When the candy is handy

It has been a cold and rainy winter, and I fear some of us have gained a bit of weight. I’ve put on two or three pounds, but I try not to worry, because it’s not much, and I know my activity level is increasing. I eat less when I’m out and about. Pretty soon, I’ll be back to normal.

I lost about 50 pounds when I was in my 20s and another 10 just a few years ago. With lifelong weight maintenance, I have found it’s important not to panic and over-correct. Just keep exercising and get back to eating well, focusing on portion control and healthy choices. Trust your body to know what it needs.

The truth is, I’ve been uncharacteristically undisciplined. Before I made a serious change and eliminated junk sweets from my diet, Easter was my favorite candy season … tricksy, as this is also the time when one might be trying to recover from winter weight gain.

Easter, our cruel mistress, brings all that chocolate, but I show up for the sugar. The joy of jelly beans, marshmallow peeps, marshmallow bunnies and chicks (like Circus Peanuts) and why, yes, those hard marshmallow Easter hunt eggs.

I never met a marshmallow I didn’t like, but I have avoided them for several years. However, I was feeling sorry for myself. I try so hard to be careful and do everything right, but the rewards are elusive. I’m thin and fit, yet I have to worry about blood sugar and blood pressure. Age and genetics and definitely not fair. All good reason to indulge in self-sabotage, right?

The incident involving my face on the pavement pissed me off, so I bought two bags of the Easter hunt eggs. Just so you know – Walgreens didn’t have them, but CVS did. In case you want to follow me down that slippery slope. I allocated four each night in a little bedside bowl so the candy was handy. The white ones are my favorite.

That first marvelous crackly sugary bite. It’s like heaven. But heaven with a taste of hell, because there’s just no excuse for eating these things. And once you start, it’s hard to stop until you’ve overdone it, and your throat is oddly parched with a sugar hangover, and there’s not enough water on the planet to quench your thirst.

If I’m paying attention, I don’t feel right when I eat poorly, and it seems there’s new thinking that supports my theory.

There are four eggs left, and I am throwing them away. No more handy candy. I’ve had my little party.

Happy cats

I hope you didn’t somehow land on this blog expecting exciting travelogues and other adventures. You might find my retired life rather dull. Deliciously boring (but not bored). This, too, could be yours! For some of us, our work life was intense, and it’s fun to just hang out and be happy cats.

Although we have enough money for the occasional trip, we’re not big travelers anymore. We moved more than 20 times for jobs. We lived in Germany for six years and Cairo for 2.5 years. There are plenty of places we’ve never been, but we were avid tourists back in the day and saw a lot of the U.S. and the world. Still, I expect some sort of adventure in my future.

I was thinking about how much I like my boring life, much as I used to like boring politics, when a couple of former colleagues shared a bit of work news with me. That got me thinking about my old job and questioning my decisions. Did I bail out too early?

The answer is no. While I had a rewarding career and was rather obsessed with my job for many years, toward the end, the workplace and all the nonsense that goes on there didn’t seem worth the trade of time for money. I wanted to live differently.  

I pulled the plug at age 62 – not exactly early retirement – and went in search of myself. What sparked intense curiosity? What made me happy? It would have been easier to keep working and never face down my essence. At least you get paid to avoid self-reflection. Just keep slogging along and buying more stuff and taking expensive vacations so you have to keep slogging along.

Since I retired, I’ve learned a lot about what I need and don’t need, mostly from the comfort of my living room. My hair is wild. I have one or two outfits I wash and wear over and over. I’m slowly discovering what gets me up in the morning. Aside from golf and nice long walks, I’m excited about food. We cook almost everything from scratch, and it’s tremendously satisfying. I have intense curiosity about dinner. And possibly sourdough, the next frontier.

I’m keenly interested in crafting techniques I can learn to enhance my obsession with coasters. I love to walk to the library and browse the shelves and think, “What might I want to learn about today?” I rather like the idea of picking some crazy new subject and immersing myself in it. Being an expert at something appeals to me. There’s still time.

Yet, I wonder if I’m wasting my life … that old programming that says produce, produce, produce. These are the same doubts I had when I was working – but now the stress is gone, and I’m doing things that make me happy. All other things being equal, doubt will always be there, but retirement wins.

Retirement can be whatever you want it to be. I prefer mostly uneventful days, but you might seek more action. Find your happy place and go there. As for me, I like to pretend I’m an eccentric Bohemian heiress (perhaps a bit reclusive and frugal) who spends her life dabbling in things that amuse her. And you know what? I look forward to every single day.

Diversifying your portfolio of fun

Following my fall from last week, the good news is my chin looks fabulous (if chins ever look fabulous). The stitches are out, and it’s almost healed. Doesn’t look like I will have a scar. The bad news is a few ribs took some of the impact, so I’m not able to play golf. I am grateful nonetheless. In the grand scheme of things, this is a tiny nuisance.

It rained today, and for some reason, if I can’t play golf, I’m always happier if no one is playing golf.

From the outset, one of my retirement strategies was to balance my activities and focus on building both physical and intellectual reserves. Think of it as diversifying your portfolio, except this is about fun not money. Not that money can’t be fun.

