Cut Yourself Some Slack

 

As I’ve gotten older, I’ve come to appreciate afternoon naps. These often include one or two cats snoozing on top of me, making me reluctant to get up. I keep my phone nearby so I can take calls without disturbing the cats. On one of these calls recently, I felt guilty admitting that I was stretched out on the couch instead of doing something productive. My friend assured me there was no reason to feel that way. I said, “You know, you’re right. And that gives me an idea for a blog post.”

 

In case you’re not aware, I have stage 4 lung cancer and have been in a clinical study for over a year. I take two pills daily and get infusion treatments every three weeks. For the most part, I’m doing just fine, but I get tired and short of breath quite easily. Those afternoon naps are a welcome part of my day. I’ve decided to cut myself some slack and give myself permission to enjoy them.

 

My couch time has cut into several hobbies and projects that I could have been working on. I used to feel guilty that I wasn’t practicing my saxophone for the community band that I’m in. Despite my lung cancer, I can still play. Because of COVID fears, I haven’t been attending practices anyway, so procrastination comes easily for that to-do.

 

I have several writing projects that have been on the back burner for years. Mostly I do my writing on my desktop computer, which is upstairs in my loft area. I can easily talk myself out of climbing those steps. I’ve stopped beating myself over the head on that one, too. If I weren’t so lazy about taking walks, my energy level would no doubt improve and my weight would likely go down. Avoiding a walk used to be a major guilt trip. Not anymore, although the nicer weather is motivating me to go out more.

 

Then there’s the storage bins of yarn for making baby booties for new grandparents among my neighbors and acquaintances. I prefer to have a few pairs ready for when I learn about a new arrival. I crochet them in funky colors, but they’re still oriented to boy or girl babies, which means having several pairs on hand. My stockpile is almost out, especially for boys. Fortunately, there are no deliveries pending as far as I know. Other delayed distaff projects include piles of mending, both mine and my husband’s.

 

It dawned on me that over time our interests and our priorities can change. So I don’t feel guilty about ignoring any of these anymore. Instead, I'm often stretched out on the family room couch with two cats on top of me and Hallmark channel on TV (often a mystery, but sometimes a RomCom). And probably something I've already seen. Which is a good thing, because I often wind up napping through the ending.

 

Simply put, I’ve decided to cut myself some slack. I realize that at my age and with my health issues, I’m entitled to whatever down time I decide I need. Or want. It can be therapeutic, but it doesn’t have to be. I encourage all of you to try this.

 

You may be thinking: “Oh, I’m not that old.” Or: “I’m not sick.” You don’t need to be old or sick to benefit from doing what will make you happy rather than what you feel obligated to do. I was emailing with a friend recently while stretched out on our new couch. She’s much younger than I am. She and her sister had been at a movie where no one else was masked and a lot of folks were coughing. The two of them decided the environment was too risky, so they just walked out and went shopping instead.

 

I see this as another example of cutting yourself some slack, doing what you want to in the moment, rather than being concerned with what you "should" be doing, whatever the reason. Not worrying about what others might think about you, living in a “no judgment” zone is liberating. It doesn’t take much practice, but a comfortable couch is helpful to the process. And you don’t even need cats lying on top of you to enjoy it.

 

Copyright 2022 Business Theatre Unlimited

Flaneuring During the Pandemic

 Most of us seniors have had to change our lifestyles during the pandemic. We’re spending more time at home and less time (if any) socializing with friends. We seldom go out other than to the supermarket or drug store. When (if) we do, it is usually for a walk somewhere that will not have us encountering other people. It turns out there’s a name for a particular way of walking around: flaneuring.

 

I found this helpful definition from an Amazon post for the book, The Art of Flaneuring: How to Wander with Intention and Discover a Better Life: “Originally used to describe well-to-do French men who would stroll city streets in the nineteenth century, flaneur has evolved to generally mean someone who wanders with intention.”

 

One of my friends from college read the book. He has embraced flaneuring with his wife and grandkids during the shutdown. They do nature walks and report on plants, unusual trees and rocks and occasional forest denizens. His post titled: Flaneuring—Part Three includes photos of a snake he and his grandson untangled from some netting. The boy put the critter in a pond and it swam off. No report on whether the reptile had been flaneuring when it got caught in the net.

