Sophie’s Choice Decluttering

One of my earliest posts dealt with the process of downsizing, especially figuring out what to keep and what to jettison. I confessed my weakness of anthropomorphizing objects, which made the process even more difficult. I imagined the floor lamp selected to be discarded saying: “Why me? Why not him? Why am I not as lovable? Look how interesting MY shade is! Just put a stronger bulb in me, for heaven’s sake!”

As we get closer to moving to smaller living quarters (please, Lord), I’m once again rummaging through my closets to see what should stay and what should go. As I handle each item, I’ve found myself wandering down memory lane into a Sophie’s Choice of decluttering.

It started with my bathrobes, something I seldom wear, but feel I should have, just in case. (There’s that “just in case” again.) I found four of them. One is royal blue silk, kimono style, with a huge embroidered eagle on the back. It’s the only knee length one; it’s good for most travel needs; and it makes me feel exotic, so it’s a keeper.

The next one is also kimono style. It’s long and red (my favorite color) and it has embroidered scenes on the back and front. I bought it on a trip to San Francisco—part business, part pleasure. I coordinated the timing with my parents’ visit to my brother. The robe came from Chinatown and it reminds me of the fun we had wandering the shops together.

My mother liked San Francisco, but not the morning fog, which she said left a funny smell that hung in the air over people’s homes. By people, she meant my brother’s pothead friends, in whose house we stayed. I can still hear my father telling them to put a saucer under the tomato plant on the end table, or else it would leave a ring. That reminded me of my brother’s friend back in New Jersey, whose wife wondered why the “tomato plants” outside their garden apartment never bore any fruit.

I have another long, kimono style robe. It’s also red, but it’s polished cotton with printed flowers, and it washes beautifully. My brother-in-law gave it to me when I had my cancer surgery in Vermont. I’d been misdiagnosed for months in New Jersey, where I lived. My brother-in-law (a physician) networked me into an appointment with the best breast surgeon in Burlington for a second opinion. I eventually entered a National Institutes of Health study and had my initial treatment up there.

The fourth robe in my closet was a get-well-gift from some of my closest friends from my days at Colgate Palmolive. I remember wearing it in the hospital after my surgery. It’s long and heavier—a rich cranberry jacquard, lined with turquoise terrycloth, which absorbs water nicely. It’s perfect for cold weather mornings. It was also great to put on while I was doubled over from my surgery and unable to dry off thoroughly after my shower.

You might wonder why I’d want to keep things associated with serious health problems. Those last two robes remind me that I got through such a difficult time because of the love and support of family and friends. Parting with any of my robes, no matter how seldom I wear them, would be a Sophie’s Choice dilemma—like deciding which of my children to give up.

After my bathrobe foray, I decided that clothes closets were not the best place to start this phase of decluttering. I moved downstairs to tackle some kitchen cabinets. Surely somewhere among the dozen or so flower vases were a few that could be parted with.

Well, not the Baccarat. That’s the one my sister and her husband gave us for our wedding. It’s a classic shape that works with both modern and traditional décor. Plus, it curves like waves, and I’ve put blue silk flowers in it to create positive “water” feng shui in our entry hall. And not the vase that Vivek and Anu gave us. That’s the only one tall enough and heavy enough to corral a dozen roses. It’s held many anniversary bouquets from my husband over the years.

You can guess where this is headed. No matter how long it takes to sell our house, I’m doomed to pack up and move with us cartons full of “children” I can’t part with. Don’t worry about where I’ll put all of it. Basement storage is one of our down-sized condo must-haves. A wine cellar would be nice, too.

3-D Printers for Retirees

News items and crime shows have made me aware of a wide range of products that can be fabricated with the new 3-D printers. It’s no surprise that bad guys use them to make guns. But printed pizza? You’ve got to be kidding me.

Apparently not. Guns. Architectural models. Jewelry. Clothing. And now pizza. The University of Exeter in the UK and US-based 3-D Systems are each working on printing chocolate. (There is a God!) Nike and New Balance already print custom-fit shoes for athletes. A textile company in Pakistan has printed a nylon bikini. It looks a tad like one I crocheted for myself back in the seventies. I hope it holds up in water better than the one I made.

There may be no end to the 3-D printing possibilities, but there can certainly be a beginning, and I’m here to provide it. A 3-D printer could be a retiree’s new best friend.

How about walking shoes with Velcro straps? Design them especially to fit your feet, with all their bumps and idiosyncrasies. When the Velcro wears out, you can print new straps. Have your arches fallen a tad since you made the shoes? Adjust the printer to fit your new curvature (or lack thereof) and make custom insoles. If the shoes lose their grip, make new bottoms. At the rate I’ve been (not) walking, sole wear-down would be the last of my concerns.

A helpful capability would be printing new lids for Tupperware-type containers. Doesn’t every household have an infinite supply of bottoms with missing tops? And a considerable number of tops that match none of those bottoms? This new tool could remove that find-a-match stress from retired life.

Lost a button on your shirt and can’t find one in with the right diameter and number of holes in your button box? Just print a replacement. This works great for shank buttons, too. You’ll still have to sew it on yourself, but getting the right button is half the battle. Actually, getting my husband to tell me he’s missing a button is a bigger issue. In our household, laundry day is also discovery day.

The latest 3-D printing use—pizza—opens the door to a whole new category—food. This can take the pressure off us on making a thorough shopping list. You forgot to get romaine? No problem. Simply print up a head. Better yet, print up a few leaves each time you need them. That way they’ll always be fresh and crisp. Leaves too thick for you to chew with your late-life teeth? Re-calibrate and print them thinner.

