Final Arrangements—New Options

The older we get, the more we hear about deaths in our circle of friends. For many of us, that leads to thinking about our own final arrangements. Given the cost of funerals and the overcrowding of cemeteries, more of us are opting for cremation. That still leaves open the question of exactly how those we leave behind will dispose of our ashes.

That issue is often complicated by local laws, increasing pressure from environmentalists for ‘green’ burials, and logistics. For starters, you have to find someone who loves you enough (or owes you enough favors) to deal with it. Not everyone has an Aunt Edna who is willing to have a decorative urn with you in it on her mantel. And you can’t just dump cremains into a sand trap. If you’re considering cremation, you should decide in advance on the disposition of your ashes.

I’ve been tuned in to new ideas on this subject for years. I even have a file on it. A recent N. Y. Times article presented the newest offering in final arrangements: composting. That’s right. Composting. Washington is the first state to legalize the environmentally friendly “aboveground decomposition” process. Check out recompose.life. Once you’ve been turned into compost, you can be spread in a garden or wooded area to promote new life. If composting doesn’t turn you on, stick with cremation and look into companies that will scatter your ashes in peaceful, wooded areas.

The recent movie Poms is a chick-flick about senior women in a retirement community who start a cheerleading club. The instigator is a newcomer who has terminal cancer. One night she sees a commercial about having your ashes shot into the atmosphere as part of a fireworks display. “What a glorious idea!” thought I, so I Googled fireworks cremains.

HeavenlyStarsFireworks.com claims to be the market leader in the incorporation of ashes into fireworks. Unfortunately, their market is the United Kingdom. In the U.S., I found the GreenlawnFuneralHome.com, headquartered in Missouri. One of their packages is the aptly-named “Go Out with a Bang.”

Moving in the opposite direction, geologically speaking, your cremains could create a coral reef. The Neptune Society has established a 16-acre reef off Miami that’s certified by the Green Burial Council. You can see photos at nmreef.com. EternalReefs.com is a 501c3 option. Their first “Reef Ball” project was near Ft. Lauderdale. They claim to have projects in 70 countries and to have placed more than 70,000 reef balls. I haven’t been able to find out what those other countries are, but maybe this could be your chance to finally spend time in Fiji.

Most of the above options don’t enable loved ones to pay their respects to your remains, in whatever form. Good news! There are choices that let them keep you literally close to their hearts for eternity. Cremation jewelry is big business and teardrop pendants are especially popular. Perfectmemorials.com has more than 5,000 items to choose from, priced from $5 to $2,950. My own suggestion is to have your ashes embedded in Lucite key rings to be handed out at your memorial, sort of like those mementos you get at weddings.

Here are some other ideas to consider. Have your ashes mixed with tattoo ink, but be aware that it would take full body art to use up all of them, even if your portly Uncle Biff is your designated canvas. A British company will press the ashes into a vinyl record of the song of your choosing, giving new meaning to “oldies but goodies.” InTheLightUrns.com will put cremains into an hourglass after your time has run out. I assume they sift out the residual bone chunks before they fill the glass.

Personally, I like the idea of embedding ashes within a whimsical stone-like statue for the yard. I may do that with my cats’ ashes. I already have several decorative critters around our perimeter. No one would be able to tell if one of those were really a cremains container. Plus folks can easily take the statues with them if they move.

As you can see, there are several new options for when we shed this mortal coil. So many choices! One of them is bound to be perfect for you. Best to plan your own final arrangements now. And hope the person you choose to handle them outlives you.

Copyright 2019 Business Theatre Unlimited

The Power of the Rule of Three

A GMC ad for its line of SUVs mentions the rule of three, referring to the generally accepted opinion that three of something is inherently pleasing or has special power. Anyone who has used a stager to help prepare a house for sale will be familiar with this. Stagers always want to group setouts in threes. It’s a cardinal rule of real estate, right behind “location, location, location,” which, you’ll note, is always stated three times.

The power of three may have its origins in religion, or maybe the world’s religions picked up on an already-existing rule. Christians have the holy trinity—the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost. Hindus have Brahma, Vishnu and Shiva (the creator, the preserver and the destroyer). Even some Wiccans hold a tenet known as the Three-fold Law, meaning that the energy a person puts out into the world will be returned to him three times. That holds for negative energy as well as positive, so keep that in mind.

Whatever its source, there are many examples of the rule of three throughout history. Take the Nina, the Pinta and the Santa Maria for example.  The Santa Maria carried most of the crew. The Nina had the food provisions. The Pinta carried all the wine and was said to be the fastest of Columbus’s three ships. It was christened under the motto: vino por celeritas, which I think translates to “Quick! Pour the wine!” OK. I made all this up, but you have to admit it makes sense.

Staying on the subject of Italians, let’s not forget the custom with Sambuca Romana, the anise-flavored liqueur. It’s traditionally served with three coffee beans. Not two; not four; but rather three. That’s the recipe for health, happiness and prosperity. If someone serves it to you any other way, consider it an insult. Or else they’re stunad.

I attended a wedding years ago which was the third one for the groom. I was at a table with several other friends of his. After imbibing a fair amount of wine, one of them joked about the number of the groom’s marriages. Another pointed out the expression: “Never two without three,” meaning the third wedding was to be expected. To which yet another friend said: “That could go for divorces, too.” We all laughed, but some years later there was indeed a third divorce.

