Campaign Trail Music

At one of Donald Trump’s recent rallies, a woman asked why TSA workers in “hibby-jobbies” (or some mangled version of hijab) aren’t being replaced with veterans who need work. Trump said he’d be looking into that. This reminded me once again that he encourages xenophobia. And then one of those light bulbs went on over my head.

Trump should put together a musical group to tour with him on the campaign trail. We’ll call them “Donny and the Xenophobes.” There’ll be lots of percussion, especially the clashing of cymbals. The brass section will be all wind and no wood. Pace yourselves, readers, because I’m just getting started.

Bill Clinton will have a band called William Jefferson Airplane. It will perform only on airport tarmacs. When someone he wants to influence is landing, he’ll play a few bars of “Hail to the Chief” on his sax. It will of course be a swing band.

The New Jersey Governor (and potential Trump running mate) will tour with his own group: the New Christie Mouthfuls. He’ll delight constituents at fundraisers with his own rendition of “Green, Green” (on the far side of the bridge) and “This Land Is Trump’s Land.”

The Massachusetts Senator who is a potential Clinton running mate will also have her own ensemble: Lizzy W and Her Brass Balls. She’ll be the closing act for Donny and the Xenophobes, and the opening act for Hillary. This is their fight song.

Speaking of the presumptive Democratic nominee, she’ll excite voters with her HillBilly Rockers. Her husband will join them (when he’s not on a tarmac somewhere), and they’re going to beat Trump like a drum. Hill expects to peel off some of the Southern vote with this down-to-earth group. She might even perform in a leather pantsuit.

Bernie and the Pacemakers will tour as a cover band for the Grateful-I’m-Not Dead, right up until the Democratic convention later this month. Oh, you think I’m being cruel on this one? Google “Gerry and the Pacemakers,” a group from Liverpool that was popular in the ‘60’s. Then take the Ferry Cross the Mersey, but Don’t Let the Sun Catch You Crying.

Another potential Trump running mate will be found on the campaign trail performing as Eye of the Newt (and Tongue of the Toady). He’ll frequently be double billed with Sarah P and the Ditzes. But you’ll never find them in the same place as John and the Thunesmiths. His a cappella quartet will play mostly John Tesh songs. Then there’s “dark horse” Mike Pence, Governor of Indiana. He’s still working on getting his musicians together.

Let’s not forget Alabama Senator Jeff Sessions and Tennessee Senator Bob Corker, both also on Trump’s short list for VP. I’m forever getting the two of them confused; all those Southern states look alike to me. With a full name like Jefferson Beauregard, Sessions should have a banjo in his hand. And Corker, well, let’s give him a harmonica. I hope they team up and tour together, doing the dueling theme from Deliverance.

Meanwhile, another potential Clinton running mate will be seen here and there under the name Kaine and the Virginia Revival. I have absolutely no idea what type of music he’ll play, but with a first name Tim, I wouldn’t expect acid rock.

Surrogates for the presumptive Democratic nominee will have their own ensembles. Barack’s Rolling Stoners will appear at rallies just about everywhere, with the Supremes as his backup. Meanwhile, Biden’s Wanderers will hit the state fair circuit in the rust belt. They’ll play whatever the crowd requests, as long as it was written before 1970.

Republicans that are still hoping for a convention miracle will make rare appearances in places that aren’t Ohio. You might catch Jeb and the Family Bush in Florida, or Mitt Romney and the Heartbreakers in New England. Paul Ryan and the Raiders will be seen only rarely and only in DC. And probably only around midnight.

There you have it. The groups you can expect to find on the campaign trail from now until November. Somewhere in this list must be one that will be music to your ears.

Strange Bet Fellows

Let me start by telling you that the title of this post is not a typo or an auto-complete. Today I’m blogging about betting. I got the idea from some news items in the New York Times shortly before the vote by the Brits on whether or not to leave the European Union. Apparently there was a lot of action betting on Brexit: Will they stay or will they go? The odds favored staying, so those who bet against that must have made quite a few pounds. My immediate reaction was: “Jeeze Louise. People will bet on anything.”

The same issue reported that Northern Irish golfer Rory McIlroy has decided to skip the Olympics in Rio for fear of contracting the Zika virus. Barely a week earlier, NBC reporter Samantha Guthrie announced that she’s preggers and will be covering the event from New York.

