Category: Simple Pleasures

Do you need a vacation calibration?

Mendocino Headlands State Park
Navarro Vineyards

We’re back from our trip to Mendocino, and as it happens, the weather was cold and rainy. We were forced to take shelter in a winery, where one can stay until the Pinot’s gone weather clears.

The scenery in Mendocino is spectacular. We hiked around Mendocino Headlands State Park and visited two wineries. As you may know, Dale and I live in great wine country, but the Anderson Valley specializes in wines that are not typically grown near us. That’s how we ended up with two cases of wine – a mix of Chardonnay, Gewurztraminer and Pinot Noir.

The obligatory difference of opinion between us lovebirds came down to whether we should leave the wine in the car overnight. I’m thinking several hundred dollars in wine – take it up to the room in case someone decides to smash and grab.

Dale’s thinking that’s way too much work. Take a chance.

Granted, our room was in an old house with narrow steps. And we are not as young and hearty as we once were. Dale finally agreed and carried our first case up. He was almost to the top, when he stumbled, but he righted the ship pretty well, saved the wine and only got a scrape on his knee.

He was annoyed because he saw no reason why the wine couldn’t have stayed in the car. But my little brain was working overtime, and I said, hey, I have an idea! My suitcase was a sturdy tote with a thick shoulder strap. What if I emptied it out, we put some of the bottles in the bag and shuttled the wine up in shifts?

And that is what we did. Kind of pathetic, but even Dale said it worked out pretty well. Of course, we had to shuttle it back to the car this morning, but downhill was way easier.

We were mostly disappointed in the food. But then we almost always are. Back in our globe-trotting days, we ate some pretty amazing meals. And these days, we are good cooks with impossibly high standards. We ate at a pub one night – our first dinner out since the pandemic! Mediocre fish and chips. So sad when you know how good it can be.

The second night we ate at a fancy place. We both got duck for an entrée, and it was cooked to perfection, but they used five spice seasoning, and I think it overpowered the duck. It just didn’t taste ducky enough for us. They served it with sautéed Swiss chard, which I love, but I didn’t think it was a good pairing.

All in all, we had a fine time, and we’re glad we went, but there’s some room for improvement. For many retirees, travel is their main mission, and they’re good at it. If that’s you, please feel free to skip this next part. But if you’re like us, homebodies with only a moderate itch to travel, you might benefit from what I’m calling a vacation calibration.

When we were younger, we were avid scuba divers. Most of our vacations were at Caribbean beach resorts. We don’t dive anymore, so the beach is less alluring. Yet we keep heading there, partly because that’s what we’ve always done. We do love the ocean vistas and great seafood, but this trip poked a hole in the seafood-is-better-at-the-beach theory.

I also used to be happy just hanging around the pool reading, because it was the opposite of work. Now I can stay home, hang around the pool and read whenever I want. I certainly don’t want to waste time and money to veg in the sun.

Food is a big attraction, but there’s the disappointment factor. I thought, what if we were just so damned hungry, that perfect food wasn’t the objective? What if all we need is something like a burger and a beer, which you can get about anywhere. And that led me to the idea that hiking might be a better focus for our trips. Work out hard, get cleaned up, eat, drink, crawl back to clean dry room and repeat?

That’s pretty much what we did when we were diving, but maybe at this stage of our lives we’re mountain people.

Dale reminded me that we loved Santa Fe, N.M. Plenty of hiking, interesting historical artifacts, great museums and delicious food. All the restaurants within an easy walk of the hotel. There must be more places like that!

So that’s my mission, should I choose to accept it. Continue with the vacation calibration and find a better fit for our changing expectations. While this trip wasn’t perfect, look at the pictures! I mean, how bad could it be?

Trying not to worry

Riley

It feels like everything is going to shit, that maybe this is the beginning of the end, but I keep telling myself not to worry about things I can’t control. And I am reminded of a scene from Lord of the Rings:

“I wish it need not have happened in my time,” said Frodo.

“So do I,” said Gandalf, “and so do all who live to see such times. But that is not for them to decide. All we have to decide is what to do with the time that is given us.”

As I’ve muddled my way through retirement, I’ve pretty much let go of the idea that I need to accomplish anything. Just hanging out, enjoying simple pleasures. Trying not to worry but worrying anyway about Riley, our cat, and why he likes Dale better. It can’t just be about the food.

