Relationships – Page 2 – Retirement Confidential

Kitchen makeover blues

We are getting a bit of a kitchen makeover – new cabinet faces, drawers and pull-outs, along with a new countertop and backsplash. Additionally, we’re replacing the floors downstairs. All of it is happening at once and all whilst we are living here.

In the kitchen remodeling system, the project affects two separate yet equally important people: The spouse who manages the crime, and the spouse who hangs around acting offended. These are their stories.

I’m the principal interface with the general contractor and sub-contractors. Dale is called in for decisions, as needed, but mostly he stresses over his space and schedule being disrupted. He can’t cook! Oh, wait. Neither can I. The kitchen has been demolished.

The biggest issue is the mess. They had to tear up a ceramic tile floor, and there’s nothing I can say to adequately express how gross that is. The noise, the dust – it’s a symphony of horrors. I believe the worst is over, but then I said that two days ago. Fumes come next, as they prepare to paint the cabinet bases.

A couple of nights ago, Dale and I had what we’re calling The Last Meltdown. He was annoyed with me for over-thinking everything, and I was annoyed with him for whining about how hard it is. We vowed we will not be each other’s problem. Laugh more, complain less.

We had quite the chuckle over this fancy kitchen and bathroom showroom we visited. It’s a national chain. Ferguson. We went the first time looking for a sink, and somebody basically pointed and walked away. We ended up buying our sink on Amazon.

Then I went to look at cabinet hardware. Almost everything I found on Amazon was hollow, and I wanted solid. I took pictures of cabinet bases, measured everything and made accompanying diagrams. See attached.

A woman behind a desk greeted me, and I said I was there to buy cabinet hardware. She walked with me to that area, explaining that nothing is in stock. Everything is special order. I asked how long that typically takes, and she shrugged. I asked if there was someone who could help me, and she said they don’t do design work. I said I just had a few questions, and she said she’d see if she could find a sales associate.

None of the hardware had prices. There was another couple looking, and one of them dismissed an elaborate cabinet pull for being too expensive. I asked her how she knew. She said you have to Google it. You come here, you’re on your own. The only benefit is that you get to see it and feel it in person. I took pictures of all the displays so I’d know what brands to consider.

No one ever came to help me, so I left. The receptionist who was supposed to find me a sales associate watched me walk out the door and didn’t bat an eye. I guess that’s a business model.

When I got home, I Googled all the brands, and they are spendy. But one of my searches took me to MyKnobs.com, where I found the expensive stuff but also reasonably priced solid hardware. My little diagrams helped me count up how many I needed and in what size.

I placed my order. We’ll see how long that takes.

The good news is the contractors have been great and seem to be doing high-quality work. I believe the end result will be fabulous, so I’m trying to keep my eyes on the prize.

We’ve had use of our microwave and oven the whole time and have been eating yummy food from the freezer. However, we’ve been bad consumers, using lots of disposable plates and such. I am amazed how quickly the trash builds up – yet another lesson to be good environmental stewards going forward.

Some things require real dishes. We have a plastic tub for the dirty ones, and Dale has been washing them outside every couple of days. Although other sinks in the house are operational, we didn’t want to get food bits in pipes without a garbage disposal. He has a system for heating up the water with one of those big propane things people use to fry turkeys. First soapy, then rinse. Throws the dirty water in the sideyard. It gives him something to do besides sulk.

We’re both in the remorse phase. At least we’re on the same side now. Our motives were pure. As retired homebodies who spend a lot of time in the kitchen, we wanted a nicer space for ourselves. It wasn’t even about resale. But at this point, we’re like, did we really have to do this?

But it’s too late now. The show must go on. We are fortunate that we can do it at all, and someday I can imagine us saying it was worth it.

But it is not this day.

If I had a do-over, I’d still get the kitchen done, but I’d leave the tile alone. God meant tile to stay there forever.

When rain is rain

Interpreting art

I took a little detour with my latest pallet scrap. I mostly draw squiggles and such because I’m not skilled at representational art. If you handed me a salt shaker and said, draw this, I probably couldn’t.

