Changing Tastes

When I did our grocery shopping this week, the type of yoghurt we prefer was nowhere to be found in the local Stop & Shop, a major chain. I usually buy their store brand, but I’ll pay extra for Stonyfield, if that’s the only way I can get the variation we use. That is: regular yoghurt, nonfat, plain, in the large container.

There was exactly one regular S&S yoghurt in the large container, and it was nonfat vanilla. We don’t like the vanilla. The Stonyfield section had several nonfat vanilla ones, and exactly one plain, but it was low fat. I snapped it up anyway, to avoid having to stop at another market. In case you’re not a yoghurt eater, let me tell you why our variation is so hard to find these days. Everyone has hopped onto the Greek yoghurt bandwagon. It’s thicker and creamier, but we prefer regular. Jagdish won’t touch the Greek.

This episode made me realize yet again that people’s tastes change over time, and because of that, food and beverages that I’ve enjoyed for years are suddenly difficult, if not impossible to find. I’m sorry, but the older I get, the more I appreciate some stability in my life. I resent having to rejigger my eating habits to keep up with what’s in vogue this month.

In rare instances, the world’s tastes have caught up with my own. I was a tea drinker when tea wasn’t cool. Now even Starbucks is pushing the teacart. This means I have more varieties from which to choose and every place I shop has a decent supply. Oh, yes, and there’s usually one brand on sale somewhere. Sweet!

One beverage where tastes have changed notably over the years, including my own, is wine. I’ve always gone for drier wines, but I used to prefer white. (These days I prefer red.) I remember when Chablis was the wine of choice when you went out to dinner. Now I rarely see Chablis on a wine list, unless it’s three pages long.

Likewise no longer easy to find is Verdicchio, which was one of my youthful preferences. I loved that citrusy zing and the interesting bottles, especially the cute fish-shaped one and the curvy number. Speaking of the curvy bottle (Fazi Battaglia), I also loved their radio commercials, the ones where diners struggled to pronounce the name. “Bring us some of that Fuzzy Baggies” is particularly memorable.

Mateus was another popular option in the early seventies, an affordable rosé that has pretty much disappeared (mercifully). Most folks pronounced it Mahtoose, but I always gave it three syllables, like Matthew in Portuguese—Mah-teh-oos. Apparently, the pronunciation, like the wine, targets a less-urbane audience, because the makers use two syllables.

Moving on to reds, more recently Pinot Noir (think the movie Sideways) gave way to Merlot, which is giving way to Malbec. I remain partial to a Cab or a nice Chianti. I could do an entire post just on changing tastes in wine.

Back to what to order when you go out to eat, when I worked in midtown Manhattan, one of my go-to lunches at the Brasserie on East 53^rd was steak tartare. It’s gone (the tartare, not the Brasserie), and not just because of Mad Cow disease. Blood red meat is considered too Mad Men macho; it’s also bad for your cholesterol. Everyone is more health conscious now. You’re more likely to see tuna tartare than the beef version.

Sweetbreads and Rocky Mountain (or prairie) oysters seem to have disappeared, too. What’s that about? Did the Internet make it easier for people to find out what they were actually eating? And frogs’ legs. Several species of frogs are endangered. Have we finally grown a social conscience? More likely it’s because France enacted laws to protect them in 1980. I doubt that Julia Childs would include Cuisses de Grenouille in a new edition of Mastering the Art of French Cooking.

Many of my more salient food memories have been tossed into the gastronomic InSinkErator. It should make me angry, but it just makes me sad. I guess I should thank the Lord for small favors. All the items that are on Luke’s increasingly short list of acceptable foods are still available in supermarkets. There are some things he just won’t eat. He’ll sniff them, give them a poke or two and then walk away. That’s probably what Jagdish would do if I served him Greek yoghurt. Let’s hope we never have to find out.

Go Ahead… Make His Day!

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When I was young, let’s say in my twenties and early thirties, I was fly. And, truth be told, pretty hot. Lunchtime often saw me out and about in midtown Manhattan in miniskirts and high heels. It was not unusual for construction workers to make admiring comments, catcalls and an occasional suggestion that cannot be repeated here. Actually, most of the comments can’t be repeated here, either. Looking back, I realize that it felt good to be appreciated, regardless of the source.

Unless my memory has huge gaps, decades went by without any catcalls. The only appreciative comments I remember from my forties and fifties were compliments on my perfume. I got those quite regularly, from both men and women. The men often asked the name of it, so they could buy it for their wives or girlfriends. It was Issey, by Issey Miyake, by the way, and my niece is the one who hooked me on it.

