This month’s AARP Bulletin came in today’s mail. The feature item on hearing caught my eye: “10 Things To Know About Improving It.” I’ve considered getting my hearing checked, so I decided to educate myself about the process.
It’s not that I’m concerned about my ability to hear others, but I get the sense that I may be speaking louder than necessary. I base this on the looks I sometimes get from those around me. Well, the looks and the fact that people who are all the way across the room often chime in on my conversations.
The article noted that hearing loss is linked to other health issues, in particular dementia and Alzheimer’s, according to a recent study by Johns Hopkins and the National Institute on Aging. (The risk of dementia is five times more for those with severe hearing loss, and double for those with mild loss.) This makes sense. If you don’t hear much of what's going on around you, the voices you’re listening to are probably in your head.
The summary of the six types of hearing aids seemed especially helpful. It provided a brief description of each one, the pros and cons of each, and the costs. I read about all six, and I have some bad news: there is no perfect type of hearing aid. With each one, you’ll have to give up something.
I hope James Dyson takes this on now that he has revolutionized the vacuum cleaner and the hand dryers in public loos. He’ll probably invent a hearing aid that also sucks out your ear wax and irrigates your sinuses.
Now for the really bad news. According to the article, Medicare doesn’t pay for hearing aids, and also not for most hearing tests. I find this shocking. Medicare pays for eye exams. Who decided that seeing is more essential to healthy living than hearing? Is it worse to walk into a lamppost you didn’t see? Or to be hit by a speeding car you didn’t hear coming? And let's not forget the increased risk of dementia.
One of my college classmates has had compromised hearing and sight for much of her adult life. I remember her saying once that if she had to choose between going completely blind or completely deaf, she’d keep her hearing. That surprised me, so I asked why. She said she felt hearing was more essential to social interaction. She was coming from a place of experience, so her words stayed with me.
Determined not to let the AARP Bulletin ruin my weekend, I leafed through the rest of the pages looking for some bright spot. It turned out to be an advertisement with vivid yellow background, a huge clump of Blackeyed Susans, and a couple in a gentle embrace. The woman was wearing a bright orange halter top and matching short orange sarong. You couldn’t get much brighter than this ad.
The headline read: “Sex. It’s Never Too Late To Learn Something New.” (The line is trademarked, by the way, so don’t plan to use it as an icebreaker the next time you’re at a cocktail party.)
If the headline didn’t get my attention, the subheads certainly did. “See for Yourself on Discreet Home Video. Real people demonstrating real sexual techniques! Nothing is left to the imagination!”
I hate to burst their marketing bubble, but I’ve reached the age where I’d rather leave real sexual techniques to the imagination. Their “visual encyclopedia” sounds like way TMI for me.
As I tossed the bulletin into my recycling bin, I felt disappointed by the organization that is supposed to be looking out for me in my newly retired state. I expected more from AARP. They left me feeling distinctly un-cheery.
A vision flashes through my head. I’m locked in a tender embrace with my husband, and I'm whispering sexual fantasies. From the other side of the wall that separates our new condo from the neighbors comes a male voice. “Hey, Buddy. It’s never too late to learn something new.”
Then I have an even more disturbing thought. Those sex tapes are probably covered by Medicare.
BlogHer
Saturday, May 7, 2011
Wednesday, May 4, 2011
Retirement Downsizing - Getting Down to Nothing
As most of you know, the last few weeks have been focused on getting rid of 18 years of clutter in the house. You’ve probably heard me mention that it’s like the loaves and the fishes. As of last weekend, I wouldn’t say I was feeling smug, but I was definitely feeling satisfied that I was making progress. Then came Sunday.
Sunday is the big day for open houses. I go to a few each week to get a sense of what the competition will be for my house when it’s finally listed. An open house can also provide some ideas for staging. The two things any good real estate agent will likely tell me are: focus on curb appeal and get rid of the clutter.
Those who are in my house on any regular basis will attest that over the past few weeks I’ve made significant progress decluttering. But I’ll bet that any realtor worth her commission would ask me when I plan to start clearing out stuff. This was driven home to me in spades after I went through the houses that were open last weekend.
I came home and sank into a deep funk. The two houses most comparable to mine had not one thing on their kitchen counters. Nothing. The only reason you can’t write messages in the dust on my counters is that they’re so covered with stuff you can’t get at them.
I set about packing my cookbooks, which were gobbling up much of the counter real estate. Many of you are shocked that I own any cookbooks, given that I never cook. There’s a reason I don’t. My husband is so attached to his store that we rarely have dinner together. There’s not a lot of Joy of Cooking for One, no matter what Irma Rombauer says. Since I expect more family dinners once we downsize to Vermont, I’m keeping most of the cookbooks.
After the books were packed and I’d cleaned the aforementioned dust, I surveyed the counter. On a relative basis, it looked great, but it was a far cry from being clear. This propelled me into one of my philosophical musings. (Well, to be accurate, this plus a glass of Chianti Classico.)
The point of those pristine counters is to present a metaphorical tabula rasa to a potential buyer. The message is that the house is a clean slate, awaiting the new beginnings of your family, dear buyer. Just imagine what you could imprint onto this space!
While I can appreciate this from a marketing perspective, I still have to live in the house while it’s on the market. I must admit that, as I sit in the rooms that have been thinned out considerably, I feel a certain calm that my previously-cluttered style did not offer. I’m sure there’s some feng shui operating here.
After awhile, I begin to feel like a stranger in my own home. There is a difference between calming and comforting. My home has always been my cocoon. Pictures of extended family used to crowd the horizontal spaces in most rooms. These are now all packed away. It occurs to me that I’ve lost my visual “comfort food.”
This is somewhat surprising, when you consider that I used to look at the group photo of my aunts and think: “Please, God, don’t let me grow up to look like Aunt Lucrezia.” Now that she’s in a box in the basement, with other beloved relatives who have long ago shed their mortal coil, I miss her. She is, after all, family. My family.
Realtors will pressure you into getting rid of all evidence that you have a family, with little regard to what this might do to your psyche. Fie on them! They have me torn between aggressively pursuing the perfectly staged house and preserving at least some token evidence that this is still my home.
I guess there’s really only one way to solve this dilemma, and that’s to open another bottle of Chianti. Alla famiglia! (Especially Aunt Lucrezia.)
Sunday is the big day for open houses. I go to a few each week to get a sense of what the competition will be for my house when it’s finally listed. An open house can also provide some ideas for staging. The two things any good real estate agent will likely tell me are: focus on curb appeal and get rid of the clutter.
Those who are in my house on any regular basis will attest that over the past few weeks I’ve made significant progress decluttering. But I’ll bet that any realtor worth her commission would ask me when I plan to start clearing out stuff. This was driven home to me in spades after I went through the houses that were open last weekend.
I came home and sank into a deep funk. The two houses most comparable to mine had not one thing on their kitchen counters. Nothing. The only reason you can’t write messages in the dust on my counters is that they’re so covered with stuff you can’t get at them.
I set about packing my cookbooks, which were gobbling up much of the counter real estate. Many of you are shocked that I own any cookbooks, given that I never cook. There’s a reason I don’t. My husband is so attached to his store that we rarely have dinner together. There’s not a lot of Joy of Cooking for One, no matter what Irma Rombauer says. Since I expect more family dinners once we downsize to Vermont, I’m keeping most of the cookbooks.
After the books were packed and I’d cleaned the aforementioned dust, I surveyed the counter. On a relative basis, it looked great, but it was a far cry from being clear. This propelled me into one of my philosophical musings. (Well, to be accurate, this plus a glass of Chianti Classico.)
The point of those pristine counters is to present a metaphorical tabula rasa to a potential buyer. The message is that the house is a clean slate, awaiting the new beginnings of your family, dear buyer. Just imagine what you could imprint onto this space!
While I can appreciate this from a marketing perspective, I still have to live in the house while it’s on the market. I must admit that, as I sit in the rooms that have been thinned out considerably, I feel a certain calm that my previously-cluttered style did not offer. I’m sure there’s some feng shui operating here.
After awhile, I begin to feel like a stranger in my own home. There is a difference between calming and comforting. My home has always been my cocoon. Pictures of extended family used to crowd the horizontal spaces in most rooms. These are now all packed away. It occurs to me that I’ve lost my visual “comfort food.”
This is somewhat surprising, when you consider that I used to look at the group photo of my aunts and think: “Please, God, don’t let me grow up to look like Aunt Lucrezia.” Now that she’s in a box in the basement, with other beloved relatives who have long ago shed their mortal coil, I miss her. She is, after all, family. My family.
Realtors will pressure you into getting rid of all evidence that you have a family, with little regard to what this might do to your psyche. Fie on them! They have me torn between aggressively pursuing the perfectly staged house and preserving at least some token evidence that this is still my home.
I guess there’s really only one way to solve this dilemma, and that’s to open another bottle of Chianti. Alla famiglia! (Especially Aunt Lucrezia.)
Saturday, April 30, 2011
Retirement Issues - Chilling Out
One of my readers commented recently that I need to chill out. Rest assured, I’m happy to receive feedback and I take it to heart. I’m pleased to report that I’m making progress on chilling out in my retirement. Let me prove it with some examples.
This week I had yet another doctor’s appointment scheduled. I arrived promptly at 9 AM (almost the middle of the night for me.) Apparently, the doctor does clinic work on Thursdays, so the staff was skeptical that I had an office appointment. I dutifully produced their card and they apologized. They checked further and said that I’d been mailed a letter changing the appointment, but I never received it.
Did I get angry at having been roused from my slumber at an uncivil hour to keep this appointment? Not at all. I just chilled out. Since I was there anyway, I got myself set up with a dermatologist who practices out of the same medical center. (The prior week, my internist responded to my request for a referral with: “The girl who checks you out can give you a list of dermatologists who are taking new patients; it’s not many.”) Then I ran a few errands and came home to do more house prep. Cool as a cucumber was I.
Next we have the new behavior that my husband has adopted. Since I’m no longer going to an office every day, I’m available to run all sorts of errands. Or so he thinks. First some background. In India, a person who conducts business in a certain field is called a “wala” (or “wali,” if a female.) The metal tins that hold hot meals are called “tiffins.” At midday the tiffin wala sends a small army on bicycles to deliver these from people’s homes to their places of business so they have a home-cooked hot lunch.
