Signs You Need A Retirement Hobby

Two years into my retirement it hit me: I really need to find a new hobby. There are a number of signs you should recognize if you’ve also reached that point.

The sign that really brought this home to me had to do with watching TV, and not just any TV.

·      You watch so much Retro TV in the afternoon that Gunsmoke, Bonanza and The Big Valley are now in reruns.

Reruns of reruns. Really? How pathetic is that? And if that’s not bad enough:

·      You know exactly how the rabbit ears need to be positioned for each of the 12 channels your TV can receive so you get the best reception for each one.

Then there are the telltale signs that have to do with making things into projects.

·      You’ve written down the steps you go through when you put on your walking shoes. “Get shoes. Loosen laces. Pull out tongue. Get yard-long shoehorn. Insert shoehorn. Insert foot. Straighten tongue. Tighten laces. Tie laces: right-over-left, left-over-right, makes a square knot, good and tight.” Repeat.

·      You’ve darned three dozen socks in the past two months. Some of your darning has been re-darned.

·      You check the bottom of your husband’s clothes closet, hoping to find some laundry that needs to be done.

Even those who are avid readers and consider having more time to read during retirement to be a hobby might need to find a new one. Recognize any of these?

·      When you sit down to read a book, you fall asleep in ten minutes.

·      You check your email every half hour.

·      You wait at the front door for the mailman and hope he has several text-dense catalogues you can read—page by page.

·      You memorized the second edition of Excel for Dummies, even though it’s 17 years out of date.

Some other signs reflect a lack of focus. Or compulsive behavior. Or both.

·      You stare at the 7-day vitamin container each morning, trying to remember what day it is. (And your husband is no help at all.)

·      You feed your cat four times a day. Lately he’s been hiding under the bed when he hears you coming up the stairs in the middle of the afternoon.

·      You prepare a detailed shopping list at least twice a week, even though you go for groceries only once. You count the number of eggs in the carton three times before you remember to write down whether you need to buy them or not. Then you leave the list on the kitchen table when you finally go shopping. So you buy more eggs, just in case. You now have four cartons in the fridge. Two of them are partially used.

Oh, yes. Most of us can’t wait to be retired. All that extra time on our hands! But be careful what you wish for. Or else get some great recipes for egg salad. And adopt a few more cats.

Curse Like A Retiree

A few months back, Time magazine had one of those feature boxes that are quick and entertaining reads. It shared some choice curse phrases from Jason Sacher’s book How to Swear Around the World. You’d have to be a holy roller not to laugh at them. My three favorites translated thusly: “You are stupid as a broom” (contributed by the French), “A fart to your beard” (a Persian specialty), and perhaps the strangest one—from Finland—“May you piss into a transformer.”

You just know where this post is heading. IMHO, if you’re going to curse at someone, you might as well be colorful and creative about it. I’m providing an array of new phrases to help you insult fellow retirees. They can also be used to offend people who are not yet retired, but probably should be.

When I was in high school, this insult was going around: “Your mother wears combat boots.” Those in on the game would reply: “She does not. She wears Army surplus sneakers.” This inspired my first retiree curse. “Your walking shoes use counterfeit Velcro.” The savvy wearer will reply: “They do not. I’m beta testing a new and improved version.”

The second phrase is a variation on a foreign localism my brother picked up in the late sixties. After his Army discharge, he crossed Northern Africa in a Volkswagon camper. When he came home, he challenged opinions not to his liking by shouting: “May a thousand camels beat a path across your front yard.” This was followed by drumming his hands loudly on the table. In that spirit, I give you: “May a caravan of out-of-control Jazzy scooters tear a path through your vegetable garden.” Vroom! Vroom!

The Persians inspired this next one. “May the fart you laid turn out not to be a fart after all on the very day you ran out of Depends.” Think about that one… Or maybe don’t.

Here’s one that heaps insult upon injury. “Your grandchildren are so dumb, they don’t even know how ugly they are.” You may want to step back a few yards as you hurl that one.

“The Smithsonian requisitioned your earwax for their collections” is a good start. For maximum effect, follow up with “They’re displaying it next to the amber from Jurassic Park.”

