Retirement Tools — Senior Spreadsheets

A recent Facebook exposé features a young man who keeps a spreadsheet on women he meets thru Match.com. He rates their appearance and other qualities, and comments on the dates. The guy told one of his matches about the sheet and—no doubt feigning serious interest—she asked to see it. He sent it to her and she posted it on Facebook. You can imagine how things went from there.

I understand the kerfuffle over his stupidity in sharing the document, but the fact that he has it makes perfect sense to me. I consider myself the queen of spreadsheets. There isn’t a job that can’t be made easier thru using one. At least half the aliases (shortcuts, to PCers) on my desktop are Excel files and they’re revisited almost daily. As part of my retirement planning, I created several spreadsheets to help smooth the way.

Some of you think I must be obsessive-compulsive to be waxing poetic about this tool. Or else that I’m getting nerdier in my retirement cocoon. Not so. That is to say, I may be getting nerdier, but that has nothing to do with my obsession. Spreadsheets are all around us, but most of us take them for granted.

Consider the spice cabinet that used to be on my kitchen wall. (My stager took it down when the house went on the market.) There’s a spreadsheet on its door. The column headings are meal categories and the rows are herbs and spices. Where they intersect shows what spice goes with a given meal. Under Fish-Game-Poultry, you’ll find that caraway works well in tuna casserole, whereas cinnamon goes with boiled fish. Neither of which do I fancy, but good to know if ever I have to gum my food.

Not convinced? Look at one of your vitamin bottles. Unless it’s a supplement sold only thru TV ads that air in the dead of night, it has a label with a three-column spreadsheet. The first is the vitamin name, the second is the amount per tablet and the third is the percent of daily requirement (RDA).

Spreadsheets are great for organizing large amounts of information into easy-to-read charts. But their real strength is in performing repetitive calculations. Some sheets come already populated with formulas and you just plug in the data.

I prefer to create my own, like my daily journal. It has categories for every expense and it keeps track of the average per month. This data in turn is fed into my retirement planning spreadsheet. It helps me figure out whether I can afford to buy more wine.

I also have a sheet that tells me a fair price for my house. I update that regularly, since the housing market still seems to be going down the toilet. It gives me prices per square foot and also as a percent of the assessed value. The trends are not encouraging. This spreadsheet generates the amount I’ll have available to put into a condo in Vermont. Naturally, that means I have a similar sheet on what condos are going for up there. None of this helps me sell the house, but it sure keeps me busy.

I’ve also been kept busy creating spreadsheets for seniors and retirees. A particularly useful one helps those who are colorblind or sartorially challenged put together outfits that won’t get them into trouble with the fashion police. Wondering if you should wear that checked jacket with those plaid pants? If there’s no “X” in the cell where the row and column intersect (and there won’t be), don’t do it!

Then there’s the game of Clue chart. If your memory is no longer up to Clue’s challenge, use this to keep track of what cards others are holding. The players’ names go down the left. The potential culprits, locations and weapons go across the top. When you figure out who has Colonel Mustard, put a check in that square by the player’s name. Eventually, you’ll have just one empty square for each clue. If you feel this is cheating, just think of it as leveling the memory playing field.

There are so many other uses for spreadsheets, like keeping track of how many calories are burned by each minute of each type of exercise you do. Not into exercise? I’m sure you’ll think of something worth charting, but be sure to keep yours to yourself.

I don’t know about you, but I wouldn’t want my wine consumption chart plastered on Facebook. What if I want to run for president of our condo association when we downsize? Which, if it finally happens, will raise the question: what should I do with all my spreadsheets? I haven’t got a clue, and I doubt Miss Scarlett does, either.

Retirement What Ifs — Lottery Dreams

All the mega-million-dollar payouts have put the lottery in the news lately. When the jackpot passes $300 million, Jagdish and I usually throw $5 or $10 at it. We have no expectations of winning, nor have we expended energy discussing, or even thinking about, what we’d do with the prize money. A recent quote that caught my ear has changed that. The winner interviewed hit one of my hot buttons when he said the first thing he’ll do is buy a Dyson.

I realized that I, too, would buy a Dyson. Until recently, I had three vacuums, but the bagged Hoover upright (Hoover1) finally fell apart after about thirty years. It was a shame, because if I held it just right, lifting the rear about 2 inches off the rug, and pulled it toward me instead of pushing it forward, it picked up the best of the three. R.I.P., my friend.

The canister that I rescued from my mother’s house (also a Hoover and decades old) is great for nooks and crannies, but the power head meant for rugs is long gone. Jagdish burned out Hoover2 in a protracted battle (with motor still running) over who would get the rug fringe. The rug won.

That leaves Hoover3, a bagless upright. I’m not as brand-loyal as it seems. It was on super-sale and light enough for me to lift easily. Turns out it doesn’t pick up as well as Hoover1 did and its hepa filter needs replacing about once a month. Not the bargain it looked like. I would definitely try a Dyson if I had bucks to spare.