However, sometimes I get this idea – I can’t quite reach it – but it feels like something might be pulling me in a new direction. As per usual, I have few clues as to what that might be.

My prediction is that I’ll discover something special to write about, I’ll do some sort of long-distance walk or I’ll find a new focus for my cooking obsession. As I reflect on these speculations, it occurs to me all are a search for a singular passion, which I don’t appear to have. Always the dabbler, we’ll just have to wait and see what comes of my magical thinking.

I’m trying not to stress out about anything. Maybe retirement doesn’t need to be orchestrated. Just live it and do your best to stay healthy and happy. Or maybe it’s a cycle, and you just have to ride out each phase until the next one appears. I don’t know, but I’m open to endless possibilities.

I do these deep breathing exercises in bed before I even get up. It’s almost a form of meditation, and I think that’s when all will be revealed. Until then, I continue to putz around, taking care of things that perhaps don’t matter in the big picture but seem to provide a sense of steady comfort.  

Whatever happens, my hair will look good. When I got my hair lopped off in early December, the stylist said I would need regular trimmings about every six weeks. I eagerly signed up, even though I’ve previously been resistant to the whole salon regime. They say never surrender, unless you’re 66 and your hair looks like crap.

I canceled my first trim due to Omicron. My hair still looked better than it ever did, but I absolutely loved the shorter bob. The rescheduled appointment was this week! Our Covid numbers are way down, but at this point, I didn’t care if Godzilla breezed into town, I was getting a haircut. I’m delighted with the results. And yes, I wore a mask.

This might be the vaccine microchip talking, but I’ve actually had an urge to go shopping. Like not online and for real. It’s hard to imagine I could need anything beyond what’s delivered to my doorstep, but going to the mall seems like such a quaint thing to do.

Although we didn’t have much money, my mother loved clothes and was always good for a trip to The Broadway. It’s gone now. I vividly remember waiting outside with great anticipation for the doors to open before a big sale and was always enthralled with the lingerie section upstairs, where there was a big glass case of fancy peignoir sets. Oh my!

The peignoirs were gone, too, by the time I got old enough to wear them. I do like fancy undies and may splurge if I should make it to said mall. Although I remember the owner of a lingerie store telling me, “If you wait until you can afford it, you’ll look like hell in it.”

I’m well into the second half of that sentence, but I also need swimwear, which is difficult to order over the internet and particularly difficult for me since I chose to go flat after my mastectomy. It will take an N95 and perhaps medication to get me through swimsuit shopping.

I’ve gone back and forth on the whole streaming music thing, and I have no qualm with anyone’s decision one way or the other. There are no saints in this story. However, I’ve decided to give Spotify the big FU for supporting Joe Rogan and switch to Amazon Music Prime.

While I don’t think my decision puts a dent in the universe and in no way settles the myriad issues over music streaming in general, I’ve read Amazon pays artists slightly more. But that might be smoke and mirrors. At the end of the day, go with your gut and try not to worry.

Play. Play nice.

Lots of people out there seem to have ambitious goals for the year, but I’m keeping it simple:

Play. Play nice.

I’ve heard people say retirement evolves over the years. So far, I would say that’s true. I spent the first year happy to sleep late, and now I can’t wait to wake up and play Wordle.

We had a solid financial plan, but I worried about money in the beginning. Perhaps it was just the newness of not having a steady income, but I’m over it. With a conservative investment portfolio, I don’t even care much about what happens in the stock market.

Art was something I discovered after I retired, but everything else is about the same only more so. As I enter my fifth year of retirement, I find myself doing what comes naturally … digging deeper into the things that give me pleasure. Golf. Walk. Swim. Cook. Eat well.

Cooking is an obsession. I had a whim this week that I would like to make crepes. I’ve had a few here and there over the years, but they haven’t been high on my yum list. I’ve certainly never made them myself. But for some mysterious reason, crepes came calling.

As it turns out, we have a crepe cookbook, circa 1976. We have a lot of old cookbooks, and it’s fun to try vintage recipes. While I did use a recipe from the cookbook for the filling, I turned to Serious Eats for the basic crepe batter. I made them in a regular 10-inch nonstick pan.

After making the batter and preheating the pan, I poured a few tablespoons of the batter in, swirled the pan around and cooked them until lightly golden on one side and then just done on the other. I stacked them on a plate, covered it in plastic wrap and let them sit in the refrigerator until I was ready to make the filling.

