I was a journalist in the U.S. Army from 1974-1977. My husband is retired from the Army. We both like to joke we won the Cold War. In any event, we did our part, and on this Veterans Day, I would like to thank all those who served. Obviously, that would exclude President Bone Spurs.
Since I retired, I’ve noticed weekends and holidays are a blur. An overheard conversation at our house:
Is it Friday?
No, I think it’s Saturday.
Um, no, it’s Friday.
Yeah, you might be right.
Whatever.
I reminded Dale it was Veterans Day weekend and Monday was a holiday, basically because we like to avoid crowds. He said he was pretty sure Veterans Day was one of the holidays that isn’t adjusted to make for a three-day weekend.
Who knows? I went upstairs and Googled it. Ha! We were both right. The holiday doesn’t move, but this year it happens to be on a Monday. So, here we are. We have no special plans because when other people go out … we stay home.
I’m in the middle of a pretty good Jack Reacher novel. The gym is probably a safe bet. I’d like to get in a swim and might tidy up the garage. Based on the number of boxes out there, we could start our own Amazon delivery service. We’re starting to think about Thanksgiving. I’ve pretty much settled on Pumpkin Cheesecake with Bourbon Sour Cream topping for dessert. It’s an old Gourmet recipe from the vault.
Oh, and in my idleness, I’ve been reflecting on the OK, boomer business. While I definitely don’t think boomers should curl up and go away, I’m not offended by the dismissal, either.
When I was working, I heard boomers speak to millennials and gen Xers with arrogance … comments such as, “I have shoes older than you” or “I’ve been working longer than you’ve been alive.”
Boomers, in my opinion, are an important voice and should continue to express themselves, but sometimes we need to shut the fuck up and let the younger generation have their say, even if they’re saying we suck.
What was that Army expression about getting even? Payback’s a medevac.
I planted my cannabis seed six days ago, and this morning I went in to say hello, you know, encouraging my little one to emerge from the soil, and there it is. My baby seedling!
The instructions now say to keep the pellet damp but not too wet or dry. In about 10 more days, it should be ready for transfer to the big pot. I’ll post another picture when it looks more like a plant … probably right before the transfer.
Here’s my first post about growing cannabis at home. Just another fun retirement hobby …
While I am grateful to the medical community for all the excellent treatment I’ve received over the years, my expectations are high, and I am disappointed when they do things that are not in my best interest. Nothing bad happened, but you could still call this a cautionary tale about manipulation and will.
I am BRCA-positive. The three biggest risks for me are ovarian cancer, breast cancer and colon cancer. I’ve already had ovarian and breast, so, you know, only one left.
Because of my BRCA status, I am on the five-year plan for colonoscopies. I’m due in 2020. I’ve never had an abnormal result, but they like to keep close tabs. At my annual physical, my primary care physician said she’d start the referral process for the colonoscopy. Faster than you can say Jack Robinson, I get a call from the gastro clinic wanting me to come in for a pre-screen.
I said, “I don’t want to do it until 2020.” I did not say, “Because my last colonoscopy was in 2015. I’m on the five-year plan. Do the math.”
She said this is just a pre-screening with the nurse practitioner. Fine. I went this week, and first off, I did not like the nurse. She had sort of a fake kindly voice but only wanted one-word answers to her questions, and I got the distinct feeling she would lock me in an insane asylum if she could. Not that she would be the first.
The pre-screen all went well, and then she said, “OK, let’s get you scheduled!” It was like the Party City ads on TV:
Oh, it’s on.
She escorts me to a room, where a clerk is ready to schedule my event. I said, “I don’t want to do it until 2020.” She said, “We don’t book that far out in advance.”
I said (in my outside voice) this is bullshit.
“I told the person who called me to schedule this appointment I wasn’t due for my five-year check-up until 2020.” She said, and I quote, “Oh.”
