Health Boosters

I’ve recently embarked on a walking program with a neighbor who shares my physique (short) and has similar goals (weight loss and such). We’ve been walking 3.4 miles around the golf course three mornings a week. Our time is already down under 18 minutes per mile and it’s amazing what a difference 10 miles at that pace can make. At my annual check up my blood pressure was 120 over 70; I haven’t seen those numbers in years.

Two issues of Time magazine in July had articles on ways to improve your health. One focused on exercise—no surprise there. Another explained ways that nature can lead to a healthier you. I was curious to see how I could augment my exercise routine to boost its health benefits. I was especially interested in the intersections of these two areas, since walking around our golf course combines exercise and nature.

Surprisingly, there were only a few areas of overlap. Even more surprising, lower blood pressure—a key health benefit based on my own experience—wasn’t mentioned under exercise, but it was listed under nature. I’ve thought of some other things that weren’t mentioned, though I can’t imagine why not. More on that in a minute.

One common health advantage was reducing the risk of serious cancers (exercising)/ promoting cancer fighting cells (spending time in nature). Another was to stave off depression (and also anxiety, if you’re out in the greenery). After that, it started to get fuzzier to find commonality.

The nature article claimed that even “fake” nature can be helpful. Potted plants (I assume live ones, not plastic), looking out the window at greenery, listening to those New Age CDs. This seems like a stretch to me, but I suppose if one lives in the concrete jungle, it’s better than nothing.

Speaking of stretching, exercising—especially yoga—is credited with having mind-body benefits. Spending time in nature can increase awe. Seems like doing yoga outdoors would maximize both of those benefits. Yoga in the park is a scene in a lot of movies. Remember Robert De Niro in The Intern? Oh wait. That was tai chi.

Soaking in some nature can relieve ADHD symptoms by improving one’s ability to focus. I wouldn’t categorize myself as hyperactive, but I certainly could use some help in that focusing area. Now, where was I?

Oh yes. Things that were missing in the Time articles. One thing not covered in either piece was any reference to how having a pet can improve ones health. Studies show that purring cats can lower your blood pressure. And any dog owner knows that walking Fido helps with weight loss. Imagine the extra benefit we’d get from walking our pets surrounded by Mother Nature! Maybe I’ll put a harness on Stella to see if she likes our golf course. With my luck, she’ll think the sand traps are giant litter boxes.

I’m sure I also read somewhere that exercising in the buff has added benefits. I surfed the Internet and couldn’t turn up a reliable source for this tidbit. There were plenty of references to the fact that the Greeks exercised naked. And quite a few links to videos of what promised to be nubile young women. So I’ll just tell you that “a lot of people are saying” it’s better to work out naked. You can take that to the bank, believe me.

There’s little doubt in my mind that were I to take my 3.4 mile walk in the nude, I’d be healthier. That’s because I’d get my time down to a 5-minute mile in a flash, the sooner to get out of sight of the neighbors. But before I did that, I’d need to get used to walking with a paper bag over my head. Even at a 5-minute mile, someone might recognize me. A community that controls the color of the holiday lights on residents’ bushes wouldn’t take kindly to streaking bushes.

Can’t Be A Redneck If

Since I’m taking a break from politics, I’ve decided to also take a break from being politically correct. In that spirit and inspired by Jeff Foxworthy, here are reasons why someone cannot be a redneck.

In a recent conversation with my husband, I mentioned: I’ve never had a taste for coffee; I’ve always preferred tea. For some reason, that triggered an image of a redneck, pinky in the air, with the tea bag string and tag draped over the edge of a delicate china cup. It was such a jarring picture that I knew immediately: if you don’t drink coffee, you can’t be a redneck.

The same discussion found me admitting: I’ve also never had a taste for hard liquor. Wine and beer, yes. But whiskey? No way. (I’m discounting the Black Russians I drank when I traveled for Colgate Palmolive.) This of course made me realize that you also can’t be a redneck if you don’t drink whiskey. It doesn’t matter if you have a still in your backyard. That just makes you an entrepreneur, not a redneck. It’s like being a drug dealer doesn’t automatically make you an addict. You have to use your product, too.

