The “Movin’ Out” Song

“Movin’ Out” to the tune of Razzle Dazzle 

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

Movin’ outta here.

Chorus:                        Packin’ up their gear.

Elaine:             Boxing up things that bring me happiness;

Others may think they’re just a crappy mess.

Singin’ the old “Throw Things Out” song,

            Movin’ outta here.

Chorus:                        Packin’ up their gear.

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

What if we really need it some day?

What if it’s worth kaching! on EBay?

Movin’ outta here

‘Cause enough is enough!

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

Headin’ outta here.

Chorus:                        Boxes up the rear.

Elaine:             Give me the taping gun and bubble wrap;

I’ll have this done within a double snap.

Singin’ the “Closets Have No Bottoms,”

Headin’ outta here.

Chorus:                        Boxes up the rear.

Elaine:             Carefully marking top and sides in bold.

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

Writing will all be on the back ends.

Headin’ outta here

‘Cause our house finally sold!

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

Gettin’ outta here.

Chorus:                        Closing day is near.

Elaine:             Carrying boxes down two flights of stairs,

Bumpety bump! Who put that carton there?

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

Gettin’ outta here.

Chorus:                        Closing day is near.

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

My how that “Donate” pile is growing,

Trash barrels now are overflowing.

Gettin’ outta here.

I could sure use some sleep!

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

Nothing falling down.

A condominium will be the best.

No mowin’ lawns, no battles with weeds.

Nothing so old it makes my purse bleed.

Movin’ outta here

Chorus:            Movin’ outta here

All together:    Movin’ outta here

And it’s time for a rest.

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

Revisionist Recreation for Retirees

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

In Search of the Perfect Lawn Chair

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Recovering Stolen Wheels

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Red Velvet Fever

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Strange Apologies, Stranger Wildlife—Spring Potpourri

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Aging’s Real “Tell”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Write What You Know. Or Not.

A lecture on memoirs that I attended with some friends was cancelled about half way through because of a health emergency in the audience. While we were waiting for a decision on whether the event would continue, we chatted about what we’re writing. One friend is penning memoirs about his family members. The other is working on fiction based on her recently deceased dog. I continue to write essays in my signature style: self-deprecating social satire.

I said I didn’t think I could do fiction, that I wouldn’t be good at it. The memoir friend said he thought I should give it a try. At about that point, the organizers postponed the lecture, to be rescheduled at some date to be determined, and our little group disbanded.

Since then, I’ve given some thought to writing fiction. We’ve all heard the advice: “Write what you know.” As a marketer, I would add to that: “Write what people want to read.” Note that I did not say: “Write what people will buy.” I’m in the camp that believes that if you’re writing to sell your work or to get on the morning talk shows, you’re writing for the wrong reasons.

With that in mind, I wondered what readers are interested in this year. To that end, I looked at the latest issue of Publishers Weekly. Because my husband carries some books in his store, he receives PW, and he brings it home for me to read. The April 21 issue has a section on self-publishing (my method of getting into print), and “the thriving romance and erotica categories” in particular. Oh, my.

If writing what I know that is now a hot button (pardon the pun) means romance and erotica, I’m in big trouble. To be sure, I have plenty to draw upon in that genre from my (misspent) youth. But I wouldn’t want anyone who came into my life from my mid-thirties onward to read “fiction” based on my salad days.

To further that analogy, we’re not talking iceberg lettuce and those uniform hothouse tomatoes that come end-to-end in a plastic tray. My bowl would have the most colorful and diverse maché imaginable. And a mixture of beefsteaks, Italian plums and those little grape tomatoes that scoot off the plate when you try to put your fork into them. Oh, and at least one Mr. Stripey.

It would also have English cucumbers (not your standard garden ones), several types and colors of radishes and a wide variety of olives. You’d probably find at least one carrot (peeled, with the ends trimmed, but not sliced…) Are you beginning to get the picture?

