We don’t bounce like we used to

Although I mentioned I fell down and went boom, I was too angry at the time to explain it in any way that might help someone else. I’ve had a few days to calm down.

It was Monday. I parked my car and was walking toward the entrance to a thrift shop, where I planned to search for cheap things I might turn into art or something like it. Items were displayed on the porch. I got excited, and with my eyes on the prize, I tripped on a parking lot car stopper and went face down.

People were nice. Stuff flew out of my purse, and someone gathered it up. Someone else brought me a chair. A woman with a young child had a wad of tissues for my bleeding chin. I felt OK, but I sat there keeping pressure on the chin. I asked someone for a mirror, and when I saw the gash, I immediately knew I’d need medical treatment.

I drove to a walk-in clinic near my house. I did not know there’s a difference between a walk-in clinic and an urgent care clinic. The physician’s assistant at the walk-in clinic took a quick look and said I needed to go to urgent care.

Next stop was urgent care, where I commenced to wait. I was there over an hour, when the receptionist announced there was some sort of air quality problem, perhaps carbon monoxide. They were closing the clinic and evacuating the building. She said I’d need to go to their other clinic, a good 30 minutes away.

I thought, well, I don’t need to stay within their system, as long as the clinic accepts my insurance. I used Google Maps to find another urgent care clinic down the street. Oh, and Dale had let his phone die, as he often does, so there was no way to reach him and let him know I’d be late. I finally texted a neighbor and asked her to let Dale know where his wife was.

By this time, I started bleeding again. I thought that might bump me up in line, but it did not. A woman with five children offered to let me go in front of her, and I said, seriously, you must be the kindest person ever, but I’ll just wait my turn and mop up the blood as best I can.

The gash only needed two stitches. It didn’t hurt much at all, and I thought I was golden. Until the next day, I woke up with bruises all over and sore ribs. The ribs actually got worse the next day, but they are getting better. Still, I’m taking it easy. I’m pissed to have endured all that rain and no golf, only to mess myself up as soon as it got nice outside.

Anyway, the clinic said to come back in 10 days to have the stitches removed. The aftercare sheet they gave me said five days if the laceration is on the face. I called my regular doctor, and they said yes, five days. I had an appointment Friday to have them removed, but I messed up the time and missed my appointment. They would not work me in. I now have an appointment to have the stitches removed Monday, which will be seven days. I don’t care anymore. What’s one more scar?

At every juncture on this little journey, I would explain I tripped over a parking lot car stopper. And almost every single person had a story about a pedestrian accident involving parking lot care stoppers. I had never given them much thought, but you can bet I will now.

I have no good explanation for my lapse of attention. But missing my appointment is another indication I’m letting too much distract me. This post about juggling balls from Linda at Thoughts From a Bag Lady in Waiting certainly resonated with me. From now on, I’m starting every day with a look at the calendar and a very short list of priorities.

Here’s the weirdest part, and I would love to hear from anyone who has a theory. March 11 was the anniversary of my cancer diagnosis. That was 1999. On March 11, 2012, I fell off my bicycle and broke my wrist. And now on March 11, 2019, I busted myself up in a parking lot.

Please be careful out there. We don’t bounce like we used to.

Have you ever been mellow?

I’ve been digging this art thing – or whatever passes for it in my case. Samples of my laboratory experiments are featured in a new gallery page accessible from the menu bar at the top. There are only a few works presented, as I have many more failures than successes.

Mostly, I’ve been playing around with tile coasters, and I’ve been so into it that I semi-forgot about writing. Sometimes not everything needs to be said. Do you remember that song by Olivia Newton-John – Have You Ever Been Mellow?

There was a time when I was in a hurry as you are

I was like you

There was a day when I just had to tell my point of view

I was like you

Now I don’t mean to make you frown

No, I just want you to slow down

Have you never been mellow?

Have you never tried to find a comfort from inside you?

Have you never been happy just to hear your song?

Have you never let someone else be strong?

I have found comfort from inside, and I also think art is teaching me to fail better. Some of the mistakes actually turn out great, and some are just learning experiences, but I’m not spending much money on this little endeavor, and it’s fun to tinker.

