Nature’s antidepressant

My cinnamon hand pie.
Dale grilling tomatillos and peppers for Chile Verde.
Tomatillos and peppers grilling for Chile Verde.

The weather turned unseasonably warm and dry, although it’s chilly in the morning and evening. We need the rain, and actually, I’m a precipitation convert. I like it now that I’m retired and can stay home and be cozy.

Politics is maddening and depressing, so I’m trying to ignore it and focus on simple pleasures. Mostly food, with exercise thrown in, because, you know, the food …

Exercise

My favorite golf course is much more enjoyable when it’s dry, so I’m playing all I can before we get another downpour. I always walk … a good five miles. I’m amazed by the number of able-bodied people who take a cart on a walkable course. The same people who wait 15 minutes for a parking space closer to the store.

The swimming pool at my fitness club is lovely, although I witnessed an altercation there this week. I was quietly swimming laps, imagining I was in the Caribbean, when I heard a ruckus. I stopped mid-lane to discover the lady next to me yelling at the guy one lane over. The woman does not swim but runs and hops around in the pool to music.

Apparently, she didn’t like where the guy was about to start swimming. He had his own lane, but I guess it was too close for comfort. He suggested they switch lanes to give her more room, and she suggested he go to the other side of the pool (or somewhere else). I stayed out of it, returning to the bliss of the Caribbean. Good grief, people. Chill out.

When I finished my swim, it appeared neither compromised in any form or fashion, so then I began to wonder if they were married. Ha, ha.  

Food

The warmer weather somewhat foils my winter cooking plans. Still on my agenda are stuffed cabbage rolls and a casserole made with layers of sauerkraut, rice, ground pork, smoked sausage, bacon and sour cream. I know. A weird artery killer, but dag, it’s good.

The New York Times charges extra (beyond the basic subscription level) to access most of its food section, but this feature on one-pot wonders seems freely accessible. I print internet recipes and put them in a three-ring binder. Easier than a scrapbook.

Although I’ll need more rain or at least a cold snap to make this recipe, Dijon and Cognac Beef Stew looks spectacular. I love this quote from the recipe’s author:

“Whoever said cooking should be entered into with abandon or not at all had it wrong. Going into it when you have no hope is sometimes just what you need to get to a better place. Long before there were antidepressants, there was stew.”

Regina Schrambling

I finally made cinnamon hand pies from “When Pies Fly” by Cathy Barrow. While I’ve tried crust recipes from Martha Stewart, Rose Levy Beranbaum and the rest, I never mastered all-butter crust until I did it Cathy’s way. Everything is cold, and you use the food processor, but it doesn’t come together in a clump. You squish the dough together afterward in plastic wrap, roll it into a block and then refrigerate overnight.

Super yummy! Of course, I made that all-butter crust, but I think it would be easy to use any crust, including store-bought, and a simple filling of brown sugar, a bit of flour, cinnamon and nutmeg to taste. Add just enough melted butter to make a crumble and use a cookie scoop to fill the pie before pressing down the edges of the crust with a fork. Vent the top. I baked mine at 400 degrees for about 25 minutes.  

As the weather seems to be transitioning, kind of cold but kind of not, Dale figured out how to make the best of both worlds. A hearty Chile Verde and homemade flour tortillas for a chilly night … but … with some outdoor prep time in the sun when the temps were in the 60s!

Compromise. Just another pro tip for relationships and cooking.

Bad at travel?

Many retirees live to travel, but we are not among them. Why not?

Aside from being happy homebodies, we traveled a lot when we were young, and travel isn’t what it used to be. We’re on vacation every day and don’t need a break. We live well and cook great food at home.

Plus, we’re bad at travel. Dale won’t plan, and I over-plan, researching hotels and restaurants in search of the perfect experience. We’re almost always disappointed and sad to see the money go.

We did some soul-searching and figured out a few things. For some of us, traveling was easier before retirement, because we knew more money was coming in. Right? Time to earn it back. When there’s a fixed pot at the end of the rainbow, you tend to be more cautious. At least we are.

There’s no one-size-fits-all for retirement travel. Easy for some, not so much for others. Still, most of us do want to enjoy new experiences. Maybe it’s just a matter of figuring out what we like and don’t like and learning to do it better.

One thing we learned this week is that we’re sort of low-brow people in search of a low-rent rendezvous. We went to Napa for an overnight trip, and it was an expensive letdown. The wineries were lovely, but later it seemed like we had opened our wallets to charming thieves and said, “Here, take it.”