One of the main things I’d do with my winnings is set up the Daisy and Tulip Foundation, named for my first two cats, and a longtime dream of mine. It will provide financial support for elderly folks who have difficulty keeping their pets as they age. That includes helping them pay for a place to live that allows pets. And of course, food and vet bill subsidies. I’ve added three more cats since Daisy and Tulip, so the foundation (especially its name) is a work in progress.

Herewith, my other lottery dreams. I’d buy all my groceries at Whole Foods. I love that store. I love just walking around in it, which is pretty much all I can afford, now that I’m retired. I love it so much that I wouldn’t even have my groceries delivered, except in winter. Which in Vermont probably means about six months of the year.

While I’m on the topic of food, I’d hire a personal chef, so Jagdish and I could eat healthy meals. We’d try out all sorts of special dietary changes that we’ve talked about, like going vegetarian. Not vegan—we’re not fanatics. But lots of beans and lentils and non-carnivorous sources of protein. We’d also try a gluten-free diet to see if that does all the good things my niece claims for it.  If, after all of this, I didn’t lose weight, I’d throw caution to the wind and hire a pastry chef and join an artisanal cheese club.

Of course, I’d spread some of my lottery winnings around to friends and family. How deep I’d go into those lists would depend on the size of my jackpot. And on who continues to admit they know me now that I’m retired and have entered my gypsy phase. (Bonuses to those who refer to me as “artsy.”) I suppose I’d have a means test, too, to decide who really needed my lucre. Or maybe a contest. A contest could be fun.

Assuming I’ve won big bucks (highly likely, since we play only when there’s large pots), I’d do all sorts of crazier things. I’d go to a spa and get my first-ever massage and facial. I’d have my elbows buffed. A friend has that done regularly and I’m in awe. I’d get the fat sucked out of my double chin and the goat hairs permanently removed. (TMI, I know. Sorry.)

I’d buy condos in a half dozen or so wonderful places where friends and family could visit (even if Jagdish and I were somewhere else). Piedmont or Tuscany. Provençe. Maybe somewhere out West. On a beautiful lake in central Switzerland. On an island—Kauai or Antigua or Barbados; I hear Costa Rica is beautiful and island-like. Submit your suggestions now. BTW, if you invite us to your dream condo before we win the lottery, you’ll be on the short list to come to ours after we win.

I could go on and on, but that would really be dreaming. Which is what winning the lottery is all about, isn’t it? Sweet dreams!

Retirement Warnings — Search Me!

By now almost everyone has heard about the Supreme Court decision upholding the right of correctional institutions to strip search those arrested for even minor infractions. The concern is that they might be hiding weapons in their nether regions, which could cause havoc once they’re mixed in with the general prison population. This type of search is uncomfortable to contemplate in the abstract, but when you hear some of the specifics, it’s downright frightening.

I’m glad my mother didn’t live to see this. It was bad enough having her lecture me on wearing clean underwear in case I got hit by a truck and had to be taken to the hospital. She would most certainly be telling me: “You never know when you might get arrested and strip searched.” Never know indeed.

It seems unlikely that the person out riding his bike “without an audible bell” was prepared for being arrested and strip searched. Likewise the guy driving around with a noisy muffler who was arrested and subjected to “the humiliation of a visual strip-search.” Thank you, dissenting Justice Stephen Breyer, for sharing the above from the briefs submitted to the Supreme Court. Not to be confused with the briefs submitted for inspection as part of a strip search.

The muffler on my sixty-seven Volkswagen Beetle gave out when I was driving the New Jersey Turnpike with a friend, headed to Colonial Williamsburg. It was my first car, so on we went, mortified by the Harley Davidson noise we made, but clueless re what to do. Mercifully, one couldn’t drive in the Colonial sections of town or we might have been tarred and feathered. At that carefree age, that might sound charming. For most of us, it would be something else altogether.

As part of his humiliating search, the plaintiff in the Supreme Court case had been told: “Spread your cheeks.” Without getting into TMI, I can tell you that if my cheeks were to spread anymore, it would not be pretty. We’re all perilously close to that humiliation, so choose your underwear accordingly.

Think you’re immune? Are you sure you’d never get stopped for driving without a license? Or violating the local leash law? You’d better hope so, because those are some other no-nos that have led to strip searches. Justice Anthony Kennedy, who voted with the majority, noted that “people detained for minor offenses can turn out to be the most devious and dangerous criminals.”

Let’s put that to the test. See if you recognize any of these "dangerous criminals" among your retired friends. Because if they’re arrested for their deviant activity, they’d better hope they have a spare pair of Depends handy.

Letty Lou was caught growing sunflowers that stood above the six-foot height limit for her retirement community in North Carolina. She was arrested for sowing the seeds of anarchy and her bloomers became the talk of the local police station.

On Long Island, Henry bent over to retrieve the morning newspaper from his front walk. The over-extended elastic in his twenty-year-old sweat pants gave way and his plumber’s butt flashed his neighbor. He was arrested for indecent exposure and had his plumbing inspected for hidden weapons. The fashion police are also looking into his case.

