Sisters!

I’m disgusted with politics. I can’t help but think regardless of where you land on the political spectrum, you are disgusted, too. I want to be a responsible well-informed citizen, but I have to stop paying attention for a while and reconnect with the joy of life.

For starters, I am going to visit my sister, Cheryl, for a long weekend. She lives in California but way north, not quite a six-hour drive. It’s a pretty drive, as long as there are no fires. Dale likes to visit as well, but she is single, and it’s more like a girl’s weekend when I go alone. We can be the odd Pekar girls, we can even watch musicals, and we don’t have to witness Dale passing judgment with his eyebrows. The eyebrows speak!

We have fun activities planned. Probably hanging out in our jammies doing movie marathon. We’ll also eat at a grungy Chinese restaurant that makes the most amazing Orange Peel Beef. There’s some sort of street fest we may attend. I’m bringing all variety of clothes. It’s always in the 60s up there, and I get cold easily, so I will be bundled up. Cheryl will probably be in short sleeves!

I’m excited we’ll be seeing a live musical production of Young Frankenstein, one of my favorite movies of all time. I can almost recite the entire script. Maybe that could be my talent for some sort of post-menopausal pageant. We always did Halloween up big in our family, which was actually pretty scary without the costumes.

It’s funny how two sisters can be so different. We did the 23 and Me genetic test, fully expecting a shocking result that we aren’t actually sisters, but we are. She was good in math, and I was good in English. I’m athletic and can barely sew on a button. She’s the queen of crafts, sewing and quilting.

Every surface of her house is embellished. In honor of my visit, she is combining her fall and Halloween decorating scheme, so I can feel the full impact.

Cheryl takes after my mom’s side of the family in terms of health and body shape. She represents the diabetic apples, while I take after my father’s side – the cancerous pears. We’ve both had odd medical maladies, and neither one of us has children. We joke the gene pool stops here.

Like many sisters, we have had our share of challenges. She was a rather pious girl, while I was a foul-mouthed brat. I said something particularly awful to her once. I used a word that got Samantha Bee in trouble, and I was only 12 or so. She went off to her room crying, and emerged all red-faced and puffy to say, “Donna, I hope God can forgive you, because I can’t.”

Cheryl and I have both chilled out as we’ve gotten older and burned off the sharp edges. We’ve learned to appreciate our differences as well as our shared heritage, as now proven by DNA. And we are always there for each other when the shit hits the fan.

The last time I saw her I went to help as she recovered at home from major surgery. I’m not much of a nurturer, but she was desperate. I’m sure she would agree it’s a low point in your life when you have to count on me for care giving.

That visit included projectile vomiting, which I had to clean up. I mean, that’s what I was there for. She found it hilarious that I immediately went to the drugstore to purchase latex gloves and a face mask. She’s still getting mileage out of that story.

But seriously – it was bad. I still can’t eat Butternut Squash Soup.

Here we are after all this. I’m 63, and she’s 65. Sisters! My mother always said all she ever wanted was for us two girls to get along. It has been touch and go over the years, but now I believe my mother would be pleased.

I believe Dr. Ford

I’ve been reading and thinking and getting angry and sad about sexual misconduct and the long-term consequences. I said to Dale, I’m so lucky I was never physically or sexually assaulted. Then I thought about how sick and wrong that is – assault should be an aberration not the norm.

There was a time in the Army more than 40 years ago when it seemed a close-run thing. I don’t remember the exact year. I don’t remember the month or the weather. I would have been 18 or 19 years old. I know I was in a small apartment in Germany I shared with another female soldier. She was out for the evening. We had only one humongous key, and I left it in the door for her.

Bad judgment on my part, for sure. I was in bed asleep, when all of the sudden I felt someone tugging at my feet and heard a man’s voice saying, “Sugar, sugar, wake up.”

My scared shitless strategy was to pretend I was still asleep and hope he went away, but he persisted. “Sugar, wake up now.”

I don’t know if it was bravery, stupidity or panic, but I bolted up in bed and said, “I don’t know who you are or where you came from, but you get the fuck out of here now.”

He backed away, and said sorry, sorry, I thought you were someone else. I said I don’t care who you thought I was, you get the fuck out of here now. He looked up in surprise and said, “Oh, you, I’ve seen your pussy before.”

Then he turned around headed for the door. He paused in the kitchen and said, “Your icebox is open.”

