Sax Appeal — The Journey Begins

On Monday I have my first saxophone lesson after a 52-year hiatus. Kudos to my college friend, Lynn Mooney Hickey, for inspiring me to take up sax again. Lynn began playing clarinet at age forty-nine and she’s added tenor and alto sax. She plays in community concert and dance bands, as well as Dixieland and swing groups. Her music has become her passion and that’s reminded me that music was a big part of my high school life.

I sat second chair alto sax in my high school concert and advanced bands and was a squad leader in the marching band. The classmates I stayed in touch with for over 50 years were all band members. (And men. Analyze that.) The joy Lynn found by being involved with bands later in life got me thinking about relearning my instrument. This has turned out to be a bigger challenge than I anticipated.

My first step was to procure a saxophone. Within the obvious overall question of rent vs. purchase there were subsets. If rent, should I look for rent-to-buy? If so, I’d need to research the brand I’d be renting. If purchase, would a student model serve me well or should I look for a better one? How about used, since on my retiree’s income, “better” would certainly mean used? If this is getting confusing, thank you for paying attention, and I’ve diagrammed it for you.

I decided my best option was to rent until I know if this Fascination has legs. The Internet turned up a local business that does rent-to-buy, plus they offer lessons. “It’s So Easy; piece of cake,” said I. As if. That studio insists on getting your social security number before they’ll rent to you. It’s the policy of the national firm they use. No matter that requiring an SSN is illegal. Frustrated and annoyed, I left with Nothing but A Heartache. A follow up call to the rental headquarters just made me Crazy.

Despite (or perhaps because of) my fond recollections of the boys in the band, there’s no way I’m giving out my social to a shop full of musicians. A friend of Jagdish (my husband) knows a lot about musical instruments of every shape and tone. He was sure I could buy a sax inexpensively through Craig’s list. That suggestion turned up two affordable ones at brick-and-mortar stores. Only one was open on Saturdays in the summer, so I started there.

Turns out it’s a pawn shop, and no one there could help me assess the sax’s quality. The only sound I was able to make with it was that of air escaping from somewhere. Since I couldn’t be sure if the problem was with me, and perhaps therefore not one that will disappear with lessons, I left that shop empty handed, too.

The next week I visited the other store from Craig’s list. It’s much like the very first place I’d gone, that meaning they also rent inexpensively and offer lessons. They use a different source for their rentals, so they didn’t insist on getting my SSN. All I had to do was leave Jagdish as collateral. (Just kidding, but I would have seriously considered it at that point.) Unfortunately, this studio is about three times the drive as the first one. I’m beginning to remember the sacrifices one makes for ones art. I signed a rental contract.

I have no idea what brand of horn I’ll be getting when I show up on Monday. But if you can follow my chart, you’ll know it doesn’t matter, because this shop doesn’t do rent-to-own. As it turns out, this is just as well, because the box on my chart that reads “Pray for windfall” turns out to be not so far fetched after all.

After posting about this plan on my Facebook page, I received a message from one of my high school band friends who now lives in Spokane, Washington. I had convinced him to come back to New Jersey last year for our belated 50^th reunion, which I helped run. He and his wife had a wonderful time with all the other band alums and spouses, and they were glad I talked them into making the trip. They sent me a beautiful bouquet after the event.

That alone was an unexpected and thoughtful gesture. His FB message was extraordinarily generous. He'd played clarinet in high school, but he ventured into alto saxophone later in life. He has since decided it’s not for him and he offered to send me his sax as a gift if I decide to continue on this journey. That’s a powerful incentive for me to “stay tuned” to the process. Beware: dreadful puns and musical jokes ahead.

More Tidbits for Women

Several current media items caught my attention because they focused on women’s issues. Or at least issues that are hot buttons for women. Actually, one of them is more of a cold button. But I’ll get to that in a minute.

The report that seemed utter nonsense is that those little plastic discs that are attached to the backs of many pierced earrings on posts are supposed to be removed and thrown away. They’re only there to keep the earrings in place on the little card that displays them. Hogwash! They also keep the back of the earring from slipping off your earlobe, especially if you have chubby protuberances. Plus, if your piercing is on a slight angle, it helps the earring lie flat.

If you’re wondering how that angle would occur, picture a teenager who wants pierced ears and decides to do it herself. Someone told her you just put an ice cube behind the fleshy knob, get a thick sewing needle and go at it. Half way through, the ice cube is melting and her ear is no longer cold but her feet are (idiomatically speaking). So her neighbor’s mom, an RN, gets out a hypodermic needle to finish things off. Appropriating the teen’s own mother’s pique, the RN rushes the job. That’s the story in a nutshell.