Then she explains I’ll simply need to call back as we get closer to the date. What? December? January? There was no specific guidance. Then for the kicker, she added, “We already sent your prep kit to the pharmacy, but don’t worry, it has a long shelf life.”
I was not amused. Because I am a worry wart, I’m thinking, what is a long shelf life? What if I drink all that crap and have to do it again because it wasn’t fresh? By the time I got home, I was hungry and pissed. I made myself a monster tuna melt with good Swiss cheese and Dale’s homemade bread, and it was comforting and delicious.
As I sat there eating what Dale called my Hearty He-Girl Lunch, I recounted the story to him. I explained my dilemma. Every five years is enough. Even though it’s just a couple of month’s difference, doing it in 2019 basically cheats me out of a year. Because next time, they will say, oh, you had it done in 2019. Your next one is in 2024, not 2025, as previously scheduled.
Of course, I could get over my snit and do it this year. I’ve already met the deductible. Nothing prevents me from speaking up and correcting this when they push for the next one in 2024. But I hate getting manipulated because they run a colonoscopy mill.
As I write this, I’m half-way talking myself into doing it after Thanksgiving but before Christmas. In the end, getting the colonoscopy done a few months earlier is no big deal if I dismiss the manipulation charges.
All vigilance is in the interest of my continued good health, right? When I remind myself I am very lucky to have survived both ovarian and breast cancer, I’m exceedingly grateful and not nearly as pissed about the colonoscopy schedule creep.
I am reminded of the quote from Mother Blues by the musician Ray Wylie Hubbard.
“And the days that I keep my gratitude higher than my
expectations, well, I have really good days.”
When I retired and started using cannabis to treat my
post-mastectomy pain, medical cannabis was legal in California but recreational
was not. I’m not positive how it worked, but I think farmers sold their
production directly to collectives, who then sold it to consumers. The prices
were great!
Then came recreational. Now everything is tightly regulated,
there are more middlemen, everything is in fancy packaging and the prices are
higher. We’re not getting deals like we used to. I’m not complaining, because I
believe regulation is the path toward full legalization, so bring it on. But I
miss cheap weed.
I have a friend whose husband grows cannabis in his
backyard, and I don’t think they even partake. He just likes to grow stuff.
They have been kind enough to give us a couple of mason jars full of very nice
weed, but one doesn’t want to be greedy, as in going back and begging for more.
Although I’m not much of a green thumb, I decided to try and
grow it. I researched options for growing just one plant. Where I live, you can
grow it outdoors, although we don’t get much sun in our backyard. One tomato
plant in the ground and a ceramic pot of habanero peppers is about all we can
muster. I assumed the only other option would be hydroponic, but it can be
complicated and gets expensive fast.
I settled on A Pot for Pot, which is a kit that includes nearly everything you need to grow one plant indoors by a window or under an LED light. I purchased the small 2-gallon kit for $79.95. The plant grows two to four feet and yields up to four ounces of cannabis.
For seeds, A Pot for Pot partners with I Love Growing Marijuana, and you get a 20 percent discount on seeds with your pot kit. The folks at A Pot for Pot say autoflowering seeds are better for growing cannabis as a house plant. Among other things, that means the plants don’t require total darkness to flower. I paid $84 for 10 seeds, leaving some wiggle room for mistakes or more plants in the future!
Everything came in fine form and fashion, and I set it up this weekend. I put the pot by a south-facing window, where I believe it will get enough sun. If not, I’ll have to spring for an LED light. Right now, the seedling is in the little starter kit. If all goes well, it will emerge from the soil in about a week and begin to look like a baby plant after another 10 days. Then I will transfer it to the big pot.
As I said, I’m not much of a gardener. But I thought it was
worth a try, and I’m not out a boatload of money. The combined cost of the plant
kit and seeds is $88.35. Let’s say I yield four ounces of cannabis. That’s
about $22 an ounce. My local dispensary sells buds ranging from $30 for 1/8
ounce to $55 for 1/8 ounce. That’s $240 to $440 an ounce!