One day my husband forgot his lunch, so I played tiffin wali and delivered it. (Technically, not in a tiffin, but a thermal lunch tote, and it was a cold sandwich, but you get the idea.) His store is just a mile away, so the trip doesn’t burn a lot of gas. It was no big deal. Two days later, he called his jumper wali, asking if I could bring him a sweater; it was colder than he had expected. (Jumper is the British term for a pullover…)
Did I get upset that my husband sees my retirement as an opportunity to use me as his personal delivery service? No indeed. In fact, I’ve come up with a new moniker for myself: “gofer wali.” This sounds more impressive than “step-and-fetch-it,” don’t you think?
The other day my next-door neighbor and her high school aged son were on their front porch, arguing so loudly that I thought they were in my own yard. Did I get upset that they were disturbing my retirement quietude? Absolutely not. In fact, I phoned their neighbor on the other side and invited her to have tea with me. We sat on my porch and listened to the show. My blood pressure never went above 120, and not once did I yell over the bushes: “Shut the front door!”
So, as you can see, I’m a whole new person and I didn’t uncork one bottle of wine the entire time. If I were any more chilled, I’d be on the rocks. Hmmm. That gives me an idea...
This week I had yet another doctor’s appointment scheduled. I arrived promptly at 9 AM (almost the middle of the night for me.) Apparently, the doctor does clinic work on Thursdays, so the staff was skeptical that I had an office appointment. I dutifully produced their card and they apologized. They checked further and said that I’d been mailed a letter changing the appointment, but I never received it.
Did I get angry at having been roused from my slumber at an uncivil hour to keep this appointment? Not at all. I just chilled out. Since I was there anyway, I got myself set up with a dermatologist who practices out of the same medical center. (The prior week, my internist responded to my request for a referral with: “The girl who checks you out can give you a list of dermatologists who are taking new patients; it’s not many.”) Then I ran a few errands and came home to do more house prep. Cool as a cucumber was I.
Next we have the new behavior that my husband has adopted. Since I’m no longer going to an office every day, I’m available to run all sorts of errands. Or so he thinks. First some background. In India, a person who conducts business in a certain field is called a “wala” (or “wali,” if a female.) The metal tins that hold hot meals are called “tiffins.” At midday the tiffin wala sends a small army on bicycles to deliver these from people’s homes to their places of business so they have a home-cooked hot lunch.
One day my husband forgot his lunch, so I played tiffin wali and delivered it. (Technically, not in a tiffin, but a thermal lunch tote, and it was a cold sandwich, but you get the idea.) His store is just a mile away, so the trip doesn’t burn a lot of gas. It was no big deal. Two days later, he called his jumper wali, asking if I could bring him a sweater; it was colder than he had expected. (Jumper is the British term for a pullover…)
Did I get upset that my husband sees my retirement as an opportunity to use me as his personal delivery service? No indeed. In fact, I’ve come up with a new moniker for myself: “gofer wali.” This sounds more impressive than “step-and-fetch-it,” don’t you think?
The other day my next-door neighbor and her high school aged son were on their front porch, arguing so loudly that I thought they were in my own yard. Did I get upset that they were disturbing my retirement quietude? Absolutely not. In fact, I phoned their neighbor on the other side and invited her to have tea with me. We sat on my porch and listened to the show. My blood pressure never went above 120, and not once did I yell over the bushes: “Shut the front door!”
So, as you can see, I’m a whole new person and I didn’t uncork one bottle of wine the entire time. If I were any more chilled, I’d be on the rocks. Hmmm. That gives me an idea...
Wednesday, April 27, 2011
Retirement Issues - New Euphemisms
As a retiree, I seem more attuned to popular language, especially as evidenced in TV commercials. I’ve noticed a new trend in the euphemisms for well-used profanity. Since I’m determined to stay current in my retirement, I feel it’s important for me to understand this trend and speak in a way that shows that I’m jiggy with it.
Before I expand on that, I’d like to take a brief trip down memory lane. We’re all familiar with the nicer terms “shucks,” “drat” and “darn,” but a grade school friend’s mother used to say “Oh, guy!” to keep from taking the Lord’s name in vain. I found it quaint and I’ve never heard anyone else say it.
I remember an ad from the seventies (or thereabouts) wherein the actor muttered: “Dirty ratzle frat!” and “Fizzleramic packalumer!” I can’t tell you what the product was, but I still remember those silly pseudo-swear words. (Kudos to you if you remember the commercial, even if you can’t name the product either. Google hasn’t even heard of the phrases.)
The most exemplary of the new euphemisms is “Shut the front door!” used in a cookie commercial, among other places. This phrase provides guidelines for how to create these. The most important is that the innocuous word you substitute for the swear word must start with the same letter. It should also contain the same number of syllables. Other than that, it’s pretty much “Katy bar the door.” (That one’s not a euphemism, so don’t try to figure it out.)
Based on these guidelines, “What the frog” is a proper new euphemism, whereas “What the tadpole” is not. Likewise “Give me a frosted cake” cuts the mustard, but “Give me a nice bouquet” does not. And finally, “The sand really hit the cow” is a winner, but “The ice cream hit the spot”—loser.
I’m thinking of creating a new parlor game where the guests are given the actual profanity and have to come up with a new euphemism based on it. It would certainly be an icebreaker. Everyone would vote on which guest came up with the best one. The more of a non sequitur the new phrase is, the more points they get.
Feel free to submit suggestions, but please don’t take offense if I don’t use them. If that’s not okay, well, frankly, you can go smoke in your sack, because I don’t give a class act. And you can wipe that soap bubble film off your shoe.
Before I expand on that, I’d like to take a brief trip down memory lane. We’re all familiar with the nicer terms “shucks,” “drat” and “darn,” but a grade school friend’s mother used to say “Oh, guy!” to keep from taking the Lord’s name in vain. I found it quaint and I’ve never heard anyone else say it.
I remember an ad from the seventies (or thereabouts) wherein the actor muttered: “Dirty ratzle frat!” and “Fizzleramic packalumer!” I can’t tell you what the product was, but I still remember those silly pseudo-swear words. (Kudos to you if you remember the commercial, even if you can’t name the product either. Google hasn’t even heard of the phrases.)
The most exemplary of the new euphemisms is “Shut the front door!” used in a cookie commercial, among other places. This phrase provides guidelines for how to create these. The most important is that the innocuous word you substitute for the swear word must start with the same letter. It should also contain the same number of syllables. Other than that, it’s pretty much “Katy bar the door.” (That one’s not a euphemism, so don’t try to figure it out.)
Based on these guidelines, “What the frog” is a proper new euphemism, whereas “What the tadpole” is not. Likewise “Give me a frosted cake” cuts the mustard, but “Give me a nice bouquet” does not. And finally, “The sand really hit the cow” is a winner, but “The ice cream hit the spot”—loser.
I’m thinking of creating a new parlor game where the guests are given the actual profanity and have to come up with a new euphemism based on it. It would certainly be an icebreaker. Everyone would vote on which guest came up with the best one. The more of a non sequitur the new phrase is, the more points they get.
Feel free to submit suggestions, but please don’t take offense if I don’t use them. If that’s not okay, well, frankly, you can go smoke in your sack, because I don’t give a class act. And you can wipe that soap bubble film off your shoe.
Saturday, April 23, 2011
Retirement Transitions - An Archaeological Dig
My first weeks of retirement have been spent filing for social security and preparing the house for sale. Both of these projects had me digging through years of accumulated paperwork and belongings, much of it dating back 20 years or more. Several times I went on a quest for one item, only to turn up something else important that I’d given up on. It’s as though I’ve been on an archaeological dig, working my way through layers of past civilizations. Each new level sheds light on my previous lives.
The oldest age I’ve been able to identify in my dig is what I’ll call “The Formative Years.” I uncovered my grade school report cards, the booklets with my PSAT and SAT scores, my band letter and all three graduation tassels. The band letter is like the ones that athletes earned, but in the shape of a lyre. My report cards reminded me that the only C that I ever received was in fourth grade, for singing. It was not an unfair mark, as anyone who has stood near me at a birthday party during the cake ceremony can attest.
Just above that level, I uncovered memories from my “Rebel without a Cause” period. There was my entry for the Mademoiselle guest editor competition for college women. You had to create and produce a new magazine. Mine was titled Cyclefemme and featured motorcycles and helmets designed especially for women. I didn’t get to be an editor, but I did win a free subscription to Mademoiselle for a year.
This overlapped with my “Hippie” period, as documented by a photo of me in my Jesus sandals. They had crisscross laces up to my knees and my parents did not approve. One of my aunts had a fancy 50th anniversary party in New Jersey during my senior year. I dressed properly for the event, but I changed into traveling clothes for the bus ride back to Rhode Island. When I came out of the rest room to say goodbye, I was wearing my Villager suit with tiny flowers and those sandals. My mother about had apoplexy.
My dig also uncovered “The Peripatetic Era,” which occurred mostly in the years right after college. The artifacts from this era included my old passport with all its visas and border crossing stamps. I remember that I had learned to say: “I have nothing to declare” in three languages. I also found my travel journal, documenting the places I went with my Eurail Pass, and how much I spent. I lived on an average of $3.40 a day. (It was the late sixties.)
One of the almost forgotten layers was The Jock Age, as documented by the forms certifying me to sail solo at the Club Meds in Playa Blanca and Turquoise. Also from one of those vacations—a tank top with a word puzzle on the front and the explanation in French on the back. It got me way more action than my band letter.