My own life bears witness to the rule of three. I’ve published three volumes of my Retirement Sparks blogs (RS, RS Again, RS Redux). Though I’ve occasionally considered putting out a fourth, it never felt like I had enough good material to justify that. Some folks might say I didn’t have enough to publish the first three either, but I prefer to ignore them. Besides, like the Pinta, that ship has sailed.

Another example of the rule of three in my life is my cats. I started with two. Along the way, a third cat—my first boy—adopted our family. Luke was the only one left when we moved to Connecticut. Though I didn’t plan to start another feline family after Luke died, I eventually adopted two senior girls whose original mothers couldn’t keep them when they moved to nursing homes. Eventually, a boy joined the family. I can’t explain how. It just happened. I chalk it up to the power of the rule of three.

Decades ago I drew a cartoon that relates to this. The captions read:

Why does everyone insist that two cats are enough for one family? If my parents had only had two children, I wouldn’t be here today! (I think I just answered my own question…)

My brother and I were born just 350 days apart. I was in my thirties before I got my mother to admit I wasn’t a planned baby. She quickly added: “But once we knew you were coming, we really wanted you.” I’m not so sure about that, though I do believe they eventually got used to having me around. But they didn’t have a choice. This matter was out of their control. The reason I’m here today is the power of the rule of three. Let that sink in for a minute. No matter what your parents told you, if you’re the third of three in your family, it wasn’t a choice. The power of three is stronger than all of us. Embrace it.

Copyright 2019 Business Theatre Unlimited

Nicknames I’ve Known and Loved

Two reports in a recent NY Times daily news flash caught my eye because of hilarious nicknames in the headlines. I want to appropriate both of them. I’ve had quite a few affectionate labels applied to me over the years, but I’m ready to add some new ones, ones I’ve selected myself.

The first was a moniker adopted by Priscilla Villarreal, whose colorful posts on Facebook have brought her notoriety. She reports on activity at the Laredo, TX border and calls herself “La Gordiloca,” or “The Crazy Fat Lady”.

My family already thinks of me as The Crazy Cat Lady. My late brother-in-law gave me a sleep shirt years ago with that phrase emblazoned on the front. I still wear it. I’d need to change just one letter to make it match my new nickname. Well, not actually, because the label I really want is La Gordiloca. I’ve been complaining about my weight for years now, and I’ll be the first to admit I’m crazy. Saying this in Spanish would sound sexier.

Moving on to the second item in the Times that day. It had to do with the brilliant pianist in the hit movie Green Book, Dr. Don Shirley. The article by David Hajdu reported on an exchange between two of Dr. Shirley’s friends. They used the initials F. B. in referring to the pianist. It stood for “Funky Butt,” composer Luther Henderson’s nickname for the pianist. Seriously? The article didn’t explain exactly how the term of dubious affection came about. I don’t really care. I want to co-opt it anyway.

I have good reasons to do this. My freshman boyfriend in college called me Bugle Butt. I swear I wasn’t prone to farting, so you can wipe the smirk off your face. That wasn’t the source of the nickname. I weighed about 110 pounds at the time, but I had a lot of junk in the trunk even then. The boyfriend had an unusual talent. He could make sounds like a trumpet just using his lips. I assume that he tried out Trumpet Butt for me first and quickly changed it to the alliterative Bugle Butt.

In my first marriage, I would dance around, singing “la, la-a-a…” and shaking my behind, earning me the pet name Fabulous Fanny, the Famous Flamenco Dancer. My husband even gave me a Steiff mouse dressed as a Spanish señorita for Christmas. Fanny and Bugle Butt don’t have the same allure as the more provocative Funky Butt.

Around the same time, I had a friend I didn’t see often, but we spoke for hours on the phone. Stay with me now. I gave her a white bear that we named Pasha (it somehow looked Russian). It was a companion to my bear, Fanny. When I phoned, I’d identify myself as Fanny Slanders, all set to gossip, and I’d ask how Pasha Galoop was doing.

This brings me around to my very first nickname. My parents called me Suzy Potts. Or at least that’s what I thought it was. Sometime in my twenties I learned what they were really saying. It was tu sei pazzo. In my mother’s southern Italian dialect she pronounced tu like thu. She was saying: “You’re crazy!” That’s my earliest claim to ownership of the “crazy” label.

My mother bestowed other variations of pazzo on me. After I learned what Suzy Potts really meant, my mother migrated to telling me I was pazzo che lupo—(loosely translated as) “what a crazy wolf.” I have no idea why Italians think wolves are crazy, but it works for me. Many Italian jokes using southern dialect feature a man named the Anglicized Pacha Galoop. And that’s how my friend’s bear became Pasha Galoop.

So, now you can see why I’d consider La Gordiloca and Funky Butt a step up in my history of nicknames. Well, Gordiloca anyway. I’m still not sure what makes a butt funky. Until I figure that out, I may just keep that one on hold.

Copyright 2019 Business Theatre Unlimited

In Defense of Legacy

The recent college admissions scandal has brought attention to various ways that applicants get preferential treatment. In the scam, wealthy parents paid huge sums to circumvent normal admissions procedures in order to get their children admitted to select universities. They paid to have sports experience faked and SAT answers changed or even to have someone smarter take the tests.

