I’m trying to detach from the news and all things impeachment. It’s not that I don’t care. Of course, I care. But it’s no secret I loathe Trump and all he stands for, and I just don’t see the Senate holding him accountable for anything. For every new piece of evidence of his misdeeds, there’s one more excuse.
It reminds me of when we came back to the United States after living in Cairo. We had moved to South Carolina, and I was looking for a job. I interviewed with an insurance company, and they made me an offer that didn’t even come close to my salary history.
I said, “Thank you, but I made more money than this at my
last job in Egypt.” They said, “Well, that was international, you can’t compare
us to a poor developing nation on the other side of the world.”
Then I said, “Thanks again, but I made more money than this at the job before that in Alabama.” They said, “Well, that was aerospace. You can’t compare us to rocket science.”
That’s when I almost said, “Thanks, but I made more money than this at Captain D’s.” And their response might have been, “Well, that was fast food. You can’t compare us to fried fish.”
And so it goes with my reaction to Republicans defending Trump. I might say, “But you are choosing to ignore evidence he betrayed his oath of office, abused his power, obstructed justice and compromised our national security.” And they might respond, “Well, that’s Trump being Trump. You can’t compare that to being a good president.”
“But it’s your job to be impartial and help protect the country!”
“Well, that’s democracy. You can’t compare that to an opportunity to undo everything a black man did and stack the Supreme Court for decades to come.”
That’s the end of my political rant. Back to our regular retirement programming. Tune in next time to see if I continue with Netflix after my 30-day trial is over! What’s up with Grace & Frankie? And Outlander! Does the sex ever stop?
Dale and our former cat, Bruno, on the 40-year-old couch everyone enjoys.Our current cat, Riley. “Couch, I can’t quit you.”
Somehow it seems wrong to follow a lively colonoscopy discussion with a post about cat pee, but these things can happen from time to time. The filters have left the building, and it’s kind of like Johnny Lee Hooker and Boogie Chillen, when papa told mama, “Let that boy boogie-woogie. It’s in him, and it got to come out.”
One of the worst smelling things in the world is cat pee. From such sweet kitty babies comes such vile waste. There is a new development in the world of cat pee, but first a little history.
We adopted a huge cat in South Carolina and named him Bruno. He was a great cat, but he was not a good cat. A thug, really, but a lovable thug. He never liked being an indoor cat. Bruno enjoyed a screened porch in South Carolina, because who doesn’t? After we moved to Texas, we spent a fortune fencing in our backyard with special cat fence so he could enjoy the great outdoors.
For both moves, we chauffeured him to his new residence, partly because he was too big for airplane carry-on. I had all kinds of absorbent layers under his carrier in the backseat of the car in case of an accident, because, well, you never know. At some point in life, I think we all begin to understand bladder control is a tenuous thing.
We were driving from Texas to California, and we were in the Panhandle when I smelled it. I was certain he sprayed. We pulled over and began to investigate. Nothing. We finally got out of the car to get fresh air, and it turned out wherever we were smelled exactly like cat pee. It was in the air. I forget the name of the town, but we called it Cat Pee, Texas.
Bruno was always a good roadie and adjusted to life in California quite well. We struggled with the indoor-outdoor dilemma, but we were done spending my retirement money on cat fences. Aside from an escape to the neighbor’s yard that involved me climbing the fence at midnight to retrieve him, he was an indoor cat.
Then he started peeing everywhere. We tried all kinds of things to stop it and took him to the vet to see if anything was wrong. The vet said he was fine. I purchased a blue light and would explore the house at night like a madwoman to see where he was spraying. Pee lights up yellow. He trashed a Flokati rug downstairs, but the pad underneath caught most of it, and the pee didn’t seep into the hardwoods.
Upstairs was carpet, and that was a different story. It was
a four-bedroom house, and all the damage was in two bedrooms, one used for our
office and one used as an exercise room. He never touched our bedroom or the
guest bedroom.
It got worse, and he started to decline in other ways. Our boy was sick. We took him back to the vet, who did an ultrasound and discovered Bruno had extensive cancer. I assume all the spraying was related to pain and illness. Poor little guy. I mean poor big guy. We ended up taking him back to the vet for the big sleep and cried like babies for weeks months afterward.