Just above that layer, I uncovered the hand-crocheted bikini and gauzy sarong from my “Exotic Phase.” You’ll be forgiven if you confuse this with my “Gypsy Experiment.” Both involved a lot of head scarves, flowing skirts and large flowers worn in my waist-length hair. (Pictures available for a fee…)
One thing became clear to me as I excavated through the various levels of my existence: the earlier eras seem more interesting than the recent ones. As I look through the layers I’ve identified, I’m forced to face reality. I wouldn’t have the patience to lace up Jesus sandals today. Although I’m still partial to scarves, especially at my neck, my hair is too short to hold flowers. The closest thing to a string bikini that my body could accommodate would be a unitard crafted from compression bandages. (Pictures NOT available, no matter how much you’re willing to pay…)
On a brighter note, I expect my retirement years to be full of adventure and excitement. My passport is up to date. I’ve mastered the art of traveling light. Eurail Passes are still available. I think it may be time to learn to say “I have nothing to declare” in a few more languages.
The oldest age I’ve been able to identify in my dig is what I’ll call “The Formative Years.” I uncovered my grade school report cards, the booklets with my PSAT and SAT scores, my band letter and all three graduation tassels. The band letter is like the ones that athletes earned, but in the shape of a lyre. My report cards reminded me that the only C that I ever received was in fourth grade, for singing. It was not an unfair mark, as anyone who has stood near me at a birthday party during the cake ceremony can attest.
Just above that level, I uncovered memories from my “Rebel without a Cause” period. There was my entry for the Mademoiselle guest editor competition for college women. You had to create and produce a new magazine. Mine was titled Cyclefemme and featured motorcycles and helmets designed especially for women. I didn’t get to be an editor, but I did win a free subscription to Mademoiselle for a year.
This overlapped with my “Hippie” period, as documented by a photo of me in my Jesus sandals. They had crisscross laces up to my knees and my parents did not approve. One of my aunts had a fancy 50th anniversary party in New Jersey during my senior year. I dressed properly for the event, but I changed into traveling clothes for the bus ride back to Rhode Island. When I came out of the rest room to say goodbye, I was wearing my Villager suit with tiny flowers and those sandals. My mother about had apoplexy.
My dig also uncovered “The Peripatetic Era,” which occurred mostly in the years right after college. The artifacts from this era included my old passport with all its visas and border crossing stamps. I remember that I had learned to say: “I have nothing to declare” in three languages. I also found my travel journal, documenting the places I went with my Eurail Pass, and how much I spent. I lived on an average of $3.40 a day. (It was the late sixties.)
One of the almost forgotten layers was The Jock Age, as documented by the forms certifying me to sail solo at the Club Meds in Playa Blanca and Turquoise. Also from one of those vacations—a tank top with a word puzzle on the front and the explanation in French on the back. It got me way more action than my band letter.
Just above that layer, I uncovered the hand-crocheted bikini and gauzy sarong from my “Exotic Phase.” You’ll be forgiven if you confuse this with my “Gypsy Experiment.” Both involved a lot of head scarves, flowing skirts and large flowers worn in my waist-length hair. (Pictures available for a fee…)
One thing became clear to me as I excavated through the various levels of my existence: the earlier eras seem more interesting than the recent ones. As I look through the layers I’ve identified, I’m forced to face reality. I wouldn’t have the patience to lace up Jesus sandals today. Although I’m still partial to scarves, especially at my neck, my hair is too short to hold flowers. The closest thing to a string bikini that my body could accommodate would be a unitard crafted from compression bandages. (Pictures NOT available, no matter how much you’re willing to pay…)
On a brighter note, I expect my retirement years to be full of adventure and excitement. My passport is up to date. I’ve mastered the art of traveling light. Eurail Passes are still available. I think it may be time to learn to say “I have nothing to declare” in a few more languages.
Wednesday, April 20, 2011
Retirement Issues - A World Upside Down
Is it just me, or is the whole world turning upside down? I’m confused. Products that appear to be innocuous personal care items function more like narcotics, while products that are essentially cosmetics are masquerading as medicinal or biological.
Perhaps it’s always been like this. Perhaps I’m just more attuned to it now that I’m retired and have time to pay attention. Maybe so, but I think our social structure is heading straight to hell in that proverbial hand basket, cleverly disguised as a shopping cart.
Something that’s known as “bath salts” sounds like it should be a harmless personal care product. It’s available without prescription or proof of age in tobacco shops, fringe specialty stores and online. With names like Lovey Dovey and Kush Blitz, you might have images of romantic couples soaking together in a bathtub of bliss. You’d be dreaming up the wrong pipe.
A cautionary article in Time magazine reported that these so-called bath salts contain methylenedioxypyrovalerone (MDPV). With a name like that, it’s no wonder someone came up with bath salts instead. MDPV is an hallucinogen that leads to euphoria but can have serious physical side effects and psychological consequences, including suicide. Not your romantic bath soak indeed.
The same issue of Time covers the flip side of this trend. An Italian company has created fragrances that are intended to mimic the smell of blood. Yes, you read it correctly. Blood. Time reports that Blood Concept is launching new scents named for the four blood types—A, B, AB and O. With all the interest in vampires in pop culture, they’ll probably rake in the Euros. I hear that early sales are especially strong in Hungary and Romania.
My first thoughts are analytical questions. Do their production forecasts model the ratios of the blood types in the general population? If your own blood is type A and you wear B, will you have an adverse reaction? Is type O universally appealing? Then my marketing instincts kick in.
Why would anyone want to deliberately smell like blood? Musk I can understand, especially for guys who believe that’s macho. Maybe even perspiration, if you want people to think you’re a fitness buff, but you hate to work out. But blood? If you’re going there, how about vomit, to let everyone know you party all night? And what’s next? Earwax? Bellybutton lint? Can’t wait to see how those are positioned in the market.
Getting back to Blood Concept and the vampire craze—suddenly I’m taking a mental stroll down memory lane. I find myself wondering: What ever happened to the good old-fashioned hickey? A quick Google turned up many items on hickeys, including a 59-second video on YouTube: How to give someone a hickey. Maybe the world isn’t turning upside down after all.
Perhaps it’s always been like this. Perhaps I’m just more attuned to it now that I’m retired and have time to pay attention. Maybe so, but I think our social structure is heading straight to hell in that proverbial hand basket, cleverly disguised as a shopping cart.
Something that’s known as “bath salts” sounds like it should be a harmless personal care product. It’s available without prescription or proof of age in tobacco shops, fringe specialty stores and online. With names like Lovey Dovey and Kush Blitz, you might have images of romantic couples soaking together in a bathtub of bliss. You’d be dreaming up the wrong pipe.
A cautionary article in Time magazine reported that these so-called bath salts contain methylenedioxypyrovalerone (MDPV). With a name like that, it’s no wonder someone came up with bath salts instead. MDPV is an hallucinogen that leads to euphoria but can have serious physical side effects and psychological consequences, including suicide. Not your romantic bath soak indeed.
The same issue of Time covers the flip side of this trend. An Italian company has created fragrances that are intended to mimic the smell of blood. Yes, you read it correctly. Blood. Time reports that Blood Concept is launching new scents named for the four blood types—A, B, AB and O. With all the interest in vampires in pop culture, they’ll probably rake in the Euros. I hear that early sales are especially strong in Hungary and Romania.
My first thoughts are analytical questions. Do their production forecasts model the ratios of the blood types in the general population? If your own blood is type A and you wear B, will you have an adverse reaction? Is type O universally appealing? Then my marketing instincts kick in.
Why would anyone want to deliberately smell like blood? Musk I can understand, especially for guys who believe that’s macho. Maybe even perspiration, if you want people to think you’re a fitness buff, but you hate to work out. But blood? If you’re going there, how about vomit, to let everyone know you party all night? And what’s next? Earwax? Bellybutton lint? Can’t wait to see how those are positioned in the market.
Getting back to Blood Concept and the vampire craze—suddenly I’m taking a mental stroll down memory lane. I find myself wondering: What ever happened to the good old-fashioned hickey? A quick Google turned up many items on hickeys, including a 59-second video on YouTube: How to give someone a hickey. Maybe the world isn’t turning upside down after all.
Saturday, April 16, 2011
Retirement Issues - Crankypants
Tina Fey has a new book, Bossypants. I haven’t read it, but if I ever get a Kindle, it will be one of the first books I download. I love Tina Fey, but I don’t watch 30 Rock. It’s the Saturday Night Live Tina Fey that I love, and not just the Sarah Palin skits. I love the early Tina Fey even more. She’s smart. She’s funny. She’s clever. And she goes toe-to-toe with the big guys in an industry that is about as testosterone saturated as you can get.
If I were to write a book now, it would have to be titled Crankypants. I’m just four weeks into retirement, and I can see my patience dwindling day by day. I have never been one to suffer fools gladly, but the freedom of retirement seems to have triggered the hypercritical button in my personality.
I feel free to get annoyed at anything and everything. Simply put, I no longer feel obligated to pretend I’m sociable. Oh, don’t look so shocked. What do you expect from someone who sits home drinking wine by herself? (Or at least wants you to think she does…)
The littlest things annoy me. So, like the features on morning TV, where the person being interviewed starts every sentence with “so” are my pet peeve of the week. So, why can’t they speak at least one sentence now and then without so much as one “so?” Like, is that so difficult? (And my second favorite word in these interviews is “like,” if you haven’t guessed.)
I used to be upbeat and positive—a glass half full kind of person. Now, not only do I see the glass as half empty, I find myself inspecting the rim, looking for chips. I know what you’re thinking: It’s the stress of trying to get the house ready to sell. This is very likely a big part of it. A few nights back, I couldn’t sleep, thinking of all that has to be done. I got up and went to the third floor, where I organized and categorized piles of stuff into smaller, neater stacks, including things to throw out. I went back to bed at 3 am.
I keep telling my friends it’s like the loaves and the fishes. No matter how much I go through, I don’t see any signs of progress. I’m sure that if a stranger walked up to the third floor where I worked until the wee hours, they would ask me: “When to you plan to start on these rooms?” When indeed.
I don’t really like being cranky, but I don’t have the energy to fight it right now. It’s easier to be cranky than nice. I never knew that before. (There’s lots of things I never knew before, most of which have to do with what goes on in my neighborhood on weekdays…)
In a nod to my old self, I’m going to end this on an upbeat note. First of all, those of you who’ve been following the saga of my efforts to start collecting Social Security will be happy to know that everything is now under control. Miss Katshow returned my call (and responded to my certified letter.) She claims she never asked for proof of my name change. It was the computer’s fault. Apparently, it automatically generates that on line status message when you check the box that says you’ve ever gone by another name.