Reading, writing, cooking and artistic pursuits counterbalance golf and other outdoor fun. I figured at some point I would be reminded you can’t have it all. Being down for the count after my accident seems to validate my strategy. I’m annoyed I can’t play golf, but I have plenty to keep me amused at home.

I made a batch of no-knead bread. I’ve been experimenting with the technique, and I love it! The dough rises for at least 18 hours. We keep our home pretty cool, so it has taken more like 24 for mine. I noticed today’s batch had a better rise, as it has gotten a bit warmer. To get me started, I got Jim Lahey’s book from the library.

The book is great, but I probably won’t buy it. I’ve made it a few times now, and there are tons of free recipes for no-knead bread on the Internet, so I think I’ll make do with what I have. One more cookbook might make our whole house implode, and no one wants that.

The rest of the afternoon I hung out in the garage making coasters and listening to Amy Winehouse. The garage is exactly the same as the shower … I sound just like her. A super-pleasant afternoon.

As for the coasters, I have no idea what I am going to do with them. Some will be gifts. I just keep making them. The process relaxes me, and I feel happy as I’m out there puttering away.

I’m currently on a drink theme. They are coasters, right? I’m giving myself permission to go with whatever my brain comes up with. I’m not allowing that nasty bitch masquerading as my inner voice to stop me with her harsh criticism. My current approach is fake Shakespearean advice. I uploaded two new ones to the gallery:

  • Quench thy thirst with a pure and earnest alchemy of barley, hops, water, and yeast.
  • Behold the gift of fermentation, and seek ye the merry pleasure of beer, wine, and cheese.

A note for word nerds. Over the course of my entire career in corporate communications, we used the AP Style guide for grammar and punctuation. I adopted AP Style for my personal use, because I figured at least I’d be consistent. Even personal emails, letters to my mother. It’s a sickness.

In AP Style, one does not use the Oxford comma. That’s the last comma in a series such as beer, wine, and cheese. You will notice I used the Oxford comma. A hundred little communicators just dropped over. I decided the Oxford fit better with this style. So, guess what, AP Style? I’m over you.

One last punctuation nit. This is how I’m wired. There’s a comma after fermentation in the sentence above, “Behold the gift of fermentation, and seek ye the merry pleasure of beer, wine, and cheese.” That’s because they are independent clauses. The two parts can stand on their own, so they should be separated with a comma.

I forgot to add the comma when I made the tile. I know, big deal, but I do plan to fix it next time around. I guess that means I still have a ways to go when it comes to balance, but you know, baby steps.

The egg and I and early death

Dale and I want to live long and healthy lives, but we’re not obsessed with every study or every trend that purports to buy us more time. At some point, you just have to tune out the noise and go about your business.

However, this week’s headline about eggs got my attention. I remember when eggs were on the naughty list. Now they’re good again, but I was skimming the news and read eating more than three eggs per week increases your risk of heart disease and early death.

I was devastated, because I eat about three eggs a week, not realizing, of course, the clause about early death. I’m no stable genius, but I’m proud of my adult-like response.

Fuck it, I’m eating eggs.

I mentioned the sad egg news to Dale, and he said no! It was three eggs per day. Surely, he was wrong, but it turns out he was right. I misread the headline. I would never eat three eggs a day, unless it was a cheesy three-egg omelet, and I had no free will.

So, yes, eggs are still on the menu. I sometimes eat a fried egg on toast with just a smidgen of butter for breakfast, but I do fry the egg without fat in a non-stick pan. Soft-boiled eggs are a tasty alternative with the potential for cute accessories – special cups, plates, spoons, snippers and even cozies to keep them warm! It’s like a cult.

As for evening, I might make a spinach souffle or omelet. My sister taught me to make fluffy omelets in high school. For years, omelets and tacos were the only two things I knew how to make … limiting for sure, but at least I chose well. Regrettably, those were days when I knew not of what I ate, and I recall putting chopped Vienna Sausages in my omelet.

But onto better times! Behold, Spaghetti Carbonara, where raw eggs mix with Parmesan cheese and Pancetta and cook with the heat of the pasta. Another favorite is Caesar Salad. I make the dressing with a 1-minute egg, olive oil, lemon, garlic and anchovies.

One of our favorite egg dishes is something I made up. I actually have several recipes in the category of Made-Up Mexican. We call this one Huevos Dineros. I know the translation is wrong, dinero means money not dinner, but it just sounds funny to me. It’s a heartier dish than the Huevos Rancheros I make for weekend brunch.

For Huevos Dineros, I fry corn tortillas in vegetable oil until crisp. Two each, slightly overlapping on a sheet pan or other broiler-friendly dish. Top with homemade red chile sauce or canned enchilada sauce that has been warmed and doctored up with cumin, cayenne and whatever else suits your fancy.

Gently slide a lightly fried egg on top of each serving and cover with grated cheddar cheese. Broil until the cheese is bubbly. Use a spatula to transfer each serving onto a plate and add shredded iceberg lettuce, chopped tomato, maybe a few radishes and perfect slices of ripe avocado. Don’t forget a dollop of sour cream. Serve with salsa on the side.

You can always make it with two eggs each if you are all ungry like.

How do you like your eggs?

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.