Retirement Planning—Saving Social Security

Those of us on the verge of retirement pay close attention to discussions of whether Social Security will go toes up in the near future. I believe I’ve stumbled upon a funding solution that will preserve Social Security for posterity.

My idea was inspired in part by the arguments over the extension of the Bush tax cuts. A key issue was whether the cuts should be allowed to expire for the very wealthy. There were differing opinions of what income marked the transition to that status. Some numbers thrown about were $250,000, $500,000 and $1 million per year. As a side note: these discussions always make me worry that I’m hovering dangerously close to poverty level.

The real key to my plan to save Social Security was modeled after the infamous donut hole of Medicare’s prescription coverage. We need to create a Social Security donut hole, but not on the receiving end of the equation—on the payment side.

With the current system, workers stop paying in when their income reaches $106,800. My plan will give rich folks a break for a donut hole of income running from $106,800 to, say, $1 million. (It’s not that I’m generous. I just don’t have the patience to argue about the threshold to super-wealthy.)

Earners once again begin paying Social Security taxes on income over $1 million. The political parties can fight over what percentage they should pay. Even if it’s less than the percentage paid by the lower income folks, on those ethereal salaries, Social Security will be fully funded for the next millennium. Now don't you all feel better?

While I’m on the subject of political parties fighting over things that could impact Social Security, let’s not forget the tax deal that Obama cut during the lame duck session of Congress. Democrats thought he caved too easily; Republicans thought they were tricked into supporting a stimulus package. Many pundits say they are both correct.

The December 12th edition of Inside Washington addressed this issue, and panelist Mark Shields caught my attention when he made this interesting observation. “The question about every conservative who comes to office is does he have compassion, does he have a heart. The question about every liberal leader is does he have a backbone?”

As I listened to this, the characters from The Wizard of Oz suddenly appeared before me. There was the Tin Man, lamenting his lack of a heart. Next to him, the Cowardly Lion wished for courage, which certainly sounded like a plea for backbone. It occurred to me that if Shields’ observation is correct, we need new symbols for our national political parties.

We should replace the elephant with the Tin Man and the donkey with the Cowardly Lion. This makes a lot of sense in the current climate. After all, our political conversations seem to have moved on down the road to Oz, and we can’t really be sure what we’ll find behind that curtain.

I wonder if I got rid of my ruby slippers when I was thinning out my closet...

RetirementSparks Christmas Greetings

Taking a holiday from the usual RetirementSparks posting today to wish all of you a very Merry Christmas. For those who don't celebrate this holiday, wishing you a peaceful day with friends and family.

Jagdish and I are in Vermont with my sister and her family. The trip up from Providence was uneventful, with suprisingly little traffic. It's a winter wonderland up here--just beautiful.

The next regular posting will be Wednesday, followed by another day off for New Years.

Warmest wishes to all of you.
Stay safe. Be healthy. Find joy and embrace it.

Retirement Planning—Species of Retirees

The end of the year always sees the publication of various lists. Time’s end-December issue includes a list of ten new species, including the Tube-Nosed Fruit Bat, the Bluetooth Tarantula and the Giant Woolly Rat. I do not lie. Check for yourself.

As I’ve collected information for my retirement, I’ve identified a number of distinct species of retirees. The most familiar one is the Pot-Bellied Pensioner. He was fortunate enough to spend his entire working life at one large corporation. They gave him an irresistible buyout package that has enabled him to sit back and do nothing at all. His lack of motivation to augment his discretionary income has resulted in a substantial weight gain around his midsection, which has led to considerable health problems. He doesn’t care, however, because his buyout included full health care coverage. The good news for our economy is that this species of retiree is on the verge of extinction.

A large but relatively young group are the Double-Dipping Unionites. These former government functionaries and public servants received lucrative retirement packages around age 40, at which time they took a second job. That job provided a similarly lucrative package that kicked in around age 60. Although I have yet to collect sufficient data to prove my theory, I believe that there is an unwritten but clearly understood system of job swapping among the Double Dippers. At age 40, those in career A trade places with those in career B, so that at age 60, they all retire with double dips. If enough of our cities and states go bankrupt, thus voiding all existing contracts, this species may one day become extinct, too. Don’t hold your breath.

Those of you who live in the more progressive states have surely seen the Downy-Chested Community Organizer. Dressed in a pouffy insulated vest in winter, this activist retiree goes door to door trying to drum up enthusiasm, signatures and contributions . She champions such causes as Save the Bay, Don’t Feed the Pigeons, Protect the Tube-Nosed Fruit Bat and Free the Giant Woolly Rats. This type of retiree shows no signs of impending extinction.

A particularly flamboyant species I identified is the Condo Commodore. Often self-appointed, but sometimes elected to his position, he patrols your community looking for violations of condo rules. Weather permitting, he is dressed in a navy blazer with brass buttons, khaki slacks and white patent leather loafers. If he is a widower, you are done for. The widows in the community will never support an uprising against him.

An unfortunately common species is the Red-Nosed Walmart Greeter. Most of us are familiar with the three-legged stool concept of funding one’s retirement (Social Security, some sort of income from a former employer, and your own 401K/IRA type of investment program.) Sadly, the Red-Nosed Walmart Greeter has a one-legged stool—the wobbly one of Social Security. She balances precariously on that stool at the door of your local Walmart, alternately smiling a greeting and dabbing at her leaky nose with the corner of her blue pinny. It seems as though the vital fluids of her life are draining slowly out of her, but it’s probably just hay fever.

The last and most obnoxious retiree that I’ve identified is the Smug-Mouthed Investment Wizard. This migratory creature had the foresight (and the time) to carefully manage his or her investments from at least age 40 onward. When it came to real estate, they bought at the low points in the market and sold at the high. They now own retirement-appropriate homes in every climate that the calendar requires, and they make sure everyone knows when they are making their winter pilgrimage to Sanibel Island. On the brighter side, each time they return to the north country, their skin looks more and more like leather. There is a god after all.

Retirement Transition—Marking How Time Passes

As someone who is still fully employed, I tend to mark the passage of time by certain repetitive tasks in the office. If I’m making a bank deposit, another week has passed. When I’m submitting the payroll, two weeks have gone by, and so on. I use the calendar on my computer to remind me of various things, including what day of the week it is.

Recently I received a robo-call that one of my prescriptions on auto-refill was ready for pick-up. My first thought was: “Has a month gone by already?” Then it occurred to me. Once I’m retired, those robo-calls could be the only way I'll know another month has passed.

Will I realize another week is history only when Lily starts looking askance at the litter boxes because they need changing? Gray roots of my hair crying out to be colored? Four weeks gone, but I’ll probably put it off another week. If I’m not working, I can go as gray as Jamie Lee Curtis. (But not if that means I have to start eating Activia.)

It seems there will be reliable ways to have a sense of the passage of time from one week upward. But what about knowing which day of the week it is when I wake up each morning? Most of us have had the Monday Morning Blues at some point in our working lives and we’re all familiar with TGIF. There’s no reason for Monday blues when you can sleep in every day. No, I’ll need to find with a new way to figure out what day it is.

Perhaps I’ll get some useful direction from that old nursery rhyme about Monday being wash day, Tuesday ironing, etc. By the way, it never made sense to me that mending day followed washing and ironing. Shouldn’t you mend things before you wash them, so the holes don’t get bigger as the agitator… well, agitates? And surely ironing and then mending is a recipe for re-ironing. (Well, it is if you’ve ever seen me mend anything.)

A Google search shows that in its original version this rhyme had Thursday as churning day and Friday as cleaning. More recent ones dropped churning (has no one heard of metaphors?), bumped up cleaning a day, and slipped in shopping on Friday. I have no quibble with getting a day to shop. Just saying, in this complex world, our houses probably “churn” even more than that little one on the prairie did.

While the specifics of the rhyme weren’t of much use, the concept helped me. Herewith my plan for how Jagdish and I will mark time passing once we’ve retired.

Sunday will be puzzle day—Sudoku, Times and such.
The polit shows will fill the morn, so we’re not out of touch.
Monday’s tagged for exercise; perhaps we’ll walk a bit.
Unless Jagdish’s knees give out, in which case we’ll just sit.
Tuesday it’s the Internet, I’ll write and chase my dream.
Jagdish will also be there with some money-making scheme.
Wednesday on to household chores, each week a different one.
We’ll wash and clean and press and mend from dawn to setting sun. [As if.]
Thursday can be artsy time, pursuing crafty fads.
With glue sticks, fabric scraps and some recycled paper bags.
Friday we will grocery shop and cook and bake things fine.
And then we’ll settle back to sip a lovely glass of wine. [Or two. Or three.]
Saturday’s for scouring every type of publication.
It’s how I’ll get ideas to free up scriber’s constipation. [Writer’s block?]
So there you have the weekly plan of how our days will pass.
And every night I’ll find some time to raise that long-stemmed glass.

Retirement Simplification—Acronyms for the Jargon

Political commentators sure use a lot of acronyms. I’m not talking about ones used for texting, like “OMG” and “LOL.” Theirs are strange. As I watched one of the political shows this past Sunday, I came to attention when I heard “BOMFOGers.” The speaker explained that BOMFOG stood for “Brotherhood of Man, Fatherhood of God.” He was warning viewers to be wary of those who spout meaningless platitudes. I think the term is a little like the onomatopoeic “bloviator,” but with a more political focus.

