Cannabis discounts for 420 celebration

It’s 420 week, and tomorrow is 420 day, which is a celebration of cannabis, my personal retirement medicine of choice. Small doses help me with post-mastectomy pain, anxiety, sleep and overall well being. I seriously wouldn’t want to grow old without it – and today’s cannabis offers many choices that don’t involve smoking or getting crazy high.

I thought the 420 story had something to do with the date legislation was passed, but I was wrong. The story involves a legend of high school kids who used to smoke at 4:20 p.m. every day, and it has turned into a cultural movement. You can read the whole backstory here.

If you live where medical and/or recreational cannabis is legal, be on the lookout for amazing sales. The cannabis collective where I shop has offered fantastic discounts all week. $125 for an ounce of Dream Queen, which normally costs around $300. One of my favorite sleep aids – Granddaddy Purple – a ½ gram cartridge is normally $40, and it’s on sale for $25. A 1-gram cartridge is normally $60, and it’s on sale for $40. Yes, I am stocking up.

I urge you to shop around and find a cannabis dispensary that loves its customers. Even when it’s not 420 week, my collective offers nice perks. Place your order before noon, and you get the early bird special, which is a free pre-roll. Plus, all orders over $80 get an additional free gram of bud. My collective also has a creative marketing program, and in today’s email there was a trivia question.

During the temperance movement of the 1890s, marijuana was commonly recommended as a substitute for “________”. The reason for this was that use of marijuana did not lead to domestic violence while “_______” abuse did.

The first three correct answers won a prize – I was 3rd with the correct answer of alcohol! The lanyard advertising Hi-Fi cannabis infused chocolates was my prize. My husband said they wouldn’t go broke giving away prizes, but I liked it anyway. I believe this is my first piece of cannabis swag.

 

 

The Cellulite Wars

Note: My sister-in-law is vacationing with us. Our first post-retirement visitor! We’ve only had one truly warm day, and we spent it by the pool. I wore my new bikini and watched her float, which I found quite relaxing – like other retirees watching birds only with people. Later, we went shopping, and she steered me toward one-piece swimsuits. I was reminded of this story, which I wrote a few years ago.

We lived in Alabama in the late 1980s. My sister-in-law came down from Maine to visit us. She had never been anywhere exciting, so we hopped in the car and drove to New Orleans for a weekend. We stayed in a room with two double beds.

I didn’t know her very well then, but we were getting acquainted fast. I discovered she has no filter — she says whatever she thinks.

It had been a long day, and we were chilling, getting ready to go out for dinner. My husband was in the bathtub. He often used to hang out in the tub and read. We called him Marat, after Jean-Paul, a notable of the French Revolution who had a skin disease and frequently soaked in medicinal baths. He was ultimately murdered in his bathtub. This fact will become relevant as the story unfolds.

The door to the bathroom was propped slightly open to let out some of the steam. My sister-in-law and I were trying to get dressed before Marat got out of the tub to avoid the awkward scene with his sister and his wife partially clothed.

I was naked, looking for underwear, when my sister-in-law popped her head up and said, “You know, Donna. I am amazed with all the walking and exercise you do, you still have so much cellulite on your butt.”

Marat’s ears perked up, and he realized no good could come of this. The tub was conveniently right next to the bathroom door, and he was facing the door, faucet down by his feet. He put the book down on the bathmat outside the tub. He s-l-o-w-l-y slunk down as low into the water as he could, and then s-t-r-e-t-c-h-e-d his left leg until he touched doorknob.

I heard a tap and then a slam! Mission accomplished. Marat had successfully barricaded himself from whatever was about to take place in the bedroom. This could get ugly.

Here’s the thing. I was pissed, and even though I remember the scene vividly many years later, sometimes my reactions in real time are almost stunted. I tell this story occasionally and everyone wants to know … what did you say? What did you say when she said you were packing a lot of cottage cheese for a so-called athlete?

I said, “I know. Go figure.”

And The Cellulite Wars were over. Marat was not murdered in the tub, but interestingly, he doesn’t take baths anymore. My sister-in-law and I went on to become good friends. She is a delightful person but still has no filter. I still walk and exercise, and I still have cellulite.

