Category: Learning

Groundhog Day all over again

I’ve been dreaming about going back to work. These are real nighttime dreams – not aspirational thinking. In one dream, President Obama asked me to come back to Texas, where I was needed in the defense industry. I said yes, I mean, for America, sure, but when I woke up, I was like, fuck, that was dumb.

In reality, I have no interest in a job. I thought a lot about why I’m having these dreams, and I believe it’s about a search for distraction. We’re living this Groundhog Day existence, and I’ve grown quite sick of the whole thing. Pandemic, fires, air quality, racism, politics – you name it, and I’m sick of it.

Work is the ultimate distraction. For years, a job served me well in my quest for something else to think about besides the crap that infiltrates my brain.

I’m convinced some people don’t want to retire, because then you don’t have that distraction anymore, and you kind of have to figure out who you really are. What’s your core value as a human being, and how are you going to spend your time on the planet?

Heavy stuff. In many ways, work is easier. Wouldn’t you rather be mad at your boss than mad at yourself?

That said, I’m still all about resisting the pressure to conform and perform. I’m post-job, living the Bohemian heiress lifestyle, dabbling in what amuses me, and I’m all the better for it.

Methinks it’s just a touch of cabin fever right now. I do believe we will get through this mess one way or the other, and I look forward to celebrating in grand style. Maybe even get on an airplane and go somewhere.

I know. Crazy talk.

lost in space

We actually have a favorite sausage market in Sacramento, but it closed after a big fire earlier this year. The brats were as good as any I had in Germany. A friend recommended another sausage market in Lockeford, a rural community about an hour from our house. Dale and I decided to take a road trip.

I had my phone, but I wasn’t sure about cellular service, so we packed a real map, and I wrote down the general directions. In the town of Ione, we got to a critical juncture in the journey – left, right or straight ahead – and the phone flipped out. First, it said I lost cellular data. Then it started telling me to make all kinds of crazy turns.

We tried straight ahead, and that didn’t work. We turned around and came back to the juncture, turning right. There was a remarkable absence of highway signs, and we weren’t sure we were on the right road, but to quote Bruce Springsteen, we took a wrong turn, and we just kept going.

The landscape was dry and barren and looked like Mars.

Dale was excited to pass Rancho Seco, a decommissioned nuclear generation plant. Oh, the sights to behold! And we can now say we’ve been to Galt, all 5.9 square miles of it.

In the end, we added about 30 minutes to our trip. We found the sausage market, loaded up and got on the correct road going back. I was curious to see where we’d land when we hit Ione, where we made all the wrong choices.

As we drove into the town, it became clear we should have made a left. Well, now we know.

Dale grilled one of the brats last night, and it was delicious, but I actually prefer the brats from Sac, which were emulsified like a hot dog. The brats from Lockeford were chunky. Still good, but I need to see if the other place is rebuilding. One can only hope.

lime squeezing happiness

To end on a bright note, as proof positive there is still good in the world, I bought a new citrus juicer, and it’s the most amazing kitchen tool I’ve purchased in years.

I highly recommend this little gadget, especially if you have weak wrists and enjoy lime-based cocktails (just an example). It sucks the juice right out and leaves a little more than a hockey puck as residue.

Cognitive tests for dummies

A sampling of our Mexican cookbooks.

Cognitive tests

I’m no fan, but I’d like to thank President Trump for talking about the results of his cognitive test. Now I know you have to count backward from 100 by 7s, and I know I must avoid taking this test or I can say bye-bye car keys. The truth is, I can’t count forward to 100 by 7s.

Let’s call it a learning disability, but I struggle with math. In school, I barely got through algebra, and geometry was next in line to feast on the remains of my carcass. High school geometry was like going to class where everyone was speaking in tongues. I remember sitting there, dizzy with confusion, thinking, “Oh, fuck.”

I got into college anyway. That’s why God invented the journalism major.

Even today, I often use my fingers for simple addition. Dale calls it the digital calculator. As for cognitive tests, he suggested I apply for an accommodation. While other people have service animals, I would ask to bring my service calculator.

Although my earlier idea for a service cat didn’t work out, I’m willing to give the calculator a try. I’m already thinking about a name. A little vest.

