A few days ago, our upstairs window was open, and I heard a
horrible plaintive wailing, possibly from a mortally wounded animal or a child
in distress. It sounded like it was coming from the street in front, so I went
outside. I stood a long time and just listened. Sometimes there was nothing, deadly
quiet, but then that awful piercing cry resumed.
Later, Dale and a neighbor were talking out in front, and they heard it. The two of them walked around, probably talking more than listening, but still. Nothing. The sound was haunting the entire neighborhood, but no one could figure out what it was or where it was coming from.
While I was on the phone with my sister complaining about the
strange sound, she said maybe I should call the homeowner’s association. It was
the middle of the afternoon, unencumbered by darkness, so I decided to risk it
all. I said, “I’m going outside. If I lose you, I’ll call you back.”
I walked to the front porch, still in my Minnie Mouse jammies, and just stood quietly, listening. My sister was still on the line, and I put the phone out in the air so she could hear it. Oh, yeah. She heard it, too. What in the world could this be?
As I faced the street, the sound seemed to be coming from
the house on the right. They hadn’t been home in some days, and I began to
worry. Maybe their cat was hurt. Maybe they were inside butchered and dying. I
walked up to the garage and put my ear to the door. I could hear the wailing, but
it wasn’t coming from the garage.
The sound was fierce, and my heart was racing. “Cheryl, are
you still there? It’s getting louder. I’m closing in on it.”
Ever-so-slowly, I turned away from the garage and found myself staring down at an evil black cat, spinning and wailing. However, now I could now see the cat was plastic. And presumably battery-operated. Probably with a timer. Possibly with remote speakers, because this thing could crank out some noise.
“I’m going to put ze phone down,” I said to my sister, channeling Teri Gar from Young Frankenstein, as in, “Put ze candle back.” And then I looked around to see if anyone was watching. The coast was clear, and I carefully picked up the cat. I found a switch on the bottom, and I turned it off.
And then there was peace.
I hope I’m not morphing into a curmudgeon, but Halloween? Enough already. I dread the trick-or-treaters, but there’s no way out.
In yet another failed social experiment, I joined a meetup group of over-50 hikers and signed up for what was described as a “brisk 5-mile walk” along an urban trail.
While the trail was fine, the walk was anything but brisk. There were a fair number of chatty slow pokes, and the leader paused every so often to let them catch up. At one point, I went ahead of the leader because the sauntering pace was killing me, but apparently you’re not allowed to get in front of the leader.
I do understand rules. They’re trying to keep everyone together and safe, but it was painful. I was eager to walk with a group, because I’ve read all the studies about social connections and well-being. However, I quickly realized you are only as fast as the slowest walker.
One of the women who was moseying along was raving about what a beautiful and perfect day it was. I was cold, because I couldn’t work up a sweat, and I was stuck behind her lumbering self, so I wouldn’t call that perfect.
I finally figured out how to slow down, although it felt like I was walking in place. I did chat with others, and it was all right, but the truth is I’d rather be alone and walk fast.
So, OK, I tried it, and I didn’t like it. I guess that means I’m still a loner. But you know what? I’m OK with that. When I was working, I thought I was anti-social because I was busy, tired, pissed or whatever. In retirement, all is revealed, and it turns out I’m just anti-social.
I’ve been like this all along, and it hasn’t killed me yet.
I used to enjoy regular massages, but it has been quite a few years since I indulged. Now that I’m retired, taking care of my body is a high priority, if not my full-time job, and I wanted to revisit the benefits of massage. My hair stylist told me about Renee, a massage therapist who works wonders with a monthly 90-minute session.
My first massage was last month. It was excellent but nothing out of the ordinary. I explained I had a mastectomy without reconstruction, and my chest is very tight. Renee dug in around my armpits, which was great because my surgery extended that far out, but she left my chest untouched.
When she was finished, I asked if next time she would be
comfortable massaging my mastectomy scars directly. Of course, she said. Yesterday
I went for my second massage, and it was a powerful experience.