Conflating these stories (as I often do), I wondered: What else will bookies be taking bets on this summer? Will it be which athlete will be next to skip the Olympics? Rather than Google this idea, I moved on mentally to what every day things one could bet on. It didn’t take long to turn up plenty of strange bet fellows in my own life. Some of these are health related.

For instance: How many points will my blood pressure have increased at my next checkup, now that I’ve put on quite a few pounds? And: How long will it take for me to lose the ten pounds I desperately need to peel off? (And the next ten that really should go away, too…)

Here’s one that I doubt many of you have to worry about. How many golf balls will hit our condo this season? Last year I collected 48 of them, but they didn’t all hit the house. Some just landed on the grass and in the bushes. But when they hit, it scares the (expletive deleted) out of us.

You could place bets on how many more weeks Jagdish will be taking the train up and back to Providence for four days at a time. It was supposed to be just for a month or two. That was in March. I don’t think either of us realized how much he missed holding court in his “ashram.” And how much his customers missed him. That’s OK. I have the cats to keep me company now.

Speaking of cats, what are the odds on whether I try to sneak a third one into our condo? We’re only allowed to have two, even though they never go outside and together they weigh less than most dogs. Apparently, people here are OK with having some poor little senior feline caged at the rescue facility for the last years of its life. Even when a good home is waiting. Note to self: Stop looking at the Protectors of Animals website. You fall in love with all the new ones and feel terrible for those that have been there for months.

Oh, here’s one I like. How many more months of practice will it take before the band Elaine plays with is ready to perform in public? We’re not talking about getting paid to play. There’s a convalescent home waiting for us to entertain for free. But not until we’re more polished.

You may have noticed that, despite starting this blog with betting on Brexit, I’ve assiduously avoided any bets that involve presidential politics. I doubt we’d get any agreement on the odds. And even if we did, they’d probably change weekly in any case.

I’m sure I can think of many more issues that could have odds applied and bets taken. But you get the idea. Feel free to do a similar drill on your own life. You’d be surprised what strange bet fellows are waiting out there.

Condo Commandments

Around the time I retired, I posted some retirement commandments. One list was Zoroastrian (thou shalts); the other was non-Zoroastrian (shalt nots). Now that I’ve been in our new home for almost two years, I decided to put together some commandments for living in a condo community. These are a mixture of shalts and shalt nots.

1.     Thou shalt not have more than two household pets. If thou hath a third pet upon arrival and cannot abide a Sophie’s Choice situation, the third shall be kept well hidden in the basement or in a second floor bedroom. A schnauzer in a gingham dress still counts as a pet. The total weight of thy pets shall not exceed forty pounds. This does not include cute clothing or winter booties.

2.     Thy car shalt be a Mercedes, BMW, Cadillac or Jaguar. Or maybe a Lexus, if it’s thy second vehicle. Otherwise, thou shalt not leave thy car parked in thy driveway. Having a place to hide Hondas and Toyotas is why God invented attached garages.

3.     For women, thou shalt not wear low-rise jeans in public, even when just walking down to the mail station. Regardless of attire, if thy mailbox is in the bottom tier, thou shalt bend at thy knees. For men, unless thou haveth a six-pack, thou shalt not wear Sans-a-belt pants with just a polo shirt. A sports jacket is not optional attire for thee.

4.     Thou shalt learn to appreciate Happy Hour and drink cocktails such as Mimosas, Mojitos, Cosmopolitans, Caipirinhas and Negronis. Black Russians and Fuzzy Navels are not acceptable cocktails. If thou cannot abide hard liquor, thou shalt drink only craft beers and rosé wines.

5.     If thou planeth to wear open toed sandals, thou shalt get regular pedicures and shalt paint thy toenails at least once every two weeks.

6.     Thou shalt not place pink flamingoes or garden gnomes on thy front lawn. All home décor shall be purchased at West Elm, Wayfair or Crate and Barrel. Exemptions for items from IKEA or Home Goods require prior Board approval.

7.     Thou shalt not covet thy neighbor’s Weber. If thy condo came with a grill, thou shalt learn how to use if before the end of thy second year of residence. If there was no grill, thou shalt buy a Weber even if thou doth not plan on using it.