Even better: make yourself new teeth that cut more easily. At the International Dental Show in Cologne, 3Dprintinginsider.com reported on a German company’s process for producing removable partial dentures with these printers. “Data created by intraoral scanners or from scanning an impression” creates a virtual model that is sliced and then directs a “focused laser beam to fuse metal powder in successive layers until the prosthesis is complete.” Isn’t technology grand!

A truly useful option would be printing new fashion eyewear frames. I don’t know about you, but I go through several pairs of magnifiers each month. They’re not expensive, but it’s hard to find my number. The lenses are generally still OK, but the frames break. If I could print new frames, I could pop in the lenses from the old ones and I’d be in business. Maybe literally, as well as figuratively. Frames-on-demand could make me extremely popular in my retirement community.

Worried that you can’t afford a 3-D printer? Get your condo association or one of your activities clubs to buy it. When you have a group in on the purchase, you spread the cost around. There’s bound to be enough 3-D printing requests to justify the expense. For starters, you’ll be able to print the pizza for your Friday night get-togethers. Or bikinis for lounging around the club’s pool. On second thought, maybe not bikinis.

Suddenly I have one of my flashes of genius. Let’s get 3-D printers that clone themselves! Then every retiree will be able to afford his own. I hope it’s not too long before they figure out how to print a glass of wine.

Special Senior Allowances

A few days back, my husband was sitting next to me at the breakfast table when I noticed that he had a sticker affixed to his eyeglasses. I wondered what that was about. Turns out it was the magnification number. I asked if he kept it on the glasses as a sort of announcement, and did he think he would get some type of special treatment because he wears 3.0 magnifiers.

Of course he didn’t, but that gave me an idea. We should get price reductions on things because of our diminishing eyesight. Call it a “Visual Acuity Discount” for seniors. This led me to develop a list of various allowances to which seniors should be entitled.

I was 66 and change before I learned that a local market gives 5% senior discounts on Tuesdays. “Not too bad,” thought I. “I’ve only missed out on about a year of savings.” Turns out I missed out on 11 years because of my ignorance. They begin this privilege when you turn 55. I want our allowances to go beyond that standard day-of-the-week percent off. I want special treatment for senior circumstances every day.

We’ll start with that “Visual Acuity Discount.” Anyone who wears glasses with a magnification level of 3.0 or higher will get eBooks for free from Kindle. They’ll also get to make younger people give up their seats in the primo rows at the movie theater when they arrive so late that only the first three rows or the last six have seats together. That’s not a discount, but it’s even better than one.

There’s also the “Gray Hair Respect Grant”. You’re entitled to some respect when your hair is anywhere from totally gray to having 3/4” of gray roots showing. (That would be me most of the time.) Under this grant, you go straight to the front of the line at the bank, the post office, the DMV, or at any other facility run by the government or by a quasi-governmental entity. There isn’t any special consideration for bald men. Too many young bucks shave their heads today.

The “Meandering Balance” decreases in proportion to a senior’s feebleness. The amount you pay is calculated by dividing the forward progress by the horizontal movement getting there. If you teeter-totter sideways across a two-feet wide space in order to move 8 inches forward, your ratio is 8 divided by 24, or one third. A ten-dollar item will cost you just $3.33. The more decrepit you become, the wider you’ll teeter, reducing your Meandering Balance and lowering your prices.

Older folks seem to acquire more bruises, especially post-retirement, when they spend more time in that most-dangerous of all places: home. Fortunately, there’s an upside to this. Flash just one black-and-blue mark and you’ll get the “Bruise Allowance” at any health club, fitness center or sports facility.

One of the easiest senior considerations to snag is the “Medication Provision.” Provide proof that you’re on just one prescription for a chronic condition and you automatically go to the head of the line at emergency rooms, movie theaters and the dressing rooms at all national discount clothing chains. Lipitor, Plavix, Lisinopril, Fosamax—all qualify you. Sorry, but Viagra and Cialis are regarded as treatments for acute shortcomings; if that’s all you’ve got, you’ll just have to wait your turn.

The “Vertigo Variance” is provided to seniors who get dizzy if they stand up from a prone position without a midway rest stop. It allows them to show up as much as an hour late for meetings, doctors’ appointments, lunch dates—anything that has a fixed time when they’re supposed to be there. Documented stages of vertigo are coded to match Affordable Care Health Insurance. That is: bronze (15 minutes late), silver (1/2 hour), gold (45 minutes) and platinum (one hour late).

The “Age Spot Accommodation” is determined by the number and density of the liver spot patterns on visible skin areas (generally, your hands and face). Add up the total number of clearly visible spots you have. Multiply that by the number of distinct areas of spot patterns. The result is your accommodation score. For every one hundred points, you get 10% off your purchase in any participating retailer. Do the math: If your points exceed 1,000, you get stuff for free. I am so there.

These special allowances for seniors will significantly improve our lives. You have to wonder why no one thought of them before. This post pretty much wrote itself. All it took was some careful observation of the seniors around me (and in my mirror). Well, that and a few glasses of wine.

Fraternal Organizations for Retirees

In high school, I desperately wanted to be a cheerleader. Desperate is the operative word; I couldn’t execute a proper cartwheel, much less do a full split. I wound up in the marching band, where I made many good friends, several of whom I’m still in touch with. I didn’t join the band in college, though I considered doing it. I was too busy keeping my head (and grades) above water. I had no interest in sororities; the cheerleading failure probably scarred me for life.