My first thought was that BOMFOGer sounded raucously close to another word with an M and an F that ends in “er.” My next thought was that acronyms can play a useful role in simplifying communications, especially in areas that are rife with jargon. I immediately realized that I could provide a valuable service by cataloging some acronyms for retirement.

Let’s start with Medicare. (I heard some of you moan, “Let’s not!”) It’s a tough job, but someone has to do it. You should look carefully at a MSIP (Medicare Supplement Insurance Plan) to cover costs that basic Medicare doesn’t. Part A covers hospital services. Part B covers medical expenses such as PSIOPMSSS, and PST, DT and DME. So, you’ve got your Physicians’ Services, In & Out Patient Medical & Surgical Services & Supplies; and also Physical & Speech Therapy, Diagnostic Tests and Durable Medical Equipment. I hope you’ve been paying attention, because there will be a test.

If you decide to get coverage for the prescription drugs you take, you’ll enroll in a PDP (Prescription Drug Plan.) Be careful not to confuse that with AARP’s PDP (Prescription Discount Program.) The latter PDP is free and is presently run through Walgreens. It can be used when your regular PDP doesn’t cover the prescription you’re filling.

So, if your PDP doesn’t pay for your medical marijuana, for example, AARP’s PDP might. If you’re smart, you’ll toke before you even try to figure this one out. Especially since the fine print reads “The AARP PDP is not a licensed pharmacy and may be discontinued at any time.” By the way, as best I can tell, bongs are not covered as DME.

Your PDP (Prescription Drug Plan) is where that infamous “donut hole” comes into play. The good news is, if you’re really decrepit and take lots of meds, you can throw yourself on the mercy of drug companies’ PAPs (Patient Assistance Programs.) When you reach the donut hole, your PAP kicks in. That way if the AARP PDP has gone toes up, you won’t get smeared.

Moving on to Social Security. We all know that FRA (Full Retirement Age) is the age at which our government finds we’re sufficiently senile to collect 100% of earned benefits. For my peers, that’s 66. However, 100% of earned benefits is not, in fact, the maximum we can receive. That’s right, we can get more than 100% if we’re willing to hang on until full senility sets in. The government has decided that for all of us that happens at age 70.

This means that FRA is really FRABNAFMAB (Full Retirement Age, But Not Age For Maximum Available Benefits.) It sets up a new concept: OFRA (Over-Full Retirement Age.) It also sends you to actuarial tables to decide if you’ll live long enough to make it worth waiting for MABRA, or whether you should take the money and run at FRA.

Once you decide to start collecting your Social Security benefits, you’ll have the option for DDA (Direct Deposit Advice.) When you choose that, your monthly payment will automatically appear in your designated account. Unfortunately for some of us, there is also the DDISEA (Direct Deposit Into Someone Else’s Account.) You may discover you have DDISEA even though you didn’t sign up for it, and it takes close to an act of Congress to undo it.

I hope you have enjoyed this informative, if brief, foray into the topic of retirement acronyms. There are so many more that I could share with you, but I don’t want to risk your having an attack of AFRJO (Acronyms for Retirement Jargon Overload.) I’m quite sure that isn’t covered by under OPMS, although it just might qualify you to find relief in medical marijuana. They say that every cloud has a silver lining.

Retirement Planning – Just Open the Darn Book!

A friend of mine who is about nine months ahead of me on the retirement timeline has been trying to decide when to stop working. He can afford to do it now, but as he told one of his colleagues, he doesn’t know yet what he wants to do with the next phase of his life. (He lost his wife about two years ago, so his long-held plans have changed.)

His feeling was, if he didn’t have a plan, why not keep working? The advice his colleague* gave him was simple, yet profound. He said: “You can’t start writing the next chapter of your life unless you’re willing to open the book.” I decided it would be a good idea to think about some of the headings on the pages of my life’s next chapter.

The first one is easy: Give away all the alarm clocks in the house and sleep in every morning. That would require some planning, though, because Lily would be walking all over me at some point, wanting her breakfast. I started a list: “Things to Buy for Next Chapter of My Life.” Then I wrote “Gravity-feed cat food dispenser.”

Another page should be: Read all the books that I bought and never had time to finish. Or even start. Of course, most of those books will have been sold or donated by the time we downsize for retirement. I add to the list: “Buy a Kindle." Or whatever electronic reading device du jour makes sense for a Mac lover. And then “Find out if Kindle comes with 3.25 magnifier.” I amend that to “Find out maximum Kindle magnifier number” and “Auto upgrades available?” By next year, I might be up to 3.5.

I title a page: Take up scrap-booking, or making greeting cards. (I have lots of supplies that I’ve collected over the years.) Somehow that sounds too crafty, not artsy enough for me. Maybe collage. Or book making. No, not the taking bets kind. The type where you bind your own books with handmade paper; it’s quite popular now. Although setting myself up as a bookie could be a way to supplement my retirement income. Hmmm…

Definitely: Start a vegetable and herb garden. Note to self: Do not plant anything in the catnip family; (that means no mint.) I tried growing catnip once, and the neighbor’s cat (an outdoor scamp) mowed it to ground level. He got so drunk that he trashed the entire herb bed. My own cats never saw so much as a leaf off the nepeta cataria.

This reminds me of how my father planted various fruit trees on our modest sized property in New Jersey. My favorite was the Carpathian walnut tree. (I am not joking.) My mother baked a lot of tea breads as gifts and many of them contained walnuts. Since those were pricey, my father decided to save money by planting the tree. He did not take into account the local squirrel population. Despite various attempts at curtailing their thievery (an entire post in itself), he was never able to harvest enough for more than one batch of bread. He eventually chopped the walnut tree down out of spite.

Perhaps: Volunteer at the Best Friends animal sanctuary in Utah. My friend, Sheryl, named them to receive contributions when she died. Their work is amazing and the DVDs they send tug at your heartstrings even more than that “Arms of an Angel” SPCA commercial. You know, the three-tissue anti-cruelty one with the dogs in cages and the Sarah McLachlan song in the background. If I went to Best Friends, I might never come back. Besides, I doubt I could bring Lily and Luke, and I can’t really picture Jagdish mucking horse stalls…

Suddenly I am inspired. I have the perfect heading for the next chapter of my life. Become a boutique wine maker. It brings together so many aspects of the other ideas. I can save money. I’ll have gifts to give. I’ll be a classic Virgo, working with the earth. And we all know what the best part of making my own wine will be. Santé!


*Credit to Michael Fine, even though he doesn’t know it.

Retirement Transitions—Road Wanderers

You’ve probably heard the phrase “road warriors,” the business people (usually sales reps) who spend most of their time in their cars. Their vehicles are essentially traveling offices, complete with computers, phone/faxes, office supplies, samples of their wares (if appropriate) and the basic necessities for frequent overnight stays. It wouldn’t surprise me if some of them even have minibars and yoga mats and Wii.

I think I’ve discovered their retirement equivalent: “road wanderers.” Road wanderers spend their time traveling around in their cars, visiting family and friends that they likely have not seen for decades. I figured this out on my way back from a trip to the New York metro area this past weekend.

It began with the annual brunch my college friend, Dee Dee, arranged on Saturday. I opted to drive from Providence the evening before. As I took note of the rising cost of gas, I decided to combine some other visits with this trip. I stayed Friday night with my nephew, Barry, his wife, Meg, and their twins in Westport, CT. They’d moved there several months ago, but I hadn’t seen their house yet.

Then I tacked on Saturday dinner in West Central Jersey with my former partner, Charlie, and his family from his first marriage. It was a slightly early birthday celebration for him, arranged by his daughter to coincide with my visit. Sunday midday I connected with a summer friend I hadn’t seen in over 40 years. (She found me on FaceBook.) By coincidence, Ann, who lives near Philadelphia, was doing a puppet show five miles from where Charlie lives. (If you’re counting, that makes four connections.)

Saturday night, I was supposed to be back in Connecticut staying with Lee, a former colleague from Colgate Palmolive, in anticipation of lunch on Monday. We were going to connect with Maida, another former Colgate colleague. (Are you still with me?) This all was canceled when Lee fell ill.

With Monday lunch (and friend tick-offs 5 and 6) no longer scheduled, I found myself driving home Sunday night, a day early. As I passed through the section of New Jersey where I went to high school, I thought, “If I’d known I would have the evening free, I could have stopped off to see Ted and Ellen. They live quite near here.” (Ted was one of my fellow band geeks.) That’s when it hit me: this could be a preview of my retirement years.

This got me to thinking about how I’d need to equip my car for life as a road wanderer. Certainly I’d need the ability to use a computer and a phone. I know what you’re thinking. Get Skype on the computer and you won’t need the phone. Have you tried to set up Skype? Humor me on this one.

I’ll need the ability to brew a proper cup of tea. Perhaps a mini-microwave. Does that mean I’d need a solar array on the roof of the car? I can’t imagine being away from my cats for any length of time. So I’d need cat-friendly lounging and scratching areas for them. Then there’s the litter…

Since I might not know how long I’d be away on each trip, I’d need a month’s supply of all my medications. (Oh, the paperwork!) And vitamins. And lotions. And dental floss. It would also be helpful to have a book on B&Bs that allow cats and to have a Zagat’s guide. There’s nothing worse than wandering the Amish Country looking for a restaurant that specializes in South Indian food. Or having an unrequited longing for thin-crust pizza in Colonial Williamsburg.

