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.

Retirement Pastimes—Maybe you CAN Go Home Again

One of the more pleasant aspects of retirement planning is wondering how you’ll spend all that free time. Certainly I’ll write more, but I look upon that as a new career, not something I’ll do with my “spare” time.

Reading is one option. I never have enough time for that now. It may not be the most sensible choice for me, though. My eyes are so bad that I wear three and a quarter magnifiers around my neck at all times and keep spares in drawers throughout the house. I tire easily when I read; or more accurately, reading puts me to sleep.

Many retirees turn to volunteer work to fill their days. I’ll be leaving a full-time job in the non-profit world, so volunteering isn’t likely to top my list of ways to pass the time.

I could release my inner geek and renew my youthful relationship with the alto saxophone. Some of my favorite memories involve the high school band and the friends I made there. Is it realistic to take up saxophone after age 65? While many folks think I’m full of hot air, that’s not the same as productive wind. (Wipe those smirks off your faces.)

Picture this: Me, walking around with a reed in my mouth, working to get it to the right softness so it won’t squeak or split. I’m wearing a special necklace holder for my mouthpiece—the kind they give you for your glass at a wine tasting. A serious sax player always has his own mouthpiece handy, just in case he runs across a sax somewhere. I’ve actually had dreams about this. Maybe you really CAN go home again, but I doubt it.

It’s weird enough seeing a woman my age wearing a USB jump drive on a cord around her neck. Then there’s the leash with my reading glasses, and occasionally one with my driving glasses. Add another one with my sax mouthpiece, and I’ll be the butt of more jokes than a bag lady. If I’m going to be known as a trendsetter, I certainly don’t want it to be as the leash nerd.

That leaves the broad area of “taking up a hobby” as the most promising option for spending my free time. Over the years, I’ve dabbled in a variety of hobbies. Retirement will offer me the opportunity to revisit one or more of these. My shelves are filled with books on what have historically been called “distaff” arts – sewing, knitting, crocheting, needlework. It shouldn’t be difficult to pick those up again, if you don’t count my poor eyesight and arthritic fingers.

Turns out there are myriad TV shows on these topics. I happened to catch one when I was working from home one weekday last winter. I went into the kitchen to make some tea and turned on the TV. I distractedly clicked through the channels, curious to see what was on at that retired-people’s time of day. I caught the last gasp of what appeared to be a sewing show. The hostess was what my mother would have politely called “matronly.” And in her best Julia Child’s voice, she signed off with enormous enthusiasm: “Thank you for joining us today to learn about stripes. Next time—checks!!”

A fleeting vision of my post-retirement: Plopped in front of a wide screen TV. Pad and pencil at the ready to take notes on the next edition of the Julia Child of Sewing. Thinking: “I hope I live long enough to see the show on polka dots. If there’s one thing I’d regret if I were to die tomorrow, it’s that I only made it through plaids.”

Shoot me now.

Retirement Planning—Adjusting to New Schedules

I’ve never been a morning person. My preferred schedule is late to bed, late to rise, and I reach my creative peak around 2 am. Fortunately, my husband is also a night person. I need 8 to 9 hours of sleep to function at my best; Jagdish can make do on far fewer.

While my current job allows me some flexibility of start time, it’s not enough for me to follow an ideal schedule. One of the things I look forward to in retirement is following my natural circadian rhythm.

Yet, when it comes to retired people I know, most of them go to bed early and get up even earlier. I wonder if this is an inevitable change that comes with retirement. Will the evenings of inspired writing that I look forward to not come to be after all?

As preparation for this transition, should I be trying to get to bed a little earlier each week and to rise earlier, too? I’ve read that adjusting sleep patterns is similar to dealing with jet lag—do it gradually, an hour at a time. Once I stop working, will I crawl into bed at 10 pm, or even 9, too tired to log on to my computer? Is this schedule change the inevitable destiny for the retiree? I can’t bear to contemplate it.

A chilling thought occurs to me. We’re probably going to retire to a condo in a development focused on seniors. Is it possible that the membership rules in these communities specify a curfew? Lights out by 11 pm. I envision the block captain as he pedals silently through the carefully named streets on a Texas-sized three-wheeler. Around his neck is a whistle on a macramé lanyard made by an 88 year-old woman in the Wednesday morning craft club.