Need to hear more? Oliver was nabbed for driving into Boston in the HOV lane with a blow-up doll in the passenger seat. Not only was Ollie strip searched, but “Lola” was, too. Oh, the indignity! They take illegal use of the HOV lane very seriously in Beantown. Lola hasn’t been herself since.

The Philadelphia Ladies Investment Club descended on City Hall, demanding to hold their meetings at the American Legion Post. They were charged with civil disobedience for assembling without a permit. Every one was stripped naked as a jaybird and forced to expose her assets.  Shades of what happened to the nun who was arrested for “trespassing during an antiwar demonstration,” another case cited by Justice Breyer. You never know what those nuns have under their habits.

And in case you’re feeling safe because the bicycle you ride has an “audible bell,” consider what happened to Martha. She had a Texas-sized bell installed on the handlebars of her three-wheeler, and she rang it liberally as she pedaled through her Houston suburb. Turns out, her clanger was a tad too audible. She was arrested as a public nuisance and stripped of her bell and everything else she had on. Don’t mess with Texas.

Yes, my friends, the Supreme Court decision on strip searches will most certainly result in the long arm of the law eventually reaching out and touching us all—both figuratively and far too literally. The best advice I can give you is to stay current on your local statutes, be vigilant and always wear clean underwear.

Retirement Updates — Fairy Tales for Retirees

One of the latest trends in movies and TV shows is the fairy tale theme. Julia Roberts’ latest movie, Mirror Mirror, is a black comedy built around the tale of Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs. Roberts plays the evil queen. The movie comes on the heels of two new TV programs that similarly recast fairy tales.

The TV drama Grimm, inspired by the children’s tales of that name, pits the descendants from a line of criminal profilers, aka Grimms, against “the mythological creatures of the world.” In Once Upon A Time, the evil queen banishes her underlings to the parallel world of Storybrooke, Maine. Here Snow White and Prince Charming’s offspring try to break the curse as 21^st century bail bondsmen. Charming indeed.

I’ve uncovered the plot summaries for beloved fairy tales that are being reworked to appeal to retirees. You should recognize most, if not all of them, despite the age-appropriate twists.

Snow White and the Seven Grandchildren

In this story, a grandmother’s beautiful raven hair turns white overnight from the stress of caring for her seven grandchildren all at once. The kids are Happy, Bashful (grandma’s secret favorite), Sneezy (who has severe allergies), Sleepy, Dopey (hopefully just a late bloomer), Grumpy (oh, wait—that’s grandpa), and teenagers Texty and Duh. Much as she loves her seven dwarfs, er, grandchildren, she struggles to maintain her patience in this emotional retelling of a classic.

Jack and the Bean Salad

This cautionary tale features retiree, Jack, who loves to garden. He’s famous for his secret bean salad casserole that he brings to neighborhood pot luck suppers. Close inspection reveals that he includes snap peas and quinoa in his recipe, but that earns him points for creativity. All is well until a snoopy sorehead goes dumpster diving in Jack’s trash. There he uncovers empty bean cans with the familiar Green Giant label.

When confronted, Jack hikes up his SansABelts ‘til his tube socks are peeking out from his walking shoes and insists he’s being framed. Finally, he’s forced to admit that his beans are, indeed, store bought. The real “secret ingredient” in his bean salad? Good old Kentucky sour mash.

Goldilocks and the Three IRAs

In this beloved classic, soon-to-be-retiree Goldilocks dabbles in a variety of IRAs to see which will turn her small investment pot into a really big one at the end of her retirement rainbow. The trick is to find the one that’s “just right” for her.

The aggressive growth equity fund requires a starting infusion that’s too big for her meager assets. Next she tries a fixed income IRA, but the return it delivers is too small for her needs. Finally, she discovers an investment that’s “just right.” It’s a balanced fund—stocks and bonds—that welcomes investors of her size and delivers… well, balanced results. At last she can sleep peacefully.

Puss in Go Go Boots

For her entire life, Katherine “Kitty” La Fleur has had the same coif and just one job. Her hair is highly-teased platinum blonde and she works the counter at the local diner. Kitty also wears the same footwear, day in and day out. She is never without her white patent leather go go boots. It isn’t that she ignores fashion. She gave up over-sized hoop earrings for trendy new dangly feathers, after all. Something else keeps Kitty in her go go boots. It’s the song playing in her head. “Dance to the music…”

Little Red Riding Scooter

Romy always wanted a red convertible. Her life was such that each time she needed a new car, a convertible just wasn’t an option. When she retired, she decided to realize her dream. First she bought a beautiful red riding cloak. Then she bought a bright red Hoveround power scooter. Not just any Hoveround. Romy bought the Bolero 4-wheel heavy-duty with the deluxe, 360-degree swivel captain’s seat.

The Bolero also came with dual rear-view mirrors “for added safety.” Sadly Romy didn’t quite know how to use them. She had the Bolero for less than a week when she backed at full speed through a neighbor’s flower garden right into the woods. The neighbors followed the tire tracks, but when they finally reached the Bolero, Romy was nowhere in sight. All they found were claw marks and tufts of gray fur on the shredded leather seat. So sad.