This piece includes a few attempts to capture something real, as well as a loose interpretation of something real. On the real side might be the beer mug and the slice of pizza.

As for loose interpretation, pink cats perhaps? Also, on the right, I was going for a cracked egg with a runny yolk. I didn’t quite pull it off. Dale thought it looked more like a cheeseburger! I think of it as a distressed white orb with yellow oozing out of it. You may think of it as you like, and that is the beauty of art.

Outsourcing for retirees

It’s a pre-Christmas miracle, but it appears Dale’s life will be spared. Instead of madly throwing poisonous darts at him for sticking me with the seasonal clean-up of our backyard, I threw money at the problem and hired someone to do it for us.

Of course, that’s my job, too, and it isn’t easy. You find someone, you call them, you leave a message and they never call you back. I ended up going with one of the higher-end services, simply because they answer the phone. Hopefully, they will make up for it with speed and proficiency.

Dale and I will still “share” routine maintenance, but it feels good to know someone else will do the heavy lifting for a change.

While I’m not ready just yet, I am also going to hire a monthly housekeeping service. When I first retired, I took great pride in doing all the housework – partly because I hate spending money on something I can do myself, partly because I think there’s honor in doing your own shit work and partly because any kind of movement is good.

All that to say I actually don’t mind some of it, but again, I need help with the heavy lifting.

We’re having work done in the kitchen soon and getting new flooring downstairs. Assuming we live through that and don’t kill each other in the interim, I’ll wait until the work is finished before I start the search. Finding contractors is practically a full-time job.

What tasks do you outsource? Worth it?

Thinning hair

As I approach 66, I’ve noticed my hair thinning around the temples, and I thought it was something new to worry about. Because, you know, I’m always on the lookout. Then I saw pictures of me from several years ago, and it appears my hair started thinning early into the Trump administration.

So far, so good. I wear it longish and parted in the middle, so it’s really only me who sees the thinning. And I looked at click bait pictures of older women’s hairstyles, and even those touted as having great hair had some thinning action going on. It looks fine. It’s normal.

My hair has pretty much grown back from my post-vaccination haircut, and I like it in its as is condition. Sadly, I did not get the extended warranty. However, I’ve decided if my hair eventually goes, it goes. I was bald when I was on chemo, and I looked pretty damned good. Oh, that’s right. I was 43. Oh, to be young with cancer!

Just kidding. I dreamed last night I ran into some guys I used to work with who had thinning hair, and they had all retired and shaved their heads and looked fantastic. I said I was going to do the same thing, and Dale was cool with it. I told Dale about the dream this morning as a way of thanking him in advance for his support.

When Rain is Rain

We had unexpected rain, and I got so excited, convinced it was the Miracle in September – the miracle that would put out California’s raging forest fires. It was midnight, and I opened the front door to stand on the porch and watch it come down, silently saying a prayer for relief from the seemingly incessant burning.

By morning, the media reported it was barely enough rain to register on any meter that matters, and lightning sparked a few new fires. I was devastated, thinking life sure does suck lately.

I mentioned my disappointment about the rain to Dale, my life partner of more than four decades, who has annoyed me more during the past 18 months than all the other years combined. I’m told the feeling is mutual. These are testy times, indeed.

He said he didn’t think of it that way at all. He thought, rain! Rain is nice. I like the sound of it. The air smells pleasantly damp. It was like we got a little hosing off. And even though it didn’t put a dent in the fires, it was good for our yard. Our little piece of the pie.

Sometimes rain is just rain.

And that, ladies and gentlemen, is how I get over being mad at my husband.

Fix the problem not the person

Some couples claim they never argue, but that would not be us. We’ve been married 42 years, and we hardly ever agree on anything right out of the chute. Sometimes we lovingly discuss, negotiate and reach compromises, but there are plenty of occasions when we just get mad at each other and sulk.

