Disappearing Brands

One of the frustrations of aging is when brands we have favored for years—make that decades—suddenly disappear from store shelves.

It took a long time for me to admit that I should color my hair. Even then it was because I was in job search mode. I was blessed with my mother’s skin, so my gray roots were the “tell” of the years I ‘d shaved off my resumé.

Since my hair is short (and I was also blessed with my father’s Teutonic frugality), I would split a package of hair dye into two uses. I color my roots after each haircut, which is to say every five weeks, so a box lasts me ten weeks. Since I shop the sales, I used to buy two to four boxes at a time. Doing the math on averages, that put me in the hair color aisle about twice a year. I liked to keep a box in reserve, so I’d start looking a month or so before my stock ran out.

Last Summer I noticed that my brand, Clairol Natural Instincts, was frequently on sale, but the slot for my color, #28 Nutmeg, was always empty. Sadly, I didn’t recognize the warning signs of a disappearing brand. By the time my supply ran out completely, not only was Nutmeg missing, but in most stores, Natural Instincts was gone altogether.

Most of my women readers will understand immediately the cold frisson of panic that crept up my spine. What to do? I had chosen NI Nutmeg on the advice of my niece, Pam. “Start with semi-permanent dye until you see how you like it.” And then emphatically: “Don’t get anything with red in it! No auburn overtones. No red undertones. Just plain dark brown.”

Don’t those manufacturers realize the havoc they sow when they discontinue a popular color, much less an entire product line? Since my hair is a lot grayer now than when I started coloring it, I decided to try a permanent brand. That led me to Revlon’s ColorSilk. I wanted to punish Clairol for putting me through this, but I also wanted to stay as close to #28 Nutmeg as possible. ColorSilk offers #27 Deep Rich Brown (no mention of red), so I grabbed one.

That was just the beginning of my hair coloring adjustment process. When I opened the box at home, I discovered that ColorSilk bottles are opaque. Natural Instincts were semi-transparent. By keeping a spare empty on handy, I could easily split the color activator in half. Not so for ColorSilk.

This was getting too involved for my liking. I decided I’d mix the entire bottle this time and throw out whatever was unused. I could picture my father turning over in his grave because of the waste.

It seemed like a good idea to read the instructions for the new product to see what I might have to do differently. The first thing that caught my eye was how long the mix stays on the hair. Half an hour! That’s ten minutes longer than the semi-permanent dye. I can deal with that. There are a handful of things I can do without glasses (which would get hair dye on them). Actually, not a handful. More like one or two, but OK.

Further reading says after you pour the colorant into the activator bottle, be to be sure to shake until the two are well mixed. Hello! The bottle is opaque. How am I supposed to know when they’re well mixed? I counted two minutes, same as for the old product, and hoped for the best.

I kept reading the instructions to find out if any other surprises awaited me. Sure enough. After a half hour I’m supposed to run some water through my hair, gently work the product all the way down to the ends, then immediately wash the dye out.

I’m no expert, but wouldn’t it make more sense to work the product down before the half hour is up? What possible benefit can this work-through have if I’m going to rinse it right out? Turns out, not only is there no benefit, but there’s also added aggravation. Why? Because I’m supposed to keep the protective gloves on for this process.

Let me see if I have this straight. Put the product on my hair. Leave on the dye-stained gloves. Sit motionless for one half hour. Gently do a wet work-through with gloves on. Take gloves off and immediately rinse thoroughly.

I dutifully, if begrudgingly, followed all the steps, and guess whose hair came out with reddish overtones? I think you know who will be buying another brand in five weeks. I’ll probably give L’Oreal a try. Because “I’m worth it.”

AARP Alcoholics

Based on a quiz in a recent issue of AARP’s magazine, it seems I might be an alcoholic. This won’t come as a surprise to any readers who take my wine-drinking comments literally. But it certainly surprised me, since in truth I consume at most a bottle of wine every two weeks.

There were five questions on the quiz. If you answered ‘yes’ to any one of them it “could be a sign of an alcohol problem” according to AARP. Jeez Louise. I answered ‘yes’ to three of them. I’m a tad confused, because the same article claims that “moderate amounts” of my beloved wine can improve the health of my heart and brain. By now you’re no doubt wondering what exactly was on that quiz. I’ll tell you.