I love when a major step in a recipe can be done ahead.

The filling was scallops, green onion and mushrooms in a wine cream sauce. I used a sheet pan and laid a crepe flat, filling one side and then folding over like a quesadilla. The top was sprinkled with grated Gruyère cheese and then baked in the oven at 350 degrees until the cheese was melted. I served them with steamed asparagus on the side.

All I can say is wow. Where have these been all my life? I was so excited I forgot to take a picture. Anyway, I can imagine so many things that would make excellent crepes. I’m more interested in savory than I am sweet.

Drilling down into the things I like to do anyway helped me realize I don’t need a LinkedIn account. My profile has been static since I’m not working anymore and don’t intend to. But I’ve left it there anyway, mostly out of inertia, but partially because I like seeing what former colleagues are up to.

Lately I’ve noticed LinkedIn has become a lot like Facebook, which I abandoned years ago. My LinkedIn feed is increasingly full of political messages, family stories, sexy graduation pictures. There was even a post about someone’s stillborn baby.

On one hand, maybe this is what they mean when they say bring your full self to work, but if people think blurring the lines between home and work will lead to a happier life, they might be in for a rude awakening.

I don’t know what’s posted on LinkedIn today, because I closed my account. Just like that. Interestingly enough, as I shut down one source of online connections, I’ve amplified my efforts to connect with  people I meet face-to-face, mostly on the golf course. We already share a love of golf, correct?

With a little effort to be friendlier and more approachable, I discovered a fellow golfer shares my cooking obsession. I gave her some of Dale’s homemade scorpion pepper salsa in exchange for a jar of her homemade marmalade. That led to an invitation to join a group playing at a celebrated course down the road a piece. It’s just a day trip, but this will be my first out-of-town adventure since the pandemic. I’m kind of excited.

Play. Play nice. Just might be something to it.

Doomscrolling to foodscrolling

My birthday came and went. In my continuing efforts to stay sane during these unprecedented times, I’ve successfully transitioned from doomscrolling horrible news to foodscrolling delicious recipes.

The cake was/is absolutely incredible. My husband started calling me Cake Boss.

Dale and I each had a piece, and I froze the rest, but I’ve already pulled one out to thaw. As they say when you go winetasting, I’d like to revisit that one, please.

The cake was a wee bit dense. Next time, I would be sure to beat the batter a little longer at a higher speed. Oh, about the buttercream roses. I couldn’t quite pull it off. They look more like tiny piles of fettuccine, which is fine with me. It’s a new thing. Fettuccini flowers. They are delicious.

I have a thing for coconut in all its forms, especially spicy food made with unsweetened coconut milk. Dale likes them well enough, but I’ve improvised a couple of dishes that turned out great, and I believe he is converted.

Yesterday, I started with this basic recipe for Coconut Shrimp Curry with Mushrooms. I got the recipe from the NY Times cooking section, which is behind a firewall. But the link above is the same recipe at a site that didn’t have restrictions.  

As I browsed the recipe, it seemed to me I could make it more Thai or more Indian, depending on seasonings and vegetables. I went with Thai and added chopped spinach, fish sauce and lime. Served it in a bowl with white rice and cilantro and toasted peanuts on top.

The broth was thick but reminiscent of Tom Kha Gai. You could add more coconut milk and/or stock to achieve a more soup-like consistency.

If I had gone Indian, I would have added garam masala and maybe some cauliflower.

My passion for cooking surprises me. Sometimes I wish I had gone to culinary school, but I grew up thinking cooking was a girly thing, and I wanted to break free from stereotypes. I suppose that’s why I joined the Army. Then 50 years later, you don’t care if it’s girly or manly or gender-neutral. You know what you like, and if you’re lucky, you get to do it.

While I might take a class here and there, my achy breaky parts are not likely to withstand the demands of culinary school. So, I’ll continue to poke around in the kitchen in my primitive fashion.

I’ve mentioned before we have years and years of Gourmet magazines. Some time ago, we ordered special binders to keep the years together with an annual index. It seemed like a good idea at the time, but the heavy bulky binders are unwieldly, and the individual issues don’t exactly stay put.

I didn’t mind all that until my back started bothering me. Sitting for long periods is about the only thing that makes my pain worse, so much of my foodscrolling has gone low-tech. I still spend plenty of time at the computer, but I try to take little breaks throughout the day and lay flat for at least 15 minutes or so.