COVID update

The COVID-19 numbers in our county are going up. Dale and I huddled this morning to reassess our situation and discuss course corrections. After a robust discussion, we concluded we’re already being quite prudent and are not making any changes at this time. That means we will continue to go to the grocery store as needed, and I will continue to play golf.

In a lot of ways, this is easier for us, because the closest family member is several hundred miles away, and we haven’t made any close friends since we moved here when I retired. This is pretty much how we lived before the pandemic.

We decided to stock up on a few essentials – mostly paper goods – but to otherwise avoid purchasing a lot of extra food. We have two refrigerators and a well-stocked chest freezer, so we feel good about our options. We’re also flexible about what we eat – if they are out of one thing, then we’ll have something else.

Pandemic hobbies for foodies

When I think about food, I am so grateful neither one of us is a picky eater. I can’t imagine how people arrive at conclusions about common foods they will and won’t eat. But then I’m in recovery. I was picky as a child but eventually grew out of it. Although I like some liver, about the only thing I won’t eat are entrails and internal organs. Just because it grosses me out.

We cook a lot of Mexican food, so we stock a hearty supply of dried beans – pinto and black. I recently concluded we are in a rut, relying on the standards we’ve made for years … tacos, burritos, tostadas. In wild pandemic craziness, I reorganized the cookbooks, and for the most part, lumped like-cuisines together. Oversized books have a special shelf and are in no particular order.

I found 14 cookbooks dedicated to Mexican food! I started going through them to learn more about the full scope of the food from Mexico and to see what we might have overlooked the first time around. It’s a fun pandemic hobby … if you’re a foodie. The first book I tackled was “The Cuisines of Mexico” by Diana Kennedy. It was published in 1972.

She writes about certain foods being nearly impossible to find in the U.S. – tomatillos, fresh tortillas. She even said Monterey Jack cheese was hard to find in some parts of the country. I remember buying cilantro for the first time at a Korean market in the early 70s, and it came in a pot. Of course, now it’s everywhere. When we lived in Germany the first time, we bought tortillas in a can. We are so fortunate these days to have such a wide variety of foods readily available.  

There’s a new documentary out about Diana Kennedy, who is 97. I haven’t seen it yet, but in the reviews, some question her legacy – a privileged white woman who became a so-called expert on Mexican cuisine? Others beat her up for being so puritanical about her version of authenticity. Still, she gets grudging respect as someone who did her research and earned her stripes.

I owe her one for teaching me to make tortillas. It’s the gift that keeps on giving.

Purging old writing

Purging old writing and re-purposing journals.

Some say you should never throw away anything you ever wrote. I’ve taken a different path. Over the years and many moves, I’ve whittled down my stockpile of journals and published writing to one large tub. I periodically go through it and purge stuff I no longer want to keep.

I’ve purchased many lovely notebooks, but I as a diarist, I was inconsistent at best. Most notebooks had a few pages of scribbling about my sad woes and then many blank pages. After skimming through the entries and seeing nothing of consequence, I ripped those pages out for the recycling bin but saved the notebooks.

While I don’t journal, I do keep a notebook on my desk for working projects, so I shouldn’t need to buy anymore notebooks ever.

One thing I did notice and kept was a poem about Christmas I wrote in my late teens. Apparently, I’ve hated Christmas for a long time. In a way, that makes me feel better. It’s not like I made it up in mid-life. I was born this way.

I found a few paragraphs of a short story. I tried to write fiction years ago and quit, coming to perhaps a false realization that I don’t have it in me. Maybe it’s the quarantine talking, but I saw some potential. Not world-class literature, for sure, but I kind of want to know the back story and what happens next.

The bahnhof was cold, as they usually are, and damp, as I knew it would be. I could already feel the fever coming on, but we had a couple of hours to kill before the train left. I needed a drink, and I needed a book and Richard had already decided to be difficult.

Why didn’t we rent a car and drive, he wanted to know. But of course, he knew. It was the train. I needed to be on that train. There was no other option.

I left Richard with the bags and walked to the international store. I bought a cheap porno book for 12 marks and a murder mystery, both in English. Then I found a bar and settled in. It was going to be a long night.

Literary poetry has always sort of baffled me. But I did like writing straightforward poems that rhymed. Interestingly, I found my own little masterpiece about hating work – dated 1974! I had barely started working and was already sick of it. I kept that one, too.

