Liberated by the iPhone

The title of this blog will make sense in a few minutes, but first you need some backstory. Lately when my husband, Jagdish, and I are driving from Connecticut to Providence, we discuss recent happenings on the political front. We analyze which presidential candidate holds what views and what effect his or her policies will have.

On one of the trips we talked about the differences between the tax plans proposed by Bernie Sanders and Donald Trump. One cannot easily do this without touching on the 10% — 90% economic model.

Jagdish was searching for the word for the type of government where a small percentage of people have all the resources and the power over a large group of have-nots. I suggested that would be an oligarchy. He then came up with a plutocracy.

We wondered what the difference was between the two. I wasn’t certain, but I thought that plutocracy was a more generic term for the rule of many by a small group. I believed oligarchy was more specifically the rule by a small group who controlled the bulk of the resources (money and land) of a large group who had virtually nothing. It turns out I had it backwards.

The way we figured this out is how this post came about. Since I’m always the driver, Jagdish set about looking up the definitions of oligarchy and plutocracy on his iPhone. He quickly found the answer and clarified the two for me. A proverbial light bulb lit up above my head.

In years past, when my husband asked what a certain word meant, here is what happened. About 80 percent of the time, I was able to answer his question with certainty. Fifteen percent of the time, I had a general idea of the meaning, but was a tad fuzzy around the edges. Five percent of the time, I was extremely unclear or totally clueless.

I’ve always maintained that if you can’t explain what a word means to someone else, you don’t truly understand its meaning yourself. Twenty percent of the time, we had no clear definition in hand. Most who know my husband can probably see where this is going.

Jagdish would simply move on in his reading, feeling no less enlightened then when he first asked the question. I, on the other hand, would feel dumb as a post. Frustrated, more often than not I would get up, trek somewhere to find our Webster’s unabridged, and look up the exact meaning. If I were feeling particularly peevish, I wouldn’t tell him what I learned unless he pleaded to find out. Of course, that happened as often as when he went for the dictionary. Which was practically never.

Which brings me back to the iPhone epiphany. I’d estimate that 95 percent of the time, my husband finds exactly what he’s looking for. This means I’m frustrated just 5 percent of the time, not 20. Not only does Jagdish look things up on his own, he types notes about them into his phone. This is especially helpful to me when I’m driving.

Take this post, for instance. I asked him to key in a short version of our oligarchy/plutocracy conversation so I would remember to blog about it in the future. And voila! Here I am doing it. It turns out I have been liberated by my husband’s iPhone. There is a god after all.

Untrimming the Tree

Untrimming the Christmas tree has always been one of the highlights of the season for me. Many people find it a depressing task, coming as it does after the holiday festivities are over. They dread the day the tree starts going “Plink! Plink!” when anyone bumps into it. For me, that plinking heralds a quiet evening of cherished memories.

I used to have annual trimming parties, each with a different theme. The guests really did decorate my tree. I was kept busy refilling punch bowls and chafing dishes. The untrimming became my special time to renew acquaintances with old friends—both ornamental and human.

Over the years my ornaments have come from many places and many guests. Some locations, like Cape Cod, are where I vacationed regularly and found instant relaxation each time I returned. Others are locales I visited but once, perhaps on a business trip. The giving guests, similarly, ranged from trimming “regulars” whom I saw off-season, to friends with whom I’ve since lost touch.

As I take each ornament off the tree, I think of the person or place it came from. These memories trigger others, often having nothing to do with Christmas. Not all are happy ones, but all are treasured.

Three small glass balls that hung on my family’s tree when I was young remind me of the year Santa brought me Zippy the Chimp. Anyone who can sing “It’s Howdy Doody Time” will remember Zippy. So will my nephew, Barry, who is a generation removed from Howdy. As a toddler visiting his grandparents, he became attached to Zippy, long abandoned in my old bedroom. The chimp was relocated to Vermont and was well-loved (and well-worn) before his second owner, too, outgrew him.

A chartreuse clay cow is among the ornaments I’ve had the longest. One of my Jewish classmates brought it to my first tree trim, my senior year in college. It was twenty-five years after graduation before I saw Myra again at a reunion, but I’d been with her in thought every Christmas in between.

Two eggs decorated with dried flowers are from Scranton, Pennsylvania where I was on assignment for several months. In the mall, I bought a small, artificial Christmas tree and selected trimmings to send to my cousin, who was fighting in Viet Nam. I set the tree up temporarily in my motel room until I could figure out how to ship it. It was early November, and I wondered if the cleaning staff thought I didn’t expect to live until Christmas. I prayed that my cousin would. He did, but he’s gone now.

A naked, anatomically correct angel made from cookie dough was a gift from my ex-husband (after we had separated but remained friends). He found it in Greenwich Village and we both thought it was hilarious. I still smile when I look at it. Thanks to Facebook, I know that he now has grandchildren to share his Christmases.

A Norman Rockwell ball reminds me of my coworker, Jo-Ann, who moved to California with her husband. In the cards we used to exchange, she wrote she thought of me when she hung the dough ornaments I’d made for her. We recently reconnected through Facebook, too, and are exchanging holiday letters again.

