Bow Tie Renaissance

A news feature that caught my attention reported on a surge in bow tie sales. They interviewed two young men who had purchased Beau Ties Limited of Vermont in late 2012 from an elderly gent who was retiring. He had wanted to sell his ‘baby’ to people who would nourish it as carefully as he had and keep the ties American-sourced and handmade. Based on the feature, he succeeded.

The sampling of silk prints I saw was mouthwatering and prompted me to do some research. I found a variety of bow-tie styles and ways to wear them. Since older gentlemen gravitate to the bow, I’ve put together a handy style reference guide. I won’t be covering bow ties interpreted in wood or feathers. Likewise not hokey ones with blinking lights. And certainly not ones tied onto parts of the anatomy other than men’s necks. (Sorry, ladies.)

When we hear “bow tie, ” most of us picture The Professor. It’s tied neatly, but it’s often worn crooked. For reference, check out Harrison Ford in the earlier scenes in the first Indiana Jones, or David McCallum in the hit TV show NCIS.

We may also imagine The Preppy Old-Boy style, with its angled repp stripe a la Brooks Brothers. These come straight or with rakishly pointed ends.

The Neck Pincher is a poorly-worn variation of The Professor. Its most famous wearer is Paul Rubens, aka Pee Wee Herman. The pinching has nothing to do with the thickness of the wearer’s neck and it differs from the Wattle Anchor (see below). The Pincher is simply a bow tie worn too tightly or a tie that is far too small in proportion to the wearer’s physique and appears to be pinching him.  

Some interesting bow tie shapes are the Butterfly, The Fan and The Poufy Gift Bow. Note the features that differentiate them. The Butterfly is a full style, usually with two soft bumps on each outer edge. The Fan is often confused with The Butterfly, but The Fan has sharp folds and doesn’t dip in the center of the outer edges. The Poufy Gift Bow has three soft bumps, one of which may be almost imperceptible.

 

The Accordion is sometimes mistaken for The Fan, but it’s a flatter style, with straighter edges. Sometimes The Accordion is actually flat but achieves the folded look through a printed pattern.

The Wattle Anchor is worn by men whose necks have given up trying to look good in any type of tie. When gentlemen reach this point, they often start wearing a bow tie at the base of their wattle, in hopes of directing attention away from the droop. Their shirt neck does not gap (yet). For reference, we have the midlife Winston Churchill (who always had a wattle), an ignominious to-be-nameless former president of Brown University, and Harrison Ford as Branch Rickey in the movie 42. 

Do not confuse The Wattle Anchor with The Old Geezer, our final style. Again, these are similar ties, but The Old Geezer is worn by men who have decided to give their wattle some breathing room. There is never a pinch of the neck with this later style, and not much of an attempt to hide the wattle. The tie is more of a celebration of it. Churchill in his later years converted to Old Geezers from his earlier Wattle Anchors. The same tie can be used as a Wattle Anchor or as an Old Geezer, depending on how it’s worn.

You may notice that I haven’t mentioned clip-on ties. They’re as bad as clip-on suspenders. If you don’t feel qualified to tie a bow, have it tied by your haberdasher. Then have it converted to a strap that hooks at the back of your neck. It will be easy to put on and will look almost as good as the real thing.

But let’s face it. There’s no substitute for learning to properly tie a bow tie. It’s like learning to pour a proper cup of tea or the perfect head on a draft beer. Or in my mind, pairing the right wine with dinner. On that note…

Fear of Balding

Through most of my life, the physical feature in which I took the most pride was my hair. OK. Maybe that alternated with my eyes, which are so dark a brown they’re almost black. Like pools in a rock quarry. But I had no control over my eyes. My hair, on the other hand, I could cut short, grow long, style up or leave down. All of which I did over time. And did again.

Colgate-Palmolive, where I worked for 17 years, had a Christmas doll pageant. The company purchased doll bodies which the employees dressed for children in poor communities. Handmade outfits competed for prizes in various categories and winners were photographed. It gave me a visual history of my changing styles, from updos and hair so long I could sit on it, to short, professional cuts that look almost androgynous.

 

Shortly after I left Colgate, I was diagnosed with stage two breast cancer. Chemotherapy left me temporarily bald. Surprisingly, this did not distress me. Perhaps that was because I had the (probably mistaken) notion that I looked cute bald. Or exotic or artsy or just interesting. This was around the time the duck-fuzzed Sinead O’Connor was in her heyday.

In my book, Cancer: A Coping Guide, I recount the story of my mother’s reaction to seeing me bald.