Stay up too late and he plasters a red sticker on your door that proclaims “Violation!” Oh the ignominy! Or worse yet, they have circuit breakers up stream and they just cut off your power. The only warning is three short blasts on the whistle, barely enough time to hit the “save” key. Of course, this is a ridiculous notion. Or is it? I have enough to worry about in my retirement planning without adding curfew police to the list.

As luck would have it, a news story in the latest “Brown in the Media” catches my eye. It reports on research showing that teenagers perform better when they are allowed to heed their “biological imperative.” That is to stay up until at least 11 pm and then get 8 or more hours of sleep.

These findings led to some experiments to accommodate this schedule by pushing back school start times an hour or so. The delayed starts corresponded with better grades and reduced obesity. (Apparently, teens deal with drowsiness by shoveling in extra sweets.)

No need to put this information in front of me twice. I have enough trouble controlling my weight without buying into a lifestyle change that feeds a junk food habit. If I have my druthers—and I certainly plan to have them after I retire—I’ll heed my biological imperative, which seems to be stuck at the teenage level. Late to bed, late to rise. That should help me retain a youthful vigor. Cue the music: “…forever young, I want to be forever young.”

Notes to self: Reconsider getting house instead of condo; buy blackout curtains.

Retirement Planning—Updating Technology

Even though I’m relatively tech-savvy, there’s a gap between what I know and what I do in practice. The gap is especially problematic when it comes to my computer setup. I’m quite computer literate, but my home set-up is as out of date as my knowledge is current.

I’m a Mac user, so the web browsers that work best on my equipment are Safari and that masterpiece from Mozilla, Firefox. Sadly, Facebook does not seem to share this infatuation, at least not for version 2.0, which I have. Although I can visit their site from home, I can’t post anything. I probably can’t do any of the other things Facebook offers, like poking and prodding and tickling or whatever all they have. Since I don’t know how these geegaws work anyway, I can live without them. Really I can.

However, other things that don’t work with my out-of-date browsers are important to me and will be even more so once I’m retired. I decided that upgrading my browser would be a productive step in my retirement planning. When I attempted to do this, I got caught in what I call the domino effect. It went something like this.

Me (via my internet connection): Hello, Mozilla website. I’m in dire need of a newer version of the web browser on my Mac. Mozilla: No problem. Click here and you can download Firefox version 3.6. I dutifully click there. Mozilla: Sorry, dude, but this browser only works on Mac Operating Systems of 10.4 or higher. Looks like you’ve got 10.3.9. Me: Well, can I get an older browser, but newer than the one I have? Mozilla: Dude, version 3.6 IS the oldest browser we still offer. You’ll need to upgrade your operating system to at least 10.4.

Ten minutes later I’m on the Apple site, looking for OS 10.4. Apple gives their OS versions big cat names, like Cheetah and Panther. Me (again via my internet connection): Hello, Apple website. I’d like to get a newer Panther for my Mac. Apple: You’ve got to be kidding me. We don’t have Panthers anymore. We keep operating systems on deck for maybe five years. The oldest upgrade we still offer is Tiger.

I’m good with this; after all, I have an adopted cat that looks like a tiger. Me: OK, gimme a Tiger. Apple: Love to do that for you, but the home you’re offering is not up to our standards for Tiger. I see you’re running on a PowerMac G5. (Suddenly I feel exposed, as the website probes me electronically. I’m glad I don’t have a video cam.) Apple again: You need to upgrade your hardware to something with a built in FireWire port. While you’re at it, you should just bite the bullet and get our newest operating system—Snow Leopard.

The crash you just heard was the sound of the last domino falling. In order to upgrade the browser, I need a newer operating system. To upgrade that, I need new equipment. Simply put, because I didn’t have the discipline to upgrade my software regularly (and mostly for free…), I’m now forced to upgrade everything at once. That whooshing sound is dollar bills flying out my window.

All of this has led me to increase the category for computer hardware/software in my retirement budget. More importantly, I’m committed to upgrading my software at least yearly so I don’t get caught in the domino effect again. I’m devastated to have missed out on Cheetah and Jaguar. I don’t care how lame the TV show is, I want to be first in line if Apple ever offers Cougars.