 

Facing the aging face

My sister-in-law arrived for a visit. I had not seen her in several years, and my first reaction at the airport was, wow, she looks fabulous! I couldn’t quite figure out the difference – a little thinner? A new hair color? I didn’t have to wonder for long. She was eager to show me the before and after pics. It would seem she’s had a little work done.

She just turned 60. For as long as I have known her, she hated the way her face sagged and often complained she had no cheekbones. She used to pull the skin up on her face tight to show me the potential. We called it mirror surgery. All that is history, because now she has only subtle middle-aged wrinkles and cheekbones that could knock out Mike Tyson. Yet, it looks entirely natural.

S-I-L has chronic health issues, so she made a vow of no cosmetic surgery. She said it would suck to live through her shit and then die getting a face lift. With two cancers behind me, I can relate. So, what was her magic? Injectables, fillers. No surgery, and she looks at least 10 years younger.

Typically, I am anti-whatever when it comes to doing anything in a feeble attempt to look younger. Until I saw her transformation, I hadn’t given wrinkles much thought. At 62, my face still looks OK to me, but upon further examination, I was shocked to discover my neck has more folds than Marie Kondo’s t-shirts.

Cosmetic intervention is tempting, but I’m probably not going to mess with it. The visible signs of aging actually don’t bother me much. And what other people think about my aging face doesn’t bother me at all. I’m happy with who I am, how I look and how I am living my life.

However, my opinion about “having a little work done” has changed. I felt proud and principled because I was going to leave my face alone no matter what. Big deal. If we’re lucky, we get to age and do what makes us happy. There’s no prize at the end for judging everyone else’s decisions.

How about you? Intervention or no intervention? There is no wrong answer.

I never learned to surf

As a kid, I loved growing up in California, but I hit escape velocity at 18 and never looked back. I had big dreams that over the years became small dreams, and one of them was to someday return.

I had pretty much given up on California when I got an interesting opportunity. I was working for a company in Texas, and there was a job that could be in Denver or in the San Francisco Bay Area. I wanted Denver, despite my dream, because I am practical and didn’t want to face the cost of living.

After the interview, they asked me if California was a deal breaker, and I said no even though it was because I knew they would never pay me enough money to live there.

The offer came for California. I cried and cried. Why me, why now? I’m too old to make this work. I turned it down, and they came back with more money. I turned it down again, and they came back with more money. It was still not enough to make it a slam dunk, but it was enough to make me think.

It was Labor Day weekend, and my husband and I were doing the math. Can we make this work? Once we accepted we would buy a house we could never pay off in our lifetime, it became possible. We said let’s do it.

We fell back in love with California and ultimately retired here. We found ourselves loving the farmer’s markets, wineries, warm days and cool nights. We brought our little teardrop trailer with us from Texas. We called it the toaster – and started to enjoy the local beauty on weekend camping trips.

Aside from the astronomical mortgage and a ridiculous commute, it felt like this was where we were supposed to be.

The summer before I retired and moved to a more affordable part of the state, we went camping at Jalama Beach in Santa Barbara County. We had a primo spot facing the ocean. We toasted at happy hour and said look at us, we have arrived! Camping on the beach in California.

The next day we sat on the beach watching the surfers, and an overwhelming sense of sadness washed over me. I’m from Southern California, not far from the beach. How come I never learned to surf? I guess because our family struggled to fulfill life’s basic needs, and we didn’t do extra things. My sister and I were encouraged to graduate from high school and not get pregnant.

As we get older, it’s easy to get caught up in what ifs and missed opportunities. We owe it to ourselves to do the hard work and move on. So, I turned my thoughts to surfing. About what it would be like to face down the ocean. To just step in there and paddle out to sea with little more than a board and courage. To bob around and then pick a wave and hope it’s the right one. To ride it until you fall and then get back up and try again.

And as the glorious California sun dropped down into the edge of the ocean, I realized I’ve been surfing all my life.

The working retiree

It appears I need a little work in my life. I was good at my job, and being good at something and getting paid for it gave me satisfaction. Now I’m doing what I love, mostly writing and playing golf, and neither one is fun if you have high expectations.

On a bright note, I also love to walk and have the whole one foot in front of the other thing mastered.

Many retirees still work. Sometimes you need the money, and sometimes you need validation beyond what you do for pleasure. Perhaps it’s up to each individual to define what retirement means to them. My definition is evolving.