I think you’ll agree that these fairy tales for retirees give us a whole new perspective on Golden Books. A boxed set of the scripts is planned for the holidays, but don’t expect to find it in the children’s section. Aren’t you glad you finally have some time to read?

Retirement Tools — Tattoos At Your Service

One thing I’ve noticed since I’ve retired—my hearing isn’t what it used to be. It’s probably just the normal decline that comes with age. But the fact that I don’t have as much need to pay attention may be a contributing factor. Either way, an announcement this week by Nokia, the Finnish phone people, caught my eye (if not my ear).

Nokia has patented the technology for a vibrating tattoo. The abstract describes an apparatus with “a material attachable to the skin, the material capable of detecting a magnetic field and transferring a perceivable stimulus to the skin…” It further states that “the material comprises at least one visible image, invisible image, invisible tattoo, visible tattoo…” yada, yada yada. In other words, maybe you see it; maybe you don’t. I won’t bore you with more excerpts from the 21 claims in the abstract.

The device is intended to let you know when your phone is ringing. Assumedly, the phone is on mute and is not in your butt pocket. The vibrations can be tailored so that different callers tickle you differently, and you can customize them much like you can ringtones. So, your spouse might generate an insistent, nagging vibration, while your grandchildren might make you laugh when you feel them calling.

The tattoo can be installed anywhere you want it. I believe you can have multiple designs stuck on you, set to vibrate differently for various incoming calls. You might want to position the tattoo for frequent callers someplace pleasurable. Likewise, calls you’d just as soon ignore could be slapped someplace where the sun doesn’t shine. Although, if you’re planning on ignoring those calls, meaning they’ll just keep vibrating, you might want to put that tattoo someplace that feels good.

While the intention is for the user to get an actual tattoo, the patent provides for less invasive applications of the ferromagnetic ink. I can see pros and cons for both methods of attachment. I wouldn’t have to worry about a tattoo falling off. On the other hand (perhaps quite literally), as my skin loses elasticity, a tattoo might not function exactly as intended. Have you ever seen the ink on a granny biker babe?

Based on my own experience, Nokia’s device has enormous potential. I’m often compelled to sleep with earplugs because of my husband’s snoring. They’re so effective that sometimes he has to shake me to wake me up. It would be great to be alerted that my phone is ringing even when I’m blissfully plugged.

Of course, I would then need to find the phone. The good news is that claim 14 in the abstract suggests that the tattoo could provide an “indication of a body part in proximity of the electronic device.” I assume that means that as I walk closer to where the phone is, my tat will vibrate more insistently, causing me to cry out: “I’m getting warm!” Or better yet: “I am so hot!”

I see all sorts of other uses that could excite retirees. How about letting us program our shopping list into a computer that’s synced to the tattoo. As we push our carts around the store, the tat could vibrate when we’re in front of something on our list. We could even set it to vibrate differently for things on sale. I’d certainly want to be alerted when Pepperidge Farm Milano Cookies were calling me. With my luck, it would direct me to avoid things my doctor would prefer I didn’t have in my cart.

Speaking of doctors, if Nokia ties this into a calendar application, they could jiggle us when we have a doctor’s appointment. Or a prescription ready for pick up. Or any meetings or events to attend. The possibilities for tattoo jiggling are mind boggling.

A vibrating tattoo could be as good as having a personal assistant! And you wouldn’t have to buy it flowers on what used to be called Secretary’s Day. (I just Googled this. It’s now called Administrative Professionals Day and it’s April 25 this year.)

Yes, dear readers. Nokia’s vibrating tattoo is something we should all look forward to having installed, whether inked, stamped or taped. With the right art, it could be a great conversation starter.

Or ender. “Sorry. Gotta run. My navel’s vibrating.” Oh, yeah.

Retirement Issues — The New Crazy

The psychiatrists’ bible for diagnosing mental illness is the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders (DSM), which came out in 1952. A revision is issued every twelve to twenty years. A new one is coming next year, and apparently it’s a doozy. Time claims: “It will literally redefine what is normal.”

As a service to my fellow retirees, I’ve looked into the behaviors that will now be considered abnormal. There may be 50 ways to leave your lover, but according to the new DSM, there are 350 ways to say you’re crazy. That means 350 diagnoses for which your psychiatrist can bill your insurance company.

The first thing to watch out for is an “irritable mood.” If you’re in one for more than a week and it can’t be explained by a medical condition or by drugs you’re taking, you could be diagnosed as manic or depressive. I don’t know about you, but I’ve reached a point in life where there’s not much that doesn’t irritate me. They should just stamp “subject to irritable moods” on my driver’s license.

A trip to the supermarket can leave me cranky for days. It might be the way they bagged the order. (How hard can it be to put the cans under the things that go squish?) Or maybe they forgot to ask for my coupons (and in a senior moment I forgot to present them). And it’s Katy bar the door if I didn’t get my senior discount! I’ll be called manic as sure as there’s little green apples.

