Happy Birthday To----

I’ve never understood why some people don’t want to celebrate their birthdays. When I say, “Happy Birthday!” instead of saying, “Thank you,” they whine, “Don’t remind me.” So, my usual snappy comeback to this insipid response is: “Well, I for one, am glad that your parents had sex!” That horrifying thought usually brings them back to reality.

I enjoy celebrating my birthday, and thanks to my imaginative family and friends, the festivities often last the entire month of May. Getting older is inevitable, so my motto is, “Have fun while you can.” I get a kick out of those sappy cards sent to me from out-of-town friends, and of course, the touching sentiments from my son and daughter-in-law always make my heart sing.

My in-town friends feel the need to take me out for lunch and dinner. This activity usually includes their devious plan to order a slice of cake that arrives with several forks. Not wanting to burn down the restaurant, the cake arrives with only one candle. Jerry Seinfeld says, “You know you’re getting old when you get that one candle on the cake. It’s like, ‘See if you can blow this out.’” It’s bad form to spit on the cake when blowing out the candle. I usually make a wish such as, “I hope they remember that they all are on diets,” but my wish never comes true. What’s a little taste among friends?

According to the Guinness Book of World Records, “Happy Birthday To You” written by the Hill sisters in 1893 is the most recognized song in the English language. That’s because it only has four words, and you can usually remember four words even after having a couple of glasses of hooch. The only challenge is to remember the name of the person you are singing to. 

One year, five waiters in a Chinese restaurant sang to me as “Dear Lester.” Do I look like a Lester? Some people don’t want others to know how old they are. When asked, I like to tell people that, “I am 95 years old.” That way people will always tell me that I look really good for my age.

Recently, a young woman suggested that for my birthday, as a gift to myself, I should begin computer dating. I am willing to try new things, but that’s not one of them. With my luck, a former jailbird would contact me, and for our first date we’d knock over a bank.

Larry Lorenzone reminds us, ”Birthdays are good for you. Statistics show that people, who have the most, live the longest. So take a page from my book and enjoy your special day. It only comes around once a year.” Jack Benny said, “Age is strictly a case of mind over matter. If you don’t mind, it doesn’t matter.”

 Esther Blumenfeld (“How old would you be, if you didn’t know how old you are?”) Satchel Page

Connect The Dots

 Yesterday, a woman asked me, “What do you think about when you go on those long mountain hikes all by yourself?

Those who know me well would never ask, because they are familiar with the quirky ruminations that go on in my mind. Sometimes when I start talking, one of my friends will say, “Where did that come from?” I’m not always sure where it came from, but I know I will end up writing about it somewhere.

However, hers was a fair question, and deserves the best answer I can muster. So follow my thought train as I hit the trail at 6:30 a.m., and see if you can figure it all out.

The first thing I thought was, “Be mindful!” It is the mantra of my 90-year-old friend, Betty. She says it when she gets behind the wheel of her car. I thought it because the rattlesnakes are coming out of hibernation. Since nothing rattled or slithered across my feet, I sang, “The hills are alive with the sound of music,” and proceeded down the path. I stopped singing because I forgot the rest of the words and had scared a couple of rabbits.

Then I thought about the Dutch airliner that flew from New York to Amsterdam with 25% of its fuel consisting of waste cooking oil from fried Louisiana Cajun food. I made a mental note to ask an attorney if smelling fried crawfish and cracklins while munching on pretzels (while sitting in a cramped seat on an airplane) is cruel and unusual punishment. All kinds of strange things happen on airplanes. My friend, Marilyn, a flight attendant, caught a passenger trying to buckle a seatbelt around her Chihuahua.

When I reached the top of the mountain, enjoying the spectacular view, my thoughts flew from up in the air to down under---literally under the ground. I wondered about a cemetery in Spain that is threatening to evict those who are buried there, if they don’t pay for the lease on their burial sites.

Why would a dead people care if they were evicted? I’ll bet that the dearly departed wouldn’t give it a second thought if they were arrested, bone cuffed and sent to jail.

Returning to the dirt path, I pondered that, “An apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, unless you’re in a hurricane.”

So what did you expect me to think about? Maybe something interesting such as, “Are those people jogging or is that girl chasing that old man down the street?”

Maybe someday I can connect all of these thoughts and write a story about them.

Anything is possible.

Esther Blumenfeld (Okay, so what’s the speed of dark?” Steven Wright)

Backing Up

I have never liked class reunions because they are too much like jogging backwards. I prefer remembering my classmates, and the good times we had, frozen in my memory, as they were those many years ago. Bennett Cerf said, “Middle age is when your classmates are so grey, wrinkled and bald they don’t recognize you.”

A reunion is “an assembly of people who have been separated.” Sometimes the separated part is a really good thing. My husband’s high school was in a very tough mill town. “BYOB” was written on the bottom of his reunion invitation. He said, “They want me to bring my own bottle for the fight after we all get together.”

I enjoyed my high school years and have stayed in touch with a few old (and getting older) chums. However, in many instances old friends are like old shoes. Some just don’t fit anymore.

Instead of attending my high school class reunion a few years ago, I paid $25 for a video of the reunion. It was the best $25 I have ever spent. I watched people I didn’t recognize milling about, and wondered why one of my classmate’s mother attended our reunion. Then I realized it wasn’t her mother---it was she! I watched a fellow, who used to play “Blue Moon” on his trombone, try out his skill as a hypnotist. He tried to hypnotize 10 people in the front row. I dozed off immediately, but when I woke up 20 minutes later, he finally broke into a sweat and gave up. He should have stuck to the trombone.