Retirement Budgeting --- Alcohol Really IS Medicinal

Picking up where I left off in last Saturday’s post: I had concluded that the cost of wine I drink alone will be categorized as “medical” in my retirement budget. My rationale was that it helps me deal with stress. It turns out, I’m on the cutting edge of medical thinking.

The September 20 issue of Time magazine reports on new research that suggests that alcohol consumption extends your life. You read me right. A 20-year study of 1,824 people showed that 69% of teetotalers died during the study, while only 41% of moderate drinkers did. (Heavy drinkers fell in between, with 60% dying.) Don’t panic. They were aged 55-65 when the study started.

These astonishing results led me to immediately increase my budgeted allocation for wine after I retire. The main reason I don’t drink more now is that I’m usually the driver. When we’re home more, I’ll be able to imbibe more. Knowing that it’s healthy is just added incentive, not to mention the possibility of a tax deduction.

Other ramifications of this study occurred to me as I read it a second time. The first was that I must get my husband on the vino wagon so that he’ll have a 28% greater chance of living longer, too. Jagdish has a bad reaction to the preservatives in most wines, especially so-called “affordable” ones. However, his system tolerates the pricier wines that we usually have at holiday dinners with my sister Barbara’s family. Since we’ll be living near them in retirement, I foresee many more opportunities to enjoy the good stuff.

This of course means revising my wine budget still higher, even more so because I’m not as likely to be drinking alone. This is probably good news, since the researchers surmised that the social interactions that usually accompany drinking are a factor in maintaining good health. Flash forward to visions of my brother-in-law, Bob, and me, relaxing in side-by-side lounge chairs, cradling our shared bottle of Barolo. Barbara and Jagdish are reading nearby, looking far more dignified and far less in their cups.

My husband, the non-drinker, was unexpectedly very interested in this study. “How do they define moderate?” he asked. The answer was a surprising 1 to 3 glasses per day. He followed this with “What size glass?” I said I assumed a typical size for the drink being consumed. Note to self: Buy larger wine glasses after retirement.

What had me scratching my head was the “per day” part. I would have guessed “per week.” If “1 to 3 glasses per day” is moderate, how much would I have to drink for it to be considered heavy?

The answer is immaterial. In order to afford even a moderate amount of good wine each day, I’ll have to let my hair go gray and give up professional haircuts altogether. This might be a sacrifice worth making, since I’m committed to improving my health after I retire. It also seems like the least I can do for my husband, my sister and my brother-in-law. I raise my wine glass: Alla famiglia!

Retirement Planning – Fine-tuning the Budget

An essential step in retirement planning is to prepare a realistic budget. I’ve been tracking my expenditures for years using a spreadsheet I created myself. Its original purpose was to help me at tax time, so I didn’t obsess about where to log items that weren’t deductible. Now that I’m inching toward retirement, I need to figure out where I can cut back. That requires thinking more carefully about how I categorize everything I spend.

Let’s take for example how I account for wine. I currently log it under entertainment. After all, it has no nutritional value. Entertainment happens to be a category where I expect to cut back. Although I share much of the wine with friends or dinner guests, sometimes I drink alone. That begs the question: Should the wine I drink by myself get logged under “personal?” Don’t get that “I understand, dear” look on your face. A glass or two gives me inspiration for my writing, which will be my profession in retirement. Come to think of it, does that mean I can claim it as a business expense?

What about cat food? Currently, I log that under groceries; it’s all on one receipt so that makes it easier. I suppose it really belongs under “cat care/vets.” What about the food I give to the neighbors’ cats that beg at our door? Doesn’t it properly belong in “gifts?” (That’s another category where I plan to cut back.) If one of the cats turns out to be a stray, can his food be claimed as “charity?”

The personal category is another one that bears scrutiny. Much of what goes in there is hair coloring and haircuts, both of which are now on a five-week schedule. If I switch to a six-week schedule, I’ll reduce that expense by about 17%. Even after we’ve retired to Vermont, I plan to keep seeing Jason here in Providence. When you’ve spent years finding and training a hairdresser, you don’t give him up easily. That means I’ll be driving from the Burlington area back to RI every time I need a cut. Shouldn’t I post the gas for that trip under “personal?” This flies in the face of my plans to reduce that category. I have an idea! If I bring my husband with me so he can check on his store while I’m getting trimmed, I can deduct the trips as a business expense.

