GAMES PEOPLE PLAY

My friend, Fay (of blessed memory) had a neighbor who was taking Tennis lessons. After the first lesson, she called Fay and said, “ We practiced our forehand swings and our backhand swings, and I did great!” The next day, Fay saw her in the grocery store and asked, “So, how did your Tennis lesson go today?” “Not so good,” said her neighbor. “They introduced the ball.”

I took Tennis as an elective physical education course in college. My fiancé had been on a Tennis team and suggested we play a match. After ten minutes on the court, he asked me, “”What grade did you get in Tennis?” 
“An A” I proudly replied. “Well,” he said, “it must have been for attendance.” I married him, but we never played Tennis again. However, once I did beat him in Miniature Golf. We never played that game again either.

I once went to dinner with friends who play Golf.  They spoke a foreign language that involved pars and tees and a Mulligan. I thought a Mulligan was a stew invented by hobos.

Pickle ball, a racket sport that combines elements of Badminton, Tennis and Ping-Pong was invented in 1965, and is one of the fastest growing sports in North America. It is recommended for people who enjoy racket sports and pickles.

For people who prefer in-door games to exercise their minds, the Chinese introduced Mahjong. The game is played with a set of beautifully colored tiles based on Chinese characters and symbols.

My Mother played Mahjong, and as a child I enjoyed building towers with her tiles. While a game was underway in our home, my favorite activity was sneaking into the bedroom and trying on the players’ hats and coats. I especially enjoyed parading around in a fox stole that still had the fox’s head attached.

As you might have guessed, I don’t play card games either. I like the snacks people serve when playing Bridge, and I know it is one of the world’s most popular card games. Bridge involves dealing, bidding, playing the cards and scoring, but it also involves card shuffling at which I simply do not excel.

When my in-laws lived in Florida, I observed normal old people turn into blood sucking, rip-out-your-throat monsters while playing Contract Bridge. Four players play the game in two competing partnerships---North and South play against East and West. 

My friend Angie is an excellent Bridge player, and went on a “Caribbean Bridge Cruise.” When she got to the table she said, “Hi, I’m Angie,” A woman already seated, scowled at her, and said, “I’m North!” At that point Angie was ready to “jump overboard.”

Chutes and Ladders is a board game for very young children. My son, Josh loved it when he was three-years old. I know that the CIA could make anyone confess anything by making him play Chutes and Ladders more than once. The only board game I ever enjoyed was Scrabble until my Father wouldn’t allow me to make up words.

When it comes to games, I am not a total WUSS! I do love playing Trivia. I especially enjoy joining Trivia teams on cruise ships.  The quiz game involves remembering arcane bits of knowledge, and nostalgic remembrances of pop culture. 

On February 5, 1965, Ed Goodgold and Dan Carlinsky wrote an article in the Columbia University Daily Spectator. In the article they asked, “Who played the old Gypsy woman in The Wolfman?” (Answer: “Maria Ouspenskaya”). And the rest is history. The largest current Trivia contest is held in Stevens Point Wisconsin at the University of Wisconsin-Stevens Point’s college radio station. I’ve never joined one of the 400 teams that participate, but if they ask, ”Which state is the largest consumer of Jell-O?” I am ready!

Esther Blumenfeld (answer----“California”

NATURE ABHORS A VACUUM

When I look into my closet and see that some of the clothes are now featured in vintage shops, I know it’s time for spring-cleaning. Oh, but it’s so difficult to discard such old friends.

Spring-cleaning can be traced to the ancient Jewish practice of thoroughly cleaning the home in preparation for the feast of Passover, which commemorates the Jews hasty departure from Egypt following their captivity.

The Persian New Year, “Norouz” falls on the first day of spring and Iranians still practice “khooneh tekouni” which translates into “shaking the house” where everything is thoroughly cleaned.

Scotland’s cleaning is December 31st, on “Hogmanay,” a practice also found in Ireland and New Zealand. In Greece, it is traditional to clean the house before Great Lent, which is called “Clean Week.”  And in North America and Northern Europe, March is always a good time for spring-cleaning, because doors can be left open and high winds can blow dust out of the air. I tried that on a windy day in Arizona, and a cloud of dust blew in, and decided to stay.

Chicagoan, Ives W. McGaffey invented the first vacuum cleaner in 1868. It was called the “Whirlwind,” but the person using it had to manually turn a crank while pushing it around the floor.

Roseanne Barr said, “I’m not going to vacuum until Sears makes one you can ride on.” But, there’s so much more to spring-cleaning than vacuuming the rugs. It involves delving into places you didn’t even know existed in your home. 