Students who played fairly and were denied admissions were not the only ones affected by this. The negative fallout from the scandal has also cast a shadow over students who were accepted following the rules but now have folks wondering about them. Several subsequent opinion pieces criticized legal ways to get preferential treatment, particularly legacy admissions.

For some, “legacy” seems to have become a four-letter word. They see it as a way to stack the deck and to prime parents for big donations. They wonder why schools have legacy programs to begin with. In fact, it’s not about elitism; non-elite schools have legacy programs, too. The answer is as simple as family unity, “team” loyalty and chest-thumping, button-bursting pride.

My alma mater, Brown University, is one of the schools known for its legacy admissions. I wasn’t one of them and I’m happy to report that Brown was not one of the schools involved in the scandal. I’ve been active in their fundraising and I have some knowledge about how things work there. I’m speaking out in defense of Brown’s legacy program and legacy admissions in general.

The percentage of Brown legacies that get admitted is not as high as many might expect. Unofficially, Bruno accepts them at roughly three times the rate of non-legacies. Unqualified legacies are not admitted. Moreover, not all legacies come from wealthy families. I know several parents who were so angry because of this that they disengaged from Brown completely. On the flip side, I’ve seen alumni families on campus taking multi-generational photos. Their joy was palpable.

My high school had something called Girls’ Sports Night, with two teams, one for each school color. If you had an older sister, you could choose to be on the same color team as she had been. Others were assigned to a color randomly, by lot. The option was a form of legacy favoritism. I, along with many of my classmates, took advantage of this. It helped promote sibling unity, avoiding rivalry. It also kept parents from having to cheer for two teams, or no team.

Legacy college admissions can promote family unity. Consider the news features about professional football brothers (or coaches) on opposing teams. Their family members sit on a different sideline when the teams meet. Or maybe they move from one side of the field to the other at half time. Without legacy programs, the same would be true of hundreds of parents of college athletes around the country.

Earlier I said that legacy is also about pride. Think about how many people have Junior after their name. Or II or III. Why does a father want his son to carry his same name, and his grandson and so on? It’s because of pride in what that family name signifies, the generations of accomplishments. It’s also the expectation to have Junior carry on traditions. Similarly, Jewish parents often name their babies after deceased relatives. It provides continuity. It’s a way to honor those who have passed and preserve their memory. This custom is also a form of legacy, and a touching one, at that.

Legacy is not a dirty word. Neither are pride or loyalty or unity. Scam and fraud, on the other hand, are. Don’t debase legacy admissions by equating them with the unfair practices exposed in the recent college scandal. Those scams were perpetrated in the shadows. Don’t elevate them by conflating them with legacy programs that have openly promoted family unity for generations.

Copyright 2019 Business Theatre Unlimited

Savoring Small Pleasures

In preparation for retirement, I jettisoned many possessions. Some were more difficult to part with than others. If I had a do-over on my downsizing, I’d approach it differently. After several years in our condo, I’ve begun to accumulate “stuff” again. I realize this contradicts advice from experts and flies in the face of popular tidying up trends.

As part of my downsizing process, I went through multiple closets of clothes, shelves of books, and every nook and cranny in the kitchen and pantry. My collecting long ago jumped the shark to become hoarding. I managed to downsize my collections by getting rid of them in their totality. I couldn’t pick certain items to keep, because I would feel bad for the ones I would be getting rid of.

Not long after our move, I found myself looking for a particular garment that would have been perfect for a certain occasion (funeral, any one?), only to remember it had been donated. Ditto for some book that I hoped to reference. Then there were those cooking utensils, unused for twenty years of marriage, needed for a recipe Jagdish was concocting in our condo. This was further complicated by the fact that I’m still not sure where I stored things after the move, making me wonder whether an item survived the downsizing.

AARP the Magazine had an article by Suze Orman, the financial guru, wherein she provided seven guidelines for a “sunny” retirement. What caught my eye was number 6: Spend Wisely. Orman recommended setting up two buckets, one for needs and one for wants. Then you use each only for what it’s been set up to do. This presumes you’ve done a proper job of estimating your needs so that bucket is adequate. It also assumes that what you consider to be wants (rather than needs) doesn’t change over time. Good luck with that.

When Marie Kondo gives advice on tidying up, she tells us to get rid of the things that don’t bring us joy. She’s focused on folks long before their golden years. With my great purge well in my rear view, I realize that what warmed my heart when I was still working was sometimes different from what gives me pleasure in retirement.

This is partly because I now have time available for what used to be considered frivolous activities—wasted time back then. I’ve learned to savor small pleasures. Not simple pleasures—small pleasures. Little things that wouldn’t even have been on my radar when I was working. I’m discovering classic TV series like Monk that I never watched in their prime. I’m reading more. Many days I take afternoon naps without feeling guilty.

Here’s a shocker. I’ve become a fan of the Dollar Tree. I used to joke about people who shopped there. Now my husband and I are in one a few times each month. I discovered that they sell jigsaw puzzles, a hobby I enjoyed in my preteen years. At first, I bought them as stocking stuffers. Now I do about two puzzles a week myself. A small pleasure with a small price tag.