Damnable computers. They’re to blame for everything that goes wrong in the world. Well, the computers, the religious extremists and the Tea Party. Oh, wait. That’s redundant, isn’t it… I know I’m not supposed to be ending this cranky, but it’s not my fault. The computer made me do it.
Finally, I had fabulous success running errands today. I found an area rug for the third floor landing (wall-to-wall carpet now removed) that couldn’t have been better had I designed it myself. Plus it was at a discount store. And I found a replacement cushion for the wicker loveseat for the porch; (squirrels and neighborhood cats trashed the old one.) The print goes well with the other pillows and it, too, was at a discount store.
After a day like this, there’s really not much else to do but sit back, power up the shredder, and pour myself a nice glass of wine. So, if you’re not okay with that, you can, like, kiss my crankypants.
If I were to write a book now, it would have to be titled Crankypants. I’m just four weeks into retirement, and I can see my patience dwindling day by day. I have never been one to suffer fools gladly, but the freedom of retirement seems to have triggered the hypercritical button in my personality.
I feel free to get annoyed at anything and everything. Simply put, I no longer feel obligated to pretend I’m sociable. Oh, don’t look so shocked. What do you expect from someone who sits home drinking wine by herself? (Or at least wants you to think she does…)
The littlest things annoy me. So, like the features on morning TV, where the person being interviewed starts every sentence with “so” are my pet peeve of the week. So, why can’t they speak at least one sentence now and then without so much as one “so?” Like, is that so difficult? (And my second favorite word in these interviews is “like,” if you haven’t guessed.)
I used to be upbeat and positive—a glass half full kind of person. Now, not only do I see the glass as half empty, I find myself inspecting the rim, looking for chips. I know what you’re thinking: It’s the stress of trying to get the house ready to sell. This is very likely a big part of it. A few nights back, I couldn’t sleep, thinking of all that has to be done. I got up and went to the third floor, where I organized and categorized piles of stuff into smaller, neater stacks, including things to throw out. I went back to bed at 3 am.
I keep telling my friends it’s like the loaves and the fishes. No matter how much I go through, I don’t see any signs of progress. I’m sure that if a stranger walked up to the third floor where I worked until the wee hours, they would ask me: “When to you plan to start on these rooms?” When indeed.
I don’t really like being cranky, but I don’t have the energy to fight it right now. It’s easier to be cranky than nice. I never knew that before. (There’s lots of things I never knew before, most of which have to do with what goes on in my neighborhood on weekdays…)
In a nod to my old self, I’m going to end this on an upbeat note. First of all, those of you who’ve been following the saga of my efforts to start collecting Social Security will be happy to know that everything is now under control. Miss Katshow returned my call (and responded to my certified letter.) She claims she never asked for proof of my name change. It was the computer’s fault. Apparently, it automatically generates that on line status message when you check the box that says you’ve ever gone by another name.
Damnable computers. They’re to blame for everything that goes wrong in the world. Well, the computers, the religious extremists and the Tea Party. Oh, wait. That’s redundant, isn’t it… I know I’m not supposed to be ending this cranky, but it’s not my fault. The computer made me do it.
Finally, I had fabulous success running errands today. I found an area rug for the third floor landing (wall-to-wall carpet now removed) that couldn’t have been better had I designed it myself. Plus it was at a discount store. And I found a replacement cushion for the wicker loveseat for the porch; (squirrels and neighborhood cats trashed the old one.) The print goes well with the other pillows and it, too, was at a discount store.
After a day like this, there’s really not much else to do but sit back, power up the shredder, and pour myself a nice glass of wine. So, if you’re not okay with that, you can, like, kiss my crankypants.
Wednesday, April 13, 2011
Retirement Process - Social Insecurity
When last I left you, I was worried that a government shutdown might delay the approval of my application for Social Security. I was skeptical that it would have been finalized in just one week; the process seemed suspiciously easy. Unfortunately my suspicions were well-founded.
Over the weekend, I went on line to check the progress of my application. The status information indicated they’d sent me a request for proof of name change. I never received the request, but my guess is that they were referring to when I went back to my maiden name about 25 years ago.
Because I had a career as Dohn, I kept that name after my divorce. I changed it back to Decker by court order in the mid eighties. My annual reports of Social Security earnings have been coming to Decker for as long as I can remember. My Medicare was approved for Decker. They can’t seriously think I might still be Elaine Dohn. (Oh, but they do.) My disbelief turns to indignation that women have these problems, but men never do.
I spent several hours Sunday sifting through drawers of paperwork looking for the court order to no avail. So, Monday morning I began what became many hours of phone calls, surfing, and digging through filing cabinets. First I called the toll-free number from my on-line status information. Kenny answered. He was polite, but couldn’t help me, since he was at the national level. Kenny redirected me to my local office in Providence.
Mrs. Dunlop also listened politely but told me there was nothing she could do. My application is being handled by Miss Katshow; she’s the person who decided I need to prove I’m Elaine Decker. Because the procedures provide for this, I’ll need to convince her to remove the requirement. Mrs. Dunlop helpfully transferred me to Miss Katshow’s extension, which was (not surprisingly) answered by her voice mail. I left a brief message, but as of this writing have not heard back.
My next series of calls were to the court in Elizabeth, New Jersey, (where the name change was done) to find out how to get a copy of the court order. Jim answered with good energy and encouraging enthusiasm. For a fleeting moment, I thought I might actually make some progress. Then Jim transferred me to Alan in the County Clerk’s office.
Alan, who was not brimming with enthusiasm, impatiently explained that since this wasn’t about deeds and mortgages, I needed to speak with another office. He sent me on to Arlene in Civil Assignment. She transferred me to Isabelle, who, Arlene assured me, was just the person who would be able to help. I practiced my best positive thinking mantra while I was on hold. Om-m-m. Om-m-m.
Isabelle provided an address in Trenton where I could send a $25 check for a certified copy of the judgment to change my name. However, since I didn’t know the exact year this happened and since it was at least 25 years ago, she also gave me a phone number for follow up. It was clear that Isabelle knew she was sending me on a fool’s errand.
My next step was to Google the attorney who handled the name change. The bad news was he’s now retired. The good news was that his phone number was listed through some network he’s joined. The bad news was that led to yet another answering machine, so I left yet another message.
By now it was Monday afternoon and I decided to make one more pass through some of the 20 plus file drawers in our house. Perhaps I could find the tax returns from the years before and after I went back to Decker. That would narrow down the time of the court order, making my mail request more likely to be successful.
You’ll be pleased to learn that there is a God, because in the back of some of my old tax returns, I found the court order allowing me to become Elaine Decker again. (Now if I could just become a Virgo again, too, life would be perfect.) I made a copy of the order and sent it certified to Miss Katshow, who still has not returned my phone call.
As of this afternoon, the status of my application still shows that they are waiting for my proof of name change. I’m betting I’ll have to make a trip to the Social Security office to resolve this. I’m retired now, so I have the time for such projects. (The Social Security administration probably counts on this.) I wonder if Miss Katshow likes chocolate…
Over the weekend, I went on line to check the progress of my application. The status information indicated they’d sent me a request for proof of name change. I never received the request, but my guess is that they were referring to when I went back to my maiden name about 25 years ago.
Because I had a career as Dohn, I kept that name after my divorce. I changed it back to Decker by court order in the mid eighties. My annual reports of Social Security earnings have been coming to Decker for as long as I can remember. My Medicare was approved for Decker. They can’t seriously think I might still be Elaine Dohn. (Oh, but they do.) My disbelief turns to indignation that women have these problems, but men never do.
I spent several hours Sunday sifting through drawers of paperwork looking for the court order to no avail. So, Monday morning I began what became many hours of phone calls, surfing, and digging through filing cabinets. First I called the toll-free number from my on-line status information. Kenny answered. He was polite, but couldn’t help me, since he was at the national level. Kenny redirected me to my local office in Providence.
Mrs. Dunlop also listened politely but told me there was nothing she could do. My application is being handled by Miss Katshow; she’s the person who decided I need to prove I’m Elaine Decker. Because the procedures provide for this, I’ll need to convince her to remove the requirement. Mrs. Dunlop helpfully transferred me to Miss Katshow’s extension, which was (not surprisingly) answered by her voice mail. I left a brief message, but as of this writing have not heard back.
My next series of calls were to the court in Elizabeth, New Jersey, (where the name change was done) to find out how to get a copy of the court order. Jim answered with good energy and encouraging enthusiasm. For a fleeting moment, I thought I might actually make some progress. Then Jim transferred me to Alan in the County Clerk’s office.
Alan, who was not brimming with enthusiasm, impatiently explained that since this wasn’t about deeds and mortgages, I needed to speak with another office. He sent me on to Arlene in Civil Assignment. She transferred me to Isabelle, who, Arlene assured me, was just the person who would be able to help. I practiced my best positive thinking mantra while I was on hold. Om-m-m. Om-m-m.
Isabelle provided an address in Trenton where I could send a $25 check for a certified copy of the judgment to change my name. However, since I didn’t know the exact year this happened and since it was at least 25 years ago, she also gave me a phone number for follow up. It was clear that Isabelle knew she was sending me on a fool’s errand.
My next step was to Google the attorney who handled the name change. The bad news was he’s now retired. The good news was that his phone number was listed through some network he’s joined. The bad news was that led to yet another answering machine, so I left yet another message.
By now it was Monday afternoon and I decided to make one more pass through some of the 20 plus file drawers in our house. Perhaps I could find the tax returns from the years before and after I went back to Decker. That would narrow down the time of the court order, making my mail request more likely to be successful.
You’ll be pleased to learn that there is a God, because in the back of some of my old tax returns, I found the court order allowing me to become Elaine Decker again. (Now if I could just become a Virgo again, too, life would be perfect.) I made a copy of the order and sent it certified to Miss Katshow, who still has not returned my phone call.