 

I’ve taken to flaneuring closer to home. Specifically, I wander around with intention within our house and along the outer perimeter. Here are some of the things I find on these walks. First there are the tissues, paper towels and napkins that my husband drops as he moves about. I usually find several of these each day. He doesn’t walk with intention; he goes around in a fog most of the time. I pick up after him with intention.

 

Then I take a spin around the first floor, looking for errant jigsaw puzzle pieces that my cat Kallie has carried off. I usually find those shortly after she’s taken them, so I can match them to the puzzle I’m working on or a recently finished one. I take photos of each completed puzzle, so there’s a void where the piece belongs. Not long ago, I found one on the dining room rug for a puzzle underway. Nearby was a totally different piece. I still haven’t figured out what puzzle it came from. If the picture below looks familiar, let me know.

 

 

Less common, but equally important to keeping the place tidy, are the throw ups that my cats have left for me. Sometimes these are hairballs. Sometimes they are little piles of dried up kibble that escaped my notice for who knows how long. It’s amazing how well those can blend in with the patterns of our Oriental rugs. I’ve found that flaneuring in stocking feet is a good way to discover them.

 

Outside the house, I wander with the intention of finding the golf balls that have been shanked from the 13^th tee into the side or back of our condo. We’re located next to the fairway and get hit at least four dozen times a year. Often I hear them hit the house with a crack so loud I’m afraid they’ve taken out a window. So far this year, they’ve just come through a screen onto the porch floor, scaring the cats that had been lounging out there.

 

If I meander outside with adequate intention, I wend my way behind the bushes below the back of our place. We’re located on the side of a steep slope and the plantings are meant to hold the soil in place. The groundskeepers trim them back less and less each year. Right now, I can barely sidle behind them to recover the errant balls that are often back there.

 

My exterior flaneuring seldom turns up items as interesting as the snake that my college friend found. I did recently discover that a petunia had taken root in front of our garage. (See photo at beginning of this post.) I didn’t plant any petunias this year. I don’t know if this seeded from last year or blew there from a neighbor’s yard. Maybe a bird dropped a seed. Last week I noticed that the pot of geraniums on our back deck has a squash plant growing at its edge. Or maybe it’s a pumpkin. The blossoms die before I can identify them.

 

Small but interesting oddities in the midst of what could otherwise be a boring walk around the perimeter of our abode. We may be sequestered here during the pandemic, but I can still find some things worth noting as I wander with intention. The truth is it doesn’t take much to entertain me as long as it breaks the monotony. I’m not yet an expert flaneur, but I’m working on it.

 

Copyright 2020 Business Theatre Unlimited

The Power of the Rule of Three

A GMC ad for its line of SUVs mentions the rule of three, referring to the generally accepted opinion that three of something is inherently pleasing or has special power. Anyone who has used a stager to help prepare a house for sale will be familiar with this. Stagers always want to group setouts in threes. It’s a cardinal rule of real estate, right behind “location, location, location,” which, you’ll note, is always stated three times.

The power of three may have its origins in religion, or maybe the world’s religions picked up on an already-existing rule. Christians have the holy trinity—the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost. Hindus have Brahma, Vishnu and Shiva (the creator, the preserver and the destroyer). Even some Wiccans hold a tenet known as the Three-fold Law, meaning that the energy a person puts out into the world will be returned to him three times. That holds for negative energy as well as positive, so keep that in mind.

Whatever its source, there are many examples of the rule of three throughout history. Take the Nina, the Pinta and the Santa Maria for example.  The Santa Maria carried most of the crew. The Nina had the food provisions. The Pinta carried all the wine and was said to be the fastest of Columbus’s three ships. It was christened under the motto: vino por celeritas, which I think translates to “Quick! Pour the wine!” OK. I made all this up, but you have to admit it makes sense.

Staying on the subject of Italians, let’s not forget the custom with Sambuca Romana, the anise-flavored liqueur. It’s traditionally served with three coffee beans. Not two; not four; but rather three. That’s the recipe for health, happiness and prosperity. If someone serves it to you any other way, consider it an insult. Or else they’re stunad.

I attended a wedding years ago which was the third one for the groom. I was at a table with several other friends of his. After imbibing a fair amount of wine, one of them joked about the number of the groom’s marriages. Another pointed out the expression: “Never two without three,” meaning the third wedding was to be expected. To which yet another friend said: “That could go for divorces, too.” We all laughed, but some years later there was indeed a third divorce.

