So, Is Retirement Supposed To Suck?: A Compilation of Life’s little Disappointments

By George M. Dean

“So, Is Retirement Supposed To Suck?” is a must-read for anyone who plans on retiring someday. It speaks of author George M. Dean’s pitfalls, and how others can learn from his mistakes. This book is divided into two sections:
In the first part, George recalls some of the more damaging memories from his childhood such as—his father using him as a human connection to the rabbit-ears on top of the TV. Or perhaps the time he was busted in school, by one of the nuns, for perusing through a Playboy magazine—instead of studying. You can only imagine…
The second part, explains why retirement is not what it’s cracked up to be. According to George, it’s the people. No, not normal people like you and me—but those that work for major corporations, and seem to get off on responding in the most negative patterns. You’ll hear a lot of “Sorry, that’s not our policy”, or “Sir, I’m afraid that would be against protocol, so…no!” Anyone nearing retirement is sure to enjoy this humorous and honest account of our authors’ experiences.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Gatekeeper Press
• Release date: Oct 12, 2023
• ISBN: 9781662941146

Book preview

Part One

Chapter 1:

Childhood Discipline

My first memory of a true interaction with my father was somewhere in North Carolina at age four or five. His words to me were, Okay, Tad, hold it right there and don’t move! Tad was my family’s nickname for me back then—come to think of it, it still is.

Daddy, can Penny hold it now? My arm hurts, I whined. You see, I was his human connection to the rabbit ears on top of the console TV.

Penny’s a girl. I need a big boy to help me with the TV. Are you a big boy, son?

Yes sir, I’m a big boy, I pouted, as I looked down at the floor. I had to keep switching hands because my arms were getting sore. But it was only for a few minutes at a time since I could relax my arms during commercials. I know, this would be considered child abuse today, but back then they called it "child-rearing.’’ The real abuse came in the form of whippings with the belt. Those were carried out by my mother, and yes, she could make it hurt. This was known as discipline. The belt would be used for infractions such as: back talk (Penny’s specialty), incomplete homework (my bad), ducking out of chores, and of course, lying. Lying was the worst transgression one could make in our little family, as the punishment was usually twice as severe. That was almost always two weeks’ worth of grounding in addition to the belt. Still, in my mind, the worst thing about getting the belt, was actually retrieving that belt.

My dad would bellow out, Okay, go to my room, find my belt, and bring it to your mother! The anticipation of what was to come was at least as painful as the actual whipping. Penny—being my sister and, back then, my mentor—had tipped me off on how to minimize the severity of these beatings.

She said, Make sure you scream out as loud as you can on the first whack; then she’ll go easier on the rest of them. It goes quicker that way, but make sure she thinks it really hurts. I took her advice, and for the most part, it worked—for a while.

* * *

Back then, there were three channels and only a few programs that I was called in to antenna for. Dad was a Western junkie—Gunsmoke, Wagon Train, and Rawhide were his shows, along with any baseball game on weekends. Oddly enough, there was nobody around to antenna for me during Saturday morning cartoons. But that was alright, because reception always seemed a bit better during cartoon time.

As Penny—three years my senior—and I got a bit older, we asked our parents why they even had us. Actually, she did all the talking, while I nodded. We realized by this time that they weren’t like other parents. They never went to PTA meetings, or any other school functions. Suppertime was all about bitching about their day, or arguing with each other. Penny and I didn’t really talk unless we were asked a specific question about our day at school. But the times we were invited to our friends’ houses were incredible. Their families just seemed so much nicer and friendlier to us—whereas when we had friends over, Mom and Dad didn’t have a lot to say to them, other than being critical at times. So, we asked the big question of why they even had us, when they didn’t seem to enjoy being parents. Don’t get me wrong—they were both good and moral people, but they were horrible at being parents. I guess there weren’t any handbooks back then.

Their answer was in joking form, but we both suspected it was based in truth. Dad explained, Kids were put on this earth to make their parents’ lives easier—to wash the car, do the dishes, mow the lawn—and sweep and vacuum the house. He went on, Now when you kids grow up and have your own families, you’ll have your own workforce.

