Book News and Holiday Greetings

If you’ve been wondering where I’ve been for the past few weeks, this post explains it all. Our first Christmas in the condo presented me with many challenges, but before I get to that, some shameless self-promotion. Jagdish went back to India for three weeks in November. I used that time to put another volume of my blog essays to bed.

Retirement Sparks Redux is the third installment of my humorous takes on the retirement process and the ensuing life transition. Redux continues to showcase my signature style— edgy, irreverent and self-deprecating, but I offer a glimpse of a different style in the final section: Wistful Reflections. Retirement Sparks Redux is now available on Amazon and will soon be out in a Kindle version.

Back to my Christmas challenges. First, where were the various decorations I planned to put up? The shipping cartons left Oriole Avenue well labeled, including what floor they should go to in the new location. Unfortunately, there were so many cartons relegated to the basement that not every one labeled Christmas landed in the area I had set aside for them. It took several days to organize the boxes in a way that made sense and gave me a snowballs chance in that proverbial hot place of finding things.

The next challenge was to figure out where I would put certain items that I displayed every year at Oriole Avenue. Just one example: I put electric candles in the windows, a practice that many of our new neighbors also follow. Figuring out which windows would have how many candles wasn’t easy. At Oriole I put one candle in each very large window, but many windows here have an even number of multiple panes. That meant a wood strip would obscure the bulb. Those windows needed two candles.

That sorted out, I had to find the nearest outlets and decide what length extension cords were required. I bought and installed some new ones, only to uncover a stash of various cords a few days later that I had packed away but not remembered.

Deciding where to put the trees was also a challenge. Too many good places. Worse yet, the living room easily accommodates a ten foot tree. It virtually begs for one. But our stand won’t hold a tree that tall. More importantly, Jagdish and I can barely drag an eight-footer into the house, much less get it installed upright without help. We settled on two smaller trees and agreed to figure out a better solution next year. Read: find a stronger stand and line up some muscle well in advance of the holiday.

Now that my book is out, the candles are installed, the snowmen are placed in their new spots and the trees are up, I expect to get back on a weekly blogging schedule. Perhaps not next week, but soon thereafter. In the meantime, Merry Christmas, Happy Hanukkah, and Happy New Year to all!

Shortages To Cry Over

Reports of a shortage of chocolate have me considering hoarding this treasure for when I stop dieting. It’s not like chocolate has a “sell by” date. It doesn’t go bad if it’s been hidden in the closet behind your holiday serving dishes for months. I base this on years of experience. So far, I’ve resisted the urge to stock up. I’m reluctant to use the step stool (see previous post) and I don’t trust my willpower if I have chocolate within easy reach.

Still, it’s depressing to think about something you enjoy or depend on being in short supply or being discontinued. In my early days working at Colgate Palmolive, they were phasing out their product and my shampoo of choice, Lustre Creme. I lamented this to someone in production and he told me to use Octagon dish liquid. He said it had the same formula except for the fragrance. Eeeew! (BTW, Lustre Creme is available online. Someone must have bought the rights.)

Sadly, these product absences happen more and more often for retirees. Products we loved since our youth are continually reaching the end of their lifecycles before we reach the end of ours. I’ve started keeping a list of shortages I’d cry over and I add to it as I go about my daily activities. Turns out there are lots of things I’d miss.

One item I rely on in the food pantry is raw almonds, especially when I’m dieting. Four of them have just 24 calories, so they make a great snack; plus they’re healthy. Ditto for baby dill pickles. The label for the store brand at the IGA on the East Side of Providence says 0 calories per pickle. I think it could be 5, but either way, it’s a good snacking choice. I buy a jar every time my husband and I go back to Rhode Island. I’ve tried other brands, but they’re not as good.

I’d also be sad if grocery chains dropped Teddie unsalted old fashioned peanut butter. I stock up on it whenever there’s a sale. It has the perfect consistency to spread on gluten-free Mary’s Gone Crackers without breaking them.

Moving into personal care items, I’d be lost without ordinary pop-up tissues. I’ll use almost any brand, but what would get my nose out of joint is if I couldn’t find the plain variety. Manufacturers seem to be pushing the ones with aloe and lotions, and I can’t abide those.

A shortage of Clairol hair dye #28 would be devastating. It’s the color they put in their Natural Instincts Nutmeg. My niece, Pam, steered me to this as the perfect product to color my gray naturally. She was so right, and I’ve been using it ever since I gave in to disguising my aging tresses. I don’t want to contemplate what it would be like to have to find a replacement. Hit or miss probably wouldn’t come close to describing the process.

I also depend on waxed dental floss to help pull out the food residue that gets hung up between my teeth after almost every meal. I have a lot of old caps that have rough edges. There’s not much I can eat without something being left behind. Even the waxed floss can get caught, but the unwaxed simply shreds in place. If anyone gets an inkling that the waxed version is on its way out, let me know. I’ll lade in a lifetime supply and store it in our basement.

If they ran out of the extra-absorbent filler that’s used in those wee-wee pads it would not be a good thing. I put them on the bottom of Luke’s litter box under the newspaper and they hold a lot of cat pee. Fingers crossed that this product stays around at least as long as Luke does. Also that this means for at least a few more years; he’s 17 ½ now.

