What do your shoes say about you?

As the morning sun rose over the horizon, strips of sunlight broke through my window blinds, hitting my closed eyes, barely visible, near buried in the pillows that wrapped around my head.  Instead of jumping into the shower as I did when I worked, I stayed in bed, stretching my muscles, my skin gently rubbing against the soft white sheets and down comforter as I reached over switching from the southwest chant music that had been drifting out of my iPod radio all night to the NPR morning news.  This little act of listening while in bed is a jewel, cherished and guarded.  One could say, if one was to be blunt and gritty that this listening time was better than sex, but I would never say that.   

So this morning, after reporting the latest political and criminal activity, NPR began broadcasting, "If the Shoe Fits: The Rise of the Stylish Comfort Shoe."  Instead of falling into a half sleep, where the radio voices become elements of dream, I perked up and listened intently.  The story's proposition was that women's shoes more than any other article of dress reflect their personalities.  The challenge, the story continues, is that at middle age, most of women can no longer tolerate heels, but refuse to wear the "comfortable"  shoes of their mother's generation.  Really?  Can people look at my shoes and see my personality?  Should I be troubled?

Since I was 21, I wore in heels, despite the fact that I was on my feet most of the time.  If I was walking through an airport, standing in front of clients facilitating their meetings, teaching a class, or walking down the street, I had a pair of heels on well into my 60's.  Like Ginger Rogers, I acquired the skill to move smoothly backwards, sideways and forward without tripping or falling over myself; however, after 30 years, two operations on my right foot, one on my left, serious arch supports, and ankle tendons so shortened that it was difficult to walk in flats, I knew the time was coming when I had to give them up for I was starting to shop for wedgies instead of 2 or 3 inch heels.  It is amazing the pain I put up with to "look good".  I guess my personality was all about style; making me feel like a grownup, adding two inches to my height, someone to be listened to.  If we were talking about men, we'd call it "swagger," that presence that grabs attention when you walk into a room.

The reality is that I no longer need "swagger" as I no longer need to grab anyone's attention. Within two weeks of retiring, I attacked my closet.  It was easy to rid myself of all the business clothes, delivering eight huge bags of suits, shirts, jackets, scarves, handbags, and accessories to charity.  However, with my heeled shoes and boots, it was not so easy.  I wanted to cling to them, each pair reminding me of some event or time in my life.  I couldn't part with the sequin stitched black stiletto heels I wore to a "Long Island" wedding two years ago. Maybe, I thought, I might need them again, sometime in the future for some unknown swanky event.  As I picked up the pair of kinky heeled ankle boots with chains, bought in New York City three winters ago, I felt the thrill of happening discovered the small shoe salon across from an Italian grocery, while lost in the Village one cold, rainy afternoon with my husband.  I remember I giggled when I tried them on, my husband smiling, lusting after my perky strut across down the store's aisle.  I just had to have them since they were "pretty comfortable" and looked perfect with skinny jeans.  

Now, in the end, I'm down to two pair of sensible heels, in case I should ever have to be business dressed again; however, so far, they are just gathering dust.  What I do wear are flats (I'm teaching my ankle tendons to stretch to their original length).  I bought red scalloped soft loafers, black with bows, beige with rhinestones, tan with gold buckles and more.  My personality is a new style; it's more of cute comfort that surprises and delights as I can still wear my skinny jeans with them. I am unwilling to wear my mother's shoes,  At least for now.

Politcal Circus Scene - A break from Sailing

Being a loyal Democrat, I watch with growing wonder the on-going struggle by Republicans for a presidential candidate.  The Republican line-up, as you well know, is an assortment outsiders against the insiders, insiders being those with any smattering of governing experience, both insiders and outsiders vying for the attention of primary voters.  The traditional nationalistic right wing, tea party and evangelical social conservatives, voter groups that seem to overlap one day and not the next, keep me reading the political analyses and opinion pages as if they were serialized soap opera.  It's better than fiction. You can't make this stuff up.

Looking at the outsiders, the possibility or impossibility of Trump's nomination tops the pundit writing list. Compared to Ben Carson (evangelical neurosurgeon who among other bizarro ideas equates the Affordable Care Act, providing health insurance to 16 million people, with slavery) and  Carly Fiorina (incompetent and fired HP CEO, loosing California governorship candidate and admitted non-voter, who decided she has the credentials to be an American president), Trump appears to be the most acceptable of the unacceptable outsiders.  Why not?  He's rich and famous with his own reality show. Like the Italians, we too can have a media tycoon run our country.  Silvio Berlusconi  came to power as Italy's prime minister after founding his own political party.  Only a conviction of tax fraud in 2013 took him out of power.  Would another bankruptcy do the same for a Trump president?

From what I read, Trump finds his support strongest among non-college educated, white, working class men.  Angry and frustrated over their inevitable decline of power (not that they ever had any actual power except through democratically leaning unions) caused by "big government" who put in place policies and programs to improve everyone's lives, these guys soak up the barrage of impolitic race, women and Hispanic bating statements of Mr. Trump.  I think they like him because he is or continually acts like a prideful bully.

However, if you look behind the curtain and push away the smoke screen, we'll find someone who believes in abolishing the big PACs and political non-profits (even more secretive),  replacing the ACA with a single payer medical system (how socialist of him), and maintaining the safety net of social security, medicaid and medicare.  I've even heard statements about raising taxes by removing tax breaks like the carried forward interest loop hole using by hedge funds and the like.  Trump and Sanders appear to have much in common when it comes to domestic policy. As to foreign policy, Mr. Trump has yet to move beyond his anti-immigration proclamations to build a wall on our southern border and ship 11 million people back to their original countries.  Will he attempt to moderate his approach to attract other audiences?  Personally, I believe, in the end, the Republicans will choose a non-Bush insider to run against the Democrats, probably Marco Rubio.  He's handsome, young, a minority, well-spoken, knows his policy, was Speaker of the Florida House and since 2011 a U.S. Senator.  But who knows?  I bet my Republican friends are shaking their heads just like I am.