Another condition to be careful of is “loss of interest.” Once again, duh! After 66 years as a type A personality, how long do they really think I can stay interested in anything that isn’t dipped in chocolate or poured from a wine bottle? According to the new DSM, if I don’t find something that tickles my fancy within a two-week period, I could be sucked into a “major depressive episode.”

Oh, lordy, I’m doomed. Binge eating (now a disorder) will be defined as “eating until feeling uncomfortably full.” My mother made us clean our plates at each meal. “Think of the starving children in China.” I always eat until I’m feeling uncomfortably full. How else are you supposed to know when to stop? It’s kind of like drinking wine until you have a pleasant buzz on.

I will spare you the details of Internet addiction, sex addiction and female orgasmic disorder. I’m doing this under the assumption that those problems are of more interest to a younger audience. Or at least that your psychiatrist will assume that they are, so you won’t need to address a diagnosis for any of them.

Many DSM diagnoses are psychoses or neuroses—disorders and episodes. Retirees are more prone to phobias. Actually, retirees tend to be more prone, period, which makes those sessions on the couch a lot easier. My research has uncovered both disorders and phobias for retirees that the new DSM missed.

Do you frequently not know if you’re coming or going? If this occurs more than twice a day or lasts more than ten minutes, you suffer from Bi-directional Disorder. Other signs you have this are not remembering if you were going up or down the stairs or in or out of a room. Likewise if you find yourself standing in front of the refrigerator or a cupboard, door in hand, wondering if you were opening it or closing it. 

A problem that eventually occurs in retirement is Ambivalent Disorder. Sure signs are when a former colleague who is still working describes some office crisis and you realize you simply don’t give a fig. Psychiatrists haven’t yet decided whether to treat this disorder or to celebrate it.

Moving on to retirees’ phobias. You’re likely familiar with two fears related to answering phones in the evening. Robophobia—or as I like to call it, RoboFobo—is the fear of getting one of those automatic sales calls in the middle of dinner. Even worse is Croakaphobia, which sadly becomes more common as we move through retirement. That’s the fear of getting the call that some family member or dear friend has passed away.

The constellation of movement phobias is prevalent in retirees. Klutzaphobia is the fear of bumping into things. Closely related is Stumblaphobia, the fear of tripping over something. When it becomes extreme, it morphs into Tumblaphobia, the fear of falling down.

These disorders and phobias are of major concern to retirees. If we lobby via AARP, we may still be able to get them included in the upcoming revised DRM. If we to have to wait another twelve years for Medicare coverage, we could need more than medication to deal with them. Maybe that’s not such a bad thing. Wine anyone?

Retirement Planning — Final Arrangements

My husband and I stumbled into a conversation about final arrangements at bedtime one recent night. “Are you awake?” he asked. This is a question I know should be answered with silence if I have any hope of falling asleep soon. One of the many things predictable about Jagdish is that bedtime is when he launches into his most convoluted discussions. Ones that compel me to try to unravel them, searching for some thin thread of logic, usually in vain.

On this particular night, I foolishly admitted to still being awake. He then informed me that the man who “takes care of” bodies donated to Brown University’s medical school stopped in his store that day. It seems he’s a fairly regular customer. Those who have met Jagdish will know that “regular customer” means someone who visits the “ashram” to ruminate, philosophize and discuss the most arcane topics.

Apparently they had a lengthy talk about how one donates one’s body. In my semi-stupor, I wasn’t clear on the impetus for their conversation. With Jagdish, one never knows how he gets from point A to point B in a discussion, never mind to points further down in the alphabet.

In any case, I was soon almost awake, trying to process the many details he was providing despite little encouragement from me. The first of these was that he wants his body donated to science. Another was that Brown won’t come get your body if you’re more than 45 miles away when you die. Also that the body has to be in Brown’s hands within a certain time of death.

We’re downsizing to Vermont, putting us out of range for a free pickup and quite likely beyond Brown’s “freshness window” as well. While Jagdish could donate his body to the University of Vermont medical school, Brown is his preferred recipient. Because he’s lived in Rhode Island since the early sixties, he considers it to be his home. This was clearly causing him some concern.

By now I was awake enough to sound as though I was thinking logically, but still groggy enough to be in one of my irreverently creative states. “Don’t worry, honey, “ said I. “If you croak in Vermont, I’ll prop you up and put you on a bus to Boston. They won’t know you’re gone until they arrive, so the death certificate will show that you’re within Brown’s zone and freshness requirements.” We both laughed. “You’ll be like Dustin Hoffman as “Ratso” Rizzo in Midnight Cowboy.”

Then I got worse. “I’ll get you a ticket on one of those Mega busses. That will save me lots of money.” The Megabus is what Jagdish takes to New York City on buying trips. The cost is about a fourth what the major lines charge. They’re available only between selected locations, but we’ve already determined that they travel from Burlington to Boston. Brown picks up stiffs in Boston, so that solves his problem.

