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Hello friends,

Thank you for reading Retirement Confidential. I wanted to let you know I’m taking a blogging break. No real reason other than to see what it feels like to detach for awhile. If all goes well, I’ll be back in a few weeks with lots of good stories.

Donna

I’m trying to detach from the news and all things impeachment. It’s not that I don’t care. Of course, I care. But it’s no secret I loathe Trump and all he stands for, and I just don’t see the Senate holding him accountable for anything. For every new piece of evidence of his misdeeds, there’s one more excuse.

It reminds me of when we came back to the United States after living in Cairo. We had moved to South Carolina, and I was looking for a job. I interviewed with an insurance company, and they made me an offer that didn’t even come close to my salary history.

I said, “Thank you, but I made more money than this at my last job in Egypt.” They said, “Well, that was international, you can’t compare us to a poor developing nation on the other side of the world.”

Then I said, “Thanks again, but I made more money than this at the job before that in Alabama.” They said, “Well, that was aerospace. You can’t compare us to rocket science.”

That’s when I almost said, “Thanks, but I made more money than this at Captain D’s.” And their response might have been, “Well, that was fast food. You can’t compare us to fried fish.”

And so it goes with my reaction to Republicans defending Trump. I might say, “But you are choosing to ignore evidence he betrayed his oath of office, abused his power, obstructed justice and compromised our national security.” And they might respond, “Well, that’s Trump being Trump. You can’t compare that to being a good president.”

“But it’s your job to be impartial and help protect the country!”

“Well, that’s democracy. You can’t compare that to an opportunity to undo everything a black man did and stack the Supreme Court for decades to come.”

That’s the end of my political rant. Back to our regular retirement programming. Tune in next time to see if I continue with Netflix after my 30-day trial is over! What’s up with Grace & Frankie? And Outlander! Does the sex ever stop?

I finally broke down and watched the Peloton ad, which has been much maligned for being sexist. I’m usually the Top Gun of my class when it comes to identifying sexist bullshit, but I just can’t get excited about this one.

Husband buys wife a fancy exercise bike. She starts exercising. Changes her life. I guess because he gave it to her, and I guess because she didn’t request it, that implies he wants her to change in some way, and the bike is a not-so-subtle message to get off her ass and ride?

It’s a stretch, even for me, a lifelong feminist. I’m thinking, yay, a present! A bike seems more realistic than a car or diamonds, and no one seems to get upset about those ads. Maybe there’s a minimum.  

I’m not seeing dark forces at work here, and now that I know what the fuss is about, I’m moving on. There was a time when I would get fired up about everything, but like Leonard Cohen, I found over the years that cheerfulness kept breaking through.     

Still, in the spirit of sexist conspiracy theories, I vote for the Trintellix ad, in which a woman is depressed while dealing with dirty laundry, two small kids, a husband who doesn’t seem to do much, an office job with a bunch of men standing around looking important and a broken copy machine she has to fix.

There’s a pill for that.

Ortho consultation

I’m a bit apprehensive about the upcoming week. I finally get to see an orthopedic specialist on Monday. I broke both my wrists in 2012, and since then I’ve experienced periodic pain. I’ve never been sure if the pain is related to the fractures or carpal tunnel syndrome.

Usually when my wrists act up, I wear braces for a couple of days, and I’m fine. This time, I put a lot of pressure on both wrists attempting push-ups during my new member “fitness evaluation” at the club I joined, and my wrists pretty much hurt all the time now.

The interesting part is that I’ve been playing some of my best golf ever and swimming, so it’s not incapacitating. I’m fearful the doctor will tell me I can’t completely recover without a lot of downtime, meaning no golf. I’ll do what I have to do, and it’s better to deal with it in the winter when golf kind of sucks anyway, but I’m hoping I can play through it.

I definitely don’t want surgery.