This puts me in mind of an exchange I had years ago with a close female friend back when I worked in Manhattan. We had both (separately) seen the porn movie The Devil in Miss Jones. Excuse me. I meant to say, the art film. “I bet you’ll never eat a banana again,” I joked. “Bananas, yes,” she replied. “Grapes, no.”

Those of you hoping this post continues to go downhill will be disappointed. I’m not ready to share the salient details of those years. That will require a skilled therapist to draw out the deeply-suppressed memories from my subconscious. I’ll also need to come up with an appropriate pseudonym under which to publish that genre of fiction.

I’ll pass on the first names Johanna, Marilyn and Georgina. And I certainly won’t take the last name Green or Grey. I suppose my pen name should be something arcane or provocative. Maybe Balsam Gardner. That would be a head nod to my salad days and to the vinegar I prefer. Or perhaps Saucy Salsa. That provides some colorful double entendres to chew on.

If you find a novel in the erotica section by an author who sounds like she’s been tossed around in a well-oiled wooden bowl, it might be my first attempt at undercover fiction (again, pardon the pun). Note the operative word “fiction.” One thing’s for certain. It won’t be titled: The Story of E.

Spices of Retirement

Occasionally I’ll read or hear an article on planning your meals so that they satisfy all five of your different taste buds. If you miss any of them, you’ll walk away from the dinner table with cravings for the missing one. We’re talking about sweet, sour, salty, bitter and umami (savory). If this last one is not familiar to you, think cheese or ripe tomatoes, and read up on Monosodium Glutamate (MSG).

It’s not unusual for me to walk away from meals craving more. I’m not convinced it has anything to do with the five basic tastes. The diet my sister talked me into last June has me keeping a food journal, so I know exactly what I’ve consumed and what buds have been palpitated. After about ten months, I think I know what drives me and many other seniors to forage in the pantry and the refrigerator late at night. And in the middle of the afternoon. And sometimes even mid-morning.

When you reach retirement, you have an entirely different set of tastes to be satisfied from your culinary cupboard. It’s important to address them all, or you’ll spend your golden years feeling deprived, depressed, anxious and confused. You may spend those years that way anyway, but understanding the Spices of Retirement will make this less likely.

Family Flavor. This is the most important spice in the retirement rack. It doesn’t matter if you come from a small family or a large one; or if any members live near you vs. all being far away. A meal that includes Family Flavor fills the need to feel part of a clan, to be connected to loved ones on your family tree. And even to those with whom you’ve had a long-standing feud. Once we reach retirement, savoring the feuds can be as fulfilling as feeling the love.

Holiday Memories. Sprinkle this one on anything on your plate, and you are instantly transported back to the most wonderful times from your youth. Holiday Memories have the flavor of every meal that was prepared with extra love. It’s rich in tradition. It’s also high in calories, but who cares?

Pinch of Frugality. Even retirees on a fixed budget will splurge on a fabulous meal now and then. To help you forget about how much the meal costs, be sure to have a Pinch of Frugality on your entree. As an added benefit, Frugality has a negative impact on calories. So, if your dessert is a calorific treat, a Pinch of Frugality on that will make it taste even sweeter.

Binge Fusion. Yes, we’re older, and we’re told to watch what and how much we eat. Our GPs discourage us from binging. But that doesn’t mean we can’t have the gustatory equivalent of a binge realized via our meals or snacks. A handful of Binge Fusion will taste like any number of items that you can’t eat just one of. It comes in several varieties. Pick your guilty pleasure, or lard up the pantry with several different packets of this retirement spice.

Alcohol Aspirations. Once we reach a certain age, we’re also told to cut back on alcohol. Don’t they realize that the older we are, the more a glass of fine wine transports us to places that can make us smile, lower our blood pressure and blot out the stressful world around us? No problem. A few drops of Alcohol Aspirations in your filtered water can give you the same result. It’s not as satisfying as an actual glass of wine (what is?), but it has its advantages. Just give me a few weeks to figure out what they are.