One product for which there could be a shortage is AA batteries. My primary use for these is the wireless mouse and keyboard for my desktop Mac. Battery drain is one of its few shortcomings. As Macs become more and more popular, the demand for AAs will increase. One hopes that will lead Apple to improve their battery life. I could switch to rechargeable ones, but I’d need to keep a few sets on hand so I could continue working while they were recharging. It’s so much easier to just pop in the cheaper ones that come in multi-packs.

That’s my starter list, but I’ve just scratched the surface. For now, I’ll practice dealing with a shortage of chocolate. That should help me adapt to whatever other shortages come my way. Please, Lord, let it not be Clairol’s dye # 28.

The Pitfalls of Shrinking

My post on the benefits of being short hit a hot button, generating several comments from female readers. One of my favorites came from Linda, my across-the-street neighbor during the summers of our youth. She, too, is losing height at her annual checkups. To use her own words: “Help me! I’m melting!” I’ve decided to follow up “The Benefits of Being Short” with “The Pitfalls of Shrinking.” I hope this provides helpful ideas for the Lindas out there.

One of the most noticeable pitfalls of height reduction is that you need to get your pants shortened every year. I wouldn’t care if that were because I lost more weight and the pants hung down further on my hips. (As if.) But having to spend on a tailor because you’re losing altitude is not on most retirees’ bucket lists.

Fortunately, I have a solution that enables you to pay just once for those alterations and be able to keep up with your ongoing shrinkage at no additional cost. Instead of a permanent hem, have your tailor install vertical strips of Velcro tape all around the edges. You’ll need them spaced every three inches so you don’t get droopy bottoms. (There’s nothing worse…) Then each year, as you “melt” a bit more, simply adjust the tapes accordingly.

I’ll bet my fellow height-loss sufferers have noticed that they can no longer reach the grab bar to get into an SUV. I had trouble grabbing those handles even before I started losing height. If you’ve always been short, chances are you would never have owned one of these even before you began shrinking. The problem is that these vehicles are the transportation of choice for many of our friends, not to mention our offspring.

It has probably taken you years to cultivate those friends. If you’re close to my age, you may be losing them through attrition. The circle of life, southern migration and such. No need to hurry the process by cutting the cord on someone because of the car they drive. It’s also unlikely you’ll want to disown your offspring. That leaves us looking for a convenient mechanism to boost us to grab bar level.

The best I have to offer is pairs of heavy duty springs, the kind you find in mattresses. Attach them to straps that have (what else?) Velcro fasteners. Carry them in a tote bag. When you need to get into a vehicle that’s too far off the ground, put them on the soles of your shoes like old-fashioned roller skates.

One downside of vertical contraction that I hadn’t considered came to my attention on the Today Show. Pint-sized actress Kristin Chenoweth (4’ 11”) appeared in one of the segments. She tried to high-five towering host Savannah Guthrie (5’ 10”). The best she could manage was grazing the bottom of Savannah’s palm with her own fingertips. If you have this problem as you shrink, get one of those giant foam fingers that you see in stadium stands all the time. You’ll be able to high-five (or high-one) anybody with that.

Another problem that appears on the radar as we lose height is that we need to use a step stool more often. That’s bad enough in and of itself—so annoying to keep dragging it in and out of the storage closet—but it’s also dangerous. Our increasing age usually brings with it deteriorating eyesight and poorer balance. Combine those with reaching ever more skyward atop a step stool that you’ve jerry-rigged, and you have a recipe for broken bones. (Did I mention that osteoporosis is a key cause of shrinkage?)

Eventually this step stool problem leads to the need to reorganize your kitchen cabinets and your bedroom closet shelves. One route to take on this is to get an entire system installed. You might even pay a consultant to help figure out what needs to be kept on the lower shelves and what can go in vertigo land. The problem with this, other than the cost, is that you’ll need to revisit the organizational structure each year that your reach diminishes by a shelf.

I recommend that you use the need to reorganize as the impetus to jettison more of the clutter from your life. Many of my earlier blog posts provide suggestions on how to do that. It’s a lot cheaper than fancy systems. It also has the added benefit of making your next move easier. You may think that’s a long way off, but you’ll thank me whenever it happens.

http://retirementsparks.blogspot.com/2010/09/retirement-downsizingthinning-out.html

http://retirementsparks.blogspot.com/2010/10/retirement-planning-clearing-kitchen.html

http://retirementsparks.blogspot.com/2010/10/retirement-planning-more-on-thinning.html

In the meantime, you can thank me now for all my other helpful suggestions. One thing I’m never short on is ideas.

The Benefits of Being Short

I’m short. I’ve always been short. I’ve danced around this topic in my blog over time. It’s been percolating recently because I have a midyear checkup next week. It will be with a new GP near our condo in Connecticut. I had all my medical records copied and sent to me (cost $94.92) so I can bring them to my appointment. My height has been decreasing at each of my checkups, which has led me to consider the benefits of being short. And yes there are some. Perhaps not more than there are disadvantages, but here goes.

Let’s consider osteoporosis, which I had, but managed to hold at bay after taking Fosamax for a few years. I’m due for another bone density test next year, and it will no doubt show that I’m once again losing density. Since I’m short, there can’t be that much room between my discs for them to collapse a lot. I think osteoporosis would be a bigger problem for someone tall. Their spine would have lots of room for shrinkage. So, here’s your first benefit of being short: you have fewer inches to lose as you age.