Another far more useful tidbit is that cinnamon helps you de-bloat. I’m so excited to learn this that I’m adding the spice to everything I can think of. It’s going on my cereal, in my tea, in yoghurt, on steamed or broiled vegetables. You name it; I’m sprinkling on it. I’ve also laded in a pile of cinnamon sticks that I suck on like tobacco chews. I’m so into this that I sometimes do it two-fisted. Since the news item didn’t specify how long it takes to see results, I’m still in a wait-and-see mode. Stay tuned.

My favorite news item is a study published in Nature Climate Change reporting that office thermostats are set to keep men comfortable, based on a study from the 1960’s. There was no consideration of the different (often less-layered and more leg-baring) wardrobes of women. Nor did they factor in the difference in metabolic rates. Men (in theory with more muscle) can produce heat more easily than women (supposedly with more fat). Hence the temperatures that have females freezing their doorbells off.

While the media focused on how reducing the AC in summer could save companies money, it reminded me of a cutback on heat one winter when there was a severe oil crisis. At the time, I worked at Colgate-Palmolive in Manhattan. Our offices were so cold that some of us had blankets molded into the backs of our chairs and fuzzy slippers under our desks. In January 1980, we received a memo from our office manager with the subject: “Office Climate.” (Yes, I still have a copy.)

It listed eight rules for maintaining one’s “perimeter space,” addressing windows, blinds, airflow and thermostats. There were only three “interior space” rules, which mostly covered how to negotiate with colleagues in nearby window offices if your cubicle temperature was wacko because they weren’t following the perimeter space guidelines.

The memo’s final paragraph ended thusly: “We would again emphasize the need to adjust dress habits to warmer clothing—sweaters, vests, thermal underclothes, heavier socks, etc.—in order to minimize the discomfort.” This sentence begged to be illustrated. Since I was known for my quirky cartoons, I sent colleagues a drawing of appropriate attire for our office environment. Herewith, a stroll down memory lane. Reminder: it was 1980…

Senior Uses for Drones

Earlier this year, the New York Times reported that prisoners are using drones to bring packages to them in jail. The flying delivery service is carrying more than letters; it’s smuggling cell phones, drugs and other contraband. Exactly how these airborne critters get past prison surveillance wasn’t disclosed, but considering what happened on the grounds of the nation’s Capitol, it can’t be very difficult.

More recently, hobbyists have hampered wildfire fighters in California by flying UAVs (Unmanned Aerial Vehicles) overhead to get dramatic photos. This presents a danger to the pilots who dump chemicals on those flames. A more controlled use of drones can be an asset in fighting those fires. They’re able to fly closer than planes and can use infrared technology to identify the worst hot spots—the priority places to unload the chemicals.

Let’s face it; UAVs will become far more common tools in our future. The costs are coming down and they’re becoming more user-friendly. It stands to reason that seniors should give some thought to how this equipment can be used on a daily basis. Before we know it, they’ll be a must-have status symbol even for folks our age, so I’ve started making a list of things drones can do for us.

Marry them with the afore-mentioned infrared technology and you have an invaluable tool to tell you where your spouse is. He might be asleep somewhere or he just can’t hear you. But what if he’s lost (in thought?) An aerial search can save you from having to go up and down all the stairs and around the yard. Ours has a sloping back lawn with treacherous footing. It’s not likely my husband would be out there, but others of you might have more agile spouses who tend to wander off.

Staying with the outdoors, how about some help with hard-to-reach and repetitive yard work? There are always areas on the tops and backs of bushes and small trees that are difficult to trim. Plus my forearms start to shake from the strain of all that opening and closing (for the fine pruning) or the lifting of the electric hedge clipper.

Most of that work is now handled by our condo association, but there are other tedious chores that an airborne friend could help with. Like watering all the plants on the deck and around the perimeter of the house. The deck gets so much direct sun that I sometimes have to water the herb garden twice a day, making multiple trips per watering. One time I foolishly did this barefoot and burned the bottoms of my feet.

Another helpful drone use is chasing the cat or dog out from under the bed. Most family pets are savvy about approaching medication or nail clippers. Ours always managed to get into that “sweet” spot right in the middle of the floor under our king size bed. That meant getting a broom or other long-handled item to force them out. It also required the other spouse to be crouched on the opposite side of the bed to catch them when they ran. With a UAV, this could become a single-person job, and a lot more fun.

I recently bought a special device to change the bulbs in those recessed lights that are popular in condominiums. Its handle is long enough to chase a cat out from under a bed, but I still need a step stool to reach most of the lights. A flying assistant would be a safer way to accomplish this.

For similar reasons of safety (and outright laziness), the blades on our ceiling fans have so much dust that some of it floats off when the fan is on high speed. If I had a remote gizmo that could hold one of those microfiber dust wands, our condo would be a lot cleaner. And I could cut back on allergy meds.