After I made the cannabis display tile, I decided they should be coasters. I made a few more from the slate tiles and backed them with cork. They look fabulous, except I discovered the hard way slate is not level on both sides, and a drink on top is prone to tipping over. Dale said he could help me level them, but 4 x 4 slate tiles are difficult to find anyway, so I’m unlikely to continue on that path.

Travertine is way easier to find, and it’s perfectly level, but I do believe it’s a bit harder to work with. In the gallery, I posted a picture of my Travertine tile featuring whiskey in a glass (neat). I love how it turned out, but some of my other forays have been less successful. Sometimes the image doesn’t transfer the way I’d like.

The good news is Home Depot carries the small Travertine tiles, and they are cheap. While Travertine does come in varying shades, most are white, which doesn’t appeal to me. I appreciate variations and imperfections in the stone, so I didn’t want to paint over it. I got the idea for a color wash. I mixed up a little turmeric with water and brushed on a light coat. That’s what you see in the picture above.

Now I want to try other natural dyes – tea, beets – you name it. I was even thinking of carving something into a beet and using it as a stamp. That may not sound exciting to you, but to me, it’s revolutionary. Until a few weeks ago, nothing like this would have ever crossed my mind.

In other news, I was on my way into a thrift shop in search of goodies to play with in my art studio garage. Just feeling groovy, when something caught my eye, I tripped over a parking divider and trashed myself up pretty good. My chin took the brunt of it, requiring two stitches. I’m grateful I didn’t break anything.

So, as the canary in the coal mine, I’m still encouraging you to explore your inner artist. But if you’ve never been mellow, please proceed with caution. It’s dangerous out there.

Vacuuming your way to pickleball

My retirement credo is move if you’re able, as much as you’re able. I walk, I play golf, I walk when I play golf, I clean the house … Dale has not exactly followed my lead, but he knew there was room for improvement. Enter pickleball.

In case you don’t know, pickleball is the official sport of the senior set. Pickleball is the new shuffleboard only more vigorous. The game is played on a court and is a combination of tennis, badminton and ping-pong. The court is a bit smaller and the net is a bit lower. You hit the ball with a wooden paddle, and the plastic ball is nearly dead.

Back in the day, Dale and I played tennis and racquetball. Both sports were abandoned years ago due to injuries. Dale’s shoulder, my knees. But these days we’re doing pretty well injury-wise and hoped pickleball might be a modern solution to our need to kick each other’s butts on the court. Let’s just say we were are competitive.

I signed us up for lessons at the local community center. Dale questioned the need for lessons – how hard can it be? My thinking was not about the game’s difficulty but meeting other people who know how to play, understanding the etiquette, learning how to schedule time on the court, etc. Clearly, considerations too detailed for Dale’s big-picture brain.

We had our first two classes this week. Two more next week and we graduate. The class was filled with men and women who looked pretty much like us. Older, varying degrees of fitness.

The men were mostly out of shape, but a couple of the women looked athletic and one tightly packed blonde had an aggressive swing seemingly aimed at my face. I’m going back for her.

For a guy who didn’t even see the need for lessons, it turns out Dale read up on the game and the rules beforehand. The teacher was explaining how to tally the score, and I whispered to Dale I was confused, and he whispered back not to worry, because he already read it all online.

You did pre-work? Seriously? Whew, the stakes are high.

Pickleball is fun! We’re terrible now but figure we’ll improve soon enough. Nothing hurt when I played, and more importantly, nothing hurt after I played. Dale said he discovered new muscles. He runs but doesn’t exercise his upper body all that much. I guess golf saves me in that department. Or is it golf?

In a moment of brilliance, I suggested to Dale he vacuum more for a better upper-body workout. Nothing like a vigorous vacuum to prepare for a day of sport! Mopping is another excellent choice. In a pinch, yard work will suffice. He found that all very amusing.

If you haven’t tried pickleball, I recommend giving it a go. So far, it seems gentler on the body yet still challenging enough to call it a workout. Moving more in new and different directions can’t be a bad thing. All in all, we like it and are hoping pickleball will be a game we can enjoy together for many years to come.

20th cancerversary

This month is my 20th cancer anniversary. I’ve written about my cancer experiences from time to time, and I’m never sure if I get it right. Of course, it’s my story, I know how it begins and ends, but I’m fuzzy on purpose. Am I doing any good?