Then there was one memorable encounter about six years ago, while I was still working. Once a year, I spent a few days at a local senior center that had what was called an RSVP operation. The center received a government grant in exchange for providing free help with bulk mailings for non-profit groups. The women who frequented the center did the folding, assembling and stuffing.

I checked in periodically to replenish materials and to make sure things were being done according to spec. I was usually dressed in what would best be described as casual business wear—a soft skirt and blouse or sweater. One day as I was leaving, I crossed paths with an elderly gentleman; he was probably in his eighties. He said something complimentary—I can’t recall exactly what—and I smiled and thanked him. I would have hugged him, but one has to worry about the tickers in older gents.

I was reminded of this encounter recently as I was about to pull out of a Home Depot parking lot. A man in his late fifties, or perhaps his sixties—I can’t tell ages anymore—was walking from his car to the store. He was balding. Actually, he was almost completely bald. He had a paunch, but not a sloppy one; his golf-type shirt was tucked neatly into his belted sports slacks. With spine erect, he walked purposefully through the lot. He looked confident, but not arrogant.

I was so impressed to see someone of this vintage with good posture and energy that I almost rolled down my car window to say something to him. “Looking good!” Or perhaps “I admire your posture and the way you walk so briskly.” I wasn’t sure what I should say, so instead, I just drove away. Besides, I was afraid he’d think I was hitting on him. (I’m not fly anymore, so he certainly wouldn’t have considered my attentions flattering.)

Before I even reached the street, I regretted that I didn’t pay him a compliment. He deserved it. He had earned one. I knew that fly or not, anything I would have said would have lifted the spirits of this seemingly ordinary man. I could have made his day, but instead I chickened out. That’s when I remembered the senior gent who had perked me up a few years back.

So, here’s my advice to everyone reading this. If you see someone who looks good or is doing something nice, go ahead… make his day! Let him (or her) know that you’ve noticed. “Way to rock it!” “You look mah-velous!” (a la Billy Crystal.) “You smell awesome!” “Love your shoes!” “Somebody’s been working out!” I could go on, but you get the idea.

Are you too shy to speak up to a stranger? Then give them a big smile, or just a head nod. You’d be surprised how easy it can be to lift someone’s spirits for a few hours, or even for the entire day. Try it. I promise it will make you feel good, too.

By the way, you look great today!

Amusement Park Rides for Retirees

Summer is almost upon us and TV is replete with soft news about the latest amusement park rides, or classic rides that are being refurbished. We don’t hear much about amusement park rides that have been designed (or redesigned) especially for retirees. Good news. I’m addressing that in today’s post.

I grew up in a lake community that was about a half hour from a quaint amusement park called Bertrand’s Island. Several times each summer, a handful of chaperones took a bus full of kids there on Nickel Night. Just as it sounds, every ride cost only a nickel, except for the wooden roller coaster, and that was a dime. The line for the coaster was always long, but once on it, you could pay another dime and stay for another spin. I once rode that coaster 26 times in a row, and it wasn’t even on a dare.

Back in my heyday, one of the favorite rides of teenagers with raging hormones was the Tunnel of Love. You cuddled in a little boat that drifted through dark, winding waterways that eventually whooshed you back to the dock where you began. The ride never lasted long enough. Retirees are welcomed to the Tunnel of Vision, where the boat hustles you through a tunnel that is pitch black on all sides. A blinding light in the middle leads the way out, and you can’t get there soon enough.

One ride I never understood until I started working full time and needed to release some aggression was the bumper cars. Predictably, these have been replaced with Bumper Scooters. If you thought bumper cars were an extreme sport, wait until you’ve taken a spin on Bumper Scooters. The seniors who drive them are so vicious that you need to wear helmets and sign a hold-harmless agreement to go on this ride.

Young girls were especially susceptible to the Fortune Teller’s charms. We knew it was hogwash, but who cared? As long as we were told we’d find true love and live happily ever after. Female retirees are more likely to be lured into the web of the Misfortune Teller. She’ll predict all the physical ailments that are going to befall you and members of your family. Tip her generously and she just may inform you that her “crystal ball” (read: smart phone) malfunctioned. WebMD says things won’t be that bad after all.

