Saturday July 30 , 2016

Cottage Reads

So I went to a friend’s cottage and even though it was cold and rainy we went swimming all three days we were there. And not just a quick dip, either. We swam, dammit.

Probably my favourite thing to do in summer is to dive off a dock into a fresh water lake and swim out far enough that everybody gets worried.

I used to know that I could swim almost any distance and not get tired and drown, but I don’t know that anymore so I don’t do it. I don’t have to, I just have to swim out far enough that everybody gets worried.

Then I swim back and do the breaststroke diagonal to shore and back and forth like that until everybody else is well out of the water.

I’m ridiculously competitive that way.

But I had the awesome experience of getting out of the water, freezing my ass off in the cold air, and then diving back into the water, which felt like a warm bath after the cold air.

Very cool.

I also relearned how to play euchre, which was great and I love euchre now. People were being really fun about it, too, and taking risks. I love it when people do that in euchre because I seem to recall very strategic careful games when I was growing up.

How is it possible that my three other siblings and I played euchre when my sister is three years younger than I am and I’m three years younger than my brother who’s two years younger than my other sister?

Oh, I remember now. My brother and I were one team, my two sisters the other.

My older sister didn’t like any of us. She wanted to be an only orphan. I had a really hard time accepting that because I wanted a storybook family.

So up at the cottage, where I hadn’t wanted to go because I’ve developed a weird thing about leaving home, I was able to get a bit of perspective on my situation, and I found it wanting. That’s partly because I’ve developed a weird thing about leaving home, but it’s also because I spend too much time online.

I need a daily schedule, that’s what I need.

It was funny because I was more of an adult at the cottage than I am otherwise, too, because I pitched in, did stuff, even brought a double layered banana cake with buttercream frosting and local strawberries soaked in just TWO TABLESPOONS of sugar on the side.

I brought other food, too, and we had way too much but it was four middle-aged women so, yeah. Next time I’ll just say I’m bringing this that and the other but only bring a double layered banana cake with buttercream frosting. Forget the local strawberries because there were enough local strawberries brought to the cottage to feed the whole lake.

Good things about a cold and rainy weekend at the cottage? Lots of reading time, the swimming is the same as it is when it’s warm except you don’t have to worry about sunburn, and the sleeping is great at night.

Oh! I almost forgot – and not so many mosquitos!

The quiet was unreal and I worried about being able to adapt back to the noise where I live, which is very close to the street with constant human activity going on, but my fans did the white noise trick as per usual.

Real fans, I mean, not cyber fans.

So I learned that I’m the same away as I am at home, that I don’t disappear because I’m in a different location. It’s weird, I know, but that’s how it is. I have to make myself go places and then when I’m there I have to make myself go home again.

Where I am is who I am?

Anyway, I scored a couple of books from one friend at the cottage, and one of them is Caitlyn Moran’s “How To Be a Woman”. It’s really fun, I’ve just zipped through it, although Gloria Steinem’s my Feminist.

I think Germaine Greer is certifiable.

I also read an interview of Lucy DeCoutere by Sarah Boesveld in Chatelaine, which I’ll post here. I admire Lucy a lot, and felt particularly vindicated for my dislike of Marie Henein when I noticed her firm’s threat at the end of the article.



No Really, Happy Canada Day, Kids

So I found myself alone last evening and at about 9:00 daring myself to stop being such an old lady and take a free bus trip downtown to mingle with the throng on Parliament Hill.

My goal was to watch the fireworks with all those Canadians who make the effort every year to be in the capital city on Canada Day.

It was absolute shit weather here after days of warm sunshine, torrential downpours and cooler temperatures, but I decided I wouldn’t melt and then freeze again (as can happen in January) and didn’t even bring an umbrella.

We don’t actually have a functioning umbrella anyway so my decision was sound. I wore my hoodie, though, so people wouldn’t take me for an easy mark. It’s the coolest hoodie I’ve ever seen, too. Slim fitting, bum covering, grim reaper hood, black, zip up, pockets in just the right place for the hands at the ends of my looooooooooooooong arms.

My daughters covet it, that’s how cool a hoodie it is. And no, I’m not giving it to them. I give them lots of clothes but I’m hanging on to my hoodie.

My daughter asked yesterday, “How come whenever I need something like dress shoes you have a pair in your closet to give me?”