Mom was chuckling. Oh, he’s just kidding, of course. You know we love you kids. Now go on; do your homework. And in their own way, I’m sure they did, but it was more in a Children should be seen and not heard sort of way. I always felt we came second to their real loves: TV shows, bowling, beer, and of course, arguing.

* * *

Since we were a military family, we ended up moving a lot. Penny was born in Japan, while Mom gave birth to me in Berlin, Germany. We also lived in California (where the twins were born), North Carolina, North Dakota, and finally in Virginia, where my dad retired. But wherever Dad was stationed, life was pretty much the same—at least for him. Once he’d come home from work, he’d shed his uniform, break open a six-pack of Schlitz, and park in front of the TV, wearing just his boxers, undershirt, and black socks. Other than getting up for supper—as we southerners called it—Dad was not moving until bedtime. Penny and I were called upon to fetch beers and snacks. Part of the joy of having kids, I guess.

Both our parents were strong proponents against us kids ever smoking or drinking. The problem was that every time they would spout off about the evils of these vices, they would do so with a beer in one hand, and a cigar or cigarette in the other. Somehow—and yes, it’s still a mystery—Penny and I both spent much of our adult lives—yes, you guessed it—smoking and drinking.

Chapter 2:

Catholicism

Mom and Dad were perfect for each other, in that they were quite cognate in their views of life. This was especially true when it came to politics. Both were lifelong Republicans, believing in low taxes, smaller government, and fiscal responsibility—unlike the GOP of today. What they weren’t together on, was religion. It wasn’t that they had opposing views on God, hell, or living a moral life; no, it was about going to church. Being a Protestant, Dad felt he had a free pass to stay home and watch football. As we would pull out of the driveway on the way to church, Dad would call out to us, Make sure y’all pray for me, you hear!

Mom, being the devout Catholic, never missed a Sunday Mass, which meant Penny and I never did either. It was drilled into us that, in the Catholic faith, skipping church was a sin. Whether it was a mortal or venial sin, I don’t remember, but I was pretty certain, I wasn’t going to hell if I missed just one Mass. Still, I wasn’t going to chance it.

Over the years, both Penny and I lost faith in Catholicism, mainly because of the guilt that it was predicated on. It seemed that everything that was fun, somehow turned out to be a sin. As the legendary George Carlin once put it, You want to feel up Susie. You think about feeling up Susie. You plan to feel up Susie. You drive to Susie’s house to feel her up. You knock on Susie’s door with the intent of feeling her up. You invite Susie to your car, to feel her up. Then … you feel up Susie. That’s seven sins in one feel. I agree, it’s not fair. The Protestants would chalk it up as one sin, and barely that.

Then, of course, comes confession. This usually occurs on every other Saturday—which means you really get no days off—where you wait in a line to tell all your sins to a stranger, whom you can’t see, because he’s hiding behind a dark screen. What used to bother me most—aside from all the guilt that was inflicted—were all the details that these priests needed to hear about, of your most shameful sins. I, of course, tried to gloss over the really ignominious ones by offering to double up on my penance of Our Fathers and Hail Marys. But I think I now understand why there are so many priest pedophiles in the Catholic Church—too damn many specific details.

* * *

In the summer before starting the third grade, in Fargo, North Dakota, Mom decided to enroll both Penny and me, in Catholic schools. We weren’t thrilled about this at first, but we came to find out that confession was held on Wednesdays and was mandatory. This meant our Saturdays were now free. So Mom, had to go it alone. Yeah, being a Catholic just got a little easier. Classes were a bit smaller, so we couldn’t get away with much, but I really didn’t mind, because I wasn’t that much of a troublemaker. Not then, anyway. The teachers were almost all nuns. For quite a few years, my homeroom teacher, was this old bat named Sister Madeline, or Mad Dog, as we affectionately referred to her behind her back. This bitch—and I’m being kind—walked around with a ruler in hand, with the sole purpose of corporal punishment. She would, without warning, whack the hell out of our knuckles, just to get our attention. I gotta say, it worked. And that, was when she was in a good mood. Piss her off, and she’d order you to the front of the classroom, make you face and lean up against the chalkboard, while she’d grab the back of your hair and slam your head into the board three or four times. The acoustics of your head slamming against that board sounded so much worse than it actually was, as the chalkboard was loosely screwed into the wall. So, we’d have to pretend that it hurt. Penny’s advice, again, came in handy.