The first question was: Do you ever underestimate how much you drink? Hell yes, I do. I also underestimate how much I eat, how long it will take to get ready to go somewhere, how much I presently weigh and any number of other aspects of my life. About the only thing I don’t underestimate is how many minutes I’ve been exercising each morning.

The second question was: Do you often take a drink to relax, or calm your nerves? OK. So this one was borderline. I don’t drink to calm my nerves; they’re pretty steely most of the time. I do drink to relax, but I wouldn’t say I do that often. So I’ll give myself a pass on this one. After all, I only need one ‘yes’ to be an AARP alcoholic. I already have that and there are still three more questions to go.

Third question: Do you drink to take your mind off your problems? Duh. Doesn’t everyone? I drink to take my mind off everything. A nice, fuzzy buzz feels good. Besides, similar to my estimating skills, I also eat to take my mind off my problems. And I go shopping to do that. And sometimes I even write to take mind off things, which is counterintuitive, since I really need to focus on things when I’m writing.

Fourth one: Have you ever made rules to manage your drinking? This is the most ridiculous question of all. I make rules about everything. And lists. Just ask my husband. So, of course I’ve ever made rules to manage my drinking. That doesn’t mean I pay any attention to them. Regardless, this is another question in my ‘yes’ column.

The fifth and final question was: If you’re lonely, does drinking make you feel better? This one presents a faulty dilemma for me, because I can’t really say I ever feel lonely. Well, that’s not quite true. Living in a cat-free home after about forty years of having those furry joys in my life can get a bit lonely sometimes. I still cry when I think about them but drinking would only make it worse. So this question gets a resounding ‘no.’

That means I’ve scored an easy hat trick on the quiz, making me a triple AARP alcoholic. I was beginning to wonder what I should do about this. Then I noticed the heading of the column to the right of the “Are You Drinking Too Much?” quiz. It was “Mix A Mocktail” and it promised: “The wagon doesn’t have to be dull.” Exactly what goes into a ‘mocktail?’ you may be wondering? Keep reading.

You combine pitted cherries, fresh mint leaves, way too much sugar, lime juice and lots of cherry-flavored seltzer. That sounds like a recipe for becoming a sugar-holic to me. If it’s a choice between wine and refined sweets, I’ll go to with the vino every time. The only real decision for me would be: “Red or white?”

Liberated by the iPhone

The title of this blog will make sense in a few minutes, but first you need some backstory. Lately when my husband, Jagdish, and I are driving from Connecticut to Providence, we discuss recent happenings on the political front. We analyze which presidential candidate holds what views and what effect his or her policies will have.

On one of the trips we talked about the differences between the tax plans proposed by Bernie Sanders and Donald Trump. One cannot easily do this without touching on the 10% — 90% economic model.

Jagdish was searching for the word for the type of government where a small percentage of people have all the resources and the power over a large group of have-nots. I suggested that would be an oligarchy. He then came up with a plutocracy.

We wondered what the difference was between the two. I wasn’t certain, but I thought that plutocracy was a more generic term for the rule of many by a small group. I believed oligarchy was more specifically the rule by a small group who controlled the bulk of the resources (money and land) of a large group who had virtually nothing. It turns out I had it backwards.

The way we figured this out is how this post came about. Since I’m always the driver, Jagdish set about looking up the definitions of oligarchy and plutocracy on his iPhone. He quickly found the answer and clarified the two for me. A proverbial light bulb lit up above my head.

In years past, when my husband asked what a certain word meant, here is what happened. About 80 percent of the time, I was able to answer his question with certainty. Fifteen percent of the time, I had a general idea of the meaning, but was a tad fuzzy around the edges. Five percent of the time, I was extremely unclear or totally clueless.

I’ve always maintained that if you can’t explain what a word means to someone else, you don’t truly understand its meaning yourself. Twenty percent of the time, we had no clear definition in hand. Most who know my husband can probably see where this is going.

Jagdish would simply move on in his reading, feeling no less enlightened then when he first asked the question. I, on the other hand, would feel dumb as a post. Frustrated, more often than not I would get up, trek somewhere to find our Webster’s unabridged, and look up the exact meaning. If I were feeling particularly peevish, I wouldn’t tell him what I learned unless he pleaded to find out. Of course, that happened as often as when he went for the dictionary. Which was practically never.

