Fall 2014 Potpourri

This seems like a good week for my Fall potpourri, especially since recent issues of Time magazine (particularly the Oct. 13 one) were full of tidbits that left me scratching my head. I found items that cover everything from crazy animal stories to alcoholic beverages.

Let’s start with animals. A gentleman from Canada was caught sneaking turtles into the U.S.—51 of them, to be exact. According to the magazine, he had them “hidden between his legs and strapped to his body.” I assume they weren’t the snapping turtle variety. Then again, someone stupid enough to do this probably didn’t think it through very well. There was nothing in the report about the status of his family jewels.

All the major networks picked up the story about the pooch that had a thing for socks. The Portland vet who unraveled this found 43 and a half of them in the Great Dane’s stomach. This raises several questions, like: What happened to that other half sock? If 43 ½ is the capacity of a Great Dane, what’s the capacity of a Dachshund? And of course, How do you remove 43 ½ socks from a Great Dane and what do you do with them afterward? I’m thinking it could give new meaning to “Salvation Army.”

And this from Jimmy Fallon: a zoo in Japan just realized that both hyenas they’ve been trying to mate for years are male. You may think this is funny, but for the two hyenas, it’s been no laughing matter. Thanks, Jimmy.

Now let’s talk some beer and wine. Scientists in Spain invented an “electronic tongue” that can tell one variety of beer from another. It’s 82% accurate, which is way better than I would be. You have to wonder how much beer they’ll taste before they find a practical use for such a tongue. Not to be outdone, the Danes came up with a machine that uses nanosensors to measure how dry a wine is. If they need someone to do quality control checks on the machine’s results, I’m their gal.

What is it about Europeans and their wine and beer? Belgium is building a pipeline 3 kilometers long that will chunnel—I mean funnel—beer from a big brewery to its bottling plant. It will mean 500 fewer delivery truck drivers on the roads (and at a rest stops after sampling too much of their cargo). Expect thousands of residents of Bruges to be praying that the conduit springs a leak near their house. Talk about a “pipe dream!”

The media has recounted a considerable number of dumb actions by a variety of humans. Like the postman in Brooklyn who had a hoarding problem. He kept over 40,000 personal letters that he chose not to deliver, who knows why. No word on whether he even read any of them. And then there’s the UPS worker who stole a diamond worth $160,000 and then traded it for some marijuana—$20 worth. Hello? I just can’t make this stuff up.

Some human activity was not just dumb, it was downright bizarre. The U.S. Coast Guard had to rescue a man who was “running” from Florida to Bermuda in a human hamster wheel (aka an inflatable paddle bubble). He was promoting world peace when he got caught up in the Gulf Stream. To his credit, he did ask the Coast Guard for directions to Bermuda earlier in his journey. (“Turn left at that big swell…”) Eventually exhausted (surprise, surprise), Mr. Hamster sent a message for help.

The hamster wheel also inspired the development of a new desk, created by two artists in San Francisco. You stand and pedal while you work. My husband wants one of these; he thinks it will help strengthen his knees. I have no idea if it will work, but if I can watch him going nowhere, I’ll buy one for him. If you’re thinking  “dumb and dumber,” I don’t blame you.

Finally, a tidbit from my mother’s homeland, again via Time. In a move to lower costs, Italy’s Parliament reduced from $172,000 to $125,000 the amount that its in-house hairdressers can get paid. Assumedly those are annual figures. Really? At those rates (even the reduced ones), they should call them estheticians. And along with your haircut and styling, you should get a mani-pedi and a coupon for cappuccino at George Clooney’s villa on Lake Como.

That will do it for this Fall’s potpourri post. Time to start collecting tidbits for Spring.

Five Levels of Condo Quirks

We’ve been in our new condominium for a month. I say “new,” but it was built about ten years ago, so it’s only new to us. Ten years is enough time to develop quirks that require varying degrees of adapting. Quirks can be categorized based on how much they disturb your psyche.

The first level is what I call a Minor Inconvenience. Rare is the household that doesn’t have at least a few of these. You get used to them once you find out how to deal with them.

The first Minor Inconvenience I came upon in our condo was a heavy-duty scrunchy (a covered elastic band) hanging from the knob on the pullout trash bin. At first I thought the previous owner had a ponytail, kept it handy to hold her hair out of the way while cooking and had forgotten it. Then I started poking around and discovered that when the bin is full, it doesn’t stay closed unless you loop the other end around the knob on the drawer above it. I can live with that.

The first Major Annoyance (level two) came with our garage door openers. None of them worked, not even the code for the keypad. I replaced the battery in the clicker. No luck. I tried the other two clickers (that I had received empty). Still nothing. The only thing that worked was the button by the kitchen door.

For several days, we opened and closed the garage door from inside, and exited and entered the house through the front door. Then I bought a new battery for the keypad, too. Success! Apparently, the clickers route through the keypad. You may be thinking: “This was a major annoyance?” Yes, it was. How can someone sell a house with all the garage devices having dead batteries? How did they get in and out? And how about a heads up at least!

Moving on to the third level of quirks: Impetus to a Psychotic Meltdown. These are the ones that drive you straight to the wine rack, hoping to find a screw top. What did me in were the crazy lights in our condo.

Some of them have basic flip switches that turn them on and off. Some have levers that slide up and down, with a subset of levers that have buttons on them, which turn the fixture on or off. The levers function like rheostats, but not in the turning motion that I’m familiar with.