Continuing with being out of reach, let’s talk about dying my gray roots. No matter how much I work at it, I always have some spots at the back of my head that didn’t get covered with enough goop. Occasionally, I’ll have my husband check my coverage, but that’s not always an option. If I had an aerial helper to hold a mirror behind me, I’d wind up with less gray. Better yet, I could outfit Buzzy (I decided to name him) with latex gloves and train him to dye the back. Hallelujah!

I’m just scratching the surface of what Buzzy will be able to do for me. I’m sure you’ll find other uses for his services. Isn’t technology grand?

From the Balcony in Mashobra

The experience of spending a few days at my in-laws’ hill house in Mashobra was filled with sights, sounds and smells that begged to be recorded. I’ve already written about the smells, and about the monkeys, so this post will focus on other sights and sounds. I jotted things in my pad wherever we went, but many of my most enduring observations were made while I sat on the balcony of the house.

Ersatz Fireflies and Moth-like Butterflies

In the evening, across the valley, cottage lights are strings of giant fireflies, blinking along the ridgelines of the lower mountains. A storm is coming and the wind is blowing unseen branches back and forth in front of the lit windows. Blink. Blink. In the morning after the rain, small white moth-like butterflies flutter through the still-wet trees and past the balcony, like little leaves drifting around and down on wind currents.

Not A Phool, Fool

One moth swings by as though checking me out as a possible landing site. I don’t know why. I’m wearing the black garments from my morning exercise and haven’t even bathed yet. Surely I can’t have been mistaken for a flower. If the insect was looking for a phool (Hindi for flower), he showed himself a fool! His friends are flapping their wings so hard in mockery that they’re turning cartwheels of laughter.

Hara Hara—The World Becomes Green.

As the sun comes up and evaporates the droplets still left from the storm, the distant mountains change color, from deep gray to soft blue-gray to pale celadon green. Soon, the nearest ridges become bright green, mottled with the two-tone triangles of pine trees. The downhill sides are bright green; the uphill ones are deep forest green. Eventually, only the trunks remain dark, where they are visible at all. I find myself softly singing some mash-up tune: “Green, green, my world is green,” then chanting the color in Hindi: “Hara, Hara.”

One area nearby is becoming sun-washed mustard. I wonder if later in the day it, too, will turn green. As the sun hits the mountains in the distance, I realize that what I thought had been clouds on the horizon are actually the most distant peaks. They reveal themselves to be not just snow-capped, but completely snow-covered, even though it’s June and Delhi is in a heat wave far below.

Turning my attention closer to home, I notice that the wash on our house’s concrete is the same celadon as the far away hills were at first light. Likewise for many other houses nearby. I see round metal disks on most balconies and rooftops—telltale signs there is satellite TV and Wi-Fi. At least the dishes are small. And uniform. Thank you, Tata Communications (part of the enormous industrial conglomerate).

Geese or Betas?

Unusual noises are emerging from the farm area below us. At first, I think it’s a flock of geese, still hoarse in the morning air. Then it sounds like regimented groups of children—betas—at the school nearby, exercising the naughtiness demons out of their little bodies. A rooster crows. Now young voices rise in laughter. It may not have been geese; perhaps it was children after all. No matter. After yesterday’s rain, I’m enjoying everything the breeze is bringing my way this fine morning.

Watch How/Where You’re Walking

I can tell it’s going to be a great day for trekking. I’m learning to pay attention to certain walk-about cautions. At this higher altitude, the air is thinner so a gentle walking pace is prudent. Not my crosstown Manhattan commuter's trot. This is also sensible because the footing can be precarious on the uneven pavement and rocky paths. It’s important to pay attention to where you’re walking, even around the neighborhood. Did I mention the monkey scat and bullock plops? (Akin to Manhattan after all.)

On the brighter side, an attentive eye will discover wild berries along the path through the woods. My sister-in-law, Pinki, being younger and more stable on her feet, is our hunter-gatherer. My task is to rinse the harvest with bottled water. We share the joy of eating them on the spot.

Mashobra provided such memorable experiences. So many sights and sounds to be stored, along with the wonderful smells, the exotic botanicals and the charming monkeys, in the mental file of my visit to Himachal Pradesh. And so my blog posts from this trip to India come to a close. Next week, expect to see my usual style of social satire once again. Namaste, my friends.

Credit to sources from whom I purloined the photos, whoever you are.

The Monkeys of Mashobra

One of the most entertaining experiences from my trip to Mashobra involved the monkeys. Or as I came to think of them: the Flying Wallendas Monkey Troupe. Although the balcony of our house was high up (about third level), the nearby trees were even taller. The monkeys would jump horizontally from those trees to the balcony railing, then scramble up the drainpipe to the roof and launch themselves back down into the trees. Jump, climb, fly, repeat—all afternoon, sometimes solo, often chasing one another.