Here are three especially tailored to retirees. “May your pension fund manager make Bernie Madoff look like a Boy Scout.” “May your Social Security payments get auto-deposited into someone else’s account.” “May your shredder short-circuit and destroy all your Medicare paperwork.”

Then there’s the Irish prayer turned insult: “May the road rise up to meet your face when you trip on your daily walk.” Or perhaps more accurately, may your face fall down to meet the road…

Of course, there are the more obvious insults that focus on physical characteristics. There’s Old Gnarly Toes and Gizzard Neck, and for someone who is peppered with liver spots, Domino Face. But they’re not really creative; they’re just mean. Try something more unusual, like: “Didn’t anyone tell you you’re supposed to eat prunes, not wear them?” Or one that’s more with the times, like: “Your face could crash the Skype network.”

It’s always good to tailor the curse to something specific about the person you’re aiming it at. “May you get arrested for flashing a plumber’s butt when the elastic in your Sansabelts gives way.”

Perhaps the worst curse I can imagine directed at me is: “May your chin bristles spread to your nostrils and your ears.” Not a pretty picture. But it’s way better than: “May a thousand camels piss into your cat’s litter box.”

Strange Thievery in Bad Economy

When the economy is bad, home break-ins and retail pilferage increase dramatically. Apparently, so does thievery of a curious array of other items. Time magazine reported on seven of these over the past month or so. Here’s what they said was stolen and the locations where the thefts happened. See if you can match the two lists.

What was stolen:

1.     16,000 barrels of maple syrup (grade not specified)

2.     A truck with $250,000 of raw beef (if there’s any justice, they’ll get Mad Cow Disease)

3.     $100,000 of bees from their beekeeper (Peter Fonda was reportedly devastated)

4.     $3,000 of bras (assorted cup sizes; no wonder)

5.     $65,000 of chicken wings (presumably not yet barbecued)

6.     A tractor trailer with $75,000 of Campbell’s soup (it was probably chunky)

7.     Five and a half tons of Nutella (value over $25,000, and that’s not peanuts)

Locations of the thefts:

a.      Florida

b.      Florida

c.      Florida

d.     Georgia

e.      Canada

f.       Canada

g.      Germany

Looks like you just can’t trust those Southerners or those north of the border…

Here are the matched up answers:

1.     e or f

2.     a, b, or c

3.     e or f

4.     a, b or c

5.     d

6.     a, b or c

7.     g

Always a crack researcher, I dug deeper to see what unusual things have been stolen from retirees in recent months. You’ll be shocked—I say SHOCKED!—at what I uncovered.

A shipment of plaid sansabelt golf pants disappeared near Scottsdale, Arizona. The thieves are still in the wind. Mercifully the pants have not shown up either. Not surprisingly, the value of the goods is being disputed by the insurance company.

Fifty cases of prunes worth $25,000—they were soaked in vodka—were pilfered from a truck in Canada. Culprits were apprehended selling the hot prunes somewhere in Edmonton. They claimed the cases “fell off the back of a truck.” I’ve heard that one before…

A recently retired hot-dogger had his orthopedic boogie board taken from the bottom of a chairlift in Aspen. Worse yet, it was taken around 11 am and he’d purchased an all-day lift pass.

An eighty-year-old woman left her walker outside the stall in the restroom during activities night in her South Jersey retirement community. It was gone when she came out. The thief was caught leaning on it during the Electric Slide. The owner identified it from the macramé wrist strap her greatgrandson had made for her at camp.

Two pallets of diet cranberry juice went missing from a storeroom in Texas. The cost was about $2,000, not including the fees for all the urologist visits that resulted.

In North Carolina, ten cases of counterfeit hearing aid batteries found their way to a retirement home. They have no idea where the real ones were diverted. The trail has gone cold, because it was about three weeks before the residents realized the batteries weren’t working properly.

In Palm Beach, thieves made off with forty cases of old fashioned oatmeal. The entire town was out of sorts for a month. You can’t put a price on that.

