We’re going to sell Casa Kalhoun and head to New Mexico, where I’ll open an art gallery specializing in unknown artists. Mr. Kal will play with hot rods and figure out ways to keep scorpions and big spiders outta my house.
I’ll surround myself with the beauty of the desert, photographing mesas and wildlife, and kibbitz with the locals.
All this is contingent upon a winning lottery ticket. If that doesn’t happen, I’m going to move in with my son and refuse to pay rent.
I plan on being an absolute grouch.
I will have a cane. And I will poke young folks in the chest with it. I will have an apartment, and I will yell at my neighbors to keep the damn noise down. I will pick verbal fights with grocery clerks and mortify my wife by talking loudly about parts of my body that no longer function. I will lay in wait for Jehovah’s Witnesses and take them hostage and force feed them meandering scattered tales of my youth that have no point whatsoever.
It’s gonna be sweet!
I think I would like to teach, if that is possible. Can you call yourself retired and teach? I think so.
Either that or I’ll sit around yelling, “Get off my lawn you little sons of bitches! I know where you live, little bastards!”
My little retirement fantasy is becoming an ex-pat in some central american or island nation. I don’t have to live on the beach, but I need a view of the water, a hammock, internet connection, loads of books and probably Netflix. Maybe a barcalounger, too.I might become an owner or part owner of some kind of touristy thing like a coffee shop or tacky t-shirt store. Whatever brings in the dinero.
Mr. Ujest doesn’t like this fantasy at all. He is always, " What would you do all day?"
“Absolutely nothing and like it.” Just like now, but don’t tell him.
" But you don’t speak Spanish. You don’t even speak German."
“Honey, when Germany has posession of a tropical climated, by the ocean, no war and no major natural catastrophe place, I will learn german.”
**The reality ** I will be a greeter at Walmart and like it being overly cheerful to complete strangers and get an even bigger thrill at watching these people avoid making eye contact with me.
Lady Chance told me several years ago (upon her first visit) that New Orleans is the place we’ll be retiring.
Who am I to say no to that?
So I’ll fail freshman at the local community college (damn kids), maybe play some jazz, drink…a LOT. Maybe join a crew and work on the float and then convince the girls every mardi gras to show me their hooters.
Lady Chance plans to paint.
And I have to get us a house in the garden district. A big one.
Somebody give me a dollar.
Makes a note to make the Chances my very best friends.
MaryEfoo’s plans are wonderful as well, so she is on my list of people I need to mooch off of in the future.
I feel your pain. I’ll never be able to retire either. I just hope the baby boomers enjoy the retirement I was supposed to have.
Technically, I can retire in 10 years when I’m 47. And you wonder why I’m still working for the State??? 
But since DeHusband won’t be able to retire for at least 13 years after that, it looks like I’m staying where I’m at for a while.
We probably won’t ever retire totally. I absolutely hate having nothing to do. I’d love to paint or open a used book store. Cant’ make money at either, but it’d be fun!
As there will be no Social Security by the time I retire, I’ll probably work until I die. If I attempted to put money into a retirement fund now my children would starve–it’s a matter of feeding them or the retirement fund. Besides, since I have a large fear of making a committment of buying a house (that, and the “no money” factor), I’ll probably be homeless, unless I decided to torture my children by moving in with one of them.
I’ll have to eat catfood straight from the can, and it’ll be the cheap stuff, because I won’t make enough money to afford the Friskies with the chopped bits of turkey in gravey.
I do, however, plan on buying a big car, a really, really, really big car, because what’s an old lady without a honker of a Buick? I’ll drive really slow, and clip the bumpers of other cars when I park, and scare pedestrians when I run over the curbs going around corners. I’ll hang onto the steering wheel in a death grip at 10 and 2 o’clock, and peer over the edge of the dash. Of course, I’ll have to dye my hair blue and tease it up real big for the full effect.
I’ll buy dresses (or maybe have them donated) made from 100% polyester, and they’ll be in garish colors and patterns, with hats and gloves to match. I’ll start wearing stockings, not the kind with garters, but the kind that are rolled and knotted above my knees, which will allow my spider veins to glow in all their glory when I sit in public and my skirt gets hiked above the stocking line. I won’t notice though, because my glasses will be crusted with smudged fingerprints, and splatters of bits of food (cat food, of course), and I won’t be able to see the horrified glances of on-lookers.
Yep, this will be something to live for…
Whatever I do, I’m bound and determined that I will have a slew of hobbies with which I can busy myself when I’m old and retired. After years of being a cook in various restaurants, and watching my customers, I have made a vow that I am not going to be one of those old men who, now that I’m no longer working, has nothing better to do than sit on my ass drinking coffee in a cafe all freakin’ day.
Lemme tell you, there’s nothing like coming to work at 4:30 AM and finding four cars with old men sitting in them, waiting for the doors to open at 5:00.
Every time I go to Disney World in Florida, I make a bee-line for the Tower of Terror ride, because it’s the best thing Disney has done in years. One time I was waiting in line, and the bellhop (the “cast member” who boards people onto the ride) was a white-haired man in his mid-to-late 60’s. As people queued up, he stood completely still in front of the elevator doors, with a somber look on his face. When it was time to load, he did it totally in character, deadpanning lame jokes and asking us if we had any last requests. After everyone was seated and he was closing the elevator door, he stared at a nervous little girl in the front row and said, “Check-out time is in five minutes”, gave an evil smile, then slammed the doors closed.
I want to be that guy.
Care for my horses (that I’ll have by then ) while my husband builds lopsided bird houses and spice racks in his woodworking shop.
Maybe take up something artsy, like pencil drawing or character acting in local theater.
Or just be the crazy animal lady (I don’t want to have just cats - gotta have a foul-mouthed bird and a gigantic dog or four).