The monkeys were obviously a family, and their squabbles reminded me of the squirrels back in Providence—round and round the oak tree, up and down the trunk. Sometimes the monkeys broke the monotony by running down the drainpipe and across the patio and the yard. They spent most of their time in the trees, though. The fruit provided easy and plentiful food. When they landed on the balcony railing, it rattled violently, sounding like King Kong’s dental bridge if it came loose.

That rattling wasn’t the only noise that I eventually attributed to the simians. The first night in Mashobra, as I was falling asleep, I was startled by the sound of thunder nearby. I quickly realized it was coming from the roof, made of that pervasive tin I wrote about earlier. I was sure the monkeys were having a bowling tournament up there. Then I realized they were doing their “jump, climb, fly, repeat” routine. It just sounded different from inside the bedroom than it did from the balcony.

One monkey in particular had the most expressive face. Wistful, almost sad. One evening, as he was sitting peacefully on the railing in one corner of the balcony, I watched him from inside the house for awhile. Then I got my sister-in-law’s iPhone to take a picture of him from the window. He turned away at first. Then he jumped down and scurried across the balcony, then up and away.

Perhaps some ancient wisdom informed him that when you are photographed, a portion of your soul is captured and lost to you. Had he been photographed before, I wondered, and lost so much of his soul that he had become sad, and wiser? I speak no monkey and very little Hindi, so I’ll never know. I was certain that we had made some special connection, though, and the morning that I left, I was convinced I had been right.

The car was loaded to the max with our belongings and some household items that were being transported from Mashobra back to Delhi. My sister-in-law was attending to some last minute instructions to the hill house staff. Rather than sit waiting in the packed car, I stood at the edge of the front garden. I noticed my wise monkey friend, observing me from the steps of the house next door. He must have sensed I was leaving. He disappeared, apparently having gone around the back of our house.

Suddenly I saw him again, walking slowly along the wall on the opposite side of our patio, not far from a large tree. He stopped and we exchanged knowing glances. This would be our final interaction. He took a few more steps toward me and paused. Softly, I said: “Goodbye my monkey friend. I’ll miss you. Perhaps some day I’ll come back.”

For a moment, I thought he was going to come even closer, and I wasn’t sure what I would do. He was wild, after all, and I would be foolish to try to touch him. Still, rejecting his overture would be too insensitive. Just then, my sister-in-law came out to the car and my monkey friend ran off. Another romantic interlude (in the classic sense of the word ‘romantic’) scuttled before it was culminated.

It’s probably just as well, because I have a feeling that, like the Flamingos (and the lovers they sang about), monkeys “never say goodbye.”

Botanicals of Himachal Pradesh

One of the more memorable aspects of the visit to the family's hill house in Mashobra, Himachal Pradesh was the botanicals of that region. For this post, I’m going to define “visit” and “botanicals” a tad broadly.

En route to the Himalayas, but in a flatter and often barren area, multi-lane highways pass by dozens of buildings that reflect two Indian traditions. One is the large and elaborate wedding venues with architecture like in Bollywood movies. These often masquerade as temples on steroids. Or on ganja (more on that later). The other institution is the roadside stand, or dhaba, where travelers grab quick, but tasty, food.

One Sunday we made an hour plus trip from Delhi to have brunch at the most famous of these—the Amrik Sukhdev Dhaba. This facility is said to hold over 2,000 people and I’d bet more than 1,000 were chowing down that day. Their specialty is the paratha (a pan-fried, layered bread) generously garnished with butter. My favorite was the one stuffed with gobi (cauliflower).

On the drive to the hill house, we left Delhi without a proper breakfast, so we stopped at the smaller Zhilmil Vaishno Dhaba for an early lunch. Not surprisingly, our meal was parathas, but these were stuffed with mooli (radishes). If you read my essay on driving the Himalayan hills, you’ll know this became my new favorite paratha filling.

These roadside stops appear again as one begins the climb into the hills. One stand was precariously perched on the edge of a cliff as we neared Solan, not far from Shimla. It was aptly named Sweet Hot Point, and if they didn’t want to “lose their lunch,” wise diners would have taken in the view first, then taken in the food.

One last tidbit about eating along the route. On the trip home we grabbed some roasted corn from a roadside vendor. “Grabbed” is the operative word here. One of our entourage was standing beside the car, partially eaten ear in hand, carelessly hanging at his side. Before you could say “Grab-N-Go” lunch, a monkey had snatched it up and run off.

Speaking of animals along the route, we took a drive in the mountains above Mashobra. Here and there, families from even further north stood roadside with their yaks. The hairy creatures were decked out in colorful textiles, waiting to be photographed. One enterprising clan had brought clothing from their village so tourists could dress like a local. My sister-in-law snapped me (in my own native dress) between two of these irresistible creatures.

Along the route and near the house, there’s an amazing variety of flowering trees and wild blooms. If they were animals, they’d be feral. From an aroma perspective, my favorite are the wild lilac bushes.