Apparently, that wasn’t complex enough for the builder. Lights that are part of an overhead fan are controlled via a series of buttons, with a primary on-off for the power to the fixture, and a secondary on-off for the light. Have I lost you yet?

Finally, the lights in the master bath and the walk-in closet have hinky bulbs that have delayed illumination. Perhaps it’s to avoid shocking you on a middle-of-the-night potty run or during early-morning wardrobe selection, when you’re bleary-eyed. News flash! I’m retired. I don’t do bleary-eyed any more.

The first week we were here, I thought I’d have to replace the bulbs in these fixtures with higher wattage. Old folks need more light, after all. No sooner would this cross my mind, than I would notice things seemed brighter. I assumed my eyes had adjusted to the lower light. Around week two I realized that these were special bulbs that lit to their full wattage gradually. They’re still driving me to drink.

The fourth quirk level is what I like to think of as Justifiable Homicide—things that, if the seller didn’t warn you about them, give you the right to hunt them down in their new home and kill them. That would be the built in audio system in our condo. Every room is hooked up and has its own volume control. There’s also a master volume control. It doesn’t work. And there’s an On-Off button. It also doesn’t work.

I couldn’t figure out how to turn off the system. The cable installation guy couldn’t disconnect it without losing the cable source. The go-to handyman for our community couldn’t figure out how to turn it off. I tuned the unit to our radio station of choice, NPR, and turned the volume down everywhere. I could still hear voices coming from the wall behind the main unit. Eventually, I dragged the machine out of its cubbyhole and pulled the power plug. Blessed silence.

Which brings me to the fifth and final level of quirkiness, which I reached this week. When something weird happens now, I shrug my shoulders and say: “Who Cares?” Lucky thing for the people we bought from that I’m there. Otherwise I’d kill them for certain if I ever met them.

Designer Dogs for Retirees

I recently noted that virtually all the canine pets in our condo development are small breeds. I’m not sure why. Our association doesn’t cap the allowable weight of pets, only the number (two). But some communities limit dogs to 30 pounds. On the heels of this finding, I noticed that Time magazine included a feature on designer dogs in its “The Answers Issue.” This confluence of tidbits unleashed the idea for this week’s post.

Since many retirees live where pet weight is regulated, I’ve included a number of smaller creatures in my collection. Read the details of each designer breed to find the perfect one for your needs.

New members of a condo community may want a dog that conveys status. The best choice for a high-end symbol is the LhaChiDa—a blend of Lhasa Apso and Chihuahua, with just a hint of Dalmation in the lineage. The Dal parent harks back several generations, assuring that the LhaChiDa will not get too large and will have only small and occasional (not too) black spots. As Chris Farley aka Matt Foley used to say on Saturday Night Live: “Well, la-dee-frickin-da.”

Speaking of Farley, those who have packed on the pounds since they stopped going to work should consider a Porkie. This Pug—Yorkshire Terrier crossbreed is so chubby that just looking at it will provide incentive for you to exercise daily. A word of caution: the Porkie may want to join you on your daily walks. If it loses too much weight, it will begin to look like a Shar-Pei. Ditto for its owners.

Retirees generally make frequent doctors visits, where they’re likely to spend considerable time in the waiting room. The perfect dog to tuck into your medical tote for company is the Dachsador. This Dachshund—Labrador mix loves going to the doctor’s office. It’s sized like the Dachshund, but it’s as devoted as the Lab. And please don’t send me any jokes about lab tests. Or cat scans.

For older women who have become dependent on weekly appointments at the beautician, we recommend the Pompador. This cross between a Pomeranian and a Labrador has the size and pouf of its smaller mother and the temperament of its larger father. Note that if you cross a male Pomeranian with a female Labrador you get a Labramanian. These dogs are used to search for truffles in certain Balkan countries.

While we’re on the subject of hair, a designer dog for those who are going bald is the TerPei. This Terrier—Shar-Pei mix has been bred to perch comfortably on top of your head when you leave home. Sometimes affectionately called the Terpe, this wonderful little guy will happily drape on top of you like a small rug. Your friends and neighbors will have no idea how thin your own hair has become underneath all his wrinkles.

Retirees are prone to bragging about their grandchildren, often exaggerating their achievements and talents. We have two breeds especially for them. The first is the Malorkie, a Maltese—Yorkshire Terrier blend. This is the choice for grandparents who embellish only slightly about their progeny. The second is the BullShitz, a Bulldog—Shih Tzu crossbreed. This is the go-to option for those who fabricate outright the successes of their grandkids, who of course have zero shortcomings.

If you’ve moved into a community where you’re worried about your neighbors snooping, consider getting a SharpShooTer to guard your homestead. This breed has a pair of designer parents: a Shar Pei/Shih Tzu mix on its mother’s side, and a Poodle/Terrier union on its father’s. It looks like a cute little thing, so it lures snoopers into a false sense of security as they lurk in your bushes. Then the yappy, manic influence of its father emerges, startling the intruder into a frantic retreat.

For retirees who are addicted to catalog shopping, the Speagle will be a valuable companion. This Spaniel—Beagle cross is a true hunting dog. It has a storied history of helping its owners find obscure products by sniffing through hundreds of pages in just minutes. You can generally adopt a Speagle online.

Finally, the perfect designer dog for retirees who have discovered the joys of napping is the Schnoozer. This Schnauzer—Poodle creation is at home lying on any soft horizontal surface. As long as you have room for this mid-sized pet, you’ll have company on your afternoon nap no matter where you decide to take it. If you live in a small condominium, you might want to opt for the sub-breed, the MiniSchnoozer. It’s a cross between a Miniature Schnauzer and a Toy Poodle. And no, it doesn’t take catnaps.