I don’t want to work full-time if I can help it. I’ve saved a solid nest egg, but in addition to validation, it turns out I also like money coming in. I confess – even though I’ve written about changing my relationship with money – it is unsettling to see my checking account with no regular deposits.

As a communications professional, public relations work and writing are a good fit. After all, this was my career for 38 years, and I wasn’t quite ready to chuck it all. I just wanted a different lifestyle – not to be a slave to the job. More balance, more leisure. A chance to try different things and see what sticks.

So far, I’ve done a bit of consulting for a PR firm, and I like it. Writing this blog keeps me in the game, and what I’ve learned about social media platforms such as Instagram makes my brain hurt. As a wannabe cannabis advocate, I find this new world so interesting and am eager to learn more.

Engaging with the world on different terms is fun and exciting. But no lie, it’s hard to put yourself out there and risk personal failure or public indifference. It’s safer to retreat. But if we don’t try new things, the results are obvious. Nada. Trying at least opens the window of opportunity.

A bit of challenging work coupled with a relaxed lifestyle feels sort of perfect. I’ve thought about playing golf four or five times a week and calling it a day. But there are few psychological rewards for those of us who are addicted to the game but pretty much suck at it. Also, what if I became disabled? As we age, I think it’s important to mix the intellectual with the physical so no matter what happens, we can still have meaningful and relevant interests.

I’m planning to expand my consulting business, perhaps adding a client or two. Not enough work to ruin the bliss of retirement, but I just can’t stand the thought of going away quietly. I’ve always lived my life thinking about infinite possibilities for both work and pleasure, and I love thinking the best thing yet might be just around the corner.

A message of faith and hope

On April 1, 2015, I was in the hospital having my breasts amputated. Mastectomy is such a nice word, but the only thing nice about this procedure is its potential to cure or prevent cancer. I’m happy to be celebrating my three-year anniversary. For those of you who are celebrating Easter today, perhaps my message of faith and hope will resonate.

My first cancer came out of nowhere. I was 43 years old and having vague abdominal pain. I already had a hysterectomy due to painful periods and wanted to be done with all that. My ovaries were removed during that operation. No ovaries but weird stuff going on. I had an exploratory surgery where they go in with a scope through the naval, and that’s when they found cancer.

The doctor said it was ovarian, which kind of blew me away, but it turns out a small percentage of women will get a kind of cancer almost identical to ovarian even without ovaries. That would be me. It’s officially called Primary Peritoneal Cancer (PPC). Most days I just say ovarian, although they are distinct.

It was advanced. Stage 3, Grade 3. The five-year survival rate is about 25-30 percent. The treatment was surgery to remove the tumors and other miscellaneous parts and then six months of chemotherapy. Following the chemo, I had another surgery to see if microscopic cancer remained. I was clear, and here I am, 18 years later with no recurrences.

I never thought about breast cancer, assuming my earlier cancer was a fluke. But I did go every year for a mammogram, and in 2015, it came back with a suspicious mass. After additional tests, I was diagnosed with Ductal Carcinoma In Situ (DCIS), which means the cells that line the milk ducts of the breast have become cancer, but they have not spread into surrounding breast tissue. DCIS is considered non-invasive or pre-invasive breast cancer.

If you’re going to get breast cancer, this is the one you want. Standard treatment is lumpectomy and radiation. However, I had that nasty history, so after all these years, it occurred to the doctors I should be genetically tested. It came back positive for the BRCA1 gene mutation. As the genetic counselor explained it to me, this mutation caused both my cancers and puts me at higher risk of cancer maybe forever.

The doctor advised me to have a bilateral mastectomy, and I agreed. It’s about reducing risk. I also decided not to get reconstruction or wear a prosthesis. I choose to be flat. You can read about that decision here.

In the early years after my first cancer, I had boatloads of check-ups because of the high recurrence rate. Now I go for check-ups twice a year, where they poke around and draw some blood to test for a cancer antigen that could indicate a recurrence.

That’s my cancer story in a nutshell. There are stories within the story, and I will probably write about them at some point. I was unlucky to get cancer but very lucky to survive it. As for the BRCA mutation, no one else in the family had ovarian or breast cancer. My relatives were tested after my diagnosis, and no one came back positive. The best we can figure is that I inherited it from my father, who had prostate cancer in his 50s but died many years ago from something else.