My Uncle decided to clean out the crawl space in his basement. His four teenaged sons had used that space as a dumping spot for broken sports equipment, pizza boxes, aluminum cans, old shoes and other disgusting disposables. He took one look at the pile of junk, closed the trap door and decided that his kids had found a creative way to add insulation to the house.

When cleaning out cupboards, I usually find something that I have to ask myself,
“What is this?” and “Why did I keep it?” I have a friend who says, “Don’t throw it away. It might be a collectors item.”

This year when I cleaned out my freezer, I found frozen sauce in a plastic bag. I still don’t know if it was meant for meat or for ice cream.  Maybe it was a collector's item.

 A sure rule of house cleaning is; “When washing windows, the spot is always on the other side of the glass.” And, it’s always a good idea to check the date on   swollen canned goods.

Cleaning out office files is most difficult. I’m fairly organized, and claim that I know where everything is---whether I do or not. I know that important stuff should be kept, but then invariably everything is important. 

Being condemned to spring-cleaning is much like the Greek Gods condemning Sisyphus to eternally roll a rock uphill. Every time poor Sisyphus got to the top of the mountain, he had to watch that heavy stone roll all the way back down again.

Joan Rivers had it all figured out. Rivers said, “I hate housework. You make the beds, you wash the dishes and six months later you have to start all over again.” 

A friend told me, “Spring-cleaning won’t kill you!” But, if it does, I won’t have a chance to tell her she was wrong. So, if I put it off long enough, Spring will be over. There’s always next year.

Esther Blumenfeld (“My idea of housework is to sweep the room with a glance”)
Erma Bombeck

MY NEMESIS

MY NEMESIS

Where  is Sherlock Holmes when I need him? 

There are so many mysteries in life, but, so far, I have been able to solve some of the minor ones. For example;  rarely do I loose my house keys, because I put them into the little dish placed next to the front door of my apartment. I don’t have a Smart Phone, but I do have a little Dumb Flip Phone who always joins my keys in the little dish.

However, on the rare occasion that my Dumb Phone didn’t end up in the dish with the keys, I can always call from my Land Line and say,”Where are you?” The Dumb Phone will buzz and let me know where it is hiding, and  happily, so far, the buzzing has never come from the inside of my refrigerator. I consider myself an organized person (other than my filing system) and I am very neat.  So, what’s the problem?

I am convinced that my James Moriarty Washing Machine has a criminal cycle. Yes, my arch enemy is definitely my Washing Machine. It looks so innocent, just standing there, but in the running of a cycle, on purpose, it  manages to swallow one of my socks—not a pair of socks—but a single sock, and it keeps mocking me at regular intervals as it runs and shakes and finally stops, and challenges me to, “Catch me if you can!”

My Clothes Dryer is not an accomplice in this demonic crime, because the sock never seems to make it that far. I know because first I stick my head into the Dryer and then into the Washing Machine. After that, I look down the sides of the Machines where I see no missing sock. Then I look all over the floor because socks have been known to run anywhere.  No Luck!

The Washing Machine seems to taunt me because each time it hides a sock—it’s never a sock that matches the last one that has disappeared, and it leaves a lonely single sock of a different color.  I guess I should be glad that my Moriarty Machine doesn’t choose to devour a towel or a sheet, but always picks on the little guys.

Invariably, when I wear my sneakers, someone will say, “Do you know that your socks don’t match?” And, I will smile and reply, “Of course I do.  I have another pair just like them at home.”

Esther Blumenfeld

WEDDED BLISS-TERS

Digging into my mental museum, I decided to share with you the true story of a wedding from Hell, which I attended fifty years ago. And, YES, it is still exceedingly memorable. The formal wedding and reception dinner were held on a Sunday evening, in December, in the sanctuary, and adjoining reception room, of a little congregation, in a small town near Chicago---where many of the grooms relatives lived.

The wealthy parents of the groom had arranged for a private bus to ferry their fancy Chicago friends to the wedding. Since my husband, Warren, was a groomsman; we arrived a couple of days early.

Saturday morning, Warren looked at the sky and said, “It looks like rain.” He was wrong. It didn’t rain, but late Saturday night, it began to snow. The groom arrived. He hadn’t forgotten to bring his tuxedo, but bringing the wedding license had slipped his mind. Luckily, one of his uncles woke up a sleeping judge, who ordered the powers to be, to open the license office, and by Sunday morning, when the bride arrived, the license was well in hand. Unfortunately, she had forgotten to bring the wedding cake. It kept snowing!

The groom’s aunts had planned an elegant champagne lunch, for out-of-town guests, at the only hotel in town. As we were seated, and the heartfelt toasts were being made, the private dining room doors flew open, and 30 unexpected relatives of the bride (from Detroit) burst into the room, shouting “Is this the place for lunch?”