My own life bears witness to the rule of three. I’ve published three volumes of my Retirement Sparks blogs (RS, RS Again, RS Redux). Though I’ve occasionally considered putting out a fourth, it never felt like I had enough good material to justify that. Some folks might say I didn’t have enough to publish the first three either, but I prefer to ignore them. Besides, like the Pinta, that ship has sailed.

Another example of the rule of three in my life is my cats. I started with two. Along the way, a third cat—my first boy—adopted our family. Luke was the only one left when we moved to Connecticut. Though I didn’t plan to start another feline family after Luke died, I eventually adopted two senior girls whose original mothers couldn’t keep them when they moved to nursing homes. Eventually, a boy joined the family. I can’t explain how. It just happened. I chalk it up to the power of the rule of three.

Decades ago I drew a cartoon that relates to this. The captions read:

Why does everyone insist that two cats are enough for one family? If my parents had only had two children, I wouldn’t be here today! (I think I just answered my own question…)

My brother and I were born just 350 days apart. I was in my thirties before I got my mother to admit I wasn’t a planned baby. She quickly added: “But once we knew you were coming, we really wanted you.” I’m not so sure about that, though I do believe they eventually got used to having me around. But they didn’t have a choice. This matter was out of their control. The reason I’m here today is the power of the rule of three. Let that sink in for a minute. No matter what your parents told you, if you’re the third of three in your family, it wasn’t a choice. The power of three is stronger than all of us. Embrace it.

Copyright 2019 Business Theatre Unlimited

12 Days of Christmas—Cats’ Version

On the first day of Christmas, King Clayton gave to me

A photo of him under the tree.

On the second day of Christmas, Stella Periwinkle gave to me

Two stuffed toys and Clayton’s photo under the tree.

On the third day of Christmas, Kallie Jasmine gave to me

Three hairball blobs, Stella’s stuffed toys

And Clayton’s photo under the tree.

On the fourth day of Christmas, my family gave to me

Four purrs and snores (that was Jagdish), three hairball blobs,

More stuffed toys and Clayton’s photo under the tree.

On the fifth day of Christmas, my children gave to me

Five “tootsie rolls”,

Four purrs and snores, three hairballs (blech!), still more stuffed toys

And Clayton’s photo under the tree.

On the sixth day of Christmas, my children gave to me

Six sets of whiskers,

Five “tootsie rolls”,

Four purrs and snores, three hairy blobs,

A few more stuffed toys and Clayton’s photo under the tree.

On the seventh day of Christmas, my kiddies gave to me

A week’s worth of pee plops, six sets of whiskers,

Five fragrant rolls,

Four purrs and snores, three hairy blobs, still more stuffed toys

And Clayton’s photo under the tree.

On the eighth day of Christmas, my children gave to me

Eight paws for clawing, seven days of peeing, six whiskers tickling,

Five fragrant rolls,

Four purring snoring, three hairy blobs,

More and more stuffed toys and Clayton’s photo under the tree.

On the ninth day of Christmas, my kitty kats gave to me

Nine lives for living, eight paws clawing couches,

Seven days of peeing, six whiskers tickling,

Five ripening rolls,

Four purring snoring, three hairballs tossed, yes more trophy toys

And Clayton’s photo under the tree.

On the tenth day of Christmas, my children gave to me

A 10-pound bag of litter, nine lives they’re living,

Eight paws for shredding, seven days of peeing, six whiskers tickling,

Five smelly rolls,

Four purring snoring, three hairballs tossed, a few more stuffed toys

And Clayton’s photo under the tree.

On the eleventh day of Christmas, my family gave to me

Eleventh hour cleaning, ten pounds of litter, nine joyful lives,

Eight clawful paws, seven days of pee plops, six tickling whiskers,

Five stinky rolls,

Four purring snoring, three upchucked blobs, another hunting trophy

And Clayton’s photo under the tree.

On the twelfth day of Christmas my family gave to me

Twelve months of loving, eleventh hour cleaning,

Ten pounds of litter, nine precious lives, eight kneading paws,

Seven peeful days, six tickling whiskers,

Five mellow rolls,

Four purring snoring, three tossed up blobs, one more furry trophy

And Clayton’s photo under the tree.