Once, when I visited my mother and had my head covered with a scarf, I could tell that she was curious to see what my bald head looked like underneath. I told her I’d show her, if she promised not to cry when she saw it. She said she wouldn’t. As soon as I took off the scarf, her mouth started to crinkle up. “Here come the waterworks,” I thought. But instead, she burst into a fit of uncontrollable laughter.

When my hair grew back in, I kept it long for awhile. My mother nagged me to cut it short. She may have laughed at my bald head, but she never liked the way I looked with long tresses. I reminded her that I was forced to go without hair for over a year. I just wanted to be able to run my fingers through it and really brush it for a change.

Eventually, I tired of long styles again and had it cut. My mother was right, of course. I do look better with it short. It’s been at least a dozen years since I’ve had locks down to my shoulders or longer. Let’s face it: older women look better with shorter dos. Most of them they dye their hair lighter, hoping the color will blend with their increasingly visible scalp.

One reason my hair was special was that I had extremely thick tresses. I followed the daily toilette prescribed by my Madison Avenue stylist, George Michael. (He serviced one style and one style only: long and straight.) His directive: lean forward, head down, and brush from the nape to the ends 100 times every day, using a natural bristle brush. I kept doing this even with short dos until around the time I retired. Then I got lazy.

Whether a consequence of my laziness, or an inevitable aspect of aging, I can’t say. But my hair has become finer and less populous. I worry that I’m going bald. The strays left in the shower drain when I wash my locks are forming ever-larger clumps. There is no pouf left in my crown. Every morning, the mirror reveals a demoralizing reflection of “bed hair” or “pillow head” or whatever you choose to call that look that says: “I didn’t bother to brush it or comb it. What’s the point? It has a mind of its own.”

In the winter, there’s also static electricity. Thin wisps rise up in drafts of heated air, leaving me looking like a psychotic Alfalfa from Our Gang. If I dampen them to kill the static, my hair flattens and I look even more like I’m balding. All year long, I find strands on my clothes. Occasionally, it’s a really long one that has somehow remained embedded in the loops of an old sweater, reminding me of what my crown jewel used to look like. Mostly, they just remind me that they’re falling out.

I cannot ignore it any longer. I am going bald. And at a rapidly increasing pace. Perhaps if I return to that daily ritual of brushing 100 times, I can slow the process. I wonder what my mother would think about this. She’d probably tell me to dye my hair light and get a perm. (She thought that curls hid her bald spot.) Somewhere up there, George Michael is having a coronary. I can almost hear him shouting: “97, 98, 99, 100!”

Consumer Electronics Gone Haywire

The 2014 International Consumer Electronics Show has unplugged from Las Vegas, leaving TV news to look beyond trendy wearable devices to fill their tech voids. There’s no shortage of other electronics-related stories. We’re still hearing shoes dropping after Target’s hacked credit card debacle, with Neiman Marcus admitting they, too, have been breached. At least three other major retailers are rumored to be untying their wing tips to prepare for an announcement.

I decided to take a closer look at the personal relationship we have with technology, beginning at the CES and those wearable devices. Things you put on your wrist—fitness trackers, health monitors, tricked out watches—were especially popular.

Scott Stein of CNET tells us the Fitbit Force excels at counting steps, but Nike’s FuelBand SE works better as a watch. The Force retails for $130 and the FuelBand SE for $150. The Pebble Watch, on the other hand (no, really—worn on Stein’s other hand), is a “smart watch.” It also costs $150, but needs the release of new apps and features to achieve Mensa status. The next-generation Pebble Steel will supposedly accomplish that for just an additional $100.

Since I have a perfectly serviceable Seiko watch, let’s turn our attention to health monitors. These can be useful for seniors, but manufacturers are still shaking out the bugs. Some Fitbit wearers developed skin rashes due to allergies to the nickel in the band. Another device provided invalid information on some health condition. I don’t recall the details, but I remember thinking it wasn’t trivial. Those are just two reasons to have trust issues with these items.

If hackers can get into retailers’ systems and pilfer personal information from your credit cards, imagine what a determined hawker of “medical” products could do with your health monitor. That wristband that provides regular readings of your blood pressure? It will recommend a pricey salt substitute to get things under control. Once you buy it: Surprise! Surprise! The band congratulates you on miraculously getting your pressure down overnight, thus assuring repeat purchases.