8.     If thy condo did not come with a central vacuum system, thou shalt purchase (and use) a Miele vacuum. Not a Shark; not a Dyson; no Hoovers or Kenmores. If thy condo has a central vac, thou shalt use it at least twice a year; six times if thou hath cats.

9.     Thou shalt carefully observe the recycling schedule. Regular trash goes out every Monday; blue recycling bins go out every other one. Thou shalt put no bins at the curb before 4 pm Monday and shalt retrieve them no later than noon the next day.

10. Thou shalt not practice thy saxophone after 9 pm. Thou shalt close thy windows during practice if thy neighbor has guests.

If you live in a condo community, Lord help you if you don’t follow these commandments.

My Love-Hate Affair with Texting

When I had my dumb flip-phone, I hated texting. I almost never sent texts. If someone texted me, I was likely to not discover the message until days after it was sent. Even if I saw it the same day, I’d usually respond via a phone call. To me texting was an evil tool, invented by service providers to extract more money out of you. Part of my distaste no doubt came from the fact that on the dumb phones, there was no keyboard as such. If I needed the letter C, for instance, I had to tap the A key three times, and so on.

A few months ago, I was forced to upgrade to an iPhone to improve my reception. My flip-phone frequently dropped calls mid-conversation, but it was too dumb to connect to the Wi-Fi in our condo. I’m learning to use some of the features that my new phone affords.

For example, I entered most of my regular contacts into it and set specific ringtones for certain groups. Calls coming from my immediate family, all dog lovers, bark for my attention. The Protectors of Animals folks quack for me. My husband has his own alert, called Sherwood Forest. It sounds a bit like herald trumpets to me, so I tell everyone it’s my lord and master calling.

It seems that the people who live in our condo community are fond of texting in lieu of calling. I’m gradually becoming accustomed to checking for messages at least once a day. To my surprise, I’ve discovered that texting can actually be more convenient than calling. For one thing, I can control the amount of time expended on the exchange.

The iPhone has a keyboard, but it’s easy to make mistakes with it. I have small hands, but apparently I have fat fingertips. I frequently get the letter one over from the one I want and have to use the backup “key” to correct it.

I used to wonder how folks making jokes about the auto-complete (not the auto-correct) could possibly have been the victims of such seemingly random substitutions by their “smart” phones. That was until I noticed that my iPhone has a bar above the message area that provides suggested completions for words I’m typing. As I key in more letters, the suggestions change, presumably getting more refined.

There’s probably some algorithm for words used most often by frequent texters. The iPhone gives you three choices it deems most common, supposedly based on the letters keyed thus far. Clearly their frequent texters have a different vocabulary than I do. I’m usually down to my last letter before the word I’m keying in shows up in the choices, if at all. That makes the auto-complete feature a distraction for me. It also causes me to send some messages as strange as the ones I used to scoff at.

Here’s another thing I don’t like about the iPhone texting setup. The “send” button is on the upper right. That’s where the correction button is on the dialing keyboard. More than once I meant to correct something in an incomplete message, but sent it instead, generating a “Huh?” reply from the recipient. To which I texted back: “Premature ejaculation.”

One use I’ve discovered for texting that has led to my nascent love affair with it came to me a few days ago. I was in a meeting that seemed like it would drag on forever. The committee chair got up and slipped out quietly. His presence had been an especially calming factor for me. I texted him after a few minutes, asking if he was coming back. (He was not.) We then exchanged several messages, a welcome distraction for me.

I bought a texting stick at one of those dollar stores. It’s useful for keying in longer messages. I keep it on a table in our family room, so I didn’t have it with me in that meeting. I can see that the texting stick is going to be like my reading glasses. I’ll stash one in every room and in my purse and in my briefcase. That won’t fix all of the things I find annoying about texting, but it will help. I just have to accept that this is going to be a love-hate affair. I can live with that.

At A Loss for Words

I’ve been blogging weekly for almost six years now and I’ve had a monthly newspaper column for five. Lately I’ve been finding it more and more difficult to come up with ideas for my essays. Last night I had a strange thought (not unusual when I’ve had a late dinner of pizza). What if I’ve simply run out of words? What if we’re born with a limited supply, and once we’ve used them all up, “that’s all she wrote,” as the saying goes. I’m not talking about the size of ones vocabulary; I mean just plain words we’ve ever used.