As of this afternoon, the status of my application still shows that they are waiting for my proof of name change. I’m betting I’ll have to make a trip to the Social Security office to resolve this. I’m retired now, so I have the time for such projects. (The Social Security administration probably counts on this.) I wonder if Miss Katshow likes chocolate…
Saturday, April 9, 2011
Retirement Emotions - Running the Gambit
In the few weeks that I’ve been retired, my emotions have been running the gambit. Relief that it’s finally here. Frustration that I haven’t made more progress on my key goals. Annoyance (with myself) that my professional pride has me spending too many hours a week finishing up loose ends for my old office. Satisfaction that by week three I was sleeping eight to nine hours each night and not getting up until I darn well felt like it.
At the end of March, I filed for Social Security using their on-line process. It was surprisingly user friendly, but it elicited some additional, unexpected emotions. Suspicion that the process was too easy; I must have missed something. Prompted by the question about whether I’ve ever gone by a different name, curiosity about what my former spouse is doing now. I know he remarried and had at least two children. From his Facebook page, it looks like he’s a grandfather. I reached out with a friend request, but it has gone unanswered. All these years I thought we had an amicable split. Color me disillusioned.
This week’s retirement emotions are panic and fear. The panic is because I’m discovering that, in order to keep my house tidy and dust free, I’ll need to spend about half my waking hours cleaning. I’ve never claimed to be a happy homemaker, but once the house is on the market, I’ll have no choice. While I prefer neat and clean, my budget doesn’t allow for outside help (more on budgets below,) and my lower back rebels after forty-five minutes of physical work. This has provided yet another reason to downsize and an urgency to make it happen.
The fear is because the shutdown of the federal government is looming as I write this. By the time you read it, there will likely have been a compromise that keeps the wheels of government creaking along. But for the past few days I’ve worried that I might not get my first Social Security payment when I had planned. If I understand correctly, the processing of new applications will grind to a halt with a shutdown. It seems unlikely that mine was completed in less than a week.
Although I realize this will be a short-term problem, it still worries me. I’m opting to start collecting six months before my “full retirement age.” Every month of delay should mean that my monthly payment would be slightly higher than it would be without a shutdown. You might think that this is good news, but I remind you that I’m a Virgo (or at least I was, before the new Zodiac debacle.) I’ve put together a detailed plan for my retirement. It depends on Social Security beginning in May.
Right now, I empathize with the military families wondering how they’re going to make their mortgage and car payments if the spouse on Uncle Sam’s payroll gets an IOU instead of the usual direct deposit. So there’s a good chance that I’ll spend this weekend tinkering with my budget and spending plans for the rest of this year, just in case. I’ll be looking for ways to save to offset the SS shortfall, and for other potential sources of income. (As if.)
Hmmm… Isn’t that what those folks in Congress were supposed to be doing these past several weeks? Talk about irony.
At the end of March, I filed for Social Security using their on-line process. It was surprisingly user friendly, but it elicited some additional, unexpected emotions. Suspicion that the process was too easy; I must have missed something. Prompted by the question about whether I’ve ever gone by a different name, curiosity about what my former spouse is doing now. I know he remarried and had at least two children. From his Facebook page, it looks like he’s a grandfather. I reached out with a friend request, but it has gone unanswered. All these years I thought we had an amicable split. Color me disillusioned.
This week’s retirement emotions are panic and fear. The panic is because I’m discovering that, in order to keep my house tidy and dust free, I’ll need to spend about half my waking hours cleaning. I’ve never claimed to be a happy homemaker, but once the house is on the market, I’ll have no choice. While I prefer neat and clean, my budget doesn’t allow for outside help (more on budgets below,) and my lower back rebels after forty-five minutes of physical work. This has provided yet another reason to downsize and an urgency to make it happen.
The fear is because the shutdown of the federal government is looming as I write this. By the time you read it, there will likely have been a compromise that keeps the wheels of government creaking along. But for the past few days I’ve worried that I might not get my first Social Security payment when I had planned. If I understand correctly, the processing of new applications will grind to a halt with a shutdown. It seems unlikely that mine was completed in less than a week.
Although I realize this will be a short-term problem, it still worries me. I’m opting to start collecting six months before my “full retirement age.” Every month of delay should mean that my monthly payment would be slightly higher than it would be without a shutdown. You might think that this is good news, but I remind you that I’m a Virgo (or at least I was, before the new Zodiac debacle.) I’ve put together a detailed plan for my retirement. It depends on Social Security beginning in May.
Right now, I empathize with the military families wondering how they’re going to make their mortgage and car payments if the spouse on Uncle Sam’s payroll gets an IOU instead of the usual direct deposit. So there’s a good chance that I’ll spend this weekend tinkering with my budget and spending plans for the rest of this year, just in case. I’ll be looking for ways to save to offset the SS shortfall, and for other potential sources of income. (As if.)
Hmmm… Isn’t that what those folks in Congress were supposed to be doing these past several weeks? Talk about irony.
Wednesday, April 6, 2011
Retirement Vacations - Places We Remember
Retirees have plenty of time to go on the vacations they’ve always planned on. Unfortunately, they don’t always have plenty of money to pay for them. As a service to my fellow retirees on fixed incomes, I’ve researched a variety of affordable vacation packages. These are sure to provide memories you will treasure.
California Botanical Delights
Travel to California to go to the San Francisco Flower Show. To get into the spirit of things, be sure to wear some flowers in your hair. Stop by the thrilling Fruit Exposition up on Blueberry Hill in nearby San José (if you know the way…) We recommend the optional side excursion to Napa wine country, where the air is fresher, the kisses are sweeter and the Pinot is always ready for a summer of love.
Buffet Lovers Getaway
For those who love the salt air and yards-long tables of food, but are on low-sodium diets, the popular Buffet Lovers Key West package is the perfect weekend getaway. Spend four days and three nights in Margaritaville. Extras include: guided tour of sponge cake factory reputedly owned by Jimmy Buffet, discount on tattoo by island artist Mexican Cutie, and all the frozen concoctions you can drink. Best of all, you won’t have to worry about any lost shaker of salt. Package includes plenty of low-sodium sea salt for your meals (or wherever you want to use it.)
Glen Campbell Memorial Circuit
The special Glen Campbell Memorial Circuit celebrates the cities he immortalized in his chart-topping songs. Trip kicks off in Phoenix, and by the time you get there, the world’s oldest, star spangled rodeo in nearby Prescott will be in full swing. Then it’s on to Kansas, where you’ll be a guest at an exclusive meet-and-greet with the original Wichita Cable Guy. Final stop: Galveston, where you can hear those sea waves crashing and look out beyond the sea. (Oh, wait. That was Bobby Darin…) You’ll also get a souvenir BeDazzler gem setter so you can come home looking like a Rhinestone Cowboy.
Rock and Roll Nostalgia Tour
Rock around the clock on a unique, nostalgic trip to Memphis. It starts with a visit to Graceland, but the real jewel is a private tour of the Rock and Roll Clothing Museum. You begin in the prom room, where you’ll see Marty Robbins’s white sport coat with a pink carnation—freeze dried (the carnation, not Robbins) and Elvis’s blue suede shoes. Also there—prom dresses in blue velvet and Chantilly lace. Special footwear collection includes white bucks, saddle shoes and bobby sox, and of course, tan shoes with pink shoe laces. For an extra fee, get photographed in the original teeny weenie, yellow polka dot bikini or Dooley’s polka dot vest and big panama with a purple hatband. Museum reproductions of all items are available in the gift shop, and seniors get a 5% discount.
Magical Islands Cruise
This is the perfect autumn vacation for those who enjoy the wind and the mist in their hair. Cruise the Hawaiian Islands on a boat with billowed sails. Ports of call include Kailua-Kona, Waikiki, and finally, on the island of Kauai, Poipu Beach and the mystical land of Honalee. Known for its magical potions and puffs of gentle breezes, Honalee is guaranteed to bring enchanted memories. String and sealing wax come with the package.
All tours include local ground transportation. Taxes are extra. Space is limited, so sign up early to be assured to get the tour of your choice. I’m seriously considering the Napa excursion (surprise, surprise.) On the other hand, I’ve always secretly wanted to get a tattoo. (Well, not on the other hand, actually…)
California Botanical Delights
Travel to California to go to the San Francisco Flower Show. To get into the spirit of things, be sure to wear some flowers in your hair. Stop by the thrilling Fruit Exposition up on Blueberry Hill in nearby San José (if you know the way…) We recommend the optional side excursion to Napa wine country, where the air is fresher, the kisses are sweeter and the Pinot is always ready for a summer of love.
Buffet Lovers Getaway
For those who love the salt air and yards-long tables of food, but are on low-sodium diets, the popular Buffet Lovers Key West package is the perfect weekend getaway. Spend four days and three nights in Margaritaville. Extras include: guided tour of sponge cake factory reputedly owned by Jimmy Buffet, discount on tattoo by island artist Mexican Cutie, and all the frozen concoctions you can drink. Best of all, you won’t have to worry about any lost shaker of salt. Package includes plenty of low-sodium sea salt for your meals (or wherever you want to use it.)
Glen Campbell Memorial Circuit
The special Glen Campbell Memorial Circuit celebrates the cities he immortalized in his chart-topping songs. Trip kicks off in Phoenix, and by the time you get there, the world’s oldest, star spangled rodeo in nearby Prescott will be in full swing. Then it’s on to Kansas, where you’ll be a guest at an exclusive meet-and-greet with the original Wichita Cable Guy. Final stop: Galveston, where you can hear those sea waves crashing and look out beyond the sea. (Oh, wait. That was Bobby Darin…) You’ll also get a souvenir BeDazzler gem setter so you can come home looking like a Rhinestone Cowboy.
Rock and Roll Nostalgia Tour
Rock around the clock on a unique, nostalgic trip to Memphis. It starts with a visit to Graceland, but the real jewel is a private tour of the Rock and Roll Clothing Museum. You begin in the prom room, where you’ll see Marty Robbins’s white sport coat with a pink carnation—freeze dried (the carnation, not Robbins) and Elvis’s blue suede shoes. Also there—prom dresses in blue velvet and Chantilly lace. Special footwear collection includes white bucks, saddle shoes and bobby sox, and of course, tan shoes with pink shoe laces. For an extra fee, get photographed in the original teeny weenie, yellow polka dot bikini or Dooley’s polka dot vest and big panama with a purple hatband. Museum reproductions of all items are available in the gift shop, and seniors get a 5% discount.
