Recovering Stolen Wheels

U.S. cities have been experiencing a rash of bicycle thefts, especially of high-end rides. At least two municipalities have special efforts in place to put the brakes on this activity. Police park pricey “bait bikes” in high-theft zones—bikes with GPS chips hidden in them. In Madison, Wisconsin, bike snatchings were down 40% the first year the GPS program took effect. In San Francisco, once cops catch up with the thieves, they tweet photos of them with the message “thank you 4 taking our bait bike.”

Bicycles aren’t the only personal conveyances seeing a rise in thefts. Retirees with limited incomes have taken to boosting four-wheelers from their neighbors. For some, it’s the only way they can become mobile again. Their families have taken away their car keys, usually because they’ve had numerous accidents. An elderly person driving a stolen conveyance is eight times as likely to get into a collision as a legitimate driver is. I guess they’re nervously looking over their shoulders instead of looking both ways.

The Villages in Florida reports a 60% increase in motorized scooters being stolen over the past two years. These numbers are overblown, however, because a considerable percentage of the reported thefts turn out to be someone having forgotten where they parked their wheels. Still, the snatchings are definitely on the rise and communities are encouraging members to use GPS technology to facilitate tracking down the errant vehicles.

For several condo developments in North Carolina that surround golf courses, golf carts are the primary method of transportation. So much so, that each condo comes with its own cart when you purchase the home. You’d think that would mean none of these get stolen, since everyone has his own. You would be wrong. Apparently, some retirees collect carts the way Jay Leno collects vintage cars. The trouble is, unlike Jay, those retirees are pinching most of their acquisitions.

All over the country, desperate retirees are becoming increasingly clever in disguising their thievery. One enterprising senior had custom decals made with the faces of his four grandchildren. He plastered them all over the stolen Jazzy scooter, assuming that would be proof that he owned the vehicle; but the hidden GPS chip tripped him up. When the ride was returned to its rightful owner, she covered the thief’s offspring with photos of her own grandchildren—all twelve of them. Talk about one-upmanship!

GPS helped track the NC golf cart culprit to a storage facility about a five iron away from his own condo. Inside were four missing carts, none still wearing its original paint. The duffer with sticky fingers also had a passion for painting. He insisted these were all his “original works of art,” but the trackers told a different story. He was forced to move out of his condo community. The bitterest pill was that he had to leave behind his own cart, painted in all its creative glory. It stayed with the unit when he left.

So far as we know, none of these retirement developments has made the foray into baiting conveyances yet. The four-wheelers that have been stolen all belonged to seniors who simply left their rides in the wrong place at the wrong time, something seniors are particularly adept at.

If the stealing trend continues to escalate, expect the condo police to mimic the professional ones in SF and Madison. They’ll leave shiny, tricked out Jazzys with GPS in tempting spots for unsuspecting seniors. When they catch up with the culprits, they’ll hand them cards that read: “You’ve been taken for a ride on my bait scooter.” Then they’ll spend two frustrating hours explaining what a “bait scooter” is and how GPS works. Come to think of it, that’s probably why they’ve been in no rush to roll with the new technology.

Red Velvet Fever

A few months back I was salivating over the Cinnabon craze. I shared a number of product line extensions and licenses introduced by the owner of that trademark. I also had some sweet ideas of my own. Today’s post is in a similar vein. It was inspired by the NY Times article: “Red Velvet Cake: A Classic, not a Gimmick.” In my shrine of confectionary treasures, Red Velvet Cake (RVC) would be right up there next to the Cinnabon.

The Times article describes RVC as having “cocoa undertones and cream-cheese tang” that can easily be recreated in a lab. Adams Extract Company markets an RV cake mix complete with bottles of the extract and red dye. Some of the non-edible RVC products available are the predictable scented candles and air fresheners. Less yawn-inducing are the body mist and red velvet vodka.

As I did with the Cinnabon, I’ve conjured up some products for retirees that incorporate the undertones and tang of red velvet. I doubt any of my ideas will outshine the red velvet waffles served at Freddy J’s BBQ in Buffalo, but here goes.

The first items on my list are Red Velvet Bath Sponges and Shower Poufs. Retirees are sometimes tempted to substitute a quick sink-side swish of the important areas for a full shower on days when we have no plans to go out. Our dermatologists may even have suggested that our aging skin will fare better without a ritual scrubbing every day. It will be hard to resist a hot shower, or even a lukewarm bath, if the aroma of RVC is wafting in the air. Your unexpected guests will thank me for this.