Titch of Tranquility. No retiree’s meal is complete without a Titch of Tranquility. It helps us leave the table feeling peaceful, refreshed and ready for a good nap. A small dose of Tranquility will also lower your blood pressure almost as much as a spritz of Alcohol Aspirations.

Chocolate. Period. Enough said.

There you have it. The seven essential Spices of Retirement. A meal that includes all of them is guaranteed to be as satisfying as one that tickles the five traditional taste buds. When the media finally picks up on this, remember: you read it here first.

Are You Still (Fill in the Blank)

I ran into an acquaintance (a fellow retiree) I hadn’t seen in awhile and she asked me: “Are you still writing?” Looking back, I realize that I’ve finally “made it” as a writer when people ask if I’m still doing it. One of the books I asked Santa to bring me was Still Writing, by Dani Shapiro. I asked for several of them on the writing process, but I found Still Writing to be the most helpful.

Shapiro’s title comes from the fact that folks tend not to take writing seriously as a career. They think of it as something one does in one’s spare time, or that it’s a sort of affliction. The question presumes there’s a chance you might have gotten over it since the last time they saw you. Or given up, since you weren’t likely to be good enough to get published. They don’t understand that writers just have to write.

The more I thought about this, the more I realized that this is the situation for a lot of retirees, as well. People assume that something you take up in retirement automatically falls into the hobby category. It doesn’t occur to them that it might be a second act for you. They’ll ask you questions they would never pose to someone in his forties or fifties.

A college classmate in Canada took up clarinet late in life. In her retirement, she plays in several local bands. At our last reunion, she went home a day early so she could participate in the first concert of the spring series. She added tenor saxophone to her repertoire so she could join the jazz group. Her Facebook page is filled with posts about upcoming gigs and performances that were well received. Her music is more than simply a way to while away free time. It’s life affirming for her.

Maybe you’ll decide to study a foreign language. Do that when you’re forty-something, and your friends won’t consider saying: “Are you still trying to learn Mandarin?” But once you’ve become a senior citizen, they’ll assume you’ll dabble for a few lessons and move on to something less challenging. Just ignore them. Leave a few copies of the Guangzhou Daily on your cocktail table the next time they drop by for coffee. Then mention you’re now also studying Cantonese.

Another of my college classmates is taking advantage of time freed up after she stopped working full time to become a Master Gardener. The qualification process is demanding and complex. She plans to volunteer as a guide and lecturer at the United States Botanic Garden once she has her credentials. That’s not exactly piddling away her free time. So if you run into her, don’t ask: “Are you still working on identifying those weeds you’re pulling out of your flower bed?”

It’s not unusual for a man to use his retirement to launch a woodworking business. Carpentry might have been a hobby when he was employed elsewhere. Now his workshop is not just his haven but also a source of discretionary income. And then some. “Are you still making those rocking horses for your grandkids?” Yup. For his grandkids, and those of dozens of other grandparents. You can put your name on the waiting list—for delivery next year. He’s about to leave on a month-long trip to Bali.

Speaking of travel, another college friend and his wife have finally retired so they can start a tour business. They own a home in Provence and they’re specializing in tours of the Secret Provence. I can see a lot of tax advantages in this, since it’s well beyond the hobby stage. What I can’t see is someone asking them: “Are you still doing that tour thingy?”

Retired presidents almost always move on to another career. George H. W. Bush has become internationally recognized as a senior statesman. Bill Clinton is now thought of as a philanthropist instead of a philanderer. Bush the younger (“Dubya”) recently had a showing of his paintings of famous people. He’s taking art classes and seems serious about making this his post-presidential act. He also seems to have enough talent that I doubt anyone will dare ask him in five years: “Are you still painting?”

From now on, when I run into someone who says: “Are you still writing?” I plan to smile and answer yes. Then I’ll add, ever so sweetly: “Are you still reading?” and hand them a business card with the URL for my blog and the titles of all the books I’ve published.