A big deal up Napa way is bringing your own wine to a restaurant. Best as I can tell, there are rules. You don’t bring a wine they serve at the restaurant. It should be something special. They charge a “cork” fee unless it’s a special day where they don’t charge to uncork your wine, but even then, there’s an etiquette to tipping and tasting. Of course, they stick it to you on the wine if you order theirs.

We had beer! And that was the best part of our meal.

Food … we’re all about food and thought planning a trip around the restaurant would be ideal. I spent hours researching options. And then we ended up with mediocre food that cost too much.

However, there were locals at the bar, and what did my little eye spy but a wine purse! For the bring-your-own uncorking ritual. That’s when I knew this was not our tribe. When I think of purses and wine, I might recall the 70s, when one might have wanted something to throw up in.

I came home in a foul mood and tried to think of our best vacations. What have we forgotten?

Our favorite trips were to unpretentious places where we spent the day absorbing gorgeous natural scenery – walking, hiking, scuba diving. Moderately strenuous but not grueling. We quit backpacking years ago because it’s hard, and the food sucks. And beer is heavy.

We camped or stayed in a modest lodge. You didn’t have to dress up. We ate whatever was there because we were hungry. And it was good! Oh, and one might have a couple of beers or a glass of wine with dinner and then read for a while before going to bed early.

I’m confident there are better and less expensive ways to explore the wine country. We’ll go back at some point. For now, we are going to focus on visiting natural wonders, and there’s no shortage of them within a few hours of our home. Dale’s on board and said he’s eager to visit Death Valley.

In the summer.

Because then you know what it feels like to be in Death Valley in the summer.

8 classic American detectives

Plopping down to read in the middle of the afternoon is one of retirement’s greatest pleasures. And getting books from the library adds to the joy – no cost, no risk. Oh, the pain of spending money on a book you can’t get through.

While I read all kinds of stuff, my favorite genre is crime fiction. However, I’m picky about my crime. I avoid serial killers and creepy psychopaths in fiction and in real life. I avoid writers who almost always find a way to make women the victim. I’m looking at you, Harlan Coben.

Murder comes with the territory when you read mysteries, but I like to keep it simple … a crime of passion or greed. A stabbing, a shooting, perhaps an overdose. No torture. An ordinary person goes off the rails. A family tries to hide its secrets. I also like stories about missing persons, robbery and white-collar crime.

I prefer my crime to be over and done with before I start the book. I’m OK with some violence or threats of violence scattered throughout the novel to add tension, but the primary purpose of the story is to shape this defining character, usually a detective, who is going to solve the mystery.

Although I am a lightweight when it comes to grizzly details, I usually like my detectives a bit rough around the edges. Hardboiled and American, although I’m starting to branch out on that front.

Retirement is also a perfect time to discover or re-read oldies but goodies. Not every book in the series meets my ideal criteria, but I love these characters, and there’s a substantial catalog! Some newer, some older, but to me, they define the genre.

By the way, I’m still messing around with Goodreads. You should be able to access my shelf listing the first book in each series.

8 Classic American Detectives

Lew Archer (18 books): A southern California private investigator with a focus on complex family dramas, mostly written in the 50s and 60s. By Ross Macdonald.

Harry Bosch (22 books): A Vietnam veteran and Los Angeles police detective with an attitude and a conscience. By Michael Connelly.

Doc Ford (26 books): Ex-CIA agent and marine biologist on the west coast of Florida working hard to keep his friends out of trouble. By Randy Wayne White.

Sharon McCone (33 books): A San Francisco-based investigator and one of the first modern female private eyes. By Marcia Muller.

Travis McGee (21 books): A “salvage consultant” who recovers lost things while living on his houseboat in Fort Lauderdale, Florida. By John D. MacDonald.

Kinsey Millhone (25 books): The famous alphabet series starring a tough female private investigator in Santa Teresa, California. By Sue Grafton.

Dave Robicheaux (22 books): A troubled cop in Louisiana investigating bad guys along with his dangerous sidekick, Clete. By James Lee Burke.

V.I. Warshawski (20 books): A former lawyer and private eye in Chicago focusing on murder cases connected with white-collar crime. By Sara Paretsky.

My dream job

I spoke with a former colleague this week, and he had nothing good to say about work. I tried to listen and be supportive, but the whole time I was thinking how happy I am to be done with all that.

The thing is, when I was into it, I was into it. I was paid well and am still reaping the benefits of long-term compensation. For the most part, I enjoyed the work and loved being a leader. I could have stayed a couple more years, but I had already had cancer twice, I was getting older and wanted a healthier lifestyle that wasn’t all about work.