Another issue of aging is loss of balance. This is less of a concern for someone as short as I am. I’m so close to the ground that I don’t have far to fall if I take a tumble, hence less chance of breaking something when I land. The way things are going with my height, I could be walking on all fours in another decade or so. I won’t be at risk of tumbling or falling. I’ll simply go splat.

The older I get, the more off-balance I become. I’m talking physical balance not mental, so don’t be so quick to say you’ve noticed. I’m clumsy to begin with, and my wobbling causes me to drop things even more than usual. Because I’m short, I don’t have to bend over too far to pick up things I’ve lost hold of. Score another one for the little people.

When I was in high school, there was an annual event called “Girls’ Sports Night.” We had a team for each of the school colors and each team elected Senior and Junior captains to head up the effort for their color. My junior year, the White team senior captain (my team) was petite. The Scarlet captain was stately. My Latin teacher commented on this in class one day, saying that a tall girl would always look like a woman, while a short girl would always look like a little girl trying to look like a woman.

If you’re thinking this was an odd point of view to be put forth in a Latin class, you’d be right. My teacher did it in an attempt to cow me. To describe me as a difficult student would be an understatement, at least as far as Mr. Ryan was concerned. I countered with the somewhat predictable: “Dynamite comes in small packages.” But his observation came back to me last week as I was gussying myself up to go to an event at our clubhouse. I’m always a tad surprised at how young I look when I put on makeup.

Upon reflection, I think that one reason people think I’m considerably younger than I am is that I’m short. Well, that and the fact that I dye the gray in my hair. I can’t really explain why, but if you put two women together who look virtually identical, but one is short and one is tall, people will probably guess the shorter one to be younger. Maybe my Latin teacher wasn’t just snarky. Maybe he was also right.

In my mind, one of the best benefits of a petite stature is that most people won’t even notice if you’re getting shorter. This is not the case for taller women. When they start to shrink, people chatting with them will be thinking: “Hmm. I used to look down at her mouth when we talked. Now I’m looking down at her nose. She must be getting shorter.” When people talk to me, they’ll be thinking: “I used to look down at the top of her head. Now I’m looking down at… Oh. The top of her head.” I rest my case.

Loss of Padding

My husband left for India on Tuesday. He’ll be gone about three weeks. This presents a welcome opportunity for me to attack a major project. Since I’d like to get my next edition of Retirement Sparks to print before yearend, I can use this window of uninterrupted time to assemble the book for publication. I had started on this last spring but had to shift gears to prep the house for sale once again.

After three days of sitting at my computer for hours at a time this week, I had one of those Aha! (Oh, no!) moments. My fanny was killing me. My lower back wasn’t exactly thrilled with me either, but the pain in my butt was something new. Those who have never met me in person, especially before I lost 30 pounds last year, might not see this as an Aha! moment. So, here’s some back(side) story.

I’ve always had a lot of “junk in the trunk.” My sister, my brother and I all inherited my father’s behind. (Our mother’s rear end was as flat as a pancake.) Because I fenced in high school, my gluteus maximus was especially well-developed. And it didn’t bounce around. It stayed that way even after college, probably because I walked briskly and a lot when I worked in Manhattan. And usually in high heels. (Lots of muscle flexing…)

I considered my derrière an asset, since men seemed to like big butts, even before Sir Mix-a-Lot came out with his song, Baby Got Back. (“I like big butts and I cannot lie…”) By the way, if you haven’t seen Jimmy Fallon’s remix of Brian Williams rapping to that song, you must check it out on YouTube.

Returning to this week’s painful realization: my bottom has lost much of its cushioning capability. Though some of this is probably due to my weight loss, it’s more likely another sad side effect of growing old. I say this because I had already noticed that the balls of my feet were no longer doing a good job of making walking comfortable either. Simply put: my body is losing padding.

No one tells you to expect this. Fallen arches, yes. But you don’t hear folks saying: “You’ll feel like you’re walking on concrete unless you wear special shoes.” And you certainly don’t have folks warning you that at some point, you’re going to think you’re sitting directly on your ass bone. (Is there an ass bone? I know it wouldn’t be the tailbone. That’s in the middle, at the base of the spine.) Moving on…

I suppose I wouldn’t be as miffed at this loss of padding in useful places if it weren’t that I’ve been gaining it in places I don’t need it. Or want it. Take for instance my belly. No, really. Please take the extra padding I have there. (Thank you, Rodney Dangerfield.) Despite the collateral tummy tuck that came along with one of my cancer surgeries, I was left with plenty of space for fat cells to proliferate. And proliferate they did.

Scientists should research a method of shifting belly fat to the fanny area. That ought to be pretty easy. They already do liposuction after all. Just reposition the stuffing laterally about 180 degrees. If someone can figure out a way to do that, they’ll make a fortune. People our age won’t even care if it leaves some scars.

Of course, there’s also the extra cushioning on our upper arms. Actually, I’m not sure it’s accurate to call it cushioning if it dangles. Whatever. It’s padding I don’t need, don’t want, and can’t seem to get rid of. If those same scientists can take that upper arm flab and reposition it to the bottoms of our feet, they’ll have something irresistible to peddle in the AARP publications.