Not every amusement park had a Lost Continent ride, but every park for retirees has a Lost Continence. This is not so much a ride as an attraction. It’s a centrally located area with private booths where you can refresh your adult underwear. Vending machines are conveniently positioned inside the doorway. Can’t find it on the park map? It’s near the Lost Memory station, right next to the Lost Eyeglasses booth.

One of my favorite rides was The Whip. I remember once trying to talk my friend into going on it with me. The only way I could convince her was by paying her fare as well as my own. She was, as we say, “a big girl,” and unfortunately, I sat on the wrong side of her. When the Whip got going full bore, centrifugal force pushed her full weight on top of me. I had to pull myself out from under her, fighting the force, to get to the uphill side. The retirees’ version of this ride is The Whiplash. Enough said.

No amusement park worth its salt would be without a Ferris Wheel, and the retirees’ park is no exception. While most wheels today are built taller and taller (think the Millennium Wheel in London, or the Dubai Eye), the one for us seniors suffers from the same height and movement challenges as we do. Every year the Ferris Wheelchair gets a little bit shorter and moves a tad slower. When last I checked, it stood just thirty feet tall, had six chairs on it and took twenty minutes to make one full rotation.

One ride that mercifully has changed very little since our youth is the Carousel. Sometimes now called the Horseless Carousel, the only difference is that there are no animals that go up and down and give us vertigo. Or more accurately: exacerbate our already-existing vertigo. The ride now has just those beautifully painted chariots with tufted leather seats, but you can still reach for that brass ring.

Ah, yes. Nothing says Summer like a trip to the local amusement park. And I don’t mean those Six Flags extravaganzas. I’m talking about the ones with a manageable number of relatively simple rides and attractions. And especially ones designed with retirees in mind. Ticket, please.

Peripatetic Retirees

Ever the optimist, I’m looking ahead to how my husband and I will spend our time together once we’re truly retired. This presumes that I’m eventually successful in dragging him away from his store. Since we’re looking to downsize outside of Rhode Island, I’ve pretty much got that problem covered. In theory, we’ll have side-by-side office space where he’ll work on the web version of his store and I’ll continue to write and to develop some web properties that have been percolating for years.

If you’ve been following this blog, you know that the prospect of a life of nothing but writing and web activity is already beginning to lose its luster for me. Those who know Jagdish keep asking how he’ll survive without his stool and his “ashram.” I think I’ve found the perfect solution to both these issues.

We’re going to take our act—or more correctly acts—on the road. We’ll get an Airstream or Winnebago RV (or whatever the generic is) and travel across the country. This will enable us to see states where we’ve never been, or only breezed through on business. We’ll spend time in the interesting cities that folks have been recommending to us. And we’ll sniff out places where we can hawk our wares and ply our trade.

The first step will be to buy a used RV. The ones in Texas, Arkansas and Missouri seem to be more affordable, but we’d have to travel to get them; catch 22. I figure we’ll need to spend around $50,000 if we want to buy it here on the East Coast. This means that the home we downsize to needs to be at least $50,000 less expensive than what is currently in our budget. It also must be somewhere that will allow us to park the RV in the driveway. (Can you say: “You might be a redneck if…”?)

We’ll need a portable peddler’s cart—the kind you see at craft fairs or on sidewalks in the summer in tourist areas. Most of it will be filled with products from Spectrum-India, Jagdish’s retail store. He’ll have incense, essential oils, wind chimes, singing bowls and more. A portion of the cart will feature my books. I’ll do readings every hour, hoping to lure folks into buying the book after they hear how witty and funny I am. Jagdish will do handwriting analysis, palm readings and henna tattoos.

We’ll spend a week or two in each location, working our way from East to West and back again, following the change of seasons, as appropriate. This way, Jagdish can “set up shop” in all the places that visitors to Spectrum-India have been promoting to him over the years, without having to commit to a long-term lease. He’ll be able to take his stool with him, but he won’t be able to sit there until midnight or later. I’ll get to talk to him all day, and even eat meals with him. What a concept!

We’ll become peripatetic retirees, wandering the country like eccentric vagabonds. Jagdish will be able to hold court with different people every week. His friends back in Rhode Island won’t have to worry about him having store withdrawal. He’ll be like a turtle, carrying his store on his back, in a manner of speaking. I’ll continue to gather pop culture to write about, but with an even broader geographic perspective.

Our list of destinations will be chock full of university towns and artists’ communities. Our peddler’s cart will have stickers from Burlington, Amherst, Charlottesville, Chapel Hill, and Austin. We’ll spend time in Camden, Asheville, St. Augustine, and Taos, Santa Fe and Albuquerque. We’ll camp out in Savannah, New Orleans, and Mill Valley. If we hit the weather right, we’ll stop in Madison, Boulder, and Portland, OR.