Magical Islands Cruise
This is the perfect autumn vacation for those who enjoy the wind and the mist in their hair. Cruise the Hawaiian Islands on a boat with billowed sails. Ports of call include Kailua-Kona, Waikiki, and finally, on the island of Kauai, Poipu Beach and the mystical land of Honalee. Known for its magical potions and puffs of gentle breezes, Honalee is guaranteed to bring enchanted memories. String and sealing wax come with the package.
All tours include local ground transportation. Taxes are extra. Space is limited, so sign up early to be assured to get the tour of your choice. I’m seriously considering the Napa excursion (surprise, surprise.) On the other hand, I’ve always secretly wanted to get a tattoo. (Well, not on the other hand, actually…)
Saturday, April 2, 2011
Retirement Report - Week Two
This marks the end of my second week of retirement and I confess that I’ve made only minimal progress in getting control of my life. Here’s a summary report.
Goal: Sleeping in every morning. (That’s until 9 am or later; I’m not a morning person.)
Monday: Goal achieved.
Tuesday: Vet appointment at 9 am. Set my alarm for 8 to give plenty of time to trick the cats into coming close enough for me to corral them into their carry cases. The cases come out so rarely that they know where they’re headed as soon as they see them.
Wednesday: Set my alarm for 6:35 am because my husband had a 7:30 doctor’s appointment. He can’t seem to set his own alarm correctly. (Turns out he’s been setting it for pm.) Went back to bed, but by then it didn’t feel like “sleeping in.”
Thursday: Luke began yowling around 5:30 am; (it’s spring now.) He followed that by burrowing next to me under the blankets, and then a trip to his window perch. Yowl. Burrow. Perch. Repeat. And repeat again. This was punctuated by a bout of my husband’s morning snoring—brief, but effective. So much for sleeping late.
Friday: Goal achieved, barely. The morning was overcast so Luke slept late, but I had an 11 am appointment, so I was up at 9.
Goals: 1. Declutter and organize stuff to sell or donate and 2. Keep up with my writing.
Monday: Finally set up the computer I bought December 31st. Installing software was a challenge, so I moved on to sorting more photos. Deconstructed two collages (popular in the seventies) and put photos into albums that had room. Looking at pictures of myself decades ago propelled me into a mild depression. Took a restorative nap in the afternoon.
Tuesday: Had late breakfast after trip to the vet. Good news: the cats have put back on some of the weight they had lost. If only they could take if off me, we’d be golden. Wrote first pass at Wednesday’s blog. Spent three hours laying out the 2010 annual report for my old job. A productive day on the computer, but personal goals only half met.
Wednesday: Edited blog post in am. Delivered lunch to husband around noon. (In the afterglow of his encouraging doctor’s visit, he had forgotten it.) From there to my old office to deliver draft of annual report and help prepare the application for the federal charitable campaign. Five and a half hours later, headed home. Another productive day, but again not much progress on my own goals.
Thursday: Made small headway sorting and packing. Began draft of this post. Hand washed some antique table linens from rooms that were just redone. Filed for Social Security online (not a goal, but a critical “to do.”) The question: “Have you ever gone by another name?” reminded me of my previous marriage and led me to wonder what my ex is doing now. At this point in the day I’m easily distracted, so I was off to Google and Facebook to investigate.
Friday am: Met with a curator at my alma mater to arrange donation of some old sheet music. I learned recently that their library has one of the largest collections of sheet music in the country, so mine has gone to a good home. Researched an idea for a future blog. Sorted through more photos and frames. I swear these photos are like the loaves and the fishes. The more I sort through, the more turn up somewhere else.
Friday night: Went with a friend to hear a rock band at a local club. Not my decade of music, nor hers, but the drummer is her friend’s son. This was a tour gig, so we went to cheer him. He couldn’t possibly have heard us above the noise. I’ll tell you one thing: if I didn’t feel like a retiree before Friday night, I sure do now. Next time I’m bringing earplugs. Say what? I said: NEXT TIME I’M BRINGING EARPLUGS.
I gratefully sank into bed around 12:30. At 12:45 my phone rang. It was my husband, who had just closed his store. Someone had borrowed his car during the day, and my husband wandered around for a few blocks, but couldn’t find it. I got dressed and drove to pick him up; (his store is just a mile from our house.) In two minutes we found his car exactly where it was supposed to be. Turns out he’d mixed up the street names where he’d been walking.
It was 1:15 when I crawled back into bed. So much for my fun night out. I assumed people were exaggerating when they said the hardest part of retirement was keeping your spouse from driving you crazy, but you just can’t make this stuff up. I hope Apple releases that “Find My Car” app soon. I’d hate to spend my next birthday in jail…
Goal: Sleeping in every morning. (That’s until 9 am or later; I’m not a morning person.)
Monday: Goal achieved.
Tuesday: Vet appointment at 9 am. Set my alarm for 8 to give plenty of time to trick the cats into coming close enough for me to corral them into their carry cases. The cases come out so rarely that they know where they’re headed as soon as they see them.
Wednesday: Set my alarm for 6:35 am because my husband had a 7:30 doctor’s appointment. He can’t seem to set his own alarm correctly. (Turns out he’s been setting it for pm.) Went back to bed, but by then it didn’t feel like “sleeping in.”
Thursday: Luke began yowling around 5:30 am; (it’s spring now.) He followed that by burrowing next to me under the blankets, and then a trip to his window perch. Yowl. Burrow. Perch. Repeat. And repeat again. This was punctuated by a bout of my husband’s morning snoring—brief, but effective. So much for sleeping late.
Friday: Goal achieved, barely. The morning was overcast so Luke slept late, but I had an 11 am appointment, so I was up at 9.
Goals: 1. Declutter and organize stuff to sell or donate and 2. Keep up with my writing.
Monday: Finally set up the computer I bought December 31st. Installing software was a challenge, so I moved on to sorting more photos. Deconstructed two collages (popular in the seventies) and put photos into albums that had room. Looking at pictures of myself decades ago propelled me into a mild depression. Took a restorative nap in the afternoon.
Tuesday: Had late breakfast after trip to the vet. Good news: the cats have put back on some of the weight they had lost. If only they could take if off me, we’d be golden. Wrote first pass at Wednesday’s blog. Spent three hours laying out the 2010 annual report for my old job. A productive day on the computer, but personal goals only half met.
Wednesday: Edited blog post in am. Delivered lunch to husband around noon. (In the afterglow of his encouraging doctor’s visit, he had forgotten it.) From there to my old office to deliver draft of annual report and help prepare the application for the federal charitable campaign. Five and a half hours later, headed home. Another productive day, but again not much progress on my own goals.
Thursday: Made small headway sorting and packing. Began draft of this post. Hand washed some antique table linens from rooms that were just redone. Filed for Social Security online (not a goal, but a critical “to do.”) The question: “Have you ever gone by another name?” reminded me of my previous marriage and led me to wonder what my ex is doing now. At this point in the day I’m easily distracted, so I was off to Google and Facebook to investigate.
Friday am: Met with a curator at my alma mater to arrange donation of some old sheet music. I learned recently that their library has one of the largest collections of sheet music in the country, so mine has gone to a good home. Researched an idea for a future blog. Sorted through more photos and frames. I swear these photos are like the loaves and the fishes. The more I sort through, the more turn up somewhere else.
Friday night: Went with a friend to hear a rock band at a local club. Not my decade of music, nor hers, but the drummer is her friend’s son. This was a tour gig, so we went to cheer him. He couldn’t possibly have heard us above the noise. I’ll tell you one thing: if I didn’t feel like a retiree before Friday night, I sure do now. Next time I’m bringing earplugs. Say what? I said: NEXT TIME I’M BRINGING EARPLUGS.
I gratefully sank into bed around 12:30. At 12:45 my phone rang. It was my husband, who had just closed his store. Someone had borrowed his car during the day, and my husband wandered around for a few blocks, but couldn’t find it. I got dressed and drove to pick him up; (his store is just a mile from our house.) In two minutes we found his car exactly where it was supposed to be. Turns out he’d mixed up the street names where he’d been walking.
It was 1:15 when I crawled back into bed. So much for my fun night out. I assumed people were exaggerating when they said the hardest part of retirement was keeping your spouse from driving you crazy, but you just can’t make this stuff up. I hope Apple releases that “Find My Car” app soon. I’d hate to spend my next birthday in jail…
Wednesday, March 30, 2011
Retirement Tools - An App for That
Retirement is a time when it makes sense to adopt new technology; it can make our lives so much easier. Fortunately, we have plenty of time to become familiar with new things. Unfortunately, the ETrade baby is more tech savvy than much of the generation that witnessed Woodstock and Watergate. (He even has more hair than many of us.)
Among the newer tools are the apps for smart phones. For those out of touch with the lingo, “app” is short for “application,” not “aptitude,” but you do need some skill to use these. My cell phone is stupid; it’s for emergencies and travel and has a 100 minutes per month limit. I never text; that costs extra. I don’t even know if the phone takes pictures.
Nonetheless, when I hear: “There’s an app for that,” it piques my curiosity. So, for those with phones that are smarter than mine (which would be most, if not all, of you…), I’ve researched some of the newest, coolest, most useful apps for retirees.
The first of these is Apple’s Find My iPhone, which gives you a map showing where your phone is. It’s not clear how a map on the phone you can’t find can help you locate that phone. However, I have it on good authority that variations will be available shortly that will pinpoint your car in a multi-story parking garage and your reading glasses anywhere in your house, including on top of your head. Now those are apps that retirees are waiting for.
Another good app is Word Lens. The original was developed to translate printed material between English and Spanish. You’ll want to get the up ‘til now top secret "big print" version, which is in beta testing. Point your smart phone at any printed info and it will magnify it to the level you’ve specified. This will be especially helpful if you’ve misplaced your reading glasses and don’t have the Find My Glasses app. As your eyesight gets progressively worse, just key in the new magnification and you’re back in business. That’s an app worth getting a smart phone for.
