Forever Homes Together

Most of us who have adopted a pet from a shelter are familiar with the expression “forever home.” It’s the ultimate goal for every rescued animal—to become part of a family where they will be loved and cared for forever.

When the time comes for them to leave us, we may have our four-legged children buried in a pet cemetery. It’s also not unusual to have them cremated and the ashes returned to us to be kept in special commemorative urns and boxes.

Less often, we make plans to keep them with us after we’ve likewise headed into the sunset. I read about a woman who wanted her pet buried with her despite a local ordinance that prohibited it. She had the cat cremated and she sewed the ashes into the hem of her wedding gown. She had instructions to bury her in that gown, thus ensuring that she and Fluffy would be together forever.

One of my friends had several months to prepare for her departure from us. She was buried in the Jewish tradition, wrapped in cotton in a plain wooden box. Before she died, she found a sympathetic rabbi who allowed the ashes of her dog, who predeceased her, to be slipped into the coffin next to her. They’re now in their forever home together; knowing this was pre-arranged gave my friend comfort in her last weeks.

Recently the New York Daily News ran an article about a successful court challenge to a related regulation. Pet owners in New York State were prevented from having their ashes interred in pet cemeteries next to their family companions. The niece of a NYPD officer brought the suit on behalf of her deceased uncle. The man’s wife had already been buried next to their dogs in a Hartsdale pet cemetery.

It’s not clear whether the cemetery had been ignoring an existing statute, or whether the prohibition was newly enacted into law. Either way, hundreds of deceased pet owners were already resting there with their Mittens and their Scouts. The niece won the suit and her uncle’s ashes are now interred next to his wife’s and those of their three pooches.

This has me wondering about my own future disposition. I plan to be cremated, as does my husband (after the medical school at Brown University has finished studying him). Neither of us has decided what should happen to our ashes, except to be scattered somewhere. I suppose we should be blown away as a family, even though that would involve storing the cremains of one of us until the other catches up. Now I’m thinking that our girls and Luke (still purring) should be tossed out with us.

I commissioned custom pottery jars to hold the urns with the ashes of my first “girls,” Daisy Hyacinth and Tulip Wisteria. The front of one jar has a molded daisy, the other a molded tulip. The lids have those flowers etched into the undersides. (If they’re looking up, they’ll know they’re in the correct jar.) I have these on a shelf in the sunroom. Most visitors have no idea what’s in them.

The ashes of my second two, Pansy Gardenia and Lily Magnolia, are in cedar boxes. (The vet used a different cremation service and my potter was no longer potting.) The boxes are tied with ribbons that have antique floral pins—a pansy and a calla lily—attached. I keep them on the dresser in our bedroom.

So, what to do with all these cremains (ours included) when the time comes? Sprinkling them into the ocean or a lake isn’t a good idea. Cats don’t like water. We could run an ad on Craig’s List. “Wanted. Service to scatter ashes of family of 7 from top of mountain somewhere in Northeast.” Or maybe book a hot air balloon ride for a friend who loves pets and could sneak a large satchel of dust into the passenger basket.

One of my more creative ideas is to mix us with Elmer’s glue to make trinkets that would get stuffed inside a large piñata. There must be some fresh air camp with kids who’d benefit from releasing their pent up aggression. Or we could pre-arrange a picnic in a park and sell tickets to take a swing at us. Lots of folks would pay good money to whack me with a stick. (Proceeds to a local shelter, of course.)

Somewhere in here is an idea with legs. And even if not, we should have quite a few years before we need to figure this out. It won’t matter where our forever home is as long as we’re together (sing along now) side by side.

Sophie’s Choice Decluttering

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

3-D Printers for Retirees

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Special Senior Allowances

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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