Home at last

The morning sun sparkled off the water as we boarded Dolce Vento on Friday, October 16, docked in Little Round Bay on the Severn River, about 25 miles north of her soon to be new home in Herring Bay.  However, our excitement dissipated quickly like air from a popped balloon as we struggled with unforeseen obstacles -- blue exhaust smoke bellowing from the idling engine, an autopilot and GPS no longer working as they did during the sea trials, and two inches of water sloshing in the engine's drain pan.  

We would not be defeated.  Three hours later after multiple phone calls with our broker, we had a dry engine pan (water from the leaking aft scuppers during the sea trials was scooped out and sopped dry), reassurances that GPS and autopilot problems would be fixed by the previous owner when new parts came in (a mechanic's butt had dislocated several electronic mechanisms while replacing the scuppers), and the engine smoke would dissipate (it hadn't been run much all summer).  We left dock at 12:30 carefully monitoring the depth sounder to avoid shallow water; however, we did go aground briefly when John, my navigator and first mate, directed me around a buoy as he mistakenly held his iPhone digital chart upside down. I will buy this navigator new paper charts that clearly show which way is up.

Despite all the issues, we had one hell of a sail.  After leaving the Severn River and turning south just east of Annapolis Harbor, we raised the sails, set a beam reach (the most perfect point of sail) and flew to Herring Bay in 12-15 knots of wind, gusting to 18.  

Dolce Vento sliced through the water at 7.5-8.5 knots with barely a 5 degree heal.  We were amazed because our previous 39' Hunter only occasionally did 6.5-7 knots, healing to an uncomfortable 20 degrees. The longer water line, the larger sails, the heavier hull and the Tartan design delivered beyond our expectations.  John was thrilled with all the room on deck to work with the sails, I loved the helm with its four foot diameter wheel.  Like Lilly Tomlin's Edith Ann, I was the little girl in a big sail boat where I could just see over the top of the wheel when I stood directly behind it.  Our second mate, Justine, loved the smooth sail so much that she put on an extra sweater and napped in the cockpit as the sun darted among fluffy cumulus clouds that speckled the late afternoon sky.  By five, with the sun still above the horizon, we were safely docked and began lassoing and adjusting dock lines on pilings to hold Dolce Vento safe in all kinds of wind.

We lived aboard this past week, probing Dolce Vento's innards, learning how her many systems work (ah, the secrets of marine refrigeration, plumbing, HVAC and audio/video), cleaning and organizing manuals and equipment.  We did have one minor situation on Tuesday evening after dinner.  With shoes off and socks still on my feet, I attempted to step up the steeply slanted port side soul (floor) of the aft cabin.  As I stretched my left arm to reach an shelf, my feet flew out from under me, smashing my body against my outstretched arm on the floor, resulting in my first, and I hope, my only dislocated shoulder and ambulance ride to the emergency room.  Six hours later, with my arm back in its socket and in a sling, and my brain, a bit woozy from a marvelous morphine and Valium cocktail, enabling me to endure the pulling and pushing of my left arm, John and I fell into bed, sleeping to noon. By 1 PM, it was back to work with a promise, like Edith Ann, to  "wear my shoes. Cross my heart and hope to die."  

Really, I promise.

Critique or Criticism?

So we're sitting at the bar in a favorite neighborhood restaurant having lunch with a bit of red wine, a luxury afforded us retirees, when I casually mention to my husband, "You're wearing that olive colored shirt again.  It makes you look sad.  Why not wear something more perky?" 

You'd think the world had exploded.  He bowed his head and with a deep sign emanating from his chest mumbled, "You are so critical."  Even after trying to explain that I was purely stating a visual fact, putting a gentle hand on his shoulder, and whispering that I was concerned, it was clear I was misunderstood. "Don't you know the difference between critique and criticism? Critique is fine, but not criticism."   He was right; I didn't understand; I admitted it and asked for examples.  Turning to face me, he obfuscated and snickered, "I can tell the difference."  Not wanting to create what could have become a therapeutic discussion about his attitude, I apologized for my words; however, even if he was an English major, I don't think he knows what he is talking about.

Is the difference between critique and criticism one of nuanced interpretation and impact rather than in pure definition? Is it more about the messenger over the content; or is it the receiver's previous experiences that creates the impact?  Determined to find out, I came home to investigate.

Criticism, according to the latest addition of the Merriam-Webster dictionary and Wikipedia explain that criticism is "the act of expressing disapproval, finding fault or of noting the problems or faults of a person or thing."  This encompasses evaluating, analyzing or making a remark or observational comment, of making careful judgments about the good and bad qualities of something. Critique, on the other hand, is criticism of a particular item. 

Smiling at the computer, congratulating myself on proving my husband was bluffing, he really didn't know the difference between the terms because there is no difference, I clearly win. However, let's be real, because I lose for finding fault.  My language was not objective.  I went beyond the observable ('you are wearing your olive shirt'); I saw his shirt choice as a problem. My apology earlier at lunch was the appropriate act of contrition.  However, what's a woman to do when her loved one repeatedly wears colors that make him look sad when she knows he isn't? 

Answer: Lay out the pink shirt on the bed while he's in the shower and hope for the best.

Just practicing

Saturday afternoon, sun shining, husband with a cold stuffing up the right side of his head, is napping on the living room couch and me, dog sitting a little guy named Fargo while I begin to practice writing on my laptop.  This past week I finished lecture 13 of 26 of the online Great Courses course, Building Great Sentences: Exploring the Writer's Craft.  To get it, that is to develop the skill, I must practice, so readers, you must endure my attempts at composition.  What is problematic today is that my brain is constipated. I have no idea, no titillating adventure or situation to write about.  All I have is daily life.

Lately, my life is just daily life, filled with routine and required tasks that must be done -- the exercising, the grocery shopping, the bill paying, the clothes cleaning, the cooking -- punctuated with an occasional movie, dinner out or walk around town.  When strung together, it's pretty clear that daily life is monochromatic, flat and ho-hum. It's enough to frighten anyone back into work.  I remember my mother and other bright women of the 1950's and 60's with their struggle to stay sane because they were relegated to the daily life.  My mother ate her insanity, ending up weighing 250 pounds. 