What a perfect opportunity to browse real cookbooks or actual Gourmet magazines! I remember back in the day when we subscribed, way before computers, I’d save the new issue to read in the bathtub. That, and National Lampoon. I miss that one.

The thing about Gourmet is that I’m eager to try some ambitious cooking projects, and it seems like a good place to start. But you can’t really rest comfortably with a 5-inch binder full of magazines.

We finally decided the binders were worthless at this point, possibly from having been moved across the country multiple times. On a bad air quality day with nothing better to do, I pulled all the magazines out of the binders and tossed the binders.

Then I lined up the issues on a bookshelf from oldest to newest, left to right. I had annual indexes for some but not all. If there was no annual index, I photocopied the index page of each magazine. Then I put all the indexes together in a magazine holder like you see at the library.

The idea is you grab the pile of indexes and browse those until something piques your interest. Then you go pull an individual magazine, lying upon the 43-year-old corduroy comfy couch to squander the afternoon daydreaming about food and what you’ll try next.

Just another way to scoll …

All play and no work

I’ve kept journals for years, although I often quit mid-way through, leaving lots of empty pages behind. However, I’ve kept the journals and periodically go back to raid them for fresh paper. I found one this week from 1994. I was 39 years old, and I was already dreaming about retirement.

Well, not retirement per se, but it seems I already wanted the exact lifestyle I enjoy today. All play and no work!

I slept like a baby last night. I worry sometimes because I do so enjoy my sleep. But on weekends, I don’t mind getting up, because I know the day is mine. But getting up and going to work, knowing that time belongs to someone else is not motivation for getting up. But what else can I do?

Work isn’t that bad. I don’t know why I hate it so much. Maybe I just wasn’t born for work. I’d rather play!

I’m looking forward to Christmas. Not because I like Christmas but because I have 11 days off! I love it. I plan to write and practice piano and walk. Maybe throw in a little cooking. And reading, of course. I do love life when I can do the things I like.

I sure wish I didn’t have to go to work today. I love staying home. Maybe I should have married money. But then I would be embarrassed to be a kept woman.

I’m feeling happier. I’ve come to the realization my self-worth is not wrapped up in what happens to me at work. It’s not my soul in there. I know I have to have a job, and I want to be good at it, and I want to get promoted and all that, but it’s not my purpose in life.

For the record, I was not a real piano player. I was learning to read music and play the piano with a special “piano” keyboard and program that plugged into my Mac. I learned three or four songs and had Dale videotape my recital. I would go on to express regrets about my performance.

It seems I blew Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star.

On the bright side, I would go on to have a successful career doing pretty much what I was doing when I complained about it in 1994. While I worked hard and had a strong drive to succeed, I was always ready to goof off and had lots of soul-affirming hobbies and interests. Ultimately, I accepted the dualities of work and play, but I never felt like I found my purpose.

Still, I’m glad I stayed the course in my career and didn’t chuck it all to live off the land. Money doesn’t grow on trees, as my mother used to say, and my job was key to building our savings. But all the fun stuff I did over the years is what truly prepared me for retirement.

The fun meter isn’t exactly pegged these days, what with fires, smoke, COVID … have I forgotten anything? But I still love retirement, and reading my old journals was a great reminder to quit whining, relax and enjoy the privilege of life.

As for purpose, I heard the musician Steve Earle talking on his Sirius radio show the other day, and he said he has always believed he was put here for a purpose, but he’s no longer arrogant enough to assume he knows what that is. Instead, he said, “I just show up.”

Me, too, Steve.

Camping for homebodies

Almost 50 years old and perfect for camping.

While we are professional homebodies, we do like to camp. But not too much. It’s all about balance.

Dale and I just returned from a camping trip at the beach on the Sonoma coastline, and I didn’t take a single picture. Just soaked it all in. I thought I’d share a few tricks that make the experience easier all around, especially if long wilderness excursions aren’t your thing.

To recap our camping history, we started out with a two-person backpacker tent many moons ago and eventually upgraded to Big Daddy, a luxurious base camp designed to sleep six. It’s big (hence the name) and heavy but not a problem for hearty car campers. The tent has an enclosed vestibule but no floor, and that’s where we keep the luggable loo for midnight pee excursions.

When we lived in Texas, where once it gets hot it stays hot, we upgraded to a retro-style teardrop trailer with air conditioning. We called it, “The Toaster.” It was super lightweight, and we towed it with our Honda Element.