You may have noticed that I did not mention a portable wine cellar. I’m careful not to have more than a half glass when I’m going to be driving. As a road wanderer, I’d likely have to give up the vino en route. Quite a sacrifice, now that I think about it.

No wine; lots of litter. Hours upon hours with my driving glasses pressing on the bridge of my nose, making those ugly red marks. I may have to go back to the drawing board on this idea. And as long as I’m passing by the wine rack on my way there…

Retirement Planning – Creative Sparks

When I hear about reunions with people I haven’t been in touch with for thirty or forty years, I don’t rush to put them on my calendar in ink. Until recently, with the exception of my fellow band geeks, I hadn’t given much thought to what my high school classmates might have done with their lives. Ditto for my summer crowd

It was a 45 minute bus ride to my regional high school, where only 40 per cent of the students went on to college. The cute guys were more likely to be in auto mechanics and shop than in my calculus or physics classes. Let me amend that. The bad boys that I found fascinating were more likely to be mechanics and shoppies.

We lived year round in a summer community, and the seasonal folks came from all around our state. Looking back, it makes sense that they had the potential to become really interesting adults. But adult potential wasn’t something that concerned me.

Here is my deep dark secret. I was a shallow teenager, not prone to introspection and philosophizing. I was more interested in how attractive my girlfriend’s brother had become during his freshman year in college. Or the muscles that my brother’s beach buddies had developed over the winter.

One thing that has surprised me about the people from my past with whom I’ve reconnected as I approach retirement is how interesting they seem to be. They are smart and well-traveled—one was even in the Peace Corps. The biggest revelation is that they are amazingly creative, especially those who are already retired. This gives me hope for my own retirement.

One of my summer friends does puppetry with her husband. She studied it in Prague decades ago. We’re talking serious stuff, not faces drawn on your fingertips in ball point pen. A college classmate took up clarinet late in life and is totally immersed in her community band. My brother, who retired very early, became a fabulous outdoor photographer once he had the time to pursue it. [Check out his recent fall trip. http://www.pbase.com/rickdecker/sigma_dp1x and http://www.pbase.com/rickdecker/gallery/sd15_fall_2010

I used to do all sorts of artsy things. The company where I worked had a holiday doll pageant. They provided naked dolls (no snickering, please) and asked employees to make or buy outfits for them so they could be donated. They gave prizes in four categories for the handmade outfits. I won first prize thirteen years in a row and eventually captured first in each of the four categories. Mutter “competitive b- - -h” all you want, but I truly enjoyed doing it.

Perhaps retirement will afford me the time and the opportunity to take up new artistic pursuits, like photography. I bought a Nikon digital camera several years ago, but my eyes are so bad, I have trouble focusing. Jagdish would like to learn ballroom dancing. He has two left feet and I’ve broken both of mine (mercifully, not at the same time.) Also, his rhythm is distinctly Indian, and then there’s my diminishing sense of balance. Dancing doesn’t seem too promising an option. I suppose writing is creative, but I was hoping for something more… well, artsy. (Or flamboyant?)

I’m sitting here, trying to feel creative, looking around for inspiration. My computer keyboard catches my eye. Some of the keys are almost completely clean, while others have dark, smudgy spots around their perimeters. I wonder why all the keys aren’t smudged. The cleanest ones are the home row, and the dirtiest are the numbers. Maybe Lily walks along the upper edge with her dirty paws and the keys I use most often are the cleanest. But the function keys on the very top row are also clean. There goes the Lily theory. I’m perplexed. I’m also tempted to go get some Qtips and cleaning fluid.

Then I get into Jagdish’s glass half empty/half full mode of thought (see last Wednesday’s blog.) Were the keys with the white spots in the middle at one point totally smudged, so now are half clean? Or were the white spots never covered, and somehow the smudges only accumulated around the perimeter, so now half dirty?

It doesn’t say much for my creative sparking that I’m so easily distracted by a computer keyboard. I’m feeling quite inadequate compared to my peers. What we have here is a failure to find a muse. I don’t know about you, but if there’s one place I’d expect to find my muse, it’s at the bottom of a—you guessed it—lovely bottle of vino.

See ya!

Retirement Planning – A Shifting Line in the Sand

My husband called me the other day with an idea for a RetirementSparks post. Someone told him the time was twenty-five minutes to three. My husband countered that it was actually two thirty-five. He saw this as a variation on the glass half full vs. empty question. Stated differently: Are you focused on the present (it’s two thirty-five) or the future (twenty-five minutes to three)? I’m guessing he sees the present as the half-full option here.

The retirement correlation seems to be: Do I have three more weeks left in my working life? Or am I three weeks away from retirement? Neither, as it turns out. As my presumed retirement was drawing closer, I expected my plans to be solidifying. Instead, they seem to be turning to jello. Put another way, that line that I drew in the sand a few months ago seems to be shifting from my reading glasses zone to my driving ones.

Some things at work have conspired to make it likely that I’ll be working full time at least two or three more months. Or, futuristically (and glass half empty,) that retirement will be two or three months away. The more I try to plan for retirement, the more I find myself questioning how to define it.

Although my first benchmark was eligibility for Medicare, that had more to do with when I might be able to afford to retire, not when I planned to do so. Likewise, the date when my pension from a former career maxed out helped to define an “earliest possible” date.

Many people define retirement as when they stop working, preferably out of choice. For some that means no full time job; for others, it means not even part time work. I’ve always thought of “retirement” more as being able to stay up as late as I want every night and then sleep in, a time when I could spend my waking hours doing whatever I want. Or doing nothing. (As if.) I know that at least one of you gentle readers out there shares that view.

I suppose I could work part time and still qualify as semi-retired, using my own definition. That of course begs the question: “Is retirement a state of being or a state of mind?” If one’s schedule says “retired,” but one’s head is still “showing up” at that mental office every morning, who’s kidding whom? Likewise, if you come to work every day, but are counting the hours until the final punch out, aren’t you effectively retired?

When the dust has settled (or the grains of sand,) I suppose it doesn’t really matter how you label the phase of life that comes sometime after age 65 for most of us. And it’s not that important exactly where we draw the line. What matters is how gracefully we navigate the passage. Of course, it would be nice to do it in a boat that doesn’t leak and with at least one paddle. And a really good bottle of wine.

Retirement Transitions – Finding Stable Friends

One of the challenges of retirement is finding new friends if you relocate. You might think this is not an issue for people who are reasonably outgoing. That depends on one’s expectations for those new friends.

A few years back I titled the “Philosophy Corner” in my newsletter “I’m Sorry If I Made You Fat.” I’d recently read the results of a study showing that if the people in your social circle were overweight, it was more likely you’d be, too. Now I’ve read an interview with a Brown professor who claims that the same is true about divorce. Simply put, if you want to stay married, pay close attention to the stability of the relationships of those around you.

So, in addition to looking for new friends with a sense of humor, reasonable intelligence and a taste for ethnic cuisine, we’ll need to screen them for signs of a deteriorating relationship. I’ve come up with a handful of criteria that I believe will provide early warning signs that a partnership is doomed.

An obvious indication that things are not on solid ground: one of them has a divorce attorney on speed dial. If their prenuptial agreement is more than ten pages long, you can be pretty sure someone already had an exit strategy before walking down the aisle. They may as well have said “I do-ish” or “I might.” Call me a skeptic, but I think a marriage is iffy for long term if either of the parties is on their third marriage. I know, I know. “Third time’s the charm.” But that can be said for divorce, too.

My screening criteria include some behavioral-based observations about long-term compatibility. For example, if one of them listens to NPR daily and the other shops regularly at WalMart, don’t expect to be re-gifting that silver plated fruit basket you have for their twenty-fifth anniversary. Ditto when one of them is vegan and the other has a lifelong love affair with marbled red meat. There is no room for compromise in those diets, and a meat cleaver will out maneuver a potato peeler any day.

Other signs of impending disintegration come with a retirement that required downsizing. Keep an eye out for trouble if they used to have separate bathrooms, but now they have to share one. Based on my personal experience, I’d give that couple a wide berth. One sign that you probably never considered: they retired to a condominium, but he refuses to give up his riding mower. One day, he’ll head over yonder ridge and just keep going. You can afford a lot of gas for a mower, even at today’s prices.

These criteria should help Jagdish and me weed out most of the potential new friends who could exert a negative influence on our marriage. What worries me more is if the ones who pass our test are conducting the same type of screening on us. I can hear them now. “He seems nice enough, really mellow. But she’s a bit intense, don’t you think? How much longer do you figure they’ll stay together?”

Or maybe: “He doesn’t seem to give much thought to planning things, and she’s obsessive about every detail—a classic Virgo. They’ll never last.” “Didn’t he say he’s allergic to most wine? But she sure seems to enjoy the fruit of the vine. Let’s steer clear of that pair.”

So much for finding stable friends when we relocate. Now, where did I put that cork screw…

Retirement Thanks – Things I’m Grateful For

As tomorrow is Thanksgiving, it seems appropriate for this post to celebrate some of the things for which I am grateful as I approach retirement.

10. I’m grateful for 3.25 magnifiers at the dollar stores. (Next year I’ll probably be grateful for 3.5.)

9. I’m grateful that my best friend from seventh grade and good friends from high school summers found me on FaceBook. I’m even more grateful that they think the 5-years (and 15 pounds) old picture on my profile page is what I actually look like now.