I mention this because my once guilty pleasure (but not so much anymore) The View briefly discussed sororities and fraternities in the Hot Topics segment recently. One faction liked the fact that you could travel the country and be welcomed by sisters (or brothers) from other chapters as one of their own. Another faction decried the idea that the very concept of a fraternal organization was based on the notion of exclusivity and, by extension, exclusion.

Suddenly I had one of my flashes of inspiration: there should be fraternal organizations especially for retirees. Ones like Tappa Kegga Beer, but geared to the interests of folks our age. Naturally, I set to work identifying suitable candidates. Organizations that would be welcoming, inclusionary and not exclusionary. Organizations with catchy names that could be screen printed on bowling-shirts and embroidered on canvas tote bags.

Say for instance, Takea Nappa Day, the senior snooze fraternity. It’s unisex, so both men and women can join. The initiation rites include a mid-afternoon nap that must last at least 20 minutes, but not more than two hours. There isn’t a retiree out there who should have a problem meeting that requirement.

There are three sororities for those who might consider joining a garden club. There’s Planta Lotta Flora, and it’s sister sororities Weeda Bita Day and Oma Achin Back. Some chapters of this last one don’t even require you to have a garden. Talk about being inclusionary!

Retirees generally find that they have a lot more time to engage in sports and other physical activity. There are a number of fraternal groups for active types. Those who practice the minimum of exertion may want to join Walka Milea Day. For the slightly more strenuous, there’s the sorority Yoga Cobra Dog, or Yo Co Do for short. And for seniors who are into truly challenging exercise, we have the senior crew fraternity, Rho, Grampa, Rho.

Some of the organizations draw their members based on what they wear. Chief among these is Polli Esta Slax. Sisters and brothers take an oath to never wear pants made out of natural fibers. One of the hazing rituals involves a blindfolded test wherein the pledges must feel six pieces of fabric and decide: polyester or natural fiber? Get more than two of them wrong, and you’re out. Or rather, not in.

One of the fraternities I uncovered caters to men who feature themselves to be what my mother would have called “dandies.” Eligibility includes always being impeccably dressed, with hair combed perfectly and wearing far too much cologne. If you know someone who believes more is not enough, suggest that he join Spritza Bita Aftashave.

If you have at least three grandchildren, consider pledging Nana Bragsa Lot. You’ll need to have a smartphone with a top of the line photo sharing app. Chances are one of your progeny has already provided you with this, the better to see their own offspring.

Finally, some fraternal organizations celebrate the riches that a well-planned retirement affords the retiree. There’s the self-explanatory Gotta Primo Condo, which has a high concentration of membership in Florida, North and South Carolina and Arizona. And there’s the equally self-explanatory Takea Trippa Year. It’s membership is concentrated in metro areas around major universities.

Finding it hard to choose among all these exciting prospects? Don’t worry. They’re so non-exclusionary that—unlike typical fraternities and sororities—you can join more than one.  I’m just glad none of them requires members to do a cartwheel or a split.

 

Crazy Holidays for Retirees

Kelly Ripa announced on Live with Kelly and Michael that September 9 was National Hermit Crab Awareness Day. Until that moment, I wasn’t aware of this holiday. I felt like the woman in the Prego commercial who is surprised to learn she prefers that brand to the one she’s been buying for years. An audio thought bubble opines: “I wonder what other questionable choices I’ve made…” And she flashes back to show how she’s picked nerdy-looking men, or horrific hairstyles, or too-trendy clothes.

My thought bubble read: “I wonder what crazy holidays for retirees I’ve been missing out on…” After all, some restaurants give you a free dessert on your birthday. Who knows what exclusive treatment could be available for retirees on holidays that are off our radar? You’ll be happy to learn that I’ve researched this and I’m sharing some special days with you, in calendar order.

Dowager’s Hump Awareness Day occurs the second Wednesday of each month. People who are still working get to celebrate Hump Day every week. All the dowagers get is one day a month. We’re still researching appropriate ways to celebrate this holiday. For starters, skip the camel jokes altogether, no matter how cute you think that GEICO commercial is. Free pudding at all restaurants would be nice. It seldom has any lumps, much less humps.

National Mismatched Plaid Day coincides with St. Patrick’s Day. Many people wear plaid for that holiday, Lord only knows why. It’s the Scots who make a big deal of displaying the plaid of their clan’s heritage, not the Irish. No matter. Retirees who wear mismatched plaids on this holiday get free beer at any bar with a name starting with the letter “O.” Which is to say, there’s free beer at virtually every Irish pub for retirees who wear plaid, period. Older folks never do plaid right.

Be still my heart! There’s an entire week set aside to celebrate Quaint Expressions (like “Be still my heart…”) It begins the third Sunday in April, with Cat’s Pajamas Day (my favorite expression of the group.) Retirees get to stay in their jammies all day, even if they go out to eat. And not just for brunch, for any meal. You can check out the rest of the week (including free honey on The Bee’s Knees Wednesday) on line.

National Velcro Appreciation Days are June 19 and September 13. This invention is so fabulous that it’s celebrated twice a year: first on the birthday of the inventor (George de Mestral) and then on the day he filed the original patent. We commemorate these happiest of retirees’ holidays by giving them a 20% discount on any article of clothing or household item that uses hook-and-loop fasteners (Velcro is a trademark) in any way whatsoever.

After a long battle, National Nap Appreciation Day was declared to be the summer solstice, June 20 or 21. Check your Farmers’ Almanac each year. The other faction wanted the winter solstice, December 21 or 22, the day with the most darkness. June aficionados won out. How can you expect retirees to get through about 15 hours of daylight without a late-afternoon nap? Retirees get to take a snooze wherever they are that afternoon. This includes in the driver’s seat of their car, at a stoplight.