Also in Florida, a shipment of Mahjong sets bound for Boca Raton vanished into thin air. What arrived in their place were Ouija boards. One day after their delivery, those also disappeared. When asked if they had any clues, investigators replied: “We think it was someone’s dearly departed, and her name began with an ‘M.’ Or maybe a ‘T.’”

Be vigilant. It doesn’t look like the economy is going to pick up any time soon and you never know what the thieves will come after next. On that note, I’m going to hide my stash of wine.

Pride of Ownership: Sexism in Science and Pop Culture

It occurred to me recently that sexism is rampant and insidious when it comes to science and culture. Many of you are thinking: “And you’re surprised because?” It’s not the rampant part that caught my attention; it’s the insidiousness. I’m not sure exactly how this came on my radar. Retirees have a lot of time for ruminating.

I believe I was posting on Facebook about something philosophical or spiritual and mentioned Pascal’s Wager. Or maybe it was one of those daily mishaps that have us muttering: Murphy’s Law. This prompted me to begin collecting these “owned” phrases of our language and culture.

My list quickly expanded to science, and included Ockham’s Razor (for which I had no idea of its meaning but have since looked it up and hence corrected my original spelling) and Mobius Strip (which I can easily fashion from a piece of paper). I scribbled these on the back of an envelope, confident that the list would somehow grow into a blog post one day.

More of these phrases that I’m describing as “pride of ownership” came to me as I was driving to Vermont recently to visit my sister. Fortunately, I carry a small note pad that I was able to fish out of my purse, along with a pen, without weaving out of my lane on the Interstate. I’m quite good at fishing by feel. I’m often forced to do that to find my earplugs in the tray on my bedside table when Jagdish begins snoring in the middle of the night. I’ve also learned to write short reminder notes in the dark.

So, tools in hand, or actually on the passenger seat (the pad) and in the center console (the pen), I jotted down other phrases as they came to me. As you might expect, some of them were torturous versions of their proper selves.

Somewhere around the Massachusetts/New Hampshire border, one of the CDs keeping me awake led me to write: Elton’s John. Of course, Brits will tell you Elton wouldn’t have a john; he’d have a loo. But Elton’s Loo doesn’t fit my blogging needs. That quickly led me to Paddy’s Wagon and soon after that, Fanny’s Pack. I was feeling quite clever at that point, and I had not had even a drop of wine.

Greek mythology and the Bible provided a source for several additions to my list. The most obvious was Achilles’ Heel. And hot on Achilles’ heels, Pandora’s Box, Noah’s Ark and Jacob’s Ladder. I was on a roll. Somewhere around the mid-trip rest area and after a lot of figurative head-scratching, I added the Midas Touch and Gordian Knots.

As I neared the New Hampshire/Vermont border, it dawned on me: few of these names that show pride of ownership are female. The only familiar phrase I had come up with was Pandora’s Box. That was only after I had first thought of Achilles’ Heel, which (in a fit of anatomical exploration inspired by the song “Dem Bones”) eventually connected me to Charlie Horse, too.

When I returned home and started to organize my notes, I realized that concepts and ideas were always paired with men’s names. It’s Pascal’s Wager and Ockham’s Razor and Murphy’s Law. Only the inconsequential utilitarian objects on my list were named after women. A pack, a box—both female ownership. The wagon, the ark, even the ladder—male. An insidious show of sexism if ever there was one.

One area where women have historically been recognized as “owners” is in the naming of hurricanes and tropical storms. It took until 1978 for the National Hurricane Center to finally share the glory of devastation with men, and that was done in phases; (North Pacific storms in ’78; Atlantic Basin in ‘79.) I suppose I should look upon this as a great equalizer in the “pride of ownership” battle. As my mother always said, “Thank the Lord for small favors.” Small favors indeed.

And as I always say, “Thank the Lord for a fine red wine, no matter whose name it carries.”

Marriage: It’s About Love, Not Velcro

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The Supreme Court is hearing two cases related to same-sex marriage, while the Rhode Island legislature is once again debating whether it should join every other state in New England in allowing it.