We loved The Toaster at first, but it was poorly designed, poorly made, leaked, didn’t keep us cool and gave us nothing but problems. We towed it to California, leaving behind a bumper that blew off somewhere near Barstow.

Most of northern California cools off at night even when it’s hot during the day, so we didn’t need the malfunctioning AC anymore. We took The Toaster on some memorable trips, but it just got junkier and junkier. When I retired, we were moving anyway, so we donated it.

That put us back in the tent camping business. We resurrected Big Daddy and took a couple of nice trips pre-pandemic. Our last trip was early fall 2019. Napa, where it was hot and buggy. Yellow jackets (bugs not the attire) were in abundance, and in a moment of solidarity, Dale and I tore down the tent in 2.5 seconds and drove home.

This time around, I had a hard time finding reservations. People are camping more than ever. Even the spot I found at the beach was a miracle. We had a lovely site across the street from the ocean overlooking the bay, but there wasn’t room for our tent. We had to put it on the asphalt pad, and that actually worked out fine. When I unrolled the tent, guess what I found? A dead yellow jacket.

We have a deliciously comfy queen-size air mattress with a rechargeable pump and inexpensive zip-together sleeping bags. We try to do all our camping in favorable weather, so we don’t need high-end sleeping bags.

Dale & Donna’s patented camping formula is a two-night stay – more manageable in terms of food and other necessities, and also so the cat doesn’t get mad.

Our custom is to cook steaks one night and make steak sandwiches the next. A big breakfast of bacon, eggs and toast. Of course, we could modify the menu and come up with something just as easy. The key is not to add an extra night.

I have learned that trying to wash dishes at most campsites is a major pain in the ass, so we don’t. That’s one of the reasons we like the two-night stay. I have an old laundry bag, which I line with a plastic garbage bag. Dirty dishes go in there, and we put them in the dishwasher when we get home.

Most of the tent sites we get don’t have hookups, so we have a French press coffee maker. Load coarsely ground coffee into the bottom of the pot, boil some water on the camping stove and pour that over. Let it steep for a few minutes and slowly depress the plunger to separate the coffee grounds from the liquid. Delicious!!

On the morning we depart, we get up and go. Because we’re homebodies. We’re done. No breakfast, but we stop and get coffee for the road.

Most of the campgrounds we visit have flush toilets and coin-operated showers. I have this little cosmetic case that was part of a set I received as a gift when I graduated from high school! I used to love traveling with the various pieces, because no one has that color. The rest of it is gone, but I still have this little guy for camping. Flops and other shower stuff fits in the bottom, and there a little tray that sits on the top to hold your toothbrush, etc.  

We take music, books, games. Some places are great for hiking. On this trip, we had a lovely walk along the beach. We drove into town just to see what was there. I do like the woods, but all in all, the beach was quite pleasant. The sounds alone are worth the price of admission.

I’ve written often that we don’t have a travel Jones, but we concluded after this trip that in some form or fashion, it’s important to get out and about. To change your routine and your surroundings from time to time. See things from a different perspective. It’s good for your brain, it’s good for your relationship.  

That means we’ll continue to camp. The two-night stay is perfect for those of us who want to experience the great outdoors but still prefer the creature comforts of home.

However, we need a few upgrades. Our little camping side table that holds valuable happy hour consumables disintegrated, and we tossed it in the dumpster before we departed. The tent poles are warped, and Big Daddy is sticky and nasty with age. We figured he’s close to 20 years old! The zippers are starting to come loose from the sleeping bags, which are also about 20 years old.

The hardest replacement will be the tent. We loved Big Daddy, which is actually the Eureka Lodge. We would get the exact same tent, except they quit making them a long time ago. We have some shopping to do.

I admit I’m a little envious of the trailers, vans and fancy rigs one sees camping, but we don’t go often enough to justify the expense. Granted, we live in a mild climate, and rain or lack thereof is somewhat predictable, so that does make things easier.

We miss the old Honda Element and now drive a Honda CRV. The Element had more room, because you could remove the seats. However, we bought a cargo carrier that goes on the CRV’s trailer hitch and gives us more space for stuff. We keep all our gear stored in tubs and shelves out in the garage, and packing up, as well as putting away, is no big deal.

Yes, you can still enjoy camping without an RV and be quite comfortable. Just don’t overdo it and make sure you are comfy. We’re thinking some new equipment should fix us up just fine.