A close second is Rat Ki Rani, or Queen of the Night, aka Night Blooming Jasmine. True to its name, its blossoms come out in the evening. They’re so fragrant that they retained their potency days after we were home in Delhi. At breakfast, you were sure they’d run their course. But by dinner, they were enticing us once again.

My visual favorite is a flower with ten celadon petals and five scrotum-like seed pods on pistil arms. Its purple and white center section has three aubergine antennae and countless “hairs.” The leaves look similar to those of a marijuana plant, but they’re not related.

However, marijuana also grows wild throughout this part of India. Enterprising folks sneak onto people’s property at night to harvest bhang. It also grows wild along the highway back to Delhi, so we did our harvesting in the daytime. We were stopped in traffic, and collecting some seemed like a good use of time.

A few hundred meters up the road, the police pulled over our car. “Going to the big house in India,” I thought. “Ironic, since I never smoked pot even once back home.” In my mind I prepared a plausible explanation. “We were just picking lovely botanicals as souvenirs of my trip to Himachal Pradesh. See? Wild lilacs, Rak Ni Rani.” All of these were mixed in with the bhang in the area behind our seats. As it turned out, India’s finest were checking papers to be sure our driver was a proper employee, not a gypsy cabbie.

So ended the field trip to Mashobra and my study of botanicals in the Himachal Pradesh. And no, we didn’t smoke the bhang. We put it in a large vase in the dining room, along with the wild lilacs and the Rak Ni Rani. At breakfast, I breathed deep whiffs of the lilacs. At lunch, I judiciously sniffed the wild ganja. At dinner, I inhaled the Queen of the Night. Ah, the stuff dreams are made of!

Driving in the Hills of the Himalayas

The roads of the hill country of the Himalayas look like extreme S-curves when viewed from above. But when you’re driving on them, you feel like you’ve been dropped into a giant bowl of spaghetti, with clumps that are twisted and knotted. You swear that you’ve passed that same overpass or cut-through at least twice before. And maybe you have.

On all but the sharpest of curves, experienced drivers don’t brake; they just ease off the accelerator. If you see brake lights ahead, you can be pretty sure the driver is an inexperienced wuss and that your driver will put him in the rear view soon. The good part of having a veteran at the wheel is that he knows the roads and isn’t afraid to pass. The downside is that he's fearless, perhaps even reckless by U.S. standards. Hang on to that handle over the window and expect to close your eyes more than occasionally.

There’s a technique to passing on those curves. You pull out into the opposite lane as you approach a curve, but don’t begin to pass yet. If someone comes the other way, you quickly pop back into your spot. As you round the curve and get a view up the road, if no one is coming, you accelerate out of the curve, using centrifugal force to propel you like a slingshot past the vehicle (and sometimes vehicles) in front of you.

Clustered along the mountainous slopes are hillside villages for which the phrase “explosion of color” was concocted. It’s not uncommon to see houses painted lilac with purple; red with pink; and varied hues of orange, salmon and bittersweet or citrus/lemon. Shades of teal and red are ubiquitous colors for the tin rooftops.

Considering how narrow and winding the roads are, trucks and tour buses abound. The travel coaches have company names like “Lovely,” “Royal” and “Delightful.” Commercial vehicles are brightly painted. Even the garbage trucks and small tractors, probably from family farms, are decorated. The message on the rear of all these vehicles—Blow Horn—is not just a suggestion. It’s an exhortation to be taken seriously, and most drivers do. Less common is “Use Dipper At Night.” (Not “dimmer,” mind you.)

During the eight-hour drive from Delhi to Shimla you notice the states represented on the license plates you see. You begin with a preponderance of DL for Delhi. That loses popularity to HR (Haryana) and PB (Punjab) as you proceed toward Chandigarh. That city seems to be the joint capital of both states, as well as a territory with its own plate (CH). There’s an occasional UP (Uttar Pradesh). The mountain climb is populated with HP—Himachal Pradesh, where Shimla (formerly Simla) is the capital.

           

Speaking of Chandigarh, it has an airport where those who blanche at a day-long car trip can fly in to have a shorter, three-hour bus ride up to Shimla. That drive is still not for the faint of heart;  there’s simply no escaping the spaghetti bowl.

An hour or so north of Chandigarh, diesel trains from Kalka to Shimla make the journey in about four and a half hours. Not long ago, that trip took eight hours and there was just one train per day in each direction. The train remains a rare enough sight that both locals and tourists run to see it and take photos at village crossings. It says something about the terrain that the train still takes longer than the bus.

Where the ground is relatively flat for a mile or so, small towns and villages have sprung up along the route. Here you’ll find merchants with the necessities of life, which of course means a lot of shops with local produce. We stopped to get some provisions on the way up and on the way down. The older women generally had on sensible shoes, but the young ladies wore sandals or other attractive (read: non-sturdy) footwear. It must have been treacherous walking home.