Here are some other signs most of you will recognize. You can’t be a redneck if you don’t own a pickup truck. Following proper rules of logic: just because you have a truck doesn’t make you a redneck. But you simply cannot be one unless you have a truck. That’s a non-negotiable requirement.

You also can’t be a redneck if you don’t have at least one tattoo. Best if it’s patriotic, or has some woman’s name (girlfriend or your mother, no matter). A woman needs a tattoo, too. Yours should be the name of your favorite country singer. Or maybe a flower.

One requirement you might not have thought about: You can’t be a redneck if your cousins aren’t married. (Keep reading.) To each other. (I told you this wouldn’t be PC.)

Likewise if you’ve never fired a gun of any kind. It could have been for skeet shooting, target practice, hunting or in the military. Or for scaring off your daughter’s boyfriend. Or a neighbor you don’t like. Or a door-to-door salesman. Owning a gun doesn’t get you off the hook, even if it’s a rifle mounted above the windshield of your pickup. You need to have fired one for some reason; that’s a price of entry.

I’m pretty sure you also can’t be a redneck unless you have at least one bumper sticker on your car or truck. I haven’t done enough research to be sure about this, but it makes sense to me. If one of my readers will just tweet this out, I’ll consider it proof enough. And I’m pretty sure that if you’ve never ever had a vehicle up on cinderblocks in your driveway, you can’t be a redneck. Just sayin’.

If you’ve never attended a state fair, you’re no redneck. And you’re missing out on a great experience. If you don’t care about the livestock displays or baked goods contests, if you don’t eat spun sugar (aka cotton candy or candy floss), and don’t enjoy carnival rides, at least go to one to people watch. It’s way more fun than a trip to Walmart.

You can’t be a redneck unless you’ve stood around waiting for someone to light up a cherry bomb, an ash can or a six-inch salute. And especially if your brother didn’t tell you when it was lit; he just ran. And you still have ringing in your ears because it took a few seconds before you realized what was going on.

If you believe the “Dueling Banjos” scene in the movie Deliverance is a classic, you definitely can’t be a redneck. And finally, if you support Hillary Clinton for President, I doubt you’re a redneck. (I couldn’t resist at least a whiff of politics.)

I know there are many more criteria on which to assess whether or not someone could be a redneck. Probably as many ways as there are to peg someone as a pompous intellectual…

The Black-White Existential Divide

The horrific events of recent weeks have once again spotlighted the color divide in this country. African-Americans tell us that Whites cannot know what it’s like to be Black in America. I accept this without reservation. Similarly, law enforcement spokespersons tell us that civilians can’t know what it’s like to be a police officer in an American city. I accept this as well.

These are just two examples of existential divides in today’s society. I live on one side of another of these. I’m a 26-year cancer survivor. I probably look a lot like you. Or your sister. Or your mother. But unless they’re cancer survivors, too, we’re not the same. From a survivor’s perspective, the world is split into two groups: those who have personally battled the disease and those who have not. Unless you’ve had "the Big C", you can’t know what it’s like to live on my side.

There’s a fundamental difference across the three existential divides of Race—Law Enforcement—and Cancer. A person like me who has had cancer will personally know how life differs before and after you have the disease A police officer likewise has a framework against which to compare life before he joined the force with life wearing a badge. A person of color can never know what it’s like to be White. And a White man can never truly experience life in a Black man’s skin.

This is more than a casual distinction. White people need to invest extra effort in order to put themselves in the other's “shoes.” I hope that as a society we are generous enough to do that. I’ve heard personal stories of what it’s like to be Black in our country today from my friends who are people of color. I know Black professionals who had to have “the talk” with their sons (and themselves). “Don’t make eye contact. Bow your head. Swallow your pride. Better to live to see another day.”