On the other hand, the daily grind, the work, the routine of coming and going to an office, the responsibility of production and timeliness, does keep the insanity of daily life at bay, but often creates stress and conflict as the two battle for attention.  But, whether I loved or hated my daily grind, it was a important because it gave me, like most people, an identity, something that defines us to the rest of the world.  Even financially secure people keep working when they definitely could do nicely without it.  Like myself, they resist retirement because retirement makes us confront the insanity of the daily life and the loss of identity.

Some people, like myself, leave work to "retire" because of the burnout when an identity shatters.  In the 1998, after my consultant identity exploded, I returned to school to figure out what the emerging networked digital world was about.  The resulting doctorate gave me a new identity, professor.  Then six years later, I retired again, not due to burnout, but more due to weariness and repetition. The passion was gone, I tossed aside both identities of professor and consultant. I was living in the Memphis, the city that never grew out of the 1950's and all that is "The South". Naively, I was sure I would become a novelist with minimal effort.  I'd co-authored two business books, so why not make the leap easily? Writing certainly kept me busy and my brain synapses connecting, but the intense social isolation and the fact that I was years away from fame and fortune as a successful writer, drove me back to the comfortable consultant identity and then to five years as a federal  government CIO, yet another identity. I had to ask myself, "What was I thinking?"

Now, like a beast emerging from battle, tired, scarred, but very much alive, the lessons learned are clear.  In this retirement, I have the opportunity and time to discover myself.  Self-discovery can lead to a more holistic identity, integrating my daily life with work that I will do for the shear joy of it, for that is how I will be paid.  I will integrate and transform the daily grind with daily life into daily pleasure. My pleasure comes from writing, a skill of expression that gets better with practice, and from sailing, a skill of action that gets sharper and bolder with practice.  I am pulling the two threads into my daily life.  Perhaps, I may weave a whole cloth, a strong, lasting, embracive identity. 

As my first grade teacher, Miss McDermott, often said, as I struggled with my yellow #2 pencil and wide, blue lined woody paper to write my first sentences, "Practice makes perfect".

You'll know her as "Dolce Vento"

You gotta love Facebook! When I requested ideas for renaming our boat, within 30minutes, 18 candidate names were delivered.  Where we were at a loss for words, Facebook friends were filled with creativity.  Candidate names were:

1. Reinvention (describes what I do)
2. Andrew (root - manly, masculine)
3. La Dolche Far Niente (The art of doing nothing)
4. Eslissi Lunare (Eclipse of the Moon)
5. Luce del Sole (Sunlight)
6. Brezza Celeste (Heavenly breeze)
7. Brezza Marina (Sea breeze)
8. Fluid Horizon
9. Sails Away
10. Dolce Vento (Sweet wind)
11. Friendship Star
12. Ama tu vida (Love your life -- Spanish)
13. Al du l`a (Love your life --Italian)
14. Judy, Judy, Judy
15. Point of Sail
16. Bella Stella (Nice Star)
17. Nolte Stalatta (Starry Night)
18. Tempest Fugit (Time Flies - Latin)

We set ourselves the following guidelines for our final selection which included:

• Italian - the words must sing and John is proudly of Italian Heritage
• Enunciation -  When you say it three times over the sometimes scratchy VHF, it has to be understood and repeatable
• Old name - Legally, we can use the same name as our last boat as the new owners kept "Forte Vento" (Strong Wind)

After careful review, we chose "Dolce Vento", the submission by Judy Southerland, artist and friend.  It met all the criteria plus it brought forth the previous boat without using the exact name.  We agreed that strong winds may not be what we want going forward.  Sweet winds will be much more pleasant.

Thank you everyone for helping us out.  Judy will help us christen her and then help sail her away.

Robert Bray 1926-2015

Robert Bray

His feisty manner, fundamental belief in the Republican party, Texas style football and absolute commitment to his family (a daughter and two sons), made being with my Uncle Bob both nutty and sweet.  He was a man of his times - a Korean War Navy veteran, a 50's St. Louis man, a believer that men should be men and take care of women.  What he got was a daughter who carved out a career in financial services, and three nieces each insisting on their financial independence, committed to living life on their own terms.

Visiting with Uncle Bob was never, never dull.  We'd laugh and argue, drink beer, eat and then argue and laugh some more -- right after the football game, of course.

Uncle Bob was not an executive, rather an engineer whose work took him all over the world on projects in the aerospace and oil industries.  I never knew where he and Jean would land next - could it be in New Jersey (yes), Florida(yes), Saudi Arabia (yes), or his homeport of Texas (yes) -- a few on a long list of work and travel adventures just like his sister, Marion, my mom.

Uncle Bob and my mom were not always close, but after dad died, they visited more often and talked regularly.  Rumor has it that my dad did not favor Uncle Bob.  I never knew why as they were so much alike, and most likely, I never will.  They shared the same voice, I couldn't tell them apart on the phone, and their walk, gestures and facial features were uncannily alike.  They could have been twins.

In early 2006 my mom's health failed most likely from diabetes and an ankle break that would not heal as a result.  At 82 she was in a nursing home under hospice care near our home in Baltimore. When Uncle Bob and Aunt Jean learned how dire the situation was, they immediately flew up from Texas to be at her side.  Despite a near coma state, she knew they were there, holding her hands, talking softly for some hours.  At 2 AM after their visit, she died.  She had been waiting for him.

Well into his 80's, Uncle Bob remained involved in the world using the internet to keep up to date with the world news, his computer to manage his finances, and email as well as the cell phone to keep in touch with us.  But, when Jean died several years ago unexpectedly, her death tore a hole in his heart, his spirit escaping, which could never be recovered. He tried, but just wasn't the same. 

This morning, with gray clouds and rain all around me, I learned that Uncle Bob died at 2:15 AM, just shy of his 90th birthday, after surgery, in Texas, peacefully.  If I were religious, I would tell you how happy he is to be reunited with Aunt Jean.

New Habits

Surprise!  I am not bored.  Life is settling into a comfortable pattern now that the blush of the first busy "retirement" weeks are past.  I don't miss daily office life, its metro commute, reading the Times on my iPhone while I wait on the platform for the always delayed blue line, spending time with colleagues who do fine with me gone, or eating at my desk, stopping mid-task to walk down the street to "Jack's Fresh" for a styrofoam box lunch of Asian hot dishes or cold salads.  I am delivered from the wrath of the buffet gods!