I started visualizing the future, and then a couple of bad bosses and ridiculous expectations set me on the path to retirement, which might be the best thing that ever happened to me. I love being retired!

These days I do have a job – live well, stay healthy and be happy. You could say it’s my dream job.

The job is evolving. When I first retired, I experimented with arts and crafts. I might dabble from time to time, but it just didn’t stick. I’m surprised to discover I don’t care much about fashion or style. I did when I was working, but that was all part of the game. Now I dress for comfort and convenience.

When I dress, I think, could I wear this later if I go for a walk or hit balls on the driving range or would I have to change clothes? Mostly I wear stretchy things that go anywhere. And running shoes. Even though I don’t run. Supportive. Good for my back, my knees. Ready for action.

I sometimes thought of myself as a role-model for aging well, but that seems arrogant. I would like to go back and delete some of the content I’ve written I now see as preachy. I’m focused on just loving my life, doing the best I can with what I have and throwing it all out there for others to read about.

As my thinking evolves, I expect the blog to evolve as well. I haven’t decided exactly what I’ll do just yet, but I see changes coming. I’m probably going to ditch the word badass in my tagline. I feel great, but I don’t feel badass.

My topics are likely to focus on the core things that excite me. I’ve occasionally ranted about politics, but I’m not continuing down that path. Ditto for advice on retirement planning. And while golf is a big part of my life, I don’t write about it much because I don’t think it’s of interest to many people. I also walk and swim, but so what? Not much to say about that.

The things I love that readers also seem to care about are food, cooking, cannabis, crime fiction and funny stories about relationships.

I’ll give some thought to reorganizing the blog around these focus areas. I’m inclined to leave all the old content there, even though I don’t like some of it anymore, because it does reflect my journey. Gotta figure out a way to share stories about cooking and food without pretending to be a food blogger. Finally, I like to keep my word count under 700 and will be more diligent to keep it tight.

Anyway, that’s where I am on this Super Bowel Sunday. Dale and I don’t care for football, but we’re thinking about food anyway … keeping with the party theme. We have leftover roasted chicken, and I’m voting for Dale’s killer chicken tortilla soup. I’ll make an appetizer of baked cheddar olives wrapped in a flaky pastry dough.

Oh, and beer! We’re currently featuring Panic IPA in the kegerator. That’s my artwork on the door. My talent knows no limits.

How Luddites bank

My cannabis plant has been growing for about 90 days. It has been in the flowering stage for a couple of weeks and probably has a couple more to go.

I get my cannabis body parts mixed up, but I think the calyx is the base of the flower, and as you can see, there are a bunch, and they are continuing to stack and swell. While my plant is smallish, it’s rather amazing and quite beautiful. Dale goes in there to worship it from time to time.

The white hairs are called stigmas, which turn orange-brown as the plant progresses through the flowering stage. Trichomes are the resin glands where the cannabinoids are formed. Cannabinoids, among them CBD and THC, are the psychoactive and medicinal components of the cannabis plant.

I had a hard time identifying the trichomes until I took a picture using the snap-on macro smartphone lens that came with my grow kit and realized (maybe) trichomes are the clear white bubbles on the buds and leaves. They will eventually turn from clear to cloudy to amber, and that’s when it’s time to harvest.

Dale wants to know if we’re having a harvest festival. That Dale. When you’re about to throw a party, and you’ve worked your ass off getting the place ready, he’s the guy who shows up in a clean Hawaiian shirt when the work is done and taps the keg.

There may very well be a harvest festival, but I still have to read up on how to actually cut down the plant and hang it to dry. This has been quite the learning experience!

How Luddites bank

At the end of the day, my husband likes to drop all his change into an old plastic Atomic Fire Ball bin. A big one – something you would get from Costco or Sam’s Club. The bin was full, but we weren’t sure how to convert it to real money.

I looked into Coinstar but didn’t want to pay the fee. One can avoid the fee by getting an eGift Card, but Dale is a bit of a Luddite and suspicious of all things that start with a small e.

We’re doing it the old-fashioned way.

First, I went to the bank and asked if they accepted rolls of coins. They do. And they provided me with the flat paper rolls. When I got home, I separated the quarters, nickels and dimes. Dale asked what I was doing, and I said I was being nickled and dimed. Which is kind of true, because as it turns out, this is not how he would have done it.

Dale has yet to reveal his secrets to coin-rolling, but since I started, I think he’s extricated himself from any role in this fun family activity. That’s OK, because at this point, it’s like I’m on a mission from God.

