PANTS ON FIRE

A man, who isn’t a “senior” was given a senior discount at the movie theatre. The next time he went to the theatre, he said to the ticket seller, “The last time I came to a movie here, you gave me a senior discount,” and he got it.  His wife admonished him, “You shouldn’t lie in front of the children.”  So, was his action subjectivity of the truth, or an “alternative fact?”

The term “alternative fact” is attributed to Kellyanne Conway, U.S. Counsel to President Trump, but actually, the term was coined many years ago in 1949 by George Orwell, who wrote the novel 1984. The book is about a totalitarian state that creates its own language called, “Newspeak.” The purpose is to  stifle free thought by twisting the English language. For instance, the word, “Bad” becomes “Ungood.”

Truthfully, there is no such thing as an “alternative fact.” There is fact and then there is fiction. A horse is a fact. A unicorn is fiction. If someone tells you that she saw a unicorn, she is either hallucinating, lying or has just attended a Disney movie. The problem with blurring the line between truth and lies is that you don’t know who you can trust. Groucho Marx said,”Who are you going to believe, me or your own eyes?”

The story about the little boy who cried wolf illustrates that the little boy lied so many times that when the real wolf appeared, no one believed his warning. In a make believe world, “pigs can fly.”  However, when “fake news,” which is spun from a blanket of lies, enters the realm of the believable, it’s no longer a game of “let’s pretend,” and it can become very dangerous.

Reputable journalists are required to get the facts straight. As a former journalist and contributing writer to two magazines, I know that accuracy is so important that even if you misspell someone’s name, you land in deep doo doo.

In the good old days, a person’s word was his bond, and contracts were made with a simple handshake. Today, a person is leery of “shaking on it,” because he might not get his hand back.

In the Japanese film,  Rashomon (1950) various characters provide alternative , self-serving and contradictory versions of the same incident, which in part exhibits the unreliability of human memory or how it can be manipulated. Sophisticated proponents of propaganda know that if a lie is repeated over and over, it will eventually be accepted, by many, as the truth.

When dealing with a liar, it is always good to listen to what he does not say rather than what he does, because lies always spin a web of deceit and depend on recollection.  Mark Twain said, “If you tell the truth, you don’t have to remember anything.”

The children’s game, Telephone has no winner. It is a game where a group of people sit in a circle and the first person whispers a secret into the ear of the person sitting next to her, and then the secret is whispered on from one person to another. The last person is charged to reveal the secret which is always different than the original secret. It demonstrates the inaccuracy of rumors as they are spread. For instance, the secret might be “I wrote a verse about my cat,” and it could end up, “Someone proved that the earth is flat.”  Everyone might laugh except the one person in the group, who might like the lie so much, that he puts it on Facebook, and some people will believe his “alternative fact” that the earth is indeed flat.

If we are lucky, these simpletons will sail toward the horizon and fall off the edge of the earth—unless they are lucky enough to hail a flying pig.

Esther Blumenfeld (“Liar, liar, your pants are on fire, and your nose is as long as a telephone wire.)

AN EYE FOR AN EYE

I received such an overwhelmingly favorable reaction, from so many of you, about my encounter with the “Bloody Lady,” that, since I am on a roll, I decided to continue along the medical vein with my new story.

Scheduling early morning appointments with doctors in the summer, in Tucson, makes a great deal of sense, since it’s really too hot to work up a sweat doing much of anything else. And, my doctors’ waiting rooms are usually cold enough to fool you into thinking you are on a cool vacation. Thus, I had a scheduled appointment with my ophthalmologist for 9:00 a.m.

Unfortunately, the doctor’s scheduler called to change my appointment to 1:45 p.m., but that wasn’t too bad, since the outside temperature had cooled down to 108 degrees. I don’t know why my appointment had been changed, but I am sure that the doctor had a very good
reason—or not!

I arrived at 1:30 so the doctor would not have to wait for me, but then I found out that all of his morning patients had also been rescheduled for that afternoon.  It gave us an unexpected opportunity to mingle with his already disgruntled afternoon patients. All of the seats were taken in the waiting room, so I sat in the optometrist’s office next door. She was a very nice young woman who had recently moved to Tucson from Alaska, so she was very much at home in the frigid office. Not having much to do, she went around and cleaned everyone’s glasses and handed out breath mints.