Jury Duty

I got a summons for jury duty. I’ve only been summoned once before, and that was in Texas. Move around enough, and it takes them time to find you. In Texas, I went to the jury selection room, where more than a 100 people were being processed. When they finally got to the end, it was down to me and four others. They said we could go home.

Of course, I’m proud to do my civic duty, and it could be interesting, but I dread it just the same. The summons has a little warning about dress code. “Jurors are to dress appropriately as an officer of the court.” Whatever that means. No tank tops, shorts or bare feet, so I’m good on that front.

I’m instructed to call tomorrow to see if my appearance at the court house is confirmed, postponed or canceled. If it’s on, I have to go in first thing Tuesday morning. Ugh. Maybe I should have submitted an excuse:

I’m retired. I can’t start anything at 8:30 a.m., and I no longer have a relationship with appropriate attire. Can I watch it on TV and text you my thoughts?

I was a journalist in the U.S. Army from 1974-1977. My husband is retired from the Army. We both like to joke we won the Cold War. In any event, we did our part, and on this Veterans Day, I would like to thank all those who served. Obviously, that would exclude President Bone Spurs.

Since I retired, I’ve noticed weekends and holidays are a blur. An overheard conversation at our house:

Is it Friday?

No, I think it’s Saturday.

Um, no, it’s Friday.

Yeah, you might be right.

Whatever.

I reminded Dale it was Veterans Day weekend and Monday was a holiday, basically because we like to avoid crowds. He said he was pretty sure Veterans Day was one of the holidays that isn’t adjusted to make for a three-day weekend.

Who knows? I went upstairs and Googled it. Ha! We were both right. The holiday doesn’t move, but this year it happens to be on a Monday. So, here we are. We have no special plans because when other people go out … we stay home.

I’m in the middle of a pretty good Jack Reacher novel. The gym is probably a safe bet. I’d like to get in a swim and might tidy up the garage. Based on the number of boxes out there, we could start our own Amazon delivery service. We’re starting to think about Thanksgiving. I’ve pretty much settled on Pumpkin Cheesecake with Bourbon Sour Cream topping for dessert. It’s an old Gourmet recipe from the vault.

Oh, and in my idleness, I’ve been reflecting on the OK, boomer business. While I definitely don’t think boomers should curl up and go away, I’m not offended by the dismissal, either.

When I was working, I heard boomers speak to millennials and gen Xers with arrogance … comments such as, “I have shoes older than you” or “I’ve been working longer than you’ve been alive.”

Boomers, in my opinion, are an important voice and should continue to express themselves, but sometimes we need to shut the fuck up and let the younger generation have their say, even if they’re saying we suck.

What was that Army expression about getting even? Payback’s a medevac.

A few days ago, our upstairs window was open, and I heard a horrible plaintive wailing, possibly from a mortally wounded animal or a child in distress. It sounded like it was coming from the street in front, so I went outside. I stood a long time and just listened. Sometimes there was nothing, deadly quiet, but then that awful piercing cry resumed.

Later, Dale and a neighbor were talking out in front, and they heard it. The two of them walked around, probably talking more than listening, but still. Nothing. The sound was haunting the entire neighborhood, but no one could figure out what it was or where it was coming from.

While I was on the phone with my sister complaining about the strange sound, she said maybe I should call the homeowner’s association. It was the middle of the afternoon, unencumbered by darkness, so I decided to risk it all. I said, “I’m going outside. If I lose you, I’ll call you back.”

I walked to the front porch, still in my Minnie Mouse jammies, and just stood quietly, listening. My sister was still on the line, and I put the phone out in the air so she could hear it. Oh, yeah. She heard it, too. What in the world could this be?

As I faced the street, the sound seemed to be coming from the house on the right. They hadn’t been home in some days, and I began to worry. Maybe their cat was hurt. Maybe they were inside butchered and dying. I walked up to the garage and put my ear to the door. I could hear the wailing, but it wasn’t coming from the garage.

The sound was fierce, and my heart was racing. “Cheryl, are you still there? It’s getting louder. I’m closing in on it.”