One of the aunts almost fainted. Another aunt explained, as politely as possible, that since she had not been informed that they were coming, food had not been ordered for them, but she would arrange for some sandwich platters, if they could wait quietly. They decided not to wait, and began to take rolls out of the breadbaskets. When another aunt said, “Please stop doing that,” they left. The breadbaskets were empty. As a matter of fact, they took two of the baskets with them. The almost fainting aunt kept mumbling, “Not our side of the family. Not our side of the family.” Unfazed, the bride said, “What a nice surprise! I had no idea they were invited.” By now the snow was coming down very fast.

Radio commentators reported, “Chicago traffic is backed up due to blizzard conditions.” Most of the guests had decided to get to the wedding early due to the increasingly bad weather. The chapel was beautifully decorated with roses. We could smell them, but no one could see them, because as soon as we all were seated, the lights went out. It was like sitting in a nice smelling coal mine. It was pitch black inside the chapel when the busload of bejeweled and mink covered guests arrived, in their wrinkled tuxedos and gowns, from Chicago. Carrying a flashlight, one disgruntled man said, “I’ll buy the damn electric company in this Burg, if they turn on the lights!”

Candles were lit, and I prayed that they wouldn’t burn down the chapel. Warren prayed that he wouldn’t be poisoned at the dinner, because the refrigeration in the wedding reception area was also down and out. I couldn’t see the bride come down the aisle, but I assume she was present when the vows were said.
After the ceremony, the candles were brought into the reception area. The melting ice-sculptured swans looked more like pigeons, and the champagne was a bit warm, but the food had not spoiled. I’m not sure what I ate, but it kind of tasted good.

“Dancing in the Dark” was a good theme song for the wedding, and then it was time to leave. By now, all of the cars in the parking lot were totally covered with snow. Two of the drunken Detroit relatives had located a couple of shovels and asked Warren, “Where’s our car?” He showed them where to dig.  When they were finished, they had dug out our car. Oops!  

The snow removal truck had only cleared the street that led to the hotel. There was no way we could go anywhere else. So everyone, including the bride and groom spent the night in the hotel. The next day, the bride’s relatives returned to Detroit with their newly acquired breadbaskets. The wealthy people returned on the private bus to Chicago, without buying the electric company, and we were free to go home.

Esther Blumenfeld (The marriage was kaput in a year. I guess they turned on the lights.)

NAILING JELL-O

Webster defines impossible as “incapable of being or occurring.”

Yesterday, I saw a neighbor who had recently retired, and asked him, ”How are you enjoying your retirement?” He said, “So far, so good, but I am studying for my insurance license, so I can work for my wife.” He added, “We have been married for 4 years now, and have never had an argument.” “Well,” I replied, “if you are going to work for your wife, I guess you are going to have quite a few discussions.”

Some things are impossible for me to believe. For instance, it is impossible for me to believe that my computer doesn’t hate me, or that there is intelligent life on other planets when there is so little of it here, or when I get phone calls at dinnertime, from people selling things, that they don’t know I’m eating dinner.

John Candy said, “Whoever said nothing is impossible, obviously hasn’t tried to nail Jell-O to a tree.” However, too often, people say that something is impossible, because they haven’t reasoned out a solution to a difficult problem.

Young people don’t know what’s impossible. That’s why they achieve it. As a writer, I discovered early on that for every 10 people who discouraged me, there would be one person who cheered me on. Then when I achieved the perceived impossible task, the 10 claimed that they, “always said it was a great idea.” It’s good to remember that sometimes the impossible may only be temporary, and that a good friend is impossible to forget.

When I was in college, I took a course in political science. After taking an essay exam, the professor called me into his office and told me, “Your answer on the exam, is the best I have ever read.” I thought, “Wow! That’s great, but that is impossible to believe.” I found out that I was right when he then said, “Unfortunately, your answer had nothing to do with the question.”  That’s when I learned to take classes from professors who asked better questions.

Elizabeth Arden would have like me---not for my flawless make-up, but because she said, “I only want people around me who can do the impossible.” Often, when I was working on a magazine assignment, a contact would say, “It is impossible for me to give you that information,” or, “It will be impossible for you to get an appointment with that busy person.” That’s when I would respond, “Who do I talk to now?” That is when I learned the value of a sense of humor, because it is impossible for people to laugh and be angry at the same time. Once, it took 50 telephone calls, but I got the appointment with the impossibly busy Mayor of Atlanta.

I agree with Walt Disney who said, “It’s kind of fun to do the impossible.” Fear of failure makes it impossible to achieve one’s dreams. A person just has to plow ahead vowing not to fail. It might not work, but you’ll never know if you don’t try the impossible.

Esther Blumenfeld (“In order to attain the impossible, one must attempt the absurd.”) Miguel de Cervante