Taking the body mist idea into a more functional mode, RVC Insect Repellent will allow us to lounge a bit longer on the patio at sundown without fear of being “eaten alive,” as my mother used to say. The RVC formulation will be so treacly that most mosquitos will want no part of it. Those that are brave enough to land on your skin will keel over from cloying nostrils, or whatever part of the anatomy an insect breathes through.

Seniors will be especially excited to try Powdered RVC Psyllium Husks. This new source of fiber is expected to sell three times the volume of orange-flavored Metamucil. I can’t believe Procter & Gamble has owned that staple of retirement for almost thirty years and they never thought of a RVC line extension.

I’m also hopping on one of the hottest beverage crazes, energy drinks, by introducing RVC Vitamin Water. Actually, I can’t call it Vitamin Water; that’s a trademark. So I’ll call it Red Velvet Cake Vigor Eau. Rhymes with Figaro. Google tells me there’s a men’s cologne called Vigor, or more correctly: Vigor Eau de Toilette. But since you don’t drink that (or at least, you’re not supposed to), I think I’ll be OK with my RVC Vigor Eau.

If the reason you crave Vigor Eau is that you’ve been exercising strenuously, there’s a good chance (as an older person) that you’ve sprained something and need to wear an Ace bandage for awhile. To help take the sting out of the experience, I’ve created a Red Velvet Cake Elastic Wrap. Every time you unroll it and stretch it around your sprain, you get a fresh whiff of RVC. Almost makes it worth working out. I said almost.

One of my favorite new products are my Red Velvet Slipper Socks, and not just because they are, of course, red. They’re knitted of chenille yarn soaked in genuine red velvet extract from the Adams Extract Company. The toes have packets of cream-cheese-flavored body lotion so they moisturize while you walk. If your partner has a foot fetish, expect lots of massages and some toe-licking—a win-win. Or not.

Finally, I’m line extending one of the items I developed in response to the Cinnabon Craze. Soon you’ll be able to buy Red Velvet Cake Postage Stamps. As with the Cinnabon ones, they’ll be the type you have to lick. So they’ll not only smell good, they’ll taste great. I’ve decided these stamps are such a brilliant idea that I’m working on an Americana Baked Goods collection for the USPS. In addition to the Cinnabon and RVC, you’ll get Carrot Cake and Strawberry Shortcake stamps—four options on one block! You can thank me later.

Strange Apologies, Stranger Wildlife—Spring Potpourri

It’s time for a Spring Potpourri post. This one features news reports of strange apologies and even stranger wildlife items. Some are over a year old, but they were buried deep down in the news media, so you might not have seen them. There are not many headliners here, and for good reason.

My favorite is a quote from a February 2013 issue of Ad Age, which provides a fine example of hyperbolic understatement. “We would like to take this opportunity to apologize to our customers for any inconvenience caused.” This from U.K. company Findus after 100% of the meat in its “beef” lasagna was found to be horse meat. Inconvenience? Ya think?

Tyson Foods also had some problems with the contents of its meat products. In April of this year, 75,000 pounds of its chicken nuggets were recalled because of possible plastic contamination. I guess the recall was more cost effective than changing the ingredient labeling on the packages.

More embarrassing, but not a danger to your health: last Fall the Vatican apologized for misspelling a name on a commemorative medal honoring Pope Francis I. “Big whoop!” you’re thinking. But what if I told you the name with the typo was Jesus. Apparently it showed up as “Lesus.” Maybe the engraver was dyslexic. Or should I say: dysjexic?

This next one is not exactly an apology, but more of an explanation. Or perhaps an explanation that warrants an apology. Again in April of this year, Taco Bell president, Brian Niccol, was asked when their breakfast menu would be available in Canada. His answer, sans apology: “When you take Justin Bieber back.” It almost makes me want to find out what’s on that breakfast menu.

Moving on to stranger wildlife (stranger than Justin Bieber, anyway). These were reported in an April 2014 issue of Time magazine in a “Roundup” of unusual diplomatic gifts. First: a wine cooler shaped like a giant grasshopper (from French President George Pompidou to Queen Elizabeth in 1972). Second: a $51,000 crocodile-insurance policy (taken out in 2011 on President Obama by an official in Australia’s Northern Territory). No explanation on how they came up with the $51,000 coverage line.