Massage regulars know you typically start face down. Renee had already done my back and legs, and I’d flipped over so she could start on my front. As she was working on my arms and shoulders, I began to have thoughts about career disappointments. This is a subject I try to let go of, and mostly have, but sometimes the ghosts come back to haunt.
But then I started to feel the sadness of those disappointments leave my body, as though they were being purged. I felt calm and comfortable. Then she started working on my mastectomy scars – not just the armpits this time but the horizontal incisions where my breasts used to be. Renee dug deep, and I could feel the muscles relax.
I’ve always tried to be a trooper about life’s ups and downs
and sometimes forget all I’ve been through with two bouts of cancer, but all of
the sudden, I felt the pain and sadness of those experiences begin to float
away. Not a purge this time but a gentle awakening of my body being healed.
Tears welled and then started sliding down my face. There I was, quietly sobbing as she worked on my mastectomy scars, but I never said a word. I didn’t want to break the spell. When Renee was done, she asked if I was OK, and I said yes. But I was better than OK. I felt released.
Afterward, as I sipped water in her kitchen, I tried to
explain away the tears. Until that moment, I honestly thought I had no issues
whatsoever about my experience with breast cancer, but in a trusting
environment, her therapeutic touch stripped away my defenses, and I was able to
acknowledge the pain and then let go.
Renee said massage can frequently rouse tears when there is physical or emotional trauma, and she wanted me to know she felt deeply connected to me as my tears started to flow.
So, wow, that one will be hard to top. But it makes me think more about the mind-body connection and its power to transform. I’ve never been good at meditation, but now I want to try again.
Part of me says, oh, it just felt good and you’re making too big a deal out of it. What do you think? Have you had any experiences like this with massage, meditation or something else? Do you think exploring the mind-body connection can help us recover from disappointments or trauma? Or maybe just improve the quality of our lives as we age?
Not that simply feeling good is a bad thing! If that’s all it is, I’ll take it.
Today is taco night, which usually makes me a bit nostalgic. I grew up eating tacos most Saturday nights.
When I first retired, I wrote a piece about taco night, and it was published by BoomSpeak, an online magazine. Jay Harrison is writer and publisher, and he does a great job curating a variety of short essays and fiction catering to our demographic. Check it out … I think you’ll like it!
The recipe is woven into the story. I honestly can’t understand why more people don’t make their tacos in this style, which I believe is called El Dorado. These days, we use ground bison and homemade salsa. Oh, and the picture is the actual tablecloth, which I still have.
Taco night
I’ve seen movies that show families eating dinner together, but it wasn’t like that at our house, a Southern California bungalow tucked into a working-class neighborhood out by the tomato cannery.
Mom went to bed as soon as she got home from work. My older sister
and I cooked dinner and ate together at the Formica dinette dominating our tiny
kitchen. We served a plate to Dad, who ate on a TV tray in the living room.
My father was barely domesticated, but somewhere he learned to
make the best tacos on the planet. On taco night, everything was different. Out
came a special tablecloth, the soft white cotton stained and torn with a fading
vintage pattern of red and blue fruit.
Mom emerged from the bedroom and shopped the list:
While Mom made salad and my sister grated cheese, I spread the
shabby cloth as if decorating for a fiesta. I’d brown the meat, adding salt,
pepper and generous sprinkles of my secret ingredient, celery salt.
Mom poured 1/8 inch of vegetable oil into a cast iron pan and set
the flame to medium. She’d run her hand over the pan until the oil felt hot.
Then she’d holler for Dad.
“The grease is ready!”
Dad took a flat tortilla and held it in his palm, adding a
spoonful of browned meat onto one half of the tortilla. He would carefully lay
the meat side of the tortilla in the oil, allowing the tortilla to soften at
the crease so he could fold it on top of itself. After the first side was
golden, he’d flip it over and lightly brown the other side.
When the tacos were done, he held them with tongs over the pan to
drain the extra oil before laying them side-by-side on a sheet pan lined with
paper towels. Cooked properly, the body of the tortilla gets crisp and lacy,
while the part near the fold stays moist and supple.