Happily, I ran into an old friend who was also waiting to see the doctor. We had a very nice chat, until a woman interrupted and said something like, “Do you want to hear my life story?” My friend was called into the doctor’s inner-sanctum, so I was left alone to hear about this woman’s estranged son who lived in Chicago. I was planning to also become estranged, but my name was finally called for my eye exam.

Sitting in the examination chair, I watched my doctor’s harried staff running up and down the hall, and I patiently waited for the doctor’s assistant who would check my vision.  I knew that teenagers could be grocery checkers, but I swear that I never suspected that this little kid who came into the office could be an actual eye checker. He told me to put my face into the eye machine and read the eye chart with my right eye. Suddenly, I had double vision. “I can’t read any of  the letters,” I said. “Try it with your left eye,” he said.  “Okay,” I replied. All of the letters were still double.  “Tell me when it’s better,” he said as he flipped the lenses. “Nothing makes it better,” I yelled. “This is really weird,” I said. “My vision was just fine when I came in.”

He handed me my glasses. “Can you read the chart now?” “Perfect!” I replied. “Good!” he said, “You don’t need a new prescription.” “So what was the problem?” I asked.  He replied,
“Sorry, I had the lens positioned for astigmatism.” “I guess I don’t have that,” I said. “Nope,” he replied. “Put your head back,” he said.  “I am going to put drops into your eyes.” He added, “This may sting.” He was right, the drops stung my lips.  But, I guess he got some into my eyes, because my vision started to get a bit blurry.

Finally, he left and my renowned eye surgeon came into the room. He checked me out and said, “Everything is good, however, your cataracts have changed a bit. But since they aren’t interfering with your vision yet, you don’t need surgery now.  Come back to see me in six months.” Ever the optimist, I made my appointment for 9 a.m. on January 4, 2018. The drops, that had stung a bit, really kicked in when I started my car, and I kind of drove myself home. Next week, I go to the dentist. I hope it won’t be a tooth for a tooth day.

Esther Blumenfeld

BLOOD LADY

BLOOD LADY

Yesterday was blood workup day in anticipation of my annual physical exam next week. Consequently, I went to pay a visit to my cheerful phlebotomist, the person who gets paid to stab me with a needle. I had made the appointment for early in the day, because I was required to fast before the procedure. It’s no sacrifice to skip a bowl of cereal, but it’s not so easy to leave the house without my morning caffeine fix.

I arrived on time, but in my zombie-like state, sans coffee, I had to park my car twice in order to line it up between the white lines in the parking lot. Since it was so early, none of the parking places had yet been taken, but it would have been really greedy to occupy three of them.

Shortly after I entered the building, I was ushered into the laboratory for my test. I am not squeamish, nor do I faint at the sight of blood, however it’s never a good day when the technician can’t find a cooperative vein. That’s why I always say, “The veins in my right arm look good, but I can promise you that they will rock and roll away from you, and collapse as soon as you come anywhere near them with a needle.

Unfortunately, last year, my regular phlebotomist was on vacation. So I was stuck with the Evil Blood Lady, who said, “Hold still while I draw you.” I was hoping she would paint my portrait, but after using my right arm for a pin cushion, the Evil Blood Lady grinned and said, “Sorry, I guess I should have listened to you.” I looked at her and said, “Not to worry, black and blue are my favorite colors. You can take the needle out of my arm now.”

Many years ago, I experienced my most unusual encounter with a phlebotomist. When I entered the laboratory, I was confronted by a medical lab technician with no fingers. Happily, she could grasp a needle with her knuckles, and I didn’t come out with a tattoo.  It was kind of like getting your teeth cleaned by a blind dentist, who knew exactly where your nose was supposed to be.

Happily, this year my phlebotomist had returned from her vacation just in time to come at me with a sharp object. No problems!  I took myself out for breakfast and had a pancake and three cups of coffee to celebrate. I wore my elastic bandage the rest of the day, just to be sure that the blood would stay exactly where it was supposed to be in my really cooperative left arm.