The website Zensorium promises that their Tinké health monitor will help you “Find Your Zen,” but you’ll need a smartphone app to get there. Speaking of finding things using your smartphone, what may be the best new gadget for seniors is the StickRTrackR. It uses sensors ($30 each) that alert you if your keys get too far from your phone. I have no clue how you find your smartphone if you’ve lost that. Maybe you put a sensor on your own body to get an alert if you wander too far from the phone.

Another popular category was Home Monitoring Devices. Belken’s WeMo is on the simpler end. They describe it as “a family of simple, ingenious products that make life easier, simpler, better.” WeMo controls your home electronics via your smartphone. Sounds simple enough, provided one has a smartphone, which I simply don’t.

ISmart Alarm claims to have “the best smartphone-enabled home security and home control system.” It has contact sensors and motion sensors, an ICamera (for “real-time monitoring and picture notification”) and Remote Tags. The tags seem like a sophisticated version of StickRTrackR. You can use them to control the system remotely and to track children and pets. If I had one of those, I’d use it to find out where my husband had fallen asleep. It would save a lot of stair climbing.

The new consumer electronics offer everything from the proverbial sublime to the ridiculous. (Did I mention the Petbit fitness tracker for your dog or cat?) You may think I’m overreacting to worry about consumer electronics going haywire, but I’m not the only one who envisions this. (Stay with me here.)

One of the more unusual new movies is Her, starring Joaquin Phoenix as a lonely introvert who is in the process of getting divorced. He falls in love with his computer’s talking operating system. It’s not just any computer; it’s artificial intelligence that responds to his psychological and emotional needs (and in Scarlett Johansson’s voice). Think Siri on steroids. Or mood enhancers. Her gives new meaning to “software.” It also serves as a cautionary tale about the consumer electronics in our lives.

Who can say where we’re headed with all these devices? One thing’s for certain: our government isn’t the only place that Big Brother lurks. We can’t stop that train, but we can figure out the best way to use it to our benefit. I suppose I’ll have to invest in a smart phone eventually, but staying dumb has its advantages. It’s like having a hearing aid that you can turn down when you want to tune out. There’s a lot to be said for disengaging and sitting back with a good book and a nice glass of wine. On that note...

Redefining GMOs

When General Mills announced that it is changing the production of its original Cheerios to eliminate all Genetically Modified Organisms, it propelled GMOs into the forefront of health controversies in the U.S.

GMOs are biological entities that have been tinkered with scientifically to enhance growth, spur resistance to disease, or otherwise improve the viable yield of crops. DNA material that has been genetically altered is inserted into these organisms with the approval of the FDA.

Newsflash! The GMOs that we really need are Geriatrically Modified Organisms—ones tweaked to maximize compatibility with the constitutions and lifestyles of today’s seniors. Companies that hop on this will make a truckload of money. Here are some tips to help them get started.

The elderly are counseled to cut down on red meat and eat more fruits and vegetables. The first part of that prescription isn’t too difficult to follow. Older teeth have a harder time chewing the sinews of red meat anyway. Our challenge is eating more vegetables, especially the frequently touted nightshades.

Imagine if cauliflower and Brussels sprouts, broccoli and even mushrooms had their DNA reconfigured to reduce the gas buildup in our GI tracts! As long as they’re in the lab anyway, could scientists maybe give us some lettuce we can chew without having to cut it with a knife?

Geriatrics have a laundry list of beloved foods that could have their salt reduced. Top of my list would be the wonderful hard cheeses that I crave every afternoon. And most evenings. And occasionally late mornings. It would be a plus if the chemists could also reduce their fat level without compromising on flavor.

Here’s one that could present a challenge even to Nobel-prize-winning biologists. Get rid of the acid in tomatoes. I’m half Italian, so I love my sauce. Or as my aunts used to call it: gravy. (My mother married a non-Italian, so in our household, gravy was brown. If it was red, it was sauce.) I’ll steam cauliflower and drown in it sauce-gravy as a healthy pasta substitute if I’m guaranteed a gas and reflux-free evening. Especially if I can top it with low-salt grated Parmesan.

Those of us with what I’ll lump into the category of “architectural enhancements” to our teeth have other issues. My personal bugaboo is caps, but I’m sure that bridges and dentures behave the same, if not worse. All types of food get stuck in the crevices and under the edges. Sesame seeds aren’t the only culprits that lurk there.

Take nuts, for instance. I love nuts and they’re relatively healthy. But I’m picking and flossing the pieces for days after I eat them. Ditto for broiled chicken. Genetically modify to address this, and I will be putty in your non-latex gloved hands, Mr. Biochemist.