For example, we’re getting new flooring downstairs, and the choice comes down to Luxury Vinyl Plank (LVP) or engineered hardwood. One of us, a lazy tree-hugging hippie-type, is hung up on the idea of plastic no matter how good it looks, and the other one, a retired business executive who actually cleans the fucking floor, is eager for something easier to maintain.

I won’t say which type of flooring we chose, because I can’t bear to hear any more arguments in favor of one over the other. But after an emotionally draining week of marginally civilized debate, we reached consensus.

That little episode was a reminder that retirement, especially with a pandemic piled on top, can stress otherwise solid relationships for various reasons. You’re getting older, you’re spending more time together, you’re getting sick of each other, your back hurts, you’re worried about money, you’re worried about dying, you’re getting fat, you’re bored – it’s just life, but life encumbered by diminishing resources and a looming expiration date.

But we’re actually getting better at conflict resolution because we agreed to focus on fixing the problem not the person. Why get mad at each other for being exactly who we’ve always been?

For example, I mentioned in my last post our tent is toast, and we need a new one if we’re to continue camping. We have a reservation in July, and time’s a wasting. Historically, I’m the trip planner, as well as the chief outfitter, so the job of finding a new tent fell to me.

While I’m sure there are many hardy tents to be had, I could not find one that meets our specifications. Finally, I spoke.

I’m frustrated with tent shopping.

I don’t blame you.

I don’t blame you, either, for, you know, not helping.

Sorry, momentary lapse. Be nice. Focus on the problem not the person. And then I had a vision. What if we cancel the camping reservation at Lassen and stayed in a hotel outside the park? We’re fully vaccinated. And now we’re talking bed! Shower! Flush toilet! Temperature control! It’s a fiesta in there.

It was an easy sell. Not even a hint of resistance. I’m pleased to report Dale and I will now be enjoying Lassen Volcanic National Park from the comfort of a Best Western. The room includes a microwave and a refrigerator, and there are restaurants nearby. We’ll have choices.

I’ll continue to search for a new tent. Or not. The thing is, I like camping, but after more than a year of lockdown, it’s quite possible I like fiestas better.

A surprising walking buddy

An old stone fence on a trail that runs along a ridge above our neighborhood.

Although I’ve been an avid walker for many years, Dale likes to run a couple of miles and get it over with quick. In the past, he’d walk only when he needed to catch his breath while running. I could rarely get him to accompany me on a walk – sometimes a hike through the woods, but that was rare.

Somewhere along the line he decided to start walking more. After all these years, it’s like a mini-miracle. We live in a neighborhood with all sorts of trails, although the maps leave something to be desired. As a solo woman walker, I’m careful and follow the advice shared with the two young lads in American Werewolf in London:

“Stay off the moors! Stick to the road.”

Of course, they didn’t stick to the road, and the rest is werewolf history. So far, I’m safe.

But Dale has been exploring. He came home all excited and said he wanted to take me on a hike that starts on an obscure trail near the end of our street. So that’s what we did yesterday. He said the narrow path was steep, and he didn’t get good traction with his running shoes, so he switched to hiking boots.

I wore my regular trail running shoes (even though I don’t run). I also took along some trekking poles to help with balance. They also take pressure off the knees.

The surprise came at the top of the ridge, where there was an old stone fence that seemingly stretched forever. Crusted with moss, we guessed the fence was more than 100 years old. Probably used to keep cattle from wandering off.

It looked like the trail continued down the ridge to connect with another trail I do frequent, but we weren’t sure and didn’t feel like hiking down there only to find ourselves with another uphill trek.

What a surprising walking buddy! I never saw it coming, although I will have to be careful and let it unfold at Dale’s pace. Note to self … this does not mean we start training for the Camino. Still, over the weekend we’re going to check out the maps and see if we can figure out where the trail goes. Or maybe we’ll just go for it.

Sometimes surprises are right around the corner. And just when you think you know a person, they change. Change is good.

Time to retire work clothes?

We’ve talked about this before. Many of you have already dumped your work clothes, but I can’t quite make the leap.