My long-term (but no longer) significant other was my lighting, star-on-the-top and tree disposal specialist. On one of our vacation trips, we drove from Switzerland to Austria and passed up lunch to avoid having to change currency in Liechtenstein. Upon arriving in Austria we discovered we’d lost an hour due to an unexpected time-zone change. I had just enough time to score a few purchases before the stores closed. So, the wax ornaments from Innsbruck are mine only because of a skipped lunch.

A tiny clay wreath with a bright red bow was a gift from my niece, Pam. She made it herself when she was a child. She’s married now, with a daughter and tree of her own. I’ll probably return the wreath to her someday, but I’m not ready to part with it yet.

I have nine silver snowflakes that my father ordered from the Metropolitan Museum, one for every year from 1976 thru 1984. They ended the Christmas after he died of cancer. It’s still painful to touch those snowflakes every January, but it’s as though I’m still touching a small piece of him, too.

As I carefully wrap each ornament in tissue, I savor these recollections. The happy and the sad. The recent and those from the dim past. I think ahead to next trim, wondering what theme I’ll decide upon and what memories will be created. But mostly I look forward to the next year’s untrimming and renewing the memories I already treasure.

Banned Words and Phrases for 2016

January heralds the publication of annual lists of banned words and phrases. I began collecting candidates for this, my fifth compilation, early last year. Several of my selections usually show up on more widely circulated lists. Even though 2015 was like no other year, I’m sure there will be some consensus entries. Take for instance, my first one.

No matter what your political inclinations, you must be tired of hearing the word ‘Trumpism.’ I’m also tired of hearing the actual Trumpisms, but that’s a whole other issue. If The Donald is elected President in November, you can expect several Trumpisms to appear on my 2017 list. Until then, let’s just jettison the word itself.

We have The Donald to thank for my second banned term as well. Please spare me the verb ‘cherish,’ especially if you’re talking about women. This word has a noble history, but it’s become tarnished by the way it’s been used in the 2015 political season. If you’ve named one of your offspring ‘Cherish,’ feel free to continue to use it when referring to her. Unless her last name is Trump. Or your name is Donald. In which case, please refer to her as Cher.

Next is one I can’t believe I haven’t banned sooner: ‘whatever.’ I was so sure this would be a repeat that I read all my previous lists twice. Note that ‘whatever’ is off-limits only when the word stands alone as a dismissive comment on something someone else has said. If it’s part of an expression, you can continue to use it. Unless that phrase is “Whatever you say” or “Whatever you want.” Those would be a coward’s way of getting around my restriction and are likewise taboo.

A related phrase is: ‘It’s all good.’ I can’t recall what brought this to my attention, but as soon as I heard it, I knew it was joining my collection. Where ‘whatever’ implies you don’t give a fig about what was just said, ‘It’s all good’ tells us you have virtually no power of discrimination about the world around you. Whatever.

Here’s another that I’ve finally had enough of and had to check to be sure it wasn’t a repeat: ‘surreal.’ Just listen for a few minutes to some interviews with celebrities who are under age fifty and you’ll get why I’ve tossed this one. Like ‘cherish,’ ‘surreal’ has a noble history, especially in early 20^th century art, but it’s still ta-ta (not to be confused with dada). Though we can’t blame Trump for ruining this word, we can’t refer to his campaign as ‘surreal’ anymore. Not to worry. We still have ‘bizarre.’

My next entry has several meanings, and I’m banning all of them. I think of ‘hack’ first as a verb, as in the breaching of technology—credit cards stolen, identities compromised. Then I think of someone who is inept at his job (perhaps because he allowed a breach?) Apparently “hack” now has a common misuse as a noun, meaning a tip or short-cut for doing something more easily. Anyway you slice it, it’s a word we can live without.

We can thank Gwyneth Paltrow and Chris Martin for getting ‘conscious uncoupling’ kicked out this year, though they uncoupled last year, at least consciously. The phrase made my 2016 list because psychotherapists and marriage counselors around the globe have decided this is a great concept to peddle in their practices. It also begs the question: what is unconscious uncoupling?

The rock star of Roman Catholicism, Pope Francis, provided the banned phrase: ‘simplistic reductionism.’ Microsoft Word helps us convert this to “simpleminded over-simplification.” While I applaud the idea of reducing the complexities of life, the Pope’s expression concerns me. To be fair, His Holiness was cautioning against holding to extremes of good and evil, but folks have a way of, well… over-simplifying. To paraphrase Oscar Wilde: “Everything in moderation. Including reductionism.”

One of the Democratic debates put the next phrase on my list. A soldier’s mother tweeted: “My son is not a pair of  ‘boots on the ground’.” She pleaded for the candidates to stop saying that. Regardless of your politics, I hope you’ll agree to substitute “troops” in 2016. It would be better if there were no need to even consider employing troops, but that would drag us into the just-banned simplistic reductionism.

The Donald also inspired the final entry. I’m tired of hearing political pundits write that he ‘sucks the oxygen out of the room,’ but it’s certainly entertaining to watch him suck. I don’t know what we’ll do after the November election, but the lead up should provide plenty of colorful alternatives for my 2017 list. In the meantime, this completes my 2016 one.