Every week I hear about some new health problem that’s linked to inflammation and the foods that cause it. It’s not just the joint pain that comes with arthritis, an almost-inevitable consequence of aging. Heart disease is now reputed to be aggravated by foods that cause inflammation. These are frequently the same ones that contribute to high blood pressure and high cholesterol. By GMOing the inflammation inducers, we can knock off multiple geriatric ailments.

Since we can’t fix all of those at once, let researchers focus on this manageable list: sugar and refined carbs, egg yolks, bacon, shrimp, butter, and the most popular cheeses. For the record, I’ve never liked bacon and I rarely eat mac and cheese. But I know these are comfort foods for the rest of the world, and I’m nothing if not considerate of my fellow retirees.

Finally, no post that touches on things that pass my lips would be complete without addressing wine. From my vantage point, there are two ways that GMOs could improve my vino experience. The first would be to alter the DNA of the sulfites that are used as preservatives in less expensive wines. It’s not that I’m such a wine snob that I appreciate only the pricier vintages. OK. Maybe it is a little bit that. But it’s more that sulfites make me sneeze and give me headaches.

While scientists are massaging the grapes, I’d appreciate whatever they can do to address one other senior pitfall of imbibing. That is, the alcohol-induced snooze. I’m not asking for much—just two glasses without having my eyelids start to droop.

Those who are adamantly opposed to having Genetically Modified Organisms in our food supply are probably cringing right now. But we of a certain age believe that Geriatrically Modified Organisms should earn their developers a “Noble” Prize. I’ll drink to that.

Memories of Marijuana—Or Dreams?

Some of the early headlines of 2014 feature the legalization of marijuana. Colorado now allows the statewide retail sale of small amounts for “recreational use” and Washington State is ready to join them. New York’s governor is considering easing that state’s restrictions on the medical use of cannabis. This week’s Time magazine predicts more states will follow these leads.

Hard as it may be to believe, I’ve never smoked marijuana. Not one puff. I therefore have difficulty visualizing the amount of Mary Jane that would qualify as recreational. Oh sure, I attended parties in Greenwich Village in the late sixties where joints were being passed around. But there were always enough strangers around to prevent me from trying it. I’ve always been a control freak and I wasn’t about to loosen up unless I was surrounded by people I knew I could trust.

My brother, Rick, was stationed in Germany around that time as part of his ROTC commitment. After he was discharged, he and some friends crossed Northern Africa in a Volkswagon bus/camper. His travels included Morocco and the Canary Islands. You can probably see where this is headed.

When he returned to the States he lived with me briefly in Manhattan. I learned to burn incense to cover the smell of his ganja. I worried that my upscale neighbors would send New York’s finest to the door of my brownstone studio. That’s about as close as I got to actually smoking weed.

My brother, though a year older than I, followed my early career path into computer programming. He worked for a time at Sears & Roebuck, where he bought a water pipe with his employee discount. That seemed as bizarre to me as if someone were to get mail-order contraceptives thru Reader’s Digest. (Remember, this was the sixties.) I began buying incense by the bundle.

After several months, Rick got his own apartment in the East Village. I still saw him regularly at the Spanish lessons we took together. These began in Midtown, at the Latin American Institute, and eventually migrated to Flushing, Queens, where our instructor lived. By coincidence, I also lived in Flushing at that point, with my first husband. When the formal lessons ended, my brother and I engaged Sr. Alfaro for private ones once a week. Rick drove us there after work.

I remember one evening, going across the 59^th Street bridge, when we heard a siren behind us. “I hope we don’t get pulled over,” my brother said, off-handedly. “What makes you say that?” I asked. “You’re sitting on half a key,” he explained. My first thought was: “Why would the cops care if I had a key under my fanny?” And then: “What the hell is half a key used to open?”

When Rick explained that was short for “kilo,” as in kilogram (of MJ), I broke out into a cold sweat. “Honest, officer,” I imagined myself saying. “I didn’t even know it was there, plus I’ve never smoked it in my life.” Yeah, right. Hair to my waist, skirt up to my gotcha, next to my “brother” who looked nothing like me. So that was it. I’d go to the big house for something I didn’t do, without even having had the benefit of ever getting high.

As the years wore on, I would occasionally catch a whiff of marijuana smoke as I walked through midtown Manhattan. And later on sidewalks on Providence’s East Side. One evening last summer, I got light-headed sitting in our sunroom, with the windows cranked wide open. I discovered that my neighbor’s college-age son and his friends were sitting on their back deck, smoking. I suppressed the urge to call over, “I know what you’re doing.”