Copyright 2018 Elaine M. Decker

Fall Potpourri—Reporting on the Sexes

When my husband was home recuperating from his second knee surgery, I was mostly housebound. I took the time to dig through the piles of magazines that are one of the sources for my blogs. Herewith a Fall potpourri. These are always fun to do, but this one has a special twist. I’ve collected several tidbits about men and others about women. They make for interesting comparisons.

Our first two snippets have to do with the effect of certain colors on each sex. Time carried an ad in November 2017 with the headline: “Famous Volcano Has Strange Effect on Women.” That immediately brought to mind the movie scene where the blonde bombshell is being sacrificed to King Kong, which turned out to be a step up from earlier movies, where she would have been thrown into a volcano.

The ad’s subhead quickly brought me back to reality. “Man and nature collaborate to create a glamorous green ring guaranteed to rock her world.” The stone is Helenite, formed from the Mount St. Helen eruption. The ad doesn’t explain exactly what the “strange effect” is, but they’re touting that “once you slide this gorgeous green beauty on your finger, it will take a force of nature to get you two apart!” We think they meant “her finger,” not your own finger. Then again, they are claiming it has a strange effect.

The other color story (in the same mag, same month) was titled: “Why America isn’t as pink as it used to be.” A 1979 study determined that a bright pink color (think Pepto-Bismol) weakened men when they looked at the sickly color. Some commanding officers at a U.S. Naval Correctional Center used the color in holding cells and it reduced violence in the prison. As might be expected, soon after there was a pink wave in prisons, public housing, and buses. Also in visiting football teams’ locker rooms, because, well… boys will be boys.

Going backward a few months to August 28, 2017, but staying with Time magazine, we were informed that more men are using condoms (33.7% vs. 29.5% over a decade long period). No explanation was given, unless you consider the very next tidbit under “This Just In.” American women are drinking more alcohol. Data collected across about the same decade showed that alcohol-use disorder went up almost 84% for women vs. 35% for men. We don’t exactly know how these two factoids are connected; we just know that they are. Ditto for this third piece of information from the same issue: baseball player Aaron Judge’s shoe size is 17. Again, we have no idea how this connects to condoms and women drinking more, but use your imagination. You know what they say about big feet.

In other random (and more recent) news, five women on an inflatable unicorn float were stranded in the weeds on a Minnesota lake. Seriously. A unicorn float? Talk about inflated expectations. And a Frenchwoman visiting her mother in British Columbia spent 14 days in a U.S. detention center. She had jogged across the U.S.-Canada border accidentally. Saying it was accidental was a given. No one crosses that border in that direction on purpose anymore.

And lest you think only women do stupid things: Time 8/27/18 reported that Paris now has outdoor urinals, because, as an activist at Femme Solidaires put it: “Men cannot control themselves… so all of society has to adapt.” And speaking of lack of control, there’s a $75 burger available at the Arizona Cardinals’ stadium. It weighs 7 pounds. Its toppings: 5 beef patties, an equal number of hot dogs and bratwursts, 20 cheese slices, 8 bacon slices, 8 chicken tenders and a pile of French fries. Lord, we hope it’s only men eating that.

Men should also not get smug over that jogger’s directional confusion. For the first time in 22 years, an Italian runner won the Venice marathon last Fall. The reason? A motorcycle guide led the frontrunners in the wrong direction for several hundred meters. No one asked for directions. They just followed along like lemmings. Men!

Our final two gems are not really surprising. We spend more on our mothers than we do on our fathers. According to several retail sources, in 2017 $23.6 billion was spent on Mother’s Day, with about 113 million cards sent, versus $15.5 billion spent on Father’s Day and 72 million cards sent. Either way, it’s billions and millions. That’s either a lot of love, or a lot of guilt.

Lastly, we found the dream job for every crazy cat lady: the caretaker for the 55 felines that live on the Greek island of Syros. It comes with great views of the Aegean Sea and an enormous pooper scooper. And no, yours truly did not apply for it.

Copyright 2018 Business Theatre Unlimited

Health Tidbits: Hearts, Brains, Stress and More

It’s been awhile since I’ve done a potpourri post, but I’ve been collecting health tidbits for months. I’m now sharing these for your enlightenment, in case you missed them.

