Retirement Musings — Year End 2012

As 2012 comes to a close, I find myself waxing philosophical about a lot of things. Most of them have to do with the year’s presidential election and the divisiveness that prevails in our country. It’s led me to rethink the qualities Jagdish and I should be looking for in a retirement community. As you might expect, that means this post will not be as humorous as you’re used to seeing.

I often joke that the first thing I’d look for in a place to retire is whether or not they have a Whole Foods in town. This is not because I do so much of my shopping there, though I wish I could afford to. I have to be very selective about what I put into my recycled tote bag when I go to Whole Foods, or I’d breeze through my entire week’s budget in a half hour.

No, the reason I put Whole Foods on our retirement radar is because I assume that the company does a careful study of demographics and psychographics before it selects a location for one of its stores. I likewise assume that Jagdish and I will have a lot in common with the shoppers who fit their profile. They’ll probably share a lot of my values and aspirations and political leanings (or lack thereof). I hope they’d also share many of my interests and be our intellectual equals—or even superiors!

As the results of this year’s election came in, particularly regarding the passage of referenda in certain states, it occurred to me that I should add another criterion. No, it’s not that marijuana has been legalized. Hard though it may be for all of you to believe, I’ve never sucked on a toke, much less inhaled. I wouldn’t rule out the use of medical marijuana in my future, though, if I live long enough and develop aches and pains that are worthy of losing my weed virginity.

I’m referring to the fact that several states passed marriage equality laws. I’d like to see us retire to a community that is supportive of same sex marriage. That’s because I assume that such a community would have a broad respect for diversity, and that’s something that’s important to me. I imagine Jagdish and I would get along well with folks in a place like that.

This brings me to a wider list of search criteria that I’ve decided to include as we get closer to actually moving out of Rhode Island (or not, given the local real estate market). These terms come to mind as I look back on the presidential election. They represent a lot of what was missing in the dialogue, and much of what was far too pervasive (especially on Facebook).

I want to live where there’s a prevailing spirit of optimism, where there’s an attitude of civility and neighborliness. I’m looking for townsfolk who operate out of respect for others and for differences of opinion, and especially, out of respect for diversity in all its forms.

I don’t want to live out my twilight years in a place where there’s an air of paranoia. Keep me away from neighbors who are egotistical, arrogant or rude, and whose moral compass has a true North labeled “bigotry.”

Google me somewhere that welcomes spirited disagreement. Somewhere that decries the attitude that anyone who doesn’t share your point of view is stupid (even if they are) or will go straight to hell. (At least give them the chance to spend some time in limbo to redeem themselves.) It would be an extra benefit to live where folks know the difference between “you’re” and “your,” by the way.

If this past year is any indication, it could be a long, long time before I find our Shangri-La.

Happy New Year to all, however you’re going to celebrate! Wishing you and your loved ones a civil and respectful 2013. Salute!

Retirement Musings — Mayan Math and Leap Year

If you’re reading this, we’ve survived the end of days supposedly predicted by the Mayan calendar. I say supposedly because experts on the Mayans claim those ancients never did say December 21 would be the earth’s last day. Scholars believe they got tired of keeping a calendar that went that far into the future and just said: “Enough already.”

This is not surprising, considering that their calendars were chiseled into stone. My own theory is that they miscalculated how much space they would need and simply ran out of room when they reached 2012. I can picture their master calendar chiseler saying: “No way I’m starting over with a bigger stone. I’m outta here.”

Being a big proponent of “Fool me once, shame on you; fool me twice, shame on me,” I never put much stock in the December 21 end-of-days date anyway. You may recall the Biblical prophesy of the apocalypse that was supposed to happen on May 21, 2011. Or, more accurately, the rapture was to occur on May 21. Those not “chosen” were to have gradually died off from May 21 through October 21, 2011.

What is it about the 21^st of the month anyway?  Lots of folks who are superstitious are wary of any 13^th that falls on a Friday. The Romans worried about the ides (the 15^th), with good cause. That’s when Cassius, with his lean and hungry look, offed Caesar one auspicious March. But the 21^st?