Conservative voices insist that marriage can only be between a man and a woman because the Church (or the Bible) says so. It seems to me that they’re confusing the sacrament of marriage with the sanctity of marriage. A religious institution has the right to reserve its sacrament for heterosexual couples, but not every marriage takes place in a church or a temple.

My husband and I were married by a judge in a non-denominational chapel at Brown University. The Hinduism and Catholicism of our youth didn’t interfere with our ability to become husband and wife in Rhode Island. The judge didn’t confer a sacrament upon us, but he officially affirmed the sanctity of our love.

It’s unlikely the conservatives who are arguing against same-sex marriage would claim that my marriage isn’t legitimate. The Catholic Church might feel that way and probably wouldn’t have ministered their sacrament to us. But overall, even the holiest rollers would agree that we are husband and wife.

Many of those who are against same-sex marriage claim that civil unions should be good enough for these couples. They decry efforts to “redefine” the term “marriage.” Actually, forcing gay couples to have unions instead of marriages will ultimately muddy the terminology far more than recognizing their right to be married will. Reserving “marriage” for the exclusive use of heterosexual couples will only serve to take the concept of love out of the relationship.

What should same-sex couples call their mates in a civil union? “Unionites”? That sounds so political, so Norma Rae. “Partners” isn’t much better; it sounds like a business arrangement. Like the very concept of a civil union—and in stark contrast to the concept of marriage, both terms fail to convey the emotion that’s the basis for the relationship.

If we acknowledge that all these relationships are based on love, then the singular fact that distinguishes a committed couple labeled one way from a couple labeled another seems to be either anatomy or perhaps religion.

But we’ve already covered the fact that a man and a woman can marry without religious involvement. So, it gets down to anatomy. Which means the conservative definition of “marriage” no longer has anything to do with love, or even anything spiritual; it’s just about body parts. It’s not logical to claim that this protects the concept.

I think conservatives who are against same-sex marriage are mistaking Velcro for love. It’s really quite easy to straighten out this misperception. Velcro is the stuff where one side needs to have hooks and the other needs loops if it’s going to work. Love has no such hooks-and-loops requirement.

Lasting love is a matter of the heart, not the anatomy. The more the heart is at the center of love and the less the hooks and loops are, the more likely the connection will survive the stresses of today’s life. And the more love is allowed to be at the center of marriage, instead of Velcro, the stronger the concept of marriage will be.

Retirement Chain of Choices

Recently I met some friends for dinner at Smokey Bones. It was a rare opportunity for me to enjoy ribs, since my husband doesn’t care for them. When barbecue is done right (and this was), it leaves you licking the sauce off your fingers. As I sucked my way from pinky to thumb, I was reminded of a classic radio commercial.

The old ad went something like this. A diner orders barbecued chicken. The waitress asks: Do you want a whole chicken or a half? Diner: A whole. Waitress: Do you want regular sauce or extra sauce? Diner: Extra. Waitress: Do you want a napkin or a Wash ‘N’ Dri? Diner: Wash ‘N’ Dri. Waitress (yells into the kitchen): One bird loaded, with soap and water to go. I think this ad is memorable not just because of the clever tag line, but also because of the build up of all the choices the diner is asked to make.

We face choices throughout our lives. Caffeine or decaf? Skim milk or whole milk? AM or FM? Democrat or Republican? As we move into our retirement, our choices change. It’s more like: dentures or implants? Bifocals or intraocular lenses? Hearing aid or blissful ignorance? Soup and salad or salad and soup?

Some of our choices get more complicated, so I’ve created a new retirement parlor game: Chain of Choices. The goal is to see who can build the longest chain with various choices retirees have to make. One person starts the chain with a single choice, and the next person has to use the second option in that pairing to begin a new choice pairing.

Let’s start with what someone who is retired might decide to wear (or not) when he gets up in the morning. Is it just PJs or a bathrobe? Bathrobe or ratty sweatshirt? Ratty sweatshirt or whatever isn’t in the laundry? Laundered clothes or commando? You get the idea.

Here’s another one: the way retirees could be forced out of bed in the morning. Instead of an alarm clock vs. a clock radio, choices might be ambient noise vs. sun in your eyes. Sun in your eyes or a cat that wants breakfast (and is climbing all over your head)? Cat that wants breakfast or cat that is being chased by the dog? Dog chasing cat or dog that needs to go out?