But then we had to figure out what to do about the two bedrooms. We pulled up corners of the carpet and learned it had seeped into the subfloor. We thought we could replace the subfloor, but a carpet guy came and said that wouldn’t work, because the boards were structural and spanned across rooms.
The carpet guy said to scrub the floor with a mix of bleach and water and then seal it with oil-based primer/sealer. Then they would put new padding and new carpet down. The floor scrub was the easy part. We did it once, let it dry and then did it again.
Then we discovered California does not sell the stuff we needed due to environmental restrictions. Dale drove to Reno and back in one day to buy it. Because, you know, Reno … it’s right there waiting for illicit interstate cat pee traffic.
We painted on two coats of the sealer, and later the carpet
guys came back to finish the job. There was absolutely no odor left, and we
sold the house when I retired.
Our new cat, Riley, is a Maine Coon mix, with a sweeter disposition (although, as I said, Bruno was a great cat who had his charms). We had to lock Riley up in the second bedroom last week when contractors were here replacing our old heating and cooling system. When I went back into the room to retrieve him, I could swear I smelled cat pee.
It was like déjà vu all over again. I found the blue light
and commenced to examine. Nothing! One of his litter boxes is in that room, but
it’s clean and odorless. I went back in the next day to see if I had missed
anything. I was over by the wall where the cannabis plant is growing
beautifully, and then I could smell it.
My cannabis plant smells like cat pee! This particular strain is Jack Herer. After Googling it, I discovered others have compared it to cat pee. When the door is open you don’t notice it, but the smell was noticeable after Riley was locked up in there all day.
I’m thinking it might not be all that bad. Dale couldn’t smell it, but then he can’t hear either, so I’m not sure he’s the best judge. It’s like my nose was born to smell cat pee.
On the bright side, Riley has been redeemed, and at a little more than 10 weeks, my cannabis plant is thriving. I don’t really smell it until I get up close, so I’m hopeful the odor subsides a bit after it is harvested and dried. One can only hope. If not, I will make it my resolution to embrace the smell of cat pee.
Many thanks for contributing to the discussion about TV streaming options. I sincerely appreciate the recommendations. I wasn’t going to subscribe to anything, but now I’m leaning toward Netflix and Britbox. Go big or go home. I can always cancel.
In other news, today is colonoscopy prep day. The procedure
is first thing tomorrow morning. Clear liquids all day and then Colon Blow 2020
starting at 6 p.m. I am not amused.
For the record, this is not my first rodeo. I’ve been on the five-year plan since 1999, when I was diagnosed with ovarian cancer. Like just about everyone else, I’d say the procedure itself is fine, but prep is the worst. This time it seems worse than normal. Previously, I’d do the colon blow earlier in the day and be done in time to get a decent night’s sleep.
But, oh, no. Now they have this thing called split dosage. I’m to do half of it at 6 p.m. and the other half at 2 a.m. I called to confirm, because I couldn’t imagine they expected me to be awake at 2 a.m. Sadly, that is exactly what they expect.
When I explained to Nurse Ratched I’ve never had to get up at 2 a.m. for colonoscopy prep, she almost barked and said, well, things change! That was it. Then another nurse called me for a pre-op discussion, and she was kinder and more informative. Basically, she said they’ve learned the split dosage does a better job of cleaning out the colon.
I’m all about clean colons. Hell, yeah. I’m in, but I still think it’s ridiculous. Here’s my conspiracy theory regarding the new colonoscopy prep:
In the old days, you went to see your gastroenterologist, and it went on from there. Now there are clinics that do pretty much nothing but colonoscopies. You don’t even meet your doctor until you’re naked on the table.
There is no medical basis for my opinion, just a rant
really, but I believe the colonoscopy mills eliminated any personal attention or
nuance, and they want the biggest blow-out this stinking desert has ever seen so
they can get through it faster and do more.
There, I said it. I’m probably wrong. It’s all for my medical safety, blah, blah, blah. And I know one day of unpleasantness is nothing compared to colon cancer.
