This morning I woke up and realized that I’m finally retired. I am no longer the Executive Director of a nonprofit federation. On my “to do” list: get new business cards, but I won’t be running off to Staples to get ones that read “Elaine M. Decker, Retiree.” Also unacceptable is: “Executive Director, Emerita;” it puts the focus on what I was, not what I am. It looks like I need to find a new identity.
Obviously, I’m a blogger. Some of you know I’m also a freelance writer. Combining those gives several choices. “Frogger” is the most obvious, and while I admit to being a Francophile, “frogger” sounds too condescending. It also reminds me of the nickname my brother’s dorm mates gave him when they learned his hometown was Green Pond.
“Flogger” is no improvement, as it implies that I beat my writing into submission. True, I edit a lot, and “wordsmith” may be a cousin to “blacksmith,” but I do not beat my words. Nor do I mince them. Slice them and dice them, perhaps. Massage them, certainly. But flog them? Never.
Then there is “freeger,” which sounds like some nefarious trade or a delivery method for illicit drugs. Switching the order of things gives me “bleeger,” which too closely resembles the surname of a tousle-haired young singer with first name Justin. “Bloglancer” feels too archaic for my edgy writing.
Some other hats I wear are marketer and web developer. That gives us “webmarker” and “marloper,” both of which leave me cold. Although I could live with “marvel,” it’s not a good fit with my self-deprecating tone.
Clearly the concatenation approach is not bearing usable fruit. I need to think more esoterically. I’m a philosopher (too stuffy) and a ruminator (conjuring up images that remind me that a post-retirement goal is to exercise more. Not something I'd want on my business cards.)
"Satirist" is a possibility, given my style, but I’d worry people would think “satyress,” considering how often wine shows up in my blog posts. "Entrepreneur" is another option, especially if it brings good karma so I make some money off my various ventures. Of course, we all know how likely that is.
As a last resort, I could always append a status word to the end of my name. Several of my attorney friends have cards that read: Legal Eagle, Esquire. Since I probe the pressing issues of our day, perhaps mine could read: Elaine M. Decker, Inquire (too much like a newspaper.) Or, looking to my desire to become the female Dave Barry: Elaine M. Decker, Aspire (too… well, aspirational.)
It looks like this is going to take some time to sort out. But I should probably make it a point to do it soon. The last thing I want is to have my cards read: Elaine M. Decker, Expired. It would give ironic new meaning to having the last word.
BlogHer
Saturday, March 19, 2011
Wednesday, March 16, 2011
Retirement Commandments - Zoroastrian Version (Thou Shalts)
My husband (Hindu by birth) pointed out that the Zoroastrian version of commandments states everything in the positive, not the negative (more "thou shalt" than "thou shalt not.") So, in a nod to ecumenicalism, here are the Zoroastrian Retirement Commandments.
1. Thou shalt establish a daily routine and adhere to it. Thou shalt be sure to include time for spontaneity, ideally from 11 am to noon and from 7:30 to 8 pm.
2. Prepare thee a budget and keep thee to it, no matter how cute the red shoes are that thou finds on sale. Know thee that “sexy orthopedics” is an oxymoron.
3. Honor thy social security, for thou might be the last generation to get it.
4. Thou shalt alter thy grocery shopping schedule to coincide with Senior Discount Day. If thou hast a choice in stores, thou shalt go to the one that asks for proof of age, telling thee thou cannot possibly be a senior citizen.
5. Thou shalt exercise every day and shalt include both aerobics and weight bearing exercises. Getting out of bed and climbing in and out of the bathtub count as weight bearing exercises. Shaking all night long from restless leg syndrome and slipping and falling in the shower are examples of aerobic activity.
6. Gather around thee thy family and friends for mutual support, such as plucking each other’s chin hairs. If thou relocates, thou shalt find new friends, preferably ones with good eyesight and steady hands.
7. Thou shalt faithfully take thy vitamins and daily medication as prescribed by thy physician. Remember to include thy liquid vitamins—especially the red ones in the green glass bottles.
8. Beware of false prophets promising extraordinary profits. Thy retirement is not a time for high risk ventures (or low rise pants.)
9. Speak respectfully of thine elders, no matter how bizarre their behavior, for some day thou might become one of them.
10. Thou shalt prepare a to-do list for each day. Thou shalt then proceed to do absolutely nothing that is on the to-do list. That is what retirement is all about.
All of these commandments are important, but the tenth one is the most important of all. If you choose to obey only one, that’s the one you should follow. I, however, will be sure to obey number 7. (Surprise, surprise.)
1. Thou shalt establish a daily routine and adhere to it. Thou shalt be sure to include time for spontaneity, ideally from 11 am to noon and from 7:30 to 8 pm.
2. Prepare thee a budget and keep thee to it, no matter how cute the red shoes are that thou finds on sale. Know thee that “sexy orthopedics” is an oxymoron.
3. Honor thy social security, for thou might be the last generation to get it.
4. Thou shalt alter thy grocery shopping schedule to coincide with Senior Discount Day. If thou hast a choice in stores, thou shalt go to the one that asks for proof of age, telling thee thou cannot possibly be a senior citizen.
5. Thou shalt exercise every day and shalt include both aerobics and weight bearing exercises. Getting out of bed and climbing in and out of the bathtub count as weight bearing exercises. Shaking all night long from restless leg syndrome and slipping and falling in the shower are examples of aerobic activity.
6. Gather around thee thy family and friends for mutual support, such as plucking each other’s chin hairs. If thou relocates, thou shalt find new friends, preferably ones with good eyesight and steady hands.
7. Thou shalt faithfully take thy vitamins and daily medication as prescribed by thy physician. Remember to include thy liquid vitamins—especially the red ones in the green glass bottles.
8. Beware of false prophets promising extraordinary profits. Thy retirement is not a time for high risk ventures (or low rise pants.)
9. Speak respectfully of thine elders, no matter how bizarre their behavior, for some day thou might become one of them.
10. Thou shalt prepare a to-do list for each day. Thou shalt then proceed to do absolutely nothing that is on the to-do list. That is what retirement is all about.
All of these commandments are important, but the tenth one is the most important of all. If you choose to obey only one, that’s the one you should follow. I, however, will be sure to obey number 7. (Surprise, surprise.)
Saturday, March 12, 2011
Retirement Commandments - Judeo-Christian Version (Thou Shalt Nots)
Since the posts on Retirement Beatitudes and the Patron Saint of Retirees were so well received, I give you today the Ten Retirement Commandments, Judeo-Christian style. (Thou shalt nots.)
1. Thou shalt not tell thy successor how to do thy job, as it is no longer thine.
2. Thou shalt not pester thy former colleagues every day for information on how things are going at thy old office. (See commandment #1.)
3. Thou shalt not taunt pre-retirees on their way to work each morning. Remember: Their paychecks are generating the contributions that are helping to keep Social Security solvent.
4. Thou shalt not bear false witness about how thou spent thy day, trying to make it sound more productive or exciting. It is what it is. (Or was.)
5. Thou shalt not commit line dancing, no matter how itchy thy feet may get when the music starts. Thou might as well carry a huge placard that reads “Retiree with no life.”
6. Thou shalt not engage in competitions with fellow-retirees to see who can grow the biggest tomatoes (or squash, or sunflowers, or… thou gets the idea.)
7. Thou shalt not embarrass thy pets by dressing them up in cute little outfits to break up the monotony. If thou art bored in thy retirement, take thee up a hobby.
8. Thou shalt not crochet tacky tissue and toilet paper covers to give to thy friends. This is not what We had in mind when We said “hobby.” (See commandment #7.)
9. Thou shalt not covet thy neighbor’s pension (or condo, or vegetable garden, or… thou gets the idea.) (See commandment # 6.)