Then there’s EBay. I didn’t appreciate the appeal of buying there. I did, however, see it as a good place to sell items that brought me joy when I acquired them years ago but no longer give me even a tiny frisson of pleasure. While I was on the site, I did some searching of items for sale, to get a feeling for prices of things I planned to list. Since I was searching anyway, why not check out some Christmas ornaments?

I started thinking of the time doing this as “window shopping” and I could do it for hours. Eventually I started buying one or two ornaments now and then, but only when the prices were low. After all, I’m retired and on a budget. You can guess where this wound up for a person who has four Christmas trees, including two just for her cats. At first I felt a tad guilty about buying things I didn’t need just because I wanted them. But they made me happy. Opening the little shipping boxes was fun.

Suze Orman and Marie Kondo are wrong. Retirees should start their planning by making ample room in their lives—in their budgets, their homes and their schedules—for buying and doing the non-essential things they want. Small pleasures, not expensive ones. “Wasted” time, not productive tasks. Embracing clutter that is emotionally rewarding. If your retirement planning doesn’t allow for this, rejigger your plan. Expect to die sooner, if that’s what makes it work. At least you’ll go out happy! Don’t deprive yourself of small pleasures. Learn to savor them. They’re what will bring you joy.

Banned Words and Phrases 2019

It’s time once again for my annual list of banned words and phrases. As per the past two years, politics, media and pundits have inspired most of them. Jumping right in…

Let’s start with ‘lock (anybody) up.’ I couldn’t believe I hadn’t banned this yet. I read through my four most recent lists and it’s not on any of them. I should be locked up for allowing this go on for so long, but I’m making amends by putting it in the number one spot on my 2019 list.

Let’s also prohibit ‘impeach’ and ‘impeachment’. I realize it’s tempting to fling those around as the Democrats take control of the House of Representatives. I’m in the camp of those who feel the mention of the “I” word is counter-productive. No matter how odious the language and behavior of our 45^th president have been, for now it’s a long way from likely grounds for impeachment. When the investigation dust has settled (including whatever the new House decides to look into), we can revisit this topic. For now, it just energizes voters who wouldn’t care if 45 shot someone in the middle of Fifth Avenue.

In a similar vain—I mean vein (Freudian slip), I have ‘narcissist’ and ‘narcissism’ on this year’s list. No matter how appropriate those words may seem, we must all refrain from using them. Those labels are reserved for licensed psychiatrists and psychotherapists, and only the ones who are professionally treating the person to whom the labels are being affixed. Considering the medical professionals recently in 45’s orbit, I don’t expect that diagnosis to come any time soon.

The previous two banned items protect our leader-in-chief. The next five have been provided by him. You’ll notice that although I’m banning ‘impeach’ and ‘impeachment,’ I haven’t prohibited the use of ‘investigation.’ We’d barely be able to have a conversation in 2019 without access to that word. I am, however, banning two ways that 45 describes the various forays into his potential wrongdoings.

The first of these, words that I’m delighted to put on the lexicographic ash heap, is ‘witch hunt.’ I have no idea how 45 is going to survive the rest of his first term without this phrase, but I’m eager to find out.

A related expression being tossed overboard is ‘fishing expedition’.  Some of those investigating 45 may indeed be on such an expedition. But experienced fishermen are careful to spend their time in waters that are well stocked with big ones.

I’m also putting the kibosh firmly on ‘rogue’ in 2019. No longer will you-know-who be able to refer to Robert Mueller as a ‘rogue prosecutor’. He likewise will have to find another way to describe the Saudis who murdered Jamal Khashoggi. They cannot be described as ‘rogue operators’. Perhaps MBS can provide alternative descriptions; 45 should have Jared find out.

Next I’m taking away ‘we'll see what happens’ and the closely related ‘wait and see.’ To see, or not to see… That is the question. We know from two years of experience that once these words have been uttered, we will almost definitely NOT see what happens; we will instead wait forever to see.

Another phrase favored by 45 that I’m refusing to allow is ‘maybe he did; maybe he didn't.’ On its face, this provides no useful information. It’s definitional when it refers to anyone’s behavior. It puts me in mind of a joke that went around in college. What did the masochist and the sadist say to each other? Masochist: Beat me! Beat me! Sadist: Maybe I will, and maybe I won’t. We can be quite certain that we’ll never find out from 45 whether anyone did or didn’t. It will take investigative powers to tell us that.

I’m also saying goodbye to the latest segue of choice favored by the media or those being interviewed, specifically ‘having said that.’ If we’ve been paying attention, we’ll know he just said that. If we’ve been doing a Sudoku and listening with one ear, we’ll wonder: having said what? and we’ll expect whatever comes next to put the lie to what came before.

The only non-political and non-media-related phrase on this year’s list is ‘no problem’. This seems to be the new catchphrase for young soon-to-be couples on Hallmark romcoms. That means people on the street will be saying it soon, too. Maybe this is just an age thing, but ‘no problem’ sounds phony to me. A real man would say: “Happy to help.” And a woman would say: “Is there anything else I can do?” And they’d each be thinking: “I’d love to do that for someone as (fill in the blank) as you.”

That’s this year’s list. If you find it entertaining, be assured that I’m happy to do that for someone as (fill in the blank) as you.