This might not be as crazy as it seems at first blush. Women are born with a limited amount of eggs in their ovaries. Once they’ve all made their monthly trip down a fallopian tube, the cupboard is bare. There are some theories that we have only so many brain cells and that in time, they’re toast. This of course depends a lot on heredity, nutrition, exercise and (according to AARP) doing sudokus and crossword puzzles. And regularly reading Retirement Sparks.

What if my word quota is running out already? I’m only in my seventies; I expect to live into my nineties. Will I be unable to communicate by the time I’m eighty? Is it just my ability to draw on the written word that is faltering, or will my spoken words dry up eventually as well? (Some who know me personally are probably thinking: “If only…”) If I find myself searching for a word, maybe it won’t be that the pathway to where the word is stored is clogged. Maybe the word will simply be gone—used up.

If I start writing shorter blog posts, will that conserve words so I can keep writing longer? Maybe I’m just in dry spell and need to collect more ideas for posts. Once I begin writing, things usually flow quite nicely. It’s getting started that’s difficult. I used to come up with topics from the morning talk shows, but they’ve been uninspiring lately. I probably need to get out more.

It looks like it’s time for a two-pronged approach. I’m keeping today’s post close to 400 words (I usually write 600 – 800) and setting off in search of inspiration. Connecticut is no doubt brimming with things I can write about; I just need to find them. But now that I have two cats, I’m worried that once I'm out I’ll be tempted to spend more money on toys. The world can be so cruel.

Acronym Overload

My grandniece, Isabella, has an impressive vocabulary for a twelve-year-old. She and her mother, Pam, went to see the new super computer that her father, a Burlington, VT police detective, will be using in his investigations. Pam posted on Facebook that as they entered the police department, Isabella noticed a bin labeled OIC (which means Officer In Charge). She asked: “Daddy, why is there an inbox for Opioid Induced Constipation? Do police officers have a lot of trouble with that?”

After I picked myself up off the floor, it dawned on me that there’s been an explosion in the use of acronyms lately, especially in the field of medicine. They’ve been proliferating at such a rate that a lot of them have multiple meanings. As long as we’re going to have more than one usage, we might as well have one of those relate specifically to seniors.

Take for example the popular term NSAID. You probably know that as NonSteroidal Anti-Inflammatory Drug (like aspirin, ibuprofen and naproxen). For me, NSAID means No Sense Asking—I’m Dieting. I need to practice that reply when I’m offered second helpings. And desserts. And, sadly, a glass of wine.

Those who have heart issues will be familiar with ECASA (Enteric Coated Aspirin), one of the medications my husband carries in his travel kit. An equally useful translation at our age is Every Calorie Adds Some Adipose. That’s the fat around our bellies.

ICS (Inhaled Cortico Steroids) are a lifeline for anyone with asthma. In our house we call ICS Inhaled Cat Stuff. That can be anything from their hair to dander to litter than has hitched a ride between their toes and landed on our bed. For people with respiratory problems, our ICS makes the medical ICS a good item to have handy.

Women my age are frequently prone to bladder issues and the advertising community has a field day with the acronyms for what ails us. I’m willing to bet that OAB (OverActive Bladder) and LBL (Light Bladder Leakage) began life on a storyboard in some agency creative’s office. In the age of gluten intolerance, OAB must also stand for Oats And Beans, two fiber sources to substitute for wheat. For many women, LBL means Laughter Brings Leakage. So does sneezing.

My favorite bladder-related acronym is BBS (Bashful Bladder Syndrome), an apparently common anxiety disorder also known as paruresis. This seems to be the opposite of a leaky one. Folks with BBS just can’t go if anyone else is around. I feel bad for anyone who has trouble peeing when they feel the urge; (I can pretty much pee on cue). But I love the phrase so much I’m not going to make up a replacement definition. Wikipedia has a list of déclassé nicknames for this condition, so you don’t need one from me.