It was one of those funky old iceboxes you had to push hard to close. I was still in bed with the covers pulled up tight, and I said, “I’ll close it after you leave.”

I really think it was a case of mistaken identity, and the man was not out to harm me. I didn’t tell anyone, and I didn’t report it. I moved back into the barracks.

The stakes are low for me. I was not sexually assaulted. He didn’t pin me down, and he didn’t put a hand over my face to shut me up. It was just a man who found his way into my bedroom, wiggled my foot and and said something crude. I don’t have to convince anyone I’m telling the truth. No one is clamoring for details. No one’s reputation is on the line.

All I know is 40 years later, I will never forget the fear. That’s why I believe Dr. Ford.

Homemade granola for breakfast

In a previous post, I wrote by reducing sugar, eating more fruits and vegetables, eating oatmeal for breakfast several days a week and consuming beans or legumes daily, all the numbers in my lipid profile markedly improved, and my bad cholesterol dropped by 17 percent.

Although I love hot steel cut oatmeal for breakfast, I often prefer something cold to go with my delicious homemade yogurt. I’ve been making my own granola for awhile, but the recipe I used was heavy on sugar. Not that I didn’t love it, sugar and me go way back, but I started experimenting with low-sugar options. Heavy on nuts! I believe I’ve created a tasty compromise and thought I’d share.

A few words about the recipe:

  • I don’t use seasonings other than salt because I mix it with fresh fruit and prefer a blank canvas.
  • You could add dried fruit after the granola has cooled, but I find the fruit gets too dry and chewy.
  • This recipe doesn’t create big clumps.
  • For clumps, you’d probably need to add a bit more oil and avoid stirring it.
  • For breakfast, I top homemade yogurt with about 1/2 cup granola and fruit such as strawberries.
  • I love coconut. I can’t get enough coconut. If you don’t love coconut, this is not your granola!

Donna’s Low-Sugar Coconut Granola

1 ½ cups old-fashioned rolled oats

½ cup unsweetened shredded coconut

½ cup unsweetened coconut flakes/chips

½ cup raw cashews or nut of choice, coarsely chopped

½ cup raw pecans or nut of choice, coarsely chopped

1 tablespoon coconut sugar

¼ teaspoon sea salt

1 tablespoon maple syrup

1 egg white, lightly whisked

1/4 cup coconut oil

Preheat oven to 325 degrees.

Line a ½ sheet pan with parchment.

Mix dry ingredients together and add liquids. Taste and add more salt if needed.

Spread mixture in the sheet pan and cook for 20 minutes – stir gently and turn pan half-way through cooking time. It should be golden brown but not too dark – it may need 3-5 minutes more cooking time. Let cool and store in airtight container.

Happy to be 63 and retired

I had a birthday this week – 63! I was going to get spiffed up and take a picture for the record, but getting spiffed up rarely interests me. Here I am sporting my signature retirement casual look.

When I was in Santa Cruz visiting my gorgeous friend, Monica, who just turned 40, the concierge was helping her with suggestions for the evening. I said hmmm, he didn’t help me, what’s up with that? We got dressed for dinner, and I wore my new skinny jeans. She said, well, he just hasn’t seen your butt yet.

Aw, that’s what friends are for.

Honestly, I am grateful to get older. I was 43 when I had a variation of stage 3 ovarian cancer, and here I am, 20 years later. I was unlucky to get it but exceptionally lucky to survive. I definitely want to rock my age, and I found unexpected inspiration this week on the golf course.

I played golf in my Wednesday league with three women I hadn’t yet met. Three of us were walking, and the other took a cart. The woman in the cart turned out to be 80. I was impressed until I discovered one of my fellow walkers was 82! I told her she was my new role model. She laughed and said, yeah, I just keep walking. The 80-year-old in the cart wasn’t nearly as spry.

Note to self: just keep walking.

Like most people, my golf game varies. On any given day, I can shoot 85 or 100. I’ve been reading up on the mental game, because there’s nothing wrong with my swing … just my brain. I played again on Friday, and I was telling my partner about positive self-talk, such as, “I am the best putter! I can’t wait to make this putt and show off my putting skills!”

It’s not true, but I’ve been doing it anyway, and I have made some unlikely putts. I was describing it to Dale and said, you know, fake it ‘til you make it. He had never heard that expression before.

It’s a work thing. You probably don’t remember that anymore.