8. I’m grateful that the only donut holes I have to worry about today come in Dunkin’s Munchkins boxes.

7. I’m grateful for the yard-long shoehorn that my brother-in-law gave me. I’m not as flexible as I used to be, but I’m still too young for Velcro shoes.

6. I’m grateful that when I was downsized out of a Fortune 500 company in the late eighties after 17 years with them, I was not allowed to take my pension money with me. (I love having that third leg on my retirement stool. It would have been sawdust years ago if I’d had control of it.)

5. I’m grateful for all of you who read my RetirementSparks blog and especially for those of you who let me know you’ve read it. (Hits good. Feedback even better!)

4. With two aging cats with over-active bladders, I’m grateful for the invention of clumping litter. (As I approach retirement, it’s the little things that count.)

3. I’m grateful for being old enough to collect Social Security before the system implodes under the weight of the entire Baby Boomer generation.

2. I’m grateful for living long enough to see retirement. (20 plus years cancer free as I write this.)

And the number one thing for which I am grateful this Thanksgiving:

1. My husband of twenty years. Especially that we’re able to look forward to enjoying our retirement together. (You may want to check back on this one next year, after we’ve had some time to drive each other crazy in our side-by-side retirement bliss…)

Head nod to David Letterman, and best wishes for a safe and Happy Thanksgiving to all of you!

Retirement Projects – Experiments for Idle Hands

Like many folks, I’ve been contemplating how I’ll occupy myself after I retire (besides writing more.) What sort of projects will fill my days of leisure? I think I’ve found the answer. I’m going to conduct freelance science experiments.

A recent New York Times article reported on research into the question “How do cats drink?” It was prompted by the observation that cats drink far more neatly than dogs. I’m a long-time cat lover and owner, but I have not been kept up nights wondering about this. Apparently, a group of engineers has.

Four of them collaborated to conduct experiments to probe this issue. These were no backwater engineers; they work at MIT, VPI and Princeton—or did anyway. Who knows how their institutions will react to their report in Science on cat-lapping.

The team concluded that cats lap by balancing “opposing gravitational and inertial forces.” The tip of the cat’s tongue touches the water surface. Then they pull it up quickly, “drawing a column of water behind it.” There was a lot more information, such as lapping frequency for optimal efficiency relative to the cat’s size, and so on. It was very much the type of data one would expect to see in Science.

The Times article implied that the research was conducted on the scientist’s own time, but we all know what that means. What was clearly stated is that the project required no financing; the robot used in the experiment was “borrowed… from a neighboring lab.”

Although I doubt I have neighbors from who I can borrow robots for my retirement projects, I feel confident I can devise experiments that employ ordinary household materials. The trick will be to find issues to probe that have been overlooked by scientists, but are of burning interest to ordinary people. People who might read my blog.

Here’s one example. Cat owners know there is an irresistible magnetic force between cat hair and their owner’s clothes. We also know that the strength of that attraction increases the more disparate the tone of the cat’s fur and the owner’s attire. A white cat will shed far more hair onto its owner’s black lap than onto her white sweater.

I shall devise an experiment to determine why this happens. I fully expect static electricity to play a role in my research. I’ll also measure whether or not the attraction of black hair to white clothing is equal to its inverse. I can see some of you black-cat owners out there nodding “It most definitely is.” When I’m done, we’ll know for certain.

There may be skeptics among you thinking: “She won’t be able to answer questions like these without a fancy laboratory.” Consider the following account that my nephew shared many years ago. It was one of the winning entries in some contest similar to the Darwin Awards, but for clever inventions.

We know that cats always land on their feet when they fall (or are dropped) from heights. Murphy’s Law also tells us that a piece of buttered toast will always land buttered-side down. The budding inventor who won the competition combined these two pieces of information to devise a perpetual motion machine. Here’s how you build it.

Strap a row of well-buttered toast along the back of large cat. Drop the cat from a substantial height. As it starts to fall, the cat will turn paw-side down so it can land on its feet. The toast will counter by flipping the cat’s back toward the floor, so the toast can land buttered-side down. These two opposing forces will set the cat into a spin that will keep it airborne indefinitely, thus creating a perpetual motion machine.

I rest my case.

Retirement Planning—FDA To Issue Medicare Warnings

You may have heard that the FDA recently unveiled proposed graphic warning labels for cigarette packs. The messages state that cigarettes cause strokes and heart disease, are addictive and cause fatal lung disease. The last message accompanies a photo of a dead body with a toe tag. Another comes with a photo of a corpse in a coffin.

I’ve just learned that the FDA is about to release another group of graphic warning labels—to accompany the Medicare insurance packets that we receive as we approach age 65. If you’re squeamish, you may want to skip this post.

The first label reads: “Warning! Filling out Medicare paperwork may cause you to have a nervous breakdown, requiring you to be restrained.” A photo of a demented-looking man in an old-fashioned straight jacket accompanies the text. He appears to be in a padded room.

Another cautions: “Sorting through Medicare mailings may leave you clawing the walls and furniture.” The photo shows a woman kneeling, with arched back, shredding the arm of an overstuffed sofa. She reminds me of my cat sharpening her claws on the scratching post.

“Take precautions! Initial review of Medicare material has been known to cause the reader to break out in a cold sweat.” The man in the photo sits shivering in a Snuggie blanket. Papers are scattered all around him but he appears incapable of moving from his cocoon.

 “Reviewing your Medicare paperwork may make your hair stand on end. If you are doing this in the winter, beware of static electricity shocks.” The man in the photo clearly did not beware; even the hair on his forearms is at attention. Is that smoke coming out of his ears?

Here’s a good one: “Do not be alarmed by the drool that escapes the sides of your mouth as you prepare your Medicare application. This is a common occurrence.” Maybe so, but the mad-cowlike expression in the companion photo gives me pause. In my extensive experience, no good ever comes from a situation that leaves you slobbering.

My favorite reads: “Danger! Careful reading of Medicare documents may cause you to go berserk and strangle anyone within reach.” This photo is like a caricature of woman in the throes of severe PMS. The unwitting victim is no doubt her spouse, who probably asked when dinner would be ready. If only he had read the warning label.

The last one hits close to home. “Contraindications for Medicare paperwork: Can cause your blood pressure to rise, requiring extra medication and extra paperwork, setting you on a vicious cycle from which you will never recover. Remember Charlie on the MTA?” This is the only photo in color. It’s me, with cheeks so red I look like I’ve just downed a bottle of Chianti.

You have to hand it to the FDA. They really know how to do warning labels. Here’s one for them. “Warning! Creating paperwork that frustrates seniors can be dangerous. Be careful opening mail from strangers.” The photo shows me again. I’m packing up half empty sardine cans, fur balls and other nasty looking stuff. That’s going to be ripe by the time it’s delivered. The mailing label reads: Medicare Administration Offices.

Score one for us retirees.

Retirement Relocation –Ten Things I’m Looking Forward to in Vermont

10. Getting cable TV, since reception without it will probably be limited. We get enough stations in Rhode Island using rabbit ears that I haven’t been able to justify cable.

9. Local health food stores that smell fabulous. With all those crunchy granolas in Vermont, there must be some great stores up there to replace Whole Foods. On a retirement budget, I may only be able to go there to inhale, but I’ll take it.

8. Reliable snow removal no matter how severe the storm is. They know how to do snow in Vermont. In Rhode Island, high school kids come around looking for work when there’s a dusting to a few inches and sleep in when there’s 8 to 12.

7. Sailing on Lake Champlain. That assumes that I meet someone with a boat who finds me entertaining enough to invite me on board. (Maybe this one should read: watching other people sailing on Lake Champlain.)

6. Really clean, fresh air. The good news about Rhode Island: a lot of intersecting Interstates means convenient travel. The bad news about Rhode Island: a lot of intersecting Interstates means lots of exhaust.

5. Watching my grandniece grow up. (She was the micro-preemie who weighed one pound seven ounces.) I see her twice a year now and I feel lucky that she remembers who I am. I want to become her favorite bis zia. (Sorry, Gloria.) Crazy cat lady will also do.

4. Day trips to the city to go shopping. (That means to Montreal, not downtown Burlington.)

3. Spending Thanksgivings with my family again. I just hope Jagdish doesn’t insist on sitting on his store stool at the dinner table.

2. Doing lunch with my sister and my niece. (Remember Goldie Hawn in Private Benjamin, in full military gear, trudging around in the rain? “I just wanna go out to lunch.”) I don’t care about the wearing sandals part, especially since they’d probably be Birkenstocks anyway.

And the number one thing I look forward to when we relocate to Vermont after retirement:

1. Five words: Lake Champlain Chocolates Factory Store.


Head nod to David Letterman.

Retirement Relocation –Ten Things I Won’t Miss When We Move

10. A four-year supply of freebie address labels from dozens of charities. They’ll be obsolete and I know they’ll start arriving again within a year of when we arrive in Vermont.

9. The Starbucks three blocks from our house, because we’re tea drinkers, and because a Google search shows there are at least four Starbucks in the area of Vermont we’ll be moving to.

8. Prophylactic roto-rooting of our sewer line every year. (Oak tree roots, since you asked.)

7. Next-door neighbors who are or have been in litigation with the two other neighbors whose property abuts theirs. (You know it’s just a matter of time…) They’ve already complained about falling branches from (you guessed it) that oak tree.

6. Oak leaves a foot deep in the yard and on the back patio and acorns that turn the front walk into a roller rink every fall. (That’s another reason why the squirrels hang out on our front porch.)