Did I mention my neck wattle yet? Maybe not in today’s post, but you’ve certainly read plenty about it during the years that I’ve been blogging. There’s not enough excess there to help with my feet, but I’d still like to get rid of it. Just sayin’.

Seriously, how many of you had given any thought to this problem as part of your adjustment to retirement? I’m warning you: put this on your radar now. Start looking for extra-thick gel inserts for your shoes and a Kardashian butt enhancer today. I cannot lie. You’ll thank me later.

Manipulating Those On-line Ads

Now that I’m retired, I’m on my computer and on the Internet more than ever. I’m increasingly aware of the ads that appear in the sidebars of browser windows and in some emails. I’ve also noticed how the content of these ads changes over time.

In the beginning, we were all getting offers for Viagra, or ones asking if we’d like to enlarge our penis to improve our sex life. These were dumb on so many counts, the most enormous being that more than half of the people seeing them don’t have penises. What a colossal waste of advertising money! Over time, the software companies refined their placement algorithms (or whatever tool they use) so that those promotions appear mostly for viewers who have an interest in augmenting their equipment.

It didn’t take long for me to realize that the things I surfed about in researching my blog topics started showing up in my sidebars and in the banners at the top of the window. They kept appearing for weeks after I’d looked them up, even though I no longer had any interest in them. What’s worse, my initial inquiries were solely for the purpose of the post at hand. I never had any personal plans to wear or buy bow ties, for instance. I just researched all the various styles for a blog entry about their renaissance.

When we moved into our condominium, I purchased a MacBook Air, so I’m on my laptop much of the time. My husband purchased an HP laptop, which turned out to be a lemon. He returned it and decided to rethink what type of device made sense for him. In the meantime, I let him use my desktop computer. He’s been spending hours each day searching the Internet for products for his store.

About a week ago, Jagdish replaced his defective laptop, so I’m now on my desktop Mac again much of the time. I can tell which product categories he’s been researching by looking at the ads I’m getting. While these are a step above Viagra, they’re still for products in which I have no interest. I should probably consider wearing a Fitbit activity band, so I know how lazy I am in my new cocoon. But the ads aren’t going to make me buy one, much less become more active.

Likewise, I’m not excited about singing bowls, essential oils and gemstones with “special properties.” I must admit, those ads are a step up from the ones for basement storage shelves. They've taken over my laptop ever since I looked up those offerings at Home Depot. But none of these are of interest to me. It dawned on me that they’re not even visually attractive.

I decided that I needed to take control of my browser and email screens. I made a list of things that I would enjoy looking at in those sidebars and banners. Things that were graphically exciting or that made me feel all warm and fuzzy. Items like freshwater lakes and paisley prints and perennial flowers of New England. And of course, cats. Then I Googled them. Every time I found a website with photos I liked, I bookmarked the page.

Now I’m fine-tuning the process. For example, PaisleyPrintBoutique.com seemed like it would have gorgeous photos, but their homepage is loaded with earrings. Hence, no bookmark. The blog ThreadsofHistory probably won’t help with my browser ads, but I bookmarked that one anyway. “Musings and tidbits on textile design and creation, from prehistory to the modern day” is SO in my wheelhouse. The author stopped posting in 2010, but there are dozens of entries for me to read when we’re snowed in this winter.

Another site mentioned textile print blocks, so I searched on that and turned up some interesting graphics on woodprintblocks.com worth bookmarking. This in turn led to block printing, but that was a visual dead end. By now, I’m sure you get the idea.

For the process to work effectively, I need to visit each of the sites I’ve marked just before I shut down my browser each day. That flags those sites as most recent and also as frequently visited, which moves them up in the ad hierarchy. It also puts a smile on my face as I log off. I’m still figuring out how many of my selected sites I need in order to shut out the ads I don’t want to see. This plan is, after all, a work in progress.

But that’s one of the great things about being retired. At this stage of my life, just about everything is a work in progress. Especially me.

Halloween Costumes for Retirees

BlogHer.com recently featured a post on Halloween costumes based on pop culture. The same day their home page quoted blogger PJ Gach: “Jumpsuits were made by the devil with the sole purpose of not letting women pee.” The confluence of these ideas made me realize that retirees need guidelines for choosing Halloween attire. Here they are, along with some accessories ideas, just in time for you to adjust the getup you’ve planned for this year’s trick-or-treating.

The first guideline is that, unlike jumpsuits, your costume must let you pee. One way an outfit can accommodate this is to enable you to get in and out of it easily. Look for lots of Velcro, like a straight jacket. Or something loose and flowy on the bottom, like a fortune teller’s caftan. Another way is to have some highly absorbent material built in, like SpongeBob SquarePants with pants made of actual sponges.

Another important guideline is to wear comfortable, flat footwear. Running shoes or slippers are best, so choose attire that makes sense with those. You can just wear a polyester jogging suit or your ratty old bathrobe. Easy peasy.

A simple and cheap costume for a retiree is an alarm clock. It’s a great way to remind your friends who are still working that you get to sleep in. Mark the clock face “alarm” and set the time to 10 am. On your back, wear an empty cardboard box marked “battery compartment.” Leave it open, showing just the space with the plus and minus signs for two AAs. Not only can you sleep in, you don’t even need a functioning alarm clock.