After awhile, I closed the windows. It was too ironic to imagine myself getting high alone, in my late sixties, after having avoided doing it with strangers in the late sixties. Which brings me back to recent headlines.

Medical marijuana dispensaries were opened in Rhode Island in 2013. My mother suffered from glaucoma and some peculiarities in my eye tests have me being checked for it regularly. A friend pointed out the upside if I ever get that diagnosis. It would qualify me to smoke pot legally.

I prefer to consider options with my eyes healthy. I can visit friends in Colorado, and maybe eventually in New York (more affordable). Hell, one of my classmates has a home in both states. (What did she know that the rest of us didn’t?)

Maybe when my friends and I turn 70 we’ll have a big girls’ slumber party. We’ll call it "MJ In Your PJs." Kind of gives new meaning to “Sweet Dreams,” doesn’t it? I’ll bring the brownie mix. And lots of incense.

Banned Words for 2014 from Retirement Sparks

January is the time for the annual lists of banned words and phrases. This marks the third year that I’ve been publishing my own compendium. I put my list together in mid-November, and it turns out my first three entries also top the annual list just released by Michigan’s Lake Superior State University. Their order is different, but we agree on the three words we’d most like to hear less (or none) of in 2014.

Number one on my list may surprise you. I don’t want to hear ‘hashtag’ anymore. I’m content to have people use hashtags. I don’t even mind seeing the # symbol. I’m just weary of hearing the word. We’ll need something to replace it when we speak, so I’ve created a substitute. Since the hashtag has historically been referred to as the number sign, let’s call it the NuSi. It should take a few years before that gets annoying enough to show up in my annual post.

 ‘Selfie’ is next. Oxford Dictionaries declared it the 2013 “Word of the Year” because of its meteoric rise in use, but that doesn’t mean we have to like it. I’d be happy if we not only stopped using it, but we also stopped taking them. I know: not gonna happen, but a girl can dream. And BTW, my list was created before the Pope and Obama posed for their infamous year-end selfies.

Close behind, and no surprise, are ‘twerk’ and ‘twerking.’ (These count as one entry, for those who are keeping track.) As with selfie, my hope is that people not only stop saying this, they also stop doing it. I have only a slightly better chance of that happening than I do seeing an end to the photo behavior. With twerking, some equally repulsive move could replace it in 2014. (Remember: ‘Gangnam Style’ was on last year’s list.)

Can we also do without ‘bromance’? It may be popular in some circles, but I never hear anyone singing: “A fine bromance, with no kisses; A fine bromance, my friend, this is.” That's likely due to the unstated understanding that a bromance would never involve kisses. Frankly, I’m not sure what it involves or doesn’t involve, other than being annoying. A guy can appreciate the qualities and appeal of another guy without needing to slap a label on what he thinks or feels. Oorah!

In the interest of equal time for the opposite sex, let’s also do away with ‘bestie,’ the latest patois for ‘best friend.’ It alternates with BFF (Best Friends Forever), but BFF doesn’t make that nails-on-the-blackboard sound that bestie does. Besides, bestie originated as slang from the Brits. Not an export they’re likely proud of. It’s probably barely ahead of Marmite and haggis.

Moving on to politically-based candidates (words and phrases, that is), ‘Tea Party’ (the label, not the political perspective) has no place in Congress. I’m fine with ‘conservative’ and ‘libertarian,’ but ‘Tea Party’ has become far too polarizing. Let the Mad Hatters fend for themselves as individuals who hold strong beliefs, or as members of more traditional coalitions. But fie on letting them find shelter using the Tea Party label. It’s become an anathema even to most Republicans.

As we say goodbye to Tea Party, let’s also say ta-ta to ‘brinksmanship.’ Use it, and I’ll tune out before the third syllable rolls off your tongue. I’m tossing it onto the lexicographic dust heap, along with ‘hostage.’ These words (and concepts) have no place in Congress. If we have to ban them to get our elected officials to stop engaging in this behavior and to have the Media stop celebrating it, so be it.

I’m also so over ‘fumble,’ as in ‘fumble the rollout’ or ‘fumble the ball.’ What happened with the Affordable Care Act (a.k.a. Obamacare) was so beyond a fumble that we need to call it something else. How about a disaster?

Speaking of disasters, I’d really like to not hear ‘natural disaster’ anymore. Note to God: please don’t send us any in 2014, so we won’t need to use this phrase. That’s probably too much to expect. I have no suggestions for what else to call these when they happen, but I wanted to include this phrase on principle and in a spirit of optimism.