Well, you haven’t worked in a year, so they probably don’t say that anymore.

I lost my work creds in a year?

Sorry, but yes.

You know what? I’m OK with that.

I thought you would be.

Dale makes me amazing two-mushroom lasagna with red pepper tomato sauce for my birthday, so I stayed home and worked as sous chef, chopping and weighing while he cooked. Between the two of us, it’s an all-day affair, but damn it’s good. We freeze the leftovers in individual portions, and what a treat that is (along with all the other great stuff in our freezer).

Monica got me semi-hooked on The Handmaid’s Tale. I read the book many years ago but hadn’t seen the Hulu show until we watched it together in Santa Cruz. It’s so good but so disturbing. When I first read the book, I thought this could never happen, but now I’m not so sure.

Last night I decided I was not going to watch this anymore. It’s too depressing. Instead, I watched The Book Club with Jane Fonda, et al. Mostly a bunch of older women sucking down boatloads of wine and complaining about their sex lives, which do improve significantly for all of them over the course of the movie. The Handmaid’s Tale seems more realistic to me. I suppose I’ll have to watch the rest of it.

Dale and I don’t get each other gifts anymore, but I did buy myself a Nespresso Virtuo coffeemaker, which was 50 percent off at Williams Sonoma when I ordered it but is only 20 percent off now. That little machine makes a damned good cup of coffee, and I like that it takes pods, because I typically don’t drink flavored coffee but like to keep it around for guests.

To finish off my birthday week, the temperatures dropped to the high 70s. It’s gorgeous outside, and it makes me feel happy to be 63 and retired!

A wee bit of camping drama

Our camping trip was this week – it was supposed to be for two nights, but it was actually zero. There was a wee bit of drama.

The state park campground is in the heart of Napa Valley. Instead of our usual day hikes, we would visit nearby wine towns and indulge in eating, wine tasting and other decadent behaviors.

Weather was predicted to be reasonably cool. We got there in the early afternoon, and it was hot. No problem – this is California. It will cool off at night.

I have this amazing camping checklist – you know I do – and it includes everything we might think to bring, including the air mattress and pump. But the list did not include a checkbox to charge the pump, and what we had was a dead pump. I had a regular power cord and a car charger.

Our site did not have electrical hook-ups, so Dale went to the restroom and plugged it in there. He was either bored or looked suspicious loitering in the men’s restroom, so he returned to the campsite and said that wasn’t going to work. We could leave it charging in the bathroom unguarded, but he figured somebody would decide they needed it more than we did.

Dale decided to use the car charger. I said, and I quote: “Won’t that drain the battery?” He said in his manly, technical voice, “Not at all.” An hour or so later, the battery was dead.

The good news is we had enough charge to inflate the air mattress. Dale was pissed, presumably at himself, as is appropriate. I would have just parked my ass in the bathroom. I said maybe AAA will come out tomorrow morning – it’s not like we’re in the woods. Dale said yes, I guess that’s what we’ll do.

We were almost to happy hour when the bugs kicked in. Yellow jackets, specifically. By the time we started dinner, they were everywhere, so we ate in the tent, where one of the little bastards stung me.

In his haste to escape the yellow jackets, Dale took the steak off the grill too soon. Like raw. We had salad and baked potato, so we wrapped up the steak and put it in the cooler. He could have put it back on the grill, but those yellow jackets love steak, and they don’t care if it’s rare, medium or well-done.

It was around 6:30 p.m. and not cooling off at all. We were complaining about what a miserable night it was going to be and began to reminisce about other miserable tent experiences adventures over the course of our 40-year marriage.

He likes to bring up Lake Wallenpaupack in Pennsylvania, where I forgot the air mattress, and we slept on rocks. He dreamed he was a paraplegic. I recall a steamy summer’s night on the shores of Lake Guntersville in Alabama, where I dreamed he was stealing my oxygen.

About this time, he started blaming me for the air mattress pump. After all, I had a history of poor air mattress management. I created the checklist, so I guess it was my responsibility to do everything but sniff his underwear to make sure they were clean.

I was mad and said so. Why bring that up? Am I the only one who can charge a pump? And he said, “Well, I didn’t say anything about the heat.” Oh, so the weather is my fault, too?

As I started to explain the rationale for separate vacations, a neighboring camper came over and asked if we needed a jump start. We thanked him profusely and said perhaps in the morning. But then in a sudden vote of solidarity, we said yes, now! We’re leaving.