Instead, I inventoried my professional attire, and I’m actually proud of what I put together to wear my last few years on the job. I hated the suity-suity look, but I managed to create a timeless wardrobe true to my personality and appropriate for my mostly business-casual work environment. I focused on seasonless fabrics in solid neutral colors so I could mix and match without buying more clothes than I needed.

Jackets were the greatest challenge after my mastectomy. Since I didn’t opt for reconstruction and am as flat as a 10-year-old boy, I found that anything with darts was a nonstarter. Dresses were also out. I favored skirts and pants with cropped baseball-style jackets in a variety of good quality fabrics.

It was not easy or cheap. I liked Brooks Brothers. The good news is everything still looks great and fits beautifully. I was like, damn, I did good! In retirement, I find those jackets in white, navy, khaki and black, are easy to wear with jeans and other casual looks.

Here’s what’s left of work attire that’s harder to re-purpose. Everything is tropical weight wool.

1 navy blue skirted suit
1 purplish tailored blazer
1 gray pencil skirt
1 gray skirt with pleats
1 pair black slacks

The next step was to take them to the dry cleaners. I haven’t been near a dry cleaner in years, so I actually had to hunt one down! If I donate or consign the clothes, at least they will be clean.

Here’s what I’m thinking. I only have one suit, which I saved for interviews, trips to Corporate, etc. It never hurts to have a classic dark suit in your closet. The slacks are perfect black pants, and I could see wearing them out and about with a t-shirt, denim jacket and boots. The blazer fits me perfectly, flat chest and all. Perhaps I could wear it with jeans or the black pants for a special occasion.

That leaves the two gray skirts. I love them both, and I felt so good putting them on and checking myself out in the mirror. It has been a long time since I’ve seen me in anything but workout clothes or jammies. Purging dress shoes was one of my first bold acts of retirement, so I Googled pencil skirts with Birkenstocks, and yes, such a thing exists.

Even if I can pull it off, where would I go dressed as such? The colder months would be easier, as I could always go with black tights and some sort of comfy shoe. All that to say I’m still on the fence about the skirts. Maybe I should get rid of them.

What do you think?

All-clear from the dermo

Now that I’m catching up on appointments, I visited the dermatologist for what I call the big naked look-see. I drew his attention to a couple of spots, which he identified as maturity. Everyone’s a comedian.

He said my skin looked great, whatever I’m doing, keep doing. I’m of Eastern European descent, and even after years of sun worshiping with baby oil and Bain de Soleil, I’ve fared quite well.

Still, as a BRCA-positive two-time cancer survivor, I take nothing for granted. I am outdoors a lot, mostly playing golf for more than four hours at a time. One of my golf buddies (one of the pink people) is out for a couple of weeks following the Mohs procedure for cancerous cells on his face.

Even with my darker skin, I have already had my lifetime quota of surgeries, so I take cover. I spray my legs with sunscreen and wear SPF 50 on my face with a large-brimmed hat. I have a UV-blocking umbrella and wear these shoulder wraps under my golf shirts.

While I do swim outdoors, I only swim for 30 minutes two or three times a week, so I don’t worry too much about it. If it got to be an issue, I could wear a UV-blocking rash guard.

All in all, retired life is still good, COVID and all. I do feel like we are at the beginning of the end of the pandemic. Maybe not, but that’s my story, and I’m sticking to it.

Election fatigue

The U.S. election has been particularly brutal this year. Of course, I’ve made no secret of my utter disdain for Trump. I fear the worst if he is reelected. However, I’ve read conservatives fear the worst if Biden is elected. Both sides have deeply seated emotions that are on full display and propagated in news outlets and on social media.

It got me thinking about how things used to be. I seem to recall my parents did not tell each other who they voted for, although I remember a Goldwater bumper sticker on the car. That was just posturing. Who you actually voted for was your own private business. Dale said his parents were the same, and he only learned his father was a Democrat years after he died.

Even after a stint in the Army and 20 years as an Army wife, I can’t recollect any serious political conversations with friends or colleagues. A bit of social commentary for sure, but we mostly talked about beer, food, family, work, travel, music, romance and sports. It was fun.