National Cranky Pants Day is celebrated the Monday after Thanksgiving. We’re all in a lousy mood by then, even if we didn’t fight the crowds to get some early holiday shopping done. We were probably stuck in traffic, or in a line someplace we had no choice but to go at some point that weekend. You might think that this holiday should be for everyone, not just retirees, but it’s not. We’ve earned the right to be cranky. Others haven’t. Give us a wide berth on Cranky Pants Day.

Medicare Post-Enrollment Exhalation Day happens every fall, the day after the deadline to enroll in or change retirement healthcare plans. As an added stress, it can move from year to year, but it’s often December 7. If you’re not sure when it is, listen for the collective whoosh of retirees sighing in relief that the deadline has once again passed. On this day, retirees get to cut in line at the pharmacy. Come to think of it, let them cut in line wherever they are. Or else be prepared to listen to all their ailments.

No doubt there are other holidays well-suited to being celebrated by retirees, but these are the first seven that I turned up. Be sure to take some time to observe every one of them in a memorable way. If you’re not retired yet, do something appropriate on each of the days for someone who is. A blogger friend, perhaps? Just sayin’…

The Skinny on Getting Skinny

For those of us who are constantly struggling with our weight, there’s been some encouraging news lately. One piece is straightforward and for women only. Another is a complicated study with implications for everyone.

An onerous standard that I had been eying was that a woman’s waist should measure no more than half her height. I’m so short that this meant I should have about a 30” waist. What’s more, I’m at that point in life where I’ve started shrinking. So my ideal waist measurement has become a moving target. It’s a bit like the age for collecting full Social Security. By the time the younger boomers reach the age it is today, the bar will have been moved farther down the horizon.

The good news is that a recent health segment on morning TV noted that a woman’s waist should be no more than 35”. I still have a distance to go to see that number, but every month I’m inching closer.

The study that addressed weight was interesting in the abstract and exciting in its potential for those of us who can pinch way more than an inch. It came on my radar through a report by Gina Kolata in the New York Times.

In the shortest, simplest laymen’s terms, researchers put poop from a fat twin into the gut of one mouse and poop from a thin twin into another mouse. Fat-twin poop led to chubby mice; thin-twin poop yielded skinny mice. The report gave far more information and in more scientific terms, but I wanted to get your attention before I put you to sleep.

The Times article began with a premise that I found questionable. Is there really a “growing fascination with gut bacteria”? I don’t know about you, but I don’t sit around wondering what type of microbes are down there and how they might be spending their time. True, we hear a lot about irritable bowel syndrome on TV. But Facebook is more subject to what we used to call “diarrhea of the mouth.”

Let’s accept the Times premise and move on to the methodology. The researchers found sets of twins where one was fat and the other was thin (apparently a rarity). The study write-up in Science magazine tells us they transplanted “uncultured fecal microbiota” from each and gave it to twin mice raised in a sterile environment (meaning no gut bacteria of their own). They were fed a diet of low-fat mouse food.

In five weeks, the mice gifted with fat feces had 15% to 17% more body fat than the ones who got skinny gut gifts. The next phase of the research involved “cohousing coprophagic mice.” I looked up “coprophagic” in my Webster’s unabridged. It means they eat one another’s droppings. The outcome, surprisingly, was that skinny droppings helped the chubby mice lose weight, but fat scat had no effect on the thin mice. (So much for the recent theory that your fat friends will make you fatter.)

In what may be the understatement of the day, a nationally-renowned program director said: “This is all weird and wonderful.” Close behind in the “you-don’t-say” department was the senior investigator’s hope that “people can be given pure mixtures of bacteria instead of feces.” Ya think?

For those out there who feel that a “fecal transplant” might be worth it, I need to share one additional detail. The study was extended with an overlay of diets that were either low in fat or high in fat, with both types of mice co-habiting. In this phase of the research, the mice with the fat gut donations did not benefit from eating the thin mouse droppings. Conclusion (from the report in Science): “Invasion and phenotypic rescue were diet-dependent.”

Simply put, if you don’t eat a low-fat diet, the skinny scat won’t help. Nobody said it would be easy.

Say What?

The older I get, the more I find myself thinking: “Say what?” Sometimes it’s because I read something incorrectly. Other times I heard it wrong. I think I suffer from audio-dyslexia. Pieces get switched around and what I hear bears very little resemblance to what was said. Still other times it’s not my fault. People just say and write the most bizarre things.

My audio-dyslexia manifests itself several ways. Sometimes I flip vowels. Sometimes I flip consonants. Sometimes I flip entire syllables. I’ll even insert or eliminate letters altogether. More often I just plain mishear.

I had lunch out with friends yesterday. The husband wondered what was in the prime rib omelet. “What an odd combination,” thought I. Actually not so odd, because he was looking at a fine herbs omelet. Let me explain how this works. My brain audioed an almost-rhyming “prime” for “fine.” Then it audio-dyslexia switched the “e” and the “r” in herb (the “h” was silent), giving “reb,” which became “rib.” Really quite logical, for a brain gone haywire.

My husband (whose store is near several colleges) told me the other day, “The students are back.” To which I replied, “You glued your aunt’s black what?” Here we have another principle operating, that of inserting audio word-breaks where they don’t belong. So, his statement sounded to me like: “Stud (long “u”) ents black (inserting an errant “l”). You can take it from here. By the way, I never met any of his aunts; they were all deceased long before we married. Go figure.