There you have it. Ten designer dogs created especially for retirees. I’m here to serve. (You know you missed me…)

Settling in to the Condo

We’ve been in our condo for just three weeks and I’m already aware of some of the community’s idiosyncrasies. We have rules from the golf club (which we joined as social members) and bylaws from the condo association. There also appear to be unwritten behavioral guidelines that neighbors follow as closely as the written ones.

Let’s start with the golf club. It’s no surprise that they expect folks to wear shoes in the clubhouse. And it’s comforting that they don’t consider flip-flops to be shoes. I’m not sure whether the tank tops that are banned are only the ones that Guidos wear down at the Jersey Shore, or if that also includes the sleeveless knit tops that women wear. Also needing clarification is the ruling that men must tuck their shirttails into their pants. Is a straight hem a shirttail?

This last point is important for us, because my husband spends the summer in those oversized printed shirts that are often described as Hawaiian. They’re meant to be worn outside the pants. My husband has a slight frame, and he likes his summer shirts loose. If he had to tuck them in, he’d look like a mailbag with the cinch string drawn tight. I guarantee that his flapping tails would be far more socially acceptable.

Moving on to the condo bylaws. The community is extremely attractive to drive through. Though there are a limited number of building models and exterior colors, they’re sited in ways that avoid the look of a plan book community. And it’s guaranteed to stay that way, because the bylaws state that you can paint your unit using only an approved exterior color. And using the association’s painters.

That control extends to the inside of your unit, at least with regard to what is visible to the neighbors. Specifically, the window treatments one hangs must be white. Or else they must be lined in white, so that color is what is seen from the street. This gives new meaning to “plain vanilla.” It also describes the ethnicity of the neighbors we’ve seen on the streets thus far.

Speaking of what’s on the streets: there seems to be an unwritten size limitation on the dogs here. Virtually every home has exactly one dog in residence, which pet is dutifully walked on the shared greenery at least twice a day. With a singular exception, we’ve not seen a dog that couldn’t fit in our vintage cat carrier. On the subject of cats, Luke appears to be the only feline in the community, but he hasn’t been out and about much yet. He’s still exploring inside his new home.

Returning to how attractive the place is on a drive through. It should be. They water the lawns every morning, even if it rained overnight. Not surprisingly, that much watering is accompanied by virtually nonstop mowing. An armada of lawn care vehicles can be heard in and around our condo several times a week. And since we overlook the 13^th fairway, we’re also treated to the sound of mowing (and mowing and mowing) down behind our unit every week.

Absent that, the place is unbelievably peaceful and quiet. We often wake to early morning fog on the fairway. As it lifts, it reveals the wooded area opposite our new home. Beyond that is an abandoned railroad right-of-way. The tracks run along the river, and though we can’t see it, its presence contributes to the quietude behind us.

The only other interruption of the exquisite silence is the thunk of golf balls bouncing off our condo siding a few times a week. I even found one on our deck Labor Day weekend. That deck is outside our living room, which has a wall of windows about 16 feet high. I can live with thunking. I just hope I don’t start hearing the sound of breaking glass. I suppose that’s just one of the risks that come with the beauty of golf course living. So far, it’s definitely worth it. Stay tuned.

10 Reasons Paper Newspapers Are Better Than E-Papers

Conventional newspapers are struggling to stay in business. To paraphrase the Ikea ad for its “book book” catalog, readers of “paper papers” are increasingly migrating to e-papers, the electronic versions of the daily press. E-papers may be convenient, but there are certain things that they can never do that the printed versions of newspapers can. Herewith 10 reasons paper papers are better than e-papers.

10. You can’t utilize e-papers to pack kitchen crockery and glasses when you move.
I’ve used and reused more sheets than I can count this summer as we moved from our house to a temporary apartment and then to our condo.

9. You can’t clean windows with e-papers and a spray bottle of ammonia water.
A Household Hints for the Budget Conscious list that’s worth it’s salt will always include this as a cost effective way to clean glass around the house.

8. You can’t cut an e-paper into the same sizes as your prints and tape them to the wall behind your couch so you can plan the layout without making holes.
This tried and true method for perfect picture placement is yet another way that paper papers come in handy when you’re relocating.

7. You can’t use a rolled-up e-paper to discipline a puppy during potty training (and you can’t spread it out where the puppy tends to make its mistakes).
Remember: just a gentle tap on the puppy’s snout. Not his fanny and never a hard hit.

6. You can’t swat horseflies with a rolled-up e-paper.
Yes, it’s tough to swat flies with a rolled up newspaper, but if you’re persistent, you can at least scare them to someone else’s table.

5. You can’t wad up an e-paper and stuff it into the toes of your wet hiking boots to dry them out.
Ditto for your street shoes that got soaked when you tried to jump the puddles in the road and missed.

4. You can’t insulate your long underwear with an e-paper when you’re camping.
And if you’re a senior, you probably wear long underwear all winter, camping or not.

3. You won’t find an e-paper cut into squares and nailed to the wall of a water closet in a one-star pensione in Europe.

In the late ‘60’s, I traveled with my own roll of TP. It was especially useful with the toilets that were just a hole in the ground. Two-star pensiones had porcelain floor plates with footprints molded in, to help you straddle the hole for better aim.