5. Having my fourteen-year-old Honda Accord stolen right out of our garage. It still had a few good years left, but what it didn’t have was comprehensive coverage. Kaching!

4. The view of our neighbor’s yard filled with stuff, and I’m on the “tidier” side. (Yes, it’s the litigious ones.) The only thing they’re missing is the rusted-out chassis of a ’57 Chevy Bel Air.

3. Being the favorite stop for dogs that weren’t ready to do their business at the park at the end of the block, but finally get the urge on their walk home.

2. The unwieldy bar-coded trash barrel that the City of Providence makes us use. We have the small one and it’s still big enough to hold two dead bodies. (This is Providence, after all.)

And the number one thing I won’t miss when we relocate after retirement:

1. The bat that finds it’s way into the house every two years (squirrels good; bats bad.) Though I will miss watching Jagdish chase the bat around the house with a broom.


Head nod to David Letterman.

Retirement Relocation –Ten Things I’ll Miss When We Move

10. My tailor, who knows my left arm is 3/4 inch longer than my right. (It’s from carrying a packed brief case cross town in Manhattan for 15 years.)

9. Six closets for my clothes (plus the walk in cedar closet.) Sigh.

8. Room for an 8 feet tall Christmas tree in our entry hall (plus the 19 inch star on top.) Another sigh.

7. The contractor I found when I chatted him up on the line at the check out at Ocean State Job Lot. For sure we’d better get a condo when we move.

6.  My vet, who doesn’t make fun of me because I get blubbery every time one of my cats has a glitch in their blood work. (Can you say “artifact?” As in: a pricier retest showed that it wasn’t a real problem, just an artifact.)

5. The squirrels that hang out on our front porch and burrow into the stuffing of the pillows on our wicker furniture during rain storms. (And send me scurrying around after the storm to recover the poufs of stuffing that have blown into the neighbors’ yards.)

4. My hairdresser, and not just because he gives me great cuts every time. He’s a transplanted New Yorker, and when he says he’s gong to “the city,” he means Manhattan, not downtown Providence.

3. The jogging path up the center of Blackstone Boulevard, three blocks from our house. It was designed by the Olmstead’s landscape architecture firm. They also did Central Park in Manhattan, the Emerald Ring in Boston and Roger Williams Park in Providence. (And also Swan Point Cemetery, at the end of Blackstone Boulevard. So if you drop dead jogging, they can just roll you across the boulevard to your beautifully landscaped plot.)

2. Four primo ice cream shops within 30 minutes drive (two within 5 minutes.) One is located—you guessed it—at the other end of Blackstone Boulevard. Perfectly positioned for a reward after some exercise.

And the number one thing I’ll miss when we relocate after retirement:

1. Three words: Whole Foods Market. (There are two within a mile and a half of our house—one is within five blocks.) OK. it was a toss up between this and the primo ice cream shops for number one.


Head nod to David Letterman.

Retirement Health Care – Privacy vs. Accessibility

My primary care physician is a partner in a large group practice. I trust him. If I didn’t, I’d change doctors. At my recent check-up, I was given a pamphlet and asked to sign up for an electronic health information network.

Given the litany of health issues I’ve had over the years, I appreciate the benefits of having all my medical information accessible to all the health care providers who might ever need to treat me. But what I read in the fine print in the pamphlet made my hair stand on end. Mice type always makes me skeptical. Seeing more than two paragraphs of it sets off alarm bells. This pamphlet has seven.

My health care life has become complicated enough since Medicare came along. It seems like going electronic could complicate it even more. The mice type starts out innocently enough; paragraph two lays out my HIPA rights. “I understand that health information is protected under federal privacy laws.” Good news. They recognize my right to privacy.

Not exactly. “Providers… that access health information about me… may re-disclose this information to health care providers/organizations… for reasons unrelated to the coordination of my health care and treatment.” Wait a minute. Why would I want my private health laundry aired out for any reasons other than medical ones? Seriously. You might as well say you’ll sell my name for marketing and fund raising purposes. I get enough junk mail already. I don’t need to feed the beast.

If you’re thinking: “That just comes with the territory,” keep reading. It gets even better. “This health information may be re-disclosed to a person or entity that is not… covered by federal privacy regulations, and therefore, is no longer protected by those regulations.”

So let me see if I have this straight. Privacy laws protect health information. However, in order to get better treatment, I need to be OK with giving my health info out to someone who has nothing to do with my treatment. And who, by the way, won’t have to respect my privacy. I’m not surprised to see that behavioral health is one of the areas that might get re-disclosed. I’d have to be certifiable to want to sign up for this.

Wait! Another area that could get disclosed is alcohol abuse. I’ll cop to more than a few glasses of wine a day if that means they’ll tell the local purveyor of spirits that I’m a wino and that gets me an email when Fat Cat Chardonnay is on super sale.

If I work this right, it could actually turn out to my advantage. My mother saw a podiatrist in her later life. I’ll start that now if I can get an occasional free foot massage for those little piggies that go numb when I wear pointy shoes with high heels. (That was never a problem when I was in my prime.) I’ll even spring for a dermatologist if it nets me a jar of high-end fade cream for my age spots. My hands are starting to look like my mother’s and that’s scary.

Hmmm. They also share information on genetic diseases. I’m not sure what all that covers. I know that hypertension runs in my family. I’ve always wanted to try yoga for that. Maybe someone will offer me a discount on classes. Not the yoga with the weird breathing. And not the one that requires even remotely good balance. Just the plain vanilla type where you chant “Om-m-m. Om-m-m. Om-m-m.” (I think that’s Hindi for “I could really go for a glass of Fat Cat right now.”)

Where do I sign?

Retirement Transition – Spousal Adjustment

My apologies to those of you who were lured to read this thinking it would be about sending your spouse off somewhere for a tune-up, hoping he or she would be returned performing more to your liking. This post would perhaps be more accurately titled “How to Help Your Spouse Adjust to Your Retirement,” but I like my headings short.

Regular readers of this blog know that I plan to downsize to Vermont soon after my retirement at year’s end. A logical consequence of this is that my husband (who is eleven years my senior) will also semi-retire and move with me. Those who know Jagdish might call it an illogical consequence, since my husband is attached to the stool in his retail store by a virtual umbilical cord. This naturally raises concerns in my mind about how he’ll adjust to “our” retirement.

The back story is that when we married 20 years ago, I gave up my friends and moved from my comfort zone in New Jersey to be with Jagdish in Providence. We agreed that our retirement move would be to the place of my choosing, which is near my family in northern Vermont. We’ve spent many holidays there and we both like that area. Our plan is for us to have side-by-side desks, where I’ll write and he’ll work on the website for his store, with my help.

This does not make me any less concerned about how my husband will adjust to the move. Ostensibly, his store sells clothing, jewelry, wind chimes, incense and all sorts of gifts. It’s in a college community and his best selling item is the Schnoz tissue box in the shape of Shakespeare’s face; the tissues dispense from—you guessed it—the bard’s nose. (It just occurred to me that this is ironic, since my husband shares the distinctive feature of many males in his family—an unusually large nose.)

Spectrum India could easily be described as a bustling, colorful bazaar. However, one of my husband’s friends was on point when he told him: “You’re not running a store; you’re running an ashram.” From his stool behind the cash register, Jagdish dispenses not just change, but also advice. People call him “the guru of Thayer Street.” He’s a cross between a resident philosopher and Gertrude Stein, holding daily salons where people come to discuss the issues of the day. Or night, as he rarely closes before 1 AM.

On a one-on-one level, he also serves as a psychologist/counselor. He recently told me about someone who was sad, in part because she had no money to spend. This was his advice to her (probably given along with the gift of a peacock feather.) A lot of the good things in life are free, so enjoy them. The air is free, at least until someone figures out how to put meters under our noses, so breathe deeply and more often. [The image of a meter under Jagdish’s nose made us both laugh.]

His advice continued. Smiles release endorphins and serotonin, so smile all the time, even when you are sad; it will lift your spirits. Hugs increase the hormone oxytocin, and that makes you feel good and reduces stress. So find someone to hug each day. If you can’t find someone else, then wrap your arms around to your back and hug yourself. [I checked this out. He was reporting the results of an actual NIH study.]

He even had a specific dosage for that last item (which he claims her heard somewhere, but it wasn’t in the NIH study.) You need 4 hugs a day to survive, 8 hugs for daily maintenance, and 12 to thrive. He also hypothesized that too many hugs could cause an overdose of oxytocin. I have no doubt he gave the sad young woman four hugs before she went on her way.

Simple advice. Easy to follow. Delivered so earnestly and with such charm, that no one can resist him. So you see why I’m concerned about our pending relocation. I’ve suggested that Jagdish should bring his stool with him to Vermont. Perhaps there is a store like his own on Church Street in downtown Burlington. He can ask the owner to let him sit by the door, chatting and dispensing advice and philosophy. And maybe hugs.

If that doesn’t work out, he can always just breathe deeply, smile and hug me. At least 12 times. With the hours he currently spends in his store, that’s about 10 hugs more than we get to share now. With our luck, we'll get carried away and wind up institutionalized for a hug overdose. I have a vision of our therapy sessions—touching but no hugging. We are making molds of each other’s faces to create customized Schnoz boxes. His are selling like hotcakes at Spectrum.

Retirement—The Arc of Life—Bell Curve or Swoosh?