No cancer is good. And there are plenty of other terrible ailments that plague people and have nothing to do with cancer. If you are suffering, I know it’s a struggle to stay positive, but I always had faith as long as I was still alive, I would grow and learn and love and find happiness no matter what. You just keep going.

As for hope, I believe somebody, somewhere beats the odds and from day one, I said, “Why can’t it be me?”

 

The other kind of retirement dreams

I was in the Army back in the 70s and to this day, I sometimes have a dream where I’m back in, but I don’t have the right uniform. I’m trying to get to the clothing sales store before somebody catches me, but I don’t know where it is. I’m walking around, knowing I’m about to be caught and in big trouble. Mercifully, I wake up.

Sounds kind of like college dreams, right? It’s the big test, but you forgot to study. Or you didn’t graduate after all. I suspect everyone has a version of these dreams, which I assume are related to stress and/or anxiety.

My dreams are vivid, and I remember most of them. When I tell my husband about them, the first question he asks is if I crossed state lines. The answer is usually yes, many times.

So, I’ve had a few retirement dreams. Last night I dreamed my boss asked me at the last minute to sit in for her at the big Monday staff meeting. Sadly, I had worn slippers to work. I had time to go home and get appropriate shoes, but I was also invited to participate in a ceremony, where I would be honored for something that was not revealed in the dream.

But I wanted to go, so I skipped the shoe exchange and planned to attend the ceremony – in my slippers. I forgot to tell the administrative assistant who runs the meetings that I wouldn’t be there. I couldn’t find the ceremony, and the staff meeting was already over by the time I gave up. I called the admin and apologized for being a no-show.

She starts telling me how much trouble I’m in, the big guy is really mad, but in my dream, I’m thinking, wait! I’m retired! This isn’t really happening. Wake up! They can’t do anything to me. And then mercifully, I wake up.

So, wow. I suspect for many of us, it will take years to completely unwind from the pressures of the workplace. As I think about it, the dreams are similar to a few unpleasant dreams I had when I was working. Doing something stupid and then coping with the fear of getting in trouble.

Um, wait, I think that actually happened … the stupid and the trouble. However, I’ve been pretty lucky none of my mistakes were deal breakers. Although one time in the Army it came close. I had a pattern of saying whatever was on my mind. I asked the lieutenant why I never got any of the cushy assignments, and he said, Pekar, it’s got something to do with what’s between your nose and your chin.

I did learn to control my stream of consciousness ramblings, and that served me well in corporate life. I’m grateful I made it to the finish line and even more grateful I can now wake up and say, wait! This isn’t real. I’m retired.

Bacon of the Month Club

During the first couple of months after I retired, my husband and I were driving each other nuts, what with me wanting him to eat healthier and live longer and then his raging indifference to my loving intentions. So, I thought, fine, you want to die, let’s get this show on the road, and I gave him “Bacon of the Month Club” for Christmas.

He would receive a monthly shipment of bacon for three months courtesy of Zingerman’s. I would have done the whole year, but that seemed too obvious.

I like bacon, but most of the time, I’m like, no thanks, I’ve already had cancer. Until delicious specialty pork products started arriving at the door, I wasn’t even tempted. But now there was pressure.

The first shipment was a pound of Nueske’s applewood smoked bacon from Wisconsin. The package included a keepsake binder with articles about bacon and the people who make it, “A Pocket Book of Bacon” and a pig magnet for the refrigerator.

Nueske’s was by far the best of the three we sampled. The article in the binder described it as the Platonic ideal of bacon, the one against which all other bacons are measured. And it’s true. I’m not good at describing the positive qualities of bacon after so many years of pig-shaming, other than to say Dale cooked it to perfection, and it was crispy, smoky and succulent.

At first I would only eat one piece, and I said we can never have this more than once a week. Then I said, oh, two pieces won’t kill me, but never, never more than once a week. And then I said, oh, what difference does it make if we eat it twice a week? We’re all going to die anyway.

In hindsight, I can see bacon helped us bond through a challenging transition in our lives. Whatever was going on – me in bed at night, worrying about what happens if the North Koreans bomb us and ruin my retirement and him worrying about me being awake worrying about North Korea.