Our peddler’s cart will have so many miles on it, we’ll have to buy new tires every few months. (Note to self: add tire expense to budget.) At the end of each year, we’ll evaluate the places we’ve been. We’ll return to the “keepers” the next year and explore new locales to replace the slots vacated by the losers. We’ll take suggestions of cities to add from any and all sources. We’ll shamelessly  mooch meals from people we know in an area and folks we meet along the way.

After a few years, we might even decide to relocate to one of the perpetual winners, especially if it’s more affordable than where we’ve initially downsized. Oh, yes! This is a plan devised at the peak of my creative genius, and without the lubricant of even one glass of wine. Imagine what I might come up with after a glass or two! Or perhaps don’t.

Retirement Limbo Land

When our house didn’t sell in two real estate seasons of trying, we decided to give it a rest for a year. We’re also doing some updates to our kitchen, the planning for which has become close to a full time job for me. In the meantime, we’re trying to keep it “staged” in case our agent has a buyer she feels will be interested in the property. And yes, it’s happened once already.

The market is hot in Providence, in the sense that there’s a shortage of inventory and even big houses are turning quite quickly, sometimes even with multiple offers. But the prices haven’t advanced much since last year and people still want a “done” house. Hence the need for our kitchen updates.

The failure to launch our retirement move has been a good thing for my husband. He’s about two years behind the original schedule for closing the wholesale portion of his business and getting out of his warehouse. As I roll into my third year of pseudo-retirement, I find myself in “Retirement Limbo Land.” That’s where your income is retired, but your expenses aren’t. And the way you spend your time is between a rock (full-time employment) and the proverbial hard place (your idea of retirement bliss).

Yes, I finished and published three books in the first two years after leaving my full-time job. I’m still blogging weekly and I have the idea for and the beginnings of my fourth book. But I’m not feeling warm and fuzzy about spending my retirement just writing. This is in part because my office is in our windowless basement. I need ambient light to be energized.

I’m thinking about getting an IPad so I can write in one of our sunny rooms (since I’m still paying real estate taxes on them). But then I’ll need WiFi service, or at least a wireless router in my basement. (Maybe these are one and the same; I don’t know.) This apparently involves upgrading from DSL and/or paying extra for having access from more than one computer. It seems crazy to go through all of that when we’re going to be here for just another year or so. (God willing and the cricks don’t rise…)

This is just one aspect of Retirement Limbo Land. Here’s another that will make you sad. As part of the house staging, I boxed up our photos, including those of the cats. I kept one photo of Pansy out, since we sent her to the Rainbow Bridge shortly before I retired. The rest were put into a box carefully labeled “Keep.” Last October, we lost Lily. I have no photo of her near my desk because the “Keep” boxes were all stored behind the “Sell” and “Donate” ones, and I haven’t been able to turn up the photo box.

Ditto for my high school and college yearbooks. When someone from my past wants to reconnect via Facebook, I can’t cheat my way into “remembering” them by looking up their yearbook picture.

There’s a similar sob story behind my sewing and craft supplies. I could really use that packet of felt to reinforce the holes in my favorite jeans. And the iron-on tape to fix the lining inseams on my linen pants that are fraying. I can’t properly repair my husband’s sweaters without a crochet hook to re-knit the stitches that got snagged and created a ladder down the front. I refuse to go out and buy new supplies when I know I have them somewhere. Besides, the plan is to downsize, not augment.

I have many other examples of things I’ve stashed away that I’d like to be able to put my hands on, but won’t be able to until I’m out of Retirement Limbo Land. It leaves me unhappy and frustrated. And annoyingly out of control.

I have similar feelings about finding alternate ways to spend my time. I’ll probably get involved in some volunteer work when we settle into our new, downsized location. I’m disinclined to do it now. Why invest emotionally in something I’ll be leaving soon? Not to mention our one-car situation. If I take the car so I can volunteer for a few hours, that leaves the rest of the day to get into trouble. By that I mean go shopping. Again, the goal is to downsize. And the budget doesn’t allow shopping.