Copyright 2019 Business Theatre Unlimited

12 Days of Christmas—Cats’ Version

On the first day of Christmas, King Clayton gave to me

A photo of him under the tree.

On the second day of Christmas, Stella Periwinkle gave to me

Two stuffed toys and Clayton’s photo under the tree.

On the third day of Christmas, Kallie Jasmine gave to me

Three hairball blobs, Stella’s stuffed toys

And Clayton’s photo under the tree.

On the fourth day of Christmas, my family gave to me

Four purrs and snores (that was Jagdish), three hairball blobs,

More stuffed toys and Clayton’s photo under the tree.

On the fifth day of Christmas, my children gave to me

Five “tootsie rolls”,

Four purrs and snores, three hairballs (blech!), still more stuffed toys

And Clayton’s photo under the tree.

On the sixth day of Christmas, my children gave to me

Six sets of whiskers,

Five “tootsie rolls”,

Four purrs and snores, three hairy blobs,

A few more stuffed toys and Clayton’s photo under the tree.

On the seventh day of Christmas, my kiddies gave to me

A week’s worth of pee plops, six sets of whiskers,

Five fragrant rolls,

Four purrs and snores, three hairy blobs, still more stuffed toys

And Clayton’s photo under the tree.

On the eighth day of Christmas, my children gave to me

Eight paws for clawing, seven days of peeing, six whiskers tickling,

Five fragrant rolls,

Four purring snoring, three hairy blobs,

More and more stuffed toys and Clayton’s photo under the tree.

On the ninth day of Christmas, my kitty kats gave to me

Nine lives for living, eight paws clawing couches,

Seven days of peeing, six whiskers tickling,

Five ripening rolls,

Four purring snoring, three hairballs tossed, yes more trophy toys

And Clayton’s photo under the tree.

On the tenth day of Christmas, my children gave to me

A 10-pound bag of litter, nine lives they’re living,

Eight paws for shredding, seven days of peeing, six whiskers tickling,

Five smelly rolls,

Four purring snoring, three hairballs tossed, a few more stuffed toys

And Clayton’s photo under the tree.

On the eleventh day of Christmas, my family gave to me

Eleventh hour cleaning, ten pounds of litter, nine joyful lives,

Eight clawful paws, seven days of pee plops, six tickling whiskers,

Five stinky rolls,

Four purring snoring, three upchucked blobs, another hunting trophy

And Clayton’s photo under the tree.

On the twelfth day of Christmas my family gave to me

Twelve months of loving, eleventh hour cleaning,

Ten pounds of litter, nine precious lives, eight kneading paws,

Seven peeful days, six tickling whiskers,

Five mellow rolls,

Four purring snoring, three tossed up blobs, one more furry trophy

And Clayton’s photo under the tree.

Copyright 2018 Elaine M. Decker

Fall Potpourri—Reporting on the Sexes

When my husband was home recuperating from his second knee surgery, I was mostly housebound. I took the time to dig through the piles of magazines that are one of the sources for my blogs. Herewith a Fall potpourri. These are always fun to do, but this one has a special twist. I’ve collected several tidbits about men and others about women. They make for interesting comparisons.

Our first two snippets have to do with the effect of certain colors on each sex. Time carried an ad in November 2017 with the headline: “Famous Volcano Has Strange Effect on Women.” That immediately brought to mind the movie scene where the blonde bombshell is being sacrificed to King Kong, which turned out to be a step up from earlier movies, where she would have been thrown into a volcano.

The ad’s subhead quickly brought me back to reality. “Man and nature collaborate to create a glamorous green ring guaranteed to rock her world.” The stone is Helenite, formed from the Mount St. Helen eruption. The ad doesn’t explain exactly what the “strange effect” is, but they’re touting that “once you slide this gorgeous green beauty on your finger, it will take a force of nature to get you two apart!” We think they meant “her finger,” not your own finger. Then again, they are claiming it has a strange effect.

The other color story (in the same mag, same month) was titled: “Why America isn’t as pink as it used to be.” A 1979 study determined that a bright pink color (think Pepto-Bismol) weakened men when they looked at the sickly color. Some commanding officers at a U.S. Naval Correctional Center used the color in holding cells and it reduced violence in the prison. As might be expected, soon after there was a pink wave in prisons, public housing, and buses. Also in visiting football teams’ locker rooms, because, well… boys will be boys.

Going backward a few months to August 28, 2017, but staying with Time magazine, we were informed that more men are using condoms (33.7% vs. 29.5% over a decade long period). No explanation was given, unless you consider the very next tidbit under “This Just In.” American women are drinking more alcohol. Data collected across about the same decade showed that alcohol-use disorder went up almost 84% for women vs. 35% for men. We don’t exactly know how these two factoids are connected; we just know that they are. Ditto for this third piece of information from the same issue: baseball player Aaron Judge’s shoe size is 17. Again, we have no idea how this connects to condoms and women drinking more, but use your imagination. You know what they say about big feet.

In other random (and more recent) news, five women on an inflatable unicorn float were stranded in the weeds on a Minnesota lake. Seriously. A unicorn float? Talk about inflated expectations. And a Frenchwoman visiting her mother in British Columbia spent 14 days in a U.S. detention center. She had jogged across the U.S.-Canada border accidentally. Saying it was accidental was a given. No one crosses that border in that direction on purpose anymore.