Life now has a slower pace that is very tolerable for impatient people like myself.  I can read in bed until 2 AM, knowing there is ample time for sleeping past 7:30 in the morning.  I can laze, stretching while I listen to NPR, deciding if today is an exercise day and then reading the Times in paper form with its ever messy ink that leaves stains on my finger tips. 

Having time to think is gift.  I didn't realize how little I was actually thinking beyond the mundane these last ten years.  Thinking requires exploration, like this morning when I read two articles from The Sunday Time's magazine, one about a new talking Barbie doll under development, the social implications of this almost robot that holds over 8,000 discussions and responses for conversing with 4-8 year old girls blows my mind given that my dolls only said "mama" if anything.  No more fantasy conversations.  But, I digress.  The second article was a profile of Kareem Abdul-Jabbar, who at 68 still stands 6'10", a man who has spent his life as a serious intellectual and writer caught in an extremely talented basketball playing body.  His career was dictated by his race -- to succeed he had to be an athlete first.  I now understand why he doesn't often shake hands and or smile.

There is time to take care of myself.  I'm becoming a strong old lady. I'm at out apartment gym three times a week, running 3 miles and then working with weights for upper body building and bending through a sequence of sit-ups and their variations for core strength.  No longer do I put pressure on myself to drag my mind and body to a trainer no matter how I feel at the end of the day.  I paid to ensure that I showed up.  As a mid-westerner, the guilt of wasting money was a powerful motivation tool.  Having time eliminated the guilt and the trainer.

There is time to learn instead of regurgitating what I already know as I did at the office. Discovering online streaming "Great Courses" set me on a knowledge path of my own making.  For so many years, learning was relegated to night classes, even for my doctorate classes starting at 5 PM, lasting until 11PM, making driving back to DC from Baltimore hazardous to both my health and other drivers on the road. I know its what I had to do and thousands of other adults (I am still an adult, if not a young one) do it too, but it is a reward both physically and intellectually to sit down while the sun still shines to take a class on my own terms.

There is also time to resurrect old skills, to use my hands again at sewing which I learned as a teenager from many, many hours of teaching by my mother.  Our  sail boat requires the addition of new canvas items -- a stack pack to catch the mainsail and release us from the arduous task of sail furling when we bring it down at the end of the day, an awning to shade the foredeck from the simmering summer sun, new covers for the monster sized fenders protecting the boat from chaffing against the dock's pilings, lee cloths for sleeping comfortably underway, and covers for the side port-lights (aka windows) to shade the interior from weather and prying eyes.  I will buy kits online for it all (sailrite.com) and I've got a Tech Shop (techshop.com) right at the foot of our apartment building. It has large spaces, big tables and industrial strength sewing machines.  The work will keep me busy all winter. But most importantly, my mother would be proud, even if I won't have to sew flat-fell seams or tailor a lapel. 

Surveys and Sea Trials

Sails Call was resting along side the dock at 9:30 on a misty morning this past week when we joined Pete, our surveyor, Tom, the current owner, Dave, our broker and John, Tom's broker for a day of inspecting, testing and getting to know her nooks, crannies and quirks.  The work was like that annual physical we should have at our age, complete with stress test, electrocardiogram and those not so wonderful but highly necessary tests of internal organs, bowels and reproductive systems.

The work started with a short haul, laying in straps, hovering over the ground in a monster of a machine so we could inspect the hull, propeller and shaft, keel and rudder. Pete took moisture readings. Then, with a small rubber hammer tapped the hull all around just like a doctor knocks your joints to test the condition of your reflexes. Sails Call was dry and responsive.  All was "A" OK. 

Back the water, Pete led the internal examination from stem to stern, testing the generator (needs a tune-up), air conditioning, plumbing, water and electrical systems, and then poking into all the storage areas and bilges (which need cleaning). My husband and Dave followed him through this work, heads down, confirming Pete's findings.

Turning to the engine, Pete started her up, revved her up in neutral and later underway, where we discovered that water was kicking back into the boat through leading aft scupper hoses(need to be replaced).  He took her temperature at all speeds, checked the hoses and connections for leaks, corrosion, and fluid levels.  Finally, he declared the engine fully operational, with the caveat that she still had her original hoses which might need replacement in the next year. Hoses get cracked over time just like our faces get wrinkled.

On deck, Pete again used his hammer, this time to knock the deck.  I started to think he was a drummer, his rapping was so rhythmic.  He found a bit of moisture around the fittings that connect the dodger to the deck.  He explained the prescriptive remedy. Like decayed teeth, we need to pull the fittings, drill out the holes, fill the holes with resin, and then re-bed the fittings to stop all water infusion into the deck. We also discovered a wasp nest stuck in the main sail.  I've never seen so many guys so skittish over a few little critters.  The answer was, "Let's do the sea trail and whack out the nest under sail!"  It worked.  Sails Call is now wasp free.

Under sail, Sails Call slices through the water with magnificent authority, her size and weight cushioning us against the elements.  Despite the fact that the wheel is four feet tall and could hit my nose if I'm not careful when I stood behind it, "OMG" was all I could say as I  commanded my impromptu crew to tack across the wind (the direction from which the wind is blowing) and then to jibe (the direction to which the wind is blowing).  

Sails Call passed her survey and sea trial.  We are in love.  We have bonded with this navy hull beauty. Only a rigging inspection (like checking your body for broken bones and splinters) is left to be done this coming Monday.  I believe she will pass and we will become her owners soon. 

Changing seasons

Summer is passing quickly now. Gone are the blazing skin burning heat, sweat generating humidity and breath-stifling afternoons.  Autumn has arrived.  Days are now a mix of sparkling clear skies, gentle dry temperatures with crisp breezes for perfect sailing punctuated ever now and then with a cloud filled gray gray day with falling temperatures and perhaps a shower. Today is one of those days.  They are necessary to change the colors, to fill the parks with luscious reds, oranges, yellows and browns.  It's one of those days that give me time to prepare for those other days.