Which brings me back to the iPhone epiphany. I’d estimate that 95 percent of the time, my husband finds exactly what he’s looking for. This means I’m frustrated just 5 percent of the time, not 20. Not only does Jagdish look things up on his own, he types notes about them into his phone. This is especially helpful to me when I’m driving.

Take this post, for instance. I asked him to key in a short version of our oligarchy/plutocracy conversation so I would remember to blog about it in the future. And voila! Here I am doing it. It turns out I have been liberated by my husband’s iPhone. There is a god after all.

Untrimming the Tree

Untrimming the Christmas tree has always been one of the highlights of the season for me. Many people find it a depressing task, coming as it does after the holiday festivities are over. They dread the day the tree starts going “Plink! Plink!” when anyone bumps into it. For me, that plinking heralds a quiet evening of cherished memories.

I used to have annual trimming parties, each with a different theme. The guests really did decorate my tree. I was kept busy refilling punch bowls and chafing dishes. The untrimming became my special time to renew acquaintances with old friends—both ornamental and human.

Over the years my ornaments have come from many places and many guests. Some locations, like Cape Cod, are where I vacationed regularly and found instant relaxation each time I returned. Others are locales I visited but once, perhaps on a business trip. The giving guests, similarly, ranged from trimming “regulars” whom I saw off-season, to friends with whom I’ve since lost touch.

As I take each ornament off the tree, I think of the person or place it came from. These memories trigger others, often having nothing to do with Christmas. Not all are happy ones, but all are treasured.

Three small glass balls that hung on my family’s tree when I was young remind me of the year Santa brought me Zippy the Chimp. Anyone who can sing “It’s Howdy Doody Time” will remember Zippy. So will my nephew, Barry, who is a generation removed from Howdy. As a toddler visiting his grandparents, he became attached to Zippy, long abandoned in my old bedroom. The chimp was relocated to Vermont and was well-loved (and well-worn) before his second owner, too, outgrew him.

A chartreuse clay cow is among the ornaments I’ve had the longest. One of my Jewish classmates brought it to my first tree trim, my senior year in college. It was twenty-five years after graduation before I saw Myra again at a reunion, but I’d been with her in thought every Christmas in between.

Two eggs decorated with dried flowers are from Scranton, Pennsylvania where I was on assignment for several months. In the mall, I bought a small, artificial Christmas tree and selected trimmings to send to my cousin, who was fighting in Viet Nam. I set the tree up temporarily in my motel room until I could figure out how to ship it. It was early November, and I wondered if the cleaning staff thought I didn’t expect to live until Christmas. I prayed that my cousin would. He did, but he’s gone now.

A naked, anatomically correct angel made from cookie dough was a gift from my ex-husband (after we had separated but remained friends). He found it in Greenwich Village and we both thought it was hilarious. I still smile when I look at it. Thanks to Facebook, I know that he now has grandchildren to share his Christmases.

A Norman Rockwell ball reminds me of my coworker, Jo-Ann, who moved to California with her husband. In the cards we used to exchange, she wrote she thought of me when she hung the dough ornaments I’d made for her. We recently reconnected through Facebook, too, and are exchanging holiday letters again.

My long-term (but no longer) significant other was my lighting, star-on-the-top and tree disposal specialist. On one of our vacation trips, we drove from Switzerland to Austria and passed up lunch to avoid having to change currency in Liechtenstein. Upon arriving in Austria we discovered we’d lost an hour due to an unexpected time-zone change. I had just enough time to score a few purchases before the stores closed. So, the wax ornaments from Innsbruck are mine only because of a skipped lunch.

A tiny clay wreath with a bright red bow was a gift from my niece, Pam. She made it herself when she was a child. She’s married now, with a daughter and tree of her own. I’ll probably return the wreath to her someday, but I’m not ready to part with it yet.

I have nine silver snowflakes that my father ordered from the Metropolitan Museum, one for every year from 1976 thru 1984. They ended the Christmas after he died of cancer. It’s still painful to touch those snowflakes every January, but it’s as though I’m still touching a small piece of him, too.