If you’ll be taking your grandchildren trick-or-treating at night, you’ll want special accessories to keep you safe. Night vision goggles or extra large eyeglasses are a must, which makes a Ghost Buster costume a great choice. A high-powered lantern is also important—one with 360 degree coverage. You can affix it to a hard hat and go as a coal miner. Or mount the lantern in a red wagon, plop in your grandchild costumed as a Dalmation puppy, and dress as Cruella de Vil.

Another option for nighttime protection is the Badass Biker outfit. Start with some hideous false teeth. Then get a heavy chain belt (made from a real chain from a hardware store). Buy a beat up moto jacket (short for motorcycle—I’m so cool) at Savers. Top it off with a generous application of yellow and black police crime scene tape. This should scare off potential muggers along your trick-or-treating route.

Not going outdoors for Halloween? If house parties are more your style, you’ll have a wider range of options. Forget about anything from the movie Frozen. We’re way too old for that. We can, however, go as a modified version of the Ice Bucket Challenge. Begin with a clear plastic shower curtain liner worn as a poncho. Add a standard bucket, but fill it with acrylic cubes. The last thing you need is someone pouring ice cold water on you. Unless you’re wearing SpongeBob panties.

For a trendy but affordable costume, create an enormous version of Pharrell Williams’ hat. Use one of those huge brown paper bags—the ones you stuff leaves into. Cut openings for your eyes, nose and mouth. Also armholes. Then attach a roll of corrugated paper around the opening at knee level to make a narrow brim. You might want to visit Pharrell’s hat on Facebook to be sure you have the proportions right. Yes, his hat has it’s own FB page.

Those who are tired of the alarmist responses to the Ebola scare can make a political statement by going as Chicken Little. Take a large bag of poly fluff (the stuffing in throw pillows, aka toss pillows in New England) and glue clumps of it to an old jogging suit. Intersperse these with pieces of blue construction paper, cut into random shapes. As you wander around the Halloween party, shout: “The sky is falling! The sky is falling!” as you look up toward the ceiling. Enough said.

Here’s a fun idea that retirees can appreciate. Pick up an inexpensive set of doctor’s scrubs and dye them orange. Then get a bottle of dark blue ink at an art shop and pour generous amounts on the scrubs at the elbow, upper arms and thigh areas. When guests ask, tell them you’re dressed as “Orange Is the New Black and Blue.” Or maybe: “Black and Blue Is the New Orange.” Whatever.

As you can see, there are many low-cost and easy-to-create Halloween costumes that make sense for retirees this year. I hope you have fun putting them together, and even more fun wearing them. Be sure to post pictures on your Facebook page.

Nicknames for Senior Body Parts

I recently heard that Shonda Rhimes coined the word “vajayjay” as a nickname for a female body part because network censors wouldn’t let her use the anatomical label in scripts for her hit TV show, Grey’s Anatomy. Then I caught The View’s Rosie Perez using “hooha,” also a popular nickname for…  well, you know. It occurred to me that seniors and those caring for the elderly need alternative names for certain body parts, ailments and medical devices. The ones whose real names somewhat awkwardly describe… well, you know that, too.

I’ve put together a starter list for all of us. The official names are shown first, then the slang.  I’ve also provided a sentence or two using the nickname and/or elaborating on it. I hope you find these colorful terms useful in your conversations with family, friends and physicians.

Bunion — Booya

“The older I get, the more uncomfortable my booya gets. Pretty soon I’m going to need a booyectomy.” Good luck getting your insurance company to cover that procedure. Booya!

Neck Wattle — Natty

“I’m going to start wearing bowties to obscure my natty.” This term is especially appropriate because a gentleman in a bowtie is often described as nattily dressed.

Droopy Ear Lobes — Doobies

“I can’t wear dangly earrings anymore now that my doobies have gotten so long.” Be careful not to confuse this nickname with something you smoked when you were in college.

Belly Pooch — Boochy and a related term: Saggy Abdomen — Sabdo

“My boochy is bigger than a bread box.” “If I don’t do sit-ups every morning, I get a sabdo.” If you have a boochy or a sabdo, and especially if your boochy morphs into a sabdo, it’s time for Spanx. The good news is that Spanx are much more comfortable than those long-leg panty girdles of our high school days.

Hearing Aid — Audi S’port

“I love my new Audi S’port. It’s opened a superhighway of auditory experiences for me.” Indeed. And you can turn it off and tune folks out if you want to. Vroom Vroom! (And yes, I know that was a Mazda commercial, not an Audi one.)

Fallen Arches — Floppers

“As I’ve gotten older, my feet have developed major floppers.” I feel your pain. My floppers have absolutely no cushioning anymore. I feel like I’m walking on concrete all the time. If you decide to order gel inserts online, make sure you get the ones for shoes. My Google search also turned up ones for bras. So NOT what I was looking for…

Flatulence — The Flappies

“When I eat raw cauliflower, I get the flappies. It’s even worse when I eat a lot of beans.” If you suffer from the flappies, stay away from campfires! (Remember Blazing Saddles?)

Hemorrhoids/Polyps — The Pollies

“I need to eat more fiber especially when football season is here. There’s nothing worse than the pollies when you’re in those rock hard nosebleed seats at a game.” Two words: inflatable inner-tube.