Back when we were having those get-togethers, we assumed no one was exactly like us, so we made an effort to find common ground. With the internet, a lot of people found their tribe, and now they don’t want to socialize with anyone who doesn’t think, act or look like them.

It’s all quite tiresome. While I continue to support causes and candidates I care about, politics has become a dreary topic of conversation. I’m burned out. Aren’t you? I noticed there are no political yard signs in our neighborhood, and I love it. It seems rather peaceful in our little bubble.

Politics and neighborhoods … maybe it’s like marriage. Not everything needs to be said.

A mysterious visitor

Dale had an unusual experience last week, and no, I’m not talking about yard work.

He went to get gas and was parked by the tank, about to fill up. A neatly groomed older guy – Dale said maybe 60s – approached him. The man was wearing shorts Dale said were a little shorter than what’s in fashion (as if Dale would know) and a shirt tucked in. No mask.

The visitor said, “I’m from another area, and I’m not sure how this works. Do I go in and pay?”

Dale asked him if he had a credit card, and the guy said yes. Dale explained he could pay at the pump. The guy got his credit card out and fiddled around with the machine, finally asking Dale if he could help him. Dale showed him how it worked. Before the guy pressed the button for gas, he said, “Oh, is this unleaded?”

By this time, Dale is wondering what the hell? But he said in his nicest Mr. Know-It-All voice, “We haven’t had leaded gas in the U.S. in more than 20 years.”

The guy said, “Oh, OK, thanks.”

Dale’s telling me this story, and I said, “Are you sure he didn’t say he was from another era?”

We both laughed, but that leaves us with some decisions to make. Who was this unmasked man, and why was he so clueless? Here are your choices:

Time traveler
Alien
Recently incarcerated or otherwise institutionalized
Other?

I’m voting for time traveler and an unlucky one at that. Time travel should come with a warning: Beware 2020. As for the other choices, it seems like even someone institutionalized would be more savvy, and I’m pretty sure aliens don’t have credit cards … let’s hope not, anyway.

Cat mask fever

My sister-in-law sent these adorable masks. I have no idea where she got them, but this cat mask is too cute to be disposable! Although I usually wear one of the washable cloth face coverings my sister made, I keep a stash of disposables around as well. Such is life in the time of pandemic.

Our air quality is much improved, and it has cooled off. Quite beautiful! Earlier in the week, I wasn’t sick, but I wasn’t 100 percent, either. I woke up this morning feeling great, and that’s not the dexamethasone talking. I’m blaming the air.

Today I’m making baguettes, which we have for dinner with good olive oil, prosciutto, brie and whatever else is hanging around. We have some liverwurst spread similar to pâté, which I think will be delicious. Red wine. If all I ever do is make baguettes for Dale, he will die a happy man.

Speaking of red wine, I believe we’ll be taking a drive out to one of our favorite wineries today. Around here, you can join a wine club at any of the wineries. While it varies from winery to winery, at this one, we’re obligated to buy three bottles per quarter and get free tastings anytime we want.

Normally, it’s a lovely place to hang out, but we’re not tasting until I don’t know when – when we see some sort of sign this virus has mostly passed. But it’s an interesting drive, and we have a pick-up ready. Usually they have other sales going on, and the rack is ~~quickly~~ slowly diminishing, so we might purchase additional bottles. Members get a nice discount.

Local wineries are one of my favorite things about living in California, and I am looking forward to the full experience sometime in the not-too-distant future.

Now that the weather is cooling, I’m thinking about all my favorite fall foods. And Thanksgiving, of course. Last year I made pumpkin cheesecake for dessert, and it was absolutely wunderbar. I froze individual pieces.

The cheesecake resuscitated quite well but didn’t last long due to my persistent overindulgence. Those ~~little~~ big slices were like a gun to my head. Why, yes, I want to make it again. But Dale loves apple pie, so I’m torn.

However, I made another deal with him that might get me off the hook for apple pie. I’m not much of a Christmas person and usually complain bitterly the whole time about what a pain in the ass it is. I find the tree to be mostly a nuisance, but Dale loves it. We do have lots of handmade German ornaments that are quite precious, but still, I prefer to see them tucked away in the garage.

