Category: Relationships

When chiro doesn’t cut it

If you’ve been looking for a blog post from me, you’ll need to hack into my computer and search the trash, because that’s where everything I write ends up. I just can’t seem to get my shit act together.

In health news, my sciatica flare-up is now behind me. I’m still doing a lot of different stretches and strengthening exercises, and I believe they’re keeping me upright, but I probably need professional help. Seems like Dale said that, but I don’t think he was talking about my back.

A golf friend said she sees a chiropractor weekly, Medicare pays for it and she no longer has sciatica. I’ve always been afraid of chiro, but I made an appointment for an evaluation and took along the MRI of my back. I really liked the doctor, however, he read through the MRI report and said spinal manipulation probably won’t help me and could make it worse.

Rejected! I didn’t think chiropractors turned anyone away.

For you medical nerds, he said the reason for turning me down is the severe stenosis at L4-L5. I appreciated his honesty. He said massages and exercises that address muscles and tissue are good, so I asked my doctor for a referral to physical therapy. I think I’m already on the right track there, but a little fine-tuning seems appropriate at this point. That starts next week.

I’ve been reading a good bit, and it’s not all crime fiction! The list includes:

The Lincoln Highway by Amor Towles. I liked it a lot, but damn, that ending was not what I expected.

An Honest Man by Michael Koryta. After discovering seven men murdered aboard their yacht off the coast of Maine – our protagonist Israel Pike is regarded as a prime suspect. Let’s just say he has a troubled past. Highly recommended.

The Frozen River by Ariel Lawhon. It’s 1789, and a badass midwife in Maine takes on accused rapists, one of whom has been found dead. Or was he murdered? I loved this book!

The Body Keeps the Score: Brain, Mind and Body in the Healing of Trauma by Bessell van der Kolk. This book turned out to be a bit wonky with lots of science and research, but I would consider it a must-read for trauma survivors. Having been raised by wolves, it helped me understand a lot about my own issues.

The Exchange: After the Firm by John Grisham. It was nice to revisit the McDeere’s, but I was a bit disappointed. The storyline wasn’t all that believable, and I think he missed some opportunities to add an unexpected twist or two.

Lady Tan’s Circle of Women by Lisa See. Based on a real person, this work of historical fiction tells the story of a girl in 1400s China who becomes a doctor. I enjoy anything by Lisa See, and this one did not disappoint. But man, that foot-binding is some bad shit. And eunichs! Lot of wrong going on there.

Now that I’ve branched out a bit, I’m thinking of trying science fiction again. High on my list is Dune, which we have at home in paperback. I asked Dale if he thought I could get through it, and he said yes, if I can keep track of the characters.

Well, that’s easier said than done.

In another important retirement development, Dale and I settled our argument regarding crumbs on the floor and the process for removing them. He used to think they disappeared by magic, but he now understands a vacuum cleaner is involved. And I do not have a vacuum cleaner attached to my hand.

To make everything easy-peasy, we sprung for a Dyson cordless stick vacuum and put it in a place with easy access for quick clean-ups. Now, everyone can participate in the vacuuming of crumbs!

Beds don’t make themselves

For a retiree with nothing to do, I’ve been busy. I passed on golf so I could get cracking on the Christmas cookies we send to Dale’s sisters in Maine. It’s quite the process making the dough, rolling it out, cutting the shapes, baking the cookies, making the royal icing, decorating the cookies and then letting the icing dry for a day or two.

I finished them yesterday. The cookies are drying on racks, so that monkey is off my back. Tomorrow, I’ll put them in tins, and Dale will add a few things to the box and get the packages shipped. That’s on him.

Years ago, my sister and I happily agreed to no gifts, and I’d like to spread that around.

This week starts with golf on Monday, golf on Tuesday and golf league party on Wednesday. I haven’t been to the party in a couple of years … well, since Covid. But I thought I’d put my life on the line and hope for the best.

One of the women in my group once said I dressed for golf like I was going on a hike. Not an insult, per se, but my goal is to show up at the party looking like something other than a hiker.

I donated to Joe Biden’s campaign. I hate all the begging that comes after, but I didn’t want to face myself if Trump wins, and I did nothing to help stop it. I do believe our democracy is at stake, so if there’s ever a time to step up, this is it. If I can find some sort of volunteer job with the Democrats that doesn’t involve getting shot at by Republicans, I’ll probably sign up for that, too.  