My father taught me to dress them so the cheese melts against the
warm meat, then hot sauce, then salad. A shake of salt. Mom declared them, “A
la supreme.” We’d all laugh, as we ate tacos together, just like in the movies.
I still make tacos the way Dad did. It’s like time travel. I drop
the meat in the pan, and it begins to sizzle. I break it apart with a metal
spatula. Flip and chop. And just like that, it’s taco night, and everything is
different.
I played decent golf yesterday in my weekly league play, and even if I ultimately decide competition isn’t my thing, changing my mindset to become more competitive made a difference. I was less fearful and stayed calm when I made mistakes. I was like, “Don’t panic, don’t panic. You’ve got this.” And most of the time I did.
Maybe I should have started saying that, oh, I don’t know,
in childhood? Don’t panic. You’ve got this. Might be my new mantra for
life in general.
Over-programming
Golf takes up a lot of time, but still, I am surprised at how busy I seem to be in retirement, even without a grand strategy or detailed list of goals. One thing I know for sure – I don’t want to be over-programmed. I already had swimming on my general list of regular activities, but since I joined the fitness center, I’ve also started doing weights, so that’s one more thing.
I’m not expecting any kind of revolutionary changes with the
weight routine, which at this point is sort of minimalist. But I am hoping it
will help with overall strength, balance and bone density. I told the trainer I wasn’t going to look
like one of the hot buff chicks. I just want to keep my body in decent enough
shape to get me to the end of the party, hopefully standing up and without any
broken bones.
When all else fails – duct tape!
The hinge on my laptop is broken. I can’t close it properly, which isn’t a big deal, since I don’t travel with it or work remotely. But it’s a pain in the rear. The computer is just over two years old. I took it to the Geek Squad at Best Buy, and they said it would be at least five weeks. Presumably because they have to send it back to Dell.
I decided to skip the Geek Squad and managed to duct tape the
hinge back together for the time being. I wonder if there are local computer
repair people who could fix it? Everything else seems to be working fine.
Dentist. Yay.
Today is the dentist. I go three times a year because I build up excessive tartar and am prone to gingivitis. I told you that’s why the gene pool stops here! I don’t know if it’s genetic or the result of poor dental hygiene in childhood. My parents did the best they could, and brushing and flossing didn’t make the cut.
The Army was a good experience for me in many ways, including dental care. It was like an intervention, and since then, I have been religious about taking care of my teeth and gums. My hygienist recommended a water flosser, suggesting it would replace daily flossing. I’ve been using it since my last appointment, so I’m curious to see what she says. I like it a lot, but there’s one caveat.
When I was traveling, I didn’t take it with me, so I brought
floss. When I started to floss, my gums bled a little bit in places. I thought
the water flosser was supposed to take care of that, but apparently not for me.
So, now I do both. No wonder I’m busy.
Books & Movies
I finished The Testaments, the sequel to The Handmaid’s Tale. Didn’t I just see it won the Booker prize? I guess they liked it more than I did. It was OK, but I don’t know, I was expecting more. Offred is more like background noise as opposed to a featured character. I wanted more closure on Offred. Still, it is worth reading if you liked the first one.
On the movie front, I watched To Catch a Thief with Cary Grant and Grace Kelly. If you read through the comments, Barbara said I looked like a female version of John Robie, the character in the movie. I’m not nearly as stylish as he is, but watching the movie kind of got me excited about fashion. At least excited about one outfit – the striped sweater and polka dot scarf. Somehow, I want to reproduce that.
We recorded the new Ken Burns documentary on country music and have been watching that. Dale doesn’t even like country music, but we both love this series.
Foodie Talk
The weather has cooled, and that makes me want to cook! Next
on my list is a recipe for moussaka from an older cookbook by David Rosengarten.
For you foodies, he was on the Food Network when it first started. When the
network went viral, he kind of went away. Although I saw him recently as a
judge on Iron Chef America.