And lest you think only women do stupid things: Time 8/27/18 reported that Paris now has outdoor urinals, because, as an activist at Femme Solidaires put it: “Men cannot control themselves… so all of society has to adapt.” And speaking of lack of control, there’s a $75 burger available at the Arizona Cardinals’ stadium. It weighs 7 pounds. Its toppings: 5 beef patties, an equal number of hot dogs and bratwursts, 20 cheese slices, 8 bacon slices, 8 chicken tenders and a pile of French fries. Lord, we hope it’s only men eating that.

Men should also not get smug over that jogger’s directional confusion. For the first time in 22 years, an Italian runner won the Venice marathon last Fall. The reason? A motorcycle guide led the frontrunners in the wrong direction for several hundred meters. No one asked for directions. They just followed along like lemmings. Men!

Our final two gems are not really surprising. We spend more on our mothers than we do on our fathers. According to several retail sources, in 2017 $23.6 billion was spent on Mother’s Day, with about 113 million cards sent, versus $15.5 billion spent on Father’s Day and 72 million cards sent. Either way, it’s billions and millions. That’s either a lot of love, or a lot of guilt.

Lastly, we found the dream job for every crazy cat lady: the caretaker for the 55 felines that live on the Greek island of Syros. It comes with great views of the Aegean Sea and an enormous pooper scooper. And no, yours truly did not apply for it.

Copyright 2018 Business Theatre Unlimited

Forget Masculine Toilets and Wonderbras. Get Your Balls-Up!

In a recent monologue, Stephen Colbert took aim at interim Attorney General Matt Whitaker’s business dealings. The target of his humor was the masculine toilet, a product of World Patent Marketing, on whose advisory board Whitaker sits. (No word on whether he also sits on their product.) The bowl of this loo is extra deep, so that a well-endowed man doesn’t have to worry about dipping his junk into the water.

Colbert took an added swipe at Whitaker, claiming he also has a product called Snowballs. This underwear was purportedly designed to keep the family jewels cool, thereby improving potency. All of this reminded me of an article I wrote in 1994. It was the height of the Wonderbra™ craze, long before #metoo and #timesup. Undergarments were marketed very differently for women than they were for men (plus ça change…)

It’s time to take a look back at my masterpiece. It was never published. Once you read it, you’ll understand why. Warning: whether you’re a woman or a man, pee before reading. Sit, stand or straddle; I don’t care. On that note…

I’m weary of this media fuss over the Wonderbra et al. I can’t keep up with it. It’s not that I disapprove of women who want to appear sexy. It’s just that I’ve reached that stage in my life when I don’t want parts of my anatomy thrust under the nose of anyone who wouldn’t recognize them in the dark, bereft of their accouterments.

I don’t think the media would be so obsessed over structural enhancements to parts of men’s anatomy. Sisters (I said to myself), it’s time to fight fire with fire. Which naturally brought to mind Jerry Lee Lewis and his “Great Balls of…” Which in turn inspired my new product—an engineering marvel to rival the most wondrous of bras. I challenge the media to give this product the same attention it has afforded the Wonderbra and all its clones.

Introducing Balls-Up, for great balls! (Play it again, Jerry Lee.) This uplifting piece of gear is made of 100% natural fibers and is guaranteed hypoallergenic. It consists of 69 separate pieces, all carefully French-seamed for durability. Balls-Up comes in four sizes—M, L, XL and Oh, Really? (Size S was dropped after test-market research showed no one would buy it.)

This is not just another athletic supporter, although that same test-market research did show that jocks are just itching to get their Balls-Up. By a 2-to-1 margin, they favor the Lap Cat model, which is extra-durable to protect from claws, spikes, fingernails and other penetrating objects.

We at Balls-Up are more sensitive to the variety of men’s needs than the makers of Wonderbra are to women’s. Our motto: If you’ve got the balls, we’ll get them up right.

Are you part of that 6% of the population who have only one testicle? You’ll be glad to learn about our Uniball model, available in both “dress right” and “dress left” versions. This streamlined Balls-Up has an invisible counter-weight and an attractive racing stripe. The design is under consideration for a pending exhibit at the MOMA.

Worried about static electricity in winter with your Balls-Up against the metal parts of your zipper? No problem! We have seasonally available an anti-stat model, which uses no elastic at all and has a built-in fabric softener dispenser with variable time-release. (Think about that a minute...)

Are your testicles oversized relative to your penis? Check out our Glider model, with its unique Frank Lloyd Wright construction featuring cantilevered cups. It’s showcased in the December issue of Architectural Digest. The patented anti-chafing design comes in two materials—ultra-gel (coolant) for summer wear and lamb’s wool for winter.

No matter what your body type or lifestyle, there’s a Balls-Up that’s perfect for you. With our money-back guarantee, you can try the model of your choice RISK-FREE for ten days. If you don’t enjoy having your Balls-Up, just wrap it up and send it back to us. We’ll return your payment, no questions asked. No snide comments on Post-it notes. No presumptions about your sexual orientation. No inclusion of your name on any mailing list of those who have opted for droopy balls. Just your money back, plain and simple.