10. Thou shalt not succumb to the temptations of the phish. (See post of January 15.) Thou dost not have a long lost uncle who became a missionary in Nigeria. Do not send his widow money, no matter how poignant her email may be. Tell her thou art on a fixed income with no discretionary spending. Thou shalt not be lying.
I could go on, but since the original came in a set of ten, it seems respectful to keep this list at ten as well.
1. Thou shalt not tell thy successor how to do thy job, as it is no longer thine.
2. Thou shalt not pester thy former colleagues every day for information on how things are going at thy old office. (See commandment #1.)
3. Thou shalt not taunt pre-retirees on their way to work each morning. Remember: Their paychecks are generating the contributions that are helping to keep Social Security solvent.
4. Thou shalt not bear false witness about how thou spent thy day, trying to make it sound more productive or exciting. It is what it is. (Or was.)
5. Thou shalt not commit line dancing, no matter how itchy thy feet may get when the music starts. Thou might as well carry a huge placard that reads “Retiree with no life.”
6. Thou shalt not engage in competitions with fellow-retirees to see who can grow the biggest tomatoes (or squash, or sunflowers, or… thou gets the idea.)
7. Thou shalt not embarrass thy pets by dressing them up in cute little outfits to break up the monotony. If thou art bored in thy retirement, take thee up a hobby.
8. Thou shalt not crochet tacky tissue and toilet paper covers to give to thy friends. This is not what We had in mind when We said “hobby.” (See commandment #7.)
9. Thou shalt not covet thy neighbor’s pension (or condo, or vegetable garden, or… thou gets the idea.) (See commandment # 6.)
10. Thou shalt not succumb to the temptations of the phish. (See post of January 15.) Thou dost not have a long lost uncle who became a missionary in Nigeria. Do not send his widow money, no matter how poignant her email may be. Tell her thou art on a fixed income with no discretionary spending. Thou shalt not be lying.
I could go on, but since the original came in a set of ten, it seems respectful to keep this list at ten as well.
Wednesday, March 9, 2011
Retirement Style - Getting a Taste
When my retirement was delayed, I had to reschedule several doctor’s appointments. One of those caught up with me today. I knew it would tie up several hours, since it involved various tests. Rather than change it again or claim sick time, I took a vacation day—I have more than three weeks to use up. This gave me the opportunity to get a taste of what it will be like when I’m retired (in less than two weeks.)
First off, I didn’t keep looking at my watch as I cooled my heels in the waiting area, wondering when I’d get back to my office. This gave me the presence of mind to ask all the important questions of my doctor about the various tests and their results. My calm must have rubbed off on him, because he answered them in detail with amazing patience.
When I booked my follow up visit several months out, I didn’t have to check my calendar, and I took an appointment late morning instead of the first one of the day. No worries about meeting conflicts this July for me. No problem taking a big chunk out of the middle of the day. I was just one big “whatever” as the scheduler tossed a date and time out to me.
Since I would have the afternoon free, my husband arranged coverage in his store so we could go to a movie together. I think it’s been about two years since we’ve gone to a movie, and never on a weekday.
We have to be careful about seeing movies too often. My husband’s birthday is January 1 and early in our marriage we celebrated by going to two movies in a 24-hour period. At three the next morning, he woke me, complaining of chest pains. Soon thereafter, the fire department was carrying him down the stairs from our bedroom. He’d had a heart attack. We figure it was just too much excitement for him.
Today we grabbed a quick lunch, ran a few small errands near the movie complex and proceeded to the theater. Turns out we hit the mother load of retirement benefits. Wednesday is Senior Day at this theater chain, with prices just $4.50 all day.
They even gave us discount tickets for the snack counter. For “just” $6 we could get popcorn and a small beverage. Since we’d recently had lunch and I brought my own bottle of water, I said a polite thank you and stuffed those in my pocket. I remember reading recently that the snack counter is where they make the money, and that older people spend very little there. Supposedly, that’s one of the reasons so few movies are produced that appeal to older tastes.
Newsflash: you’ll have to go a lot lower than $6 even on Super Senior Day to get us to buy popcorn (unless it comes with dental floss.) And soda is the last thing we want to drink when we’ll be sitting in a dark room with the prospect of climbing over people’s legs to reach the aisle (and eventually the bathroom.)
The movie was over around 6 PM. We came home, fed the cats and had a simple dinner together while we watched the national news. OK. I admit it. I microwaved two Marie Callender meals that were on special last weekend for $2 each. But the point is, we actually had an evening meal together.
It was a nice preview of what retirement could be like. Now I’m sitting here, writing my blog post, enjoying a nice glass of red wine. I think I can get used to this.
First off, I didn’t keep looking at my watch as I cooled my heels in the waiting area, wondering when I’d get back to my office. This gave me the presence of mind to ask all the important questions of my doctor about the various tests and their results. My calm must have rubbed off on him, because he answered them in detail with amazing patience.
When I booked my follow up visit several months out, I didn’t have to check my calendar, and I took an appointment late morning instead of the first one of the day. No worries about meeting conflicts this July for me. No problem taking a big chunk out of the middle of the day. I was just one big “whatever” as the scheduler tossed a date and time out to me.
Since I would have the afternoon free, my husband arranged coverage in his store so we could go to a movie together. I think it’s been about two years since we’ve gone to a movie, and never on a weekday.
We have to be careful about seeing movies too often. My husband’s birthday is January 1 and early in our marriage we celebrated by going to two movies in a 24-hour period. At three the next morning, he woke me, complaining of chest pains. Soon thereafter, the fire department was carrying him down the stairs from our bedroom. He’d had a heart attack. We figure it was just too much excitement for him.
Today we grabbed a quick lunch, ran a few small errands near the movie complex and proceeded to the theater. Turns out we hit the mother load of retirement benefits. Wednesday is Senior Day at this theater chain, with prices just $4.50 all day.
They even gave us discount tickets for the snack counter. For “just” $6 we could get popcorn and a small beverage. Since we’d recently had lunch and I brought my own bottle of water, I said a polite thank you and stuffed those in my pocket. I remember reading recently that the snack counter is where they make the money, and that older people spend very little there. Supposedly, that’s one of the reasons so few movies are produced that appeal to older tastes.
Newsflash: you’ll have to go a lot lower than $6 even on Super Senior Day to get us to buy popcorn (unless it comes with dental floss.) And soda is the last thing we want to drink when we’ll be sitting in a dark room with the prospect of climbing over people’s legs to reach the aisle (and eventually the bathroom.)
The movie was over around 6 PM. We came home, fed the cats and had a simple dinner together while we watched the national news. OK. I admit it. I microwaved two Marie Callender meals that were on special last weekend for $2 each. But the point is, we actually had an evening meal together.
It was a nice preview of what retirement could be like. Now I’m sitting here, writing my blog post, enjoying a nice glass of red wine. I think I can get used to this.
Saturday, March 5, 2011
Retirement Complications - The Chinese Factor
Once again I find inspiration for my post in the Time magazine that arrived in today’s mail. Regular readers of RetirementSparks will have noticed more than an occasional reference to my enjoyment of a nice glass of wine. Preferably red.
There was also my New Year’s confession that I don’t really drink as much as I make it sound, but that I expect to have more opportunities to sit back with a glass of vino once I’m retired. I’ve even budgeted the added expense (partly under medical, you may recall.)
Now comes a wake up call that I may have to redo that budget yet again, and it’s all because of what I will call the “Chinese Factor.” It seems the Chinese have developed a taste for high-end red wines. According to Time, at a recent Sotheby’s auction, one bidder from China “paid $232,000 each for three bottles of 1869 Château Lafite Rothschild.”
I know what you’re thinking: Why should I care? It’s not like buying Château Lafite Rothschild is on my bucket list. Well, you’ll want to put a cork in it when you read this next item. At the same auction (held in Hong Kong) someone paid $70,000 for a case of 2009 Lafite, which hasn’t even been bottled yet. According to Time, the price represented about a 300% increase over the pre-auction estimate.