I hope you’re having a great Sunday. Me? Not so much. However, I leave you with this sweet article about an ex-prisoner and how he spends his Sundays. Highlights are good coffee and hot lavender baths.
It’s all about simple pleasures!
And speaking of simple pleasures, as clear liquids go, I have to say lemon Jello is not all bad. Not bad at all. But it would be better with whipped cream.
It has been more than a year since I quit Netflix. No real reason other than the price went up slightly, and I didn’t watch it often. I honestly haven’t missed it.
However, we were channel surfing over the holidays and ended up watching Caddyshack. I’ve seen it multiple times, of course, but it had been years. We laughed so hard, and it felt good to be released from the prison of daily newsfeeds that suck me in. Caddyshack was great, even with commercials.
My favorite Ty Webb quote: “I don’t play golf for money, against people.”
While I love golf and work hard to keep improving, I’ve finally accepted I do not care for competition, so now I’m focusing more on the simple pleasures of the game. And that brings me back to the simple pleasures of watching a good show on TV.
Golf and life – how they do intersect.
Currently, I watch stuff on Amazon Prime. There’s a lot of
good content that comes free with Prime, and I like the “pay by the drink” formula
for new movies that never seem to make their way to Netflix. Lately I’ve been
thinking of re-subscribing to Netflix. We are not on a super-strict retirement budget,
so it’s not a financial issue. I just hate wasting money on services and goods
I don’t need or use regularly.
But that might change. Although I am an avid reader, I also enjoy movies and binge-worthy series. After watching Caddyshack and cracking up for an hour and a half, I’m thinking I should indulge more. Not just comedies but a variety of entertainment. For example, I paid Amazon a few bucks for a season of Outlander, which is also available on Netflix.
By the way, I’m about to start episode 6 of Outlander, and if Claire and Jamie don’t have sex soon, I’m outtie.
Subscribing to a streaming service comes down to how I want to live my life. While I do think it’s important to keep learning, I’m not much into self-improvement as a retirement hobby. When I first retired, it seemed like everyone was saying we needed to reinvent ourselves to stay relevant or be worthy of retirement.
Now I realize I’m already worthy, and retirement is not a competition to see who is the most productive or the most evolved. Everyone is different, and retirement is (finally) our time to focus on what makes us happy.
As for me, I’m happy to spend a lot of time walking, swimming, playing golf, cooking and otherwise moving around. Kicking back during my downtime to watch more movies also appeals to me. A small thing if it brings pleasure.
I’ve had a nasty cold and didn’t have the strength to do much of anything for a week. I started feeling better yesterday, so I went to the driving range to see if I can still manage to hit a golf ball. So far, so good. Today I did a short walk. If all goes well, I’ll swim tomorrow, and that should signal everything is back to normal. Golf on Monday.
It sucks to be sick, but I was thinking how nice it was to be
retired and just give into it rather than drag my ass to work and poison all my
co-workers. On the other hand, maybe you do get over it quicker when you push
yourself out the door.
While my wrists are much better, my ankles stiffened up. Do body parts take turns rebelling as you age? Maybe they talk to each other, like household appliances that crap out at the same time. First the toaster goes, then the clothes dryer and then it’s everybody in the pool!
I attribute the unpleasant ankle business to an 18-hole walk through a mud bog of a golf course just before I got sick. I seem to recall my partner saying, “Isn’t it hard to push that cart through the mud?” I said, “Not at all. Piece of cake.”
Famous last words. On the bright side, I’ve had stiff ankles before, and I learned a neat trick. Do the alphabet with your foot a couple of times a day. It really helps.
Even though I didn’t feel well, I attempted to make soup from fabulous roast beef leftover from Christmas. The soup was bad. Dale and I did a taste test today and agreed to pitch it. I hate to waste food, particularly that roast beef, but I also hate to eat nasty stuff, so I think we made the right call.
That left us deep in discussion about what to have for dinner tonight. I said, if I’m cooking, it needs to be something I won’t fuck up, because I feel bad about that soup. We were mentally going through items in the fridge and realized we had iceberg lettuce and tomatoes. Cheddar. Corn tortillas. Why, all we’d have to do is get some ground meat, and we could have tacos!