Approaching Singularity

You’ve probably seen those photo spreads of people who resemble their dogs. The owners often look like caricatures of their pets, or vice versa. Deeply furrowed brows, pendulously droopy ears and lobes, broad fleshy nostrils. The resemblance can be so uncanny you’re sure that one (or both) of the photos has been retouched. This man-dog study is less often presented in a husband-wife format. Couples who have lived together for a long time similarly begin to share each other’s features.

On my husband Jagdish’s and my 25^th anniversary trip, I began to realize that facial contours are not the only thing couples synchronize as they age. My “aha” moment, which I’ll share in a minute, reminded me of some studies that document another synchronization of cohabiters.

Groups of young women who live together have been shown to migrate to common monthly cycles—that of the alpha female. I had a friend who put so much credence in this that she became obsessed with being the woman whose cycle everyone else unwittingly adopted.

Getting back to my recent “aha” moment. My husband and I have reached that age where we generally get up once or twice a night to use the facilities. At home, I’m not usually aware of his middle-of-the-night comings and goings. For one thing, Jagdish often comes to bed quite a bit later than I do. For another, we use separate bathrooms.

When we travel, all of this changes. We almost always retire at the same time and we rarely have two bathrooms. Which is how it finally dawned on me: 25 years of marriage is apparently enough time for a husband and wife to synchronize their nighttime pee schedule. I have no idea whose timing we’ve settled on, though most who know us would assume I’m the alpha in the household. For Jagdish's sake, I hope he doesn't start sharing my hot flashes at four am.

Once I got this notion in my brain, I started to wonder: “In what other ways have we become eerily alike?” The next time I heard my husband clipping his toenails, I furtively glanced at the big digit on my right foot. The nail was quite long in the tooth, but I convinced myself I had at least a week before it would require attention.

A few days later, I found myself measuring my earlobes in the bathroom mirror. I may have shrunk an inch and a half in height over two years, but I’m certain my lobes are getting longer. Come to think of it, they remind me an awful lot of my husband’s. Please, Lord, don’t let me start growing hair in those canals and have to trim it like he does.

Jagdish is charming and lovable, but I have no desire to approach singularity with the schedules of his various bodily functions. Consider for instance his snoring. It usually starts three to four hours into his sleep cycle. I’ve taken to using earplugs even when I go to bed ahead of him.

On our anniversary trip, at the hotel in Agra, I woke up in the middle of the night. I was aware that someone’s snoring had roused me, despite my earplugs. I was about to give Jagdish an elbow to wake him up, but to my horror, I realized it was my own snoring that was rumbling inside my head. I made a mental note to get my husband some earplugs when we returned home.

I shudder to think of what other synchronization awaits us in the years ahead. Seriously. What woman wants to admit that she’s become so old and so much of a caricature that the face she sees in the mirror each morning is no longer her own? It’s her partner’s.

Rajasthan Reflections— Ethnic Encounters

My husband, Jagdish, and I have been back from India for several weeks. It’s taken me awhile to recharge my battery, since I returned with a serious sinus infection. Recent events here in the U.S. have given me the momentum to share some reflections on our side trip to Rajasthan. These are thoughts about people we encountered, especially the young ladies in the photo with me.

The monuments and tourist sites we visited are popular and were crowded beyond Jagdish’s expectations. We hired licensed guides, which meant we could avoid the lines at the ticket booths, but inside the buildings it was a different story.

My husband rented a wheelchair at the Taj Mahal, which our guide “drove” as though he were in a chariot race. I got blisters trying to keep up. Closer to the actual tomb I could tell there would be a huge crowd inside. I had no psychic energy left, so I decided seeing the exterior architecture was sufficient to check the Taj off my (unwritten) bucket list.

At another site on the way to Jaipur we had to take a jitney from the parking lot to the gates. I may share details of this in a future post, but let’s just say it gave new meaning to the expression “press the flesh.” I was surprised at how rude the local tourists could be compared to the Westerners.

On the way back to Delhi from Jaipur we stopped at the Amer (Amber) Fort, where we again hired a guide. I told Jagdish that if he got a wheelchair, he’d have to hire a second guide and wheelchair for me. I still had blisters left from the Taj. The fort has several levels, with narrow, winding corridors and areas with steps but no ramps. Wheelchairs would have cut out about half the tour, so we walked at a sensible pace.

At the end of the visit, as we exited the palace’s Ganesh gate, we paused at the top of the steep steps. Two young Indian women with head coverings approached us and asked to take our picture. We have no idea why they singled us out. Perhaps it was the Anglo in the pseudo-ethnic attire. More likely it was the older Indian gentleman with the ponytail with whom I locked arms. My husband seems to catch folks’ attention a lot these days.

We said: “Sure. Why not?” The girls reached out to shake Jagdish’s hand and he started a conversation with them. They came from Kota, a village in Rajasthan with which he is familiar from the heyday of his importing business. They’re in college and they spoke English quite well. With them were two young men (a brother and his friend) and a somewhat older gentleman who turned out to be one girl’s father. They were all Muslim.