When I was in product management at Colgate Palmolive, we had an expression that was popular at budget time: “Figures don’t lie; liars figure.” The fact is, I can configure my plan anyway I want. That won’t guarantee that the numbers will hold up. I had no idea budgeting for retirement could be so stressful. I think I’ll go open a bottle of wine, and since I’m doing it to deal with the stress, I’ll log this one under “medical.”

New Posting Schedule for Retirement Sparks

Just a reminder to those of you who have been reading this blog on a daily basis...
(You know who you are, because I sure don't!)

I'm posting on a new schedule, just twice a week, on Wednesdays and Saturdays.
So this is not really a post. It's just a schedule update.

I realized after a week of faithfully posting daily that it's not likely I can keep up with that while I'm still working full time.

So, at least until the end of this year, when I plan to actually retire, you'll be hearing from me twice a week.
God willing and the cricks don't rise...   (as a former roommate from Kentucky used to say.)

Spiffing Up the Yard – the Lawn as Metaphor

A key step in my plans to downsize the house after I retire is to get the outside looking its best. We all know the two mantras of every real estate agent: “location, location, location” and “curb appeal.” I selected our home back in 1992 with location in mind, and the neighborhood has held up nicely. I wish I could say as much for our yard.

Last fall I had major repairs made to the house’s exterior and had it painted. This summer I’ve been working on spiffing up the yard. I have a service that does weed and grub control, liming, etc. I just contracted to have them aerate the lawn and over-seed it in October.

As I push the mower around, I can feel that the terrain is treacherous. There are lumps and bumps under my feet. It looks like a training ground for baby gophers. There are no actual holes, but some of the indentations are almost as dangerous.

As I made the decision that my lawn needs a wider array of professional services, it occurred to me that it’s a metaphor for our hair as we age. Overall, it’s a lot thinner than it was in years past. Like my husband’s head these days, it has a lot of bald spots. The crabgrass reminds me of my own hair on many occasions—wild and out of control and sticking up in all directions. Large portions of it still have good color, but some areas are so faded, they’re almost colorless.

As I mulled over this metaphor and looked around the entire yard, I started thinking about the rest of our bodies as we approach retirement. The sidewalks, with cracks and discolorations here and there, were suddenly like skin in areas exposed to years of sun. I saw small clumps of grass/hair sprouting in places they don’t belong and bushes that could use trimming.

Who would have thought than an assessment of my house’s curb appeal could lead to a cold, hard look into the mirror of self-reflection? That’s OK. There are professionals out there who offer services that can improve MY curb appeal, too.

Note to self: increase ‘Personal Expenses” line in retirement budget.

Retirement Healthcare et al—The Complexities of Simplification

One of the most common goals of retirement is to simplify life. The day that my Medicare began, I went from one health insurance card to three—basic Medicare, supplemental coverage and prescription coverage. I wasn’t on it for even a week when a fourth card arrived in the mail. What part of “simplify” does the government not understand?

The fourth card is for prescriptions that aren’t covered by the third card, but it costs nothing. The papers that came with it say I should be sure to use the third card before using the fourth one. Of course, they don’t refer to them as cards three and four. They are the card for Part D and the card for “the AARP Prescription Discount Program.” If the discount program card costs nothing and I received it without even asking, why isn’t it just folded into Part D, the third card (which I also have through AARP)? That would be too simple.

So let’s get back to counting retirement cards. Four for my healthcare coverage, plus my AARP card, and I’m sure I’ll get some type of card when I start collecting Social Security. That makes six and leaves me just one short of having a card for every day of the week. Which brings back fond memories of that set of embroidered panties I had in the sixth grade. The Saturday ones were my favorites. Sigh.

That in turn reminds me how my mother always told us to be sure to wear clean underpants each day. “You never know when you might get hit by a truck and be rushed to the hospital. Think how embarrassing it would be if you arrived there with dirty undies, or worse yet (gasp!) ones with holes in them.” (I can see a lot of you out there smiling, because your mothers said the same thing to you.)

But I bet when you were in kindergarten (and took the second bus,) she didn’t make you bring a brown paper bag with clean underpants for your brother in first grade (first bus.) This because she couldn’t find yesterday’s pair, and it never occurred to her that he might have put them into the hamper. Talk about embarrassing. I’m not sure he’s forgiven me to this day. I actually made him put them on, even when he insisted his were clean. My mother had made me promise to.