The poem itself is pretty awful, so I’ll spare you that. But there I was at 19, wishing I could just quit worrying about making a living and enjoying life without goals or aims. I’m giving myself props for hanging in there.

It took 40 years, but I kind of achieved my dream. No big plans. My full-time job is to take care of myself, be kind to others and enjoy life’s simple pleasures. I golf, walk, swim laps, cook, read, write, watch TV, listen to music, take care of the house, grow cannabis and otherwise goof off. While I’m not the sort to show up at a protest march, another focus is to support progressive causes.

Everyone’s vision of retirement is different. Mine has certainly evolved, even from when I started this blog two-plus years ago. As I told a friend, I might find goals within the categories of things I like to do, but I’m not out to reinvent myself or my life. I’m happy just being.

An interesting book for those who are contemplating how happiness is relevant in a world gone mad is Yes to Life: In Spite of Everything by Viktor E. Frankl.

Just published for the first time in English, the author was a Holocaust survivor who lectured on the importance of embracing life even in the face of adversity. It’s not a breezy read, but there are some genuine nuggets.

Becoming more self-sufficient

Learning a new technique for cutting my own hair.
Reasonably even in the back.

I’m starting to feel like a baby homesteader. A retired suburban homesteader. As it turns out, I’m kind of digging it. But that’s the hippie living-off-the-land in me talking.

Since the virus came knocking, I’ve been doing my own pedicures, making English Muffins from scratch and cutting my husband’s hair. Then there’s the homegrown cannabis. Baguettes. Tortillas. I even made cheese – Indian paneer. As I write this, Dale is tearing apart a pallet I scavenged for art projects.

Today I cut my hair! I got a text from Lisa, my stylist, who said they were reopening, and she was scheduling appointments. I would love to go, but I said I’m being cautious as things reopen and am not yet comfortable going to a salon. Lisa is such a special person. This is what she wrote:

Completely respect that!

When you’re ready, know that we are 50% capacity with every other station being left unused and only the two end shampoo bowls are used. Masks are required for everyone for the entire appointment and temperatures are checked upon arrival. We always utilize safety and sanitation measures and have amplified our usual best practices. We also offer a treatment bun instead of a blow dry for those who wish to spend as little time in the salon as possible. I know you’re at high risk and you need to be more vigilant than most. I’m happy to take care of you in however you are comfortable when you’re ready.

You can’t ask for much more than that, but I can’t see myself getting a haircut or pedicure anytime soon. I’m kind of a minimalist by design – no polish on my toes, somewhat longish hair requiring fewer cuts, no color and no layers. It was supposed to be a low-maintenance retirement lifestyle, but it morphed into a pandemic lifestyle. I love it when a plan comes together.

I Googled a few how-tos and settled on a quick test. I pulled my hair into a scrunchie at the base of my neck and then brought it around over my shoulder, lined it up between my fingers and used hair scissors to snip off the ends. I hardly cut any this first time around. I just wanted to see if I could do it.

I’m calling it a success.

I wish I knew how to fix things around the house. As I recall from those workplace personality tests, I’m an ISTP, and we’re supposed to be mechanical. Obviously, there’s been some sort of mistake. But Dale’s pretty good at that stuff, so we balance each other out.  

Maybe becoming more self-sufficient is where I was headed all along, but it took retirement and the pandemic to bring my inclinations to the surface. It has been a pleasant surprise.  

Not bored but boring?

Bored. You say that like it’s a bad thing.

Are you bored yet? I’m not, but it’s worse.

I’m boring.

Sometimes it feels like my range of thoughts and emotions is increasingly smaller, less invigorating, numbing.

It’s not as though my life was filled with a cornucopia of exciting activities before the lockdown began, but that was by design. I don’t want an action-packed life. Still, the simple things I used to do with my time and micro-interactions with people kept me interested and interesting. I had lots of things to write about.

My brain can only hold so much, and my “interested and interesting” brain cells went on idle to make room for COVID-19, a bad tenant trashing the cheap real estate in my head. I want to evict him and make room for happy and creative thoughts.

Sadly, COVID-19, in some form or fashion, is most likely here for the long haul … which means I can’t completely evict him from my brain. My goal is to lock him in the basement and only let him out when I need critical information.