Perhaps it’s a touch of cat mask fever or maybe a pre-Christmas miracle, but I said this has been one hell of a shitty year. Who knows what will happen next? We’re not getting any younger. If a tree makes you happy, I’m all in. I’ll help, I’ll be happy and won’t complain. That’s why God invented single malt Scotch.

Anyway, it wouldn’t be all that different from work, where I used to pretend to enjoy all the team-building activities, including one where a high-priced consultant asked a colleague to get on the floor and bark like a dog. A friend and mentor advised me once to think of it as an out-of-body experience, and that mostly worked for me.

Except Dale is my team in real life, and supporting his happiness is part of the deal. It will be fun. Besides, I’m thinking Jolly Christmas Donna is a fair trade for pumpkin cheesecake.

Marriage … it’s all about ~~leverage~~ compromise.

A dissent against yard work

Off for a round of golf wearing my dissent collar.

I was lying in bed this morning. Smoke from the fires has dissipated for the time being, so the window was open, and the air felt cool. For a minute, maybe less, it felt normal. Like none of this had happened. A normal summer sliding into fall. No pandemic, no fires, no civic unrest, no one encroaching on anyone’s right to live in peace.

A normal election year. Two reasonably sane people running against each other without undue malice. You pick one or the other, but your choice is not an existential threat.

Cozy in bed and feeling happy. What if I just stayed there?

But I got up to read yesterday’s news, which we pay to have dropped on our driveway every morning. We saw the news about RBG, and we’re feeling very sad. I have to distance myself from the shenanigans involving her replacement. Maybe a third justice will be the last thing Mitch McConnell has to deliver for the Dark Lord before shuffling back to hell, where he belongs.

I got a cup of coffee and began to read. Dale had the section with weather. In a bright perky voice not common in our house anymore, he said, “The fire danger map looks good!”

You know what they say in golf. If someone gives you a putt, take it. I mean, if that’s all there is … I’m clinging to the image of a shrinking fire danger map. And the sound of Dale’s happy voice.

In other upbeat news, I ordered a hot-shit woodburning tool, as mine was merely adequate. My chronically weak wrists were starting to hurt, and I read a better tool with higher temperatures is much easier to manage. Plus, I think you get cleaner lines.

There were several high-quality products to consider, but I went with the Burnmaster. With a name like that, what choice did I have?

I started to do a whole post about yard work, but I didn’t want to dwell on the disparity among workers in our household. We were going to throw some money at it but decided to clean up the yard ourselves. While some of us worked like an animal, others preferred to put on clean shirt and water the basil.

There was an ugly incident in which the less motivated person was shamed into doing his part … sort of a mini performance improvement plan. I am now comfortable with our progress, as well as the participation level. He pruned the Sago palms, which is not an easy job.

My counterpart hard job was to attack the giant overgrown rosemary plant, which I call Rosemary’s Baby.

It looks like it’s actually the neighbor’s plant poking through our fence.

Just a fraction of the debris from Rosemary’s Baby.

I don’t know what I’m doing, so I just started treating it like some sort of delicate Bonsai and went after it with pruning shears. I barely put a dent in it and gave up for the day. When I went in the garage, I saw a tool I’d never seen before.

Well, hello! Who are you?

Dale said it was a chain saw. Really. How long have we had that? Forever. Does it work? Yes. Would it work on Rosemary’s Baby? Probably. And you didn’t think to suggest this?

I know what you’re thinking, as in, you don’t know what a chain saw looks like? Hey, I was busy earning a living, writing drivel for very important corporate bobbleheads, thank you very much. My brain was full.

Anyway, just call me Dances with Chainsaw. I love that thing! I’m almost done with Rosemary’s Baby, and now that I’m almost down to stubs, it looks as though it’s not even our plant. There are no roots on our side – just thick branches breaking through the fence.

