HOW OLD ARE YOU?

Yesterday, I met a friend for dinner and as we looked at the menu, she said, “I need to order something that will help me lose 5 pounds by tomorrow.” I suggested that she order a cake made of Ex-Lax.

 Later we went to a club that featured a new comic who was quite funny. I noticed that everyone in the small theatre was laughing heartily except one woman whose face was frozen. Her eyebrows were locked in the up position, her eyelids couldn’t blink or wink and her mouth resembled the grimace worn by Batman’s nemesis, The Joker. “What makes her face so tight?” I asked my friend. “Botox” she replied. “That woman is chock full of Botox.”  Ouch!

Children are eager to grow up. “Can’t wait to be 16 so I can drive.” “Can’t wait to graduate from high school so I can go to college.” “Can’t wait to be 21 so I can drink beer.” Then the desire to age comes to a screeching halt. “Oh, my God, I’m 40, and only have 50 or 60 years left.” Most people love Mother Nature’s elixirs that promise eternal youth, but they intensely dislike Father Time.

A few months ago, while hiking up Heartbreak Hill, I saw a man stop and gasp for air. I took one look at his grey complexion, gave him my bottle of water and forced him to sit down on the nearest boulder. He said, “ I feel faint,” so I made him put his head between his knees. When he came up for air, his color was better, but I noticed a heart monitor. “Do you want me to call 911 or your wife?” I asked. “He begged me not to call either one of them. “My wife would be worse than 911,” he said as he admitted, “My doctor told me not to do this yet.” “So why are you doing it? I shouted at my patient. “Because I have been hiking to the top of this mountain since I was 17-years-old,”he replied. “Well,” I said, “Obviously, you aren’t 17 anymore.” I insisted on accompanying him to the parking lot, and scolded the “Bloody Fool” all the way to his car. I also threatened to call his wife if he ever did anything so stupid again. Turns out that my charge was the CEO of a big corporation, which did not prevent him from being a 70-year-old birdbrain.

I met a nurse who used to work for a plastic surgeon. She said, “I had to quit when I saw an 87-year-old woman crawl across the parking lot to get yet another face lift.” As my mother would say, “She might look like a gymnasium from the rear, but she looks like a mausoleum from the front.”

Old age is not contagious but it is inevitable and carries no shame.  It is smart to maximize on our genetics with healthy habits (you know what they are), but the body is a wondrous machine that will, with time, wear down and out.  In the meantime remember that the best face-lift is a smile, and the best diet is a dose of laughter with friends. Being the thinnest, unwrinkled person in the cemetery is not a memorable accomplishment.

Esther Blumenfeld (one day older---so what!)

BUYER BEWARE

“If the disclosure of information is necessary to prevent an ad from being deceptive, the disclosure has to be clear and conspicuous.”  This is the Federal Trade Commission’s (FTC) law enforcement of “full disclosure.” This means that consumers should not have to be speed readers, own a magnifying glass or try to read white text on a light or variegated background.
Yes, I am talking about ads on your television screen.

Consequently, since there aren’t too many good shows on TV, I decided to— not put my nose to the grindstone— but rather to the television screen to find out what some of these mini-disclosers tell us.  Here’s what I discovered:

AD:  “Thanks to the superior safety features of this car, the owner was able to walk away from the accident.”  SMALL PRINT:  “actual crash results may vary”

AD:  “Can install shower in one day.”  SMALL PRINT: “Some installments take longer.”

After claiming that a pill will help lapses in memory, the SMALL PRINT said,”Individuals are paid for testimonials.” And, another pill product with the same claims for boosting memory, added the hard-to-read disclaimer, “Results in compliance with lifetime changes.” Whatever that means. I did not ever see a tiny declaimer about the placebo effect.

There are many snake-oil medications pushed on TV viewers. I know this because the small print often has a version of: “Call your doctor if you develop a fever, chills, indigestion, bleeding or death.”  I guess at that point it’s too late to read the small print. Then there’s “This product is not intended to diagnose, treat, cure or prevent any disease.”  By the way, “It has not been approved by the FDA (Food and Drug Administration.)”

Yes, there are many disclaimers for Beauty Products: An AD for toothpaste had this tiny print disclosure about the woman with beautiful teeth: “This model is for illustrative purposes only. Results may vary.” Also, on other products such as diet claims you may read, “Effects are temporary and vary by individual”  Or they tell you to not eat so much and exercise along with their unapproved by FDA products.

Then there are the faux attorneys and doctors, and money managers.  The small print will tell you that they are fakes because they are required to tell you in teeny weeny letters that “Dramatization by an actor not an actual attorney, doctor or money guy.” Then there are the insurance benefits or class action actions…Small print: ‘Insurance benefits vary by plans and not available in all states”…and “Actor portrayal.” With actor money-managers the small print was too fast to read, but I am sure they said  something like “Don’t blame the actor if you lose all of your money.”