Last week’s household drama was about making the bed. I like a tight bed with hospital corners. I want to slip into bed like a perfectly folded letter slides into a crisp envelope. I sleep with two pillows and sometimes put a quilt over my side of the comforter for extra warmth.

Dale doesn’t believe beds should be made. Why bother?

I believe our differences are rooted in our military experiences. Dale and I met in the Army. He was an officer, and I was enlisted. His training included a place called summer camp, if you can believe that. How lovely for them. Enlisted people go to basic training, which sounds more like it, no?

He may have mastered strategic warfare or whatever, but this much I know. Only one of us learned to make a proper bed.

You, of course, know it’s important to redistribute the bedding. Sometimes, during the night, one person will steer the bedding to his or her side, a practice we call Grand Theft Covies. Another issue is fluffing the comforter so the filling goes back up to the top, where it keeps you warmer.

When making the bed, all that has to be fixed. It doesn’t take long, but you’ve got to commit.

I was kind of cold one night and realized the comforter filling was all down at the bottom. Dale was the last one who made the bed, so I asked him in the morning.

Did you fluff the comforter?

What?

I explained the finer points of comforter fluffing, but even as the words left my lips, I was thinking it was probably a case of too much information. However, he surprised me. Later that afternoon, I heard the delicious plop, plop of the comforter being fluffed! Oh, clever me.

Over dinner that evening, Dale said there was something he needed to say. As the proprietor of D&D Lodging, he regretted to let me know he was charging $1 for comforter fluffing, and an additional dollar because he had to remove the quilt prior to fluffing. So much work. Then he said, “And as you know, I have long waived the fee for the extra pillow.”

So, after all that, we had a great laugh. Of course, there are no fees, but just the same, he planted a seed. Like somehow this is going to cost me. Now when it comes to making the bed, I’ve been racing to get there first.

Maybe he is smarter than me after all.

Requiem for a tent

The tent is going back. After painful thoughtful introspection, we realized we’re both less tolerant of bugs, rain, heat, bears, snakes, outdoor plumbing and other unpleasant elements we used to find charming. The other reason is getting a camp site reservation in California is difficult if not impossible.

I know it can be done, but it takes a more dedicated soul than I to plan six months ahead and set the alarm so you’re up the second the sites go live. And then do that for weeks until you land a spot.

Since I didn’t start six months ago and don’t hop out of bed like I used to, I spent the last several days shuffling through the leftovers. The interface is frustrating, and I came up empty-handed. I even tried the far-flung places you’d think no one would visit, the ones where the mosquitos have names like El Hefe, and they’re booked solid for the foreseeable future.

This little exercise pushed us closer to finding our retirement travel mojo … which is surprisingly difficult for some of us. Dale and I have decided we mostly want to focus on seeing the natural beauty of California and other not-too-distant places, but we’re not going to rough it anymore. Sometimes a simple motel in a nearby town and sometimes a resort. Maybe even privately run glamping sites, where you stay in an Air Stream or something like that.

We’ll be spending more money, for sure, but I think we should be able to keep the costs reasonable. I guess reasonable is a sliding scale. What seems reasonable to me now was shockingly outrageous only a few years ago. But the truth is, like many retirees, we are not spending down our savings. It’s a good problem to have, and we’re ready to kick it up a notch.

I’ve planned a few trips, including Yosemite and Death Valley (yes, in the summer). All from the comforts of a resort. With a bed. A pool. Air conditioning. Restaurants. It was shockingly easy to make a reservation once you decide to throw money at it.

In other news, we had our second Shingles vaccine, and it kicked our butts. We’re both better now, but it was a rough night. I had the chills, and we were both quite achy and miserable. But at least we checked that one off the list.

Easygoing

A few weeks ago, I got wind of an art exhibition for veterans in my county. I debated whether to apply, partly because I’m not sure critics would view my stuff as “real art.” Anyway, I did apply for the exhibit, which is in May. They accepted me, but then I was miserable for a month worrying and fretting about how others might react to my embellished wood scraps.

I tried to tell myself, do the thing that scares you and all that, but life is already pretty scary, and I don’t need to pile it on. It’s not a popular sentiment, but these days I’m all about making things easier. I fought the good fight and made it to retirement. I used to think big deal. Now, I think, hell yeah, big deal.

Retirement, they say, comes in phases. I’m in the easygoing phase and am doing my best to bypass the harder-than-it has-to-be-phase.

Although I rarely quit anything, I mean, do it until it hurts, I withdrew from the exhibit and feel great about the decision. Art is just a thing I do, no more, no less. I enjoy sharing it with you, but I don’t need to beat the streets seeking new audiences.   