In the general health category: drinking can reduce the risk of death. This was reported in the September 4, 2017 issue of Time magazine. The snippet cited the finding in the Journal of the American College of Cardiology. Light to moderate drinking correlated to a 20% reduced risk of death (vs. no drinking at all). “Light to moderate” was defined as 14 or fewer drinks per week for men and 7 or fewer for women. Looks like I need to uncork a bottle of vino more often. There goes that diet where I count calories…

About a month later another report in Time informed us that the American Heart Association found evidence that meditation lowers blood pressure or stress hormones. The net takeaway? Lowered risk factors for heart disease. I’m a big believer in meditation. But now I’m stressed because when I’ve had a glass or two of wine, I have difficulty focusing well enough to meditate. Choices, choices.

This same issue promised that just an hour or two of exercise each week could prevent depression. Based on my experience, so can a few glasses of Chianti Classico. The American Journal of Psychiatry studied 33,000 people for this report. Those who didn’t exercise were 44% more likely to develop depression during the 11-year follow-up phase. No guidance was provided on what constituted “exercise,” but I doubt that it was lifting a wine glass every evening.

This next tidbit from a double issue of Time in July 2017 came as no surprise to me: “Forgetting things can make you smarter.” I did a blog post on a related topic in July 2013—“Why We Forget More As We Age.” Time reported an item in Neuron that claimed forgetting the old stuff “clears out details that don’t matter,” making room for newer (and presumably more useful) info. My post provided a scientific basis for this. For starters: Similar to the way that a woman is born with a finite number of eggs in her ovaries, our brains have a finite capacity for the number of things we can remember.

My explanation continued. Once our hippocampus is full (usually as we approach retirement age), there’s no more room for new stuff. Depending on your sentiments and the type of brain you have, you either fail to store any new information, or the new information bumps out something older that’s already in there. I then launched into an explanation of the accounting methods LIFO (Last In, First Out) and FIFO (First In, First Out) and how to control your brain type. I won’t bore you with where this went. If you want to know, read the 2013 post: https://retirementsparks.blogspot.com/2013/07/why-we-forget-more-as-we-age.html.

I will, however, share this suggestion that I made: Scientific advancements enable a woman to use a donor egg to create a baby. We need to co-opt that science for gray matter in order to counteract the forgetfulness that comes with aging. We donate blood. We donate bone marrow. Is it too much to ask to be able to donate a few cells from one hippocampus to another?

Finally, the Healthy You column in the August-September 2017 AARP Magazine was titled: “When Your Brain Has A Mind of Its Own.” In it, Stanford neurobiologist Robert Sapolsky provided some insight into how our previous experiences can influence the way we interpret current life situations. He contends, “Our most impulsive actions aren’t always determined by the moments when they happen.”

He further explained why some people feel more stress than other folks. His most useful (but not earth shattering) observations: If you have no control over what’s going on, you’ll be stressed. Ditto if you don’t have any outlets for your frustration and you lack social support. I think Sapolsky is missing a significant causal factor for stress in our lives: the absence of a fine glass of wine when we really need one. He also missed one foolproof way to reduce stress.

Here’s my quartet of anti-stress advice: get a hobby, cultivate a few good friends, and stock up on fine wine or a nice IPA craft beer. Then grab one of the cats that you adopted form the local shelter for a relaxing, purr-filled nap.

Paraprosdokian Wit

A paraprosdokian is a figure of speech in which the latter part of a sentence is unexpected, causing the reader to reinterpret the first part. They are often humorous. Here are some great examples I’ve come across.

·      If I had a dollar for every girl that found me unattractive, they'd eventually find me attractive. (This one is going around the Internet; author unknown.)

·      From The Devil’s Horn (the history of the saxophone, which was blamed for all sorts of bawdy behavior):
A gentleman is someone who can play the saxophone, but doesn’t. (First use author unknown.)

·      Will Rogers: I’m not a member of any organized political party. I’m a Democrat.

·      From Time magazine 7/4/16, quoting painter Hans Hoffman on Lee Krasner’s painting:
This is so good, you would not know it was done by a woman.

I’ve been working on my own paraprosdokian collection. They’re not that easy to write. I’ve stretched the definition a bit. Here’s what I have thus far.