And I answered, “No, how come when I visit your 92 year old grandmother and she finds out I don’t have a light spring coat in teal she tells me to look in her closet and there it is, a light spring coat in teal for the taking. At least, I think it was for the taking. I took it, anyway.”

At first it was okay, waiting at the bus stop, but then a very inebriated patriot showed up to tell me over and over how much he loves Canada. He was Christian, from Lebanon, had his own business.

“Why am I telling you all this? Sorry, lady. I’ll leave you alone now.”

But then:

“Don’t let Muslims come to your country. They don’t have our values. Oh. You’re not Muslim are you? No. No, you’re not.”

About ten minutes into more of the same I was on the leave side of the debate as to whether it was worth it to remain waiting for the bus or not, but then a sober couple who looked to be newly arrived from somewhere in the Far East, dressed to the nines, as we say, showed up and he wandered off down the road.

She crinkled her nose at me.

“Too much drunk”.

“Yes, way too much. He told me he’s been drinking since yesterday.”


“Probably. He asked if I had a boyfriend.”

“Ew! No! He’s too drunk! You sit with us!”

“It’s okay. He wasn’t scary, just drunk.”

Then the bus came and it was standing room only although I still scored a seat somehow beside a guy who looked like he just got out of maximum security for the day. He was great. Just stared out the window whittling a phantom stick while the idiot girl and her moronic boyfriend opposite shelled peanuts onto the floor of the bus.

“You’re littering.”

“It’s okay. They clean the bus anyway.”

But they stopped so I felt like I’d done my duty.

At each stop increasingly inebriated would people get on and twice I had to tell people they were getting off at the wrong stop and way too early if they wanted to see the fireworks. And there were all sorts of effed up plans being aborted as calls came in to cell phones about packed bars and pubs. Lots of F-bombs dropping around me by young men who thought they could wing Canada Day in Ottawa, I guess.

But there were nice young people on the bus, too (oh my Gord, old lady sounding much, Sooey?) properly dressed for the evening (jesus…) and the usual Canada Day all-in types in maple leaf raincoats and hats and glasses, the Canuck crowd, as it were.

There were lots of people with kids, too, in strollers even, all of them appearing to be recent arrivals, and I regretted our inebriated locals, but they didn’t seem to mind. And I am kind of a prissy pants teetotaler nowadays. Perhaps you’ve noticed.

It was partly why I was on the bus going downtown to see the fireworks, actually. I wanted to do the thing sober that I never had any problem doing inebriated because it’s necessary to be brave in this world, to take risks, to go outside, to not fear other people and possible rejection, to just boldly go forth and stake your claim on Earth.

This was a speech I had to deliver last spring. It worked, too, thank Gord. I just threw everything I had into it and enough of it stuck, I guess, that we had action, finally.


Anyway, downtown was an absolute shitshow, crazy with patriots, a lot of them on cell phones trying to hook up with other stranded patriots in the crowd, and it felt really cool to be there unencumbered by logistics involving others. I scanned the crowd for my second daughter, who had made it to Ottawa again for Canada Day, but then the fireworks started and stood there with everybody watching them while various groups of people sang O Canada and so on and so forth and more of the same etc.

It was hard, at first, but then I got honest with myself about what a duty it can feel like, slotting visits to a parent into your life when there is so much else you’d rather be doing, and I decided not to make it a thing, either for her or for me. She’ll be back for a real visit, anyway, later this month, but even then I’ll probably only see her for a dinner or two.

She has texted me, after all, that my cooking is the best.

And if I’m really really honest with myself, I’m very suited to that sort of relationship, here if you need me but otherwise, go live your life, don’t worry about me standing alone in a crowd of inebriated patriots watching the fireworks, content in knowing you are somewhere in it doing the same.

But I can’t end there. So after an unbelievable shitshow getting home, walking most of it, too, because bus after bus was packed with returning home revelers, I texted both girls (son was working) to let them know that their mother is no stay-at-home slacker on Canada Day, because I knew they would text back kudos, which they did.

“Good for you!” they both dutifully texted back, not a hint of guilt perceptible between the lines.

But I also included this happening in my text, which they lol’ed, when somewhere around the university of Ottawa, a car full of young men offered me a ride to the party.

It was close to 11:00 p.m. by then, although I didn’t have a watch (or cell phone, because I was out and about unencumbered by reminders of time), but it was dark enough for them to have no idea.