If you’re a retirochondriac (see recent post on that,) you’ll want to get the WebMD app to search your symptoms. Few people know about its companion MedAlert app that tracks down your physician with an emergency page. The app is smart enough to figure out which doctor from your lengthy contact list handles the condition involved. I don’t know about you, but sometimes I’m not even sure who handles what in my healthcare.
The gardeners among you will want the Weed Wacker app. Snap a photo of any emerging greenery (or brownery) and the app will tell you whether to pull it, pluck it, mulch it or fertilize it. The game Trade Nations is described as “best played in short, productive bursts.” Talk about an app made in heaven for retirees. I wish my entire day could be spent in short, productive bursts. Puzzle Agent promises an “engrossing experience” that combines “classic adventure games with thought-provoking puzzles.” I've reached the age where most puzzles are engrossing or thought-provoking. I don’t need an app for that.
Many apps do price comparisons, but I decided to check out Budget Police. With most retirees on fixed budgets, it sounded like a sure winner. You key in your weekly spending allocation and your proposed shopping list. It prioritizes your purchases and tells you where to get them at the best price. If your list goes over budget, it deletes the items it decides you don’t need. I did a test run with Budget Police. It deleted the wine off my list and said I was over quota for the month. You can be sure I won’t be upgrading to a smart phone to get an app that tells me I can’t buy wine.
N.O.V.A.2 is a game app that arms you with futuristic powers, like slowing down time, an invaluable tool for a retiree. I hear that N.O.V.A.3 (due out next year) will enable you to aim your phone at any part of your body and relieve the symptoms of arthritis. N.O.V.A.4 (still under development) will work similarly, but will burn off fat. I’m on the advance purchase list for that one. If it really works, I’d like to join the Artisanal Chocolate of the Month Club. I wonder if there’s an app for that…
Among the newer tools are the apps for smart phones. For those out of touch with the lingo, “app” is short for “application,” not “aptitude,” but you do need some skill to use these. My cell phone is stupid; it’s for emergencies and travel and has a 100 minutes per month limit. I never text; that costs extra. I don’t even know if the phone takes pictures.
Nonetheless, when I hear: “There’s an app for that,” it piques my curiosity. So, for those with phones that are smarter than mine (which would be most, if not all, of you…), I’ve researched some of the newest, coolest, most useful apps for retirees.
The first of these is Apple’s Find My iPhone, which gives you a map showing where your phone is. It’s not clear how a map on the phone you can’t find can help you locate that phone. However, I have it on good authority that variations will be available shortly that will pinpoint your car in a multi-story parking garage and your reading glasses anywhere in your house, including on top of your head. Now those are apps that retirees are waiting for.
Another good app is Word Lens. The original was developed to translate printed material between English and Spanish. You’ll want to get the up ‘til now top secret "big print" version, which is in beta testing. Point your smart phone at any printed info and it will magnify it to the level you’ve specified. This will be especially helpful if you’ve misplaced your reading glasses and don’t have the Find My Glasses app. As your eyesight gets progressively worse, just key in the new magnification and you’re back in business. That’s an app worth getting a smart phone for.
If you’re a retirochondriac (see recent post on that,) you’ll want to get the WebMD app to search your symptoms. Few people know about its companion MedAlert app that tracks down your physician with an emergency page. The app is smart enough to figure out which doctor from your lengthy contact list handles the condition involved. I don’t know about you, but sometimes I’m not even sure who handles what in my healthcare.
The gardeners among you will want the Weed Wacker app. Snap a photo of any emerging greenery (or brownery) and the app will tell you whether to pull it, pluck it, mulch it or fertilize it. The game Trade Nations is described as “best played in short, productive bursts.” Talk about an app made in heaven for retirees. I wish my entire day could be spent in short, productive bursts. Puzzle Agent promises an “engrossing experience” that combines “classic adventure games with thought-provoking puzzles.” I've reached the age where most puzzles are engrossing or thought-provoking. I don’t need an app for that.
Many apps do price comparisons, but I decided to check out Budget Police. With most retirees on fixed budgets, it sounded like a sure winner. You key in your weekly spending allocation and your proposed shopping list. It prioritizes your purchases and tells you where to get them at the best price. If your list goes over budget, it deletes the items it decides you don’t need. I did a test run with Budget Police. It deleted the wine off my list and said I was over quota for the month. You can be sure I won’t be upgrading to a smart phone to get an app that tells me I can’t buy wine.
N.O.V.A.2 is a game app that arms you with futuristic powers, like slowing down time, an invaluable tool for a retiree. I hear that N.O.V.A.3 (due out next year) will enable you to aim your phone at any part of your body and relieve the symptoms of arthritis. N.O.V.A.4 (still under development) will work similarly, but will burn off fat. I’m on the advance purchase list for that one. If it really works, I’d like to join the Artisanal Chocolate of the Month Club. I wonder if there’s an app for that…
Saturday, March 26, 2011
Retirement Issues - Retirochondria
So many people are self-diagnosing by Googling their health symptoms that medical professionals have coined a new term: “cyberchondriacs.” It describes those who get so immersed in health-related research online that they’re sure they have dozens of ailments.
In my week of retirement I’m already more in tune with my body’s aches and pains than when I was going to an office. Either our house is an environmental hazard, or the leisure time that retirement affords leads to physical introspection along with psychological.
Of course, there is a third possibility. Like many new retirees, I’m watching more TV. This will wear thin pretty quickly, but for now, I’m doing it just because I can. It seems every third commercial is for a remedy for some health issue. During a few of these commercials, I’ve noted that I have at least one of the symptoms described.
I’m then compelled to go online to learn more about whether my symptoms (morning stiffness and fatigue, for example) mean I have fibromyalgia (for example) or some other ailment for which treatment is less pricey. This leads to more research, and a sizable list of conditions that cause stiffness, fatigue and memory problems. (I forgot to mention that one.)
Although many of these are normal signs of aging, I’m drawn to the more exotic explanations. Simply put, I’m at risk of becoming a “retirochondriac.” I’m sure there are thousands like me out there, perhaps too ashamed to admit it. Know that you are not alone. Step into the light.
Some of the information I’ve uncovered is alarming. For awhile I’ve been experiencing seemingly contradictory symptoms in my toes—both numb and at the same time tingly with sharp pain. A friend said it sounds like neuropathy but I’m not so sure. When I checked these symptoms online, I discovered I might have been stung by a cone snail.
This is not as far fetched as it may seem. From the photos, I recognized these critters as being among the shells displayed artistically in a china bowl in our living room. (Some of you would say they are simply piled in the bowl, but you would be lacking creative vision.) Now I imagine the snails crawling around the house at night, looking for toes to sting. Laugh if you must, but I’m taking this very seriously. Severe cases of cone snail stings can lead to blurred vision (hm-m-m…) and respiratory paralysis. Note to self: ask eye doctor what he knows about cone snails.
Closer to home is the possibility that I have atrial fibrillation, which my mother had and which more than doubles one’s likelihood of developing dementia after surviving a stroke. My mind is already wandering dangerously close to the outskirts of sanity. I don’t need to add to my risk of dementia. The commercial for MULTAQ prompted me to learn the symptoms of AFib and where better to look than online?
Lack of energy—check, especially after a big meal (or a few glasses of wine…) Heart palpitations—check, but only when I lie awake at night thinking about everything I didn’t get done. Dizziness—check, especially when I stand up suddenly (after a few glasses of wine.) This is definitely something I’ll ask my GP to investigate on my next visit.
While I was on WebMD, I researched one of my husband’s symptoms. He’s developed a quirk in his sleep—his legs twitch. Repeatedly. And at regular intervals. (I timed them at 12 to 15 seconds.) I assumed he has restless leg syndrome. Turns out it’s Periodic Limb Movement Disorder. PLMD happens only at night, and the usual intervals are 20 to 40 seconds. Causes can include iron deficiency and anemia. He’s been tired lately and needs more sleep. It’s no wonder. You’d be exhausted, too, if you exercised all night.
His recent blood tests showed that his hemoglobin is low, and his doctors have run additional tests. They’ve scheduled him at a sleep clinic because they suspect he suffers from apnea, along with anemia. (This diagnosis brought to you by the letter “A.") If they just spent a little more time on WebMD (or in bed with him,) they’d look into PLMD. Fortunately, the sleep clinic can also detect PLMD. I’m looking forward to his trip so we can sort this out, and so I’ll get at least one good night’s sleep.
Time for one last pass through the symptoms search on WebMD. Let’s see what we find for being exhausted (especially after clearing out a wall full of books and other stuff,) craving ice cream sandwiches (and a glass of Cab,) frequent trips to the loo (after lots of Cab,) and mood swings (when I’ve run out of ice cream and wine.) Well, what do you know! It looks like I may be pregnant. I guess that means I should cut out the wine, but who are we kidding. I’m as likely to do that as I am to be pregnant.
So much for self-diagnosis. Seriously, we all need to be our own best health advocates. The more we understand our bodies and our baseline conditions, the better we can help our physicians keep us healthy. So, get on the Internet, research your symptoms and make your own list of ailments to annoy your doctor about. And don’t forget cone snails.
In my week of retirement I’m already more in tune with my body’s aches and pains than when I was going to an office. Either our house is an environmental hazard, or the leisure time that retirement affords leads to physical introspection along with psychological.
Of course, there is a third possibility. Like many new retirees, I’m watching more TV. This will wear thin pretty quickly, but for now, I’m doing it just because I can. It seems every third commercial is for a remedy for some health issue. During a few of these commercials, I’ve noted that I have at least one of the symptoms described.
I’m then compelled to go online to learn more about whether my symptoms (morning stiffness and fatigue, for example) mean I have fibromyalgia (for example) or some other ailment for which treatment is less pricey. This leads to more research, and a sizable list of conditions that cause stiffness, fatigue and memory problems. (I forgot to mention that one.)
Although many of these are normal signs of aging, I’m drawn to the more exotic explanations. Simply put, I’m at risk of becoming a “retirochondriac.” I’m sure there are thousands like me out there, perhaps too ashamed to admit it. Know that you are not alone. Step into the light.