Colostomy Bag — Collie Wollie

“I can’t believe how stylish collie wollies have become these days. There are almost as many colorful covers available as they have for IPhones.” Not only that, but caftans and long tunics are coming back in style, even for men. To paraphrase that Oldsmobile commercial, it’s not your father’s colostomy bag.

Adult Diapers — Addys or if you prefer: Incontinence Underwear — Inundaters

“I can’t always control my pee anymore, so I finally got some addys. I hope the leakage doesn’t get so bad that I need to move on to inundaters.” Apologies to those in the advertising business who can no longer talk about their chichi industry awards without smirking.

Dowager’s/Widow’s Hump — Doho

“I’m paying special attention to my posture so I don’t develop a doho.” This is particularly important for those who have opo (osteoporosis), because really bad opo can lead to a doho. Then every day is Hump Day. Oh, no!

And my favorite slang term:

Bristly Goat Hairs (on chin) — Stiffies

“It’s bad enough that I have fuzzy sideburns, but I also have stiffies on my chin.” And after a few glasses of wine, I have fizzies and stuffies. The more I’m fizzied or stuffied, the less I notice my stiffies and fuzzies. Yet another reason to enjoy some vino.

No doubt you can come up with a few nicknames of your own. The only guideline is this: if it sounds better than the anatomical or technical term, it’s a keeper. Happy slanging!

Fall 2014 Potpourri

This seems like a good week for my Fall potpourri, especially since recent issues of Time magazine (particularly the Oct. 13 one) were full of tidbits that left me scratching my head. I found items that cover everything from crazy animal stories to alcoholic beverages.

Let’s start with animals. A gentleman from Canada was caught sneaking turtles into the U.S.—51 of them, to be exact. According to the magazine, he had them “hidden between his legs and strapped to his body.” I assume they weren’t the snapping turtle variety. Then again, someone stupid enough to do this probably didn’t think it through very well. There was nothing in the report about the status of his family jewels.

All the major networks picked up the story about the pooch that had a thing for socks. The Portland vet who unraveled this found 43 and a half of them in the Great Dane’s stomach. This raises several questions, like: What happened to that other half sock? If 43 ½ is the capacity of a Great Dane, what’s the capacity of a Dachshund? And of course, How do you remove 43 ½ socks from a Great Dane and what do you do with them afterward? I’m thinking it could give new meaning to “Salvation Army.”

And this from Jimmy Fallon: a zoo in Japan just realized that both hyenas they’ve been trying to mate for years are male. You may think this is funny, but for the two hyenas, it’s been no laughing matter. Thanks, Jimmy.

Now let’s talk some beer and wine. Scientists in Spain invented an “electronic tongue” that can tell one variety of beer from another. It’s 82% accurate, which is way better than I would be. You have to wonder how much beer they’ll taste before they find a practical use for such a tongue. Not to be outdone, the Danes came up with a machine that uses nanosensors to measure how dry a wine is. If they need someone to do quality control checks on the machine’s results, I’m their gal.

What is it about Europeans and their wine and beer? Belgium is building a pipeline 3 kilometers long that will chunnel—I mean funnel—beer from a big brewery to its bottling plant. It will mean 500 fewer delivery truck drivers on the roads (and at a rest stops after sampling too much of their cargo). Expect thousands of residents of Bruges to be praying that the conduit springs a leak near their house. Talk about a “pipe dream!”

The media has recounted a considerable number of dumb actions by a variety of humans. Like the postman in Brooklyn who had a hoarding problem. He kept over 40,000 personal letters that he chose not to deliver, who knows why. No word on whether he even read any of them. And then there’s the UPS worker who stole a diamond worth $160,000 and then traded it for some marijuana—$20 worth. Hello? I just can’t make this stuff up.

Some human activity was not just dumb, it was downright bizarre. The U.S. Coast Guard had to rescue a man who was “running” from Florida to Bermuda in a human hamster wheel (aka an inflatable paddle bubble). He was promoting world peace when he got caught up in the Gulf Stream. To his credit, he did ask the Coast Guard for directions to Bermuda earlier in his journey. (“Turn left at that big swell…”) Eventually exhausted (surprise, surprise), Mr. Hamster sent a message for help.

The hamster wheel also inspired the development of a new desk, created by two artists in San Francisco. You stand and pedal while you work. My husband wants one of these; he thinks it will help strengthen his knees. I have no idea if it will work, but if I can watch him going nowhere, I’ll buy one for him. If you’re thinking  “dumb and dumber,” I don’t blame you.

Finally, a tidbit from my mother’s homeland, again via Time. In a move to lower costs, Italy’s Parliament reduced from $172,000 to $125,000 the amount that its in-house hairdressers can get paid. Assumedly those are annual figures. Really? At those rates (even the reduced ones), they should call them estheticians. And along with your haircut and styling, you should get a mani-pedi and a coupon for cappuccino at George Clooney’s villa on Lake Como.

That will do it for this Fall’s potpourri post. Time to start collecting tidbits for Spring.

Five Levels of Condo Quirks

We’ve been in our new condominium for a month. I say “new,” but it was built about ten years ago, so it’s only new to us. Ten years is enough time to develop quirks that require varying degrees of adapting. Quirks can be categorized based on how much they disturb your psyche.