But then it’s morning, the sun is glorious, the birds are chirping and wait, what is that other sound? Could it be the siren call of bacon?

One morning I took a picture of two simple slices of bacon on a plate and posted it on my Instagram account. I don’t get tons of Instagram traffic, but bacon is my most popular post to date. I look at the number every couple of weeks, and I report to Dale that bacon, of all my posts, is still in the lead. He laughs every time. The picture of me bald after chemotherapy is a heart-tugging second, but it’s not bacon.

We’re adjusting to our new lifestyle. I gave up pestering him about what he eats. Besides, he kind of came around on his own. Our membership in Bacon of the Month Club had expired, and one day he said, you know, that was fun, but we shouldn’t eat so much bacon.

I let him think it was his idea – a trick I learned at work.

Casual clothes for retirement

When I was working full-time, I put effort into assembling a stylish wardrobe that was appropriate for my workplace but also felt true to who I am. No stilettos for me, thank you. Perhaps my greatest professional accomplishment was putting together an outfit that included a pencil skirt and rubber-soled shoes. Oh yes, I did it. My ugly shoe game is strong.

But that time is gone. I might need a professional-looking outfit or something suitable for a city engagement once in a great while, but mostly I need clothes I can goof off in! Now that I’m retired, my days are mostly about being at home, reading, writing, cooking, grocery shopping, playing golf and walking or hiking. An occasional dinner out. I’ve put zero effort into style. My look is often what we used to call, “Joe Shit the Rag Man.”

The fashion blogs are filled with cool, stylish outfits, but I don’t need those kinds of outfits. I need play clothes! And that is why I went to REI this week. Plus, I had a gift card from my retirement party, so it was like free stuff. I bought two pairs of shorts and a top, and that pretty much burned up the card. I see future shopping trips to T.J. Maxx and other discount stores. Still, my new free shorts by prAna are modern with great fabric and great fit with a zippered pocket! I also love the longer length. I’m smitten.

I thought I was over wanting to look fashionable, but I’ve come to the conclusion I don’t want my retirement diary to be, “My Life as a Slob.” Retirement is an opportunity to reinvent ourselves. It’s obvious I will need proper clothes for the journey. I have ugly shoes, so that’s a head start.

 

 

Five strengths retirement will test

Today I share a warning from the ghost of retirement future. I built a solid portfolio of skills and talents in my 38-year career, and when I retired from full-time work, the things I was good at were the first to go. Everyone talks about outliving your money, but maybe the real risk of retirement is having our hard-won strengths put to the test.

  1. Time Management – The morning flies by fast when you sleep late. Breakfast, news, email … and the next thing you know, it’s time for lunch! Last week I had a 10 a.m. appointment just a few minutes from my house, and I wasn’t sure I had enough bandwidth to execute in a timely fashion. And yet another worry bead – at this pace, I may not have enough jammies to get me through the next few years.
  2. Leadership – I have no authority and a team of one who does not believe he reports to me. I have a clear vision, which I’ve shared with him during happy hour (think of it as an all-hands). But I get the sense he is not engaged. His discretional effort is focused on BattleBots.
  3. Project Management – We work on a new project every day, and it is called dinner. The results are spectacular, world-class, but there is occasionally a problem with cost, schedule or expectations … mostly expectations. Somehow during the kickoff meeting, he forgets to tell me he’s putting Trinidad Scorpion Peppers in the beans, and I don’t know, he just doesn’t seem to understand the business case for chia seeds.
  4. Communication – As a leader, I used to command attention, but now I wonder if I speak and no one hears me, do I still make a sound? I practice my outside voice on the pool guy. “Wow, a lot of leaves today, huh?”
  5. Conflict Resolution – When colleagues with different objectives and needs clash in the workplace, a good leader uses respectful dialogue to separate the people from the problem and help the team stay focused on shared business goals. This doesn’t always work at home, where there is no best practice to resolve snits, irks, miffs, fumes, gripes, pouts, stews, nags and peeves.

Of course, the agile retiree with a learning orientation will adapt. I now realize my strengths are also development areas. I’m committed to continuous improvement. In the near-term, I will get dressed and do something about the jammie shortage.