Autumn brings familiar aromas and tastes, rich chicken cacciatores, thick soups, buttery raviolis, roasted squash casseroles, and red wine that warms the palate, replacing the cool taste of white.   To celebrate this seasonal change, we are breaking out my husband's favorite recipes to create an autumn dinner to share with friends.  I've filled the dining room with multi-colored gourds, pumpkins, Indian corn stalks all resting in baskets and metal bins filled with straw and spiced candles.  Burgundy and rustic yellow mums spilling over their pots have been added as well. I love the autumn and I've been on my summer diet too long. It's time to eat again!

Hey! That's our boat!

If we were rich we'd just bring a big bag of money and be done with it.  But, we are not rich, so now that our offer has been accepted, we proceed with a combination of house and car buying to make it all work.   Next steps - survey (aka home inspection) and the sea trial (aka test drive).  Like a home, we'll get an IRS tax deduction on the loan interest, but like a car, she'll continue to depreciate.  So financially, buying a boat makes absolutely no financial sense, especially for retirees like us.  We just don't care.  It's the last item on our joint bucket list.  When and where else do you get to pick a name no matter how silly others might think it. She's our "retirement project", never be really done, ever...

Like giving birth to a child, we take delivery. Unlike a child, there is no bodily pain or toilet training, just financial pain.  But, care and feeding there is and there is lots of it.  You really have to love your boat because it requires constant care whether it's washing and polishing the deck, adjusting a gauge or hunting down a special part for a special connection.  Just like a kid, the fun part is dressing her up and buying toys to amuse and educate her.  Lots of new stuff and lots of high maintenance!  Do we really need that gadget?  Do we really need to add that feature? Probably could get by without them, but like showing off your kid and making sure she gets all the smarts possible, you must do everything within your power to make her perfect.  Some stuff we can do ourselves and some we'll hire the experts to take care of. We will do first those things that make a life aboard most tolerable here in the Bay this next year and some can be done later when we are ready to head south down the ICW and some off shore sailing to Florida and the Caribbean.  Guaranteed that we will keep very, very busy.

Who want's to provide parental oversight to us kids so that we stay on budget. I really don't have to go back to selling shoes at Nordstrom's and John certainly doesn't want to deliver mail.

Inspired and waiting

Waiting and the necessary accompanying patience to withstand the idle time that ensues has never been my strength. So, as we wait for a final decision on the navy hull Tartan 4600, I got a bit creative.








Taking inspiration from my youngest grandson who aspires to modeling and fashion design (does he have that "resting bitch" look?), I had my hair cut to his latest fashion statement -- buzz cut on the sides and back with longer top hair spilling over my head. Mine is still a bit short, and it will never look exactly the same on a 68 year old head as it does on a 16 year old head, but I like it.  It is such fun to see him experiment with different looks and creative avenues.  Not bad for a high school junior. 

Not working is giving me time to look around, take a breath, think, and read.  There has been time to study Serious Ocean Sailing.  The book convinced me that we will not be globe trotting in our sail boat plunging into 20-30 foot ocean waves and gale force 40 knot winds attempting to avoid disaster after pending disaster.

I've started two other sailing related books that have been on my shelf for several years, just waiting for me to have time for them. Perhaps they will paint a brighter and gentler off shore sailing picture.  Somehow, horrible weather can be avoided.  But wait, do I spend my time reading all day?

This new life has presented some surprises.  When I was hopping out of bed every weekday morning at 6:30 AM to ensure that I arrived at work in a timely manner, my mate took care of everything.  He shopped, cooked, maintained the car and boat, slogged the dry cleaning back and forth, and kept the house up as any high caliber house husband should. Now, like Gibbs in NCIS, he is creating rules for me to follow if we are to maintain a happy domestic life together and keep him from going crazy having me around all day.   Adjustments must be made and I know the rules will multiply.  I can live with them (I will practice, I promise!).

• Rule #1: Last one out of bed has to make it. You have to understand that a cherished luxury is to listen to NPR radio news until 7:30 or 8:00 from the comfort of my pillowed, sleep number bed.  This morning, to avoid the task, I scurried out at 5 AM while he was still sleeping and moved to the couch for my radio hours.  He had to make the bed.  Ta Da!
• Rule #2: Track the medical bills.  Probably as not as onerous as it once was before we both went on Medicare and he promised to follow-up with messed up billings from docs and hospitals, it is still a challenge for my challenged by detail brain.  Hey, I'm a big picture girl, but I will conquer this!
• Rule #3: Check the planning folder every day.  I'm just not used to having to plan my days; they were always planned by the work at hand.  Now we schedule "events" to attend and I must handle my own calendar.  His motto -- if it's not on the calendar, it doesn't exist.  There goes my serendipity "let's go".  Not really, as we did up and go to a movie yesterday afternoon -- it was fun to be in a theatre when you are the youngest people of the 12 in the audience.  It was very, very quiet with no texting!

We don't have this problem on a boat as I am the skipper!

Detour

We were moaning after the boat inspection in Hilton Head.  Why the sad faces?  Frankly, it was more than the tight muscles after the eight hour drive or the warm rain that gave a gray haze to everything when we boarded about 5 PM.  We had had expectations.  The photos for this 2003 Tartan 4600 listing painted a picture of near perfection.

We were sure this was the boat -- newer than the others we had inspected, main sail in-mast furling (the kind saves old sailors' arm muscles), low engine hours, and a master cabin design that actually provides plenty of room to move around erect and sit-up in bed without bumping heads against the liner (aka ceiling) or requiring you to crawl over the other person to get to the head (aka toilet) in the middle of the night (guess that was almost TMI, wasn't it).  What we stepped into was poor maintenance, old electronics, and a deteriorating, water stained interior hidden under the cushions and in the corners.

That white hull disappointment couldn't compare to the older Tartan (2000)  with less equipment and a bit awkward master cabin design, but was  nicely maintained and lower priced. And, most importantly -- it had the navy hull I have always lusted after.  We had inspected this one the week before, right here on the Chesapeake.

