Retirement, I have discovered on this second day of my 70th year, wanders here and there in fits and starts as semi-sedentary days play out.

Since dropping off the YNT payroll sheet January 1 it’s been a mixed adventure.

Suddenly it became my sworn duty to tote away the recyclables. I have done this at least occasionally for years, but now the chore has degenerated from a happy surprise to an expectation in Good Wife Norma’s eyes. There’s no underestimating this distinction on the now put-upon can, paper, plastic, cardboard teamster’s attitude in the matter.

Unfortunately this duty has been rendered moot by the suspension of all recycling activities in York. I understand the several reasons why this has to be, but it’s still a sad circumstance. Someone please step up to get us back in business if you can find a way. GWN and I absolutely hate sending all our plastic, cardboard - even aluminum cans for cryin’ out loud - to the landfill where they will besmirch our planet forever.

And we’re just two senior citizens. Imagine the volume of recyclable material generated by a young family with a clutch of kids.

Hours spent in my recliner buried under GWN’s pod of wiener dogs while she is at work is another post-retirement development I didn’t see coming at all.

Thank goodness this quandary is mitigated at least in part by the colleagues of my 9:30 a.m. coffee shift of fellow old poops down at Grand Central. Though brief, this weekday morning respite is nonetheless appreciated.

Speaking of Grand Central, the previously discussed two night shifts I have begun working there are in no small part motivated by this unforeseen tube dog immersion syndrome.

Finally I understand what Norma meant when, in exasperation when our brood was little, she would exclaim, “I have to get away from these kids for awhile. If I don’t I’m going to go nuts.”

Today yet another manifestation of my sorry state presented itself in the basement.

Friends, though I shames me mightily to do so, in fairness I must confirm that the last thing I did before settling in to write this column was to bathe not one, not two but three doxies in the utility sink in GWN’s laundry room. (Her laundry room now, but for how long?)

I am fully aware few of you are buying my tale of three dog baths in succession on a Friday morning, but you’ll have to take my word for it. A selfie would have been proof positive, however as you might expect handling soaking wet tube dogs required all the hands I had at my disposal.

Circumstances conspired to stick me with the sloppy job.

First, the yapping trio must be all clean and fresh for the grandkids who are coming from Lincoln and Kearney to visit this weekend. Second, GWN was working a long, hard day Friday while my only income-generating task that day was to pen these words while fully reclined in close company with my editorial staff of Ebbie, Daphne and Annie.

Third is that GWN’s birthday is Sunday and fourth she is on the cusp of being abandoned. I will be here to neither celebrate her birthday nor to help her entertain three kids.

Nothing I could do. Couldn’t be helped. Simple as that.

Saturday son Aaron and I are driving to a lodge at a yet-undisclosed location on the shore of Oahe Reservoir in South Dakota to fish for walleyes Sunday and as much of Monday as we can manage.

I suppose it’s only fair to stipulate at this point that, soggy doggies aside, this whole retirement gig is not bad … not bad at all.


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