Except for wine, but I can walk to my favorite wine store. That has added benefits. I get some exercise, and I don’t buy more than two or three bottles at a time, so they’re not too heavy to carry home. Of course, if one has a screw top, I could always drink some of it on the way, to lighten the load. Just kidding. Then again…

Retirement Plagues — Sneezing Fits, Bug Bites and Bruises

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Lately I’m prone to a rash of plagues, or a plague of rashes, or both. They’ve come upon me like carpenter ants on a vine-covered porch since I’ve been retired.

Every year around this time, I get little bug bites that itch like crazy. They start at my ankles and work their way up my body over a few weeks. Places on my lower back that are hard to reach are a favorite snacking area for these critters. Also the wing flaps of my upper arms. For immediate relief, I scrub my skin to within an inch of its life with the back brush in the shower.

I also treat with my father’s go-to ointment—Boroleum. It’s an analgesic with menthol and eucalyptol. It was developed for nasal use, but it’s versatile. Remember the dad in My Big Fat Greek Wedding who used Windex on everything, including zits? Well, that’s me with my Boroleum, thanks to my father. It’s amazingly soothing, but only for awhile. No matter what I do, until the nibbling season is over, I’m doomed to a life of itch and scratch.

This is also the season for sneezing fits. Those with severe allergies are thinking: “Big whoop. The whole year is that season for me.” I understand the need to sneeze when I’m exposed to pollen. But my office is in the basement. In a windowless area. The fits I get there at this time of year go on and on.

The first sneeze, I just ignore. The second sneeze gets me looking around for the tissue box, just in case. By the third sneeze, I’m trying to sniff the drips back up there. Sneeze four gets me pressing my knees together. Sneeze five has me blowing my nose (still pressing my knees together). And blowing. And blowing. By the time sneeze six comes around, and it usually does, I’m running up the stairs to the bathroom.

Maybe my office gets dustier in Spring. It doesn’t seem that way to me. True, I drag the porch furniture out of the basement around the same time, and that stirs things up. But they’re in a different room and they go out the bulkhead. Even Luke is sneezing more now, and he hasn’t been o-u-t in weeks. Whatever the reason, sneeze fests are just another plague of the season for us.

My recent checkup with my GP reminded me of yet another side effect of an aging body: I bruise much more easily now. I guess my skin is thinner, so the blood vessels are closer to the surface. You know those little suction cup electrodes the tech sticks onto you when she does your annual EKG? Now they leave red marks. They usually disappear within a few hours, but it’s a different story for the other bruises that I get without having a clue why.

The other day I found a small discoloration on my left forearm. I’m sure it started as a typical black and blue mark. By the time I noticed it, the color had already moved on to the green phase. Now it’s that ugly yellow that signals the end of the cycle. I find bruises on my hips and thighs all the time, and I rarely can remember bumping into anything. Or more correctly, into anything in particular.

I bump into things all the time. My depth perception has always been lousy. Now that my eyesight is also less than stellar, unintentional contact with my surroundings happens several times a day, leaving me muttering: “Ouch! That’s going to leave a mark.” The more I walk around the house, the more bruises I get, and at least half of the ones I notice have origins unknown.

This provides a suitable excuse for just staying put in a chair with a good book. And a nice glass of wine. And no, it’s not the wine that makes me clumsy, so you can wipe that smirk off your face. What’s even better—by the second glass, I don’t notice the bug bites anymore. Ah, Spring! When ones thoughts turn to restocking the “medicine cabinet” with Boroleum and tissues. And wine, of course.

Signs You Need A Retirement Hobby

Two years into my retirement it hit me: I really need to find a new hobby. There are a number of signs you should recognize if you’ve also reached that point.

The sign that really brought this home to me had to do with watching TV, and not just any TV.

·      You watch so much Retro TV in the afternoon that Gunsmoke, Bonanza and The Big Valley are now in reruns.

Reruns of reruns. Really? How pathetic is that? And if that’s not bad enough:

·      You know exactly how the rabbit ears need to be positioned for each of the 12 channels your TV can receive so you get the best reception for each one.

Then there are the telltale signs that have to do with making things into projects.

·      You’ve written down the steps you go through when you put on your walking shoes. “Get shoes. Loosen laces. Pull out tongue. Get yard-long shoehorn. Insert shoehorn. Insert foot. Straighten tongue. Tighten laces. Tie laces: right-over-left, left-over-right, makes a square knot, good and tight.” Repeat.

·      You’ve darned three dozen socks in the past two months. Some of your darning has been re-darned.

·      You check the bottom of your husband’s clothes closet, hoping to find some laundry that needs to be done.

Even those who are avid readers and consider having more time to read during retirement to be a hobby might need to find a new one. Recognize any of these?