We tried to cheer ourselves up.  The good news was that we had been able to visit my diehard Words with Friends buddy, Judy.  I've know Judy since the our days together at Bell Labs in the 1970's when I was a 23 year old lowly apprenticing programmer and she was a slightly older, but highly credentialed electrical engineer in the Labs sea of dominating male engineering snarks.  She stood up for me when the those guys had decided that I didn't deserve  a raise, despite my impressive performance, because my nail polish was chipped.  This woman saved my career!  She was a one woman affirmative action committee who turned them around without cutting their balls completely off. (I took Judy's lead and two years later I was teaching these guys  and their executives about their biases and their acts of discrimination.)  Don't let anyone tell you those were the good ol' days! We laughed and had an evening to catch up.  However, John and I were definitely down in the dumps the next morning at breakfast where we met Dave, our broker and leader of this expedition.  Our plan to revisit the boat was quickly abandoned so we hit the road for home before 9:30AM.

A "dumps" remedy came from Dave. We needed a diversion from this not so fun road trip. We'd been driving for four incredibly boring hours.  Our stomachs voted for a lunch break. Dave scoured the internet for suggestions and found Heidi's Two Wheel Café, a not so sleazy biker joint, about 15 minutes west of 95 on Route 70 in Smithville, NC.  I took the exit.

Heidi's is a place where bad food is just plain good.  There actually is a Heidi who not only knows how to cook, but does it well above the average bar and grill.  Much to our dismay, their boiler was broken so we couldn't have their most sought after dish -- a low country boil.  We settled for more mundane fare, but were not disappointed. Dave's Philly cheese steak Quesada was juicy without being soggy.  John's Ruben sandwich was delivered on marbled grilled bread with homemade potato chips that were not so crispy that they cut the roof of your mouth.  And my coconut shrimp and side salad (I was trying to be good), was down right Caribbean in flavor. We left with a smile on our faces and refreshed attitude.  A good, very good detour and a very good road trip.

Update:  We revisited that navy hull I lusted after, made an offer and a counter offer, but have yet to know if it is ours.  If we have to walk away, then we will keep searching for the last thing on my bucket list -- a home on the water with sheets on the outside.

Next steps

Left work, flew west and I returned home with my psyche is intact.  It's all good news.

The last six months at work, of not being in charge and marginalized from the daily action, unscrewed me from that dangerous tight connection between what I did and who I am.  I have many to thank for that -- in a good way.    When I realized I was surrounded by colleagues my daughter's age, I knew it was time to let go.  However, instead of sneaking out the office under the dark of after hours, I was pushed to step up to a good-bye celebration.  Made me laugh and made me proud.  Francisco, my successor CIO,  summed up my work life  better than I ever could have done in a message to everyone in the office.  I quote:

When I reflect on Dorine’s departure, I’m reminded of a favorite line by the Spanish poet Antonio Machado: "Caminante. no hay camino,  se hace camino al andar."

Loosely translated into English: "Traveler, there is no path, The path is made in going."

As Dorine indicated at her retirement party last week, she and so many women of her generation were offered only one path. That narrow path held little appeal for this strong-willed and independent woman. So Dorine made her own path. She set off into the bush and bramble with bold determination. Deviation from the path is never easy. It is fraught with peril. It comes with its share of scrapes and stumbles. There may be moments of confusion and more than a few times when you don't know your way. You can feel lost and lonely. But those who deviate from the path learn things they would not otherwise have known; because the fruits of discovery, surprise and self-knowledge do not grow on the path. They grow along the sides, and are sometimes sweetest deep in the woods.

Dorine is a pioneer. She is an authentic leader. She has been true to herself as she could only be by striking out on her own and creating her path. That it brought her to Peace Corps and into all of our lives is our good fortune. That it now takes her onto her next adventure is her great delight. What lies ahead? No one can tell; but I'm sure the explorer in Dorine is itching to set off on another journey. We wish her well; we thank her for her service, her courage, and her friendship.

On August 12, I handed in my badge, got my ethics briefing, did one last round of hugs and thank-yous, then headed out the door with a skip in my step.  The next morning I flew to my 50th high school class reunion.  For three days, I partied (almost like a teenager), reminisced and caught up with friends I see only once in every five years.  Although there was over 100, there was a small gaggle of us who spent the nights into the wee hours, in our jammies, sharing our lives as if time had stood still.  We drank a lot less than years before (that was good news), tried to eat less (that was a lost cause), looked at grand kid pics and shared what the future might hold for us.  It was not all good news, none of us have led perfect lives and some of us face the shadows of cancer, widowhood and the like; but what was true and will remain true is the joy of sharing our youth and our friendships over the past 50 years.  No matter what happens  we will face it with humor and courage.  None of us has given up on living, loving and making our lives what we think it can be. 

Next, my westward road trip took me to  Santa Fe, NM to visit with my mentor and very close friends, Joan. She was my supervisor at AT&T in 1971 and we have shared much over the years what you can only imagine!  With only 15 years between us, I wanted to know how to stay young and vibrant into one's 80's.  I wanted to absorb her wisdom, to learn how she has kept herself agile of mind and body.  She gave me some rules one night after a few glasses of Kahlua, under the brilliant Milky Galaxy, wrapped in blankets on her porch on the mountain overlooking the Santa Fe valley to the west.  Life is different at 7,800 feet above sea level.

1.  Don't stop what you start - just keep doing it.  This applies to exercise especially after you get a hip or knee replaced.  If you stop, you get lazy and then you get old -- really old.  Don't tolerate pain when a joint can be "fixed".

2. Watch your money and plan ahead. Don't let an $18,000 new roof surprise you, but also, do not deprive yourself of pleasures -- a trip to Europe or whatever....just plan ahead.  Invest wisely and often!

3. Keep up with technology.  If you've never seen a little ol' lady work her iPhone, iPad and MAC simultaneously you haven't seen anything yet.

4. Keep up with the world.  Don't let your world shrink.  Joan belongs to book clubs, a monthly dialogue group, participates in here HOA as treasurer, teaches 4th graders in reading comprehension, takes water aerobics three times a week, and reads both the NYT and local paper daily.  The older you get, the more there can be to do!

5. Be self aware and let people know what you know.  With her hearing starting to fade and hearing aids yet to be properly adjusted, Joan announced to me -- my hearing is going so talk to my face and don't whisper.  After shopping for two hours she declared, "I think it's time to sit down."  So we went to lunch, sipped a couple of margaritas and relaxed before we did chores. 

