I’m way better at Wii Golf than I am at real golf, so it’s actually rather satisfying. My record is -14.

We like to keep a stash of homemade cookies in the freezer for when you absolutely positively need something sweet. Yesterday I made a batch of peanut butter cookies, but I added leftover chocolate chips. Maybe half a cup?

They don’t taste like peanut butter cookies. They taste like really good chocolate chip cookies with a hint of peanut butter in the background. Did I say that was a bad thing? During these stressful times, there are no bad cookies.

I’ve been walking on a tree-lined paved path in our neighborhood. It’s quite pleasant. The furthest I’ve ever gone on that particular route is a street called Charter. That’s my turnaround point. Who knows what comes after that? Today I am going to find out.

A little bit of weed & whiskey

Well, isn’t this a fine kettle of fish?

Dale and I feel pretty good about riding out the storm at home. We can sit here and look out the window if we have to. Our finances are conservatively invested, and the hit to our portfolio has not been as bad as you might think.

The bank is always bugging us about keeping too much cash in our savings account, but here we are, and I don’t hate that money sitting there minding its own business and earning nothing. We’re debt-free and won’t need to dip into the portfolio for a couple more years.

As for day-to-day inconveniences, my health club closed, so no swimming for me. The golf course is still open, but I’ve canceled my participation in all group golf events. I’m getting refunds, and I can use the money to supplement my escalating digital entertainment budget.

I’m continuing to play golf during non-peak hours, walking with my personal pushcart and keeping my distance from fellow players. No clubhouse antics afterward. I prefer a solitary round of golf anyway, and I like to get out of there when I’m done, so it’s not exactly a sacrifice.

Oh, and I wish the elbow bump had been invented years ago. I can’t tell you how many men have crushed my wrists with their manly handshakes.

It’s funny – I rather enjoyed deleting all the events on my calendar. There’s nothing on there until a dentist appointment in June, and even that may go away. I love looking at month after month of emptiness.

The food situation is crazy, but we’re OK. Dale is methodical about keeping the pantry and freezer stocked. I’ve always joked we could live for six months on what we have in-house, but I did not want to test my theory in this manner.

Dale doesn’t like to plan meals days in advance and enjoys going to the grocery store practically every day for the one or two things he might need. That has become an issue. It’s like asking him to give up his hobby. We’ve had some serious disagreements about going to the store.

I finally said, look, you’re a smart guy. I’m not going to tell you what to do, as long as you practice safe behaviors. And … I said if you get it and give it to me, you won’t have to worry about dying, because I will kill you.

This morning I got up and headed out early to see if maybe the grocery store shelves have hand sanitizer if you get there first. Apparently not. However, the Jameson shelf was full, so I snagged a bottle of that while I was there. And by the way, none of that Jameson will be converted to hand sanitizer.

We decided to visit the cannabis dispensary before that all goes to shit. There was a line at the door. Dale read somewhere that once the toilet paper was gone, everyone started wondering if they had enough weed. It was mostly old folks like me, and I kept my distance. They only let a couple of people in at a time anyway, so it works out great.

This is not fun or easy, but there is still joy in Mudville. I had this song Weed & Whiskey on my brain and sang it on the way home.

All these pills can’t cure my ills or fix me. All I need is a little bit of weed and whiskey.

Historical fiction about women who disguised themselves as men

In this special Hunker Down edition, I invite you to explore some unique reading that has nothing to do with the current pandemic … historical fiction about women who disguised themselves as men!

Although my recreational reading leans toward crime fiction, I enjoy a wide variety of genres, including historical fiction. My favorites are stories about women in the Old West. If that’s a genre, then there’s something close to a sub-genre, and that includes stories about women from roughly that time period who disguised themselves as men.

To feed my interest in this incredibly addictive sub-genre, I downloaded a book from the library, Re-dressing America’s Frontier Past by Peter Boag.

He calls it cross-dressing, although that implies there’s one approved dress code for men and one approved dress code for women. In these days of non-binary identification, the author concedes some might argue with the term cross-dressing.

I’m by no means an expert in gender studies, but my reading indicates some women identified as women but dressed as men to pursue work, adventure, crime and all sorts of activities where traditional women might have difficulty gaining a foothold. Others would be what we now call transgender, in that they didn’t feel like women and lived their lives as men, often marrying women.