Brothers of America, be as bold as the sisters who are flaunting their endowment mercilessly and ubiquitously. Show that sexy Creative Director in the Wonder bra that you’re a real man. Get your Balls-Up! Challenge her to “Look me in the fly and tell me you love me.”

Ed Note: One of the original Wonderbra ads showed a man mesmerized by a babe’s boobs. It had the tag line: “Look me in the eye and tell me you love me.”

Copyright 1994 and 2018 Elaine M. Decker

Retirement Update - Potpourri of Thoughts

Full disclosure up front: this post has no central theme. It’s a potpourri of thoughts gathered at the end of my first month of retirement. Just to pique your interest, topics range from termites to adultery.

First a report on the last few weeks. I’m no longer going into my former office. I still occasionally help out from home, but no more than most volunteers do for the organizations they support. I seem to be getting up a bit earlier than I did the first few weeks off. I guess I’ve finally caught up on my sleep.

More importantly, I have far more energy now than I did those first weeks. I think it’s because I’ve been getting exercise and aerating my blood. (This reminds me that I need to aerate the lawn.) With my focus on clearing out the house, I’m up and down multiple flights of stairs all day. While I’m disappointed that I haven’t been out walking now that the weather is nice, I feel I’m meeting my health needs with my built-in Stairmaster.

Most trips, I’m carrying something, usually in the down direction, since the basement is where I’m organizing items to sell. The boxes of books are hernia-makers, and the days when I’ve carried a few of those, my right knee bothers me at night. Mercifully, that’s why God invented ibuprofen, so I’m able to power through the discomfort.

I can feel that my body is more fit, too. This is a good thing, since at my annual checkup just before I started packing in earnest, my weight was the highest it’s ever been. I expect a dramatic downturn at my next weigh in. (Stay tuned…)

Although I’m spending most of my time on the house, I still pay attention to the important developments in the world around me. Here are some news items I’d like to share, along with my spin on them as I continue to adjust to retirement.

At a bank in northern India, termites ate $225,000 worth of banknotes. This was blamed on lax staffers. Less widely reported is that they were sitting around telling sardarji jokes. I think it's more likely that the termite control wala was transferred to the customer service phones in the south.

I’ve not uncovered any damage of this nature in my archaeological digs throughout my house. The worst thing I’ve found is a carton of packing paper that one of my cats seems to have made into a nesting place. The box has been in the basement since 1992 (recycled from my move here from New Jersey,) so any one of five felines could have been the culprit.

I can tell you are shaking your head that I’d still have packing material from the move to Rhode Island almost twenty years ago. Actually, it’s come in handy in my decluttering process, and I’ve saved some serious cash. Have you priced bubble wrap lately? It must be a petroleum by-product. I'm thinking it could replace the dollar as the international unit of currency.

If you really want to scratch your head, consider this. Some of the things I’ve packed up went back into the same cartons in which they made the trip up here. (They were all carefully labeled.) Remember: I was a Virgo before they concocted that new Zodiac.

Another news tidbit is one you may have heard. A conservative religious newspaper removed Hilary Clinton from the photo where the national security team was watching the bin Laden raid. They believe any photos of women can stir sexual desires. Seriously. Have they ever actually seen a woman in a pantsuit? They give men credit for way too much imagination.

And finally, going from the ridiculous to the sublime… A Time magazine article on the 400th birthday of the King James Bible shared the following piece of arcane trivia. Apparently there was a typo in the 1631 edition. As a result, the seventh commandment instructed: “Thou shalt commit adultery.” For those who are so inclined, from KJB’s mouth to God’s ear, so go for it.

For my part, I’m hoping someone unearths a version that dictates: “Thou shat imbibe freely of Barolo wine and indulge heavily in Godiva chocolates.” Amen to that.

In Praise of Politics-Free Zones

I was one of the organizers for my recent 55^th high school reunion in New Jersey. Just 40% of our class went on to college back then. In addition to college prep, the school provided vocational and skill-oriented tracks such as auto mechanics, shop, industrial design, beauty culture, secretarial and home economics. The committee members knew that the political leanings of our class range from far right to far left, even just among the six of us. We agreed to declare the event a “Politics-Free Zone.” We posted notices and made an announcement at the beginning of the Saturday night dinner.

I’ve spent much of the past two years alternating between semi-depression and extreme stress. The last thing I wanted to do at my high school reunion was get into arguments about politics. My best friend from grade school (also on the committee) is one of those who hold views one hundred eighty degrees opposite from mine. We’ve managed to stay civil on our Facebook posts and not let these differences affect our friendship—an increasingly rare accomplishment. The fact that we see each other only every few years probably helps, but still…

So it was with some trepidation and a higher than normal stress level that I reached this milestone event after a four hour drive that should have taken two and a half hours. The committee had a brief confab about whether we needed to publicly state no politics, since that was posted on two of the information boards in the room. We decided to do so, but low key, emphasizing that we’re all adults.

Now that the weekend is in my rear-view, I’m happy to report that there was no shouting, no physical violence and no sniping as far as we could tell. Everyone seemed to have an enjoyable time. We shared stories of various trips from one end of the globe to another. Some folks focused on their grandchildren, with photos to support their pride-worthy accomplishments.