On its own, this news would not send me dashing to my retirement spreadsheet. Apparently, the Chinese yen for fine Bordeaux is driving up prices of those wines across the board (and around the world.) So the Lafite is bound to be just the tip of the wine bottle.
Though my preference is for Italian reds, I will not be lulled into a false sense of security. According to Time (or more correctly, Vinexpo, a trade show) Asian wine consumption is growing at four times the global average. You don’t get that type of growth without some experimentation (and trickle down.) That means price inflation will eventually hit other varieties. Once the Chinese taste a good Barolo, you can forget finding a decent one for under $100 a bottle.
If you hear the phrase “the wine bubble,” don’t think Asti Spumante, think dotcom. For my sake, and for other wine-loving retirees, we can only hope that Chinese bubble will burst soon, while wine prices are still where we can afford something other than Night Train. Or Auntie Em’s homemade sherry. Blech.
There was also my New Year’s confession that I don’t really drink as much as I make it sound, but that I expect to have more opportunities to sit back with a glass of vino once I’m retired. I’ve even budgeted the added expense (partly under medical, you may recall.)
Now comes a wake up call that I may have to redo that budget yet again, and it’s all because of what I will call the “Chinese Factor.” It seems the Chinese have developed a taste for high-end red wines. According to Time, at a recent Sotheby’s auction, one bidder from China “paid $232,000 each for three bottles of 1869 Château Lafite Rothschild.”
I know what you’re thinking: Why should I care? It’s not like buying Château Lafite Rothschild is on my bucket list. Well, you’ll want to put a cork in it when you read this next item. At the same auction (held in Hong Kong) someone paid $70,000 for a case of 2009 Lafite, which hasn’t even been bottled yet. According to Time, the price represented about a 300% increase over the pre-auction estimate.
On its own, this news would not send me dashing to my retirement spreadsheet. Apparently, the Chinese yen for fine Bordeaux is driving up prices of those wines across the board (and around the world.) So the Lafite is bound to be just the tip of the wine bottle.
Though my preference is for Italian reds, I will not be lulled into a false sense of security. According to Time (or more correctly, Vinexpo, a trade show) Asian wine consumption is growing at four times the global average. You don’t get that type of growth without some experimentation (and trickle down.) That means price inflation will eventually hit other varieties. Once the Chinese taste a good Barolo, you can forget finding a decent one for under $100 a bottle.
If you hear the phrase “the wine bubble,” don’t think Asti Spumante, think dotcom. For my sake, and for other wine-loving retirees, we can only hope that Chinese bubble will burst soon, while wine prices are still where we can afford something other than Night Train. Or Auntie Em’s homemade sherry. Blech.
Wednesday, March 2, 2011
Retirement Health – Speedy Methuselah
As my retirement draws closer, I’m wondering if my body is going to hold out until I finally stop working. It seems like each week, something else starts to ache, or stops functioning efficiently, if at all. For instance, my eye doctor suspects I’m developing glaucoma, which my mother had, putting me at risk. He has me seeing a specialist next week.
In the midst of my physical deterioration, however, I read something in Time magazine that gave me cause for celebration. The caption of the very short blurb read “The Speedy Live Longer.”
As you can imagine, this caught my attention. I adjusted my 3.25 magnifiers to be sure I could read the small print. (Note to self: after retirement, see if Time has a large print edition that I can subscribe to.) The item reported on a study of adults over 65. In other words, the sweet spot of RetirementSparks readership.
Participants who walked faster—and I quote here: “were 90% likelier to live at least 10 more years than those who walked at a pokier pace.” The theory is that how fast you walk indicates how well various body parts are functioning (heart, lungs, joints and muscles, to be specific.) The better those work, the longer you live.
This was wonderful news for me, because I’ve always been a fast walker. Though I don’t walk as much now as I should, I plan to walk more once I stop working. And though I certainly walk a bit more slowly now than I did five years ago, it’s still a relatively fast pace.
There are three very specific reasons why I’m so speedy. The first is that I’m short. I’ve always been short, and like many of you (I suspect), I’m getting a little shorter each year. In order to keep up with my walking partners over the years (and there’ve been quite a few), I had to take more steps to cover the same ground. That means I’ve always had to walk faster than they did.
The second reason is that I’m chronically late. That means that I’m always rushing to get wherever I’m going. This of course means that the portion of the trip that’s on foot requires an extremely brisk walk, and sometimes even a run. I’m so used to walking at this pace, that it rarely occurs to me that I might be able to walk more slowly on occasion.
The third has a lot to do with the fact that I worked in Manhattan for 20 years, for most of which I commuted in from New Jersey. That involved walking from the Port Authority bus terminal to Park and 50th (opposite the Waldorf) and back almost every day. Put that together with my chronic tardiness, and you can quickly figure out that I spent a lot of time jogging across town to catch my bus (or make it to a morning meeting.)
Walking fast on that route was essential for reasons beyond saving time. I passed through some dicey areas along the way—areas where people had been mugged on more than one occasion. I had decided that if I walked briskly and with purpose, the muggers would think: “Not a tourist. Probably will fight back. Not worth the trouble. I’m gonna look for an easier mark; plenty of them to be found.” You’d never find me gawking at store windows or staring up at the tops of the buildings I was passing, no matter how interesting the architecture.
As a side note, my co-workers used to tell me that the normal expression on my face was halfway between neutral and negative. I imagine that the impression I gave would-be muggers was that I was a woman on a mission, not someone to be trifled with.
Little did I know that my vertically challenged stature, my bad habits and my less-than-sociable demeanor would wind up adding ten years to my life. I need to be sure I don’t lose ground once I retire. That means finding walking partners who can keep up with me, preferably ones that don’t expect me to smile.
Don’t all rush to sign up at once…
In the midst of my physical deterioration, however, I read something in Time magazine that gave me cause for celebration. The caption of the very short blurb read “The Speedy Live Longer.”
As you can imagine, this caught my attention. I adjusted my 3.25 magnifiers to be sure I could read the small print. (Note to self: after retirement, see if Time has a large print edition that I can subscribe to.) The item reported on a study of adults over 65. In other words, the sweet spot of RetirementSparks readership.
Participants who walked faster—and I quote here: “were 90% likelier to live at least 10 more years than those who walked at a pokier pace.” The theory is that how fast you walk indicates how well various body parts are functioning (heart, lungs, joints and muscles, to be specific.) The better those work, the longer you live.
This was wonderful news for me, because I’ve always been a fast walker. Though I don’t walk as much now as I should, I plan to walk more once I stop working. And though I certainly walk a bit more slowly now than I did five years ago, it’s still a relatively fast pace.
There are three very specific reasons why I’m so speedy. The first is that I’m short. I’ve always been short, and like many of you (I suspect), I’m getting a little shorter each year. In order to keep up with my walking partners over the years (and there’ve been quite a few), I had to take more steps to cover the same ground. That means I’ve always had to walk faster than they did.
The second reason is that I’m chronically late. That means that I’m always rushing to get wherever I’m going. This of course means that the portion of the trip that’s on foot requires an extremely brisk walk, and sometimes even a run. I’m so used to walking at this pace, that it rarely occurs to me that I might be able to walk more slowly on occasion.
The third has a lot to do with the fact that I worked in Manhattan for 20 years, for most of which I commuted in from New Jersey. That involved walking from the Port Authority bus terminal to Park and 50th (opposite the Waldorf) and back almost every day. Put that together with my chronic tardiness, and you can quickly figure out that I spent a lot of time jogging across town to catch my bus (or make it to a morning meeting.)
Walking fast on that route was essential for reasons beyond saving time. I passed through some dicey areas along the way—areas where people had been mugged on more than one occasion. I had decided that if I walked briskly and with purpose, the muggers would think: “Not a tourist. Probably will fight back. Not worth the trouble. I’m gonna look for an easier mark; plenty of them to be found.” You’d never find me gawking at store windows or staring up at the tops of the buildings I was passing, no matter how interesting the architecture.