I love his moussaka recipe, but I will have to tweak it some. The pan I originally made it in broke, so I used another pan, and it spread out too much, making it too thin. Moussaka needs to be thick, like lasagna. David calls for an 18x8x3 inch pan. I do not believe such a pan exists or ever has. Don’t ask me how many hours I spent trying to find one.
Finally, I came to the conclusion I don’t need that pan, I just need a different recipe. I compared and contrasted and decided I still liked David’s best, however, I want to reduce the eggplant and lamb by half but keep the bechamel the same. I’ll probably try it this weekend. A full report is pending.
In the meantime, I rewarded myself for this effort with a new Emile Henry lasagna pan. I think it will be perfect for the resized moussaka. I got red, because it was $10 cheaper than white the day I purchased it. But now I just went back to get the link, and there it is in white for the same price. Dale likes red, so why not?
This post is about golf, but it isn’t really about golf, so please keep reading.
I play golf because I love it and am addicted and have been for years. I spend a lot of quality retirement time playing golf. Sometimes I play well, and sometimes, well, I don’t. My game has always been sporadic, but I thought I’d nail this once I retired. Another bubble burst.
My sometimes-mediocre game was starting to bother me, because I don’t do it just to get outside and enjoy nature or whatever it is people say. I like being outdoors and want to have fun, but golf is more fun for me when I play reasonably well.
Although I practice some, I don’t practice enough, and I don’t have a strategy for what to practice. Last week the club champion was in my foursome for weekly league play, and I watched her like a hawk. I think she’s in her 60s. Not a particularly long hitter, but she was deadly accurate and had a lot of skill around the green. If she wasn’t on the green, she chipped it close and then made the putt.
I understand she played as a child, and that makes a
difference, but I still think I can follow her example. It doesn’t take
strength or flexibility to chip and putt. But it does take dedication and focus
to have a great short game. As we say in the Pekar family, it’s time to shit or
get off the pot.
I’m probably going to have to drop a little money on lessons.
And while I’m not one of those super-organized goal setters, I do need a plan.
I no longer want to leave my game to chance, as in who shows up that day? The
one who can play or the one who sucks?
The greatest challenge I face is not time, money, strength,
flexibility or commitment. My greatest challenge is what’s between my ears. I’ve
always been sort of a nervous Nellie about golf, and I’ve convinced myself I
don’t like competition. While I play in casual events and just yesterday won a
couple of little prizes at a member-guest day, I have so far avoided the
serious amateur tournaments. I’ve assumed I don’t have the fortitude to play
with the big girls.
While I am in awe of the club champion’s game, she doesn’t
hit the ball any farther than I do. That was kind of an eye-opener for me. I
didn’t see anything that looked impossible. I might not achieve her level of success,
but with training and practice, I believe I can improve significantly.
And all that makes me wonder about my long-held thoughts about competition. It’s not really about liking it or not liking it – it’s about fear. Fear of failing. What I fear, I avoid. I had this same problem at work early in my career. I didn’t want to play “the game” and was willing to let less talented people surpass me because I didn’t have the confidence to compete and possibly lose.
Eventually, I stepped up and forced myself to play the game and play to win. And I did it without sacrificing my core self – it just took time to find that space where I could be me and yet thrive in a tough corporate setting.
I did it before, and now I’m going to do it again. I’m done saying I don’t like competition. I fear competition, but I’m working on it. Same deal as before, except this time I’m retired, and this time it’s golf. Game on!
Are you still fighting fear in retirement? What do you want, and what’s holding you back?
I was cruising my local dispensary last week and asked if they had any flower high in CBD. I still have enough Harlequin and CBD Shark for one more batch of cannabis balm, and then I need replacement weed! Better get cracking.
The budtender, the person behind the counter, was a nice young woman who made me feel welcome. She pointed me to Harle-Tsu, which is bred by the Southern Humboldt Seed Collective. Harle-Tsu is a high-CBD hybrid cross between Harlequin and Sour Tsunami. The CBD to THC ratio is 20:1.