Several things were astounding about this encounter. The father seemed proud that his daughter spoke English and went to college. Jagdish was surprised that the women reached out to touch a stranger, and a man at that. He asked them if they were familiar with Noble peace prize winner, Malala Yousafzai, and the movie, He Named Me Malala. They were not. He explained that she was shot in the head by a Taliban gunman for advocating for the education of women in Pakistan.

Jagdish applauded the girls for continuing their own education. The father kept smiling, but I sensed he wasn’t comprehending. “Does he speak English?” I asked our guide. We were told he did not. So Jagdish repeated some key points in Hindi and some in Urdu. That elicited a lot of head nodding, more conversation and even wider smiles.

I said I wanted my picture taken with the girls (that’s the photo you see above). I told them I’d put in on Facebook so they could see it. Our guide laughed. “They don’t use Facebook. They don’t even have computers.” They did, of course, have a mobile phone. That’s how they took our picture to begin with. What they also had was a warm, welcoming spirit that didn’t care about our religion. And we didn’t care about theirs. This encounter was the highlight of our trip. Nothing could trump that.

Unplugging for A Trip

My husband and I are headed to India again next week, so this will be my last post before a hiatus of a month or more. I’m looking forward to the trip, but as with any protracted time away from home, there are considerable preparations involved. I can remember the days when the main question someone asked on the way to the airport was: “Did we unplug the iron?” These days, “unplugging” has a different meaning.

I’ll have infrequent access to the Internet, so I want to limit messages coming in to my email. To accomplish this, I’ll need to de-activate my electronic and social media contacts. Since Facebook sends me a message whenever a close friend posts something, everyone will now be coded as an acquaintance. I’ll contact those who email me directly with any frequency, asking them to remove me from their lists for a while.

Another important detail is medication. I just counted my blood pressure pills and I have enough to last until we get back. That’s a good thing, because my insurance won’t pay for an early refill.

Tomorrow I’ll take care of some of the more mundane preparations, like laundry and ironing. Once they’re washed, I’ll sequester my husband’s new underwear so they stay clean for the trip. He refuses to give up his old T-shirts. They’re full of holes, but he loves how soft they are. I’ll hide those somewhere before we start packing.

Monday, I’ll pay all the bills that will come due while we’re away. I’ll also have my final sax lesson before the trip. Tuesday we’ll head up to Providence for the day. I’ll get a haircut and Jagdish will finalize loose ends at the store. We want to get home to watch the Democratic debate on CNN. It’s a good thing it’s not like the Republican ones, with an undercard that starts early, or we’d never make it on time.

Wednesday is reserved for packing, since we’re leaving early Thursday morning. We usually head out with two large, empty suitcases that we bring back filled with goods for Jagdish’s store. This trip, two relatives have asked us to transport a suitcase for each of them, so we’ll probably nest those inside the larger ones, like Russian dolls.

It’s often a challenge to figure out how to cushion things, since we always bring some gifts and various items that family members can’t find in India. This trip, it’s Lysol Crisp Linen Air Freshener, Neutrogena Acne Wash and a few other personal articles.

Still to be scheduled: repositioning potted plants to areas that the lawn sprinkler can reach, coloring my gray roots (after my haircut, so I don’t waste the dye), bringing in the flag, and submitting written material that has deadlines while we’re away. That would be my monthly column in Rhode Island’s Prime Time and a bi-monthly news item in the Brown Alumni Magazine for my college class.

The iCal on my computer is filled with reminders of what needs to be done over the next few days before we leave, since I rely on it for everything in my life that’s important. Oh, who am I kidding. I rely on it for everything. Period.

I’ve been systematically removing the alarms for all the birthdays and anniversaries that will come up over the next three weeks. That includes my brother and his wife’s 24^th anniversary, which is the same day as Jagdish’s and my 25^th. It occurs to me that it would be great to send them a postcard from Agra. That prompts me to add another to-do for next week: print out address labels for those we’ve promised to send cards to.

As I deactivated all those reminders and prepared to re-classify my Facebook contacts, I had an awakening of sorts. There’s something empowering about cutting the electronic umbilical cord. Virtually all my communications for three weeks will be face-to-face and not electronic, just like in the “old days.” Who knows. I may enjoy it so much that I won’t bother to plug back in when I come home.

If you don’t hear from me by Thanksgiving, Happy Holidays!

Paths To the Cranky Side

Three years ago, inspired by a Direct TV ad, I blogged on the “Chain of Consequences.” Walmart has a new commercial for Star Wars swag that echoes this in describing a chain that leads to “the dark side.” A grandfather, in his bathrobe, is sitting on the porch with his grandson, who is playing with Star Wars toys. Gramps explains that Jedi are old men who like to be comfortable, so they wear loose fitting robes.

“Tight fitting clothing leads to chafing. Chafing leads to anger. And well, anger is the path to the dark side.” Brilliant copy writing, delivered impeccably, and an inspiration to do a retirement blog on more paths to the dark side. Or, as I prefer to describe it: The Cranky Side.

One thing I’ve learned as a recent retiree is that condo communities can get more bogged down in meetings than Park Avenue corporations do. Meetings with six or more women lead to stress. Stress leads to migraines, and migraines are a sure sign you’re headed to the Cranky Side. I now avoid meetings where I can’t count the attendees on one hand.