As a side note, my co-workers used to tell me that the normal expression on my face was halfway between neutral and negative. I imagine that the impression I gave would-be muggers was that I was a woman on a mission, not someone to be trifled with.
Little did I know that my vertically challenged stature, my bad habits and my less-than-sociable demeanor would wind up adding ten years to my life. I need to be sure I don’t lose ground once I retire. That means finding walking partners who can keep up with me, preferably ones that don’t expect me to smile.
Don’t all rush to sign up at once…
Saturday, February 26, 2011
Retirement Beatitudes - Blessed are They
Someone pointed out that the proverb with which I ended my last post was more of a beatitude. Not surprisingly, this got me to thinking that those who are retired deserve to have a set of beatitudes all their own. And more than eight of them. So herewith are my Retirement Beatitudes.
That makes an even dozen and you didn’t have to go to the mount to receive them. So I think my job is done for today, except for one more thing: Bless you!
- Blessed are they who have suffered through preparing Medicare Part A and Part B applications, for their health care shall be covered by Plan A (or was it Plan B?)
- Blessed are they who are already on Social Security, for they shall obtain their benefits from a secure lock box.
- Blessed are they whose knees have succumbed to arthritis, for they shall possess robotic replacements.
- Blessed are they who are losing their sense of balance, for they shall be lifted upon the wings of angels (or else on a really good walker.)
- Blessed are they who are on statins, for their arteries shall not get clogged with plaque, provided they stop eating deep fried food and cut down on saturated fats.
- Blessed are they who downsized to a condominium, for they shall have their lawns mowed and their snow cleared for them.
- Blessed are they who serve on their neighborhood watch, for they shall be known by where they live and someone will direct them there if they get lost.
- Blessed are they who volunteer in their community, for they shall be called “goody two shoes” even if they wear orthopedic oxfords.
- Blessed are they who had the foresight (and financial wherewithal) to purchase long term care insurance, for their children shall inherit their estates.
- Blessed are they who have signed do-not-resuscitate orders, for they shall not burden our beneficent government (and their fellow taxpayers) by being put on life support when their mental faculties have gone on to greener pastures.
- Blessed are they who do crossword puzzles and sudokus, for they… oh, dear. I forget why they shall be blessed.
- Blessed are they who do not complain to their spouses all day long and drive them crazy when they stop working, for they shall not be suffocated under a pillow in the dead of night.
That makes an even dozen and you didn’t have to go to the mount to receive them. So I think my job is done for today, except for one more thing: Bless you!
Wednesday, February 23, 2011
Retirement Pleasures - Reciprocity
When I finally retire, I expect to spend more time on Facebook. I won’t become addicted or start playing Farmville. I’ll just check my home page more regularly and weigh in more often with my two cents in the comment threads.
I first got involved with Facebook for business reasons; (hard to believe, I know.) I thought the nonprofit I head up should be on Facebook, but I needed to learn more about it before I put their reputation at risk. I also wanted to begin to amass a network for the web-based projects I hope to develop once I retire.
I quickly realized that it can be fun to reconnect with friends from high school, even grade school. I took the time to complete a fairly thorough profile and all sorts of people began to find me. Then came my birthday and an in-box full of greetings, some from folks I barely knew. That’s when I discovered the birthday alert feature, and along with it, the merits of reciprocity.
On Sundays, I receive an email from the Wizard of Facebook with a list of people in my network who have birthdays in the upcoming week. I make it a point to send greetings, even to vague acquaintances. I do this because I remember how happy I was to get similar messages, and I’ve discovered that reciprocating makes me feel warm and fuzzy inside. (Not as much as a good Cab does, but a little bit more than crème brulée.)
This applies to comments on blogs, as well. Several friends read my posts, but very few enter their own comments. Every now and then, a stranger stumbles across RetirementSparks and posts a thoughtful or encouraging remark. Sometimes I can trace who they are and discover that they, too, have a blog. I read some of their writings and post a comment of my own. It’s important to reciprocate, to support one’s fellow bloggers. It’s easier than therapy (and way cheaper.)
Reciprocity is different from paying it forward. You reciprocate as part of an anticipated exchange of thoughtfulness, a back and forth. Tit for tat, if you will; (please, no snickering.) For example, my friend Becky travels a lot and sometimes asks me to water her plants. My husband and I are rarely away at the same time, but I can count on Becky to feed our cats, if need be. (Giving Lily her pill is another story altogether.)
As I was lying in bed one night last week, a variation on the Mercy speech from The Merchant of Venice kept running through my mind. “The quality of reciprocity is not strain’d…” You need to want to reciprocate for it to work its magic. “It blesseth him that gives and him that takes.” That’s the Facebook birthday thing, in the bard’s words.
I’ve decided that retirement will be a good time to invest in more reciprocity. Some ideas come to mind right out of the gate. I plan to get more exercise once I retire, and walking is a good way to start. I’ll do it more regularly if I have someone to do it with. So, if Fred calls and says “Let’s walk this morning,” I’ll chirp “Sure!” even if I’d rather put my feet up and sip Earl Grey. Because I know that if I decide to walk at 7 one evening, I’ll call him and say, “I need to take a walk, and I’d like some company” and he’ll come along to reciprocate.
My sister and I have already made an arrangement whereby we’ll pluck the goat hairs from one another’s chins when our eyesight is too far gone for us to do our own. Now that’s merciful reciprocity.
Once we retire, I expect that Jagdish and I will put cream on one another’s backs. I do his at bedtime now, but he rarely reciprocates. I prefer to moisturize in the morning, and he’s usually still in the shower when I dress for work. When I retire, I expect to have skin as soft as a baby’s bum.
If I put my mind to it, I know I’ll to come up with dozens of ways to experience the pleasure of reciprocity, (and none of them involving sex, although that’s also an option, I suppose, what with my newly soft skin.) The ways I uncover are more likely to be practical ones. Maybe things to do with household chores, or kitchen-related tasks.
I can almost hear me now. “Honey, I’ll unscrew the lid on your peanut butter jar if you’ll pull the cork out of my wine bottle.” I propose a new proverb: Blessed be the reciprocators, for theirs is the kingdom of retirement. Amen to that.
Saturday, February 19, 2011
Retirement Activities - Pet Memoirs
Today I was skimming old issues of Time, simultaneously clearing out stuff and looking for ideas for blog topics. I came across an article from last month titled: “Our Puppies, Ourselves. What the cresting wave of dog memoirs says about us humans.” I’ll tell you what it says. It says that I’m missing my true calling writing about the transition to retirement. I should be writing about my cats.
Apparently there’s been a recent surge in memoirs about life with the family dog. (The current New York Times paperback Best-Seller List has “Inside of a Dog” in the number two slot, described as “the world from a dog’s point of view.”) The author of the Time article postulated that these books “tell us less about dogs than they do about ourselves.” Also that “dogs can teach us to slow down,” which probably refers to the fact that each year millions of dogs are put on Prozac.
The article makes no mention of cat memoirs, yet cats outnumber dogs by more than 16 million in American households, according to the most recent American Pet Products Manufacturers Association National Pet Owners Survey. True, more households have dogs, but not by much (39% vs. 33%.) I smell a huge opportunity here. (Or perhaps it’s just the litter box—it gets changed every Sunday morning.)
My family always had a dog, but I had little choice but to become a cat person. My three-hour a day average commute from a Jersey suburb to New York City made a pet dog a non-starter for me. Cats, on the other hand, worked out just fine, so cats it’s been for over thirty-five years. I’m sure I have enough material for a series of memoirs, at least one for each cat I’ve ever owned. Correction. For each cat that’s owned me.
Apparently these pooch memoir writers are expecting their dogs to be more than just their best friends. I don’t place such high expectations on my cats. I just want them to be the children I never had. Like any good mother, I make sure they get regular checkups and all the tests and injections that are recommended at the various stages of their lives. If there is the slightest hiccup in their behavior, I pack them into their special carriers and trundle them off to the vet, credit card at the ready.