“Okay, heads up, though, I’m 57!” I shouted back at them.

They sped away before I could add “Independent mother of three adults!”

I didn’t include that part in my text, either, because – c’mon – would it kill kids these days to feel a little guilt?




Happy Canada Day, Eh

So I’m still feeling pretty blah. I’ve got a lower back ache and pain across the top of my chest and my ear is still plugged from the plane so I’m all effed up physically and orientation wise. I’m not a huge fan of painkillers because I’m such a purist but if we had legal pot I’d go to the pot store and pick out a variety that would  relax the ol’ bod while not dulling the ol’ noggin’ too much.

This legalizing marijuana thing is such a bust, isn’t it, all these law and order buzzkills now in charge of an increasingly convoluted process they no doubt hope will result in its derailment. And I knew (total lie) that Positivity Pollyanna couldn’t be trusted to just do it already. They’re even doling out contracts to re-study this and that when the Senate – the Senate, ffs – did a comprehensive report on the merits of legalizing marijuana several years ago now.

It’s sitting on the damn shelf in Library & Archives Canada. Please, if you’re reading this, somebody in the government, go get it and slip it under… let’s see… oh! Charlie Angus’s door!

But speaking of people who appear to enjoy a beer or several (I can say that because I’m a prissy pants teetotaler now) I honestly don’t know what the AA protocol is on pot as medicine, but I do feel compromised by my keeping the door open to smoking it once again, probably sooner rather than later. And there was that pot cookie a few weeks ago.

Also, I’m not really keeping the door open to pot as medicine so much as I’m keeping the door open to pot for recreational use. Not to upset any younger readers too much but it’s probably the best sex aid ever invented for those of us in our declining estrogen years.

Sorry, eh, but I feel it’s my duty to add a little health and well being info to my blog every once in a while.

Oh my Gord, I just realized the truth of my own words. Cripes, I need pot, dammit.

Was it really a few weeks ago I ate a pot cookie and broke my stone cold sober streak? My Gord time travels quickly nowadays. Has Britain Brexited already?

But of course it’s not going to Brexit at all, is it. Not really, anyway. Still, it’s pretty disconcerting to find out post-vote that the overgrown frat boys in charge of England never expected to win the referendum they called, and are now freaking out about it.

Talk about playing politics with people’s lives. And we thought our previous Conservative government was bad for it.

Just this morning I read all about how one Michael Gove stabbed reluctant leaver Boris Johnson, not so much in the back as in the front, surprising even reputedly master strategist, Lynton Crosby, with an announcement that he’d be running to replace David Cameron, which was essentially a move that shoved Boris Johnson out of the race.

Cue 1001 Shakespearean references.

But I don’t really care, do you? I did, a lot, and then my caring evaporated overnight, just like that trillion dollars from our global economy did, and I realized it didn’t matter (to me) one way or the other if England (and, I guess, Wales) decided to do this or that. Whatever. Although I think politicians might want to expand their definition of “working people” beyond manual labourers, or whoever the hell they’re referring to when they claim to be doing it all for “working people” and not just for the hell of it.

Seems to me a lot of people who think of themselves as working, because they are, felt royally screwed by Brexit, but that’s their problem now, isn’t it.

Boris Johnson and his lot don’t need to work. They have lots of money already.

The thing of it is, and I can only speak for myself but I suspect I speak for a lot of other people when I say this, I spent a lot of yesterday reading about Brexit (also lower back ache, pain across upper chest, blocked ears, vegan recipes, knitting, aging parents, yoga, ground covers for sandy soil, container gardening, paint decor/colour combinations, summer reading recommendations, lyme disease, making roman blinds, etc) – for free.

And that’s not including all the time spent on Twitter communicating about Brexit, amongst other topics, none of which involved making or spending money, so for free, too.

Correction, I came across a shout out for a social editor at Vice. And when I read what was involved I realized I do for free every day (more or less) a lot of what Vice is offering to pay an employee to do (I assume, although one can never be too sure in these days of unpaid internships, etc).

And no, I didn’t apply because I mostly find Vice to be a lot of self important oh-look-at-us-aren’t-we-edgy razzle dazzle and I can never remember whatever it was I just read because it’s almost always just clickbait. Or maybe I’m too old lady for Vice.

The job involves clickbaiting up headlines, though, so, yeah.

Oh, maybe. We’ll see.