We’ll see how it goes, and of course, I’ll keep you posted on my progress. It should take about 11 weeks to grow a fully mature plant. And then I have to harvest, dry, trim and cure.
And people wonder what we do all day in retirement.
A few days ago, our upstairs window was open, and I heard a
horrible plaintive wailing, possibly from a mortally wounded animal or a child
in distress. It sounded like it was coming from the street in front, so I went
outside. I stood a long time and just listened. Sometimes there was nothing, deadly
quiet, but then that awful piercing cry resumed.
Later, Dale and a neighbor were talking out in front, and they heard it. The two of them walked around, probably talking more than listening, but still. Nothing. The sound was haunting the entire neighborhood, but no one could figure out what it was or where it was coming from.
While I was on the phone with my sister complaining about the
strange sound, she said maybe I should call the homeowner’s association. It was
the middle of the afternoon, unencumbered by darkness, so I decided to risk it
all. I said, “I’m going outside. If I lose you, I’ll call you back.”
I walked to the front porch, still in my Minnie Mouse jammies, and just stood quietly, listening. My sister was still on the line, and I put the phone out in the air so she could hear it. Oh, yeah. She heard it, too. What in the world could this be?
As I faced the street, the sound seemed to be coming from
the house on the right. They hadn’t been home in some days, and I began to
worry. Maybe their cat was hurt. Maybe they were inside butchered and dying. I
walked up to the garage and put my ear to the door. I could hear the wailing, but
it wasn’t coming from the garage.
The sound was fierce, and my heart was racing. “Cheryl, are
you still there? It’s getting louder. I’m closing in on it.”
Ever-so-slowly, I turned away from the garage and found myself staring down at an evil black cat, spinning and wailing. However, now I could now see the cat was plastic. And presumably battery-operated. Probably with a timer. Possibly with remote speakers, because this thing could crank out some noise.
“I’m going to put ze phone down,” I said to my sister, channeling Teri Gar from Young Frankenstein, as in, “Put ze candle back.” And then I looked around to see if anyone was watching. The coast was clear, and I carefully picked up the cat. I found a switch on the bottom, and I turned it off.
And then there was peace.
I hope I’m not morphing into a curmudgeon, but Halloween? Enough already. I dread the trick-or-treaters, but there’s no way out.
In yet another failed social experiment, I joined a meetup group of over-50 hikers and signed up for what was described as a “brisk 5-mile walk” along an urban trail.
While the trail was fine, the walk was anything but brisk. There were a fair number of chatty slow pokes, and the leader paused every so often to let them catch up. At one point, I went ahead of the leader because the sauntering pace was killing me, but apparently you’re not allowed to get in front of the leader.
I do understand rules. They’re trying to keep everyone together and safe, but it was painful. I was eager to walk with a group, because I’ve read all the studies about social connections and well-being. However, I quickly realized you are only as fast as the slowest walker.
One of the women who was moseying along was raving about what a beautiful and perfect day it was. I was cold, because I couldn’t work up a sweat, and I was stuck behind her lumbering self, so I wouldn’t call that perfect.
I finally figured out how to slow down, although it felt like I was walking in place. I did chat with others, and it was all right, but the truth is I’d rather be alone and walk fast.
So, OK, I tried it, and I didn’t like it. I guess that means I’m still a loner. But you know what? I’m OK with that. When I was working, I thought I was anti-social because I was busy, tired, pissed or whatever. In retirement, all is revealed, and it turns out I’m just anti-social.
I’ve been like this all along, and it hasn’t killed me yet.
I used to enjoy regular massages, but it has been quite a few years since I indulged. Now that I’m retired, taking care of my body is a high priority, if not my full-time job, and I wanted to revisit the benefits of massage. My hair stylist told me about Renee, a massage therapist who works wonders with a monthly 90-minute session.
My first massage was last month. It was excellent but nothing out of the ordinary. I explained I had a mastectomy without reconstruction, and my chest is very tight. Renee dug in around my armpits, which was great because my surgery extended that far out, but she left my chest untouched.