Google provided a lot of New Age blather about spiritual meanings of the numbers 2 and 1 in combination. Something to do with ratios, the principle of individuality and cosmic differentiation; or alternatively, vibrations and energy and resonance. It’s also what you get when you multiply 3 times 7, both of which numbers have significance in numerology.

Another analysis of the number 21 notes that it combines the 7 days it took to create the earth with the number 3, which in many ancient civilizations had mystical meaning. Since there are not 73 (or even 37) days in any month, we’re left to multiple 7 times 3, coming up with the 21^st.

Digging deeper yet, on the website number1in21.com I found mathematical explanations about why 21 is special. First off, 21 is a Fibonacci number; that is, one of a series of numbers that are the sum of the two preceding numbers. Thus the sequence 1, 2, 3, 5, 8, 13, and—voilá—21!

Turns out, 21 is a Harshad number, too. Although I’m familiar with Fibonacci (and I love that name), Harshads are new to me. They’re divisible by the sum of their digits; (2 plus 1 equals 3; 21 divides by 3 exactly seven times.) The trick is that this must be true in any base used. I once programmed mainframe computers in basic assembler language, so I’m familiar with the concept of bases. At my age, I’ve lost my fascination with binary machinations, so I’ll take number1in21.com’s word for it that 21 works in other bases.

Other noted mathematical qualities of 21 are that it’s a “Motzkin number… as well as a triangular number, an octagonal number and a composite number,” whatever all of those are. Number1in21.com claims it’s significant in geometry and other fields of mathematics. I started to research these and quickly decided that I’ll take number1in21.com’s word on this information about the number 21, too.

The site also points out that 21 “happens to be the sum of the digits from 1 to 5.” I feel compelled to point out that the number 27 happens to be the sum of the digits from 1 to 6, but nobody’s ever claimed the world would end on the 27^th. Even poor February has a 27^th every year. (I know—and a 28^th. But not a 29^th.)

The mathematicians reading this are no doubt shaking their heads, thinking, “Yes, but 27 is not a Fibonacci or a Motzkin. And it’s not a triangular or an octagonal. Short of helping to fill out the ends of the months, it’s practically useless.”

Maybe so. But it is a Harshad (at least in the base 10) and a composite number. And without the 27^th, every February would have a 29^th. That would mean the end of Leap Year. And Sadie Hawkins Day.  And along with it any hope for all those widows in retirement communities. Those of you too young to know about Sadie Hawkins should Google Al Capp’s comic strip Li’l Abner.

The rest of you can just relax and enjoy a nice glass of wine. That’s what I plan to do. After all, today is the 22^nd and we’re all still here. Salute!

Retirement Terminology — A Group By Any Other Name

A photo in a magazine showed a huge black cloud of birds, high above rooftops. It was described as a ‘murmuration of starlings.’ I’d heard of a ‘gaggle of geese’ and an ‘exaltation of larks,’ but never ‘murmuration.’ I was entranced and instantly fell in love with the term. A little Googling turned up a ‘gulp of swallows,’ a ‘convocation of eagles,’ and — be still my heart — an ‘ostentation of peacocks.’

It turns out many of these are poetic inventions, often centuries old, and several books on such terms have been published over the years. The website WorldWideWords.org tells us: Type ‘collective nouns’ into any Web search engine: you’ll find dozens of sites featuring them, though the level of wit is sadly variable.

Upon reading Michael Quinion’s article on collective nouns, I likewise instantly fell in love with his website. I also decided that I have an obligation to come up with some witty ‘collective nouns’ for retirees and seniors. Here goes.