·      Why does everyone insist that two cats are enough for one family? If my parents had only had two children, I wouldn’t be here today! (I think I just answered my own question…)

·      People have called me an unabashed opportunist. I think they’re being unfair. But if it gets me what I want, it’s fine with me.

·      If I bought just the shoes that I absolutely could not live without when I worked in Manhattan, there would have been a lot of size 7 women walking around barefoot.

·      If I based what I spend on my cable TV service on the shows that I care about watching, I’d still be explaining my rabbit ears to everyone who comes to visit.

·      On days when I walk in the morning, I nap in the afternoon.
When I don’t walk, I snack all day.
I’ve stopped practicing my saxophone; I’m afraid it will lead to sex.

·      Seniors who socialize lead healthier lives. I tried to put together a dance group for single retirees, but then they all wound up in couples.

·      I’ve become so expert at dieting that I have complete wardrobes in three sizes.

·      They say: “Write what you know.” If I wrote only what I know for sure, I…

At A Loss for Words

I’ve been blogging weekly for almost six years now and I’ve had a monthly newspaper column for five. Lately I’ve been finding it more and more difficult to come up with ideas for my essays. Last night I had a strange thought (not unusual when I’ve had a late dinner of pizza). What if I’ve simply run out of words? What if we’re born with a limited supply, and once we’ve used them all up, “that’s all she wrote,” as the saying goes. I’m not talking about the size of ones vocabulary; I mean just plain words we’ve ever used.

This might not be as crazy as it seems at first blush. Women are born with a limited amount of eggs in their ovaries. Once they’ve all made their monthly trip down a fallopian tube, the cupboard is bare. There are some theories that we have only so many brain cells and that in time, they’re toast. This of course depends a lot on heredity, nutrition, exercise and (according to AARP) doing sudokus and crossword puzzles. And regularly reading Retirement Sparks.

What if my word quota is running out already? I’m only in my seventies; I expect to live into my nineties. Will I be unable to communicate by the time I’m eighty? Is it just my ability to draw on the written word that is faltering, or will my spoken words dry up eventually as well? (Some who know me personally are probably thinking: “If only…”) If I find myself searching for a word, maybe it won’t be that the pathway to where the word is stored is clogged. Maybe the word will simply be gone—used up.

If I start writing shorter blog posts, will that conserve words so I can keep writing longer? Maybe I’m just in dry spell and need to collect more ideas for posts. Once I begin writing, things usually flow quite nicely. It’s getting started that’s difficult. I used to come up with topics from the morning talk shows, but they’ve been uninspiring lately. I probably need to get out more.

It looks like it’s time for a two-pronged approach. I’m keeping today’s post close to 400 words (I usually write 600 – 800) and setting off in search of inspiration. Connecticut is no doubt brimming with things I can write about; I just need to find them. But now that I have two cats, I’m worried that once I'm out I’ll be tempted to spend more money on toys. The world can be so cruel.

Acronym Overload

My grandniece, Isabella, has an impressive vocabulary for a twelve-year-old. She and her mother, Pam, went to see the new super computer that her father, a Burlington, VT police detective, will be using in his investigations. Pam posted on Facebook that as they entered the police department, Isabella noticed a bin labeled OIC (which means Officer In Charge). She asked: “Daddy, why is there an inbox for Opioid Induced Constipation? Do police officers have a lot of trouble with that?”

After I picked myself up off the floor, it dawned on me that there’s been an explosion in the use of acronyms lately, especially in the field of medicine. They’ve been proliferating at such a rate that a lot of them have multiple meanings. As long as we’re going to have more than one usage, we might as well have one of those relate specifically to seniors.

Take for example the popular term NSAID. You probably know that as NonSteroidal Anti-Inflammatory Drug (like aspirin, ibuprofen and naproxen). For me, NSAID means No Sense Asking—I’m Dieting. I need to practice that reply when I’m offered second helpings. And desserts. And, sadly, a glass of wine.

Those who have heart issues will be familiar with ECASA (Enteric Coated Aspirin), one of the medications my husband carries in his travel kit. An equally useful translation at our age is Every Calorie Adds Some Adipose. That’s the fat around our bellies.

ICS (Inhaled Cortico Steroids) are a lifeline for anyone with asthma. In our house we call ICS Inhaled Cat Stuff. That can be anything from their hair to dander to litter than has hitched a ride between their toes and landed on our bed. For people with respiratory problems, our ICS makes the medical ICS a good item to have handy.