6. Keep driving to maintain your independence. Joan lives on a mountain, 4 miles from town.  She aims to keep it that way as long as her feet can reach the peddles and her mind is functioning on all cylinders (which it absolutely is).

Before I left, we had friends from Tucson come in.  What a rich trip!  I enter "old age" with much energy and fresh look at what the rest of my life can be.

I've been offline

Several friends recently asked about my lack of blog entries.  I haven't written a word since January.  It's a story to be told later.  In the meantime know all is well.

I will retire officially August 14 -- same time as my 50th class reunion so August will be a happy time all around. I'm looking forward to a new life style, especially when I read what friends and family are up to.  One friend is touring Ireland, motorcycling in Morocco and cruising the Baja and a sister is dancing all over the western US.  Makes you realize there is fun to be had after work ends.  John and I have sailing plans, that with a bit of luck we will turn them into a reality.

We're sailing almost every weekend now.  It keeps us moving and enjoying the Bay.  More later. My best to everyone.

Dream and play at Christmas!

This is the 22nd Christmas with my fourth and forever husband, John -- Yes, it a lot of practice to get it right.  I thank Bob, Bob, and Jim who came before him. You all taught me to enjoy the good times and learn from our mistakes.  I hope you all find yourself in a good place now.

But I diverge.  Back in the early years, our early 40's in the 1990s, John and I found the holiday season filled with excitement, secret present shopping, and annual visits to NYC.  We felt like teenagers with raging hormones, lusting after each other between visits to friends and family, walks in falling snow to Rockefeller Center, big dinners at fancy restaurants and a midnight masses just blocks from our hotels in NYC.  Why church?  We are barely cultural Christians, some say.  However, the holidays give us permission to sing.  It's the only time we can sing and no one bothers tells us to be quiet.  We are jointly tone deaf and always completely off key.  When we sing, we are happy.  Why we even glow!

Now, in our sixties the nature of the holiday has evolved for us. The lust has given way to contentment; a perfect pairing we feel lucky to have.  Presents are now selected treasures for our kids, now in their late 30's and 40's and their kids, our grandchildren.  The oldest two (16 and 19) text us links for what they want. We are a reliable delivery source, right after Amazon.  However, we still have one little believer, now three and a half, who knows is Santa coming  and is thrilled at every present she opens, no matter what it is.  But soon that will pass when she joins the ranks of "knowing" kids.  Christmas is for little kids, always and forever.

We use the winter holiday time to plan our next life adventure. It's a playful time.  We fantasize about where will we be at this time next year.  Neither of us will be working; we'll be in an apartment to give us "get up and go" flexibility; the boat will be paid off; and, who knows, we may find ourselves in Key West munching on Christmas cookies while sipping Margaritas in the open air next to the water as Christmas lights sway in a warm breeze at sunset. Family and friends may visit - or they may not.  That's the surprise of the adventure - you never know what may happen.  I'll be writing -- that I know.  What else? That's a present yet to be opened. 

So, to everyone who reads these missives -- Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays!  May you continue make your dreams come true.  Never stop dreaming! Never stop playing!  Without dreams and play, life can be very gray and very sad.  Don't let that happen to you.  Have a bright New Year filled with jolly laughs and surprises!

Life in the city

Our taxi found the Japanese Ambassador's residence a bit early so we strolled up and down Nebraska Avenue eagerly waiting for the evening to begin.  The November air was crisp but warm enough to enjoy the walk.  Just before 6PM the modern wrought iron gates to the residence opened.  After checking our invitations and IDs we were allowed to walk down a perfectly manicured path to the entrance.  The public entrance expanded into a ballroom of light wood panels reaching from the soothingly pale carpets to the white ceiling 25 feet above.  The room was brightly lit with the most delicate chandelier that ran the length of the room.  We sipped wine with other invitees, chatting about the films we had seen over the past year at the Japan Information and Cultural Center (JICC), and gazed out into the garden in the center of the complex.  We had been transported to Japan.  It was a special night.

Exactly at 6:30, doors on the inside wall opened.  We were ushered into another slightly smaller room with ~100 other guests of the Ambassador.  He warmed the room as he welcomed us.  The backdrop was a massive Japanese screen covered in gold cloth.  It's subtle circle pattern revealed itself as the lights dimmed  and the evening's speaker Artist Koji Kinutani took the stage, his art displayed on a large screen on our left. 

Kinutani is a fascinating man.  He takes Japanese art to a new place working in gesso, the tradition of Leonardo De Vinci and other Italian greats.  He translates traditional themes into modern paintings that tell stories in symbols.  His command of Italian and French failed him with this audience so he spoke in Japanese, having a translator communicate his words to us.  Some of the audience knew Japanese so they laughed a bit ahead of the rest of us.  It was fun to be so engaged.  Kinutani reveled in our excitement.  Like our artist friend Judy Southerland, he does a lot of work with children, helping them learn expression through making pictures.  And, like our friend Judy, he gets great satisfaction and pleasure from working with young people.

We finished the evening with a sushi buffet and a pleasant thank-you and handshakes with the Mr. Kinutani and the Ambassador.  Life in the big city is good! 

Life by the Numbers

Today I turned 68.  There was only one other kid in my class as old as me, so Happy Birthday Joanie!  There were at least a dozen fellow classmates and other folks I've known though the years who posted birthday wishes on my Facebook page. Even an ex-husband wished me a "Happy Birthday."  What else can a girl ask for?  I thank everyone for all those good wishes. My daughter sent flowers to home and my husband sent flowers to work.  My sisters called and cards arrived.

But this year is different.  I can't just ignore the fact that I'm 10 months away from leaving the world of school  and work I've lived in for 50 years.   It's time for an accounting.  I found it revealing - both enlightening and silly.