By the time the car was started, I had disassembled the tent. Dale let the car run while we gathered up all the loose pieces, giggling as we mushed gear into the car as fast as we could. Then we hit the road. We would be home in two hours and sleep in our own insect-free bed with the luxury of air conditioning.

Pulling away, we were still laughing, and Dale said, “I’m happy!”

I was surprised to hear myself saying, “Yeah, me, too.”

What I learned in a year

I just hit the one-year mark on my retirement, although I was still on the payroll through most of October burning up the last of the vacation I could never seem to take for one reason or another. That means a year of not getting up at 4 a.m. or commuting 2.5 hours a day. Bliss!

What have I learned in a year?

  1. I was better at work than I am at golf.
  2. The house gets messier when you actually live there.
  3. Libraries rock.
  4. There is no shame in going to bed early and waking up late.
  5. My husband never says no when I say, “I’m going to Target, do you want to come along?”
  6. The kitchen gets messier when you actually cook.
  7. An occasional beer with lunch is a nice treat.
  8. Worrying about money doesn’t make the stock market go up or down.
  9. Housework sucks but keeps you moving and burns calories.
  10. My wardrobe fits into a laundry basket.
  11. Cannabis in small doses reduces pain and makes me happy.
  12. The dishwasher runs more than I do.
  13. Crocs make great slippers.
  14. Writing for pleasure and practice is fun and therapeutic.
  15. Sometimes I start thinking about lunch as soon as I finish breakfast.
  16. It’s better to say nothing than to criticize my husband’s driving.
  17. Cooking delicious food at home ruins you for most restaurants.
  18. Men don’t see dirt.
  19. Birkenstocks go with everything.
  20. The idea of a job has become increasingly unattractive.
  21. Change is good.
  22. I still can’t get rid of my work clothes.
  23. My inside voice and my outside voice are converging.
  24. It’s no big deal to squander a day – lots more where those came from.
  25. Gray hair looks good and saves time and money.
  26. You can have a social life without social media.
  27. I like Kohl’s better than Nordstrom.
  28. Homemade yogurt is worth the trouble.
  29. My husband does not report to me.
  30. Walking is good exercise, and it’s free.

Singing for the health of it

I had a wonderful visit with my friend and her wife, who is being treated for cancer. Since I was on a road trip, I carried my big tote-like purse, as opposed to my usual gender-neutral crossover bag, and the first thing my friend said is, “That’s a girly purse. Where did that come from?” All I could do is cry in defense:

It’s made of seatbelts!

And she was like, oh, OK. Seatbelt bags are from Harveys, and they are cool.

But I digress. We talked about lots of fun stuff but also cancer, which I’ve had twice. Both were girly cancers, by the way. In 1999, I had a variation of ovarian cancer that forms in the lining of the abdomen. It’s virtually the same disease, but it’s called Primary Peritoneal Cancer. I was diagnosed at Stage 3, Grade 3. My treatment was surgery and six cycles of chemotherapy — specifically Taxol and Carboplatin. I’ve been free of disease since my initial treatment.

A routine mammogram revealed early stage breast cancer in 2015. The treatment would normally be lumpectomy and radiation, but it turns out I have the BRCA 1 genetic mutation, which puts me in a special risk category, so my treatment was bilateral mastectomy. Other than post-mastectomy neuropathic pain, I’m fine. Topical cannabis keeps the neuropathy from becoming bothersome.

It turns out my friend’s wife is also being treated with Taxol and Carboplatin, as well as new immunotherapy medicine, which is quite promising. I was excited — I’m the poster girl for Taxol — and I wanted to give her hope that it would work on her as well as it worked on me. A toast to Taxol, to immunotherapy and to the people whose life’s work helps save us!

Then we started chatting about tips for getting through this mess. I mean, everybody has to do it their own way, but I tried to share a few of my best practices. I had already commented I liked her bald head. Wigs are fine if you need them, but I believe going bald in public is good survival behavior. It’s like a signal to yourself and to the world you are not afraid, even if you are. You are here to stay!

I believe in the mind-body connection. If there’s a time to bring your inner sunny optimist to the party, this is it. I asked if she sang.

What?

Do you sing?