Recreational groups:

A gabble of Mah Jong players, gossiping about their neighbors

A sproutation of garden club members, repotting their seedlings

A slithering of shuffleboard addicts, slipping their discs

A procrastination of checkers enthusiasts, plotting their moves

A bouffant of square dancers at the community center hoedown

A muster of dominoes aficionados, lining up their tiles

Some everyday collectives:

A scootation of Hoveround® riders, headed to the mall

A droople of Sansabelt® wearers, hiking up their pants

A tippling of sherry lovers, imbibing in the afternoon

A snooze of nappers, practicing their snores (after sherry hour…)

An explication of crossword puzzle buffs, filling in the blanks

A loopation of Velcro® devotees, adjusting their shoe straps

Medical terms:

A clatter of denture wearers, adjusting their teeth

A glom of seniors on statins, trying to unclog their arteries

A congestion of fiber enthusiasts, on line at the restroom (also trying to unclog…)

A tumble of folks with vertigo, riding the ‘down’ escalator

A gimp of orthopedic patients, doing physical therapy

Special bunches of women:

A frumple of blue-haired old ladies, crocheting toilet paper cozies

A noblesse of volunteers, dressed in their finest goody two shoes

A swarm of quilters, circling at their weekly bee

A dithering of envelope stuffers, helping with a church mailing

An omnibustle of book club members, arguing about character motivation

There you have it, my list to date. I hope you find the level of wit consistently above average. Your own suggestions are welcome, but you might want to read Quinion’s article first: http://www.worldwidewords.org/articles/collectives.htm.

Copyright 2012 Business Theatre Unlimited

Retirement Issues — Auto-Incorrect

As each year passes, my typing skills deteriorate. I’m prone to lazy pinkies, wandering ring fingers and errant middle fingers. I can’t blame my eyesight, because I touch-type most of the time. I’d like to think it’s arthritis, but more likely I’m just getting clumsier.

Suddenly I’m interacting more with the autocorrect and autocomplete functions on my computer. Unfortunately, I’m finding them sadly lacking in the accuracy department. Why is it that my computer auto-completes things I don’t need it to, and in a way that I don’t want it to? And at the same time, it fails to auto-correct my most obvious errors?

For example, when I’m keying into the URL bar in my browser, one of my lazy fingers often types three “os” instead of two. Is it asking too much for the autocorrect to change “Faceboook” into “Facebook”? Apparently so. Today I learned it’s also too demanding to have “Facenook” auto-corrected to “Facebook.”

On the other hand, unwanted autocompletes can make just enough sense to leave people scratching their heads when they mean something quite different from what was intended. I recently keyed in “Many seniors have serious health problems,” but it showed up as “Many seniors have serious health prospects.”

I caught the error, but it left me wondering what my readers would have thought I meant by “health prospect.” At worst, the phrase conjures up the specter of an infomercial for some miracle potion being hawked on retro TV. At best, it smacks of a special discount for seniors at the local Y.

In addition to my individual fingering problems, I’m prone to finger dyslexia. That is, I sometimes get letters in a word out of sequence. This can be disconcerting. One of my email messages was supposed to read: “Angry Lebanese stormed government buildings.” Imagine my surprise to see that “Angry Lesbians stormed government buildings.” Thanks to my finger dyslexia, unwanted auto-complete had struck again.

Lately I’ve noticed that my typing dyslexia has spread to my verbal communication and I’m now prone to auto-complete in my speech. Or as I like to call it, auto-incorrect. Here’s just one example.

My husband and I were discussing the current political scene. I meant to say: “One of the ways to have a successful presidency…” but it came out “One of the ways to have a successful pregnancy…” He looked at me, panic stricken, as I stood there open-mouthed, trying to spit out what I really intended to say. When I finally corrected myself and said, “I mean, presidency,” he exhaled audibly.

It seems that I often say the first syllable of a word correctly, but then my brain-to-mouth connection gets interrupted. I go through a list of commonly used words that start with the same syllable, usually silently in my head. “Prosper, prospect...”

Sometimes I do this out loud, hoping that actually hearing the second syllable will somehow make the word I’m looking for come to me more easily. More likely, the “in depth property inspection” that I’m searching for will come out “in depth prostate inspection.” Try getting that image out of your head.