I guess I’m OK with that. Psychologically, I’m done. This is the last time I am cleaning up the yard. In the future, money will be thrown. I don’t mind a little mow and blow, but I prefer to save my wrists for fun retirement hobbies.

Which is why the rosemary debris is sitting idly today while I go and play golf. My personal tribute to RBG and perhaps a dissent against yard work.

May she rest in peace.

My window friends

So far, I’ve stayed reasonably happy throughout the pandemic, mostly by cooking, creating art and playing golf. Now we have triple digit heat and rolling blackouts, and I’m thinking, what’s next? Locusts?

I can hang in the heat, but it really has been too hot to exercise outdoors unless you start quite early. Less golf means more time at home. Just me, Dale and the cat. At this point, I think we’re all looking forward to the day when we can take separate vacations.

Riley, our cat, is an indoor kitty. He likes to hang out by the front window and watch all the action. Two of the neighborhood cats visit periodically. The cats don’t show up at the same time, but both of them just sit outside and stare up at Riley. I call them his window friends.

One of the cats is a ginger. A boy, but so was Ginger Baker, so there. This little guy is quite friendly and has actually jumped up on our roof and stared at us through the upstairs window.

I don’t think Ginger likes it at his house, but then who would? Nice people but kind of noisy. Perhaps he would prefer the company of quiet misanthropes?

Maybe it’s the isolation catching up with me, but I like to pretend Riley is Gilligan, and his spot by the window is Gilligan’s Island. I keep telling him Ginger is coming to visit! We both get excited.

The other visitor is an adorable black and white tuxedo cat named Max. I call him the Professor. We’re still waiting for Mary Ann.

So, this is what it has come to. The dark side of the pandemic. However, there’s no escaping the harsh truth. The cat gets more visitors than we do, and I find myself parked by the window, wondering when they’ll be back.

After the fire, the flowers bloom

Although our garden tomatoes are in abundance and quite luscious, we also like the heirlooms from a favorite vendor at the farmer’s market. It’s supposed to be 100 degrees here today, so we headed out early in hopes that we could be back in time to walk/run before the heat kicks in.

I’m wearing what I call desert chic with mask. It’s all about the fashion statement. Oh, for those of you who may be new to the blog, yes, it’s true I don’t have breasts. I had a mastectomy without reconstruction and am living the flat and fabulous lifestyle.

Anyway, we wanted a stash of tomatoes for a tomato pie I make with cheddar cheese, basil and a biscuit crust. But as we were getting into the car, I said, “I don’t have to make tomato pie. We could do Greek salads again, if you’d rather.” Dale said nothing.

Did you hear me?

Yes.

Well, what do you think?

Yeah, that sounds good.

Seriously! That is not a response. This is a binary choice, Dale.

Oh, you!

I may as well be saying blah, blah, blah, and you’re like, yeah, that sounds good.

We both started laughing, which is a form of grace these days. Then we decided we could actually do both. I made a command decision and said, OK, we’ll do the pie tonight and the salad later in the week. He makes bread for that, so the ball is in his court.

As they say on TV, during these unprecedented times …

Sane and crazy

Sane: I saw some people at the neighborhood park having a socially distant get together. Each chair had a balloon tied to it – I guess as an easy way to keep them six feet apart. Or maybe just for the party effect. Such a simple little gathering, but it made me happy.

Crazy: Our county numbers are still pretty good in comparison to the rest of California, but the whack jobs driving up to South Lake Tahoe to party are making it harder for everyone. An article in this morning’s newspaper quoted a visitor who said, “Everybody seems to be pretty healthy, so I don’t have a concern.”

I can’t even speak to that.

Woodburning

I’m continuing to work on my woodburning projects. It’s quite therapeutic. When I wrote my first post about it, Bobi shared a comment that it reminded her of Zentangle. I checked that out, and it’s pretty cool stuff. I might take a class someday. In the meantime, I’ve been looking at lots of Zentangle images to give me ideas.

The biggest difference is that Zentangle is on paper, which is a perfect surface. I’m using recovered wood and burning it. Although I’m a novice woodburner, I think it’s safe to say wood does what it wants. Sometimes you just can’t get a smooth line. The tool hits snags and resistance.