I’ve read the account of a friend of color pulled over for a routine traffic stop. This woman is an attorney and has multiple degrees, including from Ivy institutions, but she was paralyzed with fear. She sat in her car, hands gripping the wheel, assessing how to retrieve her ID from her purse without getting shot. Shot for (supposedly) not pausing long enough at a stop sign. She survived the incident, but now she’s struggling to contain the anger it has left her with.

I can’t completely appreciate what this must be like, but I’m immensely sad just imagining how these friends must feel. The Black-White existential divide is one that none of us can actually cross. But by reaching out to those of opposite skin tones and sharing their fear and their pain, we can at least hope to narrow the chasm.

Conflated Words

Combining two words into one gained popularity as shorthand for celebrity pairings. You have Brangelina (Pitt and Jolie) and the various Bennifers (Affleck/Lopez, and then Affleck/Garner). This time-saving conceit has been adopted as a way to use fewer words to say what’s on one’s mind. There’s Spanglish (Spanish flavored English) and more recently candle (can’t handle). The trend should come as no surprise in a society where one Presidential candidate uses Twitter as his primary means of communication.

I've decided to hop on the bangon (that’s the conflated “band wagon”). I might as well start with some shortened political phrases. The Vice Presidential contenders will heretofore be known as venders or veepers. I feel like the Democrats should use venders and the Republicans are more likely to adopt veepers. Blind loyalty (a key criterion in the search for the Republican Veep) will now be bloyalty.

In advance of the actual VP picks, we can still play the power couples game that helped start this trend. Hillary and Tim Kaine could mash up as Hiltim, but that sounds too much like a hotel chain, which would smack of Trump. That leaves Clinkain, evoking Clint Eastwood as Robert Kincaid in The Bridges of Madison County. On the Hispanic front, we could have Hillian Clintro, which sounds way too anatomical. OK. How about Hilliz? If it’s mispronounced as “Hell, Yes,” it gives Warren an edge.

Returning to bloyalty, The Donald and Chris Christie would be known as Trysty. (Better than Crump.) Pairing the Don with Newt Gingrich gets a new Nike slogan: Just Dewt. (Way better than Grump.) Scott Brown offers the option Donott, which could sound like “done it” (as in “been there, done that”). This would appeal to Donald’s ego. “We are the Trumpions” would make Jeff Sessions a clear front runner were it not for Queen’s intro line “…mistakes, I’ve made a few…” The Donald never makes mistakes.

In the meantime, prolls (Presidential polls) will continue to assess which venders or veepers are the current favorites with the bookies. The Presidential campaigns will be issuing policy papers (polpers), or in some cases white papers (whoppers). The Republican candidate will condense his positions into a tweet. This will challenge his staff to come up with hyper-conflated words, while preserving his hyper-inflated ego.

Moving from politics to healthy eating trends, expect to see gloofy, shoofy and floofy on package labels. No, these are not new names for the trio of characters on Rice Krispies boxes. They’re shortened versions of gluten free, sugar free and flavor free. They’re usually seen as a threesome since the first two often result in the third.

Let’s get more personal. I need to make time to dye my hair when my groots (gray roots) start showing a half inch or more. Here’s some advice to all of you: best to avoid me when I’m crungry (cranky and hungry). This would probably be more accurately conflated into hanky, since being hungry usually precedes getting cranky. But hanky begs to be followed by panky. I try to spend a half hour each day on saxtice (saxophone practice). Which is more than I spend on that hanky stuff, begging not withstanding.

Pop culture provides many opportunities for collapsing words together. “Social Media” can become smedia. Sports-minded readers will find it easier to talk about their fleague than their fantasy league. You can dismiss someone’s opinion with just one word: zif (short for “as if”). Someone who’s slow on the uptake is bramaged (brain damaged). You can throw shade on someone’s looks by saying they’re bugly (butt ugly). By the time they figure it out, you’ll be beyond spitting range.

We could play this game all day, but you get the idea. At least I hope you do. Because if you don’t, you’re either not paying attention, or you’re bramaged.

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.