These auto-incorrects can be so ridiculous that I’ve started collecting them. They’re like mixed metaphors and mangled aphorisms. My husband has always been prone to those, but he has an excuse; English was not his native tongue. “A rolling stone sweeps clean” and “He was caught between a rock and a frying pan” are two of his classics.

“Angry Lesbians storming government buildings” probably won’t stand the test of time as well as Jagdish’s colorful misspeaks. Unfortunately, the “in depth prostate inspection” will probably be burned into my psyche for quite awhile.

Damn you, auto-incorrect!

Retirement Reflections — Luke’s Thank Yous

After hearing about my 2012 thank you list in last week’s blog, Luke, our remaining cat, asked me to post his thank you list this week. Here’s what Luke says he’s thankful for.

1. Mommy’s cushy thighs that make the perfect place to lie on in bed. Her tummy’s nice and cushy, too, but I like her thighs better. Her knobby knees, not so much.

2. The wicker settee that spends the winter up on the third floor, where it’s really quiet. I can see the door from my lounging spot, in case someone scary comes upstairs. I especially like the fake fur throw folded over the seat cushion.

3. The spot where the sun warms the bed in the small guest room every morning. And the poufy quilt folded on the end of the bed in the large guest room, where I can sink in for the afternoon. So many places to curl up, so little time!

4. Water bowls that get magically refreshed whenever Mommy comes into the room, and the way she lets the water run in the sink a long time until it gets really cold and all the lead from our old pipes has flushed through.

5. Tender Beef, Chopped Grill, and Tender Beef and Liver Feasts; that’s the brown, green and fuchsia labels of Fancy Feast Classics, in case anyone is looking for stocking stuffers.

6. Clumping cat litter that makes it fun for me to dig to China. I’m sure I’m only a few hundred miles away. I expect to make it by New Years.

7. Getting to go o-u-t for about an hour every few weeks, when the weather is nice and it’s a quiet weekend in our neighborhood. At my age, I don’t want to go o-u-t when it’s cold or raining or windy or when there are lots of crazy drivers on the streets.

8. Crabgrass, especially when my tummy is upset. We used to have good crabgrass in our yard, but not since Mommy had the lawn care guy treat it. At least our neighbor’s grass is still crabby.

9. The way Mommy kisses the top of my head and pretends she’s grooming me. And that place right in front of my ears that she rubs when she talks quietly to me and calls me Luke the Magnificent and Luke the Lionhearted. Which I am, of course. (Magnificent and lionhearted, that is.)

10. Mostly I’m thankful that Mommy is now retired and spends so much time at home with me, telling me that I’m handsome and brave and strong, and that she loves me very much. She makes me purr, because I love her, too.

Retirement Reflections — Giving Thanks 2012

Though this holiday season finds me still sad at the loss of my beloved Lily Magnolia, I’m nonetheless grateful for the many blessings in my life. Thanksgiving is a time when I typically post reflections on things for which I’m grateful. This year’s list:

·      Friends and family who are upbeat and positive and a pleasure to be around, especially ones who are “glass overflowing”—even more optimistic than “glass half full.” (Jagdish’s store motto is “Home of the overflowing glass.”)

·      Friends who share their joy on Facebook, both in pictures and in words. (A special shout out to Ann Stokes Neff and Christine Sweeten Tourso.)

·      The relatively good health that Jagdish and I have enjoyed this year; no trips to the ER, no hospitalizations—a rarity for us!

·      A relaxing holiday drive up to Vermont and back, with no traffic jams, no accidents and as always, beautiful scenery along the way.

·      Grandnieces and a grandnephew who are growing into wonderful young people; they’ll probably be my height by next Thanksgiving.

·      Luke being so happy to see me when we returned from Vermont. He slept with me Friday night and was perched on top of me in the morning.

·      Another year to enjoy our house since we didn’t sell it again this year, and especially the prospect of another Christmas here.

·      Having the discipline to publish two books in about twelve months, with the third one targeted to be out by the end of this year.

·      Looking forward to the adventure of “retirement” with Jagdish and getting to spend more time together.