* * *

There was a time—I believe it was the fifth grade—when a piece of smut, as the nuns called it, was floating around the classroom and landed on my desk. Now by smut, I’m referring to an old Playboy magazine from May 1966, and the centerfold’s name was Dolly Reed. Oh, I could never forget Dolly. Even though the nuns all called it smut, I thought of it as erotic art. Hell, at that time, perusing her naked pictures, I thought I was in love. I mean, Dolly was looking right at me, in most of her tasteful but revealing poses. It was as if she was communicating with me, on an intimate level. And her voluptuously large hooters were an enticement all on their own, to any red-blooded adolescent boy. While I was mesmerized by her beauty, and reading her bio, Mad Dog caught me totally engrossed and snatched away my art. She grabbed me by the scruff of my hair and dragged me over to the classroom door. Relieved I wasn’t getting my face smashed into the blackboard, I sarcastically asked her if I was in trouble. Her response was to hand me back the magazine and take it to Father Smith—the senior of our two priests—and explain my debauchery and perversity, as she put it. So, I slinked off, pretending to be immersed in guilt and contrition, heading to the rectory, which was between the school and church. During my trek, I had to come up with an excuse to explain my actions, so as not to get expelled. Upon approaching the rectory, I was more than a little impressed at the enormity of this building. It was divided into two residences: one for Father Smith (the old grouchy one), and one for Father Gross (the younger and nicer one). As I entered the main door, I saw two doorbells labeled for each priest. I thought for a second and decided to ring Father Gross’s bell. No answer. Son of a bitch, I thought to myself. I rang it again, only to find Father Smith exiting his door. Yes, young man, what do you need? he demanded.

Hi, Father Smith. I’m George from Mad—I mean, from Sister Madeline’s classroom, I nervously said, She wanted me to give you this magazine; I don’t know why. My hands were shaking as I handed it to him. He snatched it from my hand and quickly leafed through it. As he got to the pictures—and looked them up and down—he then looked up and stared at me for a moment.

What is this lewdness, and why do you have it? Before I could answer, he went on, You’re a disgusting little pip. How dare you bring this pornography, this filth, into our school, where you should be learning Christian values? He went on and on, chastising me for a good ten minutes or so, before he stopped. He kept using words and phrases I had never heard before, such as: lasciviousness, sacrilegious, blasphemous, and hallowed grounds. Again, he called me a pip; to this day, I have no clue what that is—other than that character on South Park, or a backup singer for Gladys Knight. But I just stood there and took it, head down, looking ashamed.

Yes Father … yes Father, were my responses as he took a breath between rants. But in reality, I wasn’t ashamed in the least. I mean, I was a prepubescent boy, believing I was in love with this playmate of the month. Of course, I knew my mother wasn’t going to see it quite that way. Anyway, Father Smith ended our little discussion by ordering me off campus for the day, to think about my transgressions. So off I went, headed for home, which was a good thirty-minute jaunt from school. This would give me plenty of time to paint a softer viewpoint for my mom to ponder, because I knew she would find out eventually.

Regretfully, by the time I arrived, she and Father Smith had already spoken on the phone. To my surprise, she took it pretty well—even before I could add my spin—probably because expulsion wasn’t on the table. Instead, I was to work two hours of detention, after school, for three weeks. The real punishment came in the form of explaining to her exactly why I found these models in a men’s magazine so attractive. Embarrassed much? Of course, my standard answer was, I don’t know, over and over. The good news was that I didn’t have to worry about my dad finding out, because he was serving a one-year stint in Vietnam.