My favorite disclosure appeared after an episode of the show THE SIMPSONS on television.
The disclosure was in big print and ran slowly across the screen:

“No dogs were harmed during the production of this episode. A cat threw up and somebody shot a duck, but that’s it!”

Esther Blumenfeld

CLASS DISMISSED

Class Dismissed

Years later, a teacher will remember the excellent students and the trouble- makers. The rest seem to fall between the cracks. It’s the same when looking back at the teachers who have touched our lives. For some inexplicable reason, I recently took a gander at my high school yearbook. The inscriptions that classmates wrote were unanimous. In those days, I was a “swell gal.” Looking at their photographs, I remembered most of them, but not everyone---especially the girl who wrote, “Remember our year in typing.”

I fondly remember the only teacher with a Master’s Degree. Don’t know how he landed in the one public high school in my small Indiana town, but he valiantly tried to impart a love for Shakespeare and the English language to many students who could care less. But neither this fine man nor my classmates are whom I want to write about.

As Woody Allen so aptly put it, “My education was dismal. I went to a series of schools for mentally disturbed teachers.” It started in grade school, when the beautiful Miss Bowman (whom I adored) whacked one of the boys on his hands with a ruler. I heard the crack from across the room, and from then on sat on my hands and kept my mouth shut. I don’t remember any other teachers from those grade school days, but can’t forget some of odd birds from my high school.

The girls’ Physical Education teacher, Miss Barbarian wound a tight braid of hair around her head to prevent her brain from falling out when she was jumping around. Gum chewing was the worst offense in Barbarian’s class, and if she caught a culprit chewer, she’d make the hapless girl spit the gum on the floor, step on it, and then scrape it up with a spoon---a strengthening exercise for the forearm.

For me, participating in sports was an alien concept, and she tried in vain to make a jock out of me. Climbing a rope hand over hand was not my goal in life, and after getting my ankles bruised black and blue in field hockey, I volunteered to be a referee.

I then reasoned that Home Arts would be a safer class. Little Miss Leo, who wore her hair in ringlets, and washed her clothes in White Shoulders perfume, was my teacher. Between sneezes, I learned that everything you cook has to be smothered in white sauce, which, when thickened, could substitute for paste in art class. Miss Leo also taught sewing. I had trouble threading the spindle, spinning the wheel and pumping the pedal on the old sewing machine—all at the same time. I wasn’t surprised when she made me tear out the crooked stitches in the apron I had fashioned. I wasn’t upset, because the only time I planned on wearing it was to protect my dress from white sauce paste in art class.

Miss Tippler doubled as an English teacher and drama coach. She dyed her hair flaming red, and surreptitiously took sips out of a bottle, that she kept in a brown bag in her desk. She wanted to cast me as Mary in the Christmas Pageant, because she said, “You look the part.” I graciously declined, because neither of us had been in Bethlehem at the time, and consequently didn’t know what Mary really looked like. Besides, I wasn’t going to take any assignment from a teacher who was drunk as a skunk.

One of the best teachers I ever met was my son Josh’s second grade teacher, Mrs. McIntyre. Every child in her class achieved excellence to the best of his or her ability. For example, the children in her class gave “morning talks” that taught them to gather, analyze and present material in a meaningful way.  

Josh had a friend, Joey whose father was a physician. The doctor took the boys to the hospital for a tour, and while there, each of them were treated to a urine test, which they gingerly carried to Mrs. McIntyre’s class for a joint presentation. When they finished their talk, Mrs. McIntyre asked if any of the children had any questions. That’s when Sammy, in a jealous pique, said, “My Dad had a vasectomy. Can I bring him for Show and Tell?” For the first time, Mrs. McIntyre said, “No, but thank you.”

Good teaching is filled with ideas. The brain should be used for more than white sauce.

Here’s an idea for you from the author, Flannery O’Connor: “Everywhere I go, I’m asked if I think the university stifles writers. My opinion is that they don’t stifle enough of them. There may be a best seller that could have been prevented by a good teacher.”

Esther Blumenfeld (Hall Monitor. Do you have a pass?)

NO SHRINKING VIOLET

My 97-year-old Aunt Ruth is the incredible shrinking woman. However, although she has lost inches, she has never lost her moxie. Her body may be frail, and her hearing may be failing, but her keen wit is as sharp as ever---as illustrated when I interviewed her during my recent visit to her home in Buffalo, New York. Yes, she still lives in her own house.

Esther: Aunt Ruth, what is your secret to getting old?
Ruth: I refuse to die!

Esther: What is the best way to raise little children?
Ruth: Let them do whatever they want, unless they crawl into bed with you too early in the morning.

Esther: What is the secret to being a good wife?
Ruth: Be your own person, and if he doesn’t like it after he marries you---to Hell with him.