2. You can’t fold an e-paper into a discrete book cover for your copy of 50 Shades of Grey when you’re reading poolside at your club.
For those living under a rock, the movie version is set to release on Valentine’s Day, 2015. Be sure to get your refresher read in before then. Or not.

And the number one reason a paper newspaper is better than an e-paper:

1. You can’t line a litter box with an e-paper.
I pick up the free monthly papers expressly for this purpose. First a wee-wee pad. Then five or six broadsheets. Then four 1-quart saucepans of litter. And no, I don’t cook with the same pan. It’s just for Luke’s needs.

So you see, we’d all be lost without conventional newspapers, but me especially. Please do your civic duty and buy at least one paper paper every week. You’ll have my gratitude. And also Luke’s.

In Search of the Perfect Sunglasses

September may seem an odd time to write about sunglasses, but my friend, Sid, has pointed out that seniors should protect their eyes with sunglasses all year long. Also, in case you didn’t notice, I was on posting hiatus all summer while I was in housing (and Internet) limbo. That’s when one of the morning TV shows ran a feature on sunglasses.

The hosts modeled a variety of designs, from aviators to oversized “glamour” styles. I recognized many of them as looks I’ve worn over the years. Some dated back to the sixties and early seventies and could best be described as retro-hippie. Others were inspired by celebrities who popularized them via publicity shots for a hit movie or in a “selfie” posted on Instagram.

The TV segment made me realize that the needs I have now in sunglasses are vastly different from what I looked for in my earlier years. While I'm attracted to ones that are stylish, I’ve reached the “function vs. form” stage of my life. It’s not important for me to look trendy. What’s essential is that I don’t trip or bump into things when I’m wearing them and that I’m not blinded by the midday sun. There are a few additional requirements that I look for in the perfect sunglasses.

One thing I can’t stand in any type of glasses is rims that block vision clarity. I don’t want to keep looking to the side to see what’s there when it’s actually the frames that are distracting me. Likewise, I don’t want to have to keep tipping my head up or down so the upper edge isn’t smack in the middle of the wine label I’m trying to read. I’m not a bobble-head doll.

A related pet peeve is openings on the sides of sunglasses that let glare in. This means that some amount of wrap-around is in order. But at our age, we’re no Bono. We’re not even Bono-wannabes. Our mantra is “everything in moderation.” Well, everything except wine, that is.

Speaking of age, bifocals are important, even in sunglasses, but they shouldn’t be visibly bi. I want to wear the same pair when I’m reading a book by the pool as I do when I’m driving. If I need two separate pairs, I’m bound to get them mixed up. I’ll be wondering why I have to hold the book so far away to read the print and why I have to lean over the steering wheel to see what’s in front of my car. I’ve done dual-pairs-on-dueling-leashes before and I almost strangled myself more than once. It wasn’t pretty.

Also along the lines of dual functions, the automatic transition from outdoors to indoors would be helpful. We make plenty of trips to the bathroom at our age. A quick changeover from sunlight to a darker room would be a plus, since we won’t always have time to take off our sunglasses before we head to the loo. If you’ve ever sneezed when looking into the sun, you know what I’m talking about.

Moving on to cosmetic issues, the sunglasses must be light enough so they don’t leave a ridge on the bridge of my nose, or skin flaps on its sides. My mother had those marks from wearing her regular glasses all the time. When working indoors, I check my nose in the mirror several times a day. If I see even a hint of a ridge or a flap, I massage in some Nivea and take the glasses off for a spell. I’m not vain enough to carry a mirror around outside, so my sunglasses will have to prevent this problem on their own merit.

Those of us of a certain age need sunglasses of moderate size, regardless of whatever is the current trend. They can’t be too big. We’re not Sophia Loren or Elton John, after all. And they can’t be too small. We’re also not Yoko Ono or Benjamin Franklin. The best way to be sure you’re picking a “moderate” size is to lay out a group of glasses that meet all the other above requirements. Then throw out the largest and the smallest ones. What’s left should be acceptable.

Finally, the perfect sunglasses must be affordably priced without doing one of those “buy-one-get-second-pair-at half-off” deals that usually wind up costing more than twice what buying just one should cost. I’m not looking for something from the dollar store. I just don’t want the cost eating into my wine budget. After all, not even a perfect pair of sunglasses is worth giving up a nice bottle of Chianti Classico.

The “Movin’ Out” Song

“Movin’ Out” to the tune of Razzle Dazzle 

Elaine:             Singin’ the old “Movin’ Out” song,

Movin’ outta here.

Chorus:                        Packin’ up their gear.

Elaine:             Boxing up things that bring me happiness;

Others may think they’re just a crappy mess.

Singin’ the old “Throw Things Out” song,

            Movin’ outta here.

Chorus:                        Packin’ up their gear.

Elaine:             How can I part with any of this stuff?

What if we really need it some day?

What if it’s worth kaching! on EBay?

Movin’ outta here

‘Cause enough is enough!

Elaine:             Chantin’ the old “Pack It Up” tune,

Headin’ outta here.

Chorus:                        Boxes up the rear.

Elaine:             Give me the taping gun and bubble wrap;

I’ll have this done within a double snap.

Singin’ the “Closets Have No Bottoms,”

Headin’ outta here.

Chorus:                        Boxes up the rear.

Elaine:             Carefully marking top and sides in bold.

Movers won’t read ‘em when they stack ‘em;

Writing will all be on the back ends.

Headin’ outta here

‘Cause our house finally sold!