Documenting the journey reminds me of my good fortune and keeps me grounded. But this story is also for others. It’s about aiming high, knowing good outcomes are possible. Cancer sucks, and sometimes it kills you but not always.

It was 1999. We were in the middle of moving from Charleston to Columbia, S.C. – a move known at our house as “The Big Mistake.” It was not the career accelerator I expected, and I was experiencing weird abdominal pain.

I found a wonderful family practice physician who didn’t think I was nuts. He sent me to a general surgeon, who said it was probably adhesions – scar tissue – from a hysterectomy I’d had several years earlier to alleviate painful periods.

Adhesions kind of glue everything together, so he’d go in with a scope through the navel and zap them apart. Surgery was no big deal, because this was just a quick little Friday morning outpatient procedure. I’d be back at work Monday. Except I woke up in a room, and I knew something was wrong.

It turned out to be Primary Peritoneal Cancer, a rare form of cancer that is almost the same thing as ovarian cancer (even though I had no ovaries). By the way, if your ovaries have been removed, there’s like a 99 percent chance you won’t get this.

The doctor said it blew him away completely, because cancer was the last thing he expected to see. He didn’t touch it, though. He called a gynecological oncologist from the operating room, and their collaboration helped spare my life.

I had Stage 3C, Grade 3 cancer. Statistics suggested a 25 percent chance of living five years, but my oncologist never discussed life expectancy. We just focused on the road ahead. I had surgery to remove the tumors. Surgery was followed by chemotherapy, which consisted a Taxol/Carboplatin cocktail infused every 21 days for about six months.

After chemo was completed, I would have another operation called “Second-Look Surgery.” The second-look was to biopsy what was left and see if microscopic cancer remained. If I still had cancer, I’d continue treatment, but if the biopsies were normal, I could spare my body the extra wear and tear.

My biopsy reports were negative, and if you don’t count breast cancer, I’ve been fine ever since.

In 1999, genetic testing wasn’t standard. Neither breast nor ovarian cancer runs in my family. Only when a routine mammogram led to a diagnosis of Ductal Carcinoma in Situ (DCIS) did they test me. It came back positive for the BRCA 1 mutation. That was 2015.

No one else in the family tested positive, but my father had early onset prostate cancer, which can be a sign of a BRCA mutation, so we just assume I inherited it from my dad. He passed away many years ago from something else. Because of my BRCA status, I had a bilateral mastectomy, which is an aggressive and certainly not typical treatment for DCIS.

After being diagnosed with cancer the first time, I was hungry for inspiration. I remember Googling “ovarian cancer survivors.” What came back in the search results was a pile of obituaries – so and so died of ovarian cancer, survivors include …

Yet, here I am. Twenty years later, happily retired and hopefully solvent for another 30 years. So much life ahead!

And that’s why every now and then, I put my story out there. I want you and the random Googler to know for every kind of cancer, every stage of cancer, really for every adversity out there – somebody beats the odds, and it might be you.

And the winner is …

I’m happy to announce the winner of my first giveaway is Sheila! The prize is a decorative slate tile I made using an image transfer process and featuring my favorite tagline of health, happiness and cannabis. Sheila, please email me at donnapekar@retirementconfidential.com with mailing instructions.

Learning to relax

I’m bummed so far less than a handful of people are taking a chance on my free art. Alas, perhaps this is the life of a struggling artist. I suspect it’s more of the case: cannabis – they’re just not into you. Please be patient. Next on the docket: Art Chokes.

Maybe because I live in the West Coast bubble, I forget cannabis isn’t widely accepted. Not gonna decorate your house with it. Using cannabis wisely is part of our lifestyle. Not everyone’s, for sure. If I want to give away cannabis art, I suspect I’ll have to cast a wider net.

What’s the alternative to giving it away? I’m a beginning crafter, so I have no illusions about making any money. But I’ve discovered making art (or something like it) relaxes me. My sweet Dale set up a CD player and speakers for me out in the garage, where I’ve been working. I hung a pretty wind chime that’s too loud for the yard.

Writing is as good a hobby as any, but I can’t write and listen to music. Working on craft projects and amping up the tunes is bliss. Long-term plan is to keep pursuing all creative endeavors. Add that to cooking, walking and golf – and my retirement dance card is filling up quickly.