I asked him what they’d do with his body when they’re done with it. He said he thought they would cremate it. I opined that there might not be much left to cremate, if they took him apart to study piece by piece. I told him about a recent exposé on the remains of some soldiers and 911 victims showing up in unthinkable places. “Maybe they’ll dump your leftover parts into a land fill. I can just picture one of your feet sticking out of a pile of rubbish…”

Jagdish was quite certain he would be cremated. I asked: “Will I have to take your ashes to India to scatter them in the Ganges?” He assured me I would not, so I considered this a real plus for Brown’s medical school. The next day I decided to do some research on exactly what is involved in donating one’s body to Brown. Turns out it’s not that simple.

In addition to the distance and time restrictions, the medical school can decline the donation if your remains “are deemed unsuitable for educational purposes.” That covers some pretty broad territory. Unless Jagdish and I really get on one another’s nerves after we relocate, we’re not likely to have evidence of “extensive trauma at the time of death,” so we should pass that hurdle.

On the other hand, “extreme obesity or malnutrition,” could be deal breakers. I’m bordering on the former and getting chubbier each year, not to mention the possibility of a liver marinated in fine wine. Jagdish’s recent blood work shows he’s anemic and just a few Mexican fast food meals away from being malnourished.

Oh yes, I can see it now. Brown turns away bodies of alumna and spouse. Neither was deemed “suitable.” Let’s hope Vermont’s medical school won’t be as picky.

Retirement Issues — Bounties on Retirees

Yet another scandal has been unmasked in the world of sports. Turns out the Super Bowl winning New Orleans Saints have a bounty system that rewards inflicting serious injuries on their opponents. This flies in the face of league management, which has been actively discouraging such behavior.

For those who haven’t caught the details of this latest exposé, here’s a summary. The Saints’ bounty system paid their defensive players $1,000 if they injured an opponent badly enough for him to be taken off the field. If that player had to leave the game altogether, the reward was $1,500. No word on whether an injury time out that benefited the Saints gained bonus money.

At its height, the pool, which was funded by the defensive players and at least one administrator, reached as much as $50,000. Supposedly, one high profile quarterback had a $10,000 price tag on his head were he to be conked out of the conference championship game. The Saints even have a name for these hits: “Remember Me” shots.

Some of you may have your mouths agape upon reading this, but here’s an even bigger newsflash. My crack investigative reporting has uncovered a far more sinister plot involving a bounty system on retirees. The funders are orthopedic surgeons, chiropractors, physical therapists and GPs that specialize in geriatrics.

Best as I can tell, they go after retirement communities that are known to have feuds percolating among the residents. Prime targets are developments where elections of board members are particularly contentious or where recently proposed changes to the condo regulations created internal factions. The bounties are generous enough to motivate someone on a fixed income to commit mayhem.

While the sports injuries of greatest concern are ones to the head and neck, the retiree injuries that gain special recognition are broken hips and sprained backs. The typical bounty for breaking your neighbor’s hip is reportedly $2,000, while a back sprain can earn you $1,500 in some parts of the country. Lesser injuries such as severe bruises and gashes requiring at least six stitches command bounties of $100 and up. Some funders offer volume bonuses on the business sent their way.

It’s rumored that car services are getting into the act with payments for any injury that will have the recipient unable to drive for at least three months. You can imagine who might join the program next. Grocery delivery companies. Cleaning services. Anyone willing to make house calls. A policeman from Burlington, Vermont said the trend is getting out of control up there. “In a word, it’s ugly,” he told me via phone interview.

South Burlington, which goes by the moniker Chittenden Condo Central, has seen dramatic increases in injury reports tied to bounty payments. Most retirees are familiar with the battle cries “Remember the Alamo” and “Remember the Maine.” Golf-club-wielding pensioners in search of bounty prey are running amok in the Vermont National Country Club area, thwacking their condo neighbors and shouting: “Remember Me.”

One enterprising retiree has a thriving business selling T-shirts emblazoned with those two spine-chilling words. Another has begun offering protection insurance to his neighbors. His clients pay him; he pays off the ruffians to leave them alone. Unfortunately, he’s now in a bidding war with those paying the bounties. Oh yes, it’s getting ugly.

And you know that when it gets ugly, there’s only one thing to do. Find a comfortable chair. Pick out a good book (or pick up the remote). And of course, pour yourself a nice, big glass of vino.

Santé!

You might also want to watch your back.

Retirement Tips — Cybercycle and Pee for Brain Health

A study published in the American Journal of Preventative Medicine revealed that cycling in a virtual reality improves cognitive function. ‘Cybercycling’ involves a stationery bike with an attached videogame-type screen. The rider must navigate virtual turns and avoid digital obstacles. A related (or not) study found that waiting too long to pee can addle your brain.

The Healthy Aging and Neuropsychology Lab and Department of Psychology at Union College evaluated over 100 riders, aged 58 to 99. I’m impressed that someone 99 can ride a bike at all, much less cybercycle. The control group rode regular stationery bikes with no cyber activity.