When my husband and I were married, he warned me that he was allergic to cats. I explained that if I were forced to choose between my “children” and him, he’d be sleeping alone in that king size bed. His allergies eventually disappeared (a miracle!) and he is now almost as attached to our cats as I am. Lily is positively devoted to him, which would make me jealous, except that Luke is similarly attentive to me.
You’ve probably heard the old saw that people start looking like their dogs after awhile. I can go that one better. My cats had checkups a few weeks ago. They each had lost a little weight and their hemoglobin level is low, both signs of anemia. Since they’re about fourteen now, the vet recommended a prescription diet for senior cats and follow up in two months (kaching!)
My husband also had a recent checkup. By bizarre coincidence, his hemoglobin level is also low, suggesting anemia (and more tests.) So here’s the question: does he have sympathetic anemia, or do the cats? Either way, it’s touching, really.
There will be plenty of material for blog posts on how the cats are doing as I transition into retirement. Will they adapt well to my being home all the time? How will they handle our planned downsizing to Vermont? Will they sink into depression when they no longer have four floors of house to wander through? (Will I?) Will they share their prescription cat food with my husband? (He only half jokingly suggested he might try it. I recommended leafy green vegetables.) Will Jagdish start to look like Lily? Will I look like Luke? The list goes on and on.
Yes, dear readers, cat memoirs are a definite possibility. I just hope none of you are allergic.
Apparently there’s been a recent surge in memoirs about life with the family dog. (The current New York Times paperback Best-Seller List has “Inside of a Dog” in the number two slot, described as “the world from a dog’s point of view.”) The author of the Time article postulated that these books “tell us less about dogs than they do about ourselves.” Also that “dogs can teach us to slow down,” which probably refers to the fact that each year millions of dogs are put on Prozac.
The article makes no mention of cat memoirs, yet cats outnumber dogs by more than 16 million in American households, according to the most recent American Pet Products Manufacturers Association National Pet Owners Survey. True, more households have dogs, but not by much (39% vs. 33%.) I smell a huge opportunity here. (Or perhaps it’s just the litter box—it gets changed every Sunday morning.)
My family always had a dog, but I had little choice but to become a cat person. My three-hour a day average commute from a Jersey suburb to New York City made a pet dog a non-starter for me. Cats, on the other hand, worked out just fine, so cats it’s been for over thirty-five years. I’m sure I have enough material for a series of memoirs, at least one for each cat I’ve ever owned. Correction. For each cat that’s owned me.
Apparently these pooch memoir writers are expecting their dogs to be more than just their best friends. I don’t place such high expectations on my cats. I just want them to be the children I never had. Like any good mother, I make sure they get regular checkups and all the tests and injections that are recommended at the various stages of their lives. If there is the slightest hiccup in their behavior, I pack them into their special carriers and trundle them off to the vet, credit card at the ready.
When my husband and I were married, he warned me that he was allergic to cats. I explained that if I were forced to choose between my “children” and him, he’d be sleeping alone in that king size bed. His allergies eventually disappeared (a miracle!) and he is now almost as attached to our cats as I am. Lily is positively devoted to him, which would make me jealous, except that Luke is similarly attentive to me.
You’ve probably heard the old saw that people start looking like their dogs after awhile. I can go that one better. My cats had checkups a few weeks ago. They each had lost a little weight and their hemoglobin level is low, both signs of anemia. Since they’re about fourteen now, the vet recommended a prescription diet for senior cats and follow up in two months (kaching!)
My husband also had a recent checkup. By bizarre coincidence, his hemoglobin level is also low, suggesting anemia (and more tests.) So here’s the question: does he have sympathetic anemia, or do the cats? Either way, it’s touching, really.
There will be plenty of material for blog posts on how the cats are doing as I transition into retirement. Will they adapt well to my being home all the time? How will they handle our planned downsizing to Vermont? Will they sink into depression when they no longer have four floors of house to wander through? (Will I?) Will they share their prescription cat food with my husband? (He only half jokingly suggested he might try it. I recommended leafy green vegetables.) Will Jagdish start to look like Lily? Will I look like Luke? The list goes on and on.
Yes, dear readers, cat memoirs are a definite possibility. I just hope none of you are allergic.
Wednesday, February 16, 2011
Retirement Issues - New Astronomy
The closer I get to retirement, the less I seem to be a fan of change. Don’t get me wrong. I’m willing to try new things, if they are cutting edge and provide something no one ever thought of before. Even better if they solve some problem I didn’t even know I had. What I don’t like is change for no defensible reason, or for no reason other than to line someone else’s pockets.
Not too long ago, I posted in this space about the new astrology, the results of which changed me from a Virgo to a Leo, and my husband from a Capricorn to a Sagittarius. I wasn’t happy about that change. I liked being the virgin with a spouse who was always the goat. Now I’ve discovered that I have to come to terms with the new astronomy, too.
There are, of course, two kinds of astronomy, the literal and the figurative. We all understand the figurative. On the show The Honeymooners, Ralph Cramden was always threatening to send Alice “to the moon.” Even as a child, I knew that was just a figure of speech. I didn’t expect to see Alice perched on a shining crescent in the sky one night. When I fell out of the tree I was climbing as a youngster, I said I saw stars, and when my first boyfriend finally kissed me, I was on cloud nine. No one took me literally.
When the figurative meaning of an astronomical reference changes, it doesn’t affect our lives much. But when astronomy changes literally, as it has recently, it takes some work to keep up. Case in point, you must have heard that Pluto was demoted from planet status to a dwarf in 2006. Those of us who had memorized the mnemonic MVEMJSUNP (My Very Energetic Mother Just Served Us Nine Pizzas) had to come up with a new way to remember the order of the remaining eight. Something like: My Very Energetic Mother Just Served Us Nincompoops. Not the best use of our time, in my opinion.
Sometimes the literal and the figurative overlap. For most of our lives, my brother-in-law and I rarely agreed on much. The older we get, however, the more we find ourselves nodding when the other says something. It’s confounding the rest of our family. Recently when he said something relatively conservative and I announced that I thought he was right, the entire roomful of relatives moved to the window in swarm-like fashion, to see if there was a bright star in the midday sky that they should follow somewhere. Their expectations were figurative, but the star they were looking for was literal. If the room had been a boat, it would have capsized.
Here’s another example that comes to mind, especially when we think of retirees. How many of us have friends who tell us they’re “heading to the sun?” They probably don’t mean they’ve reserved a spot on a Virgin Galactic space shuttle (though over 390 “astronauts” have done so already.) They are in fact heading closer to the sun, however, most likely to Florida for the winter, and probably to a condo that cost a bit more than the shuttle ticket’s $200,000.
Finally—and this is what prompted me to write this post—I return to my earlier spot on cloud nine. Turns out, people mean something very different now when they say they are going “to the cloud.” They mean it literally, or at least as literally as the friends who are heading to the sun. “Cloud” is a metaphor for the Internet, based on the symbol used to represent it. But it also refers to real services that are delivered literally over the Internet.
I decided to find out more about the new astronomy of the cloud. Here’s some of what I learned. It’s a general term for delivering hosted services over the Internet. The National Institute of Standards and Technology (NIST) describes cloud computing as “enabling convenient, on-demand network access to a shared pool of configurable computing resources.”
You can go to the cloud even if you have no knowledge of where it is physically (What, it’s not up in the sky?) or how its system is configured. So all that Mac/PC/Linux nonsense goes away. (Sorry, admen.) All you need is your personal computer, a functioning web browser, and Internet access. This last item may be the biggest challenge any of us face in getting to the cloud.