Women my age are frequently prone to bladder issues and the advertising community has a field day with the acronyms for what ails us. I’m willing to bet that OAB (OverActive Bladder) and LBL (Light Bladder Leakage) began life on a storyboard in some agency creative’s office. In the age of gluten intolerance, OAB must also stand for Oats And Beans, two fiber sources to substitute for wheat. For many women, LBL means Laughter Brings Leakage. So does sneezing.

My favorite bladder-related acronym is BBS (Bashful Bladder Syndrome), an apparently common anxiety disorder also known as paruresis. This seems to be the opposite of a leaky one. Folks with BBS just can’t go if anyone else is around. I feel bad for anyone who has trouble peeing when they feel the urge; (I can pretty much pee on cue). But I love the phrase so much I’m not going to make up a replacement definition. Wikipedia has a list of déclassé nicknames for this condition, so you don’t need one from me.

“Syndromes” is a word that pops up frequently in these disorders. In addition to Bashful Bladder Syndrome, You have IBS (Inflammatory Bowel Syndrome) and FMS (FibroMyalgia Syndrome). Or as, I prefer to define the latter two: Inhale, Breathe, Snort (how I clear my sinuses during allergy season) and the self-explanatory Feline Mothering Syndrome.

“Disease” also appears in many conditions that are familiar in senior circles. First we have CAD (Coronary Artery Disease), not to be confused with CSD (Cat Scratch Disease), whatever that is. I’ll leave CSD alone, but I’m changing CAD to Check And Double-check. Did we turn off the appliances before we left? Count cat noses? Close the garage door? Then there’s GERD (Gastro Esophageal Reflux Disease), or as I think of it: Gotta Exercise, but Rarely Do. That one was a no-brainer.

The final medical acronym on my list is EDS (Excessive Daytime Sleepiness). I was surprised when this turned up in my research. It’s such an appropriate phrase for seniors (well, for me anyway) that there’s no way I’m going to tinker with it. I get sleepy after lunch, during excessive heat (like the past few days) and when I’ve been reading or typing for more than twenty minutes.

That puts me at three for three right now. On that note, I think I’ll grab a cat and go take a nap.

Mother’s Day Perspectives

This week, I decided to post on Sunday to celebrate Mother’s Day. My perspective on this day has changed over time. Since I never had any human children, for much of my life the focus of my celebration of this holiday was my own mother. She died the weekend of my fiftieth birthday.

The following Mother’s Day was a sad one for me. It brought home the realization that I no longer had a mother in my life. It affected me almost as much as her actual death had eight months earlier. We have just one mother, and when she is gone there will not be another. My father had predeceased her by twelve years, so I felt somewhat like an orphan.

For most of the years between her death and this year, I had feline children. The celebration of Mother’s Day in our household shifted to me as the mom to our cats. I received cards (with little paw prints) and flowers. It helped ease the sense of loss from not having a mother of my own anymore.

A year ago January, we said goodbye to our fifth and possibly final cat, Luke. I decided to spend at least a year catless, mourning him as he deserved. I wasn’t sure I would want to start a new family at this point in my life. When May came, there was no reason at all to celebrate Mother’s Day. The void in my life was as painful as that first year after my own mother died.

I had never given much thought to being a mother to my cats. I loved and cared for them deeply. I fed them, changed their water and their litter boxes. In their later years, I often dispensed medications or other treatments. Despite the cards and the flowers, I had never framed that attention in my mind as “mothering.” It wasn’t until Luke was gone that I realized that the mother role can have many definitions. I spent over a year not being a mother to anyone, and still, as always now, being motherless.

As January slid into February this year, I began to think about making a home for some rescued cats. Ones whose aging owners had either died or had been forced to give them up. I knew I wouldn’t want to start over with kittens; I couldn’t bear the thought of leaving them without a home if they outlived me. I opted for senior felines who might have had a difficult time being placed.

We adopted ten-year-old Kallie in March. She’s a calico and tortoise combination, quiet and gentle. In fairly short time, she began sleeping with me, much as Luke had done once Pansy was no longer with us.

In April we added seven-year-old Stella. She’s what is called a torbie—a tiger and calico combination. She’s a talker and she’s as energetic as Kallie is calm. I’ve given them floral middle names, an echo of my other girls. They're learning to tolerate one another and I’m confidant they’ll soon become friends. 