The people on the cyberbikes had ‘significantly better executive function…’ i.e. ‘planning, working memory, attention, and problem solving.’ They also had 23% less progression to Mild Cognitive Impairment (MCI). The only difference between the two groups was the cyber aspect; frequency, intensity, duration—all were the same. The conclusion: requiring riders to interact with a cyber environment—to pay attention and make decisions as they ride—helps keep their gray matter healthy.

An inverse study conducted by a professor of neurology at Brown University found that pain contributes to MCI. For their work on withholding urination, Peter Snyder and his team won a 2012 MSNBC Weird Science award and kudos from those who gave out the 2011 Ig Nobel Prizes.

Subjects drank lots of water but waited to pee until their eyeballs were popping out. Their cognitive abilities were measured throughout via simple computer tasks. The research showed that ‘the painful need to urinate’ impairs driving just as much as 24 hours of sleep deprivation or intoxication just shy of the legal limit. The study gives new meaning to the ditty: ‘Here’s to good old Brown, drink it down, drink it down.’

We can conclude that you’d be wise to make an executive decision to visit the loo before climbing onto your cybercycle. Otherwise the pain from your bursting bladder will undo all the good work your interactive exercise would have accomplished.

Getting back to that cybercycle… I’ve devised a group of cyber activities that you can use with your stationery bike to improve your executive function and prevent MCI. I’m here to serve.

Cyber Vacuuming

This cybercycle app simulates the process of vacuuming your home; it’s highly realistic. As you cycle, you must steer your way around your spouse, who is napping in a recliner with a separate footrest. Ding that footrest and you lose 50 points, but if your spouse fails to wake up during your ride, you earn bonus credit. If you suction the cat’s tail into the vacuum, you lose 100 points. Likewise for the fringe on the oriental rugs. This app is available with several choices of vacuums. The Dyson comes with automatic upgrades.

The Stairmaster

Achieve the benefits of a traditional Stairmaster with this cyber version. Navigate up and down flights of stairs, being careful to avoid such obstacles as misplaced footwear, the dog and the cat. Trip over a shoe or step on any tails or paws and lose 50 points (per appendage). Make the trip with a fully loaded laundry basket for 100 bonus points. Opt for stairs without a handrail and earn an additional 50. This app comes with a time trial option. When you’ve mastered the basics, compete against your own best performance.

Cyber Shopping

Do your grocery shopping on the cybercycle! Key in your store to update sale prices in the software. Cycle through the aisles, pick up items on your list and put them into your cyber basket. Be careful not to bump into the woman in the handicapped cart or knock over the floor stand full of cookies or you’ll lose your cyber discount. Earn bonus points for lifting heavy items on the bottom shelf or reaching ones at the back of the top shelf. Score over 500 points, and your order will be waiting at the real store to take home.

Rush Hour Challenge

This cybercycle app features an Interstate at rush hour. The program puts you in a virtual traffic jam on a familiar highway. Watch out for the teen texting in the lane to your right. She’s about to drift into your car, but you’re the one who will lose points. The road warrior in front of you is going to stop short because he just spilled coffee on his laptop. Not challenging enough? Your spouse forgot to fill the tank and you’ll run out of gas in five minutes. Best to work your way over to the slow lane.

These are just a few of the challenging cybercycle applications that will help you preserve your brain power while you get your requisite dose of daily exercise. All you have to remember now is: pee first.

Retirement Issues—Bad Luck Chain Emails

This post is about one of my pet peeves: those emails that claim you must forward them to 7 friends (or 6 or 10—never 2 or 3) within 5 minutes (or 6 or 10—or sometimes 2 or 3) or else you will have bad luck for the next 7 years (or… you get the idea.) I’m sure you’ve all received these. They’re similar to the almost-as-annoying ones promising good luck if you follow the instructions.

Retirement seems to have afforded some of my former colleagues the time to dabble more in predictions, threats and dire consequences. They must think it also affords me the time to respond to these, but I trash them within 5 seconds (or 6 or 10). News flash to my email world: I’m not that superstitious. I also don’t hate my friends enough to pass on the negative karma. And not the bogusly positive karma, either.

Careful readers will have noticed the word “that” inserted before “superstitious” in the paragraph above. This means that though I don’t believe anything will happen to me for deleting these messages, I still have anxiety pangs as I do it. Thank you so much for the mental anguish, so-called friends who send them to me.

The one I received today was about horoscopes. My “friend’s” subject line was: “Frightening how accurate for most.” More frightening was that she failed to see how many contradictions were embedded within these scopes, guaranteeing at least a whiff of accuracy. Her brief note read: “Can’t hurt – try it!” (Pascal’s wager anyone?)

The instructions in the message included: “Below are true descriptions of zodiac signs. Read your sign and then forward it on, with your zodiac sign on the subject line.” Since my friend’s sign was not in her subject line, she must have been so worried about getting the message forwarded on time that she didn’t even read it.

The instructions continued: “This is the real deal; try ignoring or changing it and the first thing you'll notice is having a horrible day, starting tomorrow morning — and it only gets worse from there.”
I inferred from this that I had only until the next morning to forward or be damned. That was Monday. You’re reading this the following Saturday (or later), so I’ve probably had a terrible week.