“Syndromes” is a word that pops up frequently in these disorders. In addition to Bashful Bladder Syndrome, You have IBS (Inflammatory Bowel Syndrome) and FMS (FibroMyalgia Syndrome). Or as, I prefer to define the latter two: Inhale, Breathe, Snort (how I clear my sinuses during allergy season) and the self-explanatory Feline Mothering Syndrome.

“Disease” also appears in many conditions that are familiar in senior circles. First we have CAD (Coronary Artery Disease), not to be confused with CSD (Cat Scratch Disease), whatever that is. I’ll leave CSD alone, but I’m changing CAD to Check And Double-check. Did we turn off the appliances before we left? Count cat noses? Close the garage door? Then there’s GERD (Gastro Esophageal Reflux Disease), or as I think of it: Gotta Exercise, but Rarely Do. That one was a no-brainer.

The final medical acronym on my list is EDS (Excessive Daytime Sleepiness). I was surprised when this turned up in my research. It’s such an appropriate phrase for seniors (well, for me anyway) that there’s no way I’m going to tinker with it. I get sleepy after lunch, during excessive heat (like the past few days) and when I’ve been reading or typing for more than twenty minutes.

That puts me at three for three right now. On that note, I think I’ll grab a cat and go take a nap.

Creepy, Meet Sleazy

Some of the items in the news last week were downright creepy. For some reason they’ve brought out my sleazy side. When I tell you what they are, remember that I did not make these up. Therefore, I feel that I shouldn’t bear the full blame for the raunchiness of my reactions. You be the judge. Or not, if you’re easily offended.

Item one was a report on the first successful penis transplant. Or perhaps the first one that those involved decided to distribute to the media. In no way do I mean to minimize the importance of having a functioning member for men who’ve lost their original for some reason. It’s just that—as I’ve already said—I found this story too creepy even for me.

The transplanted penis came from a cadaver, giving new meaning to “a stiff one.” Of course, that makes sense. Finding a living man to part with his own willy out of a spurt of generosity is too remote; it’s not like you come with a spare. By the way, in preparing to write this post, I searched for slang terms for penis. I hate using the same word over and over; it’s boring and bad style. The Online Slang Dictionary gave me well over 100 ways to say schlong, most of which even this raunchy blogger had never heard.

Back to the news. My immediate reaction to the transplant was “Eeeuw!” I told my husband about it on our latest drive to Providence. “As a woman, I can’t imagine letting a man put that thing inside me! It was dead, after all.” Mumbling sounds from Jagdish; I didn’t ask for clarification. I continued. “Nope. I’d say: ‘Look. I’ll just give you a hand job. But wait a minute. First I need to find a latex glove.’” This had both of us laughing so hard, I almost swerved into the lane next to me.

Before I leave this topic, a survey of hands please. How many of you have heard the term ‘zubra’ for said piece of equipment? Who thinks that the person who submitted ‘Russell the love muscle’ to the Online Slang Dictionary was named Russell? Did you know that a ‘chubbie’ is not a fat one; it’s a semi-erect one? Finally, a ‘tallywacker’ is not only slang for a dick; it’s a length of rope that shepherds use to count sheep. Makes you wonder what the shepherds are doing with those sheep in the dead of night.

Moving on to other news. Live with Kelly informed us of a company that’s making beer from bellybutton lint. Double “eeeuw!” It’s the 7 cent Brewery, located in Australia. No surprise there. Apparently, they culture yeast that they glean from the lint harvested in local navel gardens. They unveiled their brew at GABS, the Great Australian Beer Spectacular. Kelly and her guest cohost sampled the beer and proclaimed it drinkable. Yeah, right. Aussie Aussie Aussie Oi Oi Oi.

I told my husband about this on that same drive to Providence where I informed him of the successful winky transplant. Then I wondered out loud. “I hope they don’t get that lint from the same corpses where they get the donor wieners.” Triple “eeeuw!” I know folks often think of hot dogs and beer together at summer barbecues and baseball games. But this is one combination just too gag-inducing to swallow.

Take it easy. I’m already on my way to wash my mouth out with soap. Then I’ll probably have a glass of wine. But it will be awhile before I consider having a beer again.