They have once again allowed me to claim the mantle of motherhood. Jagdish asked what I wanted for Mother’s Day. I said just a card from them, and maybe a small bouquet of flowers from the supermarket. Yesterday, Fedex delivered two dozen red roses—a dozen from each of my new girls. Their greeting card (with cats on the front of course) thanked me for adopting them and giving them a good home.

As Mother’s Day 2016 comes to a close, I look back on my changing perspectives of what that day has meant to me over the years. Once again, I can look with a smile to what the years ahead will bring.

Kallie Jasmine and Stella Periwinkle, thanks for making me a mother again!

Love, Mom.

Hoarding vs. Collecting

A recent local news item reported on an elderly man who perished in a fire in his home. Firefighters had difficulty controlling the blaze because the man was a serious hoarder. The house was filled with papers and other combustible material. He also had a gunshot wound, but there was no follow up on how that might have been a factor in his demise.

As I listened to this story, I glanced around our family room and wondered: How do you know whether what you’re doing has jumped the shark from being just “collecting” to being “hoarding?” My husband has stacks of papers, catalogs, direct mail fliers, and books he has either been given or has purchased (sometimes from offers in those fliers). He would probably never throw any of this out if I didn’t nag him about it periodically. (Pun intended.)

I’ve always been a collector. I don’t think I’m a hoarder, but I’m not yet in my eighties. Is hoarding lurking in my future? One of my earliest blog posts dealt with my collecting habits. “I always felt that one of something was lonely and needed a friend. Once I made the pair, I was sunk. Because whenever I came across another related item, I was compelled to bring it home to introduce it to the others.”

I was forced to jettison some things when we downsized, but visitors to our condo who never saw our house in Providence would find that hard to believe. I’ve come up with various ways to display my collections that should dissuade anyone from calling them hoarding. For instance, I’ve arranged my antique evening bags (13) and gloves (11) in four shadow boxes. Scattered among them are old compacts (8), buttons (8) and circle pins (9), thus making these boxes objets d’art hanging on the living room wall.

I still fall victim to the urge to begin new collections. When I started playing the saxophone again, I decided to get some Christmas ornaments of figurines playing saxes. That evolved into cats playing them even though they weren’t suitable to hang on a tree. After the holiday, I expanded my search techniques and stumbled across clowns playing them, too. I also discovered that some sellers misspell the instrument as “saxaphone,” which doubled the number of searches I made.

Two months and many EBay surfing hours later, I have: 3 cats playing sax (Felix is earmarked as a Christmas gift for my instructor); a tiger, an alligator and a sheep all also playing the horn; a clown playing sax and one with a concertina (they were sold as a pair); and cats playing bass fiddle and drum—too cute to pass up, even though there was no sax player in the group. Besides, I’m now jamming in a small combo, so why shouldn’t I celebrate that?

I had to move my collection of miniature teacups and saucers from the display shelves to make room for the band menagerie. They’ll still require dusting in their new locations, so I plan to sell them on EBay. Since that money will wind up in my PayPal account, I’ll probably use it to buy more must-have finds for my musical menagerie. Note to self: look for animal piano player.

As I write this, it’s evident that there are some gray areas in my defense of my collecting addiction. And yes, I just used the word “addiction.” I admit that a collecting addiction is probably just a few glasses of wine away from a hoarding disorder. NBC had a feature this week on the “Sip and Click” phenomenon. It’s the habit people have of coming home after a late evening of drinking with friends, logging on to their computers and buying all sorts of things they don’t need and wouldn’t buy if sober.

I’m not in danger of that happening, but there’s one hoarding habit for which I’m probably at risk. That’s becoming a Crazy Cat Lady. We recently adopted a senior cat from a local rescue shelter. We had picked out a senior brother for her, but he has developed health issues that could be too serious for him to be adoptable. If he recovers, we’re definitely taking him, but it could be weeks before that’s resolved.

In meantime, our new girl is in need of some company (besides me). That could mean we’d be back to three cats at some point, which is where we were when we had Pansy, Lily and Luke. I look at the shelter’s website every day to see who else has shown up. “Oooh! That one’s so cute. But she’s too young. I want an older cat.” Lord help me if they ever get several seniors surrendered at once.