Then there were those who maybe don’t have a category or might be called gender fluid. They hated women’s clothes and the expectations that came with being a woman, but their sexual orientation was ambiguous … sometimes as seen from the outside world but sometimes even to themselves.

I like them all. Here are some of my favorites, which make for great escapist reading.

Daughter of Fortune by Isabel Allende

A young Chilean woman decides to follow her lover, who left the country to seek his fortune during the California Gold Rush. A Chinese doctor she befriends on the ship dresses her as a Chinese boy to help her navigate the dangerous world of San Francisco in the 1840s.

The Whip by Karen Kondazian   

A fictionalized account of the true story behind Charley Parkhurst, a renowned Gold Rush-era stagecoach driver who was discovered to be a woman only after he died. For you Californians out there, Charley is buried in Watsonville.

The Rebellion of Miss Lucy Ann Lobdell by William Klaber

A fictionalized account of the true story behind Lucy Lobdell, who lived her life as a man in 1850s New York and eventually married a woman.          

Under a Painted Sky by Stacey Lee          

Samantha, a Chinese girl in 1849 Missouri, commits a crime in self-defense and heads out on the Oregon Trail with a runaway slave. Both dressed as boys, they encounter friendly cowboys. Sammy falls in love.  

Crown of Dust by Mary Volmer 

Hiding from her past, Alex disguises herself as a young man and stumbles across a crude California mining town called Motherlode, where she finds her way among the locals but fears being discovered.

A pessimist’s guide to positive vibes

My new surf poncho for changing out of my wet swimsuit at the pool.
When the going gets tough, the tough get cooking. My blackberry scones just out of the oven.

I just celebrated 21 years since I was diagnosed with stage 3 primary peritoneal cancer, which is virtually the same as ovarian cancer. I’ve been free of disease since my initial treatment. My annual check-up is Monday, but the labs are done, and all looks good. They always tell me how lucky I am, and believe me, I am well aware of my good fortune.

During my illness, I vowed to keep a positive attitude no matter what. And this was not easy for me, a half-empty kind of gal. There’s a joke about the guy whose tombstone read, “See, I told you I was sick.” That was me.

My life was on the line, so I changed. There are plenty of people with great attitudes who die anyway, but I figured why not try? Whether I live or don’t, at least I will have enjoyed the ride.

That pretty much sums up my attitude toward our current situation. ITSNBN – It That Shall Not Be Named. I’m so sick of reading about it and don’t want to pile on. I’m being careful. Lots of elbow bumps on the golf course, hand-washing and other precautions … but still loving life.

One of my precautions is avoiding the locker room at the gym where I swim laps. I purchased this handy “surf poncho” from Amazon. I put on my suit at home and drive to the gym wearing my poncho. I go directly to the pool, remove the poncho and store it in my gym bag on the cement. I suppose there is some exposure there, but I think it’s less risky than the poolside furniture.

When I’m done with my swim, I put the poncho on, tuck my arms inside and remove my wet swimsuit. No one sees my secret body parts. It’s warm and has a hood. I walk back to my car, bypassing the locker room once again.  

Foodniks

As always, when the going gets tough, we get going in the kitchen. It’s raining today, so I thought I’d try blackberry scones using Linda’s recipe, which I’ve successfully made with blueberries and raspberries. I’ll probably have to crush the blackberries a bit so they get evenly distributed.

Dale has a brisket brining for homemade corned beef, which is one of the best food discoveries ever. It won’t be ready for another week or so, but we’ll have it boiled with cabbage, potatoes and carrots the first night. Maybe Reuben sandwiches before freezing it in chunks for later use. One of our favorites is corned beef hash topped with a fried egg sunny-side-up.

For dinner, Dale’s making Cordon Bleu. He pounds veal cutlets thin, stuffs them with Muenster cheese and Black Forest ham, breads them and pan-fries them lard. We make a German-style salad with butter lettuce and a white wine vinaigrette. He’ll probably do something with potatoes, because he can’t stop himself.

relationship building

We’ve been happy little campers lately. I’m trying to get in my golf and other exercise during the week, almost like it’s my job. I’m often gone most of the day. Then in the evenings and on weekends, we commune. If I should stay home in the middle of the week, it’s a treat, and we’ll do something fun like go to a winery or have bacon for breakfast.

Sometimes I stay home and we do chores, but they aren’t nearly as fun.