• Children 1 - She's the girl I always wanted  even if she didn't pop out of my body.
• Grandchildren 3 -  Ages 18, 16 and 3.
• Books published 2  and book unpublished 1 - It's a whole lot easier to write about business than fiction.
• Degrees 3 - Guess I really liked the going to school gig.
• Husbands 4 - As a shrink once said, "Dorine, you certainly can't pick'm, but you sure can't leave'm."  The nice thing is I've reconnected and reconciled with the first three in the last few years.
• Longest relationship 22 years - With husband #4.  He let's me think that I am in charge. And, most importantly, he loves to shop and learned to sail even if he can't swim a stroke.
• Careers 5 - Airline attendant, corporate climber, consultant, business owner and professor. I either love variety or am totally unable to focus.  I don't count the time I sold shoes at Nordstrom's for six weeks. 
• Most embarrassing personal moment as a kid 1 - The cops caught me with my high school sweetheart, naked, parked in a corn field in his dad's red Dodge station wagon in 1966.  There are just some things one never, never forgets. And, no, I won't provide details and I'm sure he won't either.
• Most embarrassing as an adult 1 - My boss finding out that I was having an relationship with her boyfriend back in 1972.  In my defense, I didn't know it when the relationship started. But, in retrospect, it was a wild time, those 70's.
• Most accomplished sport 1 - I could beat guys with bad knees at racquetball.
• Job firings 2- lost two clients for stupid stuff in the 1980s.
• Most exciting adventures 2 - Sailing off shore to Block Island and living on a boat in  Bahamas for six months.
• Most thrilling event 1 - Being at my daughter's side with my son-law when she gave birth to her second son. 
• Most memorable description of me 1 - Coined by my friend since first grade  as I left the Midwest for the east coast in 1971--"Determined little dumpling."  She's always had a way with words.
• Regrets 0 -  I'll never say "I wish, I could of."

All of that and more makes me one happy person as I prepare for the next stage of my life.  What's the most exciting time of my life -- Now and what's lies ahead.

Getting the feel of it

Out of bed at a very late 7:30AM.  I read a bit of the Times while I drank my normal morning coffee.  Instead of dressing for work, I dressed for the gym and found myself running on a treadmill, not driving into the office.  It could not have felt better.  Sweaty from following my trainer's instructions and feeling somewhat righteous, I escaped the gym, stepping into the morning air -- it was all crisp and sunny.  "I could get used to this!"

By noon we were on our way to the marina to check Forte Vento's last set of repairs.  She is looking very good again--finally.  No more tress cracks.  However, we can't let her sit there in the marina for very long.  A severe winter is ahead of us.  At least that is what John and the long range weather forecasts he reads. So we made the decision to leave her on the hard (aka on solid ground) to be shrink wrapped in a cocoon of white plastic for the duration.  Her deck and cockpit will be sealed from the winter weather.  Snow and rain will run down this tenting before it can harden into ice.  No worries and no emergency trips to dig out the boat from under the weight of accumulated snow -- except of course that she will be up on those testy "sticks" (jack stands) holding her upright.  Let's keep our fingers crossed.

Today, the drive between the marina and DC reminded me of New England.  Bright sun warmed my neck as I drove.  Brilliant orange, red and yellow leaves glittered in the light wind.  Our 50 minute trip took us through one of the many bucolic areas in Southern Maryland.  Lots of rolling hills, plowed fields and winter crops just laid in.  Civilization is stuffed behind tree lines.   We turn off Route 4 (it eventually becomes Pennsylvania Avenue) at Suitland Parkway and continue to enjoy the ride until we cross the Anacostia Bridge and pass the Nationals (Nats - our baseball team) stadium.  It's only then that the reality of the city smacks us in the face.  But today it's a gentle smack because its pre-rush hour.  All is well.  "I could get used to this."

I now had three hours to spend doing whatever. What to do?  I've never had three hours to just be (on land).  I found a few little tasks to tidy up the place, but then I came face to face with leisure.  OMG!  Determined not to nap--I cannot waste the day-- I paced a bit, then read -  a WHOLE DAMN magazine.  WOW!  Decadent.  What an experience! It was so astonishing that I just had to write about it.  Hence, this blog entry.  "Can I get used to this?"  If I learned to sail, I can learn to relax.  I am determined!  Ok everyone, you can stop laughing now :-)

Cheering the runners!

The air was crisp and dry, the sky the best of blues, not even a wisp of cloud in sight, the wind light (at least in the beginning) and the crowds cheerful and friendly.  All the streets in downtown (the area we call Roslyn) were blocked off ready for festivities, music and post run good fun.

We missed the start -- we just couldn't be up and out by 7AM on Sunday for anything.  Fortified with coffee and dressed in sweats, we took the short walk to the Iwo Jima Memorial that is directly east of our place.  We found ourselves in the middle of the marathon's nerve center before 9AM.  Marines were everywhere. Security police were abundant, but distinctly watchful, ever standing firm.  Music bounced across the landscape.  The announcer kept quick paced banter to ready the crowd to welcome the racers across the finish line.

We made our way over to Arlington Cemetery. After this additional short walk, we took-up a cheering position with a clear view at the bottom of what everyone was calling "Marine Hill" this morning -- the last stretch of road from route 110 to the memorial grounds. 

First came the 10K "People's Marathon" finishers.  Some ran, some walked, They passed us in clumps, in all shapes and sizes, dressed to run mostly, but there was a number of tutus and assorted costumes.  I began to laugh, but then I  realized they were trying and I wasn't.  So I cheered and clapped to their success as their ranks dwindled after more than two hours.

What really brought us to attention with cow bells ringing, hands clapping and shouts of "Hoo Rah! Do it!" were the wounded warriors racing in their recumbent bikes. Their sweat, endurance and strained determination to finish the race was breathtaking. My heart pounded as these men and women, Viet Vets and young ones used every muscle in their bodies to bust through this last obstacle to the finish.  Nothing is so inspiring as to watch these racers ignore their disabilities to do what most of us would or could never do.

Word has it that over 30,000 people signed up to race the Marine Corps Marathon mother race  - the 26K.  When the leader hit the 24 mile mark we got ready once again. The leader was an Army man who cross the finish line in 2 hours, 22 min., 11seconds. We waited almost 5 minutes for the next guy and again for the third place runner. Men continued to climb that Marine Hill every minute or so, then the  fastest woman, an Army girl, crossed the finish line in 2 hours, 51 minutes, 46 seconds.  By the 3 hour mark both men and women started to stream in one after another.  With hoarse voices and chapped hands, we left the side line to begin the uphill hike home with a now stronger wind blowing in our faces out of the west.  Life is good.