·      When you sit down to read a book, you fall asleep in ten minutes.

·      You check your email every half hour.

·      You wait at the front door for the mailman and hope he has several text-dense catalogues you can read—page by page.

·      You memorized the second edition of Excel for Dummies, even though it’s 17 years out of date.

Some other signs reflect a lack of focus. Or compulsive behavior. Or both.

·      You stare at the 7-day vitamin container each morning, trying to remember what day it is. (And your husband is no help at all.)

·      You feed your cat four times a day. Lately he’s been hiding under the bed when he hears you coming up the stairs in the middle of the afternoon.

·      You prepare a detailed shopping list at least twice a week, even though you go for groceries only once. You count the number of eggs in the carton three times before you remember to write down whether you need to buy them or not. Then you leave the list on the kitchen table when you finally go shopping. So you buy more eggs, just in case. You now have four cartons in the fridge. Two of them are partially used.

Oh, yes. Most of us can’t wait to be retired. All that extra time on our hands! But be careful what you wish for. Or else get some great recipes for egg salad. And adopt a few more cats.

Curse Like A Retiree

A few months back, Time magazine had one of those feature boxes that are quick and entertaining reads. It shared some choice curse phrases from Jason Sacher’s book How to Swear Around the World. You’d have to be a holy roller not to laugh at them. My three favorites translated thusly: “You are stupid as a broom” (contributed by the French), “A fart to your beard” (a Persian specialty), and perhaps the strangest one—from Finland—“May you piss into a transformer.”

You just know where this post is heading. IMHO, if you’re going to curse at someone, you might as well be colorful and creative about it. I’m providing an array of new phrases to help you insult fellow retirees. They can also be used to offend people who are not yet retired, but probably should be.

When I was in high school, this insult was going around: “Your mother wears combat boots.” Those in on the game would reply: “She does not. She wears Army surplus sneakers.” This inspired my first retiree curse. “Your walking shoes use counterfeit Velcro.” The savvy wearer will reply: “They do not. I’m beta testing a new and improved version.”

The second phrase is a variation on a foreign localism my brother picked up in the late sixties. After his Army discharge, he crossed Northern Africa in a Volkswagon camper. When he came home, he challenged opinions not to his liking by shouting: “May a thousand camels beat a path across your front yard.” This was followed by drumming his hands loudly on the table. In that spirit, I give you: “May a caravan of out-of-control Jazzy scooters tear a path through your vegetable garden.” Vroom! Vroom!

The Persians inspired this next one. “May the fart you laid turn out not to be a fart after all on the very day you ran out of Depends.” Think about that one… Or maybe don’t.

Here’s one that heaps insult upon injury. “Your grandchildren are so dumb, they don’t even know how ugly they are.” You may want to step back a few yards as you hurl that one.

“The Smithsonian requisitioned your earwax for their collections” is a good start. For maximum effect, follow up with “They’re displaying it next to the amber from Jurassic Park.”

Here are three especially tailored to retirees. “May your pension fund manager make Bernie Madoff look like a Boy Scout.” “May your Social Security payments get auto-deposited into someone else’s account.” “May your shredder short-circuit and destroy all your Medicare paperwork.”

Then there’s the Irish prayer turned insult: “May the road rise up to meet your face when you trip on your daily walk.” Or perhaps more accurately, may your face fall down to meet the road…

Of course, there are the more obvious insults that focus on physical characteristics. There’s Old Gnarly Toes and Gizzard Neck, and for someone who is peppered with liver spots, Domino Face. But they’re not really creative; they’re just mean. Try something more unusual, like: “Didn’t anyone tell you you’re supposed to eat prunes, not wear them?” Or one that’s more with the times, like: “Your face could crash the Skype network.”

It’s always good to tailor the curse to something specific about the person you’re aiming it at. “May you get arrested for flashing a plumber’s butt when the elastic in your Sansabelts gives way.”

Perhaps the worst curse I can imagine directed at me is: “May your chin bristles spread to your nostrils and your ears.” Not a pretty picture. But it’s way better than: “May a thousand camels piss into your cat’s litter box.”

Strange Thievery in Bad Economy

When the economy is bad, home break-ins and retail pilferage increase dramatically. Apparently, so does thievery of a curious array of other items. Time magazine reported on seven of these over the past month or so. Here’s what they said was stolen and the locations where the thefts happened. See if you can match the two lists.