In retirement, we’ve learned we both need time away from each other, and figuring out how to do that in a positive way has been helpful. But the biggest difference is Dale got new hearing aids. I’m just going to go out on a limb and say the new hearing aids have reduced our arguments by 50 percent. Our conversations are much healthier, but the downside is he can hear me mutter when I’m cleaning and complaining about what a slob he is.

Before the new hearing aids, vacuuming was like truth serum. Regrettably, unkind things were said, but at least he couldn’t hear them.

Illegitimi non carborundum

I did not need a blogging break after all. What I needed was a break from the shit show out there that passes for news, and I somehow got confused. Shit show? Blog? You can see how it might happen.

This could be the corona virus talking, but I don’t think we can completely divorce ourselves from all the negativity of the world. While bad news followed by more bad news gets old fast, most of us want to stay connected. Connected but not immersed? It may be a shit show out there, but that doesn’t mean we should binge-watch the entire season.

It turns out I require a different system for processing information. Not everything needs to be hoarded like hand sanitizer and toilet paper.

If my brain were an office, and you walked in, it would look like a bomb exploded. Mountains of crumpled newspapers, gigabytes of unfiltered information floating about like space junk, blueberry scone crumbs and yellow crime scene tape. It’s ugly in there.

My plan is to tidy up my brain and take out the trash. Not everything will get tossed. I mean, some things aren’t pleasant, but you probably need to know about it to stay somewhat relevant. I’m thinking a new folder with a label that says, “Does Not Spark Joy.” Because there is so much in life that does spark joy, and it’s a shame to let the rest of it cheat you out of happiness.

Seize the day.

As it happens, Dale and I are uniquely suited for battling the corona virus. We’re retired homebodies with no travel plans, few friends and an aversion to public places and most restaurants. We are experienced at social distancing and freak if the doorbell rings.

While it’s true many psychopaths are loners, many loners are not psychopaths. We’re kind and charming people. It’s just that most of the time, we don’t really want to talk to you. However, if you are bringing beer, we might reconsider.

Thanks to Dale, we also have an aggressive toilet paper supply system. He has always been Johnny Mission when it comes to maintaining inventory. And for reasons undisclosed, I use toilet paper like party streamers.

All in all, I didn’t actually take a real break. Seriously, a break from what? I eat, sleep, golf, walk, swim laps, cook, read, write, grow cannabis and periodically stop to purge my brain of the stuff that does not spark joy.

Illegitimi non carborundum!

Loosely translated as, “Don’t let the bastards grind you down.”

Mom’s stuffed cabbage

My mother’s recipe for stuffed cabbage rolls.
… with my additions!
I use kitchen twine to tie my rolls. They hold together better and are easier to shuffle around in the cooking liquid.
The rolls are in and just starting to simmer. Cover, and they’ll take a couple of hours to cook.

We’re finally getting some rain today, hoping for the March Miracle, but so far, it doesn’t look as though we’ll get much. Still, I promised Dale I would make my mother’s stuffed cabbage rolls if it rained. I just can’t get into it if the weather is nice. I’m still hoping for a downpour.

My mother was not a good cook. She loved convenience foods, and some things were just too exotic for regular consumption. There was one tiny bottle of olive oil that lasted my entire childhood. We ate instant mashed potatoes from the box or little white ones from a can. I don’t think I tasted a fresh potato until high school, when my sister and I both started cooking.

One of the few things she made from scratch were stuffed cabbage rolls. An homage to my Slavic roots. Dale loves them, even though his ancestors are from England. I still use the recipe on the index card my mother gave me, but I have notes all over the back of it.

I should probably type up the recipe as I make it these days, but I like seeing my mother’s handwriting. And I love the ambiguous directions.

Half a small glass of white vinegar.

Cook until done.

I used to worry about it – too much? Too little? Now I take out what looks to be a small glass, and I fill it half-way up with vinegar. Then I cook them until done.

Mother knows best.

Her cabbage rolls were pretty bland, but that was by design. They were a side dish for special occasions, like Christmas or Thanksgiving. Dale and I eat it as a main dish. I use venison or bison instead of ground beef and lots of spices. Dale likes it with dark bread and butter, although the dark bread options here are slim. We’ll just make do with whatever he can find.

Beer is a nice accompaniment. We’re currently featuring Fresh Squeezed IPA from Deschutes Brewery in Oregon.