I have a few tiles completed. I’m getting better at the image transfer process and have been scoping out thrift shops for other potential substrates. So far, I bought an old wooden cutting board and a metal tray. Prices vary considerably among the stores – I thought Goodwill was the most expensive of the bunch.

Looks like I’m not going to stop, so what do I do with all this stuff? I know there are artists and crafters out there who create all the time. Any ideas?

As to the value of all this, I’ve always been a wound-up person. Dale said yesterday he has seen a huge change in me since I retired. I’m way more relaxed about everything. It’s true, and I sometimes wonder if my former colleagues would read about my life and feel sorry for me. Oh, Donna, not the power player. Writing that bloggy thing! Doing crafts! Smoking pot!

Yes, happily. I’m proud to have worked hard for a living, and I am exceedingly grateful to have made enough and saved enough money to quit. Once you have enough to get by without a job, time becomes more important than money or stuff.

I still have a long way to go. My temper flares over stupid things. Dale said, well, yeah, but consider how long you worked in that pressure cooker. You’ve only been retired a year and a half, and look how far you’ve come. Give it time.

Is he the Yin to my Yang, or is it the other way around?

A free cannabis gift that isn’t cannabis

Well, I said I was experimenting with art, and I meant it! My first independent project is making rustic 4×4 slate tiles using my blog tagline.

Health Happiness Cannabis

The theme is important to me. As a two-time cancer survivor and refugee from a workaholic corporate culture, I wanted to spend the rest of my life focusing on health and happiness. For me, and I know for many others, using cannabis therapeutically is nothing short of miraculous. I microdose daily for post-mastectomy pain, anxiety and overall well-being.

I love how the tile turned out. I’m continuing to experiment, but in the meantime, I thought it would be fun to give it away! I know not all readers are cannabis users, but maybe you have a friend who might enjoy this small gift.

Here’s how it works (I think). Please leave a comment on this post. You don’t have to say anything other than hello, if you don’t want to. I’ll number the comments in the order they arrive. First one posted is number 1, second is number 2, etc. Next Monday, March 4 at 9 a.m. Pacific, I will tally them up and use a random number generator on the Internet to select the winner.

Once the winner has been selected, I’ll do a post, and you can contact me with mailing instructions. Oh, the mini-easel is not included. You can buy them all over the place, including Amazon, Target or Michaels.

Art for late bloomers

Many retirees seek creative outlets, and I’m on board with finding my inner artist. I’ve never been interested in visual arts, but why not give it a try? If not now, when? I took a class in mask-making and wrote about it here. I was not having fun.

We left our painted masks behind for a run in the kiln and later received an email they were ready for pick-up. I almost didn’t go. I told Dale I would retrieve it only because that hideous thing was probably part of the master plan to teach me some sort of lesson. I really said that. Dale went with me and stayed safe in the car while I went inside.

I couldn’t believe my eyes. It looked like art! My crazy little guy kitty looks like art! I pulled him out of my bag when I got back to the car, fully expecting Dale to find the whole thing utterly amusing. He was beaming. “Wow, this is so cool. It looks great. Kind of like a palace dragon.”

I wrote the teacher an email.

Hi Tony,

I was in your recent mask-making class for women veterans. I did not like my work and almost didn’t come back the second day. Then I almost didn’t even pick up my finished mask.

However, I picked it up this week, and I am stunned. It’s art! You said at one point I seemed to be upset it wasn’t perfect, and I think that’s true. But now I can see there is art in imperfection. I’ve been attempting other art projects and was frustrated with their flaws, but now I’m sort of going with it. The mask has given me confidence to carry on. I’ve named him CatManDo.

Thanks for your teaching and inspiration,

Donna

He replied!

Oh! I am so glad!! I thought it was one of the best pieces in the class when you were working on it.

Thank you,

Tony

Best in class? I thought it was a complete and utter failure. Clearly I was right about the master plan. Many lessons to be learned.