As I carefully wrap each ornament in tissue, I savor these recollections. The happy and the sad. The recent and those from the dim past. I think ahead to next trim, wondering what theme I’ll decide upon and what memories will be created. But mostly I look forward to the next year’s untrimming and renewing the memories I already treasure.

Banned Words and Phrases for 2016

January heralds the publication of annual lists of banned words and phrases. I began collecting candidates for this, my fifth compilation, early last year. Several of my selections usually show up on more widely circulated lists. Even though 2015 was like no other year, I’m sure there will be some consensus entries. Take for instance, my first one.

No matter what your political inclinations, you must be tired of hearing the word ‘Trumpism.’ I’m also tired of hearing the actual Trumpisms, but that’s a whole other issue. If The Donald is elected President in November, you can expect several Trumpisms to appear on my 2017 list. Until then, let’s just jettison the word itself.

We have The Donald to thank for my second banned term as well. Please spare me the verb ‘cherish,’ especially if you’re talking about women. This word has a noble history, but it’s become tarnished by the way it’s been used in the 2015 political season. If you’ve named one of your offspring ‘Cherish,’ feel free to continue to use it when referring to her. Unless her last name is Trump. Or your name is Donald. In which case, please refer to her as Cher.

Next is one I can’t believe I haven’t banned sooner: ‘whatever.’ I was so sure this would be a repeat that I read all my previous lists twice. Note that ‘whatever’ is off-limits only when the word stands alone as a dismissive comment on something someone else has said. If it’s part of an expression, you can continue to use it. Unless that phrase is “Whatever you say” or “Whatever you want.” Those would be a coward’s way of getting around my restriction and are likewise taboo.

A related phrase is: ‘It’s all good.’ I can’t recall what brought this to my attention, but as soon as I heard it, I knew it was joining my collection. Where ‘whatever’ implies you don’t give a fig about what was just said, ‘It’s all good’ tells us you have virtually no power of discrimination about the world around you. Whatever.

Here’s another that I’ve finally had enough of and had to check to be sure it wasn’t a repeat: ‘surreal.’ Just listen for a few minutes to some interviews with celebrities who are under age fifty and you’ll get why I’ve tossed this one. Like ‘cherish,’ ‘surreal’ has a noble history, especially in early 20^th century art, but it’s still ta-ta (not to be confused with dada). Though we can’t blame Trump for ruining this word, we can’t refer to his campaign as ‘surreal’ anymore. Not to worry. We still have ‘bizarre.’

My next entry has several meanings, and I’m banning all of them. I think of ‘hack’ first as a verb, as in the breaching of technology—credit cards stolen, identities compromised. Then I think of someone who is inept at his job (perhaps because he allowed a breach?) Apparently “hack” now has a common misuse as a noun, meaning a tip or short-cut for doing something more easily. Anyway you slice it, it’s a word we can live without.

We can thank Gwyneth Paltrow and Chris Martin for getting ‘conscious uncoupling’ kicked out this year, though they uncoupled last year, at least consciously. The phrase made my 2016 list because psychotherapists and marriage counselors around the globe have decided this is a great concept to peddle in their practices. It also begs the question: what is unconscious uncoupling?

The rock star of Roman Catholicism, Pope Francis, provided the banned phrase: ‘simplistic reductionism.’ Microsoft Word helps us convert this to “simpleminded over-simplification.” While I applaud the idea of reducing the complexities of life, the Pope’s expression concerns me. To be fair, His Holiness was cautioning against holding to extremes of good and evil, but folks have a way of, well… over-simplifying. To paraphrase Oscar Wilde: “Everything in moderation. Including reductionism.”

One of the Democratic debates put the next phrase on my list. A soldier’s mother tweeted: “My son is not a pair of  ‘boots on the ground’.” She pleaded for the candidates to stop saying that. Regardless of your politics, I hope you’ll agree to substitute “troops” in 2016. It would be better if there were no need to even consider employing troops, but that would drag us into the just-banned simplistic reductionism.

The Donald also inspired the final entry. I’m tired of hearing political pundits write that he ‘sucks the oxygen out of the room,’ but it’s certainly entertaining to watch him suck. I don’t know what we’ll do after the November election, but the lead up should provide plenty of colorful alternatives for my 2017 list. In the meantime, this completes my 2016 one.