Elaine:             Dancin’ the “Black and Blue Marks” tango,

Gettin’ outta here.

Chorus:                        Closing day is near.

Elaine:             Carrying boxes down two flights of stairs,

Bumpety bump! Who put that carton there?

Singin’ the “Oh, My Aching Back” tune,

Gettin’ outta here.

Chorus:                        Closing day is near.

Elaine:             Time to rethink what needs to get marked “Keep.”

My how that “Donate” pile is growing,

Trash barrels now are overflowing.

Gettin’ outta here.

I could sure use some sleep!

Elaine:             Hummin’ “We’re Gonna Find A New Place”,

Nothing falling down.

A condominium will be the best.

No mowin’ lawns, no battles with weeds.

Nothing so old it makes my purse bleed.

Movin’ outta here

Chorus:            Movin’ outta here

All together:    Movin’ outta here

And it’s time for a rest.

Speaking of taking a rest, this will be my last blog post for the rest of the summer. We’ll be subletting a third floor walk-up not far from Jagdish’s store until we land in our new home, hopefully within a few months. I’m not moving our phone land line there or getting any Internet access, so I’ll be on hiatus. Have a great summer everyone!

Revisionist Recreation for Retirees

If you’re looking for low-stress recreation, now is a great time to be retiring. Changes that are afoot for golf and chess will make both of these activities more senior-friendly.

Courses around the country are testing revisions aimed at making golf more relaxing for seniors. “Aimed” is the operative word here. Those who are especially unskilled at putting that little white ball into that almost-as-little cup are a key audience for this trend.

The lead to an April N. Y. Times article by Bill Pennington got my attention: “Golf holes the size of pizzas.” Pennington tells us that industry leaders worry about golf “following the baby boomer generation into the grave.” This is not an image I want in my head as I watch golf on Sunday afternoon TV. To re-quote pro Sergio Garcia on the new rules: “A 15-inch hole could help… older golfers score better.” Ya think? And don’t expect me to dig deeper into scoring in a 15-inch hole. You can go there on your own.

Another idea being kicked around is foot golf, using soccer balls, along with those pizza-sized holes. A key objective is to reduce the intimidation many folks feel when confronted with golf’s single set of rules for experts and amateurs alike. What’s the big deal if they have a second set of rules that are more retiree-friendly? It’s not like someone who wants to play just 9 holes with cups that he can actually see without his driving glasses on is going to compete in a PGA sanctioned event.

The TV commentators spend a lot of time discussing a pro’s club selection. I gather they can carry only a limited number of clubs in their bag during a tournament under the current rules. That sounds like an advantage to me. I’d be as confused over which club to use as I would be over which golf shoes to wear with what outfit. Give me just two clubs, but put a different head thingy on each end. If it doesn’t work one way, I’ll turn it upside down and try again.

Speaking of trying again, another idea being floated is to help inept players get out of especially rough spots without levying penalty shots. Mulligans for all! And for every hole. (I used to think a mulligan was a style of golf shoe, by the way.) Just kick it out of that sand hazard. Or better yet, toss it out with your ungloved hand.

Even the PGA is on board with simplifying the game, tradition be damned. But don’t worry, plaid pants and wildly colored shirts will still be de rigueur for tournaments. Well, that’s a relief.

If your participation leans more in the armchair direction, you might be interested in efforts underway to make chess a spectator sport. This tidbit was reported in the Financial Times global section. Andrew Paulson, an entrepreneur with very deep pockets—and loads of patience, apparently—has set off on a crusade to make this happen.

Reporter James Crabtree claims Paulson “plans to infuse chess with… sponsorship deals and… razzmatazz.” As I read this, the strains of the song “Razzle Dazzle” from Chicago began playing in my brain. “Give ‘em the old Razzle Dazzle, razzle-dazzle ‘em. Long as you keep 'em way off balance, how can they spot you've got no talents? Razzle-dazzle 'em, and they'll make you a star!”

One piece of so-called razzmatazz would be biometric bracelets worn by the players. They’d track things like heart rate and perspiration level, “giving spectators an instant sense of the stresses faced at the board.” I don’t know about you, but I’m all tingly with anticipation just thinking about this.

Paulson is quoted as saying: “If you can persuade millions to watch golf, chess is going to be an easy sell.” Not so fast, Paulson. If you’d read Pennington’s article, you’d know that golf isn’t such an easy sell anymore, either. Maybe if they add mulligans to chess, we’d get some real excitement. “Oops! You just captured my queen. My bad. I’d like a do-over, thank you.”

Crabtree put his finger on the biggest stumbling block to making chess must-see TV. Sponsors are giving it a wide berth because the man who has run the sport for decades is an eccentric, to put it mildly. Perhaps this is due to the fact that (according to him) aliens once abducted him. On the plus side, they sent him back to earth with the knowledge that they had created the game of chess. You just can’t make this stuff up. Well, maybe you can. But this time I didn’t. Honest.

In Search of the Perfect Lawn Chair

Summer’s almost here. It’s time to drag the patio furniture from the basement storage and tune up the barbecue grill. Or maybe your furniture is kept overhead in the garage and you’re a fan of cold salads. Either way, you’re probably thinking about replacing some of your seasonal seating.

Whether it’s in the front yard, on the back deck or in a sunny spot at the local shore, there’s a place in everyone’s summer life where they like to stretch out on a comfortable lawn chair. Notice that we call it a “lawn” chair even if it sits on a slate patio, a wooden pallet or a sandy beach. The more time you spend on it, the more you appreciate the importance of finding the perfect lawn chair.