Picking up on Saturday’s post: I thought things would get simpler as I approach retirement. Instead they are more complicated. I expected the arc of my life to be a bell curve, with the X axis for complexity and the Y for the years. Life would start out very simple, get progressively more complicated, and gradually get simpler once again toward the end. I’m finding it more of a Nike-like swoosh, trending upward in its complexity.

The possibility that life will keep getting increasingly complicated is scary. If I remember my physics classes, to get a bell curve, I’d need to find external forces to exert pressure on the end of that swoosh to bend it down into one of Malcolm Gladwell’s long tails. There’s something inherently contradictory in it being so complicated to get simpler. With my luck, the swoosh would coil in on itself, creating a spring. I have a vision of me, flung off into space, where I’ll drift for eternity among the other debris in the upper atmosphere. So much for a long tail and metaphors.

It gets me thinking about graphing other aspects of life into retirement. The Y axis is always the years, but the X axis can be so many other things. Here’s how I see some of them.

Income is generally a bell curve, while expenses are usually a bell curve ending in a swoosh of medical expenses. Of course, if one becomes a successful author later in life, income could be a swoosh, too. (Another shameless appeal for more of you to follow my blog.)

Number of friends – sadly, a bell curve. However, friends to whom you are connected can be a swoosh, thanks in part to Facebook. As a matter of fact, a recent AARP survey of 3,000 plus people 45 and up shows that loneliness decreases after age 60. They probably conducted the survey in those retirement communities in Florida that are known for line dances and member-produced Gilbert & Sullivan operettas.

Moving on. The hair on your head – bell curve (women included.)

Original teeth in your mouth – bell curve.

The food you can eat – bell curve. Babies start out with limited diets and lots of soft mushy food. Need I say more?

My husband’s weight – bell curve; my weight – swoo-oo-oosh! I’ve often said there should be a law against husbands weighing less than their wives. Unfortunately, Jagdish won’t put on even a pound or two of sympathy weight.

Ailments, aches and pains, medications – swoosh, swoosh, swoosh.

Sex – generally a bell curve, although some retirees claim it’s a major swoosh. I don’t want to reveal too much about my life in the sixties and seventies, but those retirees must have had pretty tame sex in their salad days if senior sex is considered swooshy.

I could go on for several more pages, but you get the idea. Feel free to weigh in with suggestions of your own.

As I reread this posting, I’m sensing a pattern here. The things that you would like to be a bell curve are generally a swoosh. The things you’d welcome as a swoosh are bell curves. It’s as though some higher power is playing a cruel mathematical game with us as we move into our retirement years—a game that goes on until we flat line.

I decide to make “A Grand Plan” for when I retire. I’m going to focus on one curve each year to see if I can change its aspect to something more favorable. Maybe I’ll start with turning sex into a swoosh again. That should make my husband happy, but I worry about getting too caught up in this metaphor. Another vision of me, this time whispering sweet nothings in Jagdish’s ear. As I catch sight of that swoosh taking shape, the marketer in me shouts Nike’s tag line: “Just do it!”

That sound you hear next is our sex curve flat lining.

Retirement Transitions—Donut Holes and Paper Trails

Yesterday I had my semi-annual checkup. It was the first time I used my new insurance (other than for prescriptions.) I presented my Medicare card, but could not find the one for my supplemental coverage. I rooted through a rubber-banded stack of cards an inch thick. Bank card, AAA, two AARP, countless membership and contact cards, a variety of appointment paperwork as far ahead as next summer. But no United Health card.

I stood there feeling half-naked, as though I had been caught without my “Friday” panties. (See posting from September 7 for explanation on that.) By dumb luck, I had next month’s bill in my purse, so they took my information from that.

Last night I scoured my purse for the missing card. It was there all along. That second AARP card I mentioned? A supplemental coverage card branded with their logo. The provider’s name, United Health, was buried in the mice type.

This experience added fuel to a fire that was sparked by some insurance paperwork that came last week. Since I have now completed my first month on Medicare, I received a report of my prescription drug claims for September. As I read closely, I realized I was holding the first accounting of my march toward the infamous donut hole.

You’ve probably heard of the donut hole. It’s that gap in coverage in a range of prescription drug payments. Coverage stops from $2,830 to $4,550 and then picks up again. I’m on several prescription medications, but if I’m ever taking so many drugs that I pass $2,800 a year in claims, I’ve been scarfing far too many donuts. Still, attention must be paid.

The report I received caused a bulb to light up. Not only do I now have multiple health insurance cards, I’ll have to set up a complicated system to track my medical expenses. I’ll need to record date of service, doctor’s name, amount billed, date and amount paid by Medicare, ditto for supplemental coverage and for payments I make. I haven’t met my deductible, so I’ll need to track that, too.

I am suddenly reminded of the later years of my mother’s life. My sister would come from Vermont and spend a week with our mother in New Jersey every summer. One of Barb’s tasks was to sort through all of Mom’s medical expenses and payments so she could file any errant claims. There were few personal computers back then, so everything was posted to green ledger paper using a system our father had set up years earlier.

Since I lived closer, I took our mother to doctors’ appointments, on special shopping trips and out to dinner occasionally. The medical paperwork was Barb’s contribution to Mom’s care. I remember thinking even back then that I had the better end of the deal. Now I feel that I owe my sister big time.

Back to my present day paperwork. I was finally feeling somewhat in control again when a hefty packet arrived in the mail. Turns out we’re about to enter the much-hyped “open enrollment period,” that once-a-year window when we can change our health care coverage without penalty.

Be still my heart. I spent much of August figuring out what coverage I wanted. Do you really think that just two months later I’m going to change my mind? (No comments, please.) I suppose I should at least open the envelope and skim the contents. What if there’s something I need to do even if I don’t want to change plans?

My lack of knowledge embarrasses me. With my self-confidence waning, I’m compelled to check my panties to make sure I’m wearing the right day. I discover they’re inside out, so I can’t tell. At least they’re clean and free of holes. My mother would be proud.

Retirement Planning – Clearing the Kitchen and Pantry

I’m not much of a cook, but I expect to do more of it after I retire. In preparation, I’m clearing out the kitchen and pantry to see which items are worth keeping. I’m finding things that haven’t seen the light of day since they made the move with me 18 years ago. To get started, I set out storage boxes labeled “Donate,” “Keep” and “Now What?”

With my kitchen foray, I’ve developed a theory that you can tell when someone was married by the wedding gifts they received. For my first marriage, we received at least three fondue pots during the decade of “Do you fondue?” (Did you?) Two of them turned up on the top shelf in the butler’s pantry—one for cheese, one for beef cubes. I can’t remember when I last used either of them. Gobs of melted cheese. Deep fried red meat. Cholesterol. Need I say more? I move both fondue pots to the Donate box.

There are countless cheese boards, so per my wedding gift theory, I married in the ’80’s, but I didn’t (either time.) Cheese boards must be like picture frames—the universal wedding gifts that transcend time and styles. Whatever the reason, though I use as many as three of them at a time for holiday entertaining, I need to get rid of some cheese boards. I put six in the “Now What?” box and change the label on it to read “Re-Gift.”

I also have more salad bowls than I need. The large stainless one and the wooden one get regular use, so they’re keepers. The glass one with the silver-plated rim was a gift (Re-Gift.) The plastic one matches all that picnic ware I bought and used once. Will we picnic when we’re retired? Keep, just in case. These hand-painted pasta serving bowls can also be used for salads. Keep, Keep, Keep.

One of my miscalculations is a mini crock pot that goes into the microwave so it cooks faster. My microwave is called the Half Pint; that’s not just a clever nickname; it’s close to its capacity. The mini crock doesn’t fit in it. Even if I have a standard microwave in our next abode, I’m as likely to be crock potting as fonduing. Into the Donate box it goes.

Be still my heart—it’s a pull-out shelf full of Corningware, the new bride’s best friend. I have everything from serving-sized bowls with plastic covers for leftovers to huge casserole-sized ones that are missing their glass lids. I rarely use any of it, but retirement will likely change that. Sorting through all of this will be a project in itself. I find another storage box, put back the label “Now What?” and fill it with the Corningware.

Another shelf has been hiding a similar trove of Tupperware. Pie holder—Donate; my mother was the baker; I can never compare, so why try. Iceberg lettuce holder—Donate; I’ve moved on to romaine and it won’t fit. Some sort of cheese or pound-sized butter holder—Donate; I have one that holds a single stick; I don’t need to encourage milk fat consumption. All the Tupperware has been dispatched, but I don’t feel smug. I know there’s another shelf with Ziploc bowls and used deli containers that still need sorting.

My Donate box still has a lot more room. I wonder if there’s a show like The Biggest Loser, but for people who need to get rid of stuff, not pounds. I could use someone like Jillian to be my tough-as-nails coach. “Don’t you dare put that in your Keep box! It’s Donate or the trash or you’ll never reach your goal. You can do it! Focus. Lift. Push.”

I’m exhausted just thinking about it. I need a glass of wine and a snack. I grab a cheese board from the top of the Re-Gift box. Hmmm… This is kind of cute—just right for one serving. Maybe I should keep it. Jillian is shouting something vile at me, but I turn off my mental TV, lean back and relax. I carefully stack slices of artisanal cheese onto gluten-free crackers. Who says I don’t know my way around the kitchen?