When she was finished, I asked if next time she would be
comfortable massaging my mastectomy scars directly. Of course, she said. Yesterday
I went for my second massage, and it was a powerful experience.
Massage regulars know you typically start face down. Renee had already done my back and legs, and I’d flipped over so she could start on my front. As she was working on my arms and shoulders, I began to have thoughts about career disappointments. This is a subject I try to let go of, and mostly have, but sometimes the ghosts come back to haunt.
But then I started to feel the sadness of those disappointments leave my body, as though they were being purged. I felt calm and comfortable. Then she started working on my mastectomy scars – not just the armpits this time but the horizontal incisions where my breasts used to be. Renee dug deep, and I could feel the muscles relax.
I’ve always tried to be a trooper about life’s ups and downs
and sometimes forget all I’ve been through with two bouts of cancer, but all of
the sudden, I felt the pain and sadness of those experiences begin to float
away. Not a purge this time but a gentle awakening of my body being healed.
Tears welled and then started sliding down my face. There I was, quietly sobbing as she worked on my mastectomy scars, but I never said a word. I didn’t want to break the spell. When Renee was done, she asked if I was OK, and I said yes. But I was better than OK. I felt released.
Afterward, as I sipped water in her kitchen, I tried to
explain away the tears. Until that moment, I honestly thought I had no issues
whatsoever about my experience with breast cancer, but in a trusting
environment, her therapeutic touch stripped away my defenses, and I was able to
acknowledge the pain and then let go.
Renee said massage can frequently rouse tears when there is physical or emotional trauma, and she wanted me to know she felt deeply connected to me as my tears started to flow.
So, wow, that one will be hard to top. But it makes me think more about the mind-body connection and its power to transform. I’ve never been good at meditation, but now I want to try again.
Part of me says, oh, it just felt good and you’re making too big a deal out of it. What do you think? Have you had any experiences like this with massage, meditation or something else? Do you think exploring the mind-body connection can help us recover from disappointments or trauma? Or maybe just improve the quality of our lives as we age?
Not that simply feeling good is a bad thing! If that’s all it is, I’ll take it.
Today is taco night, which usually makes me a bit nostalgic. I grew up eating tacos most Saturday nights.
When I first retired, I wrote a piece about taco night, and it was published by BoomSpeak, an online magazine. Jay Harrison is writer and publisher, and he does a great job curating a variety of short essays and fiction catering to our demographic. Check it out … I think you’ll like it!
The recipe is woven into the story. I honestly can’t understand why more people don’t make their tacos in this style, which I believe is called El Dorado. These days, we use ground bison and homemade salsa. Oh, and the picture is the actual tablecloth, which I still have.
Taco night
I’ve seen movies that show families eating dinner together, but it wasn’t like that at our house, a Southern California bungalow tucked into a working-class neighborhood out by the tomato cannery.
Mom went to bed as soon as she got home from work. My older sister
and I cooked dinner and ate together at the Formica dinette dominating our tiny
kitchen. We served a plate to Dad, who ate on a TV tray in the living room.
My father was barely domesticated, but somewhere he learned to
make the best tacos on the planet. On taco night, everything was different. Out
came a special tablecloth, the soft white cotton stained and torn with a fading
vintage pattern of red and blue fruit.
Mom emerged from the bedroom and shopped the list:
While Mom made salad and my sister grated cheese, I spread the
shabby cloth as if decorating for a fiesta. I’d brown the meat, adding salt,
pepper and generous sprinkles of my secret ingredient, celery salt.
Mom poured 1/8 inch of vegetable oil into a cast iron pan and set
the flame to medium. She’d run her hand over the pan until the oil felt hot.
Then she’d holler for Dad.
“The grease is ready!”