Perhaps we can all free up happy space in our brains as we get closer to a new normal that in some way approximates how we used to live. I feel like we’re on the cusp of getting some of it back.

Social animals may not find the new normal acceptable, but I can see how it might work for us. Dale and I don’t do large gatherings anyway. Our “normal” includes trips to the grocery store, golf, wine tasting. The occasional road trip.

Seriously, I could wear a mask and be socially distant forever if I have to. Masks are cool. Have you noticed the anti-aging effects? It’s like wrinkles be gone. You’ll look 10 years younger!

DIY pedicure and haircut

I gave myself a pedicure today, and it looks pretty good for an amateur. I don’t keep my toenails painted anyway, so I was just going for neat and clean. Beauty base zero.

It wasn’t so bad. I have a little teak stool I put in the bathtub. Then I ran some hot water and added a handful of bath salts. Soaked, pushed back the cuticles, cut and filed the nails, used a pumice stone to remove dead skin on my feet and then shined up the nails with a buffer block.

My tools are starting to deteriorate, so I ordered new buffer blocks and fake pumice stones from Amazon. My stuff should come next week, but I checked the box that said, “No hurry.” Just doing my part for humanity.

When I let my hair grow long, it was for simplicity and convenience. I didn’t want to spend my precious time in a salon. With the current COVID-19 restrictions, staying home has not been a problem for me hair-wise, since I only get it trimmed a couple of times a year. Blunt cut with no unruly layers growing wild. No gray roots to worry about when it’s all gray!

Although I used to call it retirement hair, perhaps I should call it pandemic hair. I guess I could cut it myself if it comes to that.

Dale gets his hair cut at the military barber shop just outside the commissary, where he normally goes twice a month for “the big stuff.” He’s bald on top and gets the Number 3 for the rest of his head. His hair has been driving him nuts, and we talked about whether I could successfully cut it.

Today he said, “Let’s do this thing.”

I watched a few YouTube videos. Then I got the trimmers and practiced without turning them on. I’m like, I think I got this. We went out to the backyard, and I put a towel over his shoulders. I started with the fuzz around his neck, which was easy.

Then I set the trimmers to 7, figuring there would be less damage if I messed this up. Nothing horrible happened, so I gradually worked my way down to 3. Then I just kind of went over the whole thing, zapping stray hairs I missed and trimming around the ears. At some point, I decided I was done.

He went into the bathroom to check himself out in the mirror, and he said, “It looks great!” Another mission accomplished.

The whole thing reminded me of when we first got Riley, a long-haired kitty. He had nasty matts, and I got Dale’s beard trimmer to see if I could get them out. I didn’t put them back right away, and one day Dale asked if I had seen his beard trimmer.

I didn’t even think … I just said, “Oh, you mean the cat’s?”

He was horrified, but we both laughed. It still makes us laugh, which is a good thing.

Illegitimi non carborundum

I did not need a blogging break after all. What I needed was a break from the shit show out there that passes for news, and I somehow got confused. Shit show? Blog? You can see how it might happen.

This could be the corona virus talking, but I don’t think we can completely divorce ourselves from all the negativity of the world. While bad news followed by more bad news gets old fast, most of us want to stay connected. Connected but not immersed? It may be a shit show out there, but that doesn’t mean we should binge-watch the entire season.

It turns out I require a different system for processing information. Not everything needs to be hoarded like hand sanitizer and toilet paper.

If my brain were an office, and you walked in, it would look like a bomb exploded. Mountains of crumpled newspapers, gigabytes of unfiltered information floating about like space junk, blueberry scone crumbs and yellow crime scene tape. It’s ugly in there.

My plan is to tidy up my brain and take out the trash. Not everything will get tossed. I mean, some things aren’t pleasant, but you probably need to know about it to stay somewhat relevant. I’m thinking a new folder with a label that says, “Does Not Spark Joy.” Because there is so much in life that does spark joy, and it’s a shame to let the rest of it cheat you out of happiness.

Seize the day.

As it happens, Dale and I are uniquely suited for battling the corona virus. We’re retired homebodies with no travel plans, few friends and an aversion to public places and most restaurants. We are experienced at social distancing and freak if the doorbell rings.