·      The little, independent local shops that make our communities special (like Spectrum-India and Books-on-the-Square). Today is Small Business Saturday. Shop local!

I’m grateful for many other things, but a list of ten seems to have become a tradition. I hope you all enjoyed your Thanksgiving and that you join me in embracing an “overflowing glass” perspective on your own life this year.

Retirement Tools — Passwords for Seniors

SplashData annually releases a list of passwords that hackers consider the worst (which means the easiest for them to crack). “Password" and "123456” once again top this year’s list. Other returning entries are (sing along now) “abc123,” qwerty (just look at your keyboard) and monkey (no clue on that one). New ones include "welcome," which is apparently the default password for many operating systems when first installed.

Other passwords that are easy to crack are the names of your children and pets. Obviously, these vary by user. However, as a tribute to the popularity of certain names, two that once again made the national 25 “worst” list are Ashley and Michael. Jesus was a newcomer this year, as was ninja. Don’t look at me; I just report the news.

I’ve done research on common, but bad, choices in passwords for seniors. Not surprisingly, these include gramps, granny, nana, pops, bubbie, mima, nono and a litany of other words that mean grandmother or grandfather in a foreign language. Coming on fast is abuela, reflecting the growth in our Hispanic population. Likewise bad choices are the names of your grandchildren. Grandparents apparently practice generation-skipping, preferring to ignore their own offspring and to go straight to the names of their grandkids.

Other common and easily divined passwords among seniors are popular terms like Medicare, SocialSecurity, and Annuity. Likewise senior life tools such as walker, hearingaid and dentures; and such senior lifestyle aspirations as goldenyears, condo, timeshare and downsize. None are good choices if you want to secure your computer files, folks.

Password experts recommend that we include numbers along with letters, but I’ve found this to be a tad inconvenient. Numbers I’d go to first are too easy for hackers to figure out. Others are moving targets. Take for instance the age to collect Social Security. We can do this as early as 62. When I first started working, full retirement age was 65. By the time I reached retirement, it was 66. A password with this in mind could wind up being “SS62wait65no66.” True, no hacker is likely to come up with it, but then neither would I when I needed it.

SplashData recommends we think in terms of “passphrases” instead of passwords. That is, multiple words strung together, preferably separated by hyphens or other punctuation. An example they give is “dog-eats-bone.” I’m adding to that suggestion using words that are easy to remember for us, but not as easy for a hacker to divine (or, in many cases, to spell). The trick is to come up with passwords that no hacker is likely to stumble upon accidentally, but that are part of your own everyday life.

Here are some examples to consider. In the “guaranteed to stump a hacker’s spellcheck” vein: presbyopia, cholesterol, hypertension, osteoporosis, roughage, hemorrhoids and bunionectomy. These are all words that are familiar to those over 65, therefore easy for us to remember. I’m still working on how to provide us with secret clues to their correct spelling. Feel free to send me your suggestions.

Passwords that come out of our retirement experiences are also good choices, especially ones that remind us of the more stressful aspects of senior living. Some examples here are (and you’ll notice I’m following SplashData’s recommendation to use hyphens): pension-fraud, irrevocable-trust, not-so-longterm-care, and yes, generation-skipping.

The women among my readers may want to consider such easy-to-remember phrases as daftoldbat, goathair, liverspots and canthookmybra. Or daft-old-bat, goat-hair, liver-spots and Can’t-hook-my-bra, if you want to be really secure. Male readers can choose among curmudgeon, fart-machine, What-me-shave? (remember Alfred E. Newman?) and drools-when-eating. All gloriously evocative, yet highly secure.

I hope this post on senior passwords has provided useful information that will help you come up with more secure choices for your own computer needs. If you’re having trouble remembering your more secure password, there’s always those failsafe fallbacks: “Can’t-remember-my-password” and “Where-the-heck-did-I-write-it-down?” Note the use of apostrophe in one and question mark in the other—great foils for would-be hackers. Be sure to take note of where they are on your QWERTY keyboard.