This can then morph into: dog that needs to be taken out vs. being able to travel whenever you want. Travel by air or wander by motor home? Motor home or Jazzy scooter? Jazzy or a walker? Walker or 3-footed cane? Footed cane or broken bones? Broken bones or stay planted in a lounge chair in perpetuity? Isn’t this fun?

Speaking of lounge chairs, another choice might have been: lounge chair with hassock vs. recliner with foot rest. Recliner or sofa? Sofa or on the floor with a pillow under your head? On the floor or on a yoga mat? Yoga mat or plush bath towel? In this example, we have somehow segued from relaxation to exercise. In our house, that’s going in the wrong direction.

Let’s try out the personal care arena (and observe how cleverly I move between variations of the same item). Will you choose a loofah or an oatmeal scrub? Oatmeal or Metamucil? Metamucil or prunes? Prune skin or deep moisturizer? Moisturizer or face mask? Face mask or sloughing mitt? Mitt or loofah? Notice that this has now created the ultimate prize in a chain of choices contest: The Chain Loop. The person who creates the loop is automatically the winner (mercifully ending the game).

Getting back to relaxation, the choice could be: put on music vs. watch a movie. Watch a movie or read a book? Read a book or write a book? Write a book or write a blog post? Write a post or have a glass of wine? We all know how this one turns out.

Kale Frenzy Finds Retirees

Unless you’ve been living under a rock, you must be aware of the latest culinary craze. I’m talking about the kale frenzy. Everywhere you turn, kale is on the menu, in the grocery cart, on the plate or in the news. Once a lowly garnish, it’s now a main ingredient. As a follower of pop culture, I wanted to learn more about this bitter vegetable.

My search turned up all sorts of claims for this so-called miracle green that has been around for thousands of years. It can prevent cancer! It can lower your cholesterol! It will help you lose weight! Kale cigarettes relieve stress (and they’re legal)! If you plant it in decorative pots near your front door, your house will sell above the asking price! Enough of these outrageous claims. What does botany tell us this wonder food can offer retirees?

It’s a member of the Brassicacae family—also known as cruciferous vegetables—which includes broccoli, Brussels sprouts, cabbage and cauliflower, among others. Its genus is brassica. I can see by your glazed-over eyes that this is TMI, so I won’t go into its species. (Remember the taxonomy mnemonic: King Phillip Came Over For Good Soup.)

Kale’s soar into the stratosphere of culinary popularity is likely due to the spate of spinach recalls that began in 2006, when a number of deaths and dozens of severe illnesses were traced to tainted shipments. Spinach recalls have become annual events, with the leafy green being cited for e. coli or salmonella contamination virtually every year from 2006 thru 2012, and now again in 2013. Last month, the death knell sounded for baby spinach.

At some point, a thinking person has to give up on spinach. It was a major contributor to my weight gain when that key ingredient in the pseudo-quiche was nowhere to be found, so I gave up on the South Beach Diet. Now I’ll try substituting kale, if I can locate the recipe. My stager cleared off my kitchen counters when we listed the house for sale, and the cookbooks wound up in a box somewhere in the basement.

Kale is touted on numerous websites where health information and recipes abound. WebMD.com calls it a “nutritional powerhouse.” The site tells us a cup of kale has 5 grams of fiber and contains more than 100% of the RDAs for the anti-oxidant vitamins A, C, and K. It’s also a good source of calcium, B6, magnesium and lutein (for eye health). All that in just 36 calories, presuming you steam it or eat it raw. Sauce it and all bets are off.

Now that we’re experts on the virtues of kale, let’s talk about what to do with it. Use it raw, steamed, braised, pickled or baked. Eat it on its own (salads); use it as an additive (soups or pastas) or a topping (pizza); chop and bake it into something less predictable (chips).

In the SunTimes.com, Leah Zeldes described kale as “the new bacon,” which sounds a tad extreme to me. I trust she did research to substantiate her report that “Bon Appetit named a kale salad its 2012 dish of the year,” and that the green stuff “stars in some 43,000 YouTube videos.” I’m not anal retentive enough to search YouTube to confirm her count.