My friends know that I’ve never claimed to be a happy homemaker. Cleaning house leads to lots of dust in the air. Dust leads to post nasal drip and post nasal drip leads to bronchitis. Bronchitis is usually a stop on the road to Cranky. So I clean house just twice a year, or whenever we have company, whichever comes first.

I do not suffer fools gladly. The older I get, the less patience I have. Being retired enables me to be a lot pickier about those with whom I spend my time. Brainless comments by those around me lead to sarcasm on my part. Sarcasm leads to never being invited again. Never being invited leads to alienation and alienation can actually be a path away from Crankyville for me.

Eating out with friends can involve going to restaurants that serve mostly fried food. For those of us who generally avoid fried food, eating it leads to heartburn. Heartburn leads to a sleepless night and sleep deprivation lands you at the front gate of the Cranky Side. Maybe that’s why my husband and I rarely go out with friends.

Fashion magazines feature clothing I can’t afford on models with bodies I’ve never had, neither of which can I aspire to, especially in retirement. Flipping through those periodicals leads to envy. Envy is a direct route to Cranky. I wish my husband would stop getting those publications for inspiration for his store. He’s so used to living with Ms. Crankypants that he doesn’t realize they make my condition worse.

Retirees are especially prone to trying the pricey food samples that markets give out on certain days of the week. Some of us shop on sampling days just to get the freebies. Others try to be disciplined about eating between meals, but we can’t avoid inhaling the aromas. Inhaling leads to sampling, and sampling leads to buying. Buying leads to feeling guilty about blowing the grocery budget. And guilt, well, guilt is the superhighway to the Cranky Side.

Wearing magnifying glasses in front of the mirror highlights all the flaws on ones face. Seeing the flaws leads to plucking and tweezing. Plucking and tweezing leads to cuts and blotches that are visible even without magnification.  And that leads to… you guessed it: Crankyville.

Finally, there’s the warnings and contraindications that come with the growing list of medications that retirees are often on. “Severe pain, vomiting, low blood sugar.” And also “headaches, nausea, diarrhea, and vomiting,” (mentioned twice, in case you missed it the first time). Now we’re hearing that many of our regular meds can lead to kidney problems. Reading about them will put you on the express bus to the Cranky Side, but skipping the pills is not an option.

It’s no wonder old men like to spend their days in bathrobes. And retired women spend their nights with a nice bottle of wine.

Spousal Uses

My “Spousal Excuses” post elicited some interesting responses, not the least of which was one from my husband. Jagdish asked me to make a list of the things I’d like him to do around the house. I’ll gladly comply, and I already told him the first item on that list: Take care of the chores on it without my having to keep reminding him.

I guess he realized that my frustration has been growing geometrically since we moved into our condo. Maybe he asked for a “honey do” list so that the “ex” in the title of my previous post wouldn’t migrate over one word from “excuses” to become “ex-spousal.” To put him at ease, I decided to delete the “ex” altogether and focus this post on “Spousal Uses.” Which brings me back to the list.

A few of the tasks were no-brainers (put out the trash, wash the dishes when I’ve prepared the meal). But this provided a good opportunity to consider what else I could use help with. I immediately put him in charge of adding salt to the water softener and changing the furnace filter. These are both on about a 3-month schedule. They’re tedious work, but not physically demanding, since I’ll carry the bags of salt to the basement. (He has too many stents around his heart to lift anything that heavy.)

The prospect of actually getting help around the house was liberating. A few hours later I came up with another item with which Jagdish could be useful. First, some backstory. I don’t put on make-up every day, only when I have a meeting. Most of what I use goes around my eyes. When I’m done, I put on my glasses to look for smudges and errant strokes that need to be removed.

On this particular day, those glasses also magnified the stubble on my lower legs. Since I planned to wear a knee-length dress, I needed to shave. I’d already showered, so I decided to use the sink for the shaving. As I hiked one leg up, I almost lost my balance. (Yet another complication of shrinking 1 ½ inches in two years.) It dawned on me that here was one more use for my spouse.

I called to Jagdish that I needed his help. I had him stand behind me, steadying my hips so I didn’t fall over. “See?” I said, when I was done. “There are all sorts of things you can help with around here!”

My husband has been wedded to his computer since we left Providence. He’s become an expert buyer for his store. He reminds me of my friend Sheryl, whom we lost seven years ago. Sheryl knew where to get anything at the best price and on the best terms. She found things the old fashioned way—by phone and through networking and as she was driving around on errands. Jagdish uses modern technology. I should tap into his Internet browsing skills for our house. Note to self: Start a “to buy” list for Jagdish.

He also has a fancy (and smart) iPhone. There must be some things he can use it for that will be helpful to me, since I still have a dumb, flip phone. Perhaps there’s a lullaby app to play music that will mask his snoring. To be fair, he’s been snoring a lot less lately. Maybe it’s all that fresh air coming up from the river and drifting across the golf course.