Final Goodbyes — Lily Magnolia

Forewarned that today’s post is a sad one, with not an ounce of humor in it. This week we said our final goodbyes to our little “girl,” Lily Magnolia. Lily was 15 1/2, and we had hoped to have her for several more years. We lost her twin sister, Pansy Gardenia, about two years ago, so I suppose it should not have come as a surprise that Lily would likewise leave us too soon.

This is the fourth time I’ve had to take one of my “girls” to the vet for euthanasia. First was Daisy Hyacinth (age 19 1/2,), then her sister, Tulip Wisteria (age 20 1/2), both of whom had come to Rhode Island with me from New Jersey. (In the space of less than two years, I lost Daisy, my mother and Tulip.) Many years later, it was Pansy Gardenia (age just 13 1/2), Lily Magnolia’s twin, who made that final journey to the vet. For me, these decisions were worse than dealing with my cancer.

I’m reminded of when my father took our elderly Beagle, Cindy, to be euthanized. I think I was in seventh grade at the time. He didn’t tell the family what was happening; he just left quietly with her early one morning and came back without her some hours later.

When he told us about her cancer and what he had done, I was angry. “You didn’t give us the chance to say goodbye to her,” I wailed. Looking back, I realize that he was sparing us the pain of goodbye. I wish I could tell him how grateful I am now for his strength back then, how much I appreciate what he did for us, and for Cindy.

Lily had been more of her father’s little girl, as Pansy “owned” me. But once Pansy was gone, and especially after I retired a year and a half ago and spent so much time at home, Lily became my little girl, too. She would keep me company when I was on either of my computers, on a wool shawl at the back of the desk, or on a pillow on the antique high chair that I set up near me, especially for her.

Lily was the only one of our cats (five in all, with just Luke still with us) who was friendly to strangers. Everyone commented on how pretty she was, and how sweet. Even at her senior age, people said she looked like a kitten. She fancied herself a supervisor of any workmen who had projects in our house, and was especially curious about drop cloths and toolboxes.

About two or three weeks ago, Lily started to have trouble with her back legs. After various examinations, tests, procedures and medications, the vet ruled out anything that was easily treatable. We’ll never know for certain what took her from us, but the most likely answer was either spinal lymphoma or a saddle thrombus (blood clot that blocked the flow to her legs).

We had put Daisy and Tulip through treatments that didn’t really give them quality time in the extra months we had with them. We decided long ago that we wouldn’t subject Pansy, Lily and Luke to extreme measures just to give us more time to have the courage to make a decision that was inevitable. X-rays and blood work we’d do for certain; but no chemotherapy; no hospitalizations; no surgeries.

We made Lily as comfortable as possible for the two weeks when we went through several tests and tried various medications, and I struggled to get the strength to make the decision I knew had to be made. For a few days, we had some hope that she might rally enough to be with us for a few more months, or even just a few more weeks. By Monday night, it was clear that was not to be.

I spent Tuesday morning saying my final goodbyes and we took her in that afternoon to send her to the Rainbow Bridge, where I know that Pansy was waiting for her.

Luke seems confused about what has happened to his remaining sister. I know he’ll provide some comfort to me. He’s his mommy’s boy and often sleeps near me. But he’s never been interested in what I do all day long in my office. It’s ironic that the cat we rescued from a neighbor that had left him to fend for himself outdoors would live longer than his mostly-indoor sisters of his same age. I’m grateful to have him, but he is not Lily Magnolia.

There was only one Lily. There will ever be only one Lily.

Kisses to you, my beautiful girl. I miss you. I love you. I’m sorry I could not save you.

Retirement Updates — The K-Series of Life

I remember when Chrysler announced its new platform, the K-Car, in the early 1980s. It was hailed as a major innovation in automobile design—a fuel-efficient 4-cylinder, front-wheel-drive vehicle. My father was proud to be one of the first K-Car owners and he had worked at a subsidiary of General Motors for much of his life.