The Baltimore Sun recipe for kale with pappardelle and sun-dried tomatoes sounds (and looks) yummy. (Thank you, John Houser III.) I’ve put kale and pine nuts on my shopping list, since many sites combine those ingredients in pastas, salads or snacks—all staples of retirees’ diets.

I have some ideas for using kale that haven’t made their way onto the Internet—yet. For example, mush the leaves into a gritty paste. Then use it to clean dentures. Or, in a nod to St. Patrick, add it to pale ale to make green beer. I’ll be testing ground kale as an insect repellent around my tomatoes. Likewise to deter the slugs that dine on my petunia blossoms in the dead of night. And the caterpillars that chow down on them in broad daylight.

It’s clear to me that kale will continue its rise as a darling of American cuisine. I’m going out on a limb to predict some consequences of this infatuation. Within three years, a celebrity will name her baby boy Kale. Seven years later, there will be five kids named Kale in every first grade class, and two of them will be girls. None of the kids will be named Spinach or Bacon. Bets anyone?

Acronyms Redux for Retirees

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As a lover of language, I like to keep up with the acronyms in our pop culture. I’m not referring here to the text abbreviations used primarily for Instant Messaging (IM) or Twitter. I’m talking about phrases used in daily conversation or mainstream media. Lately I’ve amused myself by rejiggering the words that make up some of the better-known acronyms, tweaking them into something especially appropriate for retirees.

Take for example the political term RINO. When I first heard it, I assumed it was spelled Rhino and referred to elected officials who had a thick hide. Turns out it stands for Republicans In Name Only. This acronym begs to be redefined as Retirees In Name Only. From what I’ve seen, it’s more of a truism than a nickname, since many retirees poke their noses into other people’s business as a way to fight boredom.

I’m guilty of this myself. If I’m in a retail store, I’m compelled to tidy up the racks of clothing and I’m tempted remerchandise them while I’m at it. That’s bad enough in and of itself, but then I have to find the owner or manager and lecture them on keeping their stock in order. If I’ve moved things around, I also explain why the way I’ve displayed the goods is superior to what they had done. I’m a RINO if ever there was one.

Another good example is the hot property YOLO. It stands for You Only Live Once. It has bored its way into pop lingo through the song “The Motto” and the promotion of that motto via a tattoo sported by tweenybopper heartthrob, Zac Efron. The Urban Dictionary defines it as The dumbass's excuse for something stupid that they did.

Wikipedia tells us it’s a motto similar to carpe diem, suggesting that people “should enjoy life, even if that entails taking risks.” That certainly sounds like a motto someone my age could live by. But since the youth culture now owns YOLO, I’m giving retirees a phrase that’s equally appropriate, but highly unlikely to be co-opted by trendy actors.

Our new motto shall be YODO—You Only Die Once. Think about it. We can engage in all sorts of risky behavior and when we’re called out on it by friends and family, being lectured to take care lest we get injured (or worse), we can holler out: “YODO! Deal with it.” Who are they kidding? It only matters to them because they don’t want to get stuck taking care of us if we get incapacitated doing something stupid. YODO, Baby, YODO.

Closely related to YODO is YOGOO—You Only Grow Old Once. Like YODO, YOGOO can be used to excuse a plethora of bad behavior. It’s more versatile than YODO, since YOGOO behavior doesn’t need to be risky, just offensive. It has the added benefit of sounding like something you’d call a person engaging in that type of activity.

Another term I uncovered—one that was new to me—is FOMO. It stands for Fear Of Missing Out and explains why people sit through poorly conceived movies, attend boring lectures and eat at restaurants that are popular but, well… lousy. They don’t want to miss out on something fashionable that they don’t appreciate but almost everyone else (for reasons unknown to anyone with a glimmer of intelligence or good taste) does.