Since I seem to have your attention on this tangent, please raise your hands. How many of you turned this around on your mother your freshman year in college? When I came home with leopard print bikinis in my laundry, my mother was horrified. “What if someone saw these?” she wailed. (Duh. Yes indeed, what if. One could always hope…) To which I replied in my most innocent voice, “Yes, but mother, if I got hit by a truck, at least I’d have on clean ones with no holes.” She was not amused.

And to think this all started with me counting healthcare cards. Mom always had a knack for making everyone smile. I guess she still does. Double sigh.

Retiring into an Extended Family—or Leaving Room for One

The latest Ad Age (August 23) has an article on the “explosion in multigenerational households” in the U.S. It cites a Pew Research Center report on the trend. It seems that one in five adults 65 and older now lives in a household with three or more generations. (Yes, you read correctly. One in five, three or more generations.)

My husband and I never had children and we lost our fathers and mothers about 27 and 15 years ago, respectively. (In an odd coincidence, our fathers died about a year apart and our mothers as well.) As a result, we have no expectations of ever being part of a sandwich household. The multiG HH trend has been described as a “return to normal,” that being the way we lived in the 1920’s and ‘30’s. I’ve never thought of myself as particularly normal, but I wasn’t prepared for it to be proven demographically.

My husband and I are most certainly destined to remain a one generation household. I doubt if I’d qualify as a surrogate grandmother. I have no parenting skills and a sense of humor that skates dangerously close to the edge of “rated R.” I can’t imagine my niece and her husband inviting us to live with them, no matter how desperate they might be for a babysitter or a dog walker. My husband is lovable to a fault, so he wouldn’t be a problem. But it just wouldn’t do for a Burlington, Vermont police officer to share a roof with a retired aunt who behaves like she’s still one of “the guys” in the high school band. No, a multigenerational household is definitely not in my future.

I’m always one to look for a glass-half-full perspective on things. The Ad Age article gave me an idea on how to market our current house next spring. Our third floor will now be “in-law quarters with a separate bath,” (lifted directly from the article.) The recently renovated room in the basement can be the teenagers’ hangout or an exercise room (half bath right there, because… well, you know.) We’ll have it set up as his-and-hers office space with a treadmill in one corner. This is based on the almost certainly mistaken notion that after I retire, I’ll exercise more. This is especially unlikely when there will be a computer nearby, sending out the siren call, “Your blog awaits. Post now! Post now!”

The truth is, our house has always been far too big for us. It’s a rollover from the one I had in a New Jersey suburb for Manhattan executives, back before the tax laws were changed. When I remarried and relocated to be with my husband, I got far too much space for the same money in Rhode Island. But for a multigenerational family, our big old house just might be the perfect fit. All I need to do now is find one. “Hello, Pew Research Center?”

Retirement Downsizing—Thinning Out the Closet

Today I’m wading deeper into the topic of downsizing for retirement. About six months ago, I decided to tackle a major challenge—thinning out my closet. Or more accurately—closets. We have a big house and my clothes are spread throughout five closets. Yeah, I know. I’m pathetic. Adorable and well dressed, but pathetic. But I’m also a Virgo, so at least my closets are well organized.

As with my various collections (see yesterday’s posting), I’ve been quite controlled about adding to my wardrobe in recent years. Generally, if something new comes in, something old needs to go out. That’s helped keep my wardrobe from expanding (unlike my waist…), but it hasn’t helped cut it down.

A digression for my fellow clothes horses: one of the ways I curtail my buying: I estimate the number of times I expect to wear the item. If a top is going to cost me more than $5 per wearing, a bottom more than $10, and so on, I buy the item only if I need it for something special. That way, I can be sure that I’ll really (as my mother used to say) “get my money’s worth out of it.” Of course, “special” is a relative term, but that’s fodder for a whole other posting. Back to thinning out what’s already in those closets.

I needed a plan of attack, and my assistant, Amy, describes the one I devised as my clothes “auditioning” for retirement. Since I’m still employed, I “dress” every day. Each night, I try on clothes for the next day, focusing on items that I rarely wear—things from the gray zone of whether or not to keep them. If the outfit looks bad or feels uncomfortable, the offending item goes straight to the donation pile. If it looks and feels OK, I wear it to work the next day.