Nope. Just thought about it again. Ugh. No no no.

So, in other words, I had a very fulfilling day without contributing to our economy. I also worked on my book and did a couple of inside and outside chores, so still not making or spending any money. And even if I had spent 7.5 hours working for money I’d still be spending my leisure time doing pretty much what I did yesterday, except less, because that’s how I live now.

And it strikes me that there are a lot of us who live that way now, including three young adults of my acquaintance, the millennials, as they’re known, who while away their time consuming information and communicating with each other pretty much for free. Two of the three work for money in the service sector while one will be teaching English abroad, so none of them are the sort of “working people” politicians seem to be referring to when they refer to “working people” but who knows.

Anyway, happy Canada Day. It’s my favourite holiday now because I live in Ottawa and it really does have a special vibe here.

I imagine this year, in spite of the forecast of thunder storms this evening, will really be like old times, too, the Negativity Nellies defeated by the Positivity Pollyannas, and all is as it should be in the New World colony.

After all, a glance across the pond at the mother ship and, jesus, it could be a lot worse, eh?



The Boris Johnson Blues

While I wait for those Preppy Pollyannas to legalize pot – as promised – I find myself feeling less “Smash the State-ish” than usual.

I think it’s a result of Brexit, although I do have a sore lower back and so am disinclined to carry my placard about town these days.

My goodness Boris Johnson must feel like an idiot, eh? Talk about shitting the bed. Yikes. And now he’s just fucking off to let someone else lie in it.


Today in Regretful Sentences

“I am putting all of my eggs in Jason’s basket,” she said enthusiastically.

The she of regretful sentences is a supporter of Jason Kenney’s presumed run for an as yet to be determined political party in Alberta.

You’re welcome.


Gettin’ Old Ain’t for Si… Nevermind

Ugh. So here’s a crazy thing. You know how you wait for summer all year and then when it comes you’re like “Yay! Summer!” and you set up the sprinkler to run through and buy ice cream cones and so on and so forth and more of the summer same?

Well I do that and then this sort of pressure descends upon my head and I start agonizing about how I’m not enjoying summer enough because I’m not doing all the summer things on the summer list in my head that exists from 1965 or so when I realized that one day I would die and it would probably happen in winter.

I’d fall over in my snowsuit on the walk home from school and not be able to get up again and one of my siblings would find my bleached bones by the side of the road and think nothing more about it and that would be that.

Oh my Gord I’m so sorry for this blog entry but I just feel compelled now to continue because of that whole finish what you start thing we had hammered into our heads by degree-less teachers over the years.

(Full disclosure: My ear is still blocked from the plane and I did have the twice daily dessert when I was visiting my mother that I haven’t had since I returned home, so it’s possible I have discomfort plus withdrawal issues happening right now and this pit of blah is man-made and not Gord-inflicted.)

(How can people believe in Gord?)

(Also, writing degree-less teachers reminded me of former premier, Mike Harris, and how we can’t trust anybody who comes to our door now with a badge or a clipboard because he had the asshole idea of deregulating gas distribution.)

Actually, I wonder if I’m more discombobulated because it looks like I could get very very old before I die and, quite frankly, without a shitload of retirement income, and maybe even with it, I’m not sure I’m interested.

When I think now of those fucker MPs tampering with the assisted dying bill that another MP, family friend (and United Church minister), Rob Oliphant, drafted, and which, yes, struck me as a little all-inclusive at the time of first hearing, I get super-irked.

They’re too young to be in charge of assisted dying bills. He is just the right age and atheist religion and with a very old mother to know what’s what about who’s who. They’re still optimistic about the downhill journey after Freedom 55 to the grave.

Okay. I’m wallowing now, aren’t I.

You can get too old, dammit, and now I think we should have the right to say at any time along the road of life, to a doctor who is a member of a new subset of doctors who specialize in the field – “Okay, I’m done. I want to gather the family and my Facebook friends around me on (such and such a date) and say goodbye.

Why not?

Oh, I know, I know, people would feel pressured to not be a burden on those same family and Facebook friends, except that soon we’ll be talking about boomers here so how likely is it that they’ll give a shit about being a burden? And their/our adult children will still need us to cook and clean and run interference for them whenever they encounter a snag in life, so it’s not like they’ll want us gone, anyway.

More likely we’ll be guilted into staying on living to make sure they’re not having to do anything they don’t really want to do.