Number 36

I was working on Number 36 whilst churning through all this, and I was so grumpy, trying to make it better. Normally, my mantra, is hey, it was just a piece of scrap wood, now it’s something else. So what if it’s not perfect? But thinking about judges and shit messed me up. I simply need to hang out in my garage and do what speaks to me.

So, number 36. What can I say? I love cats.  

Speaking of easygoing, I hate buying new stuff, but I do appreciate tools that make jobs less of a chore. The weather is starting to get really nice, so I took it upon myself to clean up the patio furniture. I used a brush and garden hose to get some of the dirt off, and then it was all over. You see the difference, clean versus dirty, and what can you do but keep going?

I was worried about my back and wrists, which are both sensitive. I called to Dale, who was conveniently absent for the ritual washing of the patio furniture. I asked about a power washer. Would this clean up without a brush if I had such a tool? He said yes, and I said let’s go.

Off we went to Ace, where we killed it with a credit card and dragged it home. It was pretty easy to set up and worked like a champ. I probably saved my back and my wrists and maybe Dale’s life, because you know, cleaning patio furniture – so not his thing.

Then there’s the lawn. We have a small patch of lawn in the backyard. It used to be thin and scraggly, and we I mowed it with a little push mower. Then late last fall, we had a yard makeover and got new sod. This is the real deal. Thick and hardy.

Here’s the agreement I made. I will mow and blow, but that’s it. Nothing else. Nada. Either we throw money at it, or it’s Dale’s job. Mostly that means we threw money at it and have a service that takes care of the rest. Just another marriage-saver tip from Retirement Confidential.

The new grass had time to grow over the winter, but I hadn’t mowed it yet. When the rain finally stopped, I got out the push mower and almost collapsed. I couldn’t get it through the grass. I did do it, but I had to use my whole body and stop several times to catch my breath. I thought, well, the grass is just thicker because of the rain.

A week later it was a bit easier to mow but still awful. I told Dale I thought we should get a small electric mower. He said nah, it would probably get easier. He reminded me of my father, who used to smoke and drop ashes on the floor, suggesting it was good for the carpet.

I said, OK, will you please try it once and see what you think? And that was when we decided to buy an electric lawn mower. It’s small thing, light as a feather and whips through that grass with ease.

Key word. Ease.  

High school. Has it really been 50 years?

The weather is turning gnarly, so I visited the library to load up on mystery novels. I keep telling myself to act like a big girl and read something literary, and occasionally I do, but inevitably I return to my low-brow life of crime.

One might say I’m attracted to the simple and seedy. I grew up in an underfunded and dysfunctional working class family. Certainly, I read my share of literature in school and later, after I hit escape velocity, but it’s not like we sat around the kitchen table discussing Finnegans Wake.

My dad read sleazy pulp fiction, and my mother enjoyed her True Detective magazine. Not saying I didn’t sneak a peek at their reading material from time to time. We children may wander, but sometimes it seems all roads lead back to the source.

I’ve been thinking about connections to the past since I was contacted by two friends I haven’t heard from in decades. They found me through the blog to reach out regarding our 50th high school reunion in Southern California. I haven’t attended any of the previous reunions and can’t imagine going to one, but I was pleased to hear from them just the same.

Both live in California. I joined the military after high school, and most of my friends went to college here. A few went to out-of-state universities, but I’m pretty sure they all came home after graduation. I also returned … 40 years later. Let’s just say it was a circuitous route.

One of my old friends lives in Santa Barbara, so we caught up via telephone. It was a great conversation, and I’m really happy we took the time to share our stories with each other. I always thought she had her shit together, and she always thought I did, so it was fun to confess neither one of us had a clue.

My other friend lives closer, and we’re going to meet in the middle for lunch next week. I’m looking forward to it! Socially speaking, I do better one-on-one or in small groups, as opposed to hanging out with a couple hundred people I barely remember at some sort of party venue. So, lunch. This is good.

What are your experiences with reunions? Do tell! It will be like a Clint Eastwood movie. The good, the bad and the ugly.

Trust issues

I shuffled Dale off to Maine yesterday. The idea of Covid travel stressed me out, so I elected not to go, but then I had “cancellation remorse.” By the time I was semi-comfortable with the idea of going, it was too late.

Hmmm. Too late. How convenient.