Rebel without a Cause

I’ve always featured myself to be a bit of a rebel. I’m not sure when or how this self-view started. The first example I remember is in picking the college I’d attend. My sister went to Douglass (then the women’s college of New Jersey). Seven years later, my brother enrolled at Rutgers (the men’s college). The next year, everyone assumed I’d go to Douglass, especially when I was early accepted, even though I didn’t apply for that. I played the rebel and picked Pembroke, the women’s college of Brown University.

By my senior year at Brown, my contrarian tendencies had fixated on motorcycles. I wanted to buy one when I had enough money. That would be a long time off, but it turned out it wouldn’t matter. I visited a store and discovered that I was too short for even the smallest machine that was available back then. My feet didn’t touch the ground when I straddled it as though stopped at a traffic light. When I leaned far enough to one side for my foot to reach the ground, the bike fell over.

While my family might have considered my next phase rebellious, my peers would have seen it as predictable. I became the family hippie. My hair was so long I could sit on it and I wore Jesus sandals that laced up to my knees. That wore thin after awhile. Besides, I was working in Manhattan for what was then a Big Eight accounting firm. CPAs didn’t approve of Jesus sandals.

Now that I’m retired, I’ve started to think fondly about becoming a rebel again. The problem is that I don’t have a cause to protest against. I don’t even have a flag to fly to advertise my rebellion. Let’s face it, when folks reach my age, there’s a fine line between rebelling and being an eccentric old coot.

One thing I’ve considered now and again is dying my hair a weird color. Not all of it. Just a big swath down the middle. Some older women can pull this off, especially if they have short hair, as I do. I never quite reach the point of doing this, because I can’t decide on the right color. Sometimes I think it’s purple; other times fuchsia. Maybe even orange. Then again, bright chartreuse could be an option. But never blue; that's an "old lady" tint. As you can see, crazy hair isn't likely to be my first foray into late-life rebel-hood.

I’ve also thought about getting a tattoo. This won’t seem rebellious to most people, since so many women who are otherwise traditional have tattoos these days. I’ve tried to make the case (to myself) that getting my first tattoo after age seventy would qualify as a contrarian act. That dog doesn’t seem to hunt. It may be because I’m not wild about the idea of getting poked by needles again now that I no longer need yearly blood work as part of my cancer follow up. But stick-on tattoos are a cop out.

The final idea I’ve come up with is to wear a long, dangly feather in one ear. This also fails to take flight when I remember that I have a short neck. And also now two cats who would almost certainly see this as one more toy for them to play with. For sure, a neck full of scratches and an earlobe stretched to within an inch of its life would push me over the edge into eccentric. If I’m going to wear that label, I’d rather do it because I’ve rescued six more cats. (Don’t panic, Jagdish; that’s not happening.)

It looks like I’m going to have to accept the fact that at this point in my life, I’m destined to be a rebel without a cause.

Mother’s Day Perspectives

This week, I decided to post on Sunday to celebrate Mother’s Day. My perspective on this day has changed over time. Since I never had any human children, for much of my life the focus of my celebration of this holiday was my own mother. She died the weekend of my fiftieth birthday.

The following Mother’s Day was a sad one for me. It brought home the realization that I no longer had a mother in my life. It affected me almost as much as her actual death had eight months earlier. We have just one mother, and when she is gone there will not be another. My father had predeceased her by twelve years, so I felt somewhat like an orphan.

For most of the years between her death and this year, I had feline children. The celebration of Mother’s Day in our household shifted to me as the mom to our cats. I received cards (with little paw prints) and flowers. It helped ease the sense of loss from not having a mother of my own anymore.

A year ago January, we said goodbye to our fifth and possibly final cat, Luke. I decided to spend at least a year catless, mourning him as he deserved. I wasn’t sure I would want to start a new family at this point in my life. When May came, there was no reason at all to celebrate Mother’s Day. The void in my life was as painful as that first year after my own mother died.

I had never given much thought to being a mother to my cats. I loved and cared for them deeply. I fed them, changed their water and their litter boxes. In their later years, I often dispensed medications or other treatments. Despite the cards and the flowers, I had never framed that attention in my mind as “mothering.” It wasn’t until Luke was gone that I realized that the mother role can have many definitions. I spent over a year not being a mother to anyone, and still, as always now, being motherless.