At the end of the day, I evaluate how I thought I looked, as well as how “connected” I feel to the clothes. If I feel good about the outfit, it’s a keeper. If I don’t, it goes into the laundry on its way to the donation pile. Amy has become an enthusiastic participant in this process. When I’m wearing something she hasn’t seen before, she asks, “Is that auditioning?” If she likes the outfit, she gives it encouragement, “I hope you make the cut!” When I tell her something just doesn’t feel or look right, she waves to it and says wistfully, “Goodbye, skirt!”

I’ve thinned out a lot of clothes this way, but I’m still two closets over a retirement wardrobe. Any slacks (other than wool ones) that need dry cleaning get donated. Likewise blouses that need ironing. The dress that I affectionately but morbidly referred to as “my mother’s funeral dress” (now far too small)—gone. I know I probably don’t need 18 pairs of black pants, 30 black tops, and 20 pairs of black shoes (and yes, I counted them.) But the pants are different cuts and weights, and the tops have different necklines and sleeve lengths. And the shoes, well, did I mention my co-workers used to call me Imelda Decker?

If any of you have suggestions on how to refine this audition process, please share them. I have nightmares that a month after I’ve donated one of my former favorites, I’m looking for it to wear to some “special” occasion. I just hope it’s not a funeral.

Retirement Downsizing—Facing the Music

For many of us, retiring means downsizing. Moving from a big house, reducing its contents, thinning out closets. Retiring can mean having to give up things we’ve owned and loved forever. The attraction may be illogical, but the more it’s based on sentiment, the harder the decision. For me, downsizing is one of the most difficult aspects of retirement planning. It hits me with a double whammy.

For many years, I was an obsessive collector. I always felt that one of something was lonely and needed a friend. Once I made the pair, I was sunk. Because whenever I came across another related item, I was compelled to bring it home to introduce it to the others. You can see how this got out of hand.

Though I’ve managed to curtail the incoming additions, I have a problem breaking up the families that already live with me. If you haven’t picked up on this already, I have a more serious problem than simply amassing stuff. I anthropomorphize almost everything, no matter how inanimate the object. So my double whammy is that I’m not just breaking up families, I’m parting with my children.

If I’m evaluating two wrought iron floor lamps, trying to decide which stays and which goes, I imagine the one I plan to discard saying, “Why me? Why not him? Why am I not as lovable? Look how interesting MY shade is! Just put a stronger bulb in me, for heaven’s sake!”

I’ve concluded that the only way to thin out my collections is to get rid of each one in its entirety. This comes with its own problems. Take my collection of figural cookie jars. (Please!) I know there won’t be room for them in a smaller home.

But as I prepare to sell them, I find myself thinking: “Raggedy Ann and Raggedy Andy must be priced as a pair. Can’t split them up,” (even though she’s perfect and he has a chip on his hat.) And then, “The tortoise and the hare really belong together.” (Never mind that my brother brought me the turtle from his trip to Guatemala, and the rabbit was made by one of my father’s co-workers in her ceramic class and isn’t even a cookie jar. It just looks like one.) And then, “Chances are, the pig in the farmer’s overalls and the elephant in the sailor suit will appeal to the same buyer. But wait! That leaves the cat in the French schoolgirl uniform all by herself…”

Maybe somewhere out there is someone as obsessive as I am who will take the entire collection, in tact. Yeah, right. And maybe someday pigs will fly. But if so, please don’t let him leave without his friend, the elephant.

Drawing A Line in the Sand

A big part of the retirement process is deciding exactly when you should retire. Most of the things I’ve seen written about this have to do with finances—figuring out your “number” (how much you’ll need to live on.)

I spent—and continue to spend—a fair amount of time running numbers. What will be my expenses if I do it now, if I live there instead of here. What will be my income, Social Security in particular, if I go on this date vs. that. Figuring out what I’m likely to get for the house when I downsize. Re-figuring what I’ll get for the house as the real estate market goes into the toilet. And re-figuring yet again when someone or something pulls the “flush” handle.