Here’s a poignant one. The Ugly Animal Preservation Society (yes, there is such a group) in 2013 named the Blobfish the world’s ugliest animal. The competition was dedicated to "raising the profile of some of Mother Nature's more aesthetically challenged children." Said the Blobfish upon learning of its dubious honor: “Yeah? Well, sticks and stones, and all that.” It was an idle taunt, as it turns out. The Blobfish has no bones to break. It’s just a, well—blob. Like a heap of Jello that fell out of its mold before it set. The only thing it has to break is a tender, bruised heart.

Finally, here’s an item from the current issue of Time. A U.K. study found that one in five people would have sex with a robot. I haven’t decide whether the “strange wildlife” in this one is the homo sapiens who would consider this, or the humanoid robot willing to be its partner. Either way, there’s definitely something strange afoot there.

That’s it for this year’s Spring Potpourri. I’ll keep collecting this stuff if you’ll keep reading it. Who am I kidding? I’ll keep collecting it even if you don’t keep reading it.

Aging’s Real “Tell”

My girlhood friends and I looked forward to the summer carnivals in a nearby town, especially the man who guessed your age. Like many girls in their teens, we wanted to appear older. The man always pegged us to within a year (the agreed upon window for him to be correct). I couldn’t understand how he got it right. Looking back, I suppose it was easy. A group of giggling girls had to be about the same age. He probably scanned our faces, threw out the high and low estimates and went with the average.

Now at the opposite end of the age scale, I prefer to be gauged younger than I am. The older I get, the less often that happens. At first, I blamed this on my graying hair, so I started dying the roots. That helped for a few years, but gradually, the knowing looks and the polite “ma’ams” started again.

At that point, I assumed it was those stubborn age spots on my face and the backs of my hands. I tried using Porcelana cream for awhile. (I got test formulations for free while I was on a consulting project for the company that marketed it.) After a few months with minimal fading, I lost interest (and patience) and used some makeup concealer instead.

As I applied the cream to my hands, I realized that my knuckles were getting that craggy look that comes with the advent of arthritis. A sure sign of aging. I remember someone telling me that the hands were one of the ways the carnival age-guessers pegged the older women.

Then there was the pooch under my neck. As I aged, I gained weight. With the weight came more of a pooch. A pooch in and of itself doesn’t make you look old. What’s left behind when you lose that weight does. Now that I’ve shed 35 pounds since last year’s shock-inducing physical, my neck pooch has turned into an out-and-out wattle. Wattles make you look old. They need to be covered with things like turtlenecks and scarves. Or necklaces with fat beads. Or multiple strands. Or multiple strands of fat beads.

As I took inventory of these signs of aging over the years, I thought I had accounted for everything that would give away my age. I didn’t have a plan for hiding all of those “tells,” but I could do a passable job of camouflaging most of them. I thought I had my appearance under control. Until a few weekends ago.

Sunday mornings are the time we lollygag around the bedroom for awhile before we head down to watch the political talk shows. For those who are snickering, “lollygag” is not a code word for sex. I’m using it as the around-the-house equivalent of puttering in the garage or workshop.

One recent Sunday, my lollygagging led me to clip my toenails. That’s when the real “tell” about old age hit me. I always had cute feet; small feet; delicate feet. The beginnings of a bunion, perhaps, but not that prominent. My arches were pronounced from years of wearing high heels in Manhattan on my walk from the Port Authority to Park and 50^th and back every day. But that just made them look cuter.

I need to take a step backward for a moment and tell you about what happened to my mother as she got older. She visited a podiatrist every few months to have her toenails clipped. I thought it was because she wasn’t limber enough to clip them herself. To that end, I do stretching exercises every morning, making sure my toes stay well within reach. But without my reading glasses, they’re just a blur down there.

When I put on my glasses that Sunday the better to clip my nails, I was stunned by what I saw. My feet are not cute anymore. I now have old feet and ugly-ass toenails. I recognized them almost immediately. They’re my mother’s toenails, the ones that forced her to prevail upon a podiatrist for pedicures. Perhaps the reason she made those trips wasn’t because she couldn’t reach her toes. Perhaps it was because she couldn’t bear to look at her nails close up.

There it is. The hard, bitter truth. The real “tell” of aging isn’t gray hair. It isn’t age spots. It’s not wrinkled knuckles or a neck wattle. It’s those ugly-ass toenails and I have them.

Taking a holiday from blogging this weekend.
Celebrating a belated milestone HS reunion in NJ.
Jagdish and Luke will be holding down the fort.