Here’s something you probably never thought of. It came to me when I heard a comment on The View. (Yes, I’m watching that show more often now that Joy Behar is back as a co-host.) The women were discussing Spanx. Apparently some of them wear multiple layers of this popular shapewear. One of them said that Spanx cause a problem, because the fat they push in on one area of your body has to pop out somewhere else. I gave this a mental head nod. OK. I actually nodded my head vigorously.

The solution came to me in a flash. I don’t wear my Spanx very often, but the next time I do, I’m going to make sure Jagdish is handy. I’ll have him push the fat back in wherever it pops out. Of course, with the condition my body is in right now, this will be a bit like playing whack-a-mole, but a girl’s gotta try. If Jagdish can accomplish that task, he’ll never have to worry about any floating “ex” in my blog titles. I might even take over filling the water softener again.

The Modern Septuagenarian à la Gilbert & Sullivan

I am the very model of a modern septua’narian.

For seven decades now my body’s worked hard on preparian.

I take my daily vitamins from A thru E and minerals,

Including one with label gray for senior ills quite general.

I’m very well acquainted, too, with how to exit with great speed

From any public building if I’m bored or sick or feel the need.

I know the names of tradesmen for each job requiring special skill,

But getting them to show up takes persistence and an iron will.

I’m teeming with such trivia as Medicare requirements,

And all the hidden benefits that come with ones retirement.

In short, in matters newsworthy, including those contrarian,

I am the very model of a modern septua’narian.

I do Sudoku daily but my solving time’s not up to snuff,

And climbing stairs without a rest is noticeably getting tough.

But I can separate junk mail from missives with priority:

My name is not Eli-an-e, despite how bought lists write to me.

My doctors have a record of how much I shrink from year to year,

But I’m not fazed; I simply keep stepstools and grabbers ever near.

I try to get some exercise and count my calories each day,

And once a week get on the scale to monitor how much I weigh.

I do my morning stretches so my toes remain quite reachable;

My lessons on the saxophone are proof that I’m still teachable.

I check in with my Facebook friends to see whose kids are marryin’.

Let’s not forget I’m modeling a modern septua’narian.

My shoes are flat or chunky-heeled—my hinky balance is to blame;

A paragon of fitness is a moniker I cannot claim.

I pluck my chin to keep it smooth and dye my roots to hide the gray;

My hair is “older lady” short since other styles just fly away.

I volunteer my time and talent since I’m pretty short on treasure;

The projects that I sign up for are ones I can do at my leisure.

My singing and my cooking skills are—simply put—inglorious;

My sense of humor and my wit, however, are notorious.

You’ll say a septua’narian has never blogged so cleverly,

With knowledge of pop culture that’s surprising at age seventy.

In short, when chronicling those burdens that we all are carryin’,

I am the very model of a modern septua’narian.

Spousal Excuses

My husband, Jagdish, and I have been retired (or at least working together) in our condo in Connecticut for a year now. We’re in close proximity much of the time, which is a big change from our life in Providence. This new arrangement has led me to raise my expectations of what he can and should be helping with around the house. Silly me. One thing I’ve noticed is that Jagdish has a fairly standard list of excuses for why things haven’t been done. 

His absolute favorite is: “I forgot.” He doesn’t present this reason as an apology; he uses “I’m sorry” all the time for that. “I forgot” is a simple statement of fact to him. It needs no further explanation, no embellishment. Apparently he feels this absolves him of any responsibility to perform the task now that he’s been reminded of it. He also sees no reason to work on his ability to remember. The next time he tells me he forgot the same item, he says it with an equal lack of regret or expectation of change in his future performance.

Another excuse he favors is: “I didn’t see it.” He uses this one when I’m particularly peeved that his chore has been ignored or that trash has been left wherever it landed. The reason? He usually follows with a joke about his nose having blocked his view. (He has a large proboscis, a family trait, and one of which he’s quite proud.) He knows that his nose (a charming homophone) will soften my pique and lead to an affectionate hug. And yet again, he leaves me to pick up the scraps or to do whatever he was supposed to do.

Every now and then, to break up the monotony, he’ll say: “I thought I already did it” or “I thought I took care of it.” We both know he’s not laboring under that misapprehension at all. We also both know he has no intention of taking care of it, even now that he’s been reminded that it’s still awaiting his attention. So I heave a sigh and move on.

One variation in his repertoire is what I call his “delaying tactics.” “I had something in my hands; I’ll do it in a minute.” Who knows if he really had something in his hands. But what I do know for certain is that “in a minute” means some indeterminately later time. And “later” means “never.”

His rarest retort is: “Was that my job?” or “I thought you took care of that.” When I hear this one, he’s in a bad mood, or he’s tired, or he’s finally decided that I’ve asked him to do the same thing one time too many. If I’m feeling cranky and snarky, I might reply: “And the reason you think that is… ?” This doesn’t bring any resolution to the impasse. Likewise, it doesn’t get the chore at hand completed by him. It might even lead to his go-to lecture of choice about why harping on negatives can never bring positive results.

Sadly, it seems that nothing I do or say brings favorable outcomes. I admit it. I’m an enabler. I never learn. I just keep on picking up the slack (and the rubbish) and wondering why I have this low level of annoyance simmering below the surface much of the time. My niece, Pam, a practicing psychotherapist, will likely read this and be tempted to email me articles on behavior modification. Since she knows Jagdish, she’ll probably reconsider and send me chocolate instead.