My sister-in-law was incredibly understanding when I apologized for canceling and called myself out for overreacting. She said, “You are not overreacting. You are just taking appropriate precautions. I am immune-compromised, but I have not had my medical blinker on for possible death more than once like you have.”

She’s referring to my diagnosis of ovarian cancer in 1999 and breast cancer in 2015. She gets it. Right? She’s not just saying that to be nice?

It’s not that my immune system hasn’t recovered; it most certainly has. I don’t trust that something won’t get me again. Staring down cancer twice changes you, and I’ve decided to accept I will always be influenced by those experiences. I’m not crazy.

Dale, who was an absolute saint getting me through my illnesses seems to think I’m invincible. Like, what could stop me now? Covid schmovid! He said he was perfectly OK with whatever I decided, but methinks that was a wee bit of bullshit. He wanted me to go, and I wanted to go, but in the end, I made the best decision I could for my particular neurosis.

By coincidence, my key word of the year is trust. I didn’t make a formal announcement as other bloggers do, because I didn’t trust that it mattered or that I would even care about it six months later. Here we are at the mid-point of the year, and I would say I hit the mark with this one.

Let’s just say I have trust issues.

I want to trust others more and not assume I know what they think or what they are going to do … as in Nostradonna predicts. Getting out of the prediction business would be a good start. I cannot read minds! I also want to trust myself more and not always question or ruminate over all my decisions.

And so it has come to pass – I am reasonably happy with the decision I made, and I have a week or so to enjoy being at home by myself. Before he left, Dale said he always enjoys it when I go away, so we’re on the same page in that regard. I’ve actually never been in this house by myself, and so far, it’s kind of nice. Just me and the kitty, who I believe is mourning Dale’s absence and looks at me like I’m spoiled cat food.

But after a week of me piling extra kibble into his bowl, I believe we might be friends.

No big party plans. I played golf yesterday, but it was exceptionally hot, and I wanted to save myself for Wednesday’s league play, so I quit after nine holes. This is progress. The last time Dale went somewhere, we were living in Texas, it was exceptionally hot, and I quit after 27 holes, but only because I was throwing up.

But that’s the old Donna. The new, retired version is much smarter. Prudent, shall we say. I will swim or do my deep water running today, but that’s about it. Trying to stay hydrated.

One fun activity was tidying up the freezer. Dale saves little plastic-wrapped globs of pork and chicken fat for various dishes, and he just tosses them in the freezer willy-nilly. I guess he knows where they are, and I try not to mess with his space, except it’s my space, too. This morning I scooped them all up and put the individual globs in a Ziplock.

Oh, and orphaned sesame seed buns sealed with twist ties in their original bags. I found a home of them in the Land of Zips, and they seem much happier there, hanging out together in a neat little package.

I’m imagining Dale’s return and the eventual discussion about the fat globs not being where they were. How buns last longer in their original bags. Where are the used twist ties? We’re using too much plastic.

But I’m making this up.

Purging old slides

Pussy Baby, the benchmark cat.

Early in my husband’s career, someone gave him a huge stash of 35mm slide film, so that’s what he used when he took pictures. Free is good. He was still burning through the film when I met him in 1976, but I guess he was close to the finish line, because most pictures of our life together are prints.

We’ve been hauling those slides around for 43 years and have never looked at them. I’ve wanted to do something about it for ages, but Dale is typically resistant to my purging efforts. However, when I was visiting my sister last month, she loaned me a slide projector, and I convinced him it was time to go give it a go.

I closed the blinds in our guest bedroom and set up the projector in there. I loaded the first tray, and I flipped through them while Dale said keep or toss. We didn’t really come up with a good system for tracking which was which, so if he said keep, I pulled the tray out and retrieved the slide. Then we’d resume the slide show.

We tossed almost everything. Most were taken before he met me. There were lots of photos of marginally scenic landscapes taken from the window of a car. Mountains, woods. Darkened living rooms with fuzzy people and empty beer bottles. One guy, Bones, was a frequent flyer.

I said, wow, you wasted a lot of film on Bones. Or let me rephrase that … a lot of film on Bones wasted.

There were a few pictures of Dale that were very cute, but we have the same era covered in our scrapbooks. Same for me, except for the cute part. I truly got better looking as I aged. It was like Dale bought Donna futures.

Oh, and whoever convinced me to get bangs and perm my hair should be shot.

We kept less than a dozen out of several hundred. There were two of his childhood pet, Pussy Baby, wearing a little hat Dale’s mother knitted. I call him the benchmark cat, because all cat stories eventually lead to Pussy Baby.