Abandoning lame old guy humor

Re-purposing corporate swag as a cannabis journal. Because who can stop me now?

My, my, my corona

I worry about all things big and small. When I first retired, I feared the showdown with North Korea would ruin my retirement. Damn it, I thought, I just want to sleep late for a few years.

Now the coronavirus is keeping me up at night. My neighbor told me it was going to get bad out there, disease-wise, and my retirement funds were at risk in the stock market. I didn’t comment on the virus but said our finances are conservatively invested. We don’t make as much as other people, but we don’t lose as much, either. That quieted things down.

While I’m trying not to overreact, it’s scary just the same. I’m careful – washing my hands and trying not to touch my face – but Dale isn’t as obsessive as I am, and I fear he’ll catch it and gift it to me.

He said I was probably glad older men are at higher risk, and I did not disagree. I guess I didn’t handle that well. Then I stepped it in again when Dale bought new hearing aids outright rather than pay a monthly fee because they wanted an automatic bank draft.

I pay several bills with automatic drafts and have never had a problem. I said not doing the draft officially makes him an old guy, and he did not take kindly to the feedback.

Cannabis journaling

My new seedling has emerged, and it looks great! It came up in four days. This time around I’m using the LED light for the entire growth cycle, I’m using a bigger pot – 5 gallons – and I should benefit from warmer weather overall.

I have this bound booklet that was a giveaway from some corporate event I attended before I retired. I was supposed to use it for taking notes.

Oops. I forgot.

Now it gives me great pleasure to re-purpose this fine motivational swag as my growing journal. The theme is “Elevating our Impact.”

Books & TV

I ran out of Outlander episodes on Netflix. Season 5 was just released, but it’s only available through STARZ. I signed up for a three-month trial so I could start watching Season 5. Then I discovered STARZ doesn’t drop them all at once like most streaming services. Subscribers get one episode a week.

Although I was annoyed at first, I’ve changed my mind. Binge-watching has its merits, but there’s something to be said for the feeling of anticipation as a new episode approaches. The slower pace seems to fit my retirement lifestyle. It turns out we don’t need everything instantly.  

Vera is a show on BritBox, and since I don’t subscribe to BritBox, I thought I’d read the first book in the series about Detective Inspector Vera Stanhope. “The Crow Trap” by Ann Cleeves. I like it so far, but I’m about one-third of the way through, and Vera has not appeared. I’m eager to meet her, and God knows, these characters need her help. Two dead already and no clues to be found.

I enjoyed “Burn the Place” by Iliana Regan. She is a Michelin-starred chef, and part of the story is about food and foraging, part of it is about substance abuse and the rest is a lesbian coming-out story. The memoir was long-listed for the National Book Award. I don’t think it came anything close to that level, but I enjoyed it very much.

Old guy humor

After my gaffe about Dale being old, I’m abandoning lame old guy humor, which might be good for all of us to think about, considering the slate of U.S. presidential candidates. Old is OK!

I’m also going to try standard compliments. While I thought calling Dale “The Human Dictionary” was a sexy and unique nod to his brilliance, perhaps simpler is better. Something that appeals to the vanity within all of us.

You look great! Have you been working out?

He’ll be suspicious, so I’ll have to tread carefully.   

Don’t mess with Aunt Bee

Fans are upset with plans to film “The Andy Griffith Show” movie in Indiana.

I said no to the woman who offered me a volunteer role in my golf league. My back seized up mid-round, I could barely finish and now I’m popping blue buddies (Advil) while I rest at home for a few days. And they say there are no coincidences. Anyway, here’s my response:

“Thanks so much for thinking of me. I’m sorry, but I’ll have to say no this time around. I do understand the needs of our group and will consider volunteering in the future.”

She said OK, thanks for thinking about it. And many thanks to Retirement Confidential readers for the thoughtful feedback! Your advice, coupled with new evidence of annoying behavior helped me decide.

In golf, every hole has a mowed area where you hit your first shot. The tee box. Markers define the edges, and you stand behind an imaginary line between the two markers facing the target.

Yesterday I played with one of the big wheels in the first group, and she religiously spread the markers on each hole as wide as possible. I asked why, and she said lefties complain the hole doesn’t line up for them properly unless the markers are spread wide. I said presumably there are left-handed men, and no one shuffles their markers around, and she said, “Women are picky.”  