Okay, let’s not count ‘natural disaster’ among my ten. That means I need one more. Let’s give up the phrase ‘turn the page.’ That’s pretty much what a lot of politicians are hoping we’ll do in 2014, but let’s not memorialize it in words. As Nike says, let’s “just do it.”

Those are my ten candidates that should not be uttered in mixed company in 2014. By mixed company, I mean by anyone else when I’m in the room.

I’m Six Again At Christmastime

The Christmas season is upon us and I’m once again in high gear. It’s one of my favorite times of the year. Our family has slowed down on the gift giving, which enables us to focus more on the warm and fuzzy stuff. Since Jagdish and I expect to be downsizing to a condo next spring, I’m taking advantage of the ample space that our house offers to put out even more holiday décor than usual.

I have an entire closet filled with almost nothing but house and tree decorations. The first things I put out are usually the snowmen and Santa-like items. This year, I found myself talking to them as I placed them throughout the rooms. It dawned on me that it’s like I become six again at Christmastime.

Hello, Italian snowman (round belly, red and green hat) with your Chanukah snowmen friends (blue clothes). Hey, Humpty Dumpty Santa and Mrs. Humpty Claus. How was your summer? Snowman family on the piano keyboard, will your kids be applying to colleges this year? I don’t care that they never answer me. I just move on to the next grouping. There’s the Laurel and Hardy snowmen—one super thin, the other round as a pumpkin. Or maybe they’re Jagdish and Elaine.

It’s Christmastime and I’m 26 again. I’m unwrapping an ornament my father gave me for one of my first trees living on my own. It’s a brass mask from Venezuela, still in the tissue and plastic bag it came in. My father asked a co-worker going on a business trip there to bring back something appropriate for a tree ornament for him to give me. He was hugely disappointed in the mask. I think he was expecting a star. I always loved it, especially because of the story behind it. His name, spelled wrong by his co-worker, is still penciled onto the tissue.

It’s Christmastime and in my mind I’m 39. I’m unpacking the silver snowflakes and brass stars from the Metropolitan Museum gift shop. My parents gave me one each year, but my father picked them out. I’m missing the one for 1984. He died that year. My mother wanted to get the ornament for me, but it was just too painful for her to deal with. It was painful for me, too. I started buying them on my own the next year. In my collection over a 31-year period, the only year missing is the one my father died.

I’m baking Sunset Cookies from my mother’s recipe. I’m 50 and it’s my first Christmas without her. These cookies remind me of her. If I made struffoli, I’d feel even closer. She made the dough and rolled it into finger-width strands. I cut them into dice-sized pieces. After they were fried, she drizzled them with honey and I formed the ring around an upside down glass. When we removed the glass, we decorated with colored sprinkles and her “Italian” plastic holly. I don’t have a deep fryer, so I make her cookies.

I’ve reached my 68^th Christmas. I’m cranky. I have very little patience. I say things that aren’t appropriate to repeat here to people who don’t put on their left turn signal and just stop dead in the fast lane, waiting to make the turn. Also to those who drive behind me as I’m backing out of a parking spot in the supermarket lot, even though I’m already more than half way out. I back up ever so slowly, because I know some idiot is going to be in a hurry to get the cantaloupe that’s on sale yet again this week.

I silently give thanks that our family has cut way back on the exchange of presents and that almost everyone is on a diet. But it’s still Christmas, so I put up three trees. That includes the little one that is now Luke’s, but is full of ornaments bought for Tulip and Daisy and Lily and Pansy. Bittersweet memories.

We’ve been in our house on Oriole Avenue for 22 Christmases. Each of the last three years, I’ve considered the possibility that it could be our final Christmas here. It makes me sad, but I remind myself that Christmas is not a physical place. It’s a place in one’s mind and in one’s heart. No matter where we relocate, I’ll be able to unpack Christmas from my ornament boxes and bake it from my recipe file. If I can just remember where I put the patience I had when I was younger, it will be as perfect as when I was six.

Christmas Carols Redux

Sharing little known verses and variations on two Christmas Carols you thought you knew:
Deck the Halls and We Three Kings of Orient Are…

DECK THE HALLS

Deck the halls with greens and bows,

Fa la la la la, la la, la, la.

‘Tis the season to overdose,

Fa la la la la, la la, la, la.

Home baked cookies and peppermint bark,

Yada ya, yada ya, ya da ya.