The first level is what I call a Minor Inconvenience. Rare is the household that doesn’t have at least a few of these. You get used to them once you find out how to deal with them.

The first Minor Inconvenience I came upon in our condo was a heavy-duty scrunchy (a covered elastic band) hanging from the knob on the pullout trash bin. At first I thought the previous owner had a ponytail, kept it handy to hold her hair out of the way while cooking and had forgotten it. Then I started poking around and discovered that when the bin is full, it doesn’t stay closed unless you loop the other end around the knob on the drawer above it. I can live with that.

The first Major Annoyance (level two) came with our garage door openers. None of them worked, not even the code for the keypad. I replaced the battery in the clicker. No luck. I tried the other two clickers (that I had received empty). Still nothing. The only thing that worked was the button by the kitchen door.

For several days, we opened and closed the garage door from inside, and exited and entered the house through the front door. Then I bought a new battery for the keypad, too. Success! Apparently, the clickers route through the keypad. You may be thinking: “This was a major annoyance?” Yes, it was. How can someone sell a house with all the garage devices having dead batteries? How did they get in and out? And how about a heads up at least!

Moving on to the third level of quirks: Impetus to a Psychotic Meltdown. These are the ones that drive you straight to the wine rack, hoping to find a screw top. What did me in were the crazy lights in our condo.

Some of them have basic flip switches that turn them on and off. Some have levers that slide up and down, with a subset of levers that have buttons on them, which turn the fixture on or off. The levers function like rheostats, but not in the turning motion that I’m familiar with.

Apparently, that wasn’t complex enough for the builder. Lights that are part of an overhead fan are controlled via a series of buttons, with a primary on-off for the power to the fixture, and a secondary on-off for the light. Have I lost you yet?

Finally, the lights in the master bath and the walk-in closet have hinky bulbs that have delayed illumination. Perhaps it’s to avoid shocking you on a middle-of-the-night potty run or during early-morning wardrobe selection, when you’re bleary-eyed. News flash! I’m retired. I don’t do bleary-eyed any more.

The first week we were here, I thought I’d have to replace the bulbs in these fixtures with higher wattage. Old folks need more light, after all. No sooner would this cross my mind, than I would notice things seemed brighter. I assumed my eyes had adjusted to the lower light. Around week two I realized that these were special bulbs that lit to their full wattage gradually. They’re still driving me to drink.

The fourth quirk level is what I like to think of as Justifiable Homicide—things that, if the seller didn’t warn you about them, give you the right to hunt them down in their new home and kill them. That would be the built in audio system in our condo. Every room is hooked up and has its own volume control. There’s also a master volume control. It doesn’t work. And there’s an On-Off button. It also doesn’t work.

I couldn’t figure out how to turn off the system. The cable installation guy couldn’t disconnect it without losing the cable source. The go-to handyman for our community couldn’t figure out how to turn it off. I tuned the unit to our radio station of choice, NPR, and turned the volume down everywhere. I could still hear voices coming from the wall behind the main unit. Eventually, I dragged the machine out of its cubbyhole and pulled the power plug. Blessed silence.

Which brings me to the fifth and final level of quirkiness, which I reached this week. When something weird happens now, I shrug my shoulders and say: “Who Cares?” Lucky thing for the people we bought from that I’m there. Otherwise I’d kill them for certain if I ever met them.

Designer Dogs for Retirees

I recently noted that virtually all the canine pets in our condo development are small breeds. I’m not sure why. Our association doesn’t cap the allowable weight of pets, only the number (two). But some communities limit dogs to 30 pounds. On the heels of this finding, I noticed that Time magazine included a feature on designer dogs in its “The Answers Issue.” This confluence of tidbits unleashed the idea for this week’s post.

Since many retirees live where pet weight is regulated, I’ve included a number of smaller creatures in my collection. Read the details of each designer breed to find the perfect one for your needs.

New members of a condo community may want a dog that conveys status. The best choice for a high-end symbol is the LhaChiDa—a blend of Lhasa Apso and Chihuahua, with just a hint of Dalmation in the lineage. The Dal parent harks back several generations, assuring that the LhaChiDa will not get too large and will have only small and occasional (not too) black spots. As Chris Farley aka Matt Foley used to say on Saturday Night Live: “Well, la-dee-frickin-da.”

Speaking of Farley, those who have packed on the pounds since they stopped going to work should consider a Porkie. This Pug—Yorkshire Terrier crossbreed is so chubby that just looking at it will provide incentive for you to exercise daily. A word of caution: the Porkie may want to join you on your daily walks. If it loses too much weight, it will begin to look like a Shar-Pei. Ditto for its owners.

Retirees generally make frequent doctors visits, where they’re likely to spend considerable time in the waiting room. The perfect dog to tuck into your medical tote for company is the Dachsador. This Dachshund—Labrador mix loves going to the doctor’s office. It’s sized like the Dachshund, but it’s as devoted as the Lab. And please don’t send me any jokes about lab tests. Or cat scans.

For older women who have become dependent on weekly appointments at the beautician, we recommend the Pompador. This cross between a Pomeranian and a Labrador has the size and pouf of its smaller mother and the temperament of its larger father. Note that if you cross a male Pomeranian with a female Labrador you get a Labramanian. These dogs are used to search for truffles in certain Balkan countries.