As January slid into February this year, I began to think about making a home for some rescued cats. Ones whose aging owners had either died or had been forced to give them up. I knew I wouldn’t want to start over with kittens; I couldn’t bear the thought of leaving them without a home if they outlived me. I opted for senior felines who might have had a difficult time being placed.

We adopted ten-year-old Kallie in March. She’s a calico and tortoise combination, quiet and gentle. In fairly short time, she began sleeping with me, much as Luke had done once Pansy was no longer with us.

In April we added seven-year-old Stella. She’s what is called a torbie—a tiger and calico combination. She’s a talker and she’s as energetic as Kallie is calm. I’ve given them floral middle names, an echo of my other girls. They're learning to tolerate one another and I’m confidant they’ll soon become friends. 

They have once again allowed me to claim the mantle of motherhood. Jagdish asked what I wanted for Mother’s Day. I said just a card from them, and maybe a small bouquet of flowers from the supermarket. Yesterday, Fedex delivered two dozen red roses—a dozen from each of my new girls. Their greeting card (with cats on the front of course) thanked me for adopting them and giving them a good home.

As Mother’s Day 2016 comes to a close, I look back on my changing perspectives of what that day has meant to me over the years. Once again, I can look with a smile to what the years ahead will bring.

Kallie Jasmine and Stella Periwinkle, thanks for making me a mother again!

Love, Mom.

Big Brother Is Watching

Several items in the media made me realize that Big Brother may be watching us a lot more than we realize. Some of this spying can be helpful, but other applications send a frisson of fear up my spine.

The first report that caught my attention was something I saw in the Daily Skimm, a cleverly written email summary of sometimes arcane news items. There’s now a smart mattress that can tell you if there’s been “activity” on it. At first I thought this was another aspect of the Fitbit craze, to help you figure out how many calories you burned during—um—your sleep activity. As a service to my readers, I did some on-line sleuthing to learn more about this slumber wonder.

It’s made by Durmet, a Spanish company, and it sends an audio alert whenever it’s “in use.” What’s more, it can tell the “duration, intensity and impact per minute” of that usage. The matt-app allows you to trigger certain music when a horizontal mambo is detected. One song that immediately comes to mind is Lay, Lady, Lay, but Tears On My Pillow might be more appropriate if there’s a cheating spouse involved.

A few days after I read about the mattress, the New York Times had a piece on being able to tell whether or not your dog was walked. That tool uses GPS to see where the pet has been. It seems to me that puddles of pee and piles of poop on your rugs would be a more immediate way of knowing if the walker has been ripping you off.

This reminded me of another GPS-based app that I found useful when I was consulting for Brown Development. At the end of the day I would take the Brown shuttle from the building where I worked to the main campus up the hill. Then I’d walk home the remaining mile, usually stopping to see my husband at his store on my way. The shuttle provided on-line updates of where it was along the route. When it was running late, I could keep working at my desk and still catch it without having to wait in the cold.

I think I also read that there are companies that can tell you the location of the pizza you ordered for delivery. Or maybe I just imagined that one. It makes sense, after all. If you think about it, there are quite a few ways that Big Brother could use this type of remote sensing technology. Let’s explore a few of them.

Your dentist could catch you lying about your oral hygiene if the free brush he gave you at your last visit had an app like this embedded. Disproving your flossing would be more of a challenge, and it’s the flossing that really helps keep your gums healthy. I’ll let the scientists among you keep working on that one.

Similar technology could monitor whether or not I really practiced the saxophone when I claimed I had. Maybe it could also produce an audio-graph that would provide clues to what songs I’d played. I’m not sure who would care about this, and frankly, there’s another way to know if I’d been playing. Just see if the cat is hiding under the bed; she’s not a fan of my music.

Speaking of cats and dogs, by putting sensors in their custom brushes, you’d be able to tell how long the salon spent grooming them. In our home, we can judge that by how much of their hair is standing on end from static electricity.

A real Big Brother application would rig the freezer door to tell when it’s been opened and for how long. I’d have a hard time lying about those midnight raids for ice cream. That might be even more effective than a food journal in reducing my caloric intake.