What we really need here is a message that goes back to the person who sent us the email. As a service to my fellow retirees who have better things to do than annoy their buddies but would like to cover their bases, just in case, here it is.

Dear friend, who is in imminent danger of becoming a former friend:

Please recall the recent message you sent me wherein you put the chain email monkey onto my back to save your own skin. I will not be a party to passive-aggressive harassment, thinly-veiled self-promotion or otherwise non-constructive clogging of the Internet pipe. If you do not retract this message immediately, here’s what will happen.

·       Every appliance in your kitchen will malfunction, starting with the InSinkErator, but only after you have filled it with onion skins and shrimp tails. This will begin a cascade of problems. The day after the repairman (who bills by the visit) has fixed the first item, the second one will go down, and so on. Best not to plan any dinner parties for a few months. You might also want to put your favorite take-out on speed dial.

·       Your alarm clock will wake you at 5 am when you want to sleep in and will fail to go off when you have to catch that early morning, discounted, non-changeable flight to Barbados. The one that was taking you to the fixed-date condo-swap.

·       Whatever teeth you have left will begin to fall out of your mouth one week after having them professionally cleaned. That could be 6 months or a year from now. Two words: Delta Dental.

·       You will misplace all of your credit cards, except the one with the $300 limit and the one with the 24 percent interest rate. When you try to replace the missing ones, you’ll learn that your identity has been stolen by the nephew of a woman from Nigeria who offered to cut you in on a scheme to make thousands of dollars, but you deleted her message.

·       Your email address will be mysteriously added to a network of porn sites. Not to worry. Your credit card with the 24 percent rate will get billed only if you accidentally click thru.

·       Finally, don’t even ask what I have planned for your bathroom.

Oh. I forgot to mention. This will happen “starting tomorrow morning—and it only gets worse from there.” Have a nice day.

Retirement Updates—Sex, Meds and Pain

A collection of recent news items makes me glad I’ve reached retirement age. For one thing, I don’t have to worry about contraception anymore. This is fortunate, since Pfizer just recalled one million packages of several of its popular birth control pills. The pills were put into the daily dispenser packets in the wrong order. That means your hormone levels would be all wack-a-doodle, “increasing the likelihood of unintended pregnancies.” Ya think?

If I were on those pills, I’d be pregnant sure as God made little green apples (and Pats don’t reign in Indianapolis). As it is, I need one of those days-of-the-week containers just to keep my vitamins straight. A manufacturer screw up on the sequence of birth control pills would have meant preggers for certain. Not to mention that my hormone levels are already wack-a-doodle. If I had wack-a-doodle on steroids, my husband would be cleared for instant sainthood—and he’s Hindu.

If you’re feeling smug because you (or your partner) wear a raincoat for protection, keep reading. Some 1.35 million condoms distributed by the ANC in South Africa also were just recalled because the condoms broke during intercourse. That doesn’t mean that ones in the U.S. will also let the rain in (or out), but would you want to take a chance? Just sayin’. That leaves the rhythm method, which, I’m told, will be covered by all insurance plans, regardless of who is elected President in November.

A related news item (or not) is that Japan’s Health and Welfare Ministry projects that its population will decrease 30% by the year 2060 and be aging rapidly—seniors will then account for about 40%. Life spans will be longer (almost 91 for women by 2060) and birth rates lower (1.35 per woman by then). The report was issued just before the Pfizer recall, so expect adjustments to these figures when the next projections come out.

Maybe the Japanese need to practice yoga. My husband drew my attention to a Nightline feature on a new book on the benefits of yoga. The only one he remembered is that yoga increases sex drive. The cobra pose in particular is supposed to improve blood flow to the pelvis, leading to better “yogasms.” Will more yogasms lead to more offspring? Hard to say…

There’s good news for retirees on the medical front. A drug created to treat skin cancer has been shown to reverse the symptoms of Alzheimer’s in mice. More specifically: scientists at Case Western Reserve University have found that bexarotene improves memory function and social behavior in laboratory mice.

I’m a little fuzzy on how they were able to measure these improvements. I’m picturing the control group scampering around willy-nilly, squealing “Who moved my cheese?” Or maybe the ones on the test protocol found the cheese even when it was in the researcher’s pocket.

You have to wonder how they assess social behavior in mice. Are there recordings of the males murmuring, “Hey there, Minnie. Wanna see my etchings?” I did note something in the report about the mice building nests from tissue paper. Isn’t that what they do when they’re pregnant? Hmmm. Maybe they were on Pfizer’s birth control pills. I don’t want to even think about broken mouse condoms.

Another gender-related item: women feel pain more than men do. These findings fly in the face of beliefs that women have a higher pain threshold than men. In a study of 11,000 hospitalized patients with various ailments, women self-reported acute pain more than men did. However, since most nurses were female, men may have sucked it up to seem more macho. One pain women definitely tolerate better is a pain in the butt, especially when it’s caused by men trying to seem macho.

You are now up to date on all the important developments having to do with sex, meds and pain. I aim to serve. But not to learn the cobra pose…