More recently, we’ve seen the proliferation of innovative K-Cups. Not the bra size (though that does seem to be booming, too); the little pods of coffee or tea that pop into the Keurig brewing systems. They started out in offices; now you can buy Starbucks and Dunkin’ in K-Cups to brew at home.

As my retirement moves well into its second year, I seem to be developing a K-Body. This occurred to me when I was doing my morning floor exercises a few weeks ago. I’ve become extremely KinKy. Wipe off that smirk; I mean in my joints, especially my necK. Likewise my Knees, which are Knobbier than ever. Every part of my body feels KreaKy and KlunKy. While I’ve always been Klutzy, I’m getting Klutzier as the years pass.

The irony of this is that when your body gets less flexible, your mind and spirit need to be more flexible, but mine are going the other way. I’m getting more set in my ways. Yes, dear readers, I’ve entered the K-Series of my life. I’m KranKy and Krotchety and woe to anyone who crosses me when I’ve been deprived of my afternoon nap.

The good news (depending on ones point of view) is that I’m as KooKy and KwirKy as when I was younger, perhaps even more so. The not-so-good news, truth be told, is that most days I’m also more un-Kempt. All TMI, perhaps, but Knowledge is power.

My husband and I have always been big believers in positive Karma, but it’s hard to project that when I’m feeling KranKy, Krotchety and un-Kempt. In my condition, I’m more likely to start a Kerfuffle. This last sentence makes very little sense, but I love the word “Kerfuffle” and it starts with the operative letter for this post. My closest friends would probably say that I’m still KicKass. I’d like to think so.

I could go on all day, but I’ve already driven away most of you. So, before those of you still with me start shouting: “Release the KraKen,” I’ll say my goodbyes. My adieus. My ta-tas. I just wish there were a synonym that started with “K.”

Retirement Updates — Binders of Seniors

One of the more memorable images that emerged from the presidential candidates’ debates was Mitt Romney’s binders full of women. While that may have appeared tacky to some of you, it didn’t surprise me. When I was in Marketing at Colgate-Palmolive, we had binders full of MBAs looking for internships. Of course, that was back in the 1980’s.

It turns out that this resource device, though antiquated, is not limited to women and MBAs. There are also binders full of seniors at that paragon of American retail, Walmart. Back when they decided to hire the elderly (now defined as anyone 65 or older) as “greeters,” they hit a brick wall with their sourcing efforts. The word went out to the local AARP and Gray Panthers: “Bring us binders full of seniors.”

The letter that was sent listed qualifications seniors needed to have in order to make the cut. “Must look good in blue” was the first criterion. “Able to maintain balance on three-legged stool” and “Able to hold their water for at least four hours at a time” were also up front on the list. “Have sufficient dexterity to tie their own smock or pinny” and “No hearing aid needed” were listed as “preferred skills.”

The Walmart binders of seniors had several tabs to organize the material and these varied according to the area of the country. In the South, there were tabs for men named Billy Bob and Jessie Joe and for women named Sue Ellen and Betty Grace. Those in New England had tabs labeled Chip and Muffy. One universal tab read: “Speaks more than one language.” In most areas, there were only a few sheets behind that one.

Now that Walmart has cut back on its greeting service, it’s selling its binders of seniors to other entities. One of the first organizations to open its wallet for this so-called asset was the National Association of Velcro Manufacturers and Distributors (NAVMAD), whose wallet has a Velcro closure, BTW. Apparently, they plan to mine the pages for consumer research on new ways to hook seniors on that miracle invention.

Volunteers in Service to America (VISTA) has also expressed interest in the binders. They claimed that Walmart paid so little it was like volunteering anyway. Adopt-A-Grandparent toyed with getting them, but they need seniors who can use smart phones. The Walmart binders are a bit thin on that criterion. The Service Corps of Retired Executives (SCORE) looked into acquiring the binders. Sadly (or perhaps mercifully), they found very few executives among Walmart’s pinny-hopefuls.

Speaking of scoring, one group that was particularly happy to have access to binders full of seniors is the Sisterhood of Boca Raton Widows. Not surprisingly, they jettisoned all the papers for female Walmart greeters. Likewise for any married gentlemen. Although that left a pretty thin binder, the Sisterhood feels it’s a better way to find available men of a certain age than hanging out at the cemetery gates.