While it’s true many psychopaths are loners, many loners are not psychopaths. We’re kind and charming people. It’s just that most of the time, we don’t really want to talk to you. However, if you are bringing beer, we might reconsider.

Thanks to Dale, we also have an aggressive toilet paper supply system. He has always been Johnny Mission when it comes to maintaining inventory. And for reasons undisclosed, I use toilet paper like party streamers.

All in all, I didn’t actually take a real break. Seriously, a break from what? I eat, sleep, golf, walk, swim laps, cook, read, write, grow cannabis and periodically stop to purge my brain of the stuff that does not spark joy.

Illegitimi non carborundum!

Loosely translated as, “Don’t let the bastards grind you down.”

Bad at travel?

Many retirees live to travel, but we are not among them. Why not?

Aside from being happy homebodies, we traveled a lot when we were young, and travel isn’t what it used to be. We’re on vacation every day and don’t need a break. We live well and cook great food at home.

Plus, we’re bad at travel. Dale won’t plan, and I over-plan, researching hotels and restaurants in search of the perfect experience. We’re almost always disappointed and sad to see the money go.

We did some soul-searching and figured out a few things. For some of us, traveling was easier before retirement, because we knew more money was coming in. Right? Time to earn it back. When there’s a fixed pot at the end of the rainbow, you tend to be more cautious. At least we are.

There’s no one-size-fits-all for retirement travel. Easy for some, not so much for others. Still, most of us do want to enjoy new experiences. Maybe it’s just a matter of figuring out what we like and don’t like and learning to do it better.

One thing we learned this week is that we’re sort of low-brow people in search of a low-rent rendezvous. We went to Napa for an overnight trip, and it was an expensive letdown. The wineries were lovely, but later it seemed like we had opened our wallets to charming thieves and said, “Here, take it.”

A big deal up Napa way is bringing your own wine to a restaurant. Best as I can tell, there are rules. You don’t bring a wine they serve at the restaurant. It should be something special. They charge a “cork” fee unless it’s a special day where they don’t charge to uncork your wine, but even then, there’s an etiquette to tipping and tasting. Of course, they stick it to you on the wine if you order theirs.

We had beer! And that was the best part of our meal.

Food … we’re all about food and thought planning a trip around the restaurant would be ideal. I spent hours researching options. And then we ended up with mediocre food that cost too much.

However, there were locals at the bar, and what did my little eye spy but a wine purse! For the bring-your-own uncorking ritual. That’s when I knew this was not our tribe. When I think of purses and wine, I might recall the 70s, when one might have wanted something to throw up in.

I came home in a foul mood and tried to think of our best vacations. What have we forgotten?

Our favorite trips were to unpretentious places where we spent the day absorbing gorgeous natural scenery – walking, hiking, scuba diving. Moderately strenuous but not grueling. We quit backpacking years ago because it’s hard, and the food sucks. And beer is heavy.

We camped or stayed in a modest lodge. You didn’t have to dress up. We ate whatever was there because we were hungry. And it was good! Oh, and one might have a couple of beers or a glass of wine with dinner and then read for a while before going to bed early.

I’m confident there are better and less expensive ways to explore the wine country. We’ll go back at some point. For now, we are going to focus on visiting natural wonders, and there’s no shortage of them within a few hours of our home. Dale’s on board and said he’s eager to visit Death Valley.

In the summer.

Because then you know what it feels like to be in Death Valley in the summer.

My dream job

I spoke with a former colleague this week, and he had nothing good to say about work. I tried to listen and be supportive, but the whole time I was thinking how happy I am to be done with all that.

The thing is, when I was into it, I was into it. I was paid well and am still reaping the benefits of long-term compensation. For the most part, I enjoyed the work and loved being a leader. I could have stayed a couple more years, but I had already had cancer twice, I was getting older and wanted a healthier lifestyle that wasn’t all about work.

I started visualizing the future, and then a couple of bad bosses and ridiculous expectations set me on the path to retirement, which might be the best thing that ever happened to me. I love being retired!

These days I do have a job – live well, stay healthy and be happy. You could say it’s my dream job.

The job is evolving. When I first retired, I experimented with arts and crafts. I might dabble from time to time, but it just didn’t stick. I’m surprised to discover I don’t care much about fashion or style. I did when I was working, but that was all part of the game. Now I dress for comfort and convenience.