My Harle-Tsu was packaged and sold by Flow Kana, a company that buys cannabis from farmers in Northern California and then takes care of processing, packaging, marketing, etc. I assume other companies sell Harle-Tsu, but I’m not sure.
Anyway, it looked good to me! I bought one gram for $12. That’s about two small buds.
When I got home, I put some crushed up flower into my PAX 2 vaporizer and let it heat up. You can see in the photo how small the compartment is for the flower. The PAX is not designed for coneheads who want to do mass quantities. For me, it’s a convenient tool for microdosing without the hassle or potential breathing issues associated with smoking a joint.
Because the THC level is minimal, you’re unlikely to get high from this product. I took three or four hits from the vaporizer and felt a sense of calm and relaxation. I had been struggling with my previous blog post, but then all of the sudden I felt focused. I began to write.
If you are interested in the therapeutic benefits of cannabis or are just canna-curious, a high-CBD product is the way to go. I don’t think you can get Flow Kana products outside of California, but if you live in a state with legal cannabis, you should be able to ask for a high-CBD strain at your local dispensary.
Additionally, if you don’t want to invest in a vaporizer and don’t mind smoking, most dispensaries offer their products as pre-rolls. That’s the fancy new term for what we used to call a joint!
I like Harle-Tsu a lot and imagine I will be purchasing more to vape at “Hippie Hour” as well as for my next batch of cannabis balm.
While some readers live in states without legal cannabis or just aren’t interested in cannabis, others are experimenting with CBD-only products. Because I live in California, I have a wide selection of cannabis to choose from and enjoy the whole plant.
I learned more about the whole plant last year, when I attended Oaksterdam University and earned a certificate of achievement in cannabis education. Although CBD is powerful by itself, there is more power in the “entourage effect” of all the cannabinoids in the plant.
That’s why I don’t really mess with CBD-only products, but I am still quite curious and would love to hear about your experiences. Seems like the right product could be just as pleasant as Harle-Tsu for “Hippie Hour.”
Years ago, dealing with baggage from my family history, a friend suggested I set aside an area for pictures, as a way to remind me even though my family was messed up, we’re all connected, and loving them and honoring them brings forth positive energy that can reinforce my sense of self. Kind of groovy talk, but it worked. I call it The Shrine.
The Shrine gets bigger all the time. I’ve added friends, cremated pets and a few mementos. I come from a long line of non-breeders, so there aren’t any children. But I do try to keep up with furry friends.
I realized I didn’t have a picture of my sister’s dogs, Rags and Scraps, so I asked her to send me one. The box arrived a few days ago, and Cheryl’s precious doggie friends have been added to The Shrine.
Dale’s Taco Shirt
Also in the box was a taco-themed Hawaiian shirt she made for Dale, two pot holders of the same fabric, organic wheat flour from a local farm and a Stealth Angel emergency car kit. Not that her dogs aren’t adorable, but I think Dale looks pretty darned cute! Oh, and now he claims to be in dire need of tacos.
Emergency Preparedness
As for the emergency kit, well, yes, because I’m always a worst-case scenario kind of gal. Cheryl and I have talked before about how to get out of a car if it’s sinking or mistakenly flies off a bridge … just a few pleasantries to pass the time.
Among other things, the kit includes a flashlight, whistle,
compass, fire starter and a carbine-tipped pen that can break glass. My sister
has an additional escape tool she clips onto the shifter in the car – you can
use that little guy to break the glass and cut off your seatbelt.
Who knows when you’ll need these tools, but it seems some sort of danger is always lurking. You’ve no doubt read about electric outages across California. The power company, PG&E, is attempting to reduce the risk of wild fires associated with high winds and dry weather. PG&E equipment has triggered these fires in the past, and in the case of Paradise, some 85 people were killed.
Cheryl’s power is out – and she lives way up in the northern part of the state. My massage therapist lives in the same town we live in, and she canceled my appointment for today because she has no power. We, on the other hand, are lit up like a Christmas tree.