As appealing as this sounds, I don’t think I’ll be going there anytime soon. You see, I also learned something scary about the cloud: it can be public. In my mind, I’m back on my comfortable spot on cloud nine. I can tell you this: no way on God’s green acre do I want anything there to be shared publicly. If I wanted the whole world to have access to what I’m doing on my cloud, I’d post it on Facebook. Simply put, WHOCNSOCN. (What Happens On Cloud Nine, Stays On Cloud Nine.)
Saturday, February 12, 2011
Retirement Planning - What’ll I Do?
Most of you know that what I hope to do when I retire is write. This blog is a first step. It helps me hone my skill and forces me to write on a regular basis. What I did not expect is that it also gives me pause about what I really want to do when I stop working.
For several months, I’ve diligently posted every Wednesday and Saturday. Most weeks, this has worked fine. Occasionally, I struggle to come up with a topic. Sometimes I have a topic but have to force myself to start writing about it. It’s as though blogging has become a chore. Oh, not often, to be sure, and not like changing the cat litter every week, but it’s forced me to think more deeply about what I mean when I say I want to be a writer.
What is it about writing that interests me? Is it the process? I certainly enjoy fine tuning a phrase, tweaking the words until they express exactly what I want them to, making them dance. I also enjoy using my writing to entertain people. (That would be you, dear readers.) But does any of that mean that my great desire is to be a writer? How can it be, if it’s sometimes a chore?
Perhaps it’s the medium that’s the problem—the blog itself. A friend recently wrote that the only difference between working and retirement is that you have no boss and no fixed schedule. Blogging is more like work—your blog is your boss and you really should keep to a schedule.
As I mull this over, it occurs to me that there’s a pipeline of our activities that runs from chores to our true passion. We should aspire to follow our passion when we retire. To do this, we need serious introspection on where our interests lie along that pipeline.
Let’s walk through an example using cooking in the broadest sense. That word can mean many things. Every night, I make our lunches for the next day. I might aspire to be a cook (remember, this is just an example,) but preparing lunches is a chore. If that were all I had to look forward to, I would never claim cooking as my passion.
Next stop on the pipeline is a hobby. I might enjoy baking cookies now and then, but unless I become a cookie specialist, that’s a hobby, not a passion. Were I to become a fabulous baker (like my mother was,) I might choose to make some money off my hobby. That would move my baking along the pipeline toward a vocation.
People fortunate enough to enjoy what they do for a living, to get up every day saying “Can’t wait to get to my office” (or into the kitchen) may be following their passion already. They don’t need to retire to do it. Raise your hands if you can say your vocation is your true passion. Just what I thought. (OK, sir, you can put your hand down now.) Like so many of us, dear readers, you have a vocation—otherwise known as a job.
A short hop up the line from vocation is avocation—what we do in addition to our paid employment. We rarely make much money off of our avocation, but we enjoy it immensely and are often passionate about it. If baking were my avocation and my ginger cookies were the snappiest in town, I might promote them at local fairs. If we lost our primary employment, we could probably make a living off our avocation (my cookies not withstanding.)
We’ve reached the opposite end of the pipeline, which is true passion. If I’d been baking cookies as an avocation, by the time I retired, I might realize it was my passion and be ready to invest in an oven that actually bakes at the temperature it’s set at. I might even make my mother’s hermit cookies for my brother—he loves them. (His avocation was photography, by the way, and once he retired, it became his passion.)
Back to my writing. I considered that writing might not be my true passion, since it’s sometimes a chore. Having a talent for something doesn’t make it your passion. Likewise, just because you’d continue doing something even if you no longer got paid for it doesn’t necessarily move it along the passion pipeline. (It’s a good indicator, however.) If you see satisfaction as more desirable “payment” than money, that’s a good sign, too.
I’ve decided it’s not fair to judge where writing sits on my pipeline while I’m still working full time. And juggling contractors’ schedules to get the house ready to sell. And chopping ice in the driveway every time the temperature rises above freezing. It’s enough for me right now to have the discipline to keep the posting pipeline open. I hope it’s enough for you, too.
For several months, I’ve diligently posted every Wednesday and Saturday. Most weeks, this has worked fine. Occasionally, I struggle to come up with a topic. Sometimes I have a topic but have to force myself to start writing about it. It’s as though blogging has become a chore. Oh, not often, to be sure, and not like changing the cat litter every week, but it’s forced me to think more deeply about what I mean when I say I want to be a writer.
What is it about writing that interests me? Is it the process? I certainly enjoy fine tuning a phrase, tweaking the words until they express exactly what I want them to, making them dance. I also enjoy using my writing to entertain people. (That would be you, dear readers.) But does any of that mean that my great desire is to be a writer? How can it be, if it’s sometimes a chore?
Perhaps it’s the medium that’s the problem—the blog itself. A friend recently wrote that the only difference between working and retirement is that you have no boss and no fixed schedule. Blogging is more like work—your blog is your boss and you really should keep to a schedule.
As I mull this over, it occurs to me that there’s a pipeline of our activities that runs from chores to our true passion. We should aspire to follow our passion when we retire. To do this, we need serious introspection on where our interests lie along that pipeline.
Let’s walk through an example using cooking in the broadest sense. That word can mean many things. Every night, I make our lunches for the next day. I might aspire to be a cook (remember, this is just an example,) but preparing lunches is a chore. If that were all I had to look forward to, I would never claim cooking as my passion.
Next stop on the pipeline is a hobby. I might enjoy baking cookies now and then, but unless I become a cookie specialist, that’s a hobby, not a passion. Were I to become a fabulous baker (like my mother was,) I might choose to make some money off my hobby. That would move my baking along the pipeline toward a vocation.
People fortunate enough to enjoy what they do for a living, to get up every day saying “Can’t wait to get to my office” (or into the kitchen) may be following their passion already. They don’t need to retire to do it. Raise your hands if you can say your vocation is your true passion. Just what I thought. (OK, sir, you can put your hand down now.) Like so many of us, dear readers, you have a vocation—otherwise known as a job.
A short hop up the line from vocation is avocation—what we do in addition to our paid employment. We rarely make much money off of our avocation, but we enjoy it immensely and are often passionate about it. If baking were my avocation and my ginger cookies were the snappiest in town, I might promote them at local fairs. If we lost our primary employment, we could probably make a living off our avocation (my cookies not withstanding.)
We’ve reached the opposite end of the pipeline, which is true passion. If I’d been baking cookies as an avocation, by the time I retired, I might realize it was my passion and be ready to invest in an oven that actually bakes at the temperature it’s set at. I might even make my mother’s hermit cookies for my brother—he loves them. (His avocation was photography, by the way, and once he retired, it became his passion.)
Back to my writing. I considered that writing might not be my true passion, since it’s sometimes a chore. Having a talent for something doesn’t make it your passion. Likewise, just because you’d continue doing something even if you no longer got paid for it doesn’t necessarily move it along the passion pipeline. (It’s a good indicator, however.) If you see satisfaction as more desirable “payment” than money, that’s a good sign, too.
I’ve decided it’s not fair to judge where writing sits on my pipeline while I’m still working full time. And juggling contractors’ schedules to get the house ready to sell. And chopping ice in the driveway every time the temperature rises above freezing. It’s enough for me right now to have the discipline to keep the posting pipeline open. I hope it’s enough for you, too.
Wednesday, February 9, 2011
Retirement Issues - Patron Saint of Retirees
Retirees have to face a lot of challenges. It seems only fair that we should have a patron saint to guide us and to look out for our interests. I did some research to see if there might already be a patron saint of retirees, but apparently not. This is surprising, considering that there are saints for everything from button makers (Louis IX) to hemorrhoids (Fiacre) to the Internet (Isidore of Seville.)
Oh sure, there are patrons for many of the ailments from which retirees often suffer. You’ve got Ulric for vertigo, and Vitus for oversleeping (not to be confused with Casanova, for sleeping over.) There’s even Werenfridus for stiff joints; (try saying his name three times fast without spraying spittle onto your companion.) Speaking of stiffs, there’s Stephen the Martyr, patron saint of casket makers, probably a good one for a retiree to stash in a prayer Rolodex. You might also want to have Saint Christopher on speed dial to assure safe driving into your dotage.