Okay, I’m serious now. We’re going to have to learn to look after each other better because millennials, who are, for the most part, good and decent people (because they’ve never had to survive out there in the jungle without a team of support scouts hacking a path for them and another team of support guides leading them along it) can’t be made to look after us in old age.

It just isn’t fair to spring that on them after sparing them everything else.


Memmmmmories, Like the Wormmmmmholes of Our Mind…

Oh hey, you’ve been away, I guess.

Just kidding. It was me who was away, but I’m feeling kind of blah and don’t want to talk about it until I’m my usual less blah self again.

Except for this one thing. I was coming out of the grocery store where I’d just bought more cherries for my mother, whom I was visiting, when this woman came running out after me.

“Miss! Miss! Wait! Stop!”

So I stop and turn around and she says, “Soo?”

“Sooey, yes.”

“Sooey Says?”


But I’m still not recognizing her.


But I still have no idea and I have a really good memory.

“Stoorie Stays.”

And then, of course, I knew right away who she was. I just didn’t know how on earth she would recognize me, and even if she did that she’d care. She was a low key cool kid back in elementary school, reserved, but definitely cool.

She’d aged incredibly well, too. I don’t know about you but I always picture kids from elementary school probably looking like bloated gargoyles by now.

I don’t know why since everybody in the Sault ages incredibly well. It’s a fact, a Sault fact.

“You know how I recognized you right away? Your eyes. Oh my god, you look exactly the same. How did you do that? I’m not kidding. Anybody would recognize you.”

“Well I didn’t recognize you because you look amazing, like an entertainment show host or something.”

And she did, except without all the makeup (that I know they have to wear because tv and not because they like having goop all over their face).

I gave up makeup on this last job. We’ll see. I may take it up again. She had a bit of eye and lip action going on and she really did look amazing. You know, like blonds often do when they stop trying to recapture that blond of their babyhood and go for ash blond highlights instead.

Oh my Gord, bitchy gay hairdresser much, Sooey?

Also, redundant adjectives much, Sooey?

“I remember playing at your house. We had so much fun. Those were good times.”

Except, here’s the thing. Like I said, I have a very good memory and although I have no doubt she recognized me, I’m pretty sure she was mixing our good times up with some other kid because I know for a fact we never played together. I even checked it out later with my childhood neighbour, although not yet with his twin brother, and he had that, “oh… I think maybe once or twice she might have played… ”

“No way, Slooey. You’re just thinking she did now because she thinks she did. But she didn’t. I’d remember. She was part of the cool set and we weren’t.”

He didn’t disagree with this.

“Also, I reminded her of stuff, a boyfriend of hers who was the brother of my eventual friend, and she was stunned at my memory. She’d forgotten all about him. I even remembered the circumstances of when it came about and I wasn’t even there. I’d heard about it from another girl – eavesdropping, of course, on the cool kids – and tucked it away. And she thought we were in the same grade but we weren’t. We were in a split class and she was a grade ahead.”

Anyway, it was funny because until I realized much later that she may have remembered me from school but mixed me up with a cousin she actually did hang out with (socially), it changed my whole perception of how I may have looked to other kids in elementary school. And even after I realized that my perception was still changed because of the fact that she’d remembered me at all.

I said to my mother, “Well I was an above average student, for sure. So maybe I was more noticed than I thought I was.”

And she said, “Oh you were involved in lots of sports and clubs, too.”

Which was when I remembered a whole period of going straight to the Y from school with some cool kids, one of them the most popular girl from our split grade, but still no Stoorie. And she’d mentioned playing at my house anyway.

So we’ll hook up on Facebook once I go back on because why the fuck not. She’ll totally increase my social stock in the Sault if I ever move back there, which I’m thinking I might now, and we can always use a good looking glamour puss friend to increase our social media stock, too. Also, I smiled for about half an hour after the reunion. It was just plastered there on my face. Really, she made me feel so good about my childhood. Just by running after me to re-connect completely changed my perception of the past, which had evolved (devolved?) over the years into this idea that I was a lonely overachieving social dork pariah.

Not true at all, apparently, or Stoorie Stays wouldn’t have bothered.

So I guess what I’m saying is, always bother. Run after that person you may or may not recognize as your best friend ever from elementary school and say, “Hey! How are you?” like she really might have been your best friend ever back in elementary school. Because even if you might have that person mixed up with her cousin, she will still feel super chuffed about it.