When I was working full time, this wasn’t a major concern. I sat down so infrequently on weekends that an aluminum folding chair with missing webbing was just fine. Or one of those stackable plastic ones you find in the promotional aisle at the supermarket every Spring. Now that I’m retired and we’re ready to downsize, I expect to spend a lot of time relaxing outdoors. This realization sent me in search of the perfect lawn chair.

My first stop was one of those pseudo-hardware stores that load up on seasonal supplies, changing much of their stock four times a year. I tried out updated versions of my webbed aluminum beach chair. One model had straps so narrow that they cut into my ample fanny, leaving parts of me drooping through the gaps. Another one, with wider straps, had no give at all, which meant no air circulation. Not a good design for the hot sun.

I found one with webbing that seemed just right, so I sat down. Because I’m short (one half inch shorter than last year, according to my GP), my feet didn’t touch the ground unless I pointed my toes, giving me a cramp. A similarly-webbed option looked closer to the ground. When I tried it out, I discovered it was too close to Mother Earth. My knees accordioned under my chin and I had to tip the chair on its side to get out of it.

I headed to one of the larger home goods stores that have an entire section devoted to patio and garden needs. Not a single chair there had webbing or an aluminum frame. This boded well. Instead we had “genuine California redwood” and “environmentally-sensitive repurposed plastic.” Be still my heart.

I jumped right into phase two of my assessment process: adjusting the tilt. I picked a friendly looking chair and set it at a promising angle before I sat down. I was pleased to see that my feet reached the ground but my knees didn't hit my chin (or boobs). The angle I had chosen was fine if I planned to do some reading, but I needed to lean back more if I wanted to take a nap.

I moved the tilt lever (carefully, I thought) and instantly I was flat on my back with my shirtsleeve caught in the lever. I was virtually immobile. After about ten minutes, another shopper wandered by and rescued me. Being the adventurous type, I tried out several more loungers, with similar results. About an hour later (and after my fourth rescue), I decided to go back to the drawing board.

By drawing board, I mean my car, in which I drove to a specialty retailer that carries nothing but summer furniture. Here I discovered another criterion to narrow the choices in my search for the perfect lawn chair: price. My budget eliminated three-quarters of the stock displayed so invitingly throughout the store. At least I had an attentive employee to help untangle me if necessary.

Speaking of help, my salesperson asked an unexpected question: “Have you ever considered a hammock?” I resisted the urge to ask: “Have you considered having your head examined?” Instead I answered meekly: “My joints are creaky. I have zero core strength and even less balance. Do you have a hammock that addresses those issues?” It turns out he did not. But what he did have was the perfect lawn chair for me.

When I first sat down, I was practically standing up. I pushed a button and it gently set me at just the right level for my height. I pushed another button, and it tilted me back for a snooze. It came with a waterproof cover and a spare power pack. It even had (wait for it...) a special cup holder for my wine cooler!

It also came with a price tag that placed it well into that three-quarters of their stock above my budget. I bought it anyway. Let’s face it. The perfect lawn chair is priceless.

Recovering Stolen Wheels

U.S. cities have been experiencing a rash of bicycle thefts, especially of high-end rides. At least two municipalities have special efforts in place to put the brakes on this activity. Police park pricey “bait bikes” in high-theft zones—bikes with GPS chips hidden in them. In Madison, Wisconsin, bike snatchings were down 40% the first year the GPS program took effect. In San Francisco, once cops catch up with the thieves, they tweet photos of them with the message “thank you 4 taking our bait bike.”

Bicycles aren’t the only personal conveyances seeing a rise in thefts. Retirees with limited incomes have taken to boosting four-wheelers from their neighbors. For some, it’s the only way they can become mobile again. Their families have taken away their car keys, usually because they’ve had numerous accidents. An elderly person driving a stolen conveyance is eight times as likely to get into a collision as a legitimate driver is. I guess they’re nervously looking over their shoulders instead of looking both ways.

The Villages in Florida reports a 60% increase in motorized scooters being stolen over the past two years. These numbers are overblown, however, because a considerable percentage of the reported thefts turn out to be someone having forgotten where they parked their wheels. Still, the snatchings are definitely on the rise and communities are encouraging members to use GPS technology to facilitate tracking down the errant vehicles.

For several condo developments in North Carolina that surround golf courses, golf carts are the primary method of transportation. So much so, that each condo comes with its own cart when you purchase the home. You’d think that would mean none of these get stolen, since everyone has his own. You would be wrong. Apparently, some retirees collect carts the way Jay Leno collects vintage cars. The trouble is, unlike Jay, those retirees are pinching most of their acquisitions.

All over the country, desperate retirees are becoming increasingly clever in disguising their thievery. One enterprising senior had custom decals made with the faces of his four grandchildren. He plastered them all over the stolen Jazzy scooter, assuming that would be proof that he owned the vehicle; but the hidden GPS chip tripped him up. When the ride was returned to its rightful owner, she covered the thief’s offspring with photos of her own grandchildren—all twelve of them. Talk about one-upmanship!

GPS helped track the NC golf cart culprit to a storage facility about a five iron away from his own condo. Inside were four missing carts, none still wearing its original paint. The duffer with sticky fingers also had a passion for painting. He insisted these were all his “original works of art,” but the trackers told a different story. He was forced to move out of his condo community. The bitterest pill was that he had to leave behind his own cart, painted in all its creative glory. It stayed with the unit when he left.