The Brotherhood of Boca Raton Widowers, on the other hand, was looking into whether Romney was willing to share his binders full of women. No word on Romney’s response, but one of his Florida campaign staffers was rumored to have floated the idea of trading “a page for a vote.” Fortunately, that idea fell on deaf ears. Something about it being at risk of becoming a three-ring circus…

Retirement Peeves — Elder Creep

Some items in the media this week gob-smacked me with the possibility that I’m getting old. True, my body feels a lot older. And if I let my roots grow in gray for too many weeks, I look sort of old. But I still don’t think of myself as old.

I don’t shuffle along. I still walk briskly, especially vs. typical Rhode Islanders. (I have that NYC pace, the one that keeps you from getting mugged.) I’m pretty savvy on pop culture, especially for someone who never had any children. I even use the word “gob-smack.” So when did “elderly” sneak up on me?

Since I’m short and had a youthful face for most of my life, I looked forward to the time when my age would earn me some respect, or at least deference. But pity? Not an emotion on my bucket list for societal interaction. Yet pity seems to be where my chronological age has brought me. It pains me to report this, but people seem to feel sorry for “the elderly.”

The local news item that put this on my radar had this lead: “An elderly woman with two cats has died in a house fire.” This immediately grabbed my attention. Most of you are thinking: Of course. It mentioned cats. But the truth is, what caught my ear was the word “elderly.” I don’t know why or how, but I knew I needed to stay attentive to find out how old this “elderly” woman actually was. She was 66. “OMG!” thought I. “Sixty-six is now considered ELDERLY?”

The news piece ended: “Unfortunately, one of the cats died.” You’re probably thinking I responded to that because of a cat having perished. Not so, though of course that made me sad. What I responded to was that the copy was NOT: “Unfortunately, one of the cats ALSO died.” My take away was this: The elderly lady was old; she’d lived her life and probably would have died soon anyway. Sure, it was a pity that she died. But the tragedy was that the poor cat had its life snuffed out prematurely. Gob-smacked by local TV.

Imagine my surprise when just one day later, while watching one of my guilty pleasures, The View, I got smacked again. The guest was actor Chris O’Donnell (NCIS Los Angeles) and the discussion was about flu shots. O’Donnell hates needles and was touting the new shot that goes just under the skin and not into the muscle. TMI, perhaps, but I’m providing backstory here.

He encouraged parents of young kids to get their own flu shots because they’re not just for “little kids and the elderly.” He elaborated. “Eighteen to sixty-four year olds think they’re indestructible.” Hold on. Using my deductive reasoning (which still functions), I figured out that he was defining “kids” as anyone under eighteen and “elderly” as folks sixty-five and older. Be still my heart. Gob-smacked again.

If that exchange wasn’t enough to make me aware of my creaky bones, a segment later in The View heaped it on. The hosts showed a YouTube clip of Gwyneth Paltrow and Cameron Diaz mocking Chelsea Handler in rap style—not what you’d expect from two blonde actresses about yet another blonde. Someone joked that Joy Behar and Barbara Walters should also do a rap video. To this, Whoopi Goldberg told them: “You need to stay in your lane!”

This expression is new to me. I love it and plan to use it on occasion. But what resonated was the point Whoopi was making. Gwyneth and Cameron are young enough to pull off a rap video that’s out of their wheelhouse. But Joy and Barbara shouldn’t try things people aren’t expecting from women their age, even if they’re willing to risk it. Double gob-smack.

For those of you still trying to figure out what “gob-smacked” means, from the Oxford English Dictionary: “utterly astonished; astounded.” (“Gob” is British slang for mouth.) Southerners have a similar expression: “Well, shut my mouth!” I prefer: “Shut your mouth!” It more accurately expresses what I’d like to say to those who use the word “elderly” to describe people my age. And what I’d like to do to them is smack them in their gob.