What was stolen:

1.     16,000 barrels of maple syrup (grade not specified)

2.     A truck with $250,000 of raw beef (if there’s any justice, they’ll get Mad Cow Disease)

3.     $100,000 of bees from their beekeeper (Peter Fonda was reportedly devastated)

4.     $3,000 of bras (assorted cup sizes; no wonder)

5.     $65,000 of chicken wings (presumably not yet barbecued)

6.     A tractor trailer with $75,000 of Campbell’s soup (it was probably chunky)

7.     Five and a half tons of Nutella (value over $25,000, and that’s not peanuts)

Locations of the thefts:

a.      Florida

b.      Florida

c.      Florida

d.     Georgia

e.      Canada

f.       Canada

g.      Germany

Looks like you just can’t trust those Southerners or those north of the border…

Here are the matched up answers:

1.     e or f

2.     a, b, or c

3.     e or f

4.     a, b or c

5.     d

6.     a, b or c

7.     g

Always a crack researcher, I dug deeper to see what unusual things have been stolen from retirees in recent months. You’ll be shocked—I say SHOCKED!—at what I uncovered.

A shipment of plaid sansabelt golf pants disappeared near Scottsdale, Arizona. The thieves are still in the wind. Mercifully the pants have not shown up either. Not surprisingly, the value of the goods is being disputed by the insurance company.

Fifty cases of prunes worth $25,000—they were soaked in vodka—were pilfered from a truck in Canada. Culprits were apprehended selling the hot prunes somewhere in Edmonton. They claimed the cases “fell off the back of a truck.” I’ve heard that one before…

A recently retired hot-dogger had his orthopedic boogie board taken from the bottom of a chairlift in Aspen. Worse yet, it was taken around 11 am and he’d purchased an all-day lift pass.

An eighty-year-old woman left her walker outside the stall in the restroom during activities night in her South Jersey retirement community. It was gone when she came out. The thief was caught leaning on it during the Electric Slide. The owner identified it from the macramé wrist strap her greatgrandson had made for her at camp.

Two pallets of diet cranberry juice went missing from a storeroom in Texas. The cost was about $2,000, not including the fees for all the urologist visits that resulted.

In North Carolina, ten cases of counterfeit hearing aid batteries found their way to a retirement home. They have no idea where the real ones were diverted. The trail has gone cold, because it was about three weeks before the residents realized the batteries weren’t working properly.

In Palm Beach, thieves made off with forty cases of old fashioned oatmeal. The entire town was out of sorts for a month. You can’t put a price on that.

Also in Florida, a shipment of Mahjong sets bound for Boca Raton vanished into thin air. What arrived in their place were Ouija boards. One day after their delivery, those also disappeared. When asked if they had any clues, investigators replied: “We think it was someone’s dearly departed, and her name began with an ‘M.’ Or maybe a ‘T.’”

Be vigilant. It doesn’t look like the economy is going to pick up any time soon and you never know what the thieves will come after next. On that note, I’m going to hide my stash of wine.

Pride of Ownership: Sexism in Science and Pop Culture

It occurred to me recently that sexism is rampant and insidious when it comes to science and culture. Many of you are thinking: “And you’re surprised because?” It’s not the rampant part that caught my attention; it’s the insidiousness. I’m not sure exactly how this came on my radar. Retirees have a lot of time for ruminating.

I believe I was posting on Facebook about something philosophical or spiritual and mentioned Pascal’s Wager. Or maybe it was one of those daily mishaps that have us muttering: Murphy’s Law. This prompted me to begin collecting these “owned” phrases of our language and culture.

My list quickly expanded to science, and included Ockham’s Razor (for which I had no idea of its meaning but have since looked it up and hence corrected my original spelling) and Mobius Strip (which I can easily fashion from a piece of paper). I scribbled these on the back of an envelope, confident that the list would somehow grow into a blog post one day.

More of these phrases that I’m describing as “pride of ownership” came to me as I was driving to Vermont recently to visit my sister. Fortunately, I carry a small note pad that I was able to fish out of my purse, along with a pen, without weaving out of my lane on the Interstate. I’m quite good at fishing by feel. I’m often forced to do that to find my earplugs in the tray on my bedside table when Jagdish begins snoring in the middle of the night. I’ve also learned to write short reminder notes in the dark.

So, tools in hand, or actually on the passenger seat (the pad) and in the center console (the pen), I jotted down other phrases as they came to me. As you might expect, some of them were torturous versions of their proper selves.