Other keepers included a few from a military ceremony, a picture of his grandmother’s house, Uncle Harvey by his lobster boat and an image from Little Big Horn, because he said it meant something to him.

Just so you know, in 43 years of marriage, he has never mentioned Little Big Horn.

I’m happy that’s done. It wasn’t as bad as I thought it would be, mostly because we just zipped through them and said toss, toss, toss. I was worried he’d want to hang onto everything, but he surprised me. Dale said he found the whole thing a little depressing – reflecting on an era that is long behind us and you look around and wonder if it’s any better. And the whole aging thing.

I said, hey, you looked good! I, on the other hand, looked awful. What did you see in me aside from my caustic wit and unlimited potential?

He said, “I thought you were beautiful.”

So, purging. It’s not all bad.

The road to Paso Robles

A word of warning to retired couples:

Travel planning can be treacherous, and I implore you to stay calm. Nothing good happens when you get angry. And why would a person get angry when planning fun activities, you ask? Because usually one person is the hard-working travel agent in this relationship, and the other person is a pain the ass.

We’ll call him the client.

Yes, now that we’re starting to leave the house again, travel planning has defaulted to me. On the heels of our successful jaunt to Mendocino, I was feeling a little smug and thought it would be nice to plan another road trip for June. Even though we thought we were done with the coast, we both wanted to give it another go.

Beach, we can’t quit you.

Dale, the client, didn’t have any other ideas or demands, so I happily went to work. After a bit of research, I proposed a three-night trip to the Central Coast. I consulted with him at every stage of planning, and we agreed to stay in Morro Bay. From there, we’d take a day trip to Paso Robles for wine tasting and another day to see Hearst Castle. Dale has never been, and even though it’s a tourist trap, I think we would enjoy it.

I presented the client with a range of hotel choices, dinner options and timetables. We agreed on everything, and I booked it. Then I booked the cat sitter. All was right with the world.

As we sat of an evening enjoying a libation, I mentioned one of my golf buddies is somewhat of a wine expert and just got back from Paso Robles. Perhaps I could consult with him on which wineries to visit?

The client said and I quote, “To tell the truth, I’m getting tired of going to wineries.”

Imagine my head exploding at the speed of light.

WHAT???????????

He was all about how he’s entitled to have an opinion, which is technically true, but I just spent two days going through every nitty gritty detail with him, and he never once thought to say wineries were not appealing to him at this particular moment in time? Maybe another time, when we feel like dropping a wad of money on shit we don’t care about?

It turns out I hadn’t cracked the code. As the designated travel agent, one must learn these things. Just because I said we could or would take a day trip to Paso Robles doesn’t mean we must take a day trip to Paso Robles. He thought those were options for him to consider over the next few weeks, and he was waiting for me to present more.

I’m more task-oriented. I wasn’t thinking, oh, how much time and energy can I squander presenting the client with a cornucopia of amusements to consider? I was thinking, nailed it! Done!

As it happens, I was just about out of oxygen and bleeding from the brain when I said I was going to start calling him Big Bird, because he waits until the end and then comes in and craps all over everything.

That was harsh, I agree, and certainly, I will not attract new clients with this kind of attitude. In my heart of hearts, I know you can’t say these things in your outside voice.

Of course, I don’t want new clients. I just want this one to speak up sooner. When I finally relaxed and heard him out, I found myself in agreement. As is often the case, I could totally see his point. I mean, there’s more to California than wine, right?

Part of me wanted to cancel the whole damned thing, but the trip is on. I went back through the travel books, and there’s plenty to keep us amused with or without Paso Robles. Which, by the way, is still on the table, with wine or without wine … but not a done deal.

A bit nebulous for me, but there you have it. The road to Paso Robles.

Dining during demolition

Remodeling continues, but they are making excellent progress and should finish up by the end of the week. Between interactions with the contractors, we talk about food. When we’re not talking about food, we watch cooking shows.

We’ve had full use of our microwave and oven throughout the project. But no cooktop, no sink, no countertops. Our freezer was pre-stocked with leftovers, which we’ve mostly burned through. Lasagna, Chicken Pot Pie, Chicken Divan, Chicken Enchiladas, Lamb Rigatoni, Chicken Curry and Chicken Tetrazzini. Salads. Burgers on the grill.

It’s not like we’ve been starving!