Let’s face it. My husband has me well trained. If only I could train him equally well. I could ask Pam for a refresher lesson on Pavlov and his dogs. Knowing Jagdish, I’d just wind up with a pooch to clean up after, too. Still, a girl can dream, can’t she? But first she has to take care of all her husband’s household chores.

Sax Appeal — It’s A Social Thing

My last post on the complexities of scheduling ones activities in retirement elicited an interesting comment from one of my readers. He pitied a poor soul who didn’t understand that retirement is about relaxation and being able to do nothing. There was also something about people thinking that always being busy somehow raises ones self worth. My immediate reaction was: “Oh, good. Fodder for my next blog.” So, here goes.

First off, kudos to my reader for recognizing that there is value in quiet and in doing nothing. Those who have been to Jagdish’s and my condo in Connecticut know that peace and quiet are a big part of the appeal of this community and our home’s location in particular. We’re on the last circle at the end of a long drive with similar units. Our three-season porch and deck overlook a fairway, which is bounded by woods that run along the Connecticut River.

The peacefulness and the view clinched the sale when I saw the place in June 2014.  Jagdish was in India when I signed the contract, but I think he loves it even more than I do. The move and the unpacking took months, but once that was behind me (and I published my third Retirement Sparks book), I did a lot of nothing for quite some time. The indentation in the couch in our family room is proof of this.

After awhile, that wore thin. A life of just peace and quiet has its limitations. Many reputable studies substantiate the value of socializing in maintaining mental and physical health in retirement. Retirees are encouraged to keep active, find a hobby and collect a circle of friends. Or frenemies. Whichever is easier.

Which brings me back to my saxophone lessons. For those who haven’t read my other posts on this topic, a shortened version of the backstory is this. One of my college friends, Lynn, took up clarinet, then sax, later in life. She plays in several bands in her community in Canada and music has become her passion. That got me thinking about taking up sax again. I played alto in my high school band and really enjoyed it.

Fast forward to finding a place to rent a horn and take lessons locally. Done and done. I’m reasonably pleased with my progress, but I need to find more time to practice so that I’m once again good enough to join a group. This is the core of what Sax Appeal is all about. Lynn is nodding her head in vigorous agreement. Playing in a band is a social experience. I remember this fondly from my high school years.

Those who have never been part of a musical assemblage cannot fathom this siren call. My band mates were among my best friends in high school and I’m still in touch with several of them. The prospect of finding similar camaraderie late in life is enticing. I guess I’m still a band geek at heart. Note that I did not say “band nerd.” That’s because I’m also a computer nerd at heart. There is a distinction, but don’t expect me to explain it here.

If the responses to my blog posts on this journey are any indication, a number of you have come to similar conclusions. I’ve lost count of the messages about taking up instruments later in life or re-learning ones from your youth. At my sax lesson this week, I met a man who appeared to be in his late fifties or early sixties. He started taking vocal lessons a year and a half ago and now sings in a church choir. He said he’s not much into the church part of it, but he wanted to sing with a group.

So yes, I could sit on my porch or deck, looking at the view, doing nothing. And I’ll certainly do some of that, especially this fall when the trees turn colors. But I’ll also continue to obsess about scheduling enough time to practice my sax so that I can become a contributing member of a local band. If that means that I feel like I’ve “raised my self worth” because of it, so be it. Lord knows, I’m self-deprecating enough in my writing. I suppose my ego can handle a little massaging.

In fact, just to be sure that I keep so busy that my schedule remains sufficiently complicated, I ordered three books of saxophone music and a sewing machine on-line today. On that note…

Sax Appeal — Not Yet Ready for Carnegie Hall

I had my second sax lesson last Monday and I was pleased with the progress I had made. I don’t expect to be able to make the same report about my next lesson. The past six days have made me realize that scheduling ones activities in retirement is not any easier than scheduling them when working full time. Who would have thought?

We made a four-day trip to Vermont this week to spend time with my sister. This was decided on months ago. A one-day shift in the timing due to some change of plans on my sister’s end enabled me to keep my Monday lesson. I brought my saxophone with me to Vermont, but I practiced there only once, and briefly. The four days away were bracketed by two days of unanticipated family visits by in-laws. I got no practicing in on those days.

As I write this, it’s Saturday night and I’ve run out of steam. For those of you who have been able to follow this week's saga (and were interested enough to try), that means I’ve practiced about one half hour in the five days and six nights since my last lesson. That leaves me just a day and a half to catch up. The odds are not in my favor.

What’s worse is that my last lesson was on chromatics. Even the most popular sharps and flats use many of those side keys that challenge my stubby, arthritic hands. They’re also the notes for which I’ve completely forgotten the fingering. It’s like starting anew each time I pick up the instrument.

My inner niggler is telling me that I should be practicing right now. Another niggler is reminding me that this week’s blog will be at least a day late again even if I finish the draft now. Then there’s the iCal on my desktop Mac (on which I’m working). It has reminded me three times that my monthly newspaper column is due in two days, along with the bi-monthly news article for the Class Notes section in the Brown Alumni Magazine. I’m the Communications Chair for my class, so that task falls to me.