You hear people talk about their “full” retirement age. But I see Social Security as a continuum. Retire a few months early and you get a little less. Hang on a few months longer and you get a little more. You don’t really max out until 70. A few months from “full” one way or the other makes very little difference.

What finally prompted me to draw a line in the sand and pick a date to retire had very little to do with money and very much to do with emotions. One of my closest friends died two years ago of lung cancer. She was a few years younger than I, and far more physically fit. And she’d never smoked a day in her life. By the time the doctors figured out what was wrong, she was stage four. They gave her 5 weeks, but she was with us 5 months.

That was a real wake up call for me. I realized that we never really know how much time we have left. I decided that as soon as I could put the pieces together enough to keep the wolves away from the door, I would retire. I’ll be dragging my husband (who is 11+ years my senior) kicking and screaming from his self-owned place of business. If it were up to him, he’d work forever. I figure I’ll be doing him a favor.

I drew that line in the sand for us at the end of this year (2010.) We have our eyes set on Northern Vermont, where my sister and her family live. Instead of seeing them just once or twice a year, we’ll be close enough to visit regularly. I’ll get to “do lunch” with my sister. I’ll get to go shopping with my niece, who is like the daughter I never had. I’ll get to watch my grandniece, who was a micro-preemie, grow up.

And instead of wishing I had time to write (my secret passion), I’ll be doing it every day, as many hours as I’d like. Speaking of which, today is Day 3 of my blog. I like to think of it as getting in shape for when I retire.

Day 2 of Retirement Sparks Blog

Today I’ve spent most of what little time I can carve out from my full time job trying to figure out how to let people know that I’ve actually started a blog. And right about now, I’m not feeling very sparky.

Someone suggested I link to my Facebook page. Even though I have more than a few friends, I know almost as little about Facebook’s bells and whistles as I do about blogging. I tootled around my page for a bit, but nothing jumped out at me.

Then there’s BlogHer, which was recommended as a place to get listed. Turns out they have a waiting list. And you need to have been blogging steadily for at least 90 days to even put your name on the wait list. So, I guess that makes me 88 and counting…

Today’s posting is sounding pretty lame, but I’ve decided it’s all about the discipline of doing it regularly. And since no one seems to know I’m out here yet, it’s not like I have to worry about negative press.

But if you ARE reading this, and you have any advice on shameless self promotion, I’m your gal! Lay it on me.

After all… tomorrow is another day.

(Why thank you, Miss Scarlett.)

Putting a toe into the water of retirement

Today marks Day 1 of being on Medicare.
My new mantra:
If Medicare is here, can Social Security be far behind?

It certainly wasn't easy getting here, despite some guidance and suggestions from friends who are a few months or years ahead of me on this.

Now I ask you, why on earth, when Medicare has Part A, Part B, and Part D,
would our otherwise nurturing government title its options for your selection Plan A, Plan B, etc. ??

I don't know about you, but when I'm drowning in paperwork (at least three copies of everything were sent by AARP alone), the last thing I need is to have two sets of four-letter words that both begin with P and have the letters A and B, all floating around in the material I'm supposed to be evaluating.
Especially when the AARP packages have pages that got separated so you couldn't tell what all the different entries meant. (Future mailings came with them stapled, by the way.)

So for days I was trying to make sense of Plan A thinking I was reading something about Part A. And of course, no sense was to be made, no matter how many times I read it. I don't like feeling stupid, no matter how much wine I've had to drink. I especially don't like being forced to wonder if I'm already having Senior Moments and I'm not even retired yet.

My "Aha Moment" (thank you, Oprah) came when I received the stapled version and discovered that row one under the heading Plan A was actually Part A and row two was Part B, etc. "Aha!" (said I.) "This is really just an Excel spreadsheet that was missing its Column A labels!" It still took awhile to figure out what made the most sense for me (calculating expected out of pocket based on current number of doctor's visits, etc.) But at least I was finally playing with a full deck. And a fresh bottle of wine.

So, in service to those of you who are still looking forward to Medicare, I offer the following:

NOTE TO GOVERNMENT: Please consider renaming Plan A and Plan B etc.:
Plan 1 and Plan 2 etc.
Or better yet, how about: Cheapest Plan, Next Cheapest Plan, Travel Lovers Plan, and You've Got To Be Kidding Me Plan.

Just can't wait to see what Day 2 brings...