Dad took a flat tortilla and held it in his palm, adding a
spoonful of browned meat onto one half of the tortilla. He would carefully lay
the meat side of the tortilla in the oil, allowing the tortilla to soften at
the crease so he could fold it on top of itself. After the first side was
golden, he’d flip it over and lightly brown the other side.
When the tacos were done, he held them with tongs over the pan to
drain the extra oil before laying them side-by-side on a sheet pan lined with
paper towels. Cooked properly, the body of the tortilla gets crisp and lacy,
while the part near the fold stays moist and supple.
My father taught me to dress them so the cheese melts against the
warm meat, then hot sauce, then salad. A shake of salt. Mom declared them, “A
la supreme.” We’d all laugh, as we ate tacos together, just like in the movies.
I still make tacos the way Dad did. It’s like time travel. I drop
the meat in the pan, and it begins to sizzle. I break it apart with a metal
spatula. Flip and chop. And just like that, it’s taco night, and everything is
different.
I played decent golf yesterday in my weekly league play, and even if I ultimately decide competition isn’t my thing, changing my mindset to become more competitive made a difference. I was less fearful and stayed calm when I made mistakes. I was like, “Don’t panic, don’t panic. You’ve got this.” And most of the time I did.
Maybe I should have started saying that, oh, I don’t know,
in childhood? Don’t panic. You’ve got this. Might be my new mantra for
life in general.
Over-programming
Golf takes up a lot of time, but still, I am surprised at how busy I seem to be in retirement, even without a grand strategy or detailed list of goals. One thing I know for sure – I don’t want to be over-programmed. I already had swimming on my general list of regular activities, but since I joined the fitness center, I’ve also started doing weights, so that’s one more thing.
I’m not expecting any kind of revolutionary changes with the
weight routine, which at this point is sort of minimalist. But I am hoping it
will help with overall strength, balance and bone density. I told the trainer I wasn’t going to look
like one of the hot buff chicks. I just want to keep my body in decent enough
shape to get me to the end of the party, hopefully standing up and without any
broken bones.
When all else fails – duct tape!
The hinge on my laptop is broken. I can’t close it properly, which isn’t a big deal, since I don’t travel with it or work remotely. But it’s a pain in the rear. The computer is just over two years old. I took it to the Geek Squad at Best Buy, and they said it would be at least five weeks. Presumably because they have to send it back to Dell.
I decided to skip the Geek Squad and managed to duct tape the
hinge back together for the time being. I wonder if there are local computer
repair people who could fix it? Everything else seems to be working fine.
Dentist. Yay.
Today is the dentist. I go three times a year because I build up excessive tartar and am prone to gingivitis. I told you that’s why the gene pool stops here! I don’t know if it’s genetic or the result of poor dental hygiene in childhood. My parents did the best they could, and brushing and flossing didn’t make the cut.
The Army was a good experience for me in many ways, including dental care. It was like an intervention, and since then, I have been religious about taking care of my teeth and gums. My hygienist recommended a water flosser, suggesting it would replace daily flossing. I’ve been using it since my last appointment, so I’m curious to see what she says. I like it a lot, but there’s one caveat.
When I was traveling, I didn’t take it with me, so I brought
floss. When I started to floss, my gums bled a little bit in places. I thought
the water flosser was supposed to take care of that, but apparently not for me.
So, now I do both. No wonder I’m busy.
Books & Movies
I finished The Testaments, the sequel to The Handmaid’s Tale. Didn’t I just see it won the Booker prize? I guess they liked it more than I did. It was OK, but I don’t know, I was expecting more. Offred is more like background noise as opposed to a featured character. I wanted more closure on Offred. Still, it is worth reading if you liked the first one.
On the movie front, I watched To Catch a Thief with Cary Grant and Grace Kelly. If you read through the comments, Barbara said I looked like a female version of John Robie, the character in the movie. I’m not nearly as stylish as he is, but watching the movie kind of got me excited about fashion. At least excited about one outfit – the striped sweater and polka dot scarf. Somehow, I want to reproduce that.