Additionally, there are certain homemade foods we keep around at all times, and they are gone. Pizza, tacos and scones from the freezer and granola in the pantry. We will have fun replenishing the supplies. There’s one piece of coconut cake left, and it has my name on it.

When I retired, I got a few Starbucks gift cards, which I’ve hardly used. I’ve been driving over there in my jammies to get us each a large dark roast. Drive-thru, of course. At about $6 for the two, I’ve mostly drained those cards. The Starbucks employees I’ve encountered are quite cheerful and personable.

I had my first bite of fast food in more than 10 years. One morning I got us each a sausage biscuit from McDonalds. It was OK, but I’m good for another 10 years. We had sandwiches from Jersey Mike’s, which we like a lot. And takeout from a local Asian bistro. It was expensive and not very good.

As of Friday, our countertops and backsplash were in, and the cooktop, sink and dishwasher were functional. The kitchen is still not business as usual because they haven’t finished with the cabinet fronts, but the sink was a game-changer.

Contractors don’t come on Sundays, so it really is a day of rest. I wanted to play golf since I haven’t been able to play during the week, but instead I opted for a relaxing breakfast with Dale. At the beginning of the remodel, we had a couple of big-ass arguments, but we broke each other’s will worked through it and emerged closer than ever.

Maybe this was what we needed to get back to the basics of love. Our own little Luckenbach, Texas. I’m glad we got our issues resolved early in my retirement, as it bodes well for enjoying the rest of our time together. Counseling might have been cheaper but probably more painful.

Breakfast was bacon and toast, and it was bliss.

We are getting excited about Thanksgiving. Dale ordered a fresh Diestel turkey. He stuffs the bird with a seasoned potato, bread and onion mixture he grew up eating in Maine. Mashed potatoes and gravy, some sort of green vegetable. Pinot Noir.

Usually I make cranberry sauce, but we are doing something different this year. At Christmas, I often make a cranberry walnut pie. However, this year Dale has requested plum pudding with hard sauce. But we still want the pie, so I’m making it for Thanksgiving.  I thought it would be overkill to have the pie and cranberry sauce.

I’m still going to load up on cranberries for the freezer, as I love them in scones. Or scons, as Paul Hollywood says.

I hope the kitchen stories haven’t been too self-absorbed. But I guess it is what it is. The whole project has been an interesting retirement experience I wanted to share. However, if you are bored senseless, I expect to emerge from The Remodeling Zone later this week and return to our regular programming.

Something fun! We are ready.

The micromanager at home

Still knee-deep in the hoopla with regard to the kitchen remodel. In a surprising development, I’ve learned dust is like dry shampoo and makes my hair fluffier. Just another pro-tip from Dale and Donna’s cantina.

As far as dealing with contractors, the remodel brings out the overzealous project manager in me, the queen of rumination.

I’d like to introduce some corporate concepts. In my dream world, we’d have a communications plan that starts with a daily 8 a.m. stand-up. Wouldn’t it be nice to know what was happening? Who would be there and when?

Maybe a war room with the project plan taped to the wall. FAQs. Here’s a sample:

Q: What can I expect the first day?

A: Contractors will arrive at a designated time known only to them and immediately begin demolition. You won’t know what hit you.

Perhaps a lessons-learned meeting at the conclusion of our project? Oh, how I hated those. I mean, enough already. It’s over. But no, we all dutifully marched in for the dreaded hot wash. One of my co-workers said hot wash sounded so harsh. Why not call it a cool cleanse?

I believe Dale and I will be, enough already, it’s over. No hot wash for us. Go away and never come back.

And yet.

This project has been a bit of a wake-up call for me. While I was not a micromanager at work, those dark impulses decided to play out at home. We used to see it a lot in the kitchen, when Dale was cooking and I arrived on the scene to make sure he was doing it properly. And he is the better cook!

Fortunately for Dale, I backed off. But I still find myself offering guidance in all sorts of activities when he’s perfectly capable of figuring it out all by his own self.

The flooring is scheduled to be installed tomorrow. I have a doctor’s appointment, and I was going to cancel. Dale asked why. I said I need to be here to make sure he’s doing it right. Dale laughed, “Seriously, you know how to install floors?” I didn’t even tell him I read the label for the glue, just in case.

Ridiculous. I do think this is a control thing that got worse after I retired, and I have new appreciation for Dale being at the butt end of it. May I suggest those of with the tendency to meddle learn to back the fuck off?

Think of me as the advance party here to perform reconnaissance and report back from the field … a bit of intelligence to ease your retirement journey.

You’re welcome.