Life in the slow lane

An old John Deere wagon overlooking the Zinfandel vineyard.

Understanding your limitations

When it comes to competition, some people rise to the occasion and perform their best. Others don’t. I’m among those who typically choke if you tell me there’s a prize involved.

I play in a weekly golf league, but most of the time it’s low stakes and quite manageable for someone like me, who does not embrace competitive sports. When I’m relaxed, I’m a pretty good golfer, but every now and then my league hosts a more formal tournament, and I can barely get through it.

The tournament ended yesterday, and I feel a huge sense of relief. I’m free again! Now, I can just play the game. Of course, more evolved humans can do that anyway, but I have some sort of blockage. When I first retired, I tried like the dickens to enjoy organized golf events, but for the most part, I prefer life in the slow lane.

To spare myself the drama, I may just opt out in the future. Let others scramble for the title while I enjoy a relaxing game of no-stakes golf with people who like to play their best but don’t care about winning or losing.

I view this as a retirement success story. Seek to understand your strengths and limitations and course correct as you go. Eliminate what isn’t useful or pleasant.

Camping

Speaking of the slow lane, Dale and I enjoy tent camping, but more than a year of hibernation put the kibosh on that. Now that we’re fully vaccinated and the range of possibilities is broadening, we decided to go for it. The only thing is, it’s really, really difficult to get a camping reservation in California during normal times, and now everyone has discovered the great outdoors. Places like Yosemite and Lake Tahoe are almost impossible.

Some people are willing to drive five hours for a first-come, first-served campsite. That would not be us. And that is why I spent the better part of a week tackling the reservation system, which includes ReserveAmerica.com, Recreation.gov, ReserveCalifornia.com and a cornucopia of sites managed by individual counties.

I should have started this in January, but I was pretty busy not doing much of anything. Despite being late to need, I finally got one reservation for a Sonoma County beach campground toward the end of June. In July, we’ll be going to Lassen Volcanic National Park. We may have the worst sites in the campgrounds. I don’t know, and I don’t care. We have reservations!

While I may sound like a tough outdoors girl what with tent camping and all, I do not leave the tent at night. We have a great tent with a little screened room attached to the sleeping area, and this is where I store my Luggable Loo. Because even tough girls have to pee.

My low-tech fitness tracker

My low-tech fitness tracker.

Although I avoid competitive sports, I love exercise in general and consider fitness part of my retirement lifestyle. The problem is I found myself doing too much of some things and not enough of others. With some activities, you need to do them at least twice a week to gain any benefit.

I finally made up these little cards to help me see what’s on track and what isn’t. I just started it this week, so we’ll see how well it works. I mean, it’s Thursday, and I can already see some big gaps!

I’m only documenting fitness-related stuff I need to do regularly to maintain some level of proficiency. Some activities are scheduled in advance, and the rest are as the mood strikes me. I don’t like a strict regimen.

My goal for golf practice is only once per week, but for everything else, I’m shooting for 2-3 times per week. The “R” under swimming means I have a lane reservation. I mark the box with an X after I’ve completed the activity. Weights are usually the first thing to slip, so this cheat sheet helps me stay committed.

Wine Tasting

Today was a lazy day, so Dale and I went to a winery. We live adjacent to Amador County, which produces amazing wines just as delicious as those from Napa and Sonoma. And a lot less expensive! They charge $5 for a tasting and deduct that if you purchase bottles, which we almost always do.

This area specializes in the lighter reds – Zinfandel, Barbera, Sangiovese, Primitivo, Tempranillo, Petit Syrah and a variety of house blends. The venues are typically gorgeous, and it makes us all the more grateful to live here.

While we were tasting, Dale spotted the old John Deere wagon facing the Zinfandel vineyard. Kind of cool.

The person who poured our wine asked what we had planned for the rest of the day. I said, oh, not much. Dinner?

I love retirement and the slowness of it all, so we’ll have to see whether my fitness tracker helps or hurts. Surely, we can accomplish a few things without becoming a slave to the schedule. Right?

Right?

Making room for art

Wall of art.
Number 17. For some reason, this wood was hard to burn and hard to color, but I like how it turned out. I gifted it back to the guy who gave me the wood. I want it back.
Number 18. Unlike the damaged scraps I normally work with, this is a piece of poplar I purchased.