We’re hoping to squeeze through without disruption, but we
recognize anything can happen. My sister and my massage therapist both work
from home, so an outage is more than a nuisance for them. We’re retired and don’t
require special medical equipment, so we might be inconvenienced, but that’s
about it. Depending on how long it stays out, we could lose a lot of food in
the freezer.
I read there was a long line at Starbucks, and I thought,
well, this is it. People will not tolerate such abuse.
Dale and I need to get smarter about an emergency bag. As in maybe have one. My sister could retire and offer her services as a personalized emergency bag adviser. Or she could put them together and sell them. She is super-prepared. Hence the Stealth Angel.
Cheryl had a few hour’s warning before the power went out. She sent me an email that all was well, but she was going into prep mode. Cheryl lives in an area with frequent earthquakes, so I don’t see this as overkill.
“We are definitely losing power as of midnight tonight. We have been told to prepare for it being off at least until Friday. Because they have never done this before and don’t know how the turning on process will go, it could be even longer. Got an emergency call from the water company saying to limit water usage, including toilets, because the sewers are going to have to be pumped manually … God bless those people.
I did laundry, a load in the dishwasher, charged everything I could think of, unplugged stuff with this computer going next, and checked all of my emergency lighting for batteries. I even filled my WaterBob (a liner for the tub) with water just in case. The main issue will be the refrigerators. The one in the garage should be OK as the fridge only has drinks, and the freezer has a block of ice in it so it should last. Won’t open the freezer upstairs and pray for the best. Will limit opening of the upstairs fridge.”
She just emailed me a few minutes ago that her power was back on, but the smoke alarm went crazy. Annoying, but all is good. I assume this is the first of many planned outages, so I am seriously going to get smarter about some sort of kit. I mean, no matter where you live, it’s always something.
I’ve read quite a few articles suggesting people who work longer stay healthier. Maybe. But I don’t think they’re evaluating people who have brutal jobs with long hours and insane politics … jobs that interfere with sleep, relaxation, exercise and proper diet. Most of those I know from that world look worn out. I certainly was.
On multiple occasions, my boss said I couldn’t take
vacation. Part of our business was building and launching satellites. She
finally said I couldn’t take vacation the week before a launch, the week of a launch
and the week after a launch. That left only a few weeks a year when I could
presumably tune out. I was not mission-critical, and I could only imagine she
felt insecure and wanted her flock on hand if something went wrong.
When I retired, I had more than 30 days of vacation paid to me because I never got to use it. Yo, girlfriend, guess who’s on vacation now?
Some people like the intense workplace, and I salute them. However, it was not good for me. I started thinking about this topic because I saw a few people from work at an event I attended yesterday, and several commented on how healthy and happy I looked.
Even the True Believers who will be there to turn off the lights have stories that make me glad to be away from such toxicity. Maybe they are stronger than I am. I lasted a long time but eventually concluded time and freedom is more important than accumulating money and stuff. I got what I needed – no more, no less.
I hope those who are thinking about retirement will ignore blanket statements that working longer keeps you healthier. Maybe – especially if you really love what you are doing – but that has not been my experience or observation.
If you’re already retired, don’t worry. Retirement doesn’t automatically mean a decline in health or well-being. Those I talked with yesterday said, oh, man, all you retirees look so great. Yes, because if you’re doing it right, whatever that means for you, what’s inside is shining through.
Me? At 64, I believe my health and happiness is shining through. My retirement job is invigorating, life-affirming and not the least bit stressful. That job is to keep moving, eat well, learn, love, enjoy simple pleasures and use cannabis wisely. Oh, and sleep. Plenty of sleep.
I had to take it easy for a few days because I overdid it pruning hydrangeas. It’s more than a little annoying when a simple garden activity knocks you down, but I suppose I’d better get used to it.
The body is both delicate and resilient and only more of the former as we age. We don’t bend and bounce like we used to. I am reminded of my favorite golf role model, Gail, who plays in our club. She’s 83, I think, and walks 18 holes. I played with her yesterday, and she said, “I’ll just keep doing it until I can’t.”
supportive walking shoes
My golf shoes are starting to attract attention. I avoid riding in a cart if at all possible. For me, all that walking requires a cushioned and supportive shoe. Most golf shoes do not meet my criteria. For all the shoes I wear, including golf, that means a thick, non-flexible sole. My back and knee problems are greatly minimized by sticking to these standards.