* * *

Just after fifth grade, my mom decided she was overworked and made the announcement that she was taking a two-week leave of absence. It was explained to Penny and me, that we now had the responsibilities of doing the cooking, cleaning, and caring for our two-year-old twin sisters. Having just turned eleven myself, I felt there was little I could contribute. Sure, I could do some of the cleaning, but other than making sandwiches, cooking was not part of my skillset. So, Penny took over the brunt of the chores, including cooking, feeding, and changing those little monsters. I only say monsters because one afternoon, I heard laughing and screaming coming from their bedroom. As I opened the door, I was almost beaned in the head by an oncoming projectile. It bounced off the wall, landing at my feet. I went to pick it up before realizing it was a round, hardened poop-ball. Yes, the girls were entertaining themselves with an all-out poop fight—reminiscent of spider monkeys, at the zoo. Apparently, someone (Penny), had forgotten to change them in a timely manner.

Too young to feel any guilt or embarrassment, Bobbe and Peggy continued with their little fling-fest, while I shut the door and bellowed for Penny. She came running, although in a bitchy mood because she was having trouble lighting the stove. What is it? she yelled. I’m busy fixing supper.

You might want to see what the twins are doing. She opened the door, and then immediately slammed it shut, turned around, and laughed hysterically. Not the reaction I had expected, but better than the alternative, I guess.

When was the last time you changed them? I asked.

She thought for a second, before she realized, it was last night.

Well Tad, she said with a grin, you’re in charge of cleaning … clean it up.

"Hey, you’re the one who’s on diaper duty; you clean it up."

Okay, how’s this: I’ll change their diapers; you start cleaning up the poop, and I’ll join you when I’m done. Fair? Sure, that would have been fair, had she returned. But she had to return to the kitchen to heat up a can of Spaghetti-O’s. And let me tell you, there was a shitload of poop-balls to pick up. I thus concluded, that the twins were being overfed.

* * *

Much of the Catholic religion was conceived on guilt, which tortured me to no end as a young boy. Once I got a little older, Penny helped me get past this tribulation and start enjoying life. We both decided to ignore the teachings of Catholicism, and just go through the motions. After all, this was only about pleasing our devout Catholic mom.

At that time—and maybe it’s still true today—masturbation was considered a sin in the Catholic religion. Realizing this, I decided to stop going to confession, and suffer through their ensuing chastisement. Jerking off was one of the few things I really liked, and was really good at. So between that and the guilt, I decided the Catholic religion had to go.

* * *

Soon after, Dad returned from Vietnam, newly promoted to lieutenant colonel. It was summertime, and he decided that I was going to be a golfer, whether I liked it or not. There was a golf club on base where he played, and he became pretty chummy with Fred, a golf pro there. So it was decided: I would take golf lessons three days a week, and I was going to like it. Those were my orders, anyway. Fred was a nice enough guy—maybe too nice—but he wasn’t prepared for the fact that I hated golf and didn’t want to be there. And because of this, it was hard for me to retain much of what he was teaching me. Taking my stance, addressing the ball, and keeping my left arm straight during my back swing was just too much for me to handle. Soon after, Fred quit, for a couple of reasons. Dad—disappointed as usual—accepted that golf was not in my future, at least not my near future.

Chapter 3:

Moving to Virginia

Acouple of years later, Dad got his orders to move the family to Fort Lee, Virginia. At ages fifteen and twelve, Penny and I decided to plead with Mom to enroll us in public schools this time. We used the compelling argument that saving the tuition money for college would make more sense financially. She and Dad agreed, since the twins—Bobbe and Peggy—would be starting their Catholic education in a couple of years, so there’d be plenty of time to screw them up as well.

So we packed up the house and took the road trip from Fargo to Fort Lee. Although the ride seemed endless—with all of us stuffed in the Cadillac—it only took two and a half days. When we arrived, the Army screwed up (no surprise there), and didn’t have our residence ready on post. And because