Although I can’t quite summon the strength to call myself an artist, I am happy to spend quality retirement time experimenting with artistry. I’ve been at it for about a year now. Consider this my periodic plea to make room for art in your life.

It all started when I scavenged a pallet from my neighbor’s debris. I had no idea what I would do with it, but it’s like that Progressive ad when Jamie cries with joy, “Who gives away free wood?”

One day I woke up and decided I would burn it. An art form known as pyrography, although my version is a far cry from the traditional works of this genre.

I got a book from the library and decided to purchase an inexpensive woodburning tool. I sanded the wood a little bit, made some primitive marks and called it art. That first attempt quickly escalated to drawing more complex designs with the woodburning tool and filling them in with color.

At first, I used cheap colored pencils, and although the result is fine, the shades are more muted. I didn’t get the explosion of color I wanted until I threw some money at it … in the form of Faber-Castell Polychromos oil-based colored pencils. Then I added some acrylic paint. Then I threw more money at it and bought a high-quality pyrography tool. We like to call it the BurnMaster 5000.

The big question all along has been what to do with this stuff. I have given away a few pieces to mixed reviews. While I try not to get into the trap of love me, love my art, I was disappointed to learn my in-laws thought it was weird and didn’t know what to make of it. Ditto for a guy I play golf with.

That’s when I decided no one gets this stuff anymore. I’m going to be an art hoarder. I hung a couple on the fence in the backyard, but the sun just made them almost disappear. So, I brought them in. I found an empty hallway wall and bought a bunch of Command strips. The rest is decorating history.

For the record, I do not have the decorating gene. Our house has no theme, décor, color scheme or anything else that looks intentional. However, this wall is intentional, and I like that. I will keep adding until it’s full and then find another wall.

Experimenting with art has been one of the best discoveries of my retirement. Sure, it’s relaxing, but it also stretches me to think in new ways and challenges me to accept imperfection. I almost exclusively work with found wood that is damaged in some way, but a friend recently gave me some wood that was really hard to burn and color.

To reward myself for finishing the monster, I purchased a beautiful piece of poplar at Home Depot. Yes, it was easier to burn and the colors absorbed beautifully, but I missed all the dings, dents and quirks of my abused and discarded scraps. A psychologist could have a field day with that one.

Speaking of abuse, my dentist was asking me about retirement – you know, those rare pauses where you can actually speak – and I said we were not high-rollers. No big travel Jones. That life is mostly about simple pleasures. I had shown him pictures of my art. We always manage to talk golf. Cooking.

He said, “So, all you really need are greens fees, art supplies and food.”

Yeah, pretty much.

Blissful disengagement

I’ve always been opinionated and have a well-documented history of wanting to be right and willing to prove it, but now I find myself deep in the ease of retirement, enjoying the simple pleasures of disengagement.

Every time I get a desire to weigh in on some burning issue, I think, “What good would come of that?” Sometimes I’ll say something anyway, and I almost always regret it. Lately, I’ve gotten better at saying less, and you know what? Life goes on.

For example … I saw a LinkedIn post about safety in the workplace. The author said, “Too often, safety is the privilege of a few – not a right enjoyed equitably by all.” Somebody commented there was no correlation between safety and privilege, and I was about to jump on it, explaining, for example, how women are not safe in the same situations (walking alone at night, a hotel room on the ground floor) where white male privilege somewhat shields them from the same fears.  

Then I asked myself that important question. What good would come of that? I stayed out of it, and when I went back later to see what transpired, that person’s comment had been deleted. Time marched on without my input.

Last week, I mentioned to a golf buddy that California was currently lowest in COVID cases in the continental United States. A full week later, he tracked me down in the parking lot to show me statistics he pulled up on his cell phone clearly showing California had the highest number of cases in the U.S.

OK. Got me, except I said currently not cumulative, but c-words are tricksy. And maybe I misread something. Who knows? I opted for the quick escape, “Oh, interesting, thanks!”

For a third example, I begrudgingly attended a golf rules clinic, because golf is all about the rules. I only want to know enough to avoid someone else giving me a bunch of crap because I did something wrong. However, in my infinite stupidity, I mentioned to another golf buddy that I attended a rules clinic.

He asked if I learned anything. I said, yes, lots, but it’s hard to remember them all. Oh, but sure, let me dig for an enticing tidbit.

Yay! Here it is! Fresh off the memory merry-go-round!