My visual dyslexia is rather like the autocomplete on a computer, only my brain is doing it as I’m reading. For example, there was an ad in the right margin of my email screen recently with the query: Mortgage Underwear? “Say what?” I asked myself. Turns out it said: Mortgage Underwater? My visual dyslexia switched the “a” and the “e” in "water" and deleted the “t” for good measure.

Swapping out vowels in words I read seems to be one of my more regular visual problems. I was reading a map of North Carolina and chortled when I saw the town of “Old Fart.” I know a lot of people retire to North Carolina, but did they have to name a town after these “old farts?” Turns out, no they didn’t. The town is actually Old Fort.

One category that can be counted on to provide fodder for the “Say What?” list is email subjects, especially those that are spam. Take for instance one I received a few weeks ago, titled: “Be the man you used to be.” Newsflash: Despite those who will swear I have a pair of brass ones, I never was a man. Besides, time marches on. There’s no way I could ever be the woman I used to be. I could aspire to be the woman I’d like to be. Or to be like the woman I used to be. But technically, I think, not ever to be the woman I used to be.

I’ve seen some other things online that drove me to a “Say What” that might be typos. Or they might actually be Freudian slips. First there was “athlettes.” A typo? Or a more delicate term for female athletes? You be the judge.

My favorite one of these is a recent Facebook item from a friend who encouraged us to share her post on our own pages, because it would bring us lots of money. She admitted that she didn’t know exactly how it worked, but it definitely had something to do with “the Chinese art of Fungus Shiue.”

After my initial “Say what?” I figured out she must have meant Feng Shui (which is pronounced Fung Shway). Too late. I kept picturing that poster people hang in their office. The one that reads: “I feel like a mushroom here. They keep me in the dark and feed me lots of bulls - - t.” I admit that I consulted a Feng Shui book before I put our house on the market (fat lot of good it did me), but most folks think it’s just a load of bs. So, Fungus Shiue might have been a Freudian slip after all.

The next time you hear me mutter: “Say what?” don’t think I didn’t hear you. I heard you perfectly clearly, as far as I was concerned. Just not necessarily the way you meant to be heard. If that bothers you, go fry a bike.

Modern Deadly Sins

Someone posted a photo of brightly colored wristbands on Facebook. At first glance, they looked like the charity bands you see: yellow Live Strong, pink Komen Breast Cancer, red AIDS awareness. On closer inspection, they had the names of the seven deadly sins etched into them. My friend was wearing Lust, Sloth and Gluttony. My first thought was: there should be one that reads “Facebooking,” which in turn led to this post.

Just as the Seven Wonders of the Ancient World were updated to the Seven Wonders of the Modern World, we should have Ten Modern Deadly Sins. There will be more than seven, because from a retiree’s perspective, many things should send people straight to hell today. I give them to you here, starting, of course, with Facebooking.

Facebooking per se is not a deadly sin, but Obsessive Facebooking is, and many Facebookers are obsessive about it. Deadly sins are often about excess, and FB can be addictive, which leads to damnable excess. Some of my FB friends post so many tidbits that it takes hours to scroll through my news feed. Since these morsels can often be interesting or funny or informative, I’m afraid to skip over them. Go ahead, charge me with FOMO (Fear Of Missing Out,) but please don’t do it on my Facebook news feed.

People who are obsessed with FB are sometimes also guilty of the deadly sin of Emoticonstipation. This occurs when you over-stuff electronic messages with emoticons (those yellow smiley faces and such). If you’re going to use emoticons, at least download a variety of styles. Like the cartoon cats. Cats are never sinful.

The modern version of the original deadly sin Gluttony is Gluteny, which emerged from the explosive growth of folks following gluten-free diets. Not everyone who avoids gluten is guilty of Gluteny. The ones bound for hell are those who insist on gluten-free food even when they’re not gluten-intolerant. They drive everyone around them crazy just because they have a FOMO on this food trend.

Closely related to Gluteny is Veganizing. There are many good reasons why people become vegans. Bill Clinton did it because even after his bypass operation, his arteries were building up cholesterol. Being a vegan is not a sin. But trying to convert carnivores to vegans (especially without passing through a vegetarian phase) is a deadly no-no. Let people decide on their own to cut out red meat, cheese and everything tasty known to modern man.

I’ll bet many of you will agree that Apostrophornication is one of the worst transgressions. People apostrophornicate when they misuse (or more likely, fail to use) apostrophes. The two most common examples are using “your” instead of “you’re” and “there” (or “their”) instead of “they’re”. This makes those who respect punctuation and grammar very angry. Since anger is an original deadly sin, that one gets charged to the 'phornicator, too.

Speaking of grammar, Substitupidity (the use of “I” instead of “me,” “she” instead of “her,” etc.) is also a cardinal offense. I’m especially irked when I hear a newscaster commit it. It’s bad enough when local media personalities do this; they’re—notice correct use of apostrophe here—lower down in the network food chain. But national talking heads are frequently guilty, as well. “Send Tom and I a message on FB.” On second thought, don’t.

A truly modern deadly sin is Moblastphemy—talking loud on a mobile phone in public. It’s deadly no matter where you do it, but if it’s in a restaurant or a theater, you should go straight to hell, IMHO.

We must also list Peeping Thongery—it’s as deadly as they come. No explanation needed, but it’s especially lethal for women of a certain age. In the interest of gender-fairness, let’s include Plumbersbuttitis. I know both sexes can be guilty of each of these, but we see Thongery mostly in women and Buttitis in men. In medicine, “-itis” signals the inflammation of something. Plumbers’ butts always look fatter than average, and they inflame our gag reflex. Enough said.