Improving Mental Health

Two posts that appeared on Facebook dealt with improving one’s mental health. Since I love cashews and I used to knit, I’d consider using both of these to improve my mental well-being. But first I’d need to research the reports touting them, to evaluate the science.

The first article, from www.naturalcuresnotmedicine.com, claims that cashews are a natural antidepressant. This is good news for proponents of the holistic approach (and my life is full of them). Dave Sommers is cited for this quote: “Two handfuls of cashews is [sic] the therapeutic equivalent of a prescription dose of Prozac.” He maintains that the L-tryptophan in cashews is converted to niacin and serotonin to reduce anxiety.

Best I can tell, this is true, so Eli Lilly must have staff looking to discredit it. I can picture some of the headlines: “Cashews breed rare worm that burrows into your intestines.” Or: “Fatty oils in cashews cause blockage of arteries; lead to increased risk of stroke.” Maybe Lilly doesn’t care, since generic Prozac (fluoxetine) has now been approved by the FDA. Let those suppliers panic over cashew encroachment.

In any case, we now have this terrific alternative to prescription drugs to provide positive mind-altering benefits. And we don’t have to smoke it to get them. Not only do I plan to eat more cashews (I had cut down on them because of my diet), I also plan to market my own brand. I’ll call it Mellow Yellow.

The second article puts forth the notion that “knitting is healthy for your brain”. The site Jezebel.com tells us several studies support this assertion, and that not just knitting, but any crafting provides these benefits. The specifics are so, well… specific, that I’m compelled to quote the full claim. Knitting “serves as a natural anti-depressant, helps ease anxiety and stress, can protect your brain from aging and has the [same] effects as meditation.”

This news was so energizing that it sent me straight to my basement storage room looking for my knitting needles that were packed away when we staged the house for sale. No luck with that, but they’ll show up eventually.

Jezebel.com cites a CNN series “Inside Your Brain” that credits knitting with treating PTSD, saying it “dampens internal chaos.” I can’t tell you how many times I’ve lamented: “I sure wish I had a way to dampen this internal chaos today.” Claremont University Professor of Psychology Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi attributes this to something he refers to as “flow,” which he calls “the secret to happiness.” CNN says he has decades of research to support this.

The Claremont website describes the avuncular MC (as I prefer to call him) as “the founder and co-director of the Quality of Life Research Center. The QLRC is a non-profit research institute that studies ‘positive psychology’; that is, human strengths such as optimism, creativity, intrinsic motivation…” Plus he’s a member of the National Academy of Leisure Studies. Who knew there even was such an academy? I’m now sufficiently impressed.

In a 2004 TED talk, MC said your existence outside a creative activity, such as knitting, becomes “temporarily suspended” and your sense of your body disappears. I don’t know about you, but there are plenty of days when I wish my sense of my body would disappear. I’ll knit one of those Snuggler body blankets if that will make it happen. Note to self: buy knitting needles if they don’t show up soon.

Jezebel.com also cites a study published in the British Journal of Occupational Therapy that bolsters the CNN story and MC’s findings. The study sounds credible, especially since the survey had over 3,500 respondents. Except that it was conducted online through an Internet knitting site. For all we know, 3,000 of those “knitters” were using their prison library to participate. Or 100 bored widows took the survey 35 times each.

Respondents said they knit for relaxation and stress relief; they also praised knitting in a group. (The prison library doesn’t sound that far fetched now, does it?) The study thus concluded that: “Knitting has significant psychological and social benefits, which can contribute to wellbeing and quality of life.” It seems to me that if you’re in for life, it doesn’t take much to improve its quality. Ditto for bored widows.