The retirees’ version of FOMO is FOCO: Fear Of Checking Out. The older we get, the more we worry that we’re going to predecease our peers and, by extension, MO on a lot of good stuff. We wouldn’t want to ride off into the sunset the week before Ferran Adrià announces he’s decided to resurrect el Bulli within walking distance of our condo development. (Thank you, nephew Barry, for enabling me to sound so worldly.)

We also don’t want to CO until we've done everything on our bucket list. If we haven’t made that list yet (like yours truly), we’re in a precarious position. We could CO at anytime and not MO on anything we’d officially hoped to do. This is a good reason to make your own bucket list now. It gives you an incentive to live in a way that will keep you from C-ing O prematurely.

There are many more acronyms we could delve into. You might want to create a parlor game out of this. As for me, I’m redirecting my attention to putting together my bucket list.

Item one: Make this a very long list.

Item two: Do everything on it before I CO.

OK. That’s a good start. I’m ready for a break. And a nice glass of wine.

TGFI. (Thank God For Imbibing!)

Things Robots Should Not Do

Technology advances so rapidly and so pervasively that it’s a challenge for retirees to keep up. One example: robots are increasingly common in our lives, often in ways we aren’t aware of. I’m on board with letting these unmanned machines do more for us, especially mundane chores such as vacuuming and cleaning the litter box (as long as the cat isn’t in it). But there are some things that, in my opinion, they just should not do.

A recent New York Times article questioned robotic hysterectomies, based in part on a report in The Journal of the American Medical Association. Upon closer reading, I learned the article wasn’t so much questioning the use of robots to perform hysterectomies. It was noting that the outcomes were not more favorable than for laparoscopic ones, and therefore didn’t justify the considerable extra cost.

The last item on my list of things I’d welcome having a robot do is my hysterectomy. This got me thinking: What other procedures or chores would I not want to entrust to a pile of nuts, bolts, solenoids and sensors (or whatever stuff bots are made of)? It didn’t take me long to come up with a sizable list.

There’s no way I’d let an android clean out my earwax. For sure, I’d wind up looking like someone from a Steve Martin skit, but with a cotton swab sticking out from each side of my head instead of an arrow. Likewise, I would not recommend letting mechanical grabbers try to retrieve bellybutton lint. Well, not if you’re an innie anyway. The outies can decide for themselves.

Along similar lines, I really can’t picture a bot flossing my teeth. With all my caps and fillings, I have so many cracks and crevices that I have trouble getting around in my own mouth. A robo-flosser would surely get tied up in knots. I can see it running amok, trying to untangle its pincers, digging its back claws into my tongue. No thank you. I’ll keep doing my own flossing and my dental hygienist will keep thanking me for it.

My eyesight gets worse each year, making me feel like I’m becoming my mother. There’s an entire post in there somewhere, but right now I’m reminded that she had me do her eye makeup when she was older. She found it difficult to navigate the narrow space between her glasses and her eyelids, especially since everything is backwards in a mirror. If I wore eye shadow, I might let an android apply that. But there’s no way I’d let it put on mascara. I’m a blinker and I’d have raccoon eyes for certain.

Moving into a different arena, you’d have to be crazy to let some bionic dude fill out your Medicare forms. Or any health-related or government paperwork for that matter. You can bet that the software controlling it would get hacked by the Chinese or by a former Starbucks employee. Next thing you know, you’re thrown in jail—or committed to a mental hospital—while your assets are drained into an offshore account.

We’ve been hearing a lot about drones lately. Last week an Alitalia pilot reported seeing a small, black one below his plane as he was approaching JFK airport. The story hardly made a blip on the news. I thought a drone like that could be a good way to wash my upstairs windows. Then I remembered Google Earth’s cameras. It’s unnerving to think what a window-washing snoop might photograph once it removed the grime.

I suppose I could let a robot tidy up my sock drawer, but it would take a lot of programming to replicate the logic behind how I organize colors. It hardly seems worth the effort. When you consider all the downsides, there aren’t many things automatons should do in our daily lives. And there are plenty of things they most definitely should not do. Writing my blog is one of them. An electronic clone wouldn’t have my charm, my wit, my humor, my (fill in the blank).