It was midday on the return trip, so the street (no sidewalks) was a bustling marketplace. We idled in front of the vendors’ stands while my sister-in-law shopped. The Daikon radishes looked superb. They weren’t in season yet back in Delhi, so we brought some home for mooli paratha (bread stuffed with the vegetable), slathered in butter, of course.

Across from the produce stalls, girls who appeared to be tourists were laughing and taking selfies, oblivious to the begging children. Some local lads checked themselves out in our side view mirror as they walked by. They tidied their hair, intent on making the best impression on the young ladies in the sexy shoes. Young people, it seems, are the same all over the world.

Expect to read more about my recent India trip in future posts.

Marriage: It’s About Love, Not Velcro

The Supreme Court has just issued its ruling on marriage equality, upholding the right of same-sex couples to marry in any state in the United States. Even as this becomes the law of the land, religious conservatives are trying to find ways to thwart same-sex marriages in their own state. This seems like a good time to reprise my essay from April 2013, when Rhode Island, where I then lived, was still debating the issue.

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 our 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.

As Justice Kennedy’s words made clear in the Supreme Court ruling, it’s also about dignity. When people recognize this, #LoveWins.

Discovering the Jacuzzi Tub

We’ve been in our condo for nine months. I’m a shower person, but this week I finally tried out the Jacuzzi tub. I was motivated by the fact that it was time for the “bathing suit” shave (aka Gyn exam shave). I’m sure you women readers are nodding in understanding. Men, just use your imagination.

I’ve previously shaved in the regular tub in our guest bathroom, but that was for basic (to-the-knee) cleanups. That tub has some drawbacks. Chief among them: the lighting isn’t great and the stopper doesn’t work properly. I have a rubber disk that covers the drain and looks a bit like a diaphragm. I use it when I travel to “affordable” hotels, so it’s in my dopp kit in our first floor master bath. The guest facilities are on our second floor and I’m not about to streak downstairs when I’m naked and shave-ready.

To give you an idea of what an ordeal this seasonal ritual is, I’m sharing an experience I had when I was category manager for first aid at Colgate Palmolive around 1986. I met with the inventor of the Nautilus exercise machines about a vaguely defined business opportunity. Mr. Nautilus (Arthur Jones) had me flown from Miami to his R&D facility (and crocodile preserve) in his corporate jet. As I walked to the building, I passed a glassed-in enclosure that held a very large gorilla. A sign identified him as Mickey.

I won’t bore you with the details of the business discussion. After it was over, we were served a healthy lunch, at which at least a dozen folks were gathered at a long table, with Jones at the head, of course. I was on his left, two or three seats down. He made a non sequitur suggestion that I should mate with Mickey, because the offspring would be very strong and smart. Clearly, he wanted to embarrass and emasculate me. I should probably mention that back then, when I was around 40, I was still hot and fly.

I absorbed the insult for perhaps three seconds and laughed. Then I responded. “Oh, that would never work. I’m half Italian. The hairy jokes are bad enough without mating me with a gorilla. Our kids wouldn’t have a prayer.” Everyone at the table went into hysterics and Jones gave me a wide berth from then on. Needless to say, the business venture never came to fruition. His 2007 New York Times obit says he had 6 wives. Wikipedia cites his motto: "younger women, faster airplanes, and bigger crocodiles."

But I digress. Back to the subject at hand. I’ve discovered that the Jacuzzi has awesome benefits, even without using the jets. No, I haven’t tried those yet. Small steps (and stop smirking…) For one thing, because that tub is square, I can stretch my legs fully if I sit on the diagonal. If you can’t do that, just wait. If you’re my age, you’re probably shrinking an inch or two a year.

The lighting is so much better there, too, because that corner is not enclosed or curtained. When I put on my glasses, I can see every wayward hair. The lenses don’t fog up the way they do in our stall shower. When I do a basic shave there, it’s by feel, which usually results in random tufts left behind. Not attractive.

The Jacuzzi stopper works perfectly and the controls are conveniently within reach since I’m sitting on an angle. The only downside was that the bottom of the tub, which is wide in all directions, was like a skating rink when I finished my toilette. It took me about five minutes to figure out how to get out of it. I had to get on my knees by the faucets and grab onto the spigot so I could rise slowly into a crouch. This afforded me a close look at my newly-shaven legs, and I decided it was well worth the struggle.

I’m seriously considering buying some bath salts, bringing in a few scented candles from my husband’s store, and taking a nice, long soak once in awhile. I might even reconnect the central AV system so I can pipe in some relaxing music. You’ll notice that I haven’t mentioned figuring out how to turn on the water jets. Let me remind you: small steps.

Tidbits for Women

MESSAGE from the blogger: I’ll be taking a hiatus from my regular posting for awhile, beginning next weekend. Catch you again sometime in late June or July.