Tipsy carolers after dark.

Yada yada ya, da ya da ya.

Tiny meatballs and cranberry punches,

Yummy yummy yum, y yum yum yum.

Leftovers for a week of lunches,

Yummy yummy—hmmm, and ho ho hum.

Oh, how good that eggnog tastes.

Slurpy slurp, slurpy slurp, drip drip drip.

Hail to thee, elastic waists!

Slurpy slurpy slurp and drip drip oops.

Months of dieting gone to hell.

Oofy oofy oof, y oof oof oof.

Today the scales reads… (I won’t tell.)

Oofy oofy oof, y oof oh my.

Fast away the season passes,

Blah blah blah, blah blah blah, blah blah blah.

Still can’t find my reading glasses.

Blah blah blah blah blur, blur blur blah blah.

Relax! Rejoice! Be of good cheer!

Fa la la yourself and yada ya.

January starts another year.

Yummy slurpy oof and blabbety blah blah.

WE THREE TREES

We three trees from Oriole are,

Bearing glitz from near and afar,

Field mice, found gems,

More glitz, round men,

 

Following shining stars.

Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays!

May you follow your shining stars in 2014 with peace, joy and good health.

Movie Rating System for Retirees

One of the most popular forms of entertainment for retirees is going to the movies, especially on Senior Discount Day. The two key seasons for movie releases are the summer months and December. If you’re planning to see a film over the holidays, you should familiarize yourself with the new rating system for retirees.

If the movie you’ll be seeing is rated B, make sure you go to the bathroom just before you take your seat. You should also refrain from drinking any liquids for at least three hours prior to show time. A B rating indicates either an extremely long feature (2½ hours plus) or lots of scenes with beverages being consumed. Enough said.

A rating of H alerts you to be sure your hearing aid has fresh batteries and the volume is set to the maximum. Films given an H either are filled with soft-spoken dialogue or have a cacophony of sounds that overlap. Either way, it’s hard to keep up if you miss even one line. Be sure to adjust your aid to the setting that filters out background noise.

To better enjoy a feature that carries a D rating, wear your distance glasses. It was shot in what the cinematographer calls the “artistic style.” Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, and one person’s “artistic” is another person’s eyestrain. Most scenes will be either darkly lit or out of focus, much like highways appear at night at our age. My distance glasses have become my cinematic essential, especially for a D flic. My typical challenge is remembering to bring them into the theater from the car.

If you’re catching a movie rated I and you’re not up on pop culture, bring a younger friend to act as an interpreter. Otherwise, you’ll have trouble keeping up with the lingo and the visual jokes. If you’re as pop savvy as I am, but the person you usually bring along with you (read: husband) is out of touch (read: totally clueless), you might want to attend an I film alone. Or else sit in the back of the theater so you won’t disturb others as you patiently explain (and re-explain) what’s going on.

The S rating stands for “snoozefest,” which you’ll be at risk of having if you don’t drink at least 16 ounces of a caffeinated beverage before the previews finish running. You’re probably wondering why you’d even go to see a feature that’s an S. Sometimes we’re not the masters of our own destiny. Drink up! Just be sure to hit the bathroom when you’ve finishing gulping.

Warning: R does not stand for Retiree-friendly. It means Restricted, aka Raunchy, and no one under 17 can attend without a parent. R is not as bad as NC-17, which is almost porn and cannot be attended by anyone 17 or under, period. The retiree equivalent is the NC-80 flic, which cannot be attended by anyone 80 or older. NC-80 was set up to prevent the elderly from having a coronary in the middle of especially graphic sex scenes. Apparently the rating board never heard what goes on in The Villages in Florida.

The commonly-seen PG indicates that a movie is relatively innocent. Retirees have the GP rating, which stands for grandparent. GP features are ideal for an outing with your grandchildren. You won’t long for a 5-second delay on the dialogue. You won’t need to keep one hand at the ready to cover young eyes. Best of all, the story line will be entertaining enough to keep you awake (and bathroom free) for about an hour and a half. (Films longer than that have a GP-X rating, for “extended.”)

Speaking of X, our final rating for retirees is the new X. The old X was replaced by the NC-17, a trademark controlled by the Motion Picture Association of America. The new X is loosely controlled by AARP. The X still stands for “explicit,” but what’s shown is not graphic sexual content. It’s close-ups of bunions, wrinkles and sagging body parts. If you see enough of this in your real life and don’t care to see more of it in the theater, avoid an X-rated flic like you do caffeine after 3 pm.

