Cooking the NYTimes and Other Assorted Retirement Activities

  Before beginning, let me say I am acutely aware that what follows is a first world problem. On Monday, October 18, we arrived at Minneapolis-St. Paul airport at 3:30 a.m. for a trip to St. Maarten with the first of our helpers, our dear friends Jeff and Jackie, who invited us to share in their vacation.  An indication that perhaps this adventure might be going awry was that as we pulled up to the curb, we noticed that the Delta section of the terminal--and only the Delta section--was semi-illuminated in emergency lighting.  A power outage had not only dimmed the lights but was preventing Delta from checking in and boarding the milling passengers. So far we're not too worried.  There's an hour between our scheduled arrival into Atlanta and the connecting flight to St. Maarten. Tick...tick...tick... No power.  No computers booting up.  Delta agents huddling, doing their best to problem solve the situation. Sometime after 5 am, an agent announces we are movi...

  The Sundial Chair This is my beloved backyard chair. The chair itself is at least ten years old, and from best as I can tell, such mesh, four position loungers are not to be found at either big box or small establishments that sell backyard furniture.  If I remember correctly--always a stretch--I bought a couple of these to contribute to the outdoor seating at my former son-in-law's cabin.  The cabin was sold before his and Molly's marriage ended; the chairs must have come home with them; she must have claimed them in the dissolution of their household goods. I'm awfully glad she did. A couple years ago, I earnestly looked to replace this chair and its now less sturdy mate.  Being the frugal daughter of a frugal father (who owned frayed, web meshed lawn chairs for years because they were still serviceable), I was appalled by the prices of decidedly nicer backyard lounge chairs.  These are slatted, many made of teak and bamboo to stand up to the elements. ...

God may have made a mistake when it comes to procreation. Granted, who am I to postulate that the Almighty could have used a second thought or two when deciding that all acts of unprotected intercourse in the human species are intended to lead to procreation.  The dice are rolled when intercourse without protection takes place, but, and here's where God might have considered the consequences before pushing the button, only women end up with snake eyes. According to an article in the New York Times, the new Texas (vigilante) law: bars abortion once a fetal heartbeat is detected, usually about six weeks of pregnancy. does not make exception for cases of rape or incest   deputizes private citizens to sue anyone who performs an abortion, or "aids and abets" a procedure.  Plaintiffs who have no connection to the patient or clinic may sue and recover legal fees, as well as $10,000 if they win. Can you say bounty?   I cannot be convinced this is what God intended when ...

  August trots in all crafty, deliberately trailing July's train as July's always fabulous five weeks retreat having once again successfully hung the mantle of Summer on its thirty one days.  August will not ride July's coattails; it is a unique creature unto itself.  It proudly touts itself as the Dog Days of Summer, heat and humidity uniquely combined with the first whiffs of fall. August proudly boasts ownership of summer colors.  At the beginning of the month, the carefully nurtured flowers are in full bloom, colors resplendent, playing off each other in the gardens.   Neighbors stop and stare at not just pinks and reds and yellows but fuschias and crimsons and golds, pumpkin orange as a precursor to the fruit ripening in the garden.  This is August. This is also August.  The plants reluctant to grow since you first placed them in the ground with the admonishment and supports to thrive now give up the ghost, as do you.  You mentally note ...

I regulate my morning by what time the exercise class I'm attending that day begins.  To my great fortune, it's a quick trip from my bed to the Community Center where classes are held.  And because I am always loathe to roll out of bed, I have it timed down to the last possible minute as to when I need to put it in gear.   There is, however, an enormous difference between the clock showing five after the hour and ten after.  At five after, I am well assured all morning toilette activities can be completed in time for me to be on time for class.  At five after, I've learned, I can even add in a quick pit stop for Benny outdoors, if necessary, along with luring him back into our bedroom where his kennel and other doggie accoutrements are located.  "Good dog," I say, bribing him with a treat as I close the door behind me. At ten after, I'm really rolling the dice.  There is a surge of adrenalin as I rush through the prep and more than once I have lef...

Of late, I have had more feelings of despair regarding the state of our Union than not.   When President Biden was elected, I held onto a shard of hope that our long national nightmare was over.  This has not been the case.  Given how diligently some segments of our Union have clung to The Big Lie, turning their eyes and actions toward state legislatures where multiple laws have been passed to make it more difficult for other segments of our Union to vote, I find myself agonizing over the state of our Union.  What happened to the belief that America was a country where everyone MEANT everyone?  Where is that belief buried?  Can it be unearthed, withering shoots tended to, replanted, fertilized, nurtured to where it once was?  I think I have been so incredibly naive to believe it ever was like that.  All along an undercurrent flowed beneath my feet that selectively picked off segments of society in a most fastidious, nefarious manner.  Ah, Wh...

This morning, we’re off on what I anticipate will be filed in the category labeled Finale.  As in the last time you engage in a life event (not something as mundane as going to the grocery store) with the full knowledge that, given your place on your particular, unique timeline, this will not, of your own volition, occur again. It’s not unlike the feeling I get when a salesperson asks if we want the extended warranty on whatever we’re purchasing.    “Oh, that’s great,” you say, taking the length of that proposed time, adding it to your current age, and thinking two things simultaneously.   A) I hope I live that long and B) if I do, what will my life look like at that point? Perhaps it’s emerging from the post-pandemic cocoon of unrelenting stress and worry, but I’m noting a plethora of conversations among my peers having to do with, “I could be next.”   It's no longer enough to feel badly for the people in the shared stories who have experienced the dre...