Esther: Who was your favorite person in history?
Ruth: Napoleon. Because he was smart enough to go to Elba where no one would bother him anymore.

Esther: If you could have a conversation with anyone in the world, who would that be?
Ruth: President Obama.
Esther: What would you say to him?
Ruth: When is Congress finally going to leave Washington? I can’t take it anymore!

Esther: What is your favorite time of day?
Ruth: My favorite time of day is evening, because it’s almost bedtime. I like to sleep. I sleep very well, because I read the funny papers before I turn off the light. I don’t think the funnies are as funny as they used to be years ago. Why do you think that is?
Esther: This is my interview Aunt Ruth. You can’t switch it on me.
Ruth: Well, I tried my best.

Esther: What is your favorite story?
Ruth: I like the one about the seven dwarfs. I like their pointed hats, because I imagine they are hiding something under there.

Esther: What is your favorite book?
Ruth: That’s easy. I love It’s A Big World Charlie Brown. I have always liked Peanuts because he is such a pitiful little fellow. I would like to help him, but he never learns.

Esther: If you could have anyone here to visit you, who would that be?
Ruth: Well, dead people don’t walk, but I’d like to see my husband. He had his ups and downs---but then, so did I.

Esther: What do you think about cell phones and computers?
Ruth: They are helpful, but the time will come that no one will leave the house, and you won’t know your neighbors. That could be a good thing, but you’ll never know.

Esther: What is your favorite swear word?
Ruth: Let me think about that. There are so many good ones. (In Polish she said)
“The cholera should get you.”
Esther: I didn’t know you spoke Polish.
Ruth: I don’t, but I can swear in Polish.

Esther: What do you think of today’s television shows?
Ruth: I don’t watch Reality Shows, because there is no such thing.

Esther: Why do you want to eat cake before dinner?
Ruth: Because I’m hungry for cake and not chicken.

Esther: What do you think about the winters in Buffalo?
Ruth: It’s always colder in Rochester.

Esther: Is there anything you’d like to say to end our interview?
Ruth: If I’m in the room---don’t forget that I am here.

As if anyone could---my dear Aunt---as if anyone could. You are unforgettable!

Esther Blumenfeld (Watch out for the walker. She’s Hell on wheels.)

ROOMMATES

Unless you are a hermit, you will find yourself sharing living space with other people. In family situations, this can cause disharmony between brothers and/or sisters. When I was a teenager, my friends all thought that my little brother’s first name was “Get out of here!”

When I went to college, my freshman roommate and I were quite compatible. We even had matching laundry bags. But the girl next door---the one with the machete under her pillow---was sent home. In my sophomore year, I joined a living situation where we were required to change rooms every semester. The rationale behind this moving decision was to prevent cliquishness. There were quads, triples and a few double rooms, but no one lived alone. Consequently, upon graduation, I had shared living space with18 roommates. I think they assigned me several quads, because I can get along with almost anyone, and I spent most of my time on campus.

Only one of these girls is still stuck in my memory and craw. Crystal was a cute blonde with big blue eyes, and the boys were wild about her. They didn’t know her dirty little secret. Crystal was not so cute to live with. She was unclean. She rarely showered, dropped her clothes on the floor, never made her bed and was not acquainted with a washing machine. Our quad was a bit bigger than submarine quarters, but when Crystal’s mound of clothes, wet towels and what-nots invaded my space, I threw the mess on her bed. Crystal didn’t seem to mind the lumps because she slept right on top of them.  

Finally, I had enough of the Crystal invasion. I picked up all of her leavings, put them into a super-sized bag, hid her falsies on the bottom of the pile and tossed the whole slew on top of her bed. She slept on it, but complained about the loss of her enhancements for six months. I don’t know whatever happened to unwashable Crystal, but I certainly hope she came clean to the man she finally ended up with, or that they bought a bed big enough to accommodate her, him and the dirty laundry.

Upon graduation, I got married and lived with the almost perfect roommate for 40 years. I equivocate because my compatriot suffered from piles. He had piles of paper here; piles of paper there---piles of paper everywhere. A brilliant researcher and author, he wrote every thought down. The ideas kept flowing and forests kept dying to feed his creativity. His office at the university was worse than the one at home, and his students would tentatively knock on the door, peek in at the teetering paper mountain and whisper, “Professor, are you in there somewhere?”

At home his office was in the dungeon under the main living quarters. I placed a sign to warn intruders of the, “Disaster Area.” Two desks, leather chairs, several cabinets and an exercise machine were all covered with paper, but he claimed he knew where everything was---unless he didn’t. However, unlike Crystal, he smelled good, his clothes were clean and he had a good sense of humor. He was flattered when I submitted his office as a contender in the “Messiest Office in Atlanta” contest. Unfortunately, he came in second. A guy from IBM won. The prize was a clean-up crew with a bulldozer.

Esther Blumenfeld (“Never trust anyone with a clean desk”--- WSB)