So far, I have more than $300 in quarters. I’m out of quarter rolls and asked Dale what he thought about our next move. Should I take what I have to the bank and get more rolls? Or should we wait until we’ve finished and do it all at once?

It’s funny. We are so different, yet in some ways it’s like we’re the same person. Maybe that happens after 41 years. Anyway, we both blurted out, “Let’s do it all at once!” And we started laughing. Somehow, it’s exciting to see the grand total. Maybe that’s just how Luddites roll.

Of course, the real problem is figuring out how to actually carry in this pile of rolls without looking like criminals. Dale said criminals don’t bring stuff into the bank. They steal things from the bank. True, but there’s an armed guard at the entrance, and I can just see us holding some sort of parcel stuffed with coin rolls and the guard thinking it’s a gun or biological agent.

These things never go well for me. I can see it already. I’ll be on the ground bleeding out, and they’ll be apologizing to Dale for the mess and asking him if he wants it in $20s.

Everyone has a story to tell

I grew up in an emotionally abusive, low-income family and never thought of myself as privileged. In fact, I joined the Army at age 18 to get away from that mess and jumpstart my life. It worked.

These days, my husband and I are not particularly frugal, but we aren’t particularly extravagant, either. It’s a sweet life, and we are indeed privileged. I enjoy writing about retirement and aging and the simple things that make us happy … nothing life-changing but sometimes funny and hopefully entertaining.

Privilege is relative, and I now understand even my rough start was like a rocket launcher compared to what some people are born into and how they live. I had parents, a home, clean clothes, safe places to play, food, good schools. Intellectually, I understand what it means to not have those things, but I have no real concept of what life is like outside the bubble.

I’m inspired to expand my thinking after reading an exceptional book about racial conflict in Los Angeles … Your House Will Pay by Steph Cha. The novel starts when a black teenager is killed by a Korean shop owner, and it cascades into the stories of their families – how they are impacted and how they intersect. My words won’t do it justice, so I’ll borrow from the jacket, with these words by Viet Thanh Nguyen:

“This suspense-filled page turner about murder, repentance, and forgiveness draws from the fraught history of Los Angeles, where America’s immigrant dream bleeds into America’s racist nightmare.” 

In the book, everyone is angry and social media is a feeding frenzy, but the families actually living through the tragedy are ordinary people doing the best they can. We see lots of devastating stories in the news, but this book reminded me you have to look beyond hashtags and viral tweets to find the humanity that brings us together and propels us forward.

Such a powerful read that left me wondering if it’s silly or insensitive to tell stories about my cushy retired life when other people are suffering. But the truth is I’m in no position to write about what it’s like to grow up black and poor or a victim of violent crime any more than I’m going to write about what it’s like to grow up rich. Those are not my experiences.

What can a retirement blogger possibly add to the conversation when there are such eloquent voices to be heard?

Then I thought about how grateful I am for this little online community – readers and writers alike. I don’t think we have to change the world one blog post at a time or one comment at a time, but I believe there’s value in listening and sharing so in some small way, we understand each other better or something positive happens, even if it’s just a new recipe, a travel tip or a funny tale about life in the slow lane.

Everyone is shaped by their unique experiences, and everyone has a story to tell. For whatever it’s worth, this is mine.

The comfort of good food

Well, it was another grand week of retirement.

The library was closed for the MLK holiday. I had a vision of all the librarians whooping it up on a yacht somewhere. On Tuesday, the library reopened, and I procured new reading. I showed up at the house with books in hand and Dale said, “Oh, they’re back from the party barge?”

Winter makes me want to curl up inside the house, but I’m forcing myself to continue with walking and golf. It’s funny – swimming has turned out to be one of my favorite cold-weather sports. The pool at my fitness club is 85 degrees, and it’s like swimming in the Caribbean. I am amazed by those who continue to swim laps in the cold pool, which is 78 degrees.

Dale and I both developed unnecessary habits right after Halloween. We had a bunch of candy leftover and started to take a little bowl to bed every night. They’re miniature! They don’t even count! Dale calls it “Night Food.” We both had to stop that nonsense.

All so we can continue to eat well! There is nothing like the comfort of good food. The main reason I tolerate cooler weather is because I love the seasonal switch to hearty dishes. Dale is from Maine and makes baked beans with an heirloom bean from Northern Maine. Marafax. We usually get a pound in our Christmas package from his sister.