So far as we know, none of these retirement developments has made the foray into baiting conveyances yet. The four-wheelers that have been stolen all belonged to seniors who simply left their rides in the wrong place at the wrong time, something seniors are particularly adept at.

If the stealing trend continues to escalate, expect the condo police to mimic the professional ones in SF and Madison. They’ll leave shiny, tricked out Jazzys with GPS in tempting spots for unsuspecting seniors. When they catch up with the culprits, they’ll hand them cards that read: “You’ve been taken for a ride on my bait scooter.” Then they’ll spend two frustrating hours explaining what a “bait scooter” is and how GPS works. Come to think of it, that’s probably why they’ve been in no rush to roll with the new technology.

Red Velvet Fever

A few months back I was salivating over the Cinnabon craze. I shared a number of product line extensions and licenses introduced by the owner of that trademark. I also had some sweet ideas of my own. Today’s post is in a similar vein. It was inspired by the NY Times article: “Red Velvet Cake: A Classic, not a Gimmick.” In my shrine of confectionary treasures, Red Velvet Cake (RVC) would be right up there next to the Cinnabon.

The Times article describes RVC as having “cocoa undertones and cream-cheese tang” that can easily be recreated in a lab. Adams Extract Company markets an RV cake mix complete with bottles of the extract and red dye. Some of the non-edible RVC products available are the predictable scented candles and air fresheners. Less yawn-inducing are the body mist and red velvet vodka.

As I did with the Cinnabon, I’ve conjured up some products for retirees that incorporate the undertones and tang of red velvet. I doubt any of my ideas will outshine the red velvet waffles served at Freddy J’s BBQ in Buffalo, but here goes.

The first items on my list are Red Velvet Bath Sponges and Shower Poufs. Retirees are sometimes tempted to substitute a quick sink-side swish of the important areas for a full shower on days when we have no plans to go out. Our dermatologists may even have suggested that our aging skin will fare better without a ritual scrubbing every day. It will be hard to resist a hot shower, or even a lukewarm bath, if the aroma of RVC is wafting in the air. Your unexpected guests will thank me for this.

Taking the body mist idea into a more functional mode, RVC Insect Repellent will allow us to lounge a bit longer on the patio at sundown without fear of being “eaten alive,” as my mother used to say. The RVC formulation will be so treacly that most mosquitos will want no part of it. Those that are brave enough to land on your skin will keel over from cloying nostrils, or whatever part of the anatomy an insect breathes through.

Seniors will be especially excited to try Powdered RVC Psyllium Husks. This new source of fiber is expected to sell three times the volume of orange-flavored Metamucil. I can’t believe Procter & Gamble has owned that staple of retirement for almost thirty years and they never thought of a RVC line extension.

I’m also hopping on one of the hottest beverage crazes, energy drinks, by introducing RVC Vitamin Water. Actually, I can’t call it Vitamin Water; that’s a trademark. So I’ll call it Red Velvet Cake Vigor Eau. Rhymes with Figaro. Google tells me there’s a men’s cologne called Vigor, or more correctly: Vigor Eau de Toilette. But since you don’t drink that (or at least, you’re not supposed to), I think I’ll be OK with my RVC Vigor Eau.

If the reason you crave Vigor Eau is that you’ve been exercising strenuously, there’s a good chance (as an older person) that you’ve sprained something and need to wear an Ace bandage for awhile. To help take the sting out of the experience, I’ve created a Red Velvet Cake Elastic Wrap. Every time you unroll it and stretch it around your sprain, you get a fresh whiff of RVC. Almost makes it worth working out. I said almost.

One of my favorite new products are my Red Velvet Slipper Socks, and not just because they are, of course, red. They’re knitted of chenille yarn soaked in genuine red velvet extract from the Adams Extract Company. The toes have packets of cream-cheese-flavored body lotion so they moisturize while you walk. If your partner has a foot fetish, expect lots of massages and some toe-licking—a win-win. Or not.

Finally, I’m line extending one of the items I developed in response to the Cinnabon Craze. Soon you’ll be able to buy Red Velvet Cake Postage Stamps. As with the Cinnabon ones, they’ll be the type you have to lick. So they’ll not only smell good, they’ll taste great. I’ve decided these stamps are such a brilliant idea that I’m working on an Americana Baked Goods collection for the USPS. In addition to the Cinnabon and RVC, you’ll get Carrot Cake and Strawberry Shortcake stamps—four options on one block! You can thank me later.

Strange Apologies, Stranger Wildlife—Spring Potpourri

It’s time for a Spring Potpourri post. This one features news reports of strange apologies and even stranger wildlife items. Some are over a year old, but they were buried deep down in the news media, so you might not have seen them. There are not many headliners here, and for good reason.

My favorite is a quote from a February 2013 issue of Ad Age, which provides a fine example of hyperbolic understatement. “We would like to take this opportunity to apologize to our customers for any inconvenience caused.” This from U.K. company Findus after 100% of the meat in its “beef” lasagna was found to be horse meat. Inconvenience? Ya think?

Tyson Foods also had some problems with the contents of its meat products. In April of this year, 75,000 pounds of its chicken nuggets were recalled because of possible plastic contamination. I guess the recall was more cost effective than changing the ingredient labeling on the packages.