Finally, we have the newest modern deadly sin: Air Humping, a combination of two recent news items. Chicago Mayor Rahm Emanuel was videotaped “chair humping” the back of a folding chair at the Taste of Chicago event. Singer Miley Cyrus (in an effort to leave Hannah Montana in her rearview) burned “twerking” into the media mainstream with her gyrations on the VMA show. Gag and double gag.

These visuals sent me straight to my stash of vino. Fortunately, moderate imbibing is not on the list of deadly sins, original or modern. Praise the Lord and pass the chianti.

You (Insert Appropriate Phrase Here) for Your Age

Have you noticed how often someone pays you a half-baked compliment these days by ending whatever it is with “for your age”? (Or some equally dismissive qualifier.) A head nod to my friend Keith Mosher for suggesting this blog topic for Retirement Sparks. I knew the minute he said it that he had a great idea—for someone his age.

“You’re really quite agile!” sounds like a vote of approval for how you avoided being mowed down by a fully-loaded, runaway shopping cart in a parking lot. That is, until the person who lost control of the cart adds: “for someone your age.” Lucky for them you’re agile, because we’re also litigious at our age.

“You smell lovely!” brings a smile to your face and lifts your spirits. But then you hear the after-remark: “for an old lady.” That’s when you shoot back: “And you don’t smell half bad either, for an old fart.” Speaking of which, why is it everyone seems to think that people over 65 are out-of-control fart machines? If we pass a ripe one, it’s usually because we really meant to, as a sort of olfactory editorial.

Then there’s the brain-function comments. “You sure seem to have your wits about you.” “You’re pretty sharp!” “You catch on quickly.” All for—you guessed it—someone my age. It’s inevitable that the brainpower of seniors will provoke remarks. What can we expect when we tote around books of Sudoku and crossword puzzles? Some of us do it to fight off senility. Others use them to kill time in doctors’ waiting rooms. Maybe we should wrap them in brown paper bags. Or the recycled cover of Fifty Shades of Grey.

The most offensive comment is: “You’re really interesting to talk to, for someone your age.” This remark is always delivered with a look of utter amazement. Do they really think that the only things people over 65 talk about are their medications and their digestive systems? We read the paper (perhaps more often in a printed version than they do, but we read it.) We keep up on current events and political issues. How else would we know how much better life was when we were younger?

Sometimes I’m tempted to reply: “And you’re surprisingly literate and well-informed for someone so young!” But really, what’s the point? They probably haven’t got a clue about sarcasm.

For most of my adult life, I didn’t wear a lot of makeup. When I painted my face for some special event, colleagues would often tell me: “You clean up nice.” Now when I hear this, it’s usually followed by one of those odious age-qualifiers. I’d like to think I’d still clean up nice even if I weren’t of a certain age. Hope springs eternal.

One thing I’m aware of whenever I’m out is keeping my spine erect, whether I’m walking or sitting. I’m convinced that decent posture is one way to confuse people about how old I really am. I base this on the fact that the elderly are expected to be hunched over, bent over, doubled over or just plain folded over. I know I’m losing this battle when I hear that I have nice posture for my age. That’s enough to make me sit with my head between my knees.

I’ve always walked at a good clip, for two reasons. One is that I’m short, so I need to take three steps for every two that the person next to me takes. That makes we walk briskly. Also, I worked in Manhattan for 20 years. If you lollygag there, you’re a prime target for purse snatchers and muggers. When you walk fast, they figure you’re a native and you don’t suffer fools gladly. They move on to the meanderers. These days my brisk walk is likely to generate one of those “for your age” comments.

No. I don’t walk fast “for my age.” I walk fast for my height. Or for someone my weight. Or for a person who has absolutely no place to be this afternoon and all the time in the world to get there. And don’t you forget it, even if you do have a terrible memory—for someone your age. (Insert sarcasm font here.)

It Seems I Might Be A Tomato

The New York Times ran an article this month about how vegetables have their own seasons within the usual four that we think of. The article’s author, Melissa Clark, called it “microseasonality.” Apparently, each vegetable (and fruit, I assume) has it’s own microseasonal schedule. What especially caught my eye was the evocative language Clark used to describe a tomato’s seasons. It was eerily familiar. Simply put, it seems as though I might be a tomato.

We’re all used to hearing the stages of our lives compared to the seasons of the year. You have the Spring of your youth, your Summer salad days, the maturing Fall of your life and the Winter (of your discontent?) Vegetables can go through all their mircoseasons within one traditional calendar season. Clark’s explanation of the tomato’s progress explained it in a way we can all understand.

They start out “hard and green and mildly acidic.” Could she be describing the “me” of my youth with any more accuracy? People who knew me well back then used to say that I had brass… Well, you get the idea. And in my youth, I was as green as those little apples that God didn’t make. As with many young people, I thought I knew everything, but in fact I knew almost nothing. Or at least, nothing of value.

Like the tomato, I probably reached “peak ripeness” mid-season in my life. That’s when I was the most successful in my career (and financially), though at the time, I expected far greater “success” in the years over the horizon. Silly me. It wasn’t until later on in my personal microseasons that I realized there are so many ways to define one’s own success. And so few of them involve money.

Also like the tomato, the late-season me became “overripe and overly soft.” I mellowed with age and many would likewise credit me with “gaining sweetness,” especially compared to my acidic youth. One look in the mirror also confirmed that I was “losing texture,” unless you count wrinkles as texture, which I don’t. How much more in sync with the tomato could my microseasons be?