The April 13 issue of Advertising Age carried a number of interesting tidbits about women that caught my attention. I’m not sure if it was just a coincidence that they all ended up in the same issue, or if that assemblage was intentional on the part of the editors. Whatever the reason, I’m sharing them here.

The cover of Golf Digest’s Fitness & Power Issue featured a half-naked Lexi Thompson, a professional golfer. A drying towel is draped strategically around her neck. Ms. Thompson was so proud of her cover girl status that she tweeted about it, saying she was “pumped to represent fitness & power. #girlpower”

Shaunna Taylor, co-chair of the Canadian Sport Psychology Association took exception, tweeting that an “unnecessarily topless cover photo is not… empowering to the women’s game.” Though my husband and I now live on a TPC golf course, I don’t feel informed enough to weigh in on this issue. I just hope I don’t see Lexi golfing half-naked on the fairway behind us one day.

Lane Bryant, the marketer of clothes size 14 to 28, has a new ad campaign for “real women” (à la Dove soap). In the print ad, the tag line #ImNoAngel is superimposed over a group of plus size models in sexy bras and panties. There’s a TV version as well. Way to go, LB girls! The idea pokes fun at the popular Victoria’s Secret campaign that features rake thin models wearing scanty lingerie, feathered wings and smiles. Can’t wait ‘til someone does a similar ad featuring seniors with silver wings and golden halos.

Speaking of rake thin models, the government of France is considering a law that will impose fines of up to $82,000 on clothing designers who use emaciated models. Since most runway ladies would qualify as emaciated IMHO, I’m not sure how the French define that term.  Additionally, using these stick figures can result in up to six months of jail time. Finally, if the ads for those clothiers have been Photoshopped to make the babes look more Twiggy-like, this needs to be disclosed (not sure to whom). All together now: Vive la France!

On the opposite side of the world, the ad consortium Grey Group Singapore has partnered with Neelvasant Medical Foundation and Research Centre on a program that is focused on women’s health. They’re providing women in rural India with bindis that are designed to dispense iodine. Iodine deficiency is a major problem in that part of the world. The bindi is a traditional adornment for these women, making it a practical solution. The campaign is called “Life-Saving Dot.” Score one for the creative and culturally sensitive use of resources.

What strikes me most about these four media items is the scope of the information. We go from covers that reflect male chauvinistic attitudes to efforts to lift up real women to programs to improve women’s health in disadvantaged areas of the world. I suppose women should be grateful that only one of the four pieces objectified a woman and that at least one of the four addressed a serious health issue in a creative way. Baby steps, but worth celebrating nonetheless.

Here’s to women everywhere, whatever their shape or age, no matter where they call home. This seems like a good note to end on before my blogging break.

Retirees’ Triads

Pampers has a new tag line. It’s a take off on the book and the movie: Eat, Pray, Love. Procter and Gamble tweaked the diaper version to Love, Sleep, Play. To which I snorted: “For people our age, it’s more like: Eat, Pray for Sleep, Eat Something Else.” This got me thinking about other well-known triads and how they might be revised for retirees.

One that comes to mind immediately is Veni, Vidi, Vici. (I came, I saw, I conquered.) The seniors’ adaptation has to be: I came, I forgot why I came, so I left. Another from literature is Keats’ “beloved trinity”—“Give me women, wine and snuff untill I cry out ‘Hold, enough!’” With minor alterations it’s a favorite of ladies who’ve migrated to Florida. “Give me women, wine and Mah Jong ‘til I cry out ‘Enough already!’”

Some of the revised groupings are inspired by health issues that plague many older folks. The patriotic red, white and blue are phonetically modified into bread, wheat and gluten—foods to be avoided by those with sensitive digestive tracts. The western The Good, the Bad and the Ugly mutates into The Cane, the Walker, and the Wheelchair. That popular lunch sandwich—bacon, lettuce and tomato? It’s still bacon, lettuce and tomato—but now it’s things we have trouble chewing or digesting.

Then we have trios of noises, or groups that morph into them. Let’s begin with Snap, Crackle and Pop—the sounds of a beloved breakfast cereal. These days, snap, crackle and pop are still morning sounds, but they’re the ones we make when we first get up. Remember the rock band Earth, Wind and Fire? They’re now Gurgle, Windy and Fart. (Oh, don’t give me that look. You know you were thinking something similar.)

Famous threesomes from TV and movies get makeovers as we age. The Three Stooges are no longer Moe, Curly and Larry. They’re now Bald, Frizzy and Flyaway—our hairstyles. The Marx brothers, Chico, Harpo and Groucho, have become Cheeky, Harpy and Grouchy—our personalities. The Cowardly Lion, Scarecrow, and Tin Woodsman morph into the Couch Hippo, Frightful Hair Crow and Titanium Knees Man.