Somewhere around the Massachusetts/New Hampshire border, one of the CDs keeping me awake led me to write: Elton’s John. Of course, Brits will tell you Elton wouldn’t have a john; he’d have a loo. But Elton’s Loo doesn’t fit my blogging needs. That quickly led me to Paddy’s Wagon and soon after that, Fanny’s Pack. I was feeling quite clever at that point, and I had not had even a drop of wine.

Greek mythology and the Bible provided a source for several additions to my list. The most obvious was Achilles’ Heel. And hot on Achilles’ heels, Pandora’s Box, Noah’s Ark and Jacob’s Ladder. I was on a roll. Somewhere around the mid-trip rest area and after a lot of figurative head-scratching, I added the Midas Touch and Gordian Knots.

As I neared the New Hampshire/Vermont border, it dawned on me: few of these names that show pride of ownership are female. The only familiar phrase I had come up with was Pandora’s Box. That was only after I had first thought of Achilles’ Heel, which (in a fit of anatomical exploration inspired by the song “Dem Bones”) eventually connected me to Charlie Horse, too.

When I returned home and started to organize my notes, I realized that concepts and ideas were always paired with men’s names. It’s Pascal’s Wager and Ockham’s Razor and Murphy’s Law. Only the inconsequential utilitarian objects on my list were named after women. A pack, a box—both female ownership. The wagon, the ark, even the ladder—male. An insidious show of sexism if ever there was one.

One area where women have historically been recognized as “owners” is in the naming of hurricanes and tropical storms. It took until 1978 for the National Hurricane Center to finally share the glory of devastation with men, and that was done in phases; (North Pacific storms in ’78; Atlantic Basin in ‘79.) I suppose I should look upon this as a great equalizer in the “pride of ownership” battle. As my mother always said, “Thank the Lord for small favors.” Small favors indeed.

And as I always say, “Thank the Lord for a fine red wine, no matter whose name it carries.”

Marriage: It’s About Love, Not Velcro

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The Supreme Court is hearing two cases related to same-sex marriage, while the Rhode Island legislature is once again debating whether it should join every other state in New England in allowing it.

Conservative voices insist that marriage can only be between a man and a woman because the Church (or the Bible) says so. It seems to me that they’re confusing the sacrament of marriage with the sanctity of marriage. A religious institution has the right to reserve its sacrament for heterosexual couples, but not every marriage takes place in a church or a temple.

My husband and I were married by a judge in a non-denominational chapel at Brown University. The Hinduism and Catholicism of our youth didn’t interfere with our ability to become husband and wife in Rhode Island. The judge didn’t confer a sacrament upon us, but he officially affirmed the sanctity of our love.

It’s unlikely the conservatives who are arguing against same-sex marriage would claim that my marriage isn’t legitimate. The Catholic Church might feel that way and probably wouldn’t have ministered their sacrament to us. But overall, even the holiest rollers would agree that we are husband and wife.

Many of those who are against same-sex marriage claim that civil unions should be good enough for these couples. They decry efforts to “redefine” the term “marriage.” Actually, forcing gay couples to have unions instead of marriages will ultimately muddy the terminology far more than recognizing their right to be married will. Reserving “marriage” for the exclusive use of heterosexual couples will only serve to take the concept of love out of the relationship.

What should same-sex couples call their mates in a civil union? “Unionites”? That sounds so political, so Norma Rae. “Partners” isn’t much better; it sounds like a business arrangement. Like the very concept of a civil union—and in stark contrast to the concept of marriage, both terms fail to convey the emotion that’s the basis for the relationship.

If we acknowledge that all these relationships are based on love, then the singular fact that distinguishes a committed couple labeled one way from a couple labeled another seems to be either anatomy or perhaps religion.

But we’ve already covered the fact that a man and a woman can marry without religious involvement. So, it gets down to anatomy. Which means the conservative definition of “marriage” no longer has anything to do with love, or even anything spiritual; it’s just about body parts. It’s not logical to claim that this protects the concept.

I think conservatives who are against same-sex marriage are mistaking Velcro for love. It’s really quite easy to straighten out this misperception. Velcro is the stuff where one side needs to have hooks and the other needs loops if it’s going to work. Love has no such hooks-and-loops requirement.

Lasting love is a matter of the heart, not the anatomy. The more the heart is at the center of love and the less the hooks and loops are, the more likely the connection will survive the stresses of today’s life. And the more love is allowed to be at the center of marriage, instead of Velcro, the stronger the concept of marriage will be.