Some ailments have more than one saint you can pray to for relief; there’s five of them to listen to the pleas of the hearing impaired, for example, and a wealth of choices (eighteen in all) to receive prayers against impoverishment. But look for just one to handle the concerns of retirees and your search comes up empty. Is this really so much to ask?
There are some saints that respond to prayers for an impressive assortment of seemingly unrelated causes. Take John of God, whose patronage extends from heart ailments to alcoholism, but also covers booksellers, firefighters, and hospital workers. Bonaventure is that rarity among patron saints, a specialist; you’ll want to call on him to untangle bowel disorders.
The closest saint I could come up with for retirees was Anthony of Padua, patron of the elderly. He’s actually best known for locating lost items, a skill that undoubtedly will come in handy as we move into our golden years. But Anthony already has a list of other causes that would be a handful for even the most experienced saint. Shipwrecks, starvation, sterility, animals, sailors, harvests, paupers, and the oppressed, to name just the more noteworthy ones. No, Anthony must be one busy dude already. He’s not likely to have the share of mind available to process the prayers of all the retirees that the baby boom would drop on him.
My husband suggested that FDR would make a great patron saint, because he started Social Security, or alternatively LBJ, because of Medicare—both critical programs in the lives of retirees. I explained to him that in order to be declared a saint, the deceased must be able to take credit for some miracles. While creating Social Security and Medicare may have been miracles in their own right, it doesn’t seem likely that people would be comfortable praying to FDR or LBJ to perform miracles in the afterlife. Instead of a halo, their saintly images would no doubt include a ring of cigar smoke over their head. Not to mention, can we be sure they’re really up there in heaven and not in… well, you know.
I think a good candidate would be Ethyl Percy Andrus, the founder of AARP. Talk about having the interests of retirees front and center. Fittingly, she died in 1967, the year that the current batch of about-to-be-retirees graduated from college. Since holy folks sometimes take new names in their sainthood, I propose we dub her Saint Aarpitus, to commemorate the organization she started. We still have to deal with that pesky question of post-death miracles. If any of you have something related to retirement that you feel like praying about, by all means, direct your pleas to Ethyl. If things turn out well for you, let me know, but be sure to have notarized witness statements available for review.
I hate to sound pessimistic—it’s not my normal nature, but I think we should have a back up plan on this. So, until Aarpitus is canonized, I’m going to direct my retirement-related prayers to Saint Jude. I had a bulk rate plan with him during my college years; he’s the patron saint of lost causes. When it comes to most things related to retirement, you can’t get more appropriate than that.
Saturday, February 5, 2011
Retirement Issues - Neighborhood Security Alerts
The Homeland Security Advisory System of color-coded terrorism alerts will be replaced in a few months. The old system had five levels, with the highest being red (severe.) Many of you don’t even know what the lowest colors are, since we’ve been on a constant level three (yellow, or elevated) or occasionally higher ever since the system was put into place. [The bottom levels are green (low) and blue (guarded), by the way.]
We’re promised that the new “formal” alerts will be issued only when there is a specific threat, that they’ll include steps authorities are taking and what the public can do, and that they’ll have a specified end date. Can’t wait.
No really, I don’t think we can wait for this new system to take shape and for all the bugs and hiccups to be shaken out. We need a new system right now and I have it all figured out. My system is designed specifically for residential neighborhoods—retirement communities in particular. It’s based on the neighborhood watch programs that are already in place to deter crime, but it’s more nuanced.
Like the original Homeland Security Advisory System, my Neighborhood Security Alerts have five levels. The first is Be Aware, and the street sign for this is a pair of eyes peering out from the darkness. When you see those eyes posted, keep your own wide open, looking for suspicious behavior in your neighborhood. At this threat level, simply letting the perpetrators know you are on to them should be enough to stifle their activity.
The second level is Be Alert, and its sign has a pair of ears, spread out like funnels to catch even the slightest noise that is out of the ordinary. This sign tells you to tune in to every conversation in every neighbor’s yard. For best results, get a compact recording device and hold it in prominent view. That should serve as a deterrent to anyone plotting to overthrow those in power. Even if not, it will help you provide useful testimony in court, just before you enter the witness protection program.
Level three is Watch Closely, with a pair of binoculars on the signage. When you see this, go out of your way to inspect your neighbors’ yards and look through their curtainless windows in search of questionable activity. Don’t be shy about it. As a member of the Neighborhood Security Alert team, you are empowered to engage in all sorts of despicable behavior. Don’t waste that opportunity. You'd be surprised what goes on behind those closed doors. (Or maybe you wouldn't be...)
Next—and the second highest level—is Be Nosy, and of course the sign has a very large proboscis. Yes, I am actually giving you permission to be nosy and to pry into your neighbor’s most secretive business. Use any means necessary to sniff it out. Keep in mind that even the most innocent seeming octogenarian can be plotting mayhem of immense proportions. You could be your community’s last defense against anarchy. You could also be in big demand at cocktail parties, where you will of course share all the lurid details you’ve uncovered.
Finally, the highest level is Busybody, symbolized by a buzzing electronic listening device. When the threat reaches this level, you are expected to invest in whatever equipment is needed to invade the privacy and disrupt the lives of any and all members of your community. Wear your busybodyness like a hero’s badge. That is what you will be when you take down the terrorist cell that settled into the nondescript split level at the end of Canterbury Court. Absent that, you’ll be the cool techy geek who always has the latest toys.
So there you have it: Aware, Alert, Watch, Nosy, Busybody. The perfect progression of attentiveness to assure that someone in your neighborhood knows exactly what’s going on where, when the threat level is seriously elevated. In many retirement communities, there’s already at least one person who does that. I’m simply proposing that we put those proclivities to good use.
I’m confident this system will be as effective as the color-coded one that Homeland Security is jettisoning. As for how it will compare to the new one they’re planning… we’ll just have to wait and see. It is the federal government, after all.
We’re promised that the new “formal” alerts will be issued only when there is a specific threat, that they’ll include steps authorities are taking and what the public can do, and that they’ll have a specified end date. Can’t wait.
No really, I don’t think we can wait for this new system to take shape and for all the bugs and hiccups to be shaken out. We need a new system right now and I have it all figured out. My system is designed specifically for residential neighborhoods—retirement communities in particular. It’s based on the neighborhood watch programs that are already in place to deter crime, but it’s more nuanced.
Like the original Homeland Security Advisory System, my Neighborhood Security Alerts have five levels. The first is Be Aware, and the street sign for this is a pair of eyes peering out from the darkness. When you see those eyes posted, keep your own wide open, looking for suspicious behavior in your neighborhood. At this threat level, simply letting the perpetrators know you are on to them should be enough to stifle their activity.
The second level is Be Alert, and its sign has a pair of ears, spread out like funnels to catch even the slightest noise that is out of the ordinary. This sign tells you to tune in to every conversation in every neighbor’s yard. For best results, get a compact recording device and hold it in prominent view. That should serve as a deterrent to anyone plotting to overthrow those in power. Even if not, it will help you provide useful testimony in court, just before you enter the witness protection program.
Level three is Watch Closely, with a pair of binoculars on the signage. When you see this, go out of your way to inspect your neighbors’ yards and look through their curtainless windows in search of questionable activity. Don’t be shy about it. As a member of the Neighborhood Security Alert team, you are empowered to engage in all sorts of despicable behavior. Don’t waste that opportunity. You'd be surprised what goes on behind those closed doors. (Or maybe you wouldn't be...)