I might trust one to open a bottle of wine for me once my post was written; but with my luck, the doppelganger would share my appreciation for the grape. The wine rack would be empty before I knew it. The bot would be careening around the house, corkscrew in claw, bumping into furniture and scaring the cat out of eight of his lives.

No. That’s one more thing robots should not do. I’ll open my wine myself. On that note…

When Popes Retire

Those of us in or near retirement know we make a lot of adjustments when we quit our day jobs. Imagine what it must be like for a pope. I’ve been looking into the changes Pope Benedict XVI will be facing now that he’s stepped down from the papacy.

His main title will be Pope Emeritus, which is a bit of a mouthful, so I propose we adopt the system that the media use to shorten names of celebrities. Let’s refer to him as Po-Em, which has the added appeal of having a lyrical quality.

He’ll still get to wear his white cassock, but he can’t wear those red shoes anymore. This would kill me. My husband’s wedding vows included a promise to start a company that made nothing but red shoes. Worse yet for the Po-Em, he won’t even get to wear black shoes. He’ll be wearing brown loafers. And not Italian loafers; ones made in Mexico. No word on what Gucci thinks about this sacrilege.

My secret source says the reason for giving up the red shoes is that there’s only one pair of them, so they have to be handed over to the new Pope. A consequence of this is that a little known criteria for papal eligibility is being able to wear a man’s size 10½ shoe. Keep an eye out for a flash of color under the Po-Em’s white cassock. I’m told he’ll be wearing red socks, since the rules say nothing about his hosiery.

He’ll also have to part with his fisherman’s signet ring, which will be destroyed with a silver hammer to prevent it from being used to authenticate documents. Just in case he changes his mind about those red shoes and decides to sign something as Pope again. Or some scoundrel (like his former butler) decides to do that for him.

The Po-Em will be living in Mater Ecclesiae, the small convent at the Vatican, where his quarters are being redone to accommodate the arrival of his copious library (which he gets to take with him). I don’t know about you, but when I think of convents or monasteries and libraries, I think of Umberto Eco’s The Name of the Rose. It doesn’t leave me feeling all warm and fuzzy.

Another personal item the Po-Em gets to keep is his piano. I didn’t even know he played the piano, but apparently, he’s quite talented. There are several clips of him on YouTube, including one playing jazz. I fully expect to read about him riffing in his quarters with Yo-Yo Ma and Itzhak Perlman, or having duets with Condoleeza Rice (Sec-State-Em), giving new meaning to the phrase “chamber music.”

As for what he’ll be doing in retirement (other than playing piano and reading), I’m told the Po-Em will be praying, studying and working on his book that is “almost finished.” (Where have we heard that before?) He’ll be free to move about, but he’s said he plans to live “hidden from the world.” Perhaps he’ll embark on a virtual book tour. I can see the HuffPo blurb: Po-Em reading on YouTube gets 1 million hits first hour.

Some of the juicier material has to do with personnel who surround the Po-Em. He’ll “continue to live with the four consecrated women who served him… while he was Pope.” (Thank you, world.time.com for this tasteful reportage.) These Memores Domini are not exactly the 72 Apsaras promised to devout Muslims after they die, but we can be pretty certain they’re all virgins. And the Po-Em doesn’t need to die to be “served” by them. Whatever that means.

One of the more interesting tidbits I uncovered about personnel is that his private secretary will stay on to serve the new pope, but he’ll live in the convent with the Po-Em. Talk about an unholy trinity. You just know that whenever the new Pope meets with his Priv-Sec, there’ll be an elephant in the room. Perfect fodder for another Eco best seller!

To those who think this post is in poor taste, mea culpa and lo siento. At least I’m not handicapping the “race” for pope (see the “Sweet Sistine” March Madness on ReligionNews.com). Add to that the recent elections for the Italian parliament, and I sound positively refined. Former comedian Beppe Grillo and his Five Star Government party (the Grillinos) made an unexpectedly strong showing.

So now Italy will have a clown in the government and a pachyderm in the Vatican. That country is becoming one monstrous circus. Come to think of it, this sounds more like a Fellini movie than an Eco novel. On that note, I’m digging out my feathered parade hat and opening a nice bottle of Chianti. Santé!