Esther Blumenfeld

LAZY DAZE OF SUMMER

Recently, I read an article in Mother Jones Magazine written by E.J. Graff, that began: “On a dreary, cold Saturday in April.” Then I looked at my thermostat, and it informed me that, on this hot day in June, in Tucson, Arizona, the outside temperature had just peaked at 115 degrees, setting some kind of record that only a meteorologist can love.

There’s an old saying, “It’s hot enough to fry and egg on the sidewalk.” Well, that day, it was hot enough to roast a pig! I spotted a Great Horned Owl huddling the shade, on the ground near a tall wall. Upon seeing me, he flew away. That let me know, that while it was too hot for airplanes to take off in the 119 degrees in  Phoenix, a person can always hitch a ride on the back of a really big owl.

So what! It’s hot! That’s the price we desert rats pay for 8 1/2 glorious months of temperate weather, while our cousins in the North suffer icy winds, blizzards and snow (The other 1/2 is a bow to temperamental September.) But, this article is not totally about summer heat. As Will Ferrell so aptly said, “Summer is real cute until every type of insect comes out of the 8th circle of Hell.”

Consequently, until the monsoon rains arrive, and bring the tarantulas out of their burrows, it’s time for the noisy Cicadas to come out of the ground, from their 2-5 year lethargy, and begin to play their extremely loud, buzzing sounds. Only the males play these songs, and I guess the females accommodate them to shut them up. It seems to work, because after two or three weeks the Cicadas die off. These insects live a sad but noisy and active sex life. Cicadas are big and loud but harmless to humans. They don’t sting—-They sing!

There is a legend about Cicadas. The legend claims that; “These insects are the souls of poets who cannot keep quiet because when they were alive, they never wrote the poems they wanted to.” The only loud poets I ever encountered wrote Rap Poetry, and entertained in underground clubs.

Perhaps there’s some truth to the legend, but I think it’s more feasible that Cicadas are the souls of people who wished that their kids, who played the violin, had practiced when they were out of the house.

 I will let you ponder that possibility while I take a teabag out to my car. The bottle of water in there is probably boiling by now. A cup of hot car tea, and a Cicada concert really does let me know that summer has arrived.

Esther Blumenfeld (“What is so rare as a day in June?”) James Russell Lowell

IF IT'S OUR HOUSE, WHY DON'T WE ALL HAVE KEYS?

Citizens! at our last meeting concerning our house at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue, several taxpayers suggested that our White House rental application form needs revision. Therefore, we, the three hundred million landlords of the property, formed a Distant Relatives of Dead U.S. Presidents Committee to help us update the screening process.

It is most appropriate that we now hear from the woman who arrived first at our meeting, who was first in line for coffee and doughnuts and who has been first in the hearts of more than a few of our Country men, our own Vernonata Washington.

“Mr. Chairman, as you all know, back in 1790, my several-greats-ago cousin, George Washington, looked around the marshlands of Washington, D.C. and saw seven shacks and two pigsties that gave him a nostalgic twinge for Congress. ‘Hey,’ he said. ‘What a perfect place to build the President’s House.’ First, he hired a French fellow named L’Enfant, but it took two years and 730 bottles of Beaujolais for him to dig the foundation. George fired him and turned to James Hobson, the Irishman for an architectural plan. However, the Country was only 20 years old and no one knew how to build the thing. After all, most of their former leaders had lived in castles.  Consequently, in 1794 laborers, African slaves, and six stone-cutters from Scotland, were imported from overseas.”’

“What’s your point, Vernonata?” “I think we need to ask a prospective White House tenant if he (or she) can, in good conscience live in a house that was built by a bunch of foreigners.” At this a shout was heard from the back of the room. “Well, I think we need to ask if our boarder is going to throw wild parties. My ancestors never did.”