Next—and the second highest level—is Be Nosy, and of course the sign has a very large proboscis. Yes, I am actually giving you permission to be nosy and to pry into your neighbor’s most secretive business. Use any means necessary to sniff it out. Keep in mind that even the most innocent seeming octogenarian can be plotting mayhem of immense proportions. You could be your community’s last defense against anarchy. You could also be in big demand at cocktail parties, where you will of course share all the lurid details you’ve uncovered.
Finally, the highest level is Busybody, symbolized by a buzzing electronic listening device. When the threat reaches this level, you are expected to invest in whatever equipment is needed to invade the privacy and disrupt the lives of any and all members of your community. Wear your busybodyness like a hero’s badge. That is what you will be when you take down the terrorist cell that settled into the nondescript split level at the end of Canterbury Court. Absent that, you’ll be the cool techy geek who always has the latest toys.
So there you have it: Aware, Alert, Watch, Nosy, Busybody. The perfect progression of attentiveness to assure that someone in your neighborhood knows exactly what’s going on where, when the threat level is seriously elevated. In many retirement communities, there’s already at least one person who does that. I’m simply proposing that we put those proclivities to good use.
I’m confident this system will be as effective as the color-coded one that Homeland Security is jettisoning. As for how it will compare to the new one they’re planning… we’ll just have to wait and see. It is the federal government, after all.
Wednesday, February 2, 2011
Retirement Planning - Tiger Retiree
You may have seen some of the media coverage of the best seller written by and about the “Tiger Mom.” She’s a Chinese-American who is raising her daughters using the extreme discipline favored by her own parents.
Her book has caused quite a stir, in part because the author regularly uses threats and verbal abuse to achieve her desired results. Yet not many people quibble with those results: straight-A students, star performers, acceptance to the best universities. This gave me the idea to become a Tiger Retiree—demanding the very best from my retirement and those who exert serious influence over it.
I began this quest by learning more about the Tiger Mom and what I shall delicately call her “techniques” for achieving desired outcomes. Somehow, the idea of my telling the Social Security functionary on the other end of the phone line that she is “garbage” does not strike me as a way to get better results. Children are a captive audience; public servants are not.
Next I thought about how I might employ the phrase the Tiger Mom used with her daughter when she returned her daughter’s handmade valentine because it wasn’t up to her creative standards. I imagined myself arguing with my supplemental healthcare insurance provider over the small portion they covered on my medical claim. “I deserve better; so I reject this” might get the desired results for a Tiger Mom. For a Tiger Retiree, it’s likely to evoke a straightforward “Take it or leave it,” followed by the resounding click of the phone being hung up.
Moving on to some of the Tiger Mom’s axioms, I pause on: “Nothing is fun until you’re good at it.” This is how she motivates her kids to practice, practice, practice on their path to Carnegie Hall. I can think of some things in my life that became much more fun once I became good at them (and playing the piano wasn’t one of them—wink, wink.) Still, I can’t seem to come up with what I would need to do over and over related to retirement that is likely to make it more fun. Certainly not filling out claims forms, though admittedly, doing that more should make each one go more quickly. That would leave more time to do other, fun things (wink, wink again.)
How about: “Second is not good enough.” That seems to have some potential. It could be useful in negotiating the purchase of a condo, which I expect to be one of the first steps in our retirement. “What! I’ve been outbid? Second is not good enough. What’s their figure? I’ll top it!” Of course, that presumes I can afford to increase my offer—highly unlikely given what I’ll probably pocket from the sale of our current house when we downsize. Still, this is one I’ll mentally file away for now.
Here’s one I especially like: “Assume strength, not fragility.” The Tiger Mom is referring to what she sees as American moms’ tendencies to be over-protective of their kids. Based on my recent experience having some neighbors help with our snow removal, however, I’m finding that “assume fragility, not strength” is a useful card to play for someone on the threshold of retirement.
By the way, over-protective parents are also referred to as “helicoptering.” For me, this conjures up a different image—that of the “hovering” retiree. You’ve seen them. They ride around the neighborhood in a Hoveround, a souped up wheelchair that sometimes looks like a miniature mobile home. (Do not confuse this with a Hovercraft; that moves on a cushion of air and requires balance and stability, neither of which most retirees have in abundance.) I have no desire to become a hoverer, so I guess that means I should reject helicopter moms and by inference embrace Tiger Moms.
Still, being left with just “Second is not good enough” in my arsenal of Tiger Retiree techniques is not very encouraging to me. Somehow, the concept doesn’t seem to be translating from motherhood to retirement. The truth is, I may have been a tiger in my salad days, but as I approach retirement, I’m really more of a pussycat.
Hmmm. Now there’s a possible best-seller title: The Pussycat Retiree. If you have any material you think I should include, please send it on to me. I promise I won’t tell you it’s garbage. But I just might tell you I think you can do better. (Wink, wink. Meow.)
Her book has caused quite a stir, in part because the author regularly uses threats and verbal abuse to achieve her desired results. Yet not many people quibble with those results: straight-A students, star performers, acceptance to the best universities. This gave me the idea to become a Tiger Retiree—demanding the very best from my retirement and those who exert serious influence over it.
I began this quest by learning more about the Tiger Mom and what I shall delicately call her “techniques” for achieving desired outcomes. Somehow, the idea of my telling the Social Security functionary on the other end of the phone line that she is “garbage” does not strike me as a way to get better results. Children are a captive audience; public servants are not.
Next I thought about how I might employ the phrase the Tiger Mom used with her daughter when she returned her daughter’s handmade valentine because it wasn’t up to her creative standards. I imagined myself arguing with my supplemental healthcare insurance provider over the small portion they covered on my medical claim. “I deserve better; so I reject this” might get the desired results for a Tiger Mom. For a Tiger Retiree, it’s likely to evoke a straightforward “Take it or leave it,” followed by the resounding click of the phone being hung up.
Moving on to some of the Tiger Mom’s axioms, I pause on: “Nothing is fun until you’re good at it.” This is how she motivates her kids to practice, practice, practice on their path to Carnegie Hall. I can think of some things in my life that became much more fun once I became good at them (and playing the piano wasn’t one of them—wink, wink.) Still, I can’t seem to come up with what I would need to do over and over related to retirement that is likely to make it more fun. Certainly not filling out claims forms, though admittedly, doing that more should make each one go more quickly. That would leave more time to do other, fun things (wink, wink again.)
How about: “Second is not good enough.” That seems to have some potential. It could be useful in negotiating the purchase of a condo, which I expect to be one of the first steps in our retirement. “What! I’ve been outbid? Second is not good enough. What’s their figure? I’ll top it!” Of course, that presumes I can afford to increase my offer—highly unlikely given what I’ll probably pocket from the sale of our current house when we downsize. Still, this is one I’ll mentally file away for now.
Here’s one I especially like: “Assume strength, not fragility.” The Tiger Mom is referring to what she sees as American moms’ tendencies to be over-protective of their kids. Based on my recent experience having some neighbors help with our snow removal, however, I’m finding that “assume fragility, not strength” is a useful card to play for someone on the threshold of retirement.
By the way, over-protective parents are also referred to as “helicoptering.” For me, this conjures up a different image—that of the “hovering” retiree. You’ve seen them. They ride around the neighborhood in a Hoveround, a souped up wheelchair that sometimes looks like a miniature mobile home. (Do not confuse this with a Hovercraft; that moves on a cushion of air and requires balance and stability, neither of which most retirees have in abundance.) I have no desire to become a hoverer, so I guess that means I should reject helicopter moms and by inference embrace Tiger Moms.
Still, being left with just “Second is not good enough” in my arsenal of Tiger Retiree techniques is not very encouraging to me. Somehow, the concept doesn’t seem to be translating from motherhood to retirement. The truth is, I may have been a tiger in my salad days, but as I approach retirement, I’m really more of a pussycat.
Hmmm. Now there’s a possible best-seller title: The Pussycat Retiree. If you have any material you think I should include, please send it on to me. I promise I won’t tell you it’s garbage. But I just might tell you I think you can do better. (Wink, wink. Meow.)
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