I guess what I’m also saying is, not thrilled with memories of your childhood? Just make up new ones. After all, chances are you remember yourself in it all wrong anyway.

I’ll get to Brexit later, although to be honest it kind of pales in comparison to being recognized from elementary school by one of the cool kids, doesn’t it.

Or maybe that’s just me.


Too Late Apologies

I noticed this morning on Twitter that apparently Toronto’s police chief will be apologizing for his force’s bathhouse raids of ’81.

I knew a man who was caught up in those raids. His name, along with others, was published (by the Sun?), his life ruined, and that’s with a wife already in the know, a young daughter, friends.

He was a teacher. I met him when one of our MPPs hired him for a time. I don’t know what became of him but I hope it got better.

Toxic masculinity really is the bane of our existence, isn’t it.


Dear Commenter(s)

Turkish border guards are shooting Syrians trying to cross into their country, including children.

So children, they’re shooting children now. Picking them off like cardboard cutouts of Rachel Notley on an Alberta oilmen’s golf course.

If you can believe it – I couldn’t – it wasn’t even the lead story on The National last night. Imagine. A NATO country, an ally of ours in the ongoing senseless perpetration of violence in the Middle East, is shooting refugees fleeing it. And they’re doing it because the EU is paying them to do it. Indirectly, of course, but Turkey is being paid to keep Syrians out of Europe, and they don’t want any more in Turkey, so, in keeping with the country Turkey has become, they’re shooting children and their mothers at the border.

Murder for dollars.

So when I delete or don’t approve your comments, censor you, know that it’s because I think your comments are more than just wrong-headed, I think they’re violent, and I feel a responsibility towards other people to not add to the violence.

To paraphrase Bill Maher once again, it’s literally the least I can do.

And, you know, if you don’t like what I write here, just don’t read it.


Lisa Raitt’s Bubble in the Sky

So Lisa Raitt, who’s no dummy, but who apparently lives in a reality proof bubble in the sky, is concerned that Canadians aren’t saving enough for our retirements via RRSPs and TFSAs, and thinks we should do better.

Oh dear.

I don’t know about you but I’m already living off my private retirement savings, a good ten years earlier than I thought I would be, too.

No, fifteen years earlier than I thought I would be.

It’s how I’ve been able to afford not to be poor lo these past few years, which makes sense if you really stop and think about it, my strategic spending, because the longer I live well now, the longer I’ll have lived well, and the longer I’ll likely live.

Just give me a cup of tea and (half) a pot cookie and my netbook and I’ll be fine wherever I am.

My guy at the bank, who’s gone now because that’s how it is these days, and who knows my high flying friend because that’s how small the world is for Canadians who know about money and how to make/keep it, said in no uncertain terms, “Do not wait to collect CPP. Start cashing in as soon as you turn 60. Because the sooner you start collecting, the longer you’ll have collected. It only makes sense, dollars and cents.”

I’m lying. He didn’t say that last part. That’s my ex’s joke. “It only makes sense, dollars and cents.”

That’s why I divorced him.


It’s socio-economic math, really, straight out of “The Body Economic”, plus the nerve of ten men on unicycles, to live well in spite of not making much money. Or even any money. In fact, it was an internet freak who told me the key to life in middle age is living like you’re wealthy because, well, I forget why, and why doesn’t matter anyway because anybody who’s been following along even a bit knows our economy isn’t working for us so much as we’re working for it.

And that’s not how it should be! That’s just how one of those Desmarais brats said it should be!

So fuck that noise because what I know for certain, certain I tells ya,  is that ever since I stopped scrimping and saving for retirement I’ve enjoyed life more, had fewer health problems, and noticed other people treating me better than they did before when I was like a regular chump casting about madly for ways to save money I wasn’t making.

Also, I’m not really sure there’s going to be a future to save for, anyway. And we’ve got that new legislation that the Supreme Court will knock down as soon as they get a hold of it because it sucks, and once there’s no law on physician assisted suicide, as there shouldn’t be, I expect we’ll be able to just cash out, so to speak, when we’re cashed out.

Although I doubt I’ll be feeling cashed out any time soon after retirement because, Lisa Raitt’s concerns aside, I’ll be making more money then than I have in the years after being laid off by the government of which Lisa Raitt was once a member in good standing.

What, me worry?