Ever-so-slowly, I turned away from the garage and found myself staring down at an evil black cat, spinning and wailing. However, now I could now see the cat was plastic. And presumably battery-operated. Probably with a timer. Possibly with remote speakers, because this thing could crank out some noise.

“I’m going to put ze phone down,” I said to my sister, channeling Teri Gar from Young Frankenstein, as in, “Put ze candle back.” And then I looked around to see if anyone was watching. The coast was clear, and I carefully picked up the cat. I found a switch on the bottom, and I turned it off.

And then there was peace.

I hope I’m not morphing into a curmudgeon, but Halloween? Enough already. I dread the trick-or-treaters, but there’s no way out.

It has been an interesting week. I went to Reno for a few days to play golf in a member-guest tournament. There was a practice round, silly but fun games and then the tournament itself. The course was very difficult – much harder than what I normally play – and there were lots of big hitters. I’m not super long off the tee, and it was humbling to see these women blast the ball.

We didn’t win anything, but I’m proud to say I held my own with the big girls. In situations like that, my greatest challenge is lack of confidence, so I just tried to play my own game and focus on what I know I can do. Reno is dry and windy, and the course was mentally and physically exhausting. I got home Saturday with seriously chapped lips and just wanted to sleep for two days.

And then it hit me, I can! I don’t have to go to work! I’m retired!

So, I was enjoying a restful evening. I decided to start watching Downton Abbey from the beginning, since it is now free on Amazon Prime. I had the headphones in and was watching it on my Kindle Fire, when Dale starts hollering, “Donna! Donna! There’s a fire in the backyard!”

We both jump out of bed and threw on some clothes. By the time we got downstairs, four firetrucks were parked out front and a slew of firemen were in the backyard dousing the fire.

Note: Firemen are very attractive. It’s not just the fire that’s hot.

Back to the story. There’s a ballfield behind our house and some brush in between. Apparently some kids were back there smoking, and the brush caught fire. They ran off and left their scooters behind. I kind of wanted one of the scooters for my yard art, but the firemen took them as evidence.

All the neighbors were out, peeping over the fence. We just had our fence repaired, so I’m kind of pissed about that. It should be relatively inexpensive to fix … probably not even as much as the deductible on our homeowner’s. My neighbor, on the other hand, is thrilled. Her fence was in bad shape, and the firemen broke through it to get to the yard. She’s excited at least part of her fence will be paid for.

While I was out there, I chatted up the neighbor’s son. He’s in community college and works at the local grocery store where we frequently shop. I’ve never really talked to him, but he made an effort to snag me one of the scooters. The firemen said no way. While I had him, though, I talked to him about the comment card I filled out at the grocery store. I’ve been surprised no one has responded. It has been at least a month.

Dale thinks it’s hilarious that I expect a response. It’s a good store with great customer service, so I absolutely expect a response. Michael, our neighbor’s son, asked me what my feedback was. I said I suggested they peel and core ripe pineapples to sell whole, so you can just cut slices for the grill. He thought it was a great idea and said he would follow-up.

I’m calling that a win-win-win. A minor fire with no injuries and no significant property damage, attractive men storming my house and a possible solution to my pineapple concerns.

Then there are the stupid kids who started the fire. I told Dale they should have to spend at least one night in jail, just to scare them. Their parents should pay for the damage and reimburse the fire department for their expenses. However, we don’t know who they are. I thought about putting up signs that say, “Did your child lose a scooter?” And then see who bubbles to the surface.

Maybe those cute firemen will figure it out. Perhaps they will need my assistance? They did an awesome job and kept us informed throughout the evening’s events. I was impressed and happy to pay taxes for their excellent service.

As for Downton Abbey, I got to the episode where Lady Mary finally figures out she loves Matthew Crawley, so I slept well, although poor Mr. Bates. And that awful O’Brien. She reminds me of someone I worked with, and it made me all the more glad to be done with that nonsense.