I pulled out my old yearbook to see if I could recognize more of those people on my video, since some of them had probably scribbled, “Best of Luck” in it, and told me that I was “Swell.” A few of them might even have spelled my name right. The photos were of young kids. I didn’t want to see even one recent photo or hear about the arrest record that accompanied it.

Our past class president, a really nice man, was suckered into planning the reunion. Mr. Google provides several hints to making this kind of get-together as painless as possible. Here are some of the Google suggestions:

 1.   “Look for memories. Ask people to tell stories about someone that left a mark on you.” This could be very rewarding or cause a lawsuit.

 2.    “Remind people of old friendships.” Just remember that some people choose to forget and some people have no choice.

 3.     “Talk about old songs or sporting events.” It’s easier with a six-pack.

Kurt Vonnegut said it best: “True terror is to wake up one morning and discover that your high school class is running the country.” I prefer keeping sweet memories in my mental museum.

Esther Blumenfeld (I’m not who I used to be, but my earrings still fit.)

Que Sera Sera

A few years ago, I was invited to a black-tie affair in San Francisco, hosted by my friend, Bonnie---the foremost real estate agent for Victorian homes in that magnificent city. She welcomed 500 guests to her estate. They were fed by the staffs of three caterers, and entertained by three bands that rocked the rafters from 8:00 at night until the sun shone on stragglers the next day.

I wandered around the crowded house eves-dropping on conversations while admiring beautiful people in their designer gowns and tuxedos. Several women wore shoes that cost more than my airline ticket. When I climbed the stairs to the 3^rd floor ballroom, it seemed as if all 500 guests were at the bar or gyrating on the dance floor. Many of them were plastered, but I was merely stuck to the wall, unable to move.

Several young women were shouting at one another above the din. One of them said, “I’ve been accepted to nursing school.” When asked about her boyfriend, she said, “I dumped him!” But she added, that she had recently purchased a boxer. I assumed she meant a dog, but wasn’t sure since I was in San Francisco.

Later in the evening, fresh entertainment arrived---a cartoonist, an opera singer and a palm reader. The guests, who hadn’t yet lost their hearing, gathered around the grand piano on the main floor, and others lined up to either get their likeness sketched or their palms read.

I spied the young woman from the ballroom standing in line with her friends waiting for the palm reader. I said to the young woman, “You really don’t need to wait, because I can read your palm.” “You can?” she said. “Yes,” I replied as she extended her hand. I asked for silence and gazed at her palm. I said, “You have recently traded in your boyfriend for a boxer.” Her friends gasped. She looked at me awestruck. “And,” I added, “You will go to nursing school, meet a nice doctor and have a happy life.” Then I left. I threw in that last part about the doctor and a happy life, because I got carried away with my forecasting ability, but thought it couldn’t hurt.

An hour later, I joined the sedate group around the piano. The opera singer had left, and I finally found a conversation worth joining. A woman tapped me on the shoulder and said, “Excuse me, I was upstairs and saw you reading that young woman’s palm.  I have to know. Are you psychic?” “No,” I replied, “I’m Jewish.” She looked very confused as she left to get another drink.

No one knows what the future will bring, so I recommend that people stay positive, open minded and hopeful. But if you want to guess about the future, remember what Niels Bohr said; “Prediction is very difficult, especially if it’s about the future.” Then there are gems such as:

“Who the hell wants to hear actors talk?” (H.M. Warner, Warner Brothers 1927.)

“We don’t like their sound, and guitar music is on the way out.” (Decca Records Company rejecting the Beatles, 1962.)

“I think there is a world market for maybe five computers.” (Thomas Watson, Chairman of IBM, 1943)

“And for the tourist who wants to get away from it all, Safaris in Viet Nam—a popular holiday for the 1960’s” (Newsweek)

Not a psychic in the bunch. Que Sera Sera.

Esther Blumenfeld (“Sensible and responsible women do not want to vote.” Grover Cleveland, U.S. President 1905) 

Face To Face

Early in the evening, while sitting outside on their deck, my son and daughter-in-law often see two foxes frolicking in the woods behind their house. They have named one, “Mangy Fox” and the other, “Foxy Lady.” First impressions do make a difference.

Years ago, a young man spied my beautiful college roommate sitting at a table in a restaurant. He told his friends, “I’m going to marry that girl.” On their first date, she vomited on his shoes. He married her anyway. Twenty years later, she divorced him, because he had found a younger woman with a better digestive system.

The thing about a first impression is that you can only have it once, and it is terribly difficult to admit that your instincts are wrong. So many times first impressions are made solely on, “Wow! That person looks good to me.” However, when that person starts talking and you have to pretend to listen, you just might have been wrong.

Con men are good at first impressions. The man at the top of a pyramid scheme always looks and sounds good, but don’t shake hands with him because you’ll never get yours back.

On the other hand, while you are making a first impression about someone else, you are also creating one about yourself, and you never have a do over. When walking down 5^th Avenue in New York City, my friend, Sally tapped a woman on the shoulder and said, “Could you please tell me the time?” and the woman screamed, “You don’t touch people in New York City.” Sally never did find out what time it was, but she obviously made an impression on that woman.

Greetings are like that. When meeting someone for the first time, it’s probably not a good idea to call that person “Dude” or “Babe” unless he’s on a horse, and she has one leg over her motorcycle.

If you can’t make a good impression, you might want to make a bad one. At least you will know that you won’t be forgotten. Sometimes mangy is just as memorable as foxy.

Esther Blumenfeld (“I don’t like that man. I must get to know him better.” Abraham Lincoln)