Dale said, “You’ve never fucked up tacos.”
He says the sweetest things. Tacos it is. I consider them healthy. Lean meat, a little cheese, veggies, what could be so wrong?
Since I’m up and about, I decided to clean the second refrigerator. I found a Lambic beer from 2007, which means we’ve moved it six times. I seem to recall a phase in Texas when I was going to make some sort of stew with it and never did.
Dale and I are almost always on completely different pages when it comes to getting rid of stuff. I purge, he hoards. I used to check with him before throwing something away, but it’s 2020. I’m older and bolder. Time to make a command decision, and I decided today the beer was past its prime.
I imagined the response if I had asked. I can totally see Dale looking at it and saying, “2007? Oh, come on, that was when Bush was president, and we thought it couldn’t get any worse. I’m sure the beer is fine.”
The beer was sealed with a cork, which I popped over the sink in case the bottle blew up. Nothing horrible happened, but it smelled funky. I told Dale after-the-fact, and he looked surprised. Maybe a little hurt.
I said, gently, “That’s a long time to keep a beer.”
And he said, and I quote, “No shit.”
Old beer goes bad, and old people change. Sometimes for the better.
It has been 60 days give or take a few since I started this little experiment growing cannabis from a seed. My gardening skills are nil, so I’m simply following the instructions that came with the growing kit.
The plant is growing indoors by a south-facing window. When the rainy season started, I began to think it wasn’t getting enough light, so I added an overhead LED light about a month into the project.
While I’m pretty sure I over-watered it a bit, I didn’t seem to do any lasting harm. I think it was supposed to get only about a shot glass full of water a week. I just kind of eye-balled it and poured some in when the soil looked dry.
The plant continues to grow, although I do believe I’m a little behind schedule because we keep our house on the cool side in the winter.
All that to say there’s great news! Can you see the little white hairs in the macro image? According to the instructions, that means the plant has entered the flowering stage. This phase will continue another six to eight weeks, maybe longer. Now it gets a liter of water every two to four days.
They say this plant can yield up to eight ounces of cannabis, but I think that applies to the warmer months. I’m a total amateur, and it’s winter, so anything at all this first time around would be great. Four ounces, maybe?
By the way, a big high-five to the state of Illinois, where recreational cannabis is now legal. Correct me if I’m wrong, but I believe that’s 33 states and the District of Columbia with medical cannabis, and 11 states plus the District of Columbia for recreational.
I’m always on the look-out for new crime fiction – books, movies or TV – and thought I’d share a couple of good novels, as well as a TV series with lots of potential.
Although he has been writing for years, I just discovered
Michael Koryta. How did I find him? I’m a big fan of Harry Bosch, the character
created by Michael Connelly. A lot of writers have blogs, and Connelly’s
included a list of current reading. He had high praise for Koryta, so I gave it
a whirl.
I just read Koryta’s most recent novel, If She Wakes. It’s about a college student injured in an accident. They think she’s in a vegetative state, but she’s actually got it all going on inside. However, she can’t speak or move. Bad guys are worried she will wake for real and talk about what happened during that accident. There’s a great female detective with some bad-ass driving skills trying to put it all together.
Loved it! Now I’m going through his catalog.
Another writer I enjoy is Attica Locke. I just finished Heaven, My Home. This is the second novel featuring Darren Mathews, a black Texas Ranger. Bluebird, Bluebird was the first in the series, and it won the 2018 Edgar award for best novel. The writer confronts racism head-on, and sometimes it’s hard to read, but she’s a great story teller, and Darren is a complex and flawed man – which always sucks me in.
About TV. I’ve set my DVD to record USA Network’s new series, Dare Me. It starts tonight, so you’d better get cracking if you want to see it from the beginning. I have no idea if it will be any good, but the series is based on a book by Megan Abbott, who I’ve been reading for years. Among my favorites are Die a Little and Bury Me Deep. But Dare Me is by far the best.
Dare Me is about cheerleaders. Snarky ones. Oh, and a murder, along with a suspicious cheerleading coach who is seemingly perfect, but alas, things are not as they seem.