Rainy day minimalist

We’re finally getting a break from the torrent of rain, and it occurred to me I never once used an umbrella. Maybe one more thing we don’t need in retirement? As I see it, there are several options:

  • Stay home. This is the luxury of retirement. Crappy weather? Oopsie, I’m innie. If you have a television and stock a treasure trove of food, libations, puzzles and books, you should be fine riding out the storm. The cat and I like to play, “Stuck in a frozen cabin in the woods.”
  • Retirement-proof your hair. The reason many women avoid the rain is about hair or shoes. It seems to me most men don’t bother with umbrellas. It’s time to get over the hype your hair must be fixed, full, smooth and perfect. Let it go wild. My longish hair actually looks better with a little rain on it. Sort of the poor man’s French girl hair.
  • Dump the good shoes. In one of my last dressy work-related events before I retired, I wore silver Birkenstock sandals. In hindsight, I can see it was my way of saying, guess what? I’m retiring! These days, I have Merrell boots for big rain involving puddles. For modest sprinkles, Keen sandals (with or without socks) or just athletic shoes. Nothing bad will happen to them.
  • Wear a hat. Hats and dark glasses are God’s way of saying you look marvelous. No makeup required. No need to fix your hair. Just plop and go. Add sunglasses or tinted lenses for extra protection from critical observers. A brim keeps the rain off your glasses.
  • Get a raincoat. Or two. My fave is a real Scottish Mackintosh I bought when I still had cash flow. Coupled with a black Tilley hat, Dale says I look menacing. I also have a short rain jacket for sports and a knee-length Marmot for putzing around. Hoods are handy, depending on what type of hat you select. Big pockets are essential.
  • Ditch the handbag. That’s what pockets are for. Possible exceptions include an all-weather crossbody bag or my old favorite … the backpack purse! Coming back to a neighborhood near you soon.

Umbrellas are relatively cheap, so this isn’t a huge money saver, but it’s another foot forward on the minimalist path. The real pain of umbrellas is what to do with them when you arrive at your destination. Or how to carry one when you have other stuff to carry on the way to your destination.

Hands-free is better than dragging around an umbrella. Plus, you can run faster when the bad shit goes down.

As for the image above, I’ve been having fun with the free Android app Sketch Photo.

Pickled beet memories

Even though I grew up surrounded by California’s wondrous bounty of fresh fruits and vegetables, my mother did not like to cook and thanked the Blessed Virgin Mary every day for packages and cans. And, of course, she was witness to the Miracle of Swanson TV Dinners.

I don’t think I tasted a fresh peach until high school. Potatoes were powdered out of a box or the small white ones out of a can. Believe it or not, when I joined the Army shortly after high school, I considered the mess hall fine dining.

Back in the day, Mom frequently served canned pickled beets. A lot of people say yuk to beets, but I loved them! Now I buy beets fresh at the store or the farmer’s market and pickle them myself. But it’s kind of a pain in the rear. Today I had the brilliant idea of making them in the Instant Pot.

The grocery store usually sells beets in little bundles of three. I actually wanted yellow beets, but I didn’t like the looks of them so went with red. Gave them a good rinse in the sink and then peeled and diced them raw. I would guess it was about two cups, which I tossed into the pot.

I checked several references for cook time and liquids and found inspiration at Plant Based Instant Pot. I decided on 1/2 cup of water and 1/4 cup of apple cider vinegar.  Tossed that in the pot and added a cinnamon stick, a few whole cloves, a few allspice berries and one tablespoon of maple syrup.

Popped on the lid. Made sure the pressure valve was closed and pressed manual, high pressure for five minutes. It didn’t take long for the pot to come to pressure, so I’d say less than 10 minutes all together. When the timer went off, I very carefully released the pressure manually.

They’re in the fridge now, but I taste-tested, and they are delicious! Next time I might add a bit of sliced Maui onion. Maybe a Bay Leaf.

Yesterday was whole roast chicken with Dale’s Maine-style potato stuffing and steamed baby broccoli. We’re going with chicken sandwiches on sourdough for dinner tonight , so I thought some sort of dark red or green vegetable would be good on the side. I’ve been craving beets.

What a perfect use for the Instant Pot. I wonder what else we can pickle the same way. Ginger? Carrots?

By the way, I’m not completely dissing canned vegetables. You have to pick and choose. Beets and corn seem to survive nicely. To me, the worst canned vegetable is asparagus. But I bet you somebody out there has a happy canned asparagus memory, and they eat it to this day.