Two recent widows who were there had been reluctant to come. I told each of them that she wouldn’t be the only one having had a recent loss. (We had a recent widower, too.) They were able to share their struggles over what to do after so many years with one spouse, and how they were finally emerging from the fog of grief. They were glad they decided to make the trip. The class had invited a handful of our teachers who were still around to be our guests. The event offered the chance for everyone to meet on more level ground at this point in our lives.

I arrived home after a stress-free two and a half hour drive, feeling as though I’d had a mini-vacation. As I thought about the weekend, I realized that a big part of my upbeat mindset was that I hadn’t turned on a TV for three days. I had no conversations about politics or the upcoming election. There were plenty of other things to discuss. Who was still playing in a band or had recently taken up an instrument again. Who had retired but was brought back by her company as a consultant, making more than when she was on staff and with dental benefits, too. Who recently became a vegetarian or is trying that Paleo diet.

There was a lot of talk about joint replacement surgeries. My husband (who had his second knee done three days after the reunion) found someone to chat with through most of Saturday dinner—the husband of one of my classmates. I think they discussed the economy and world trade—perilously close to politics in my opinion, but apparently not in theirs. Everyone agreed that the “no politics” rule made it safer to approach old friends to ask where life had taken them.

As you enter into what is often the most stressful season of the year, I urge you to declare your holiday "politics free". You can make a lovely little sign with holly and berries on it. And if Uncle Biff insists on getting into it with Aunt Edna, tell them politely to take it outside. You’ll thank me by the time you’re doing the dishes.

Copyright 2018 Business Theatre Unlimited

Protest vs. Respect—A #TakeAKnee Compromise

Football season is now in full swing and the controversy surrounding players who #TakeAKnee during the playing of the #Star-Spangled Banner, our #nationalanthem, shows no sign of abating. There’s little agreement among players, coaches, managers, team owners, media pundits and politicians on who is “right.” There’s even less agreement on how these protests (and protestors) should be handled.

I’m suggesting a compromise that might help bring closure to the discussion. Or at least reduce the volume. Maybe I’ve watched too many of the memorials following John McCain’s death, with their messages of hope. As #SenatorMcCain wrote, let’s not “despair of our present difficulties”. Let’s celebrate “the promise and greatness of America” by meeting in the middle.

The players insist that they are not taking a knee out of disrespect to our flag. They’re doing it to protest “systemic oppression”—the unfair treatment of minorities, especially in our criminal justice system. Taking a knee during the anthem turned out to be an effective way to bring attention to this issue, if not a resolution to the underlying problems.

In addition to standing for the Star-Spangled Banner, many Americans place their right hand over their heart as they face the flag. That gesture is considered a further sign of respect. What if a football player placed his right hand over his heart as he knelt while facing the flag? This combination of gestures would signal that he was still respecting our flag while protesting oppression and injustice. It might even earn him respect for doing so.

Copyright 2018 Business Theatre Unlimited

Missing Blogger Comes Up for Air

Recently several friends who are not on Facebook reached out to me asking if I’m OK. They wondered why I haven’t blogged in months. Four months, to be exact. Today I received a message from the blogging platform I use, asking if I still want to receive comments left on my posts. Since I rarely received comments when I was actively blogging, I took this message as their way to ask: Are you still blogging?

I decided to write a post explaining where I’ve been and letting folks know that yes, I’m still among the living, if just barely. Without getting too deep into the weeds, here’s why I stopped blogging.

My style is primarily social satire. There’s a person in the public eye who is an obvious target for this type of humor. He had been a rich source of material for my blogs for over a year. I always put a link to my blog posts on my Facebook page. I learned that many of my Facebook friends either don’t understand or don’t appreciate satire. Especially if it’s directed at said focus of my writing. The resulting vitriol in the comments on my posts led me to discontinue sharing my opinions.

For awhile, I still wrote for pleasure, but published in other outlets where the readers appreciate my style and mindset. The more the behavior of our national leaders descended into policies and language that I found alarming and offensive, the darker my world became. Simply put, I lost interest in writing just about anything. I spent many afternoons sprawled on the couch watching Hallmark channel romcom movies. Some of them for the third time.

For the past month, my days were more consumed helping my husband recover from his first knee replacement surgery. Everything went far better than anticipated, but the household schedule changed dramatically. Instead of being here for 2 ½ days a week, he was here full time. Meaning more grocery shopping and meal preparation, and multiple drug store runs. Since he was on the couch in the family room, I began working again on a book that I started about six years ago that’s been on the back burner.

I took my husband back to his store in Providence yesterday. So it’s a good time to decide whether to crawl back into my dark hole or come up for air. The recent passing of Senator John McCain provided more incentive to get on with my life. He was a decent man and true hero, no matter what you might have thought of his politics. I reflected on McCain’s exhortation in his final letter to all of us: “Do not despair of our present difficulties. We believe always in the promise and greatness of America because nothing is inevitable here.”

Punctuate that with the not-surprising debacle around the White House flag. The inquiry from my blogging platform was the final push. While I still “despair of our present difficulties,” I’ve decided it’s time to get back to the writing I enjoy most. That means I’ll come down off the “high road” some of the time. I’m sure I’ll have plenty of company down there in the muck and the mire. If I offend some of you, if you have strong opinions that differ from mine, save your vitriol for your own blog or Facebook posts. Stop reading mine. We’ll both be happier.