I’ll tell you how much more. Clark described tomatoes at the end of the growing season as: “…back to green, not ripening fully before” (horrors) “falling off the vine.” Indeed. In the winter of my microseason I’m realizing that there’s so very much I don’t know. So much I will never know, even if I reach my nineties before I fall off the vine.

But Clark reserved the most apt description for last. She said that the “later-season specimen… has had a chance to grow fatter. The flesh gets flabby, the seeds larger and more distracting.”

Seriously. Is she describing a tomato? Or is she talking about my neck wattle, my wing flaps and my age spots? While I’m comforted to learn that even late-season tomatoes have usefulness, I don’t look forward to becoming pickled or fried. I’m also not anxious to have my “spongy core” cut out.

I prefer to think of myself as aging into a piquant salsa. Or better yet, sliced onto a panini under some locally-made buffalo mozzarella. Drizzled with extra virgin olive oil and garnished with fresh basil. And served with (what else?) a nice bottle of Chianti Classico. Put me in that scenario, and I’ll be content to fall off the vine any time Mother Nature calls me.

Vacation Weekend

As I have done on a few other occasions, I’m taking a pass on posting an essay to my Retirement Sparks blog this week. I’m going to New Jersey for the weekend for a mini-reunion with my Green Pond summer friends. I'm also meeting with fellow committee members who are helping to plan a belated 50^th reunion for our high school class, Morris Hills Regional, in Rockaway, New Jersey.

Jagdish is staying back in Rhode Island to keep an eye on Luke, with the help of our neighbor cat-care lady. Luke gets fed four times a day now, and I’ll have the car, so we need to schedule store coverage and cat care carefully around this trip.

Some of you may be thinking: “Big whoop. So why didn’t you write the essay ahead of time and post it today instead of this lame message?” You don’t understand. Going away for three days takes a lot of planning at my age. Planning which doesn’t leave time for creative writing.

As a precaution, I need to change the litter in at least one of the boxes before I go; it can’t wait until Sunday when I return. But if I change it too early, Luke will reject it later on next week. I also had to try on at least six pairs of linen pants to see which ones fit. Based on the color, I needed to assess underwear status. Women readers will know that one should wear skin-tone panties under white slacks. Probably TMI, but fortunately both of my beige ones were in the clean pile.

I’m spending Friday night with my best friend from grammar school, whom I haven’t seen in who knows how many years (50?) Inherent in that is figuring out when to leave Providence so I don’t hit rush hour in any major metro areas. I also want to avoid getting stuck in gridlock on the Tappan Zee Bridge in the summer weekend exodus from Manhattan to the Catskills. I decided that four pm is a good time to leave. That should give me plenty of time for preparations and packing.

Just in case, I started this process Friday night. I stuffed a canvas tote bag full of paperwork and yearbooks and program ideas for our Saturday high school reunion meeting. This morning, when I dropped Jagdish off at his store, I picked out some little gifts for my friend’s grandchildren. Also something for her home. All of which I left on the store counter. Fortunately, I realized this at the wine store (see below) and circled back to get the forgotten bag on my way home.

Saturday night I’ll be at Ralph’s “harem” in Green Pond. As he did for the big October GP reunion two years ago, he’s invited a group of women for Italian food on Saturday night. We leave our husbands home. A few of us who come a distance stay over. Ralph’s family has their summer house on the market, so this will likely be our last mini-reunion at GP. Sad to consider, but at least we’ll have some good memories to keep us going.

We’ll be spending some time on the beach and that presents an entirely different preparation to-do list. Straw beach tote, sand shoes and beach towel. Check. New bathing suit. Check. The big shave. Check. Inspect and shave again. Check. (Definitely TMI.) New bathing suit cover-up. Check, thanks to Spectrum-India. Several bottles of red wine (for the evening, not the beach). Check and recheck. Ear plugs for me and also for my guestroom-mate. (We both snore a little.) Check and double check.

As you can see, I really had not time available to create one of my typically clever, funny and self-deprecating posts. Well, I’m uploading this, then off to change the litter and attack the beach prep list. (Read between the lines…)

Hope everyone has a wonderful weekend as summer begins to wind down and the days get shorter. See you again next weekend.

Retirees’ Uses for Duct Tape and WD40

We’re all familiar with that old saw: use duct tape for things that are supposed to stick together, but won’t; use WD40 for things aren’t supposed to stick together, but do. This is one of the great truisms of life. As my retirement time accumulates, so do my uses for these awesome products.

You may have noticed that I complain about the goat hairs on my chin. Now I also have duck fuzz that’s looking increasingly like sideburns. None of this is hair that I celebrate. I’m uneasy about those waxing strips you see on late-night TV. Older skin is more sensitive to temperature extremes. Plus that wax stuff would eat into my wine budget. I decided to try duct tape to remove my unwanted hair. It was cost effective and it lived up to its reputation.

Here are some tips I developed after doing this several times. Fold over the end of the duct tape about ¼ inch before you stick it to your face. It makes it easier to grab when you pull it off. If it’s humid when you do your toilette, first open the door of your freezer and stick your head in for a few minutes. It will cool you down so you don’t perspire. Ice cubes won’t work, because they leave your skin damp, preventing the tape from adhering.

Do you slip more often on your non-carpeted stairs now that you’re of a certain age? Cut strips of duct tape about 6 inches long and form loops, sticky side out. Place these on your steps where the ball of your foot usually lands. You may need to make a test run, to find the best placement. Now when you go up and down, the duct tape will grip your foot or shoes (or especially socks!) just enough to slow you down so you can keep your balance. Replenish tape as it gets fuzzy.

