Spousal Uses

My “Spousal Excuses” post elicited some interesting responses, not the least of which was one from my husband. Jagdish asked me to make a list of the things I’d like him to do around the house. I’ll gladly comply, and I already told him the first item on that list: Take care of the chores on it without my having to keep reminding him.

I guess he realized that my frustration has been growing geometrically since we moved into our condo. Maybe he asked for a “honey do” list so that the “ex” in the title of my previous post wouldn’t migrate over one word from “excuses” to become “ex-spousal.” To put him at ease, I decided to delete the “ex” altogether and focus this post on “Spousal Uses.” Which brings me back to the list.

A few of the tasks were no-brainers (put out the trash, wash the dishes when I’ve prepared the meal). But this provided a good opportunity to consider what else I could use help with. I immediately put him in charge of adding salt to the water softener and changing the furnace filter. These are both on about a 3-month schedule. They’re tedious work, but not physically demanding, since I’ll carry the bags of salt to the basement. (He has too many stents around his heart to lift anything that heavy.)

The prospect of actually getting help around the house was liberating. A few hours later I came up with another item with which Jagdish could be useful. First, some backstory. I don’t put on make-up every day, only when I have a meeting. Most of what I use goes around my eyes. When I’m done, I put on my glasses to look for smudges and errant strokes that need to be removed.

On this particular day, those glasses also magnified the stubble on my lower legs. Since I planned to wear a knee-length dress, I needed to shave. I’d already showered, so I decided to use the sink for the shaving. As I hiked one leg up, I almost lost my balance. (Yet another complication of shrinking 1 ½ inches in two years.) It dawned on me that here was one more use for my spouse.

I called to Jagdish that I needed his help. I had him stand behind me, steadying my hips so I didn’t fall over. “See?” I said, when I was done. “There are all sorts of things you can help with around here!”

My husband has been wedded to his computer since we left Providence. He’s become an expert buyer for his store. He reminds me of my friend Sheryl, whom we lost seven years ago. Sheryl knew where to get anything at the best price and on the best terms. She found things the old fashioned way—by phone and through networking and as she was driving around on errands. Jagdish uses modern technology. I should tap into his Internet browsing skills for our house. Note to self: Start a “to buy” list for Jagdish.

He also has a fancy (and smart) iPhone. There must be some things he can use it for that will be helpful to me, since I still have a dumb, flip phone. Perhaps there’s a lullaby app to play music that will mask his snoring. To be fair, he’s been snoring a lot less lately. Maybe it’s all that fresh air coming up from the river and drifting across the golf course.

Here’s something you probably never thought of. It came to me when I heard a comment on The View. (Yes, I’m watching that show more often now that Joy Behar is back as a co-host.) The women were discussing Spanx. Apparently some of them wear multiple layers of this popular shapewear. One of them said that Spanx cause a problem, because the fat they push in on one area of your body has to pop out somewhere else. I gave this a mental head nod. OK. I actually nodded my head vigorously.

The solution came to me in a flash. I don’t wear my Spanx very often, but the next time I do, I’m going to make sure Jagdish is handy. I’ll have him push the fat back in wherever it pops out. Of course, with the condition my body is in right now, this will be a bit like playing whack-a-mole, but a girl’s gotta try. If Jagdish can accomplish that task, he’ll never have to worry about any floating “ex” in my blog titles. I might even take over filling the water softener again.

The Modern Septuagenarian à la Gilbert & Sullivan

I am the very model of a modern septua’narian.

For seven decades now my body’s worked hard on preparian.

I take my daily vitamins from A thru E and minerals,

Including one with label gray for senior ills quite general.

I’m very well acquainted, too, with how to exit with great speed

From any public building if I’m bored or sick or feel the need.

I know the names of tradesmen for each job requiring special skill,

But getting them to show up takes persistence and an iron will.

I’m teeming with such trivia as Medicare requirements,

And all the hidden benefits that come with ones retirement.

In short, in matters newsworthy, including those contrarian,

I am the very model of a modern septua’narian.

I do Sudoku daily but my solving time’s not up to snuff,

And climbing stairs without a rest is noticeably getting tough.

But I can separate junk mail from missives with priority:

My name is not Eli-an-e, despite how bought lists write to me.

My doctors have a record of how much I shrink from year to year,

But I’m not fazed; I simply keep stepstools and grabbers ever near.

I try to get some exercise and count my calories each day,

And once a week get on the scale to monitor how much I weigh.

I do my morning stretches so my toes remain quite reachable;

My lessons on the saxophone are proof that I’m still teachable.

I check in with my Facebook friends to see whose kids are marryin’.

Let’s not forget I’m modeling a modern septua’narian.

My shoes are flat or chunky-heeled—my hinky balance is to blame;

A paragon of fitness is a moniker I cannot claim.

I pluck my chin to keep it smooth and dye my roots to hide the gray;

My hair is “older lady” short since other styles just fly away.

I volunteer my time and talent since I’m pretty short on treasure;

The projects that I sign up for are ones I can do at my leisure.

My singing and my cooking skills are—simply put—inglorious;

My sense of humor and my wit, however, are notorious.

You’ll say a septua’narian has never blogged so cleverly,

With knowledge of pop culture that’s surprising at age seventy.

In short, when chronicling those burdens that we all are carryin’,

I am the very model of a modern septua’narian.

Spousal Excuses

My husband, Jagdish, and I have been retired (or at least working together) in our condo in Connecticut for a year now. We’re in close proximity much of the time, which is a big change from our life in Providence. This new arrangement has led me to raise my expectations of what he can and should be helping with around the house. Silly me. One thing I’ve noticed is that Jagdish has a fairly standard list of excuses for why things haven’t been done. 