When I dress, I think, could I wear this later if I go for a walk or hit balls on the driving range or would I have to change clothes? Mostly I wear stretchy things that go anywhere. And running shoes. Even though I don’t run. Supportive. Good for my back, my knees. Ready for action.

I sometimes thought of myself as a role-model for aging well, but that seems arrogant. I would like to go back and delete some of the content I’ve written I now see as preachy. I’m focused on just loving my life, doing the best I can with what I have and throwing it all out there for others to read about.

As my thinking evolves, I expect the blog to evolve as well. I haven’t decided exactly what I’ll do just yet, but I see changes coming. I’m probably going to ditch the word badass in my tagline. I feel great, but I don’t feel badass.

My topics are likely to focus on the core things that excite me. I’ve occasionally ranted about politics, but I’m not continuing down that path. Ditto for advice on retirement planning. And while golf is a big part of my life, I don’t write about it much because I don’t think it’s of interest to many people. I also walk and swim, but so what? Not much to say about that.

The things I love that readers also seem to care about are food, cooking, cannabis, crime fiction and funny stories about relationships.

I’ll give some thought to reorganizing the blog around these focus areas. I’m inclined to leave all the old content there, even though I don’t like some of it anymore, because it does reflect my journey. Gotta figure out a way to share stories about cooking and food without pretending to be a food blogger. Finally, I like to keep my word count under 700 and will be more diligent to keep it tight.

Anyway, that’s where I am on this Super Bowel Sunday. Dale and I don’t care for football, but we’re thinking about food anyway … keeping with the party theme. We have leftover roasted chicken, and I’m voting for Dale’s killer chicken tortilla soup. I’ll make an appetizer of baked cheddar olives wrapped in a flaky pastry dough.

Oh, and beer! We’re currently featuring Panic IPA in the kegerator. That’s my artwork on the door. My talent knows no limits.

Everyone has a story to tell

I grew up in an emotionally abusive, low-income family and never thought of myself as privileged. In fact, I joined the Army at age 18 to get away from that mess and jumpstart my life. It worked.

These days, my husband and I are not particularly frugal, but we aren’t particularly extravagant, either. It’s a sweet life, and we are indeed privileged. I enjoy writing about retirement and aging and the simple things that make us happy … nothing life-changing but sometimes funny and hopefully entertaining.

Privilege is relative, and I now understand even my rough start was like a rocket launcher compared to what some people are born into and how they live. I had parents, a home, clean clothes, safe places to play, food, good schools. Intellectually, I understand what it means to not have those things, but I have no real concept of what life is like outside the bubble.

I’m inspired to expand my thinking after reading an exceptional book about racial conflict in Los Angeles … Your House Will Pay by Steph Cha. The novel starts when a black teenager is killed by a Korean shop owner, and it cascades into the stories of their families – how they are impacted and how they intersect. My words won’t do it justice, so I’ll borrow from the jacket, with these words by Viet Thanh Nguyen:

“This suspense-filled page turner about murder, repentance, and forgiveness draws from the fraught history of Los Angeles, where America’s immigrant dream bleeds into America’s racist nightmare.” 

In the book, everyone is angry and social media is a feeding frenzy, but the families actually living through the tragedy are ordinary people doing the best they can. We see lots of devastating stories in the news, but this book reminded me you have to look beyond hashtags and viral tweets to find the humanity that brings us together and propels us forward.

Such a powerful read that left me wondering if it’s silly or insensitive to tell stories about my cushy retired life when other people are suffering. But the truth is I’m in no position to write about what it’s like to grow up black and poor or a victim of violent crime any more than I’m going to write about what it’s like to grow up rich. Those are not my experiences.

What can a retirement blogger possibly add to the conversation when there are such eloquent voices to be heard?

Then I thought about how grateful I am for this little online community – readers and writers alike. I don’t think we have to change the world one blog post at a time or one comment at a time, but I believe there’s value in listening and sharing so in some small way, we understand each other better or something positive happens, even if it’s just a new recipe, a travel tip or a funny tale about life in the slow lane.

Everyone is shaped by their unique experiences, and everyone has a story to tell. For whatever it’s worth, this is mine.