One surprising thing was about teeing your ball up in the teeing area. If you purposefully make a swing at the ball, and it dribbles off the tee but remains in the teeing area as defined by the rules of golf, you count the stroke, but you can still tee it up for your next shot.

No, that’s not true.

Well, I probably got it wrong. It was a lot to process. All I know for sure is there was a difference between if the ball stays in the teeing area or rolls out of the teeing area.

But you said you get to tee it up.

Yes, but I retracted that comment. Now I’m saying I don’t know.

That seemed to satisfy him, but when I got home, I looked it up. As it turns out, I was right, and I started to copy the rule and text it to him for his further edification. But what did I do instead? I asked myself a simple question. Say it with me.

What good would come of that?

Because I am not a rules expert and don’t aspire to be one. Why would I set myself up for that argument? My regret is bringing it up in the first place. And even if I were to make this mistake again, there’s still an exit strategy. When he asks me what I learned, I say, “You know, I can’t recall.” And then I laugh. We all laugh. Because the rules of golf suck.

The final reusable straw came this week over food. The website Epicurious will no longer post new recipes using beef because of the impact cows and beef consumption have on climate change. I started to go down the slippery slope of engagement, when I read through all the comments on the New York Times article.

As is often the case, there are more than two sides, and I can pretty much understand each perspective. But anything I might have said has already been said. Plus, not everyone is as genteel and reasoned as I, and the discourse can be quite snarky.

Who needs that? I know there are important issues that will sometimes demand I step up and take a stance. And I’ll do it. But most of the time, my presence is not required.

In the meantime, I’ll just kick back and work on improving my retirement skillset – blissful disengagement.

Vaxed to the max

We passed our post-vaccination 10-day waiting period and are now vaxed to the max. My first foray into the “fully vaccinated” zone was quite lovely, although my next attempt fell short. Here’s what happened.

Although I’ve played golf throughout the pandemic, I’ve been quite cautious and have avoided certain events where it was assumed we would get together afterward. I was not comfortable getting too close to people, indoors or outdoors.

One group I play with is particularly social, and I have avoided them for the past year. But I found myself missing the fun and signed up to play in an event now that I’m somewhat immune. It was cold in the morning, but by the time we finished, it was sunny and delightfully warm.

The course had an outdoor patio, where everyone gathered. Some were socially distant, some were not. I purchased a beer and sat down near the hub of activity but far enough away to feel at ease. I took off my mask, and there in the soothing sun I sat, sipping and chatting and feeling pretty damned happy.  

I think this was the first face-to-face conversation I’ve had with anyone other than Dale in over a year. Such a simple pleasure!

On the way home, the radio played in order:

  • The End (The Doors)
  • Truckin’ (Grateful Dead)
  • White Rabbit (Jefferson Airplane)  

Great music kind of put me in the mood to party. We’ll have to wait and see how that unfolds. I’m not sure I remember how to party. But I do feel optimistic that Dale and I can enjoy a wider variety of activities without putting ourselves at undue risk. However, I’ll go out on a limb and share my prediction.

By and large, Americans are done with lockdowns, and they’ve told themselves this is over. Many are going to behave with wild abandon and COVID, in some form or fashion, will be persistent for another year. And yet there’s a chance enough people have either had the virus or the vaccine, and we’ll turn this ship around. We can only hope.

My next thought was a return to swimming. My three-year-old swimsuits are a bit saggy from wear and tear, so I thought it would be fun to go to Target and see what they have. I masked up and headed out. I have been to Target only once during the pandemic, and that was to buy kitty litter, which I later learned could be delivered to my door.

I collected a handful of cute suits and made a beeline for the fitting room. It looked like a crime scene, as in all taped up and not open for business. I stood there for a few minutes, just staring at the empty space, kind of in shock. The possibility of the fitting rooms being closed had never occurred to me. I turned around and drove home.

As it turns out, my sister-in-law had the same experience, and she said even if you buy a swimsuit to try on at home, you can’t return it. So, I’m back to Amazon. Free shipping both ways.

Next in the queue are haircut, dentist and dermatologist. We have some home improvements on the list, but we’re going to wait a bit and see how the virus behaves before we commit to having anyone in our home.

Oh, and last week marked 22 years since I was diagnosed with Stage 3 ovarian cancer. I’m in a small club of lucky long-term survivors, and no matter what happens, pandemic or no pandemic, I will be forever grateful for my good fortune.

You can read more about my experience in this post from a couple of years ago.