So the Brits leave me skeptical, but Professor MC seems credible. They don’t let just anybody give a TED talk, you know. I have a vision of myself, nestled in the corner of our sunroom, humming Donovan tunes and knitting argyle socks by the basketful. I’m shoving fistfuls of cashews into my pie hole and I’m as happy as that proverbial clam. I’ll call you when your socks are ready. In the meantime, be on the lookout for my Mellow Yellow. No prescription needed.

Cinnabon Craze

Awhile ago I wrote a post on the kale frenzy. Now I’m reporting on the Cinnabon craze. You know, that sweet confection that lures you into the shop on the concourse when you’re headed to your plane. I can’t resist Cinnabons, even though they pack on more calories than I burn off en route to my flight. This despite the fact that my gate is always at the far end of the walkway.

I can’t explain the allure of the Cinnabon. Maybe it’s the swirly intermingling of cinnamon and icing, or that soft, yeasty mouthful you get. Since I haven’t been flying much now that I’m retired, I had almost forgotten about my guilty pleasure. That was, until I read in Ad Age about products entering into licensing arrangements with the makers of this jewel. Apparently, lip balm and the Cinnapretzel movie-theater snack didn’t do well, but Air Wick and Pinnacle vodka still have projects in the oven.

The Ad Age article got me thinking about what products for retirees would be improved via a marriage with Cinnabon. My problem was not coming up with ideas. It was weeding out the weaker ones and focusing on the sure winners. I wouldn’t want mine to land on the reject heap with the lip balm and Cinnapretzel.

The first product I’ll produce is Cinnabon Odor Eaters. One of the worst offenses of older folks is smelly feet. Imagine if they gave off that delightful Cinnabon aroma instead! And the farther you walk, the stronger the smell. This will be especially useful to those traveling by air and having gate assignments like B19 and C22. It will also provide motivation to get more exercise.

Speaking of which, a companion product will be the Cinnabon treadmill roller. There’s a psychological aspect to this, too, because it will remind you of what hooked you on Cinnabons to begin with. It simulates running down the concourse to catch your flight. The longer you stay on the machine, the more realistic it is. Program in a hypothetical but realistic gate number—26 say—and the mat will keep on rolling (and emitting that wonderful scent) until you’ve run as much as you would have in the airport.

An incentive to keep those pounds off is the Cinnabon digital scale. In addition to announcing your weight when you step on this electronic device, it will give off a burst of that mouth-watering smell. If you program it properly, the more you’ve lost, the stronger the explosion. As you get closer to your target weight, you’ll get a staccato of bursts. This will be a true test of your willpower.

The new product that will be most of interest to retirees is my Cinnabon Velcro. Each time you unhook the pieces, you’ll get a whiff of Cinnabon. My neighbors will find me sitting on my porch steps, pulling and reattaching, tongue hanging out of my mouth. They’ll know I’m there before they even see (or smell) me. The telltale “rip, smoosh, rip, smoosh” will give me away.

Two items that will motivate me to clean more often are Cinnabon Windex and Cinnabon Pledge. Instead of the boring orange or lemon that those products usually have, mine will smell of cinnamon, iced sugar and freshly baked yeast bread. I’ll have the cleanest windows in the neighborhood. My sinuses will benefit as well, since there won’t be as much dust around the house.

Here’s one for all you cat owners: Cinnabon litter. When Luke (my boy) scratches, the pellets will release that delightful fragrance. The formula will be strong enough to mask that other “delightful fragrance” that announces he’s had his daily constitutional. This will be a much pleasanter alert that his bathroom station needs scooping.

A personal favorite is the Cinnabon mouse pad. The more I roll my mouse over it, the stronger the aroma. I’ll be writing up a storm, but my posts will likely have much more food-related content. It’s a good thing my office is nowhere near the pantry.

Finally, I’m working with the Post Office to develop a Cinnabon postage stamp. We’ll make it the type you have to lick, so you’ll feed two senses and get a double fix. Unfortunately, these stamps will have a “use by” date, so they won’t last forever. Let’s face it: at our age, not much lasts forever anyway.