WD40 can also make your life easier. Do you have difficulty getting your street shoes on? Stop exerting yourself! Don’t risk a heart attack. Spray the inside of the shoe, especially the heel area, with WD40. Also spray your feet, whether you’re wearing socks or not. You’ll glide in like butter. For maximum benefit, do one shoe and one foot at a time. Make a note: if you have heart issues, the cost of the WD40 may qualify for a medical deduction.

Ladies, in swim season, WD40 will be your new best friend when it comes to the on-and-off process of swimwear. (Think pool and beach restrooms…) Spray your outer thighs, hips, butt cheeks and belly with a liberal amount. Your suit will slip on and off like silk. This also works for Spanx at any time of year. WD40 comes in a purse-size container that I’m sure was made just for this purpose.

Here’s a slightly more complicated use for duct tape. If you’re at all sensitive about your private parts, skip the next two paragraphs. If you’re not terribly good with engineering, you might want to refer to the schematic provided.

Older men often have difficulty keeping the boys tucked in where they belong. Duct tape to the rescue! Cut a piece about ten inches long and another about four inches. Place the four-inch piece in the center of the ten-inch one, tacky sides together. This provides a sling for the guys that won’t stick to them. Carefully cradle them in the center of the tape and lift them to where you want them. Press the sticky side of the three-inch long end pieces against your groin area. You might want to shave first.

Older women have a similar problem keeping their girls perky. Make two slings similar to the one described above for men. If your cup runneth over, you may need longer pieces of tape (and a longer sling area). Just be sure to allow three sticky inches on each end.

Here are more uses for WD40 that you’ve probably never considered. Having trouble lately turning the pages of books you’re reading because the paper sticks together? Do bill stubs refuse to go into the envelopes provided to mail the payment? Spray them with WD40, but don’t overspray. Let them dry a bit, then turn the pages of the book with ease, or slide the stub into the envelope without having to tear it apart.

Have you noticed that adding fabric softener to the wash is just one more thing you’re forgetting these days? Too much static on things coming out of the dryer? Spray the legs of your polyester pants (or other non-silk garments) with WD40 and your sausage-cling problems are over.

Duct tape and WD40: Miracle tools for people of all ages. Just think outside the box. Or can. And off the roll.

Bamboo Is the New Flax

About twenty years ago, flax became extremely popular, especially compared to another natural fiber, hemp. Since you can’t smoke flax, other uses had to be found for this plant. Flax became a leading fiber of choice for clothing, thanks largely to the eponymous brand. It also showed up in soft goods for the household and in other items of décor.

Now we’re in a new millennium, a new century, and two decades beyond flax. I’ve discovered that bamboo is the new flax. I cannot believe what items are touted as being made from bamboo. I would expect to see it in housewares and décor—in things like baskets and placemats, and tiki lights and wind chimes. Can you believe there are companies selling sink backsplashes made from bamboo? Wouldn’t they get mildewed when wet?

Worse, I think of bamboo as a product that is brittle and throws off splinters easily. That quality has made me sit up and take notice at some of the products I uncovered. Cutting boards and salad bowls, while not totally outrageous on their face, would have me worried about using ones made from bamboo. If I find fiber in my salad, I want to have put it there.

But what really made me stop dead in my mental tracks was an ad in a recent Tuesday Morning flier for bamboo sheets. Yes, sheets. Would you roll around on sheets made from a product that sheds sharp little pieces of itself? I don’t care how fine the “thread count” is; you won’t find me buying bamboo bedding. No way. No how.

Bamboo is showing up outside of home goods, too, but some of those uses are not that surprising. Bamboo bicycles must be very light and easy to pedal around town. Sunglasses and yoga mats don’t seem like a stretch, though leggings might be. The names of some of the companies selling this stuff are noteworthy, too. There’s Bambooki and Boo Bamboo and BumBoosa, for instance. (More on that last one later.)

Electronics accessories is an area that seems to be one of the post popular uses. There are bamboo laptop cases, USB flash drives, PC keyboards and mice. Impecca makes a hand-carved designer bamboo mouse that’s available in cherry, walnut, espresso or natural colors. You can choose from 23 different IPhone cases that SigniCASE offers in bamboo.

I can see that none of this has you itching and scratching. Well, how about this: bamboo hair and beauty products, like the Bamboo Charcoal Face & Body Soap Bar. Or the revitalizing hair conditioning treatment. Or the products for eyelashes and eyebrows. I’m clumsy enough trying to put on mascara. I wouldn’t want to have to worry about splinters in my eyes, too.

Still not skeeved out by any of these products? Here’s my absolute favorite bamboo items you can now buy from BumBoosa. Diaper liners, baby wipes and toilet paper rolls (individually wrapped—zero plastic!) These are guaranteed bio-friendly products. The baby wipes are even award winning. Non-synthetic and “tree-free.” Users of the TP describe it as “eco-luxurious.” BumBoosa claims it’s “processed using the thermo-mechanical pulping method.” Who can resist whatever that is?

I’ll tell you who: I can. I’m sure I’m just showing my own ignorance. Toilet paper comes from trees after all. Or maybe I’m just too set in my ways, now that I’m retired. It doesn’t matter what I think anyway. The rest of the country seems to be hopping on the bamboo bandwagon.

Suddenly I have a vision: Procter and Gamble decides to switch their sourcing for Charmin to bamboo. Those commercials we see everywhere with the blue cartoon bears cleaning their bums? Gone. The new ones feature pandas. Chewing on bamboo shoots on one end, wiping their tushies with bamboo TP on the other. Is this a great country, or what?