His absolute favorite is: “I forgot.” He doesn’t present this reason as an apology; he uses “I’m sorry” all the time for that. “I forgot” is a simple statement of fact to him. It needs no further explanation, no embellishment. Apparently he feels this absolves him of any responsibility to perform the task now that he’s been reminded of it. He also sees no reason to work on his ability to remember. The next time he tells me he forgot the same item, he says it with an equal lack of regret or expectation of change in his future performance.

Another excuse he favors is: “I didn’t see it.” He uses this one when I’m particularly peeved that his chore has been ignored or that trash has been left wherever it landed. The reason? He usually follows with a joke about his nose having blocked his view. (He has a large proboscis, a family trait, and one of which he’s quite proud.) He knows that his nose (a charming homophone) will soften my pique and lead to an affectionate hug. And yet again, he leaves me to pick up the scraps or to do whatever he was supposed to do.

Every now and then, to break up the monotony, he’ll say: “I thought I already did it” or “I thought I took care of it.” We both know he’s not laboring under that misapprehension at all. We also both know he has no intention of taking care of it, even now that he’s been reminded that it’s still awaiting his attention. So I heave a sigh and move on.

One variation in his repertoire is what I call his “delaying tactics.” “I had something in my hands; I’ll do it in a minute.” Who knows if he really had something in his hands. But what I do know for certain is that “in a minute” means some indeterminately later time. And “later” means “never.”

His rarest retort is: “Was that my job?” or “I thought you took care of that.” When I hear this one, he’s in a bad mood, or he’s tired, or he’s finally decided that I’ve asked him to do the same thing one time too many. If I’m feeling cranky and snarky, I might reply: “And the reason you think that is… ?” This doesn’t bring any resolution to the impasse. Likewise, it doesn’t get the chore at hand completed by him. It might even lead to his go-to lecture of choice about why harping on negatives can never bring positive results.

Sadly, it seems that nothing I do or say brings favorable outcomes. I admit it. I’m an enabler. I never learn. I just keep on picking up the slack (and the rubbish) and wondering why I have this low level of annoyance simmering below the surface much of the time. My niece, Pam, a practicing psychotherapist, will likely read this and be tempted to email me articles on behavior modification. Since she knows Jagdish, she’ll probably reconsider and send me chocolate instead.

Let’s face it. My husband has me well trained. If only I could train him equally well. I could ask Pam for a refresher lesson on Pavlov and his dogs. Knowing Jagdish, I’d just wind up with a pooch to clean up after, too. Still, a girl can dream, can’t she? But first she has to take care of all her husband’s household chores.

Sax Appeal — It’s A Social Thing

My last post on the complexities of scheduling ones activities in retirement elicited an interesting comment from one of my readers. He pitied a poor soul who didn’t understand that retirement is about relaxation and being able to do nothing. There was also something about people thinking that always being busy somehow raises ones self worth. My immediate reaction was: “Oh, good. Fodder for my next blog.” So, here goes.

First off, kudos to my reader for recognizing that there is value in quiet and in doing nothing. Those who have been to Jagdish’s and my condo in Connecticut know that peace and quiet are a big part of the appeal of this community and our home’s location in particular. We’re on the last circle at the end of a long drive with similar units. Our three-season porch and deck overlook a fairway, which is bounded by woods that run along the Connecticut River.

The peacefulness and the view clinched the sale when I saw the place in June 2014.  Jagdish was in India when I signed the contract, but I think he loves it even more than I do. The move and the unpacking took months, but once that was behind me (and I published my third Retirement Sparks book), I did a lot of nothing for quite some time. The indentation in the couch in our family room is proof of this.

After awhile, that wore thin. A life of just peace and quiet has its limitations. Many reputable studies substantiate the value of socializing in maintaining mental and physical health in retirement. Retirees are encouraged to keep active, find a hobby and collect a circle of friends. Or frenemies. Whichever is easier.

Which brings me back to my saxophone lessons. For those who haven’t read my other posts on this topic, a shortened version of the backstory is this. One of my college friends, Lynn, took up clarinet, then sax, later in life. She plays in several bands in her community in Canada and music has become her passion. That got me thinking about taking up sax again. I played alto in my high school band and really enjoyed it.

Fast forward to finding a place to rent a horn and take lessons locally. Done and done. I’m reasonably pleased with my progress, but I need to find more time to practice so that I’m once again good enough to join a group. This is the core of what Sax Appeal is all about. Lynn is nodding her head in vigorous agreement. Playing in a band is a social experience. I remember this fondly from my high school years.

Those who have never been part of a musical assemblage cannot fathom this siren call. My band mates were among my best friends in high school and I’m still in touch with several of them. The prospect of finding similar camaraderie late in life is enticing. I guess I’m still a band geek at heart. Note that I did not say “band nerd.” That’s because I’m also a computer nerd at heart. There is a distinction, but don’t expect me to explain it here.

If the responses to my blog posts on this journey are any indication, a number of you have come to similar conclusions. I’ve lost count of the messages about taking up instruments later in life or re-learning ones from your youth. At my sax lesson this week, I met a man who appeared to be in his late fifties or early sixties. He started taking vocal lessons a year and a half ago and now sings in a church choir. He said he’s not much into the church part of it, but he wanted to sing with a group.

So yes, I could sit on my porch or deck, looking at the view, doing nothing. And I’ll certainly do some of that, especially this fall when the trees turn colors. But I’ll also continue to obsess about scheduling enough time to practice my sax so that I can become a contributing member of a local band. If that means that I feel like I’ve “raised my self worth” because of it, so be it. Lord knows, I’m self-deprecating enough in my writing. I suppose my ego can handle a little massaging.

In fact, just to be sure that I keep so busy that my schedule remains sufficiently complicated, I ordered three books of saxophone music and a sewing machine on-line today. On that note…