Retirement Planning – Greening Up the House

As if the road to salvation weren’t challenging enough, the Catholic Church added polluting to its list of mortal sins. That’s right, Gianfranco Girotti, The Vatican official who heads up the B-team on confessions and penitence put contamination of the environment right up there with the seven deadly ones. No word on what the head of the A-team thinks of this, though I’m sure he’d agree with Girotti’s postulate that “sin is social” in today’s global culture.

I’m not exactly a poster child for green living. I’ve never even hugged a tree, unless you count my lame attempt to rescue one of our cats when she was still a kitten. Still, I find it irresistible to improve my chances of making it through the pearly gates by reducing my eco-footprint. There’s the added benefit that greening up could shorten the time to sell our house when I retire. I read that home buyers are increasingly interested in how “green” a property is.

I resolve to become a cleaner, greener, holier (than thou) neighbor. My new mantra will be “Reduce, Re-use, Recycle.” To get organized, I start two lists: “to do” and “to buy.” My first “to do” as a born-again environmentalist is to locate my folder of dog-eared articles on conservation and the environment. It’s a fat folder, one of many on a variety of topics I’ve researched. (My previous mantra was “If you can’t recycle it, file it.”)

First on my eco-agenda is something called xeriscaping—an approach to landscaping that minimizes water usage. This is a propitious discovery, since the timer on our sprinkler system died last season. I consider the options, given that the only lawn we have is in front of the house. “Put a deck over the areas that get a lot of traffic.” That would be our entire yard and I’ve never seen a fully decked house-front on the East Side.

I rule out “Cultivate plants that require minimal water.” If I planted beds of cacti around our Victorian, the garden police would be at my door before you could spell xeriscape. I decide that keeping our grass is not really a social sin, since our lawn has proved to be the most sociable place for the neighborhood dogs to do their business. I add a “to do”: fix lawn sprinkler.

Next in my files on green technology is “geo-engineering.” Scientists are planning to put enormous mirrors into orbit so they can bounce sunlight back into space, presumedly to reduce global warming. As I gather information for constructing our “thousand points of light” cooling device, it occurs to me: our home is in a historic neighborhood. Construction not of the period (pre-1900 for us) is not allowed. I consult McAlesters’ “Field Guide to American Houses.” Surprisingly, roof mirrors are not included as identifying features for late 19th century styles. Yet another of my attempts to become greener has withered on the vine.

Increasingly frustrated and on the verge of panic, I add “Prozac refill” to my shopping list. Then I remember a leaflet someone stuffed in our front door years ago. It promoted greener alternatives to toxic cleaners and pesticides. I rummage through the kitchen drawer that every household has as its de facto filing cabinet and voila! I skim the section headings and pause on “Controlling Garden Pests.” Maybe I can create a “green” exterior.

The leaflet advises me to “promote beneficial pests such as fly larvae, aphids and thrips.” With all the holes the cats put in our screens, if I promoted fly larvae, I’d be scouring my supplemental insurance policy to see if it covers therapy. Aphids and thrips are two of the creatures I spray to get rid of. I’m skeptical that they can be their own natural predators, unless of course they have a primary system designed by the Democrats… Clearly this is another dead end on my path to salvation and a quick sale of our house.

With no more dog-eared files or leaflets, I remain a socially-challenged sinner. I realize I’m doomed. I am going to hell. I just hope it’s in an eco-friendly hand basket.

Retirement Planning – More on Thinning Out the Closet

Some who have read my earlier post on thinning out my many closets have asked what happens if I still have too much left after I “audition” my clothes. I have new criteria to address that inevitable situation.

The first came to me last weekend as yet another woman complimented the handbag I was carrying. It’s small white leather, with delicate painted flowers; the handles are yellow. I get frequent compliments on it, and I always share the story of how I lusted after it in a local Marshall’s store, but wouldn’t pay the price. One day I went in and it appeared that the bag had been sold. I found it tucked away in a far corner, on sale. I end this part by crying out “It was meant to be mine!”

Last weekend I was sure the bag shouted to the woman: “Please stop complimenting her! She’ll never give me up. I’m not supposed to be owned by a woman in her sixties. I belong with someone in her twenties!”

This led to my first two rules for clearing out more stuff. Rule 1: Keep things people always compliment, unless they fail rule two. Rule 2: Get rid of anything that should be owned by someone in her 20’s instead of her 60’s, no matter how comfortable it is and no matter how cute I think I look in it. (That’s why God invented mirrors…)

One of my previous posts prompted a guideline to keep a good balance of serious and light hearted. Some examples: a good interview suit (just in case) and a funeral outfit (also just in case, and the interview suit doesn’t count), balanced by a gypsy-style skirt and a jacket with Guatemalan embroidery; sensible black pumps, offset by red Chinesey platform slides.

I’ll get rid of things that are major magnets for cat hair and will trash any sweaters that have more than three moth holes, even if they’re well-darned. Anything that is no longer its original color gets tossed (except the white “Crazy Cat Lady” sleep T-shirt my brother-in-law gave me that is now pale turquoise.) Likewise anything that is missing a button, if those buttons would cost more to replace than what I paid for the item.

I’ll part with any shoes with buckles so small that I need a jeweler’s loupe to fasten them; but I’ll keep footwear that makes me smile when I look at my feet, especially my oxblood Doc Martin Mary Janes and my black patent duck-style rain shoes.

I’ll give away any article of clothing that has writing on it (unless that writing is in French;) all T-shirts will be exempt. Those of you who have been reading carefully will realize that the Crazy Cat Lady sleep shirt escapes the winnowing process even though it has writing on it, because it’s an over-sized T.

You should also not be surprised that I’m keeping that little white purse with the flowers. Even though it fails rule two, I’m saving it from exile because it provides the light-hearted balance to my serious black shoulder bag.

If you know me well, you probably now have an image of me sitting on our front porch, wearing that Cat Lady shirt and holding my flowered purse. People will whisper as they walk by, but I’ll just sit there quietly sipping a glass of wine. The more I think about it, I really am looking forward to retirement!

Retirement Style—Serious vs. Light-Hearted

Retirement planning guides devote more pages to calculating how much you’ll need to lead the life you desire than to how to decide what that life is. I’ve stumbled upon a criterion to help in that decision. What style of retirement do you want—serious or light-hearted? For example: joining an investment club—serious; playing in a band—light-hearted.

We all hope for a certain amount of balance in our retirement, but the dominant style could influence where you live, how you find new friends and what activities fill your dance card. Actually, I think those last two items may be redundant…

This came to me as I was doing email triage—read, skim, toss (or more correctly, delete). Thank you, Time magazine, for creating these categories in your Briefing section. Various criteria get my email tossed, including sender unknown, a multi-megabyte attachment, or a subject line that elicits one of those yawns so gaping it cracks your jaw hinge. It occurred to me that what separates skim from read is frequently whether it’s serious or light-hearted. Simply put, I’d rather read the funny stuff than the ponderous.

Don’t get me wrong. I’ll ruminate as much as most folks on the important issues of our time. However, when it comes to a list of new emails that goes below the fold, I’ll opt for short and funny almost every time. This was driven home to me earlier this week.

One of my college friends has lived in Canada since graduation. We keep in touch via email. She forwards all sorts of messages, from humorous lists to lengthy diatribes against the U.S. government. I can’t quite figure out her political orientation (or perhaps more accurately, her husband’s, as I think he’s behind many of the missives.) They seem to be an amalgam of Michael Moore and right wing militia.

In any event, on the same day recently, she sent an email titled “Worth the Read” and another “Five Ways the Democrats Can Avoid a Catastrophe and Pull Off the Mother of All Upsets... a letter from Michael Moore.” I immediately tossed the catastrophe piece, but I opened “Worth the Read.” It was a list of twenty or so funny thoughts, the fourth of which was “There is great need for a sarcasm font.”

In my opinion, the need is beyond great. I could be essential to preserving society as we know it. As I read Item #4, I knew why I continue to open most of this friend’s email, even though much of it fails to get past skim. It’s because this friend, who early-retired quite a few years ago, still has a sense of humor. By the way, she plays in the community band, something she took up after she retired.

This led to an Oprah-like “aha!” moment. Very few of my friends seem to share my sense of humor. It wasn’t always so. Am I getting crazier in my old age? Or are they getting stodgier?

Another college friend emailed a group of us about career networking with young alumni. I followed the embedded link to learn about the program and landed on a page with a bar chart showing how many alumni in each decade participate. Our graduation decade, the sixties, wasn’t there. I replied-to-all that they must not be interested in old farts like us.

My expectation was to evoke similarly sarcastic comments. Perhaps: “Oh we’re there, but our numbers are so small, we’re just a flat line, not a bar.” I received two replies. One explained how important seniors are to the program, since we have valuable experience and we’re reaching a stage where we also have time to devote. The other was similarly serious. Looking back, I wish I’d had that sarcasm font for my comment.

I wonder what implications this has for my retirement. If I relocate where people are very serious, will I feel out of place? Will I have trouble making new friends? Or can I find folks with a sense of humor if I choose the right activities? Let me think a minute. If you’ve read my earlier posts, you know about my high school days as a band geek. My sister, who lives in Vermont where we’ll be moving, belongs to an investment club.

Perhaps her club would invest in a used saxophone so I can join the community band. (Insert sarcasm font here.)

Retirement Downsizing – Condensing the Bookshelves

Almost everyone who is downsizing for retirement has to face the daunting process of condensing shelves full of books. I’ve finally psyched myself up to attack this task. I begin with the bookshelves in the second floor hall, scanning groupings from top to bottom.