More embarrassing, but not a danger to your health: last Fall the Vatican apologized for misspelling a name on a commemorative medal honoring Pope Francis I. “Big whoop!” you’re thinking. But what if I told you the name with the typo was Jesus. Apparently it showed up as “Lesus.” Maybe the engraver was dyslexic. Or should I say: dysjexic?

This next one is not exactly an apology, but more of an explanation. Or perhaps an explanation that warrants an apology. Again in April of this year, Taco Bell president, Brian Niccol, was asked when their breakfast menu would be available in Canada. His answer, sans apology: “When you take Justin Bieber back.” It almost makes me want to find out what’s on that breakfast menu.

Moving on to stranger wildlife (stranger than Justin Bieber, anyway). These were reported in an April 2014 issue of Time magazine in a “Roundup” of unusual diplomatic gifts. First: a wine cooler shaped like a giant grasshopper (from French President George Pompidou to Queen Elizabeth in 1972). Second: a $51,000 crocodile-insurance policy (taken out in 2011 on President Obama by an official in Australia’s Northern Territory). No explanation on how they came up with the $51,000 coverage line.

Here’s a poignant one. The Ugly Animal Preservation Society (yes, there is such a group) in 2013 named the Blobfish the world’s ugliest animal. The competition was dedicated to "raising the profile of some of Mother Nature's more aesthetically challenged children." Said the Blobfish upon learning of its dubious honor: “Yeah? Well, sticks and stones, and all that.” It was an idle taunt, as it turns out. The Blobfish has no bones to break. It’s just a, well—blob. Like a heap of Jello that fell out of its mold before it set. The only thing it has to break is a tender, bruised heart.

Finally, here’s an item from the current issue of Time. A U.K. study found that one in five people would have sex with a robot. I haven’t decide whether the “strange wildlife” in this one is the homo sapiens who would consider this, or the humanoid robot willing to be its partner. Either way, there’s definitely something strange afoot there.

That’s it for this year’s Spring Potpourri. I’ll keep collecting this stuff if you’ll keep reading it. Who am I kidding? I’ll keep collecting it even if you don’t keep reading it.

Aging’s Real “Tell”

My girlhood friends and I looked forward to the summer carnivals in a nearby town, especially the man who guessed your age. Like many girls in their teens, we wanted to appear older. The man always pegged us to within a year (the agreed upon window for him to be correct). I couldn’t understand how he got it right. Looking back, I suppose it was easy. A group of giggling girls had to be about the same age. He probably scanned our faces, threw out the high and low estimates and went with the average.

Now at the opposite end of the age scale, I prefer to be gauged younger than I am. The older I get, the less often that happens. At first, I blamed this on my graying hair, so I started dying the roots. That helped for a few years, but gradually, the knowing looks and the polite “ma’ams” started again.

At that point, I assumed it was those stubborn age spots on my face and the backs of my hands. I tried using Porcelana cream for awhile. (I got test formulations for free while I was on a consulting project for the company that marketed it.) After a few months with minimal fading, I lost interest (and patience) and used some makeup concealer instead.

As I applied the cream to my hands, I realized that my knuckles were getting that craggy look that comes with the advent of arthritis. A sure sign of aging. I remember someone telling me that the hands were one of the ways the carnival age-guessers pegged the older women.

Then there was the pooch under my neck. As I aged, I gained weight. With the weight came more of a pooch. A pooch in and of itself doesn’t make you look old. What’s left behind when you lose that weight does. Now that I’ve shed 35 pounds since last year’s shock-inducing physical, my neck pooch has turned into an out-and-out wattle. Wattles make you look old. They need to be covered with things like turtlenecks and scarves. Or necklaces with fat beads. Or multiple strands. Or multiple strands of fat beads.

As I took inventory of these signs of aging over the years, I thought I had accounted for everything that would give away my age. I didn’t have a plan for hiding all of those “tells,” but I could do a passable job of camouflaging most of them. I thought I had my appearance under control. Until a few weekends ago.

Sunday mornings are the time we lollygag around the bedroom for awhile before we head down to watch the political talk shows. For those who are snickering, “lollygag” is not a code word for sex. I’m using it as the around-the-house equivalent of puttering in the garage or workshop.

One recent Sunday, my lollygagging led me to clip my toenails. That’s when the real “tell” about old age hit me. I always had cute feet; small feet; delicate feet. The beginnings of a bunion, perhaps, but not that prominent. My arches were pronounced from years of wearing high heels in Manhattan on my walk from the Port Authority to Park and 50^th and back every day. But that just made them look cuter.

I need to take a step backward for a moment and tell you about what happened to my mother as she got older. She visited a podiatrist every few months to have her toenails clipped. I thought it was because she wasn’t limber enough to clip them herself. To that end, I do stretching exercises every morning, making sure my toes stay well within reach. But without my reading glasses, they’re just a blur down there.

When I put on my glasses that Sunday the better to clip my nails, I was stunned by what I saw. My feet are not cute anymore. I now have old feet and ugly-ass toenails. I recognized them almost immediately. They’re my mother’s toenails, the ones that forced her to prevail upon a podiatrist for pedicures. Perhaps the reason she made those trips wasn’t because she couldn’t reach her toes. Perhaps it was because she couldn’t bear to look at her nails close up.

There it is. The hard, bitter truth. The real “tell” of aging isn’t gray hair. It isn’t age spots. It’s not wrinkled knuckles or a neck wattle. It’s those ugly-ass toenails and I have them.

Taking a holiday from blogging this weekend.
Celebrating a belated milestone HS reunion in NJ.
Jagdish and Luke will be holding down the fort.