Just like us! That’s one of the reasons I like burning wood.

I have noticed a big difference between the pallet scraps and a piece of teak scavenged from our neighbor’s bench that was damaged in a fire. Teak is smoother and burns cleaner. And the coloring is different, too.

Perfection is not my goal. In fact, the less perfect the better. The burned bench might be my favorite surface so far. It has a story, a history. I like hanging out in the garage, imagining the possibilities, listening to music and letting my mind run free.

Somehow, it gives me hope for the future. After the fire, the flowers bloom.

Our spirit animal

Our coyote friend came back to take another snooze by the pool. He appears to be a juvenile. Well-fed and healthy. I was out of the house early to play golf, so I don’t know what time the coyote bolted. Dale said he looked out mid-morning, and the coyote was gone.

I think he’s our spirit animal – sent to share a message. Reminding us to not take things too seriously and to seek balance between wisdom and playfulness. As I researched this further, I learned coyote symbolism warns us to beware of the dark side of things and reveals the answers to your problems often come in ways and forms you least expect.

Since the coyote first showed up, we’ve done quite well backing away from COVID arguments, which are principally focused on surviving shopping expeditions and managing territorial issues in the kitchen.

While it’s easy to assume these issues arose from being crushed together during pandemic sheltering, it might also result from being crushed together during my retirement, whereupon I discovered that I liked staying home … which is where Dale likes to hang out, too.

We’ve learned that both of us staying home fighting for space while the world is on fire is a dark place to start when you’re just trying to make dinner.

The thing is, we both like to cook. And with cooking comes control. When I was working, Dale basically had squatters rights in the kitchen, but now he has to share his toys. But it’s not just space or equipment. It’s about choices. What are we going to eat? How are we going to get it? Are you going to use that fresh spinach before it goes bad? Mexican … again?

We had a close call earlier this week, but I managed to defuse the fire with quick action … a skill I’ve been perfecting of late, perhaps with the help of our spirit animal. It involves pressing my lips together and keeping my mouth shut.

The situation was chicken breasts. As you may recall, I defrosted and re-organized the chest freezer. At the time, we only had one chicken breast left, so I put it in a Ziploc with thighs and labeled it, “Chicken Breasts and Thighs.” Makes sense to me.

Normally, Dale likes to buy the frozen chicken breasts individually sealed and you can just cut one off as needed. But when the stay-at-home mandate first started, those were hard to find.

When individually sealed breasts showed up again, Dale purchased a package and put them in the freezer. No, he probably turned backward and tossed them over his shoulder like salt or maybe did a little dance in silent protest of the new order.

And so it came to pass that it was time for Mexican-style baked chicken breasts. A yummy thing. You mix some salsa in with beaten eggs, dip the breast and then roll it in bread crumbs seasoned with cumin and whatever other spices sound good. Throw some butter in a glass casserole, bake at 375 degrees about 30 minutes or until done. Serve with shredded iceberg lettuce, a dollop of sour cream, sliced avocado and a wedge of lime.

I said innocently enough, “When you get the chicken breasts out to thaw, the oldest one is in a labeled Ziploc. Use that one and then cut off one of the new ones.” He did not respond.

Later, as Dale was preparing his kitchen hut for the sacred cooking ritual, I was convinced I personally witnessed him cutting off two portions from the new package of individually sealed breasts.

I wanted to say, “What is so effing hard about using the oldest one first?” But then I thought, oh, the chicken will get eaten one way or the other. Who cares? I did not say a word, and I’ve been quite proud of my restraint. I thought about all the ways to do things and how we almost always go in opposite directions. It’s actually quite funny.

So, I laughed. I thought it would make a funny post and sat down to write. Then I went to the freezer to take some sort of picture to go with. While I was there, I decided to look in the Ziploc. The chicken breast was gone. Only one missing from the other package.

That coyote. He’s a trickster.

Category: Relationships

Kitchen makeover blues

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