How about the gifts the Three Wise Men brought to the manger—Gold, Frankincense and Myrrh? If they were coming to see us today, they’d bring presents that are more age appropriate, like cold compresses, Airwick and Vaporub. Meanwhile, The Nina, the Pinta and the Santa Maria translate into a trinity that grandparents and great aunts everywhere will love—Nana, Pop-pop and Tanta Mariuccia.

Then there’s the classic baseball play: “Tinker to Evers to Chance.” It’s now: “Don’t Tinker with the TV remote settings, because it will take forEver to figure them out again. We only found PBS by Chance.”

We also have famous three-part mottos. The words of the French Liberté, Egalité, Fraternité still translate into Liberty, Equality and Fraternity. But for senior citizens they mean we still have some mobility, our socks match, and to keep in touch with our family and friends, we need an iPhone. The Olympic motto Citius, Altius, Fortius (Faster, Higher, Stronger) stays the same, but it now refers to our heartbeat, our blood pressure and our body odor.

We still enjoy the Sun, Moon and Stars. However, if your night vision has evolved in sync with your age, the sun often appears to be glowing around streetlights at night. You may go to bed too early to appreciate the celestial moon, but you can still catch a glimpse when a gentleman with stretched-out Sansabelts bends over. And the stars are what we’re assured every one of our friend’s grandchildren are, as we look at yet another dozen photos from their ballet recitals.

Let’s consider a holistic triad—Mind, Body and Soul. We must nurture all of these if we aspire to lead a long, full life. Some maxims to follow to make this happen are: Don’t mind anything your neighbors say about you. Don’t look at your body in the mirror unless you have on at least two layers of clothing. And if you want to cultivate your soul, forget those Chicken Soup books. Read Retirement Sparks every week.

Lastly, referring to the biological classifications Animal, Vegetable, Mineral: Seniors are told to avoid red meat, get plenty of roughage and keep hydrated with lots of water, not wine. As if that’s going to happen.

Signs It’s Time for Spring Cleaning

We’re expecting houseguests from overseas in about three weeks, which has me assessing the cleaning needs in our condo. I’ve never claimed to be a Suzy Homemaker and the current state of our home shows it. I did answer to Suzy Potts at one time, however.

That was a nickname from my parents. At least, I thought it was until sometime in my twenties. Turns out they were saying “you’re crazy” in the Italian dialect of my mother’s family. I misunderstood and they chose not to disabuse me of the idea that it was a term of endearment. I signed cards to them “Love, Suzy Potts” even after I learned the truth. But I digress. Back to house cleaning. (See, I even resist writing about it.)

I dust everything and clean the floors at least twice a year. (Don’t panic. The sinks and toilets get regular scrubbings.) After decades of dealing with this on a seasonal basis, I’ve collected some wisdom on the topic. To prove that I’m not totally without knowledge of this subject, I’m sharing it with you. You know it’s time for spring cleaning when…

You can write your name on every horizontal surface, discover a spelling error, and rewrite in the same place to correct it. That’s a lot of dust, my friends.

You realize that your cats, which are mostly white, are suddenly gray instead. Sadly, I no longer have this visual barometer of the need to clean. I’m considering wearing white socks around the house so I’ll have a similar indicator in my tool kit.

You take off your house shoes when you leave the condo so you don’t track dirt outside. (Think about that one a minute.)

The bathroom mirror has more toothpaste splatter than your face has age spots. Or maybe those are meal tidbits that got trapped in your caps and were liberated by dental floss. Apologizes if this is TMI for some of you.

You invite people to visit so you’re forced to finally clean. I probably shouldn’t admit to this. The next time I invite folks over, they’re likely to be offended at being used like that.

You don’t need your glasses to see the dust balls on the floor. I’m talking about when you’re just walking around the place, not when you’re down on your hands and knees, inspecting for areas that might need special attention.

You’re refilling your allergy pills at least once a week and the pollen season isn’t even here yet. It’s amazing the havoc dust can wreak on one’s sinuses.

You’re buying the large size bottles of saline nasal spray and you have one in every bathroom in your house. This makes the perfect companion to allergy pills, by the way.

You can see your breath when you exhale, but not because it’s so cold in your house. They’re called “dust clouds” and they’re especially visible in the sunlight that streams through your ceiling-high living room windows.

When you do your floor exercises in the morning, your body leaves an imprint like a snow angel in the dust buildup. (You shouldn’t have donated that yoga mat when you downsized.)

There you have it. Ten things that clue me in that it’s time to clean the house. When I see a confluence of four or more of them, I put the task on my iCal with an intrusive audio reminder. When the count reaches six, I stop using the “remind me again in xx minutes” feature. Of course, when guests are coming, I’m forced to face the job before they’re due to arrive. Which means I’m getting out the vacuum as soon as I finish this post, but please don’t call me Suzy Homemaker.