Dale bakes them (unsoaked) for a few hours in the oven with some water, salt pork and dry mustard. Then he makes yeast rolls and what he calls cabbage salad. It’s just coleslaw – grated white cabbage with a little bit of diced onion, mayonnaise and celery seeds. Something yummy about those celery seeds. I think of it as a reasonably healthy meal, if you don’t count the butter slathered on those rolls.

We started eating more salads, mostly with a light drizzle of the pink stuff. In fact, tonight I’m making crispy chicken thighs with mushroom sauce and a spinach salad with the very same dressing. Have you tried it yet? My friend Carole made a batch of the pink stuff and is now a convert.

I baked a batch of raspberry scones, my take on a recipe from Linda at Retired Introvert. I try to keep either blueberry or raspberry in the freezer at all times!

It seems I wrote the post about raspberry scones in August, when I was on another baking frenzy. That was when I said I wasn’t born to work but instead born to retire. As I begin my third year of retirement, I can only confirm what has already been said.

The baking frenzy continues. I started a batch of no-knead baguettes today, but the dough rises for at least 18 hours, so the baguettes will get baked tomorrow. We’ll probably have them for dinner Sunday with soft ripe cheese, Spanish ham and good olive oil.

In heartbreaking news, my favorite pair of tongs broke. They are more than 40 years old. The brand is Foley, which I don’t think exists anymore. I like them for making my dad’s tacos, which are gently fried in oil. These tongs grab the tortilla without tearing or poking.

I sent my sister a picture of the tongs and asked if she knew whether they were a special kind. She didn’t know but said she had two pairs of the exact same tongs and would bring one when she comes to visit us in March.

Nothing stumps her. It’s like oh, those tongs from 1970, why, here they are!

I gotta run. The afternoon is winding up, and I need to get in a round of Wii golf before happy hour.

How’s your retirement going? As you can see, my days are packed.

Holiday reading

Geez, these holidays are infringing on my retirement. I try to get my stuff done when people are supposed to be working. Just when I thought it was safe to go out again after the Christmas crowds, here they are again, with a day off, milling about and closing important places like the library.

I finished my two books. The first was Lady in the Lake by Laura Lippman. A youngish woman leaves her marriage of 20 years and stumbles onto a murder scene. She becomes rather obsessed with the murder and worms her way into a job as a newspaper reporter covering crime and pretty much focused on solving the crime.

It was a good story, but a couple of things bothered me. The protagonist, Maddie, was not particularly likable, although she had a kinky side I found engaging. In addition, every character is featured in a separate chapter, telling the story as they see it. Kind of a weird format for me, but overall, I liked the book, which also deals with racial conflict in 1960s Baltimore.

The other novel I finished was The Keeper of Lost Causes, the first in the Department Q series by Jussi Adler-Olsen. The detective is Carl Mørck. The setting is Denmark. I had previously tried reading a Norwegian crime novel but got stuck on the names. As Steve Martin said, it’s like they have a different word for everything!

For some reason, maybe it’s just a better translation, but I hardly noticed a difference between this book and any of the other crime novels I read. Carl is a contrarian, much like Harry Bosch, and also like Harry, Carl is assigned to investigate cold cases.

He reluctantly investigates the disappearance and presumed murder of a female politician and ends up dealing with some very creepy people. The book was kind of dark, but Carl is a great character. Despite his flaws, you can’t help but like him.

Carl has a sidekick named Assad, who is supposedly a refugee from Syria. But there’s more to Assad than meets the eye, and I am ever hopeful his character will reappear in the next book. I think there are seven in all.

I need new books, but the library was closed for a three-day weekend. I’m sure they don’t make much money working there, but the hours are good. Still, I love the library!

When they reopen, I’m planning to get the next Department Q book, The Absent One. Another one on my list is Two Girls Down by Louisa Luna. This is the first of two novels featuring Alice Vega, a bounty hunter who partners with a disgraced former cop to find missing people. Sounds right up my alley. I’m betting there’s whiskey involved!

Fortunately, I’m on my 30-day free trial of Netflix, so I have Outlander and the new season of Grace and Frankie. Plus all the other excellent recommendations you shared in a previous post. I even made a spreadsheet!

My sister watched the whole season of Grace and Frankie the first day it came out. I don’t usually binge, but the library is closed, it’s cold outside and I have a stack of clean jammies. Who knows what will happen? Is this the seedy underbelly of retirement lifestyle?

By the way, I tried to add a Goodreads “What I’m Reading” sidebar to the blog but ran into technical issues. I’m resting up before trying again.

An impeachment rant

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?

A nose for cat pee

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.

I have nine more seeds. 

Cat pee cannabis at 10 weeks.