While we’re on the subject of hair, a designer dog for those who are going bald is the TerPei. This Terrier—Shar-Pei mix has been bred to perch comfortably on top of your head when you leave home. Sometimes affectionately called the Terpe, this wonderful little guy will happily drape on top of you like a small rug. Your friends and neighbors will have no idea how thin your own hair has become underneath all his wrinkles.

Retirees are prone to bragging about their grandchildren, often exaggerating their achievements and talents. We have two breeds especially for them. The first is the Malorkie, a Maltese—Yorkshire Terrier blend. This is the choice for grandparents who embellish only slightly about their progeny. The second is the BullShitz, a Bulldog—Shih Tzu crossbreed. This is the go-to option for those who fabricate outright the successes of their grandkids, who of course have zero shortcomings.

If you’ve moved into a community where you’re worried about your neighbors snooping, consider getting a SharpShooTer to guard your homestead. This breed has a pair of designer parents: a Shar Pei/Shih Tzu mix on its mother’s side, and a Poodle/Terrier union on its father’s. It looks like a cute little thing, so it lures snoopers into a false sense of security as they lurk in your bushes. Then the yappy, manic influence of its father emerges, startling the intruder into a frantic retreat.

For retirees who are addicted to catalog shopping, the Speagle will be a valuable companion. This Spaniel—Beagle cross is a true hunting dog. It has a storied history of helping its owners find obscure products by sniffing through hundreds of pages in just minutes. You can generally adopt a Speagle online.

Finally, the perfect designer dog for retirees who have discovered the joys of napping is the Schnoozer. This Schnauzer—Poodle creation is at home lying on any soft horizontal surface. As long as you have room for this mid-sized pet, you’ll have company on your afternoon nap no matter where you decide to take it. If you live in a small condominium, you might want to opt for the sub-breed, the MiniSchnoozer. It’s a cross between a Miniature Schnauzer and a Toy Poodle. And no, it doesn’t take catnaps.

There you have it. Ten designer dogs created especially for retirees. I’m here to serve. (You know you missed me…)

Settling in to the Condo

We’ve been in our condo for just three weeks and I’m already aware of some of the community’s idiosyncrasies. We have rules from the golf club (which we joined as social members) and bylaws from the condo association. There also appear to be unwritten behavioral guidelines that neighbors follow as closely as the written ones.

Let’s start with the golf club. It’s no surprise that they expect folks to wear shoes in the clubhouse. And it’s comforting that they don’t consider flip-flops to be shoes. I’m not sure whether the tank tops that are banned are only the ones that Guidos wear down at the Jersey Shore, or if that also includes the sleeveless knit tops that women wear. Also needing clarification is the ruling that men must tuck their shirttails into their pants. Is a straight hem a shirttail?

This last point is important for us, because my husband spends the summer in those oversized printed shirts that are often described as Hawaiian. They’re meant to be worn outside the pants. My husband has a slight frame, and he likes his summer shirts loose. If he had to tuck them in, he’d look like a mailbag with the cinch string drawn tight. I guarantee that his flapping tails would be far more socially acceptable.

Moving on to the condo bylaws. The community is extremely attractive to drive through. Though there are a limited number of building models and exterior colors, they’re sited in ways that avoid the look of a plan book community. And it’s guaranteed to stay that way, because the bylaws state that you can paint your unit using only an approved exterior color. And using the association’s painters.

That control extends to the inside of your unit, at least with regard to what is visible to the neighbors. Specifically, the window treatments one hangs must be white. Or else they must be lined in white, so that color is what is seen from the street. This gives new meaning to “plain vanilla.” It also describes the ethnicity of the neighbors we’ve seen on the streets thus far.

Speaking of what’s on the streets: there seems to be an unwritten size limitation on the dogs here. Virtually every home has exactly one dog in residence, which pet is dutifully walked on the shared greenery at least twice a day. With a singular exception, we’ve not seen a dog that couldn’t fit in our vintage cat carrier. On the subject of cats, Luke appears to be the only feline in the community, but he hasn’t been out and about much yet. He’s still exploring inside his new home.

Returning to how attractive the place is on a drive through. It should be. They water the lawns every morning, even if it rained overnight. Not surprisingly, that much watering is accompanied by virtually nonstop mowing. An armada of lawn care vehicles can be heard in and around our condo several times a week. And since we overlook the 13^th fairway, we’re also treated to the sound of mowing (and mowing and mowing) down behind our unit every week.

Absent that, the place is unbelievably peaceful and quiet. We often wake to early morning fog on the fairway. As it lifts, it reveals the wooded area opposite our new home. Beyond that is an abandoned railroad right-of-way. The tracks run along the river, and though we can’t see it, its presence contributes to the quietude behind us.

The only other interruption of the exquisite silence is the thunk of golf balls bouncing off our condo siding a few times a week. I even found one on our deck Labor Day weekend. That deck is outside our living room, which has a wall of windows about 16 feet high. I can live with thunking. I just hope I don’t start hearing the sound of breaking glass. I suppose that’s just one of the risks that come with the beauty of golf course living. So far, it’s definitely worth it. Stay tuned.