There you have it, a comprehensive guide to movie ratings for retirees. Refer to it when selecting your holiday season entertainment. Be sure to collect the appropriate movie-viewing tools. Or, you could just stay home and turn on the TV. The snacks are less expensive, and the line to the bathroom is shorter.

Epsom Salt—Miracle Cure?

A friend emailed me a link to an article on the benefits of Epsom salt. This friend is big on alternative remedies; she also loves the Tea Party, so her endorsements are subject to scrutiny. Some people will not see using “alternative remedies” and “Tea Party” in the same sentence as an oxymoron. I would not be one of them. However, the “9 Reasons To Use Epsom Salt” intrigued me, so I clicked through to TheAlternativeDaily.com.

First, they tell us: “Epsom salt is a mineral compound comprised of magnesium and sulfate... used for centuries as a natural remedy for a number of ailments.” My attention is waning, but I keep reading about this supposed miracle cure.

The site claims: “Both magnesium and sulfate are readily absorbed into the skin which makes the health benefits readily accessible. Over 325 enzymes in the body are regulated by magnesium... Sulfates improve the rate at which nutrients are absorbed and help to flush out toxins.”

I’m surprised that there are 325 enzymes in our bodies, period, much less ones that pay attention to magnesium. The site http://genomebiology.com explains that “622 of the (human) enzymes are assigned roles in 135 predicted metabolic pathways… (which) closely match the known nutritional requirements of humans.” Of course they do.

I Google “Uses for Epsom Salt,” turning up another website, http://www.saltworks.us, which has either directly quoted TheAlternativeDaily.com or has been plagiarized by the latter, in either case with no attribution. Since I don’t know which is the chicken here and which the egg, consider both sites as my sources. I should research this further (Is there a third, primary source?), but I want to get to all those uses.

Most websites group these into Health, Beauty and Home and Garden. Let’s start with Health, where there are a number of conditions that should prompt retirees to add Epsom salt to their shopping lists.

If you’re stressed (and what retiree isn’t), you could be deficient in magnesium. (Or, you could just be experiencing a normal retirement.) TheAlternativeDaily.com claims that “magnesium helps the body produce serotonin… a mood elevating chemical...” Call me a skeptic, but doesn’t a long soak in a tubful of Crabtree and Evelyn product do the same?

Got muscle pain? Again, what retiree doesn’t, at least occasionally? TheAlternativeDaily.com tells us: “The sulphates in Epsom salt draw heavy metals and other toxins from cells which can ease muscle pain.” Saltworks.us credits an Epsom salt soak with treating toenail fungus and easing gout—other senior plagues.

The last Health benefit is the relief of constipation. An empty container I have says take 2 teaspoons in water for a laxative effect, 4 for a cathartic. (That’s what Californians call a cleanse.) For those snickering about why I have Epsom salt, it was a yard sale find. I like the pink and black package graphics. It pre-dates zip codes, so it’s a collectible.

Moving on to Beauty. We’re told to use Epsom salt as an “exfoliating facial cleanser” by mixing it with coconut oil and rubbing it on our faces. It also serves as a “hair volumizer,” addressing that bane of senior women—thinning hair. This requires warming it in a pan with an equal amount of “deep conditioner,” then working it into the hair and leaving it on for 20 minutes.

Finally, let’s look at Home and Garden. The use that immediately catches my eye is for cleaning bathroom tiles. Mix “equal parts of Epsom salt with liquid dish detergent. Scrub tiles with the mixture and rinse well.” After reading this, I have two thoughts: Who would use the same product to cleanse their face as they use to clean tile grout? And then: Is it the Epsom salt doing this good stuff, or the coconut oil, the conditioner and the detergent?

Full disclosure: my research turned up a Canadian website, http://saveyourself.ca, that put the lie to virtually all the purported benefits of Epsom salt. The author, Paul Ingraham, could find scientifically-proven support for only one benefit: easing constipation, an internal use of the salts. He trashes all the external uses.

Ingraham claims that our “skin is almost completely waterproof.” I have two comments on that. First, we all know that “almost” doesn’t count. Second, tell it to the pharmaceutical companies that market patches for the transdermal delivery of drugs. Also to the makers of the caffeine-infused panties I blogged about two weeks ago.

Perhaps the most significant use for Epsom salt is as the inspiration for this Retirement Sparks blog post. On that note, I’m off to soak in the tub. But I’ll be filling mine with La Source body wash. I’ll also have a nice glass of vino by my side. Now that’s what I call a miracle cure.