It seems like every time I play, someone says, “Are you wearing Hokas?” Most people don’t deviate from standard golf shoe brands. I used to wear Ecco golf shoes, and they were among the best, but I wanted something even more supportive.
While some say these shoes look too pillowy for golf, I like the Hoka One One brand. I’ve experimented with different styles over the years for regular walking shoes and this summer tried the Speedgoat 3 for golf. Some reviewers complained the shoe is too narrow. I do not have a particularly narrow foot, but this style fits me like a glove.
The Speedgoat is a trail running shoe, so the soles have traction and look very much like a golf shoe on the bottom. I might be wrong, but it seems the traction also helps with overall stability and might help prevent a fall.
Now I wear the Speedgoats for everything. I keep two pairs of the waterproof version in the car for golf and just got a brand-new pair (non-waterproof) for regular walks. If you’re not religious about cleaning them up after a game, grass from the golf course sticks in the treads and can leave a mess on the floor. Just throwing a little money at it to reduce housework.
swimming in cooler temps
I’m probably going to swim today. My club has two outdoor pools. One is heated year-round to 78 degrees, and the other one is heated year-round to 85. The colder pool has lane makers and is reserved for adult lap swimmers. The warmer pool is for families and water aerobics. In the family pool, there are lanes painted on the bottom but no dividers. If there’s an empty lane, lap swimming is OK.
So far, I’ve been using the somewhat chilly lap pool, but it’s
about to get testy.
The thing is … I’m a notorious wimp about the cold. Even when it was warmer outside, I got a chill following my swim. As I see it, I’m going to have to duke it out with the kids in the warmer pool or man up and deal with the colder water. If I can stick with this through the winter, I will consider it one of my life’s greatest achievements.
I bought a thermal swim shirt, which I am hoping will make my core feel a little warmer. A wetsuit seemed like overkill. The fit isn’t perfect, but I’m keeping it. As a flat and fabulous breast cancer survivor, there seems to be a spot for breasts I am unable to fill. I wonder if those gaps translate to less warming action, but I think it’s better than nothing.
Reading
After re-reading The Handmaid’s Tale, I requested the sequel at the library, The Testaments, and it came in yesterday! I was so excited, and when I got to the library, I saw there was also a copy on the “hot picks” rack. These are a selection of new books in high demand. I felt a little cheated after thinking I’d scored when it turns out any old person could check it out.
I started the book last night, and I’ve had a hard time getting
into it. I’ll give it another whirl today.
Dale is re-reading the Lord of the Rings trilogy, and he almost has me ready to try them again. I loved the movies but have always had a hard time with the books. Dale said to skip the preamble about the history of hobbits, as well as all the little songs and such scattered throughout.
The Staff of life
We’ve kind of overdosed on bread this week. Dale has no internal bread meter to tell him when enough is enough. I accused him of eating too much bread once, and he said in a voice filled with shock and disgust, “Bread is the staff of life.”
I don’t rule out anything food-wise, but I do have an internal meter that tells me to move on to something else, say vegetables. Still, I made baguettes, and we ate them for dinner with cold cuts, a ripe brie and good olive oil. There was one baguette left, so Dale thought it would be good with bacon for breakfast the next morning. And it was.
Then, when you’d think we’d had enough, Dale made a mixed-grain bread, and we had that with Greek salads the way we ate them in Crete … just a mix of coarsely chopped tomatoes, onions and cucumbers garnished with a hunk of Feta and Kalamata olives. Olive oil and red wine vinegar over the top, with plenty for bread-dunking.
THEN, because we had bread, Dale made grilled cheese sandwiches for dinner last night. He makes a killer grilled cheese. At least we had marinated cucumbers on the side.
I’m in charge of dinner today, and as God is my witness, there will be dark green leafy vegetables.