If someone had told me I’d enjoy a book about cheerleaders,
I would have said they were nuts. But this is great stuff. I’m hopeful the TV
series will capture the dark weirdness of Megan Abbott’s writing.
Next on the docket is Bearskin by James A. McLaughlin. I found this one listed among the best debut novels of 2018 on CrimeReads. I haven’t started it yet, but it’s set in the mountains of Virginia, where a dude with a secret past goes to hide from bad guys. However, he runs into poachers, and everything changes.
As you know, I’m not much on planning, but since I retired, I started keeping a spreadsheet of books I want to read, and then I reserve them at the library. A series will always bring out my OCD tendencies, so I list them in order on my spreadsheet and go about it methodically.
Oh, is it time for the Year in Review? My apologies. I’m not
one to document goals, accomplishments or disappointments. If I wanted to do all
that, I would be working.
Nor do I develop a complex plan for the upcoming year. Commitments, metrics – it starts to feel like performance management, and that’s enough to give me nightmares. What a horrible process that was. It gets ugly when you become a leader and see how the sausage is made. I almost threw up the first time I had to change someone’s rating because there were too many in that tier. It’s called forced distribution, and it sucks.
On the receiving end, I always got positive reviews, but you know how it goes. They have to find one thing. You gotta learn to take it. No matter what my boss wrote or said, I learned to respond, “Thank you so much. I love this job and can’t wait to work in collaboration with the team to accomplish even more next year.” Period.
Then whine about that one thing all night until Dale shuffles off to bed, turning to 600 pages of U-boat lore for solace.
I just can’t mess with laying all that judgment on myself anymore. I’m not perfect, but despite the rumors, I’m pretty cool. Life is great! My career felt like a 35-year race, and retirement feels like I made it to the finish line. It’s not as though I’m done with life, but I don’t have to run that particular race anymore. Now I can go to the party tent and drink beer.
Some people need big ideas to push them, and if that’s what makes you tick, I’m all about embracing it. I’ve seen some impressive 2020 goal-setting, and I seriously do find myself thinking, damn, I’m a slacker. For some of us, however, all that structure is oppressive. I actually get a lot done, but I try not to make a job out of it.
I keep a list of priorities on a 3 x 5 note card and call it a year.
If you’re feeling pressure to reinvent yourself in retirement or set up quarterly productivity metrics, I invite you to come over to the dark side, where we have a few priorities and the occasional short-term list to make sure things get done, but having clean jammies to hang out in is often the highest expectation of the day.
Aside from waking up without an alarm clock, my favorite times are when I play hard outside and come home to a great dinner. Maybe more of those in 2020? Dale? Dale? Anyone?
As for New Year’s Eve, we don’t make a big deal out of it.
Our joke is nothing good happens after 10 p.m., when you should be home with
the doors locked. For dinner, I’m making baguettes, which we’ll have with some
fancy cold cuts, smoked salmon, cheese and champagne.
I assure you. If I see midnight, it’s only because I got up
to pee.
While we’re feeling clean, warm, well-fed, happy, fortunate and generous, I thought I’d take a moment to talk about charitable contributions. When we were working, many of us contributed to charities through workplace payroll deduction programs. I always did.
But I confess … when I retired and the paychecks stopped, I should have found another way to contribute to charities, and I didn’t.
I’m back. This year, I chose to support the local food bank. I did my research on Charity Navigator, which is a great tool for helping us evaluate charitable organizations. Will they spend my money wisely?
For example, I was torn between a food bank in the county where I live and a food bank in the greater metropolitan area. My local food bank scored average on financials but had a rather poor showing on accountability and transparency.
The metro food bank had good scores. I went to the website,
where I learned they provide other human services such as clothing and legal
support for immigrants. That appealed to me, so I donated online and was
emailed a receipt. The contribution is tax-deductible.
Lots of people have charitable contributions baked into their lifestyle through church or other service organizations. If you’re like me and counted on payroll deduction, retirement is the time to take the next step.
Find something that matters to you and do a little research before you give because there are charities that sound reputable but aren’t. Decide what you can afford to give and build it into your retirement planning.