We recorded the new Ken Burns documentary on country music and have been watching that. Dale doesn’t even like country music, but we both love this series.
Foodie Talk
The weather has cooled, and that makes me want to cook! Next
on my list is a recipe for moussaka from an older cookbook by David Rosengarten.
For you foodies, he was on the Food Network when it first started. When the
network went viral, he kind of went away. Although I saw him recently as a
judge on Iron Chef America.
I love his moussaka recipe, but I will have to tweak it some. The pan I originally made it in broke, so I used another pan, and it spread out too much, making it too thin. Moussaka needs to be thick, like lasagna. David calls for an 18x8x3 inch pan. I do not believe such a pan exists or ever has. Don’t ask me how many hours I spent trying to find one.
Finally, I came to the conclusion I don’t need that pan, I just need a different recipe. I compared and contrasted and decided I still liked David’s best, however, I want to reduce the eggplant and lamb by half but keep the bechamel the same. I’ll probably try it this weekend. A full report is pending.
In the meantime, I rewarded myself for this effort with a new Emile Henry lasagna pan. I think it will be perfect for the resized moussaka. I got red, because it was $10 cheaper than white the day I purchased it. But now I just went back to get the link, and there it is in white for the same price. Dale likes red, so why not?
This post is about golf, but it isn’t really about golf, so please keep reading.
I play golf because I love it and am addicted and have been for years. I spend a lot of quality retirement time playing golf. Sometimes I play well, and sometimes, well, I don’t. My game has always been sporadic, but I thought I’d nail this once I retired. Another bubble burst.
My sometimes-mediocre game was starting to bother me, because I don’t do it just to get outside and enjoy nature or whatever it is people say. I like being outdoors and want to have fun, but golf is more fun for me when I play reasonably well.
Although I practice some, I don’t practice enough, and I don’t have a strategy for what to practice. Last week the club champion was in my foursome for weekly league play, and I watched her like a hawk. I think she’s in her 60s. Not a particularly long hitter, but she was deadly accurate and had a lot of skill around the green. If she wasn’t on the green, she chipped it close and then made the putt.
I understand she played as a child, and that makes a
difference, but I still think I can follow her example. It doesn’t take
strength or flexibility to chip and putt. But it does take dedication and focus
to have a great short game. As we say in the Pekar family, it’s time to shit or
get off the pot.
I’m probably going to have to drop a little money on lessons.
And while I’m not one of those super-organized goal setters, I do need a plan.
I no longer want to leave my game to chance, as in who shows up that day? The
one who can play or the one who sucks?
The greatest challenge I face is not time, money, strength,
flexibility or commitment. My greatest challenge is what’s between my ears. I’ve
always been sort of a nervous Nellie about golf, and I’ve convinced myself I
don’t like competition. While I play in casual events and just yesterday won a
couple of little prizes at a member-guest day, I have so far avoided the
serious amateur tournaments. I’ve assumed I don’t have the fortitude to play
with the big girls.
While I am in awe of the club champion’s game, she doesn’t
hit the ball any farther than I do. That was kind of an eye-opener for me. I
didn’t see anything that looked impossible. I might not achieve her level of success,
but with training and practice, I believe I can improve significantly.
And all that makes me wonder about my long-held thoughts about competition. It’s not really about liking it or not liking it – it’s about fear. Fear of failing. What I fear, I avoid. I had this same problem at work early in my career. I didn’t want to play “the game” and was willing to let less talented people surpass me because I didn’t have the confidence to compete and possibly lose.
Eventually, I stepped up and forced myself to play the game and play to win. And I did it without sacrificing my core self – it just took time to find that space where I could be me and yet thrive in a tough corporate setting.
I did it before, and now I’m going to do it again. I’m done saying I don’t like competition. I fear competition, but I’m working on it. Same deal as before, except this time I’m retired, and this time it’s golf. Game on!
Are you still fighting fear in retirement? What do you want, and what’s holding you back?