“Chip Adams,” snapped Felicity Jefferson. “My long-dead, 12-times removed cousin,Thomas Jefferson was your forefather’s Vice President. When Adams was President, half of the 36 rooms in the White House weren’t even plastered. Water had to be carried by hand from half-a-mile away, and the only john around was John Adams. The privy was a three-holer in the backyard. No wonder your relatives didn’t entertain much. When cousin Thomas moved in, the roof leaked and the grounds were in such bad shape that, on dark nights, several visitors  stumbled into pits before limping their way to the House.That’s how Cousin Thomas replaced bowing with handshakes, because he had to pull so many visitors out of holes in the front yard.
‘Considering some of the recent White House guests,’ Felicity added, ‘I’d vote for any applicant who’d want to bring the holes back!”’

“Ladies and gentlemen,” the chairman shouted,”We are getting away from the point. We need some good questions to ask in the residency screening process. You have a suggestion, Vernonata?” “I want to know if future residents will hang up that tacky painting of Cousin George that Dolly Madison picked up at a fire sale. None of the other pictures smell of smoke.” “Veronata! The British burned down the House in 1812. That was one of the few things Dolly Madison saved.” “No wonder Nancy Reagan had to buy new dishes,” she replied.

“It took 10 years to rebuild the White House, and our fifth President, James Monroe sold his own belongings to furnish it. So quit your carping. What now, Vernonata?” “Wasn’t Monroe the guy who stuck us with that dreadful swampland?” “Yes,” we call it Florida.”

“Hickory Jackson, you may have the floor.” “I think Chip Adams made a good point about wild parties. My far-removed uncle, Andrew Jackson, opened the house to anybody off the street, so when Congress gave him $9,000 to furnish the East Room, the first thing he bought was 20 spittoons.” “So, we agree that lifestyle should be one of the things we should scrutinize. What else? Yes, Lady Feather Johnson.” “I don’t think that any of our tenants should swim naked in the Potomac River like Teddy Roosevelt did!”

“Yes, Bully Roosevelt you have something to add?” “You know they didn’t have many bathrooms in the President’s living quarters when my Cousin Teddy was President, and he had six children. Mother Nature drove that old Rough Rider right into the Potomac. And, that shabby old house was so shaky, that every time he gave a dinner party, the State Dining Room floor had to be propped up.”

“What do all of you think about asking for a damage deposit?” “Yes,” Bossy Truman?” “Are you talking about the House or the Country? If you mean the House, I’m against it.  It’s lucky that my forebears, Harry and Bess didn’t hanker for a water bed, or they probably would have crash landed—kerplunk!—on some tourists from Tombstone. That house was such a dump, by the time my poor relatives moved there from Missouri in 1947, I don’t know how anyone could have lived there. Their daughter’s piano leg sank into the floor, and her sitting room broke in half. By 1948 most of the place was held up by scaffolds because those old timbers were beginning to buckle. The White House was gutted and renovations cost $5,761, because the Korean War bumped up prices.  Say, let’s go get the Koreans to pay for some of those renovations.”

“I don’t think that would work, Bossy, unless the British also pay us for burning it down during the War of 1812. We are getting off the subject again. So far, here are the questions we’ve come up with to weed out prospective tenants:”  1. Can you live in a house without a ‘Made by American’s label?’ 2. Would you consider some politically effective holes in the front yard to discourage irksome visitors? 3. Will you pay a damage deposit—not for the House—but for the Country?”

“Okay, what else should we add?” “Yes,” Bully, you have something to say?” “When my other ancestor, Franklin Roosevelt, was President during WWII, the army wanted to paint the White House black, but he refused. Let’s paint it green, so our President could show his love for the environment by staying home and tending to the Green House.”

“We will bring that up at our next meeting, when we will discuss, ‘Zoning Violations:Terminating a Tenant for Running a Business Out of His Home.’ Meanwhile, consider Calvin Coolidge’s words when he returned from an evening stroll with a friend.

The friend looked at the White House and joked, ‘I wonder who lives there?’  ‘Nobody, Coolidge replied. They just come and go.’”

And leave the key under the mat.

reprinted from: Blumenfeld/Alpern humor column in ACCENT ON HOMES AND LIVING MAGAZINE ( Atlanta, Ga, 1994 c. Blumenfeld) and DESERT LEAF PUBLICATIONS (Tucson, AZ, 2008 c. Blumenfeld)