I rest my case.

The Taste Test

For the finale to my first season as a gentlewoman cannabis farmer, I taste-tested my haul, and it’s very nice weed, indeed! This particular strain is called Jack Herer, known for relieving stress and producing a pleasant buzz. I’m always careful not to overdo it … just enough to feel the beginnings of a smile.

I put a seed in water today to germinate … this one is going in a 5-gallon pot with the aim of increasing my yield. Since I am still so new at this, I decided not to re-use the soil from my first grow. It’s probably just a matter of fertilizer, but I went with the expansion kit from A Pot for Pot.

Don’t mess with aunt bee

This morning’s newspaper had an article about a movie featuring Andy Taylor of Mayberry … being filmed in Indiana. Fans are furious they would film it anywhere but North Carolina.

Having lived in South Carolina, I am familiar with Andy Taylor, who was played by Andy Griffith in “The Andy Griffith Show.” The show was based in Mayberry, a fictional representation of Mount Airy, N.C., where the real Andy grew up.

The show is iconic in the South. The Carolinas, anyway. I remember watching re-runs in the chemo room at the hospital in South Carolina, where I was treated for ovarian cancer 21 years ago. Andy was always on, and it didn’t matter if you were black or white or had cancer or not, if you changed the channel you were dead.

Later, I complained about it to a co-worker. I said the worst of it was that sanctimonious Aunt Bee.

I can’t adequately describe the reaction. Shock quickly accelerating to outrage? Like how is that possible? What’s not to love about Aunt Bee?

It would not be completely accurate to say no one spoke to me again after that, but there was always an edge. Like, oh, yeah, you! What a great presentation smarty pants, but aren’t you the one who said you didn’t like Aunt Bee? It’s the kind of thing that follows you around.

My advice to the moviemakers. Suck it up.  Go to North Carolina. Say nice things about Aunt Bee.

New Crime fiction

In the category of crime fiction, I recommend the first two books in what I hope will be a long series by Louisa Luna. “Two Girls Down” is the first, and the second is “The Janes.” The character is Alice Vega, a tough and brilliant young freelance detective who finds missing children. She partners with a disgraced former cop named Cap.

Alice is different than your run-of-the-mill female detective. Stoic is the word that comes to mind. Totally focused on getting the job done and not much interested in normal pleasures like food and sleep, she uses bolt cutters to take bad guys down. Bolt cutters aside, the violence is relatively minimal.

Can I say no?

For many of us, retirement starts sort of slow. Nervous at first about the money and how you’re going to spend your time, but then you gradually slide into the comfort zone. Maybe you’re busy, maybe you’re not, but you’re still careful not to commit to anything that will disrupt your version of bliss.

And then someone comes knocking. A little crack in the glass before it shatters to pieces or a fun opportunity to engage with the outside world?

I’ve been asked to undertake a volunteer role in my golf league. It’s what we used to call in the corporate world a rotational assignment. Three months. Every Wednesday. People would email me during the week to sign up or cancel for the next week’s play. I’d be the first one there on the morning of play to start checking people in, and I’d have to readjust playing groups due to cancellations or no-shows. Then I would play in the final group, which pretty much guarantees a 5-hour round.

It sounds like stress to me.

One person approached me already and said someone else is probably going to try and recruit me as well. I have no idea why they think I’m suitable for this job or any job for that matter. They probably just need a warm body.

While I do enjoy my league, I’m still exploring my new-found freedom. After a demanding career, I love not being responsible for much of anything. The odd part is that I am good at being in charge … it’s just that it wears me out. Still, for a fat paycheck, I happily obliged.

God bless those who love to volunteer, but that is not me. Even at work, I was never the eager beaver organizing the birthday luncheon or holiday gift exchange. Showing up and pretending to like it was the best I could do.

I told the person who contacted me I will think about it. I did share that I was newly retired and didn’t want to bite off more than I could chew. I expect to get hit up tomorrow and will say the same thing.

Of course, I was raised by wolves and always struggle with what to do in social situations. For those of you with better upbringing … or simply those who have been involved with clubs and such over the years, I have a few questions.

Can I say no and not burn any bridges? Can I say no forever, and just enjoy the play, or is it assumed one must contribute at some point? Have you signed up for something and regretted it, or did you have a good experience?

Any other advice?