There’s the Women’s Lib section. Excuse me… Women’s Empowerment. I think I can part with The Female Eunuch and not put my self esteem at risk. There was a time when I might have thought Sexual Politics was an oxymoron; now it sounds like redundancy. Either way, it’s gone. As I recall, Men—An Owner’s Manual was not much help when I first got it. It doesn’t seem like a title that would improve with age, not that I'm a good one to judge. Besides, "In the land of the blind, the man with one eye" and all that.

I need the step stool to see the books on the very top shelf. There’s an entire section of poetry that I would have bet I had tossed two moves past. I count eight volumes of Rod McKuen. He was too cool in the sixties. Now I’d need to hide him under a brown paper wrapper. Who admits to reading titles like Listen to the Warm? Listen to the warm what? I wonder if he’s still alive. Some Googling confirms he is, but his appearances are limited to autograph signings. This makes sense, since Amazon lists most of his books from a penny to $3 or so.

One section that should be easy to trim is business management; I’m retiring, after all. I’m tossing everything with the words “Excellence” or “Minute” in the title. I learned long ago that when it comes to business, it’s far better to under promise and over deliver. Ditto on trimming the “How To” section, where I’ll toss everything with “Dummy” or “Idiot” in the title. I don’t need to be constantly reminded of my self image when I bought them.

Ah! Here’s a group I should be able to thin out—foreign language and travel. I pick up one that I don’t remember; it’s a street and transportation guide to Paris. It’s so detailed it includes a section on one way streets. The book was published in 1977. In all likelihood those Sens Unique are four lane roads today. (For those who are wondering, Sens Unique is not French for psychic powers.) The most use I’d get out of this book at this point in my life is as toilet paper. It’s better quality than what was nailed to the stall walls the last time I saw Paris.

I should really get rid of most of the pocket sized dictionaries, but they take up so little room. You never know when you might be called upon to translate something into Latin. At the very least, I should get rid of the guides for any countries that require more than two immunization shots. At my age, I’ll limit my travel to places that have flush toilets and pouffy duvets.

I expect to cut back a lot of the section on doll collecting, toys and miniatures. Then I remember that four of those stacked a certain way are exactly the right height to lift a box fan set on the dresser enough so its breeze passes over the footboard of the bed. Since I can’t remember which four and I don’t know if I’ll have central air where we retire, I’ll need to keep all of them.

Those books on collectibles are thick suckers, as are my many art books. I remember the comment of someone I had coerced into helping me move to a new apartment many years ago. As he was lugging yet another pile of books to the van, he asked, “Do you buy your books by the pound?”

The answer of course was “no.” But when I consider the cost of relocating our household, I just might get rid of some books based on how much they weigh. Suddenly those thin little Rod McKuen books are looking like keepers after all. Maybe I’ll even get them autographed. Or not.

Retirement – What If There Were A Final Exam?

Last night I had one of those anxiety-laden dreams that most of us have now and then. It was the one where you’re late for a final exam and you forgot to study.

For me, those dreams usually follow a dinner of marbleized red meat or highly-spiced food. The rotisserie chicken I had last night was supposed to be the plain version. It dreamed more like lemon pepper coated with Tex-Mex and it just wouldn’t go away. Finally I got out of bed to re-brush and floss and drink more water. My hope was to banish any last remnant of the meal, and the dream along with it.

When I got back into bed, the dream mutated into a nightmare. Now I was stressed over a final exam to qualify for retirement. The scariest part was that it seemed perfectly reasonable that the government could require such a test.

Question 1: What is your full retirement age? That’s easy: 66. A bell sounds. This is going to be a piece of cake.

Next question: Part I. How much money can you earn after retirement before Uncle Sam starts taxing your Social Security benefit? Part II. Does that figure include your Social Security money or is it in addition to it? I have no idea. That’s why I have an accountant handle my taxes. I take a guess at $25,000. A buzzer sounds.

Question 3: When did Social Security begin and what was the original name of the act? I decide to Google this one so I don’t get it wrong. (It’s comforting to know we can Google in our dreams.) I learn that it started in 1935 and it was originally named the Economic Security Act. This strikes me as so hilarious that I hardly hear the bell through my peals of laughter. Economic security. As if.

Question 4: What percentage of people die within two years of starting to collect their Social Security? Government test preparers have a warped sense of humor. I Google. I Bing. I Ask Jeeves. No one can tell me this. I have the uneasy feeling it’s a larger percentage than I want to know, so I say a comfortingly low 5% and wait for the buzzer.

Question 5: Name the three rock-and-roll icons killed in a plane crash in 1959. I know this one. I start writing: Buddy Holly, The Big Bopper, and Richie Valens. I’m surprised to hear the buzzer again. Turns out I’ve spelled Ritchie’s first name wrong. As a side note, this reminds me that I still have a box of LP’s and some 45’s to get rid of.

Clearly this test is targeted to those on the cusp of the baby boom. I wonder if they’re trying to stress us into heart failure so we won’t be around to collect Social Security. I also start to wonder how many questions I can get wrong and still pass.

Question 6: What actress played Lara’s grown daughter (aka “the girl”) in Doctor Zhivago? Are you kidding me? How does that movie relate to retirement in the US? It happens that I was obsessed with Dr. Zhivago, so I know it was Rita Tushingham. In my dream, I see her clearly, carrying the balalaika. As the bell rings, I drift into visions of Julie Christie in a snowy wonderland. She’s wearing a fur bonnet, tied under her chin. It’s the same as the one my parents surprised me with at Christmas the year the movie came out.

I remember that I still have that hat in a box in the cedar closet up on the third floor. It’s not something I’ll need when I retire, so I make a mental note to add it to the donation pile in the morning.

Suddenly my dream is filled with ringing bells, like the stock exchange has erupted. A sign pops up: You’ve passed your retirement test.

I guess these questions had a purpose after all. When I woke up, I had a feeling of accomplishment. Not only had I passed my test, but I also had several cartons of stuff earmarked to lighten the load when we downsize. Not a bad haul for a night of crazy dreams, but I think I’ll lay off the rotisserie chicken for awhile.

Retirement Blogging—It’s Tough Work

Blogging is not easy. First you need a topic with an angle that inspires you. Then there’s the writing itself. You want it to be interesting or amusing, preferably both, and you want it to flow freely in your own “voice.” I started blogging to document my transition into retirement, beginning with the convoluted Medicare process. At first I posted daily, but I couldn’t keep up that pace while still working.

There’s a big difference between speaking and writing. People cut you more slack when you speak; you can ramble a bit, be repetitive. Writing must be net, especially for a blog. That means lots of editing. My speech can be wordy. People I worked with used to say that if you asked me what time it was, I’d tell you how a watch was made. My writing is more precise because I edit ruthlessly. (It’s now 9:15 pm, by the way.)

When I get in the groove with a post, the process goes reasonably well. When I’m uninspired, I’d rather clean cat throw up from a wicker chair seat with an old toothbrush. Generally, I start each post by scribbling notes on a pad while I’m relaxing in our so-called family room. (It’s really more of a cat room.) My computer is in my basement office. There’s no ambient light and it’s not a place of inspiration. I head there only when I’m ready to refine the scribbles.

On a recent Sunday night, after two days of jotting down posting ideas, I developed a severe pain in my right wrist. Not the kind of carpal tunnel pain that goes up your forearm and gives you tingly fingers and makes you want to eat your pillow. No, this was sharp pain caused by more of a torquing motion—the kind of motion you create when you write by hand, lying on your back with a cat on your lap. Two ibuprofen took care of the pain, but it brought home the reality that blogging would be hard work physically, too.

I may have found something to help me deal with this problem. The October 4 Time magazine (my source for all sorts of tidbits) has an article on power bracelets. Athletes wear them to improve their performance or to help them recuperate from injuries and maybe to screw up tests to detect steroid use. I’m interested to read that they contain holograms whose internal frequencies “react positively to your body’s natural energy field.” I suspect that one person’s natural energy field is another person’s bad karma (and someone else’s body odor…) but I read on.

It seems the chips contain water soluble titanium that “helps regulate the user’s bioelectric body current.” That helps to improve their athletic performance, lets them recuperate faster and may increase their sexual stamina. (OK. I made up that last part.) This piques my curiosity. Water soluble titanium. Regulating bioelectric body current. Now we’re talking real science! I’m anxious to find out how I can get my hands on one.

But wait. “Water soluble” and “electric current” in the same breath? Isn’t that how people get electrocuted? Or at a very minimum, tingling fingers that are worse than the pillow-biting ones you get from carpal tunnel. I’m about to write off these bracelets as a crack pot idea and not at all suitable for my blogging torque when my eye catches something near the end of the article.

The developers are trying to get these devices into the hands of “thought leaders” as a way to have them go viral. You might as well have put catnip in front of a feline. Thought leader? I’m your gal! After all, the whole point of blogging is to establish oneself as someone who has ideas and opinions that other people value and want to follow mindlessly.

So, if you’ve been enjoying Retirement Sparks, be sure to post comments and forward the link to all your friends and relatives, or for that matter, your enemies, too. I’m going to need a lot more followers if I’m going to get my blogger’s wrist into a power bracelet.

In the meantime, I’ll just muddle along in excruciating pain. It’s the least I can do for my people. All ten of you.