The deadline to claim a tax deduction for 2019 is Dec. 31, 2019. While giving is from the heart and not about taxes, it’s no shame to claim the deduction. I think of it as a little extra bonus for doing the right thing.
NOTE: Please read the comment from Dave about tax deductions. A great clarification and heads-up!
The tree is up, but it’s a wee bit tilty, and I’ve been feeling down. I don’t know why. Some of it is the tilt.
I worry about the tree falling over. That, and the Russians, the election, impeachment, climate change, wind blowing furniture into the pool, slippery roads. Sounds like a control thing to me, what with all the wet, windy, tilty, crazy things happening that I can’t fix.
It had been more than a week since I’d added my high-CBD cannabis tincture to my morning juice, so I got back into my daily dose, and it’s like a miracle for anxiety and excess rumination. I can look at the tree now and not panic.
Nice tree, good tree.
Tincture might be making a comeback. I read notorious cannabis
enthusiast Willie Nelson has given up smoking due to breathing issues but is
still enjoying cannabis through tinctures and edibles. If anyone can put tincture
on the map, it’s Willie.
Whilst in my slump, I also increased my dosage of schmaltz. There are a couple of videos that never fail to make me cry and cheer me up at the same time. Susan Boyle’s first appearance on Britain’s Got Talent is like a rescue inhaler. I also love Tara Lipinsky’s 1998 skate for the gold.
Opening the cat’s presents
For Christmas, Dale bought treats for our cat, Riley, and for his sister’s cat, Earle. The clerk described the treats as crack for cats. Dale wanted to open the package to see if Riley agrees. I was shocked. I mean, isn’t that what he’s getting for Christmas?
Dale said Riley wouldn’t know, but I’m sorry. There are some things you just don’t do, and you don’t go opening your cat’s presents before Christmas. Maybe Christmas Eve, but only if it’s pajamas. Having to explain all this to Dale was exhausting. You can see why I need extra tincture.
Our 41st
So, yes, 41 years of love and exhaustion was celebrated on Saturday. We drove into “the city” and spent the night at a hotel with a highly acclaimed but unpretentious restaurant on the ground floor. We don’t like to dress up, and nice jeans and boots were more than appropriate. We’re also not real slick about navigating urban settings, so having the restaurant in the hotel was perfect. No scary walks at night.
We rarely dine out, mostly because we’re excellent home cooks and almost always disappointed with our meals in restaurants. When we do go out, we find some local haunt, and our bill is usually in the $60 range. And then we’re pissed that we wasted it. For our anniversary, we said, what about going big? Maybe you can buy your way to exceptional food.
Although we were mentally prepared to spend some bucks, it’s always hard for us. We have a comfortable retirement and can afford it, but like many retirees, after saving for so long, it actually is hard to fork over the cash. Fortunately, dinner was spectacular.
Follow the food
For an appetizer, I had grilled octopus with mandarin oranges,
shaved fennel, Japanese mustard greens, spicy green sauce and charred avocado.
Dale had roasted bone marrow with short rib marmalade, pickled pepper relish,
herbs and grilled bread.
We both chose duck for our entrée. It was not planned, but there’s duck history between us. When we were dating, he wooed me from the kitchen of his Bachelor Officer’s Quarters with Duck a L’Orange. Oh, and then there was the benchmark pressed duck in Rouen, France. The wild duck at the fancy place in Paris.
Paris, Rouen … those were our youthful globe-trotting days, before we got loaded down with responsibilities and understood the concept of compound interest. When paychecks were for spending!
This time around it was seared duck breast with onion cream sauce, roasted brussels sprouts leaves, Thumbalina carrots, miniature cannelloni, shaved truffles and duck jus.
I ate every bite and would have licked the plate if I
thought I could get away with it. We were both quite full, so we didn’t order
dessert. We enjoyed a bottle of Pinot Noir with our meal.
With tip, our bill was $280. The room was $155, plus $32 for parking, so that’s a total of $467 for our 41st wedding anniversary celebration. Seems like a lot, but if anything, we should do it more. Maybe skip on mediocre neighborhood fare and follow the food.