I have a terrible singing voice, but I sang happy songs every day to lift my spirits. I know both young people and retirees who sing in groups for the pleasure of it, but for those of us who can’t carry a tune, I found a sing-a-long website hosted by the federal government. I’d sit at my computer with the door closed and no witnesses other than the cat. And I would sing.

My playlist included lots of Disney. My friend doesn’t like Disney because of stereotypes and such, and I agree, but you’ve got to hand it to them on the music. So positive! I just squint and look the other way on that whole princess thing.

Broadway musicals are another good source of happy inspiration. Most of my musicals are old school — I haven’t kept up with the new productions. Here’s my playlist from the website:

  • When You Wish Upon a Star
  • Zip-A-Dee-Doo-Dah
  • Don’t Worry, Be Happy
  • Bare Necessities
  • Happy Talk
  • I have Confidence in Me
  • Oh, What a Beautiful Morning
  • The Candy Man
  • This Land is Your Land

Even many years after cancer, I continue to sing or hum songs (in a low voice) to keep me mellow. Dale calls it Radio Donna. I like Bare Necessities a lot. One of my old standbys is Impossible from Cinderella — but it’s not on the website.

When I was driving home from my visit, I scanned the stations on Sirius and found On Broadway. I heard Richard Kiley performing Man of La Mancha, and there I was cruising down the freeway singing along at the top of my lungs. I sound fantastic in the car!

What songs would you put on your happy playlist?

Wine and marshmallows

Yesterday we went to one of our local wineries, of which there are many. Normally known for being somewhat anti-social, Dale and I are members of two winery-based wine clubs. Membership is free, you get free tastings and are obligated to buy a few bottles now and then at a great discount. Dale and I joke we joined because well, we’re joiners.

The schedule said they were doing harvest tours, but the grapes aren’t ready yet, so we were forced at gunpoint to participate in our free tasting. It was just us and two 30-something winetenders (or whatever they are called). We got to talking about politics, and it was great to find resistance to the current regime among the young.

They said their friends are in agreement, so I just hope they all vote. The winetenders were a bit cautious at first and then perhaps surprised to find themselves talking to us oldsters about politics, but the conversation came to an abrupt end when another couple arrived. I get it – this is their livelihood.

The wine was delicious, and I felt grateful to live where we live. Napa and Sonoma are fabulous, but wines produced near us in California’s El Dorado and Amador Counties are an exceptional value. Lots of medium-bodied reds such as Zinfandel, Barbera and Syrah. Cabernet was the last of the tasting, and as always, we loved it the best, but we don’t buy it often because it seems to pair well with meat and not much else. Delicious on an empty stomach, though.

We do eat meat, but the lighter reds are more versatile. We’re going camping next week near Napa, and our favorite dinner on the first night is steak, so we will drag a Cab out for that. It’s funny – California doesn’t have any silly rules about alcohol in state parks. In the Carolinas and Texas, we had to hide it.  I even had fake soda can covers for beer.

Dale and I converted a downstairs bedroom into a walk-in pantry for all our cooking stuff and use the closet for wine storage. The closet isn’t temperature-controlled. Too spendy. We buy moderately priced wine with a plan to drink it before it goes bad.

I have this itch to organize the wine closet by type, so all the Cabs are together, all the Zins together, etc. I might do that today. I’m mad at golf and am not playing for a few days, so I may as well make good use of my time.

Tomorrow I head out for a little overnight road trip. I’m stopping in San Jose to visit a friend and her wife, who has cancer, so I’m bringing a gift of cannabis-infused coconut oil. As we were making plans, we were discussing the merits of coconut oil over balm, and it occurred to me the oil is both edible and topical, which makes for interesting applications, if you get my drift.

I will also be delivering homemade marshmallows, which are yummy, although I hardly make them anymore because I avoid sugary treats. However, let it be said marshmallow is my favorite food group, and marshmallow lovers are special people.

From San Jose, I head to Santa Cruz, where I’m meeting my younger soul sister, who just turned 40. She lives in Texas but is visiting her cousin in California, so we’re getting together on her last night, and then I will take her to the airport the next day. The airport is on the way home, anyway.

Oh, and my young friend also gets marshmallows! We are both marshmallow fanatics. #bornthisway

My retirement dreams do not include lots of travel, but I’m really looking forward to this short trip to see dear friends. Sometimes I wish we could create a retirement commune, where we could all grow old together. I’ll bring wine and marshmallows.