I think the most creative use is something that will put the fear of God in my Catholic readers. Or more accurately, the fear of their parish priests. The same electronics that report what’s going on with the smart mattresses could be embedded in rosary beads. The penance the priest doles out in the confessional would require you to use your beads. If you don’t work your way through the prayers as prescribed, your sins won’t be forgiven. It certainly adds a new dimension to “a good act of contrition.”

I’ve just scratched the surface here. You no doubt have many ideas of your own. Maybe I’m a romantic, but I’m confident our apps would find larger markets than that smart mattress.

Nostalgic Reflections—Demure Edition

Last week’s post on nostalgic reflections was—how shall I put it?—a tad risqué. I’m following up this week with more demure reflections. My husband scored just 45 (out of 90) last week; my sister knew only two items. This week’s quiz gives everyone a chance to redeem themselves. The questions are multiple choice and there may be more than one correct answer for each one. Every correct reply (including lucky guesses) nets you 10 points. Hint: maximum is 120. Answers are again at the end.

By now, you all should know that I played alto sax in school. What other musical instrument(s) did I play in the high school band?

1.     Clarinet

2.     Flute

3.     Glockenspiel

4.     Oboe

5.     Tenor Sax

What foreign language(s) did I study in high school?

1.     French

2.     German

3.     Italian

4.     Latin

5.     Spanish

What bone(s) did I break when I was in school?

1.     Arm

2.     Finger

3.     Foot

4.     Nose

5.     Rib

My Freshmen dorm mates in college called me The Lady in Red. Why?

1.     I wore red sneakers.

2.     I had a red raincoat.

3.     I wore red Dr. Denton-type footed pajamas.

4.     I had a red bedspread and curtains in my room.

5.     I frequently wore a red scarf around my neck.

What sport(s) did I compete in during college?

1.     Archery

2.     Fencing

3.     Field Hockey

4.     Sailing

5.     Skiing

What skill(s) was I never able to master?

1.     Bowling

2.     Knitting

3.     Ping Pong

4.     Touch Typing

5.     Whistling

Answers and Explanations

Other musical instrument(s)? Oboe.

My classmate was a fabulous alto sax player, so there was no way I’d ever get to first chair. I decided to try oboe since the oboist was two years ahead of me. I couldn’t master the double reed, so I settled in as second chair alto sax.

Foreign language(s)? French (2 years), German (1 year) and Latin (3 years).

My brother and I studied Spanish one evening a week in New York City in the seventies. Learning Italian is on my to-do list.

Broken bone(s)? Arm and nose.

I broke my arm twice. Once was by falling off a swing around age 6 and once was ice skating during high school. I also broke my nose water skiing during high school. I broke my foot twice, and my rib once, all after age forty.

Why The Lady in Red? Red bedspread and curtains, which my mother made for me as a birthday present my first year in college.

I did have red sneakers, but those were during high school. I was wearing them in my too-large ice skates when I fell and broke my arm. I had a cute raincoat with mushrooms printed on it, but never a red one. The red Doctor Denton-type pajamas were purchased after college. My trademark neck scarves (in a multitude of colors and prints) also came much later.

Sport(s) Competed In College? Archery, Fencing and Sailing

This was tricky. I competed in archery just once, as a favor to the phys ed teacher. One of the other students was an excellent archer and had a chance for an individual medal. They were short one person to field a team, so I participated to help out. Fencing was also sketchy. I was the only female student fencer. I practiced with that same phys ed teacher and went to just one meet each of my first two years. Sailing was a team sport and I competed throughout the season my freshman year.

I was excused from field hockey my senior year in high school because of my broken nose; I never went back to it in college. And skiing? LOL.

Skill(s) That Escaped Me? Bowling and whistling

I bowled once in grammar school. We were an odd number of kids, so my best friend and I bowled every other frame. I managed five gutter balls and one pin before my friend finished the match for both of us. Try as I might, I’ve never been able to whistle.

I taught myself knitting and made sweaters for two boy friends. I had trophies for ping pong, which is amazing considering I later learned that I have no depth perception. My father made me take typing in high school. He said there was no way he was going to pay to have my term papers typed in college.

Give yourself 10 points for each correct answer. Remember: the maximum score this week is 120. If you scored seventy or above, good job. Ninety or above, congratulations! You’ve qualified as an expert. Now go celebrate with a nice glass of wine.