You can see where this is headed. I’m spending my Saturday night triaging the demands on my time. I want to ensure that no “patients” die on me if I give my sax extra hours before my Monday lesson. All the while my mind is replaying the old joke: “How do you get to Carnegie Hall? Practice, practice, practice.” I know I need to practice more even to get to a community band. But I’ll need to improve enough to be able to play better pieces before I’ll enjoy putting in the time needed to get there. Remember Catch 22?

Speaking of bands, I have one other tidbit to share on my Sax Appeal journey. It happened a week ago tonight, when we were attending the Boston Pops concert at Tanglewood. One of the men in our entourage introduced himself, after he confirmed my name. “You’re the sax player, right?” “Not exactly,” said I. “I used to be, and I’m working on it again.” I asked how he’d heard about my attempts to reboot my horn skills. Apparently grapevines grow wild in condo communities.

Turns out he’s the recently installed band director for Wesleyan University, which is just 20 minutes away. This follows a career in directing and several attempts at retiring, which have all resulted in his going back to the podium again. He’s trying to get me to join his group. Apparently, though it carries the University’s name, it’s more of a community band. Some players are in high school and many are community members, as I would be.

This new director is trying to raise the level of his assemblage and has somehow concluded that I can help do that. (From his mouth to God’s ear.) I’m nowhere near ready to play on a team that carries the word “university” in its name. But it’s comforting to know that someone feels I might be an asset at some point. He knows of at least five groups in the area that I could probably join.

This has prompted me to revise that old joke. Now it’s: “How do you get to Wesleyan University? Practice, practice, practice.” But first I need to improve upon my schedule planning. And deal with that maddening Catch 22. Stay tuned.

Sax Appeal — 1st Lesson

On Monday I had my first sax lesson. It began with meeting the instrument I’ll be renting. It’s a Berkeley, not a brand I’ve heard of. If you read last week’s post, you’ll know that doesn’t matter much, since it’s not a rent-to-buy. But getting comfortable with it will be a key step in any successful re-introduction to the skill. With some research I learned that the company is headquartered about fifteen minutes from where I lived in New Jersey before joining my husband in Providence. It’s made in China, as are most saxes these days.

Here are some things I noticed during my first lesson. As many times as I adjusted the neck strap, it was still too long for me. Turns out I wasn’t doing it correctly, because I was pulling on just one of the double ribbons. It looks a lot like a lanyard, but you have to pull both pieces up or down to adjust it. Not an auspicious start.

That finally accomplished, I moved on to feeling out the octave key. On the sax, the left hand curves around the top portion of the horn to reach the upper keys. The left thumb rests on a spot near the octave key. You rock your thumb onto the lever to engage the octave. That key is one thing that differs across various makes. I can’t quite put my finger on it, but I’m not wild about the action of this octave compared to my old sax (appropriately an Olds brand). No, seriously. I can’t quite rock my finger on it correctly.

On the left side of the top portion of the horn are some secondary keys (for sharps and flats, as I recall; I haven’t gotten that far yet). It’s a struggle for me to avoid those side keys when I use the octave one. This wasn’t a problem when I was in high school. Apparently my height is not the only thing shrinking with age. It seems that my fingers have gotten shorter as well. My childhood instrument was more comfortable in my hands, finger shrinkage not withstanding.

An important part of the saxophone is the mouthpiece and reed. These felt quite familiar in my mouth right out of the case. My instructor talked to me about embouchure, the position of your lips on the mouthpiece. There are three standard ways to get sound out. I tried (or tried to try) each one. We decided that the one where you curl your lower lip over your bottom teeth and tongue the middle of the mouthpiece seemed to work best for me, at least for now.

I have no recollection of having this explained to me when I started playing in seventh grade. Perhaps the band teacher figured most of us would quit in a year anyway, so why bother. By the time I reached high school, I had apparently developed a style of blowing that got the job done effectively. (No wise cracks, thank you.)

Let’s jump ahead to when I arrived home and set things up to practice. My piano (with it’s built-in music stand) is in the basement, but I decided to practice in our dining area at least initially. That meant finding a way to prop up the study books I’d purchased. It occurred to me that my Lucite cookbook holder would be perfect for this. I knew exactly where it got stored when we moved into our condo last September. Some of you are rightly thinking: “What a miracle!” since you know how seldom I cook.

I dusted it off and made a commitment to myself to practice at least a half hour almost every day. The day after my first session, my lower lip was worn raw from rubbing against my lower teeth. (I took that day off.) I’m trying to remember if I might have used a different embouchure in high school. Sometimes, I make it a point to not think too much about mouth technique and to focus instead on the fingering with my crab-like, stunted hands. More sacrifices for my “art.”

One thing missing from this new round of playing is our childhood Beagle, Cindy. She’d howl when I practiced. We all thought it was hysterical, but we had only one nearby neighbor except in summer. As I prepared to practice here one afternoon, I noticed a neighbor walking his dog across the way. I popped out the door to warn him that the dog might howl once I got going. Turns out, he played alto in high school, too. He still has the instrument in his basement. I think I hear a duet in the wind…