Some of the information I’ve uncovered is alarming. For awhile I’ve been experiencing seemingly contradictory symptoms in my toes—both numb and at the same time tingly with sharp pain. A friend said it sounds like neuropathy but I’m not so sure. When I checked these symptoms online, I discovered I might have been stung by a cone snail.
This is not as far fetched as it may seem. From the photos, I recognized these critters as being among the shells displayed artistically in a china bowl in our living room. (Some of you would say they are simply piled in the bowl, but you would be lacking creative vision.) Now I imagine the snails crawling around the house at night, looking for toes to sting. Laugh if you must, but I’m taking this very seriously. Severe cases of cone snail stings can lead to blurred vision (hm-m-m…) and respiratory paralysis. Note to self: ask eye doctor what he knows about cone snails.
Closer to home is the possibility that I have atrial fibrillation, which my mother had and which more than doubles one’s likelihood of developing dementia after surviving a stroke. My mind is already wandering dangerously close to the outskirts of sanity. I don’t need to add to my risk of dementia. The commercial for MULTAQ prompted me to learn the symptoms of AFib and where better to look than online?
Lack of energy—check, especially after a big meal (or a few glasses of wine…) Heart palpitations—check, but only when I lie awake at night thinking about everything I didn’t get done. Dizziness—check, especially when I stand up suddenly (after a few glasses of wine.) This is definitely something I’ll ask my GP to investigate on my next visit.
While I was on WebMD, I researched one of my husband’s symptoms. He’s developed a quirk in his sleep—his legs twitch. Repeatedly. And at regular intervals. (I timed them at 12 to 15 seconds.) I assumed he has restless leg syndrome. Turns out it’s Periodic Limb Movement Disorder. PLMD happens only at night, and the usual intervals are 20 to 40 seconds. Causes can include iron deficiency and anemia. He’s been tired lately and needs more sleep. It’s no wonder. You’d be exhausted, too, if you exercised all night.
His recent blood tests showed that his hemoglobin is low, and his doctors have run additional tests. They’ve scheduled him at a sleep clinic because they suspect he suffers from apnea, along with anemia. (This diagnosis brought to you by the letter “A.") If they just spent a little more time on WebMD (or in bed with him,) they’d look into PLMD. Fortunately, the sleep clinic can also detect PLMD. I’m looking forward to his trip so we can sort this out, and so I’ll get at least one good night’s sleep.
Time for one last pass through the symptoms search on WebMD. Let’s see what we find for being exhausted (especially after clearing out a wall full of books and other stuff,) craving ice cream sandwiches (and a glass of Cab,) frequent trips to the loo (after lots of Cab,) and mood swings (when I’ve run out of ice cream and wine.) Well, what do you know! It looks like I may be pregnant. I guess that means I should cut out the wine, but who are we kidding. I’m as likely to do that as I am to be pregnant.
So much for self-diagnosis. Seriously, we all need to be our own best health advocates. The more we understand our bodies and our baseline conditions, the better we can help our physicians keep us healthy. So, get on the Internet, research your symptoms and make your own list of ailments to annoy your doctor about. And don’t forget cone snails.
Wednesday, March 23, 2011
Retirement Transitions - “Free” Time
Reporting in after three days of retirement, I’m already getting a taste of what those who have gone before me keep saying: you are busier when you retire than you were when you worked full time.
Much of Monday was spent sorting through items on the built-in shelves in our family room. Mostly we’re talking framed photos and books, with a few other items to break the monotony. I’ve removed half the photos, but I’ll lay odds that my realtor (yet to be chosen) will tell me there are still too many. But deciding which family photos to get rid of is a tad too much “Sophie’s Choice” for me right now.
The books were also challenging. I wasn’t committed enough to the task to get the step stool, so I couldn’t reach the top three shelves. Still, I felt a sense of accomplishment as I cleaned several layers of grime off the bare shelves and then put back the keepers. I was left with stacks of books and photos to sort for further disposition. Some of the piles are now upstairs, near a wall of built-ins that hold exclusively books. I fear I’ve simply moved the monkey off one back and onto another.
On a positive note, this process motivated me to assemble a few storage boxes and dig out packing material from the basement. It was left from our move here in 1992. I rarely throw out anything that can be recycled. This in itself will pose a challenge to downsizing, but I’ll deal with that another day.
Once I had the boxes and bubble wrap and tissue, I began sorting through the piles of tchotchke that have been accumulating as the workmen attacked various projects these last few months. (I’ve been careful not to re-clutter the rooms as they get spiffed up for that buyer with deep pockets who is going to fall in love with our house.) Ever the Virgo (or at least I used to be,) I’m systematically sorting the excess décor. Some to sell, some to donate and some to pack to take with us when we move.
All in all, I considered Monday to be a productive day. Then there was Tuesday, which has me wondering about the phrase “free” time. I spent most of the day running errands, yet I got very little accomplished for my downsizing goal.
My tax paperwork had arrived from my accountant Monday. Who knew so many things that used to be 100% deductible no longer are at all, or are now subject to those percent-of-income thresholds? Tuesday’s errands included trips to two banks to move funds from my left pocket to my right so I can reward our mutual uncle for another year of… remind me again what we reward him for?
Other locations that were graced by my retired self on Tuesday: Home Depot, Job Lot, the local hardware/paint store—twice (yes, I forgot some things,) and the local food market. This last stop I had planned because Tuesday is their senior discount day. They didn’t ask for proof of age, but that didn’t offend me. For them, anyone over 55 is a senior, but the average age of those in the store was 80 plus. Many of them were having lunch in the little café area, apparently a social event. I couldn’t decide if I found this cute or scary, which in and of itself is frightening.
Along the way, I stopped at my friend’s house, planning to surprise her for a cuppa. Unfortunately, she was not home, bursting yet another bubble of how much fun having “free” time would be—dropping in unexpectedly for a relaxed chat. The upside (?) of this was that it left me with time to do a second load of laundry.
This brings us to Wednesday. Shortly after noon, I headed to my old office to tie up some loose ends and to participate in a conference call for a committee that I agreed to support for a few months. I even packed my lunch Tuesday night, a workday ritual. The few hours planned expanded to five and a half hours spent. At least it wasn’t a Friday.
Right about now, those of you who’ve been through this transition are yelling at your computer screens: “Stop it! You’re retired! You should not be going to the office. You should be having fun.” Rest assured, I’m yelling the same things at myself, along with: “And where was the part about getting some exercise?”
I promise I’ll do better next week. I will not give up on my friend where I stopped for tea. You don’t need to worry that I’ll become part of the Tuesday lunch crowd at the local market. I’ve never been much of a joiner. More likely, I’ll start having lunch with my friend. She serves wine in her café.
Much of Monday was spent sorting through items on the built-in shelves in our family room. Mostly we’re talking framed photos and books, with a few other items to break the monotony. I’ve removed half the photos, but I’ll lay odds that my realtor (yet to be chosen) will tell me there are still too many. But deciding which family photos to get rid of is a tad too much “Sophie’s Choice” for me right now.
The books were also challenging. I wasn’t committed enough to the task to get the step stool, so I couldn’t reach the top three shelves. Still, I felt a sense of accomplishment as I cleaned several layers of grime off the bare shelves and then put back the keepers. I was left with stacks of books and photos to sort for further disposition. Some of the piles are now upstairs, near a wall of built-ins that hold exclusively books. I fear I’ve simply moved the monkey off one back and onto another.
On a positive note, this process motivated me to assemble a few storage boxes and dig out packing material from the basement. It was left from our move here in 1992. I rarely throw out anything that can be recycled. This in itself will pose a challenge to downsizing, but I’ll deal with that another day.
Once I had the boxes and bubble wrap and tissue, I began sorting through the piles of tchotchke that have been accumulating as the workmen attacked various projects these last few months. (I’ve been careful not to re-clutter the rooms as they get spiffed up for that buyer with deep pockets who is going to fall in love with our house.) Ever the Virgo (or at least I used to be,) I’m systematically sorting the excess décor. Some to sell, some to donate and some to pack to take with us when we move.
All in all, I considered Monday to be a productive day. Then there was Tuesday, which has me wondering about the phrase “free” time. I spent most of the day running errands, yet I got very little accomplished for my downsizing goal.
My tax paperwork had arrived from my accountant Monday. Who knew so many things that used to be 100% deductible no longer are at all, or are now subject to those percent-of-income thresholds? Tuesday’s errands included trips to two banks to move funds from my left pocket to my right so I can reward our mutual uncle for another year of… remind me again what we reward him for?
Other locations that were graced by my retired self on Tuesday: Home Depot, Job Lot, the local hardware/paint store—twice (yes, I forgot some things,) and the local food market. This last stop I had planned because Tuesday is their senior discount day. They didn’t ask for proof of age, but that didn’t offend me. For them, anyone over 55 is a senior, but the average age of those in the store was 80 plus. Many of them were having lunch in the little café area, apparently a social event. I couldn’t decide if I found this cute or scary, which in and of itself is frightening.
Along the way, I stopped at my friend’s house, planning to surprise her for a cuppa. Unfortunately, she was not home, bursting yet another bubble of how much fun having “free” time would be—dropping in unexpectedly for a relaxed chat. The upside (?) of this was that it left me with time to do a second load of laundry.
This brings us to Wednesday. Shortly after noon, I headed to my old office to tie up some loose ends and to participate in a conference call for a committee that I agreed to support for a few months. I even packed my lunch Tuesday night, a workday ritual. The few hours planned expanded to five and a half hours spent. At least it wasn’t a Friday.
Right about now, those of you who’ve been through this transition are yelling at your computer screens: “Stop it! You’re retired! You should not be going to the office. You should be having fun.” Rest assured, I’m yelling the same things at myself, along with: “And where was the part about getting some exercise?”
I promise I’ll do better next week. I will not give up on my friend where I stopped for tea. You don’t need to worry that I’ll become part of the Tuesday lunch crowd at the local market. I’ve never been much of a joiner. More likely, I’ll start having lunch with my friend. She serves wine in her café.
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