Faith, Hope And You've Got To Be Kidding!

I am on every charities hit list. Every time I open my mailbox, it is filled with new solicitations. Don’t get me wrong, I choose to give a fair share of my yearly income to worthy causes that I want to support. Sometimes, in a weak moment, I even give additional donations to bell ringers, groups who want to improve our planet or kids who sell unhealthy stuff for their school or scout troop. However, I draw the line when people I don’t know want me to send them money to save my soul. Their tracts get recycled—“dust to dust,” as the saying goes.

Who do you suppose, designs those address labels that accompany solicitation letters? I have received pictures of dogs, cartoon characters, flowers, ships, butterflies, and more flowers. If you like flowers, send those folks $1.00 and you’ll receive many more labels---enough to plant a garden. Most of these labels don’t know what to call me, so I end up being a “Ms.” whatever that means.

The more heavy-handed approach to asking for money involves “free gifts.” I thought all gifts were free. I have received greeting cards, notepads, calendars, pens and my very favorite free gift---an actual “In God We Trust” American nickel. These unsolicited items are supposed to invoke guilt, which in turn, will transform the favor into an un-free gift. I don’t know how many nickels are mailed to strangers, but I do know that 20 nickels make a $1.00. If they are rich enough to send people free money, why do they want more?

Although I have a “no solicitation” order on my telephone, occasionally a numbskull, who can’t pronounce my name, gets on the line. The last conversation I had with one of these folks went something like this:

Hello

Hello, is this Mrs. Blumper?

No. There is no one here by that name.

That’s okay. Would you be able to send money to our charity?

I don’t take phone solicitations. Can you send me information about your charity?

No. But could you send us some money anyway?

Why can’t you send me any information?

We don’t do that, because we don’t have any information to send.

Why do you think that I’d send money to an organization I’ve never heard of, who has no information about itself?

Because other people do.

Well, they are stupid.

In that case, could you send us $5.00?

NO! Not even 5 cents! Take me off your list.

Can’t do that. We don’t have a list.

Esther Blumenfeld (stick it to me)

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)  

Hot Time In The Old Town

This summer, by the end of June, 1,011 heat records were broken around the country, including 251 new daily high records recorded on Tuesday, June 26, 2012.  I am a desert dweller in Arizona, and on that day the temperature hit 105 degrees. I had taken my mountain hike before the sun began to bake the earth, and following the example of my Mexican friends decided to take a mid-afternoon siesta.

I awoke at 4 p.m. bathed in a puddle of sweat. At this point in the story, my friend, Fay, who hails from Vicksburg, Mississippi would say, “Don’t use the ‘S’ word! Ladies don’t sweat—they perspire.” I must admit that I was thinking of another “S” word as I lifted my damp head off the pillow. In a flash, I knew that menopause was not the culprit. “Been there and done that.” So, I swam over to the thermostat and saw that the temperature in my house had risen to 80 degrees.

After many calls and pitiful pleading, I was able to extract a promise from an air-conditioning company to come fix my problem on Thursday. “But this is Tuesday, I moaned.” “Hang in there, the technician advised. Maybe we will get a cancellation and can come earlier, but right now it’s going to have to be Thursday.” So, unhappily, I gave him my cell phone number and realized that this wilting blossom was going to spend two nights in a very warm environment.

Okay, I decided. I have always wanted to go on safari in Africa. This will be my safari adventure in my own home without the mosquitoes and wild animals. I found an oscillating fan in my garage, put an ice pack on my head and went to bed. I dreamed of ice cream cones---very large, cold ice cream cones.

Wednesday morning the thermostat registered 85 degrees. I walked over to the community clubhouse, turned on the air conditioning and basked in comfort until a neighbor told me it was time for his monthly poker game and the 80-year-old “boys” were going to arrive momentarily. Since I don’t play poker and am not old enough to play with the “boys,” I went home, put on my bathing suit and sat in the swimming pool for several hours until a neighbor couldn’t stand the sight of my shriveling skin anymore and invited me to her home for a bowl of chili and a movie.

That evening my house had cooled down to 88 degrees. That was barely bearable, but I could manage. As I walked into the house, I felt something crawling on my neck. A large green grasshopper had invaded my safari camp. Since I don’t own an elephant gun, I grabbed a drinking glass and trapped the beast and threw it outside.

On Thursday, it took the technician 10 minutes to fix my air conditioner and 4 hours to cool off the house. My son telephoned me that evening from Washington, DC, and said, “We have had terrible storms. The electricity is off all over the east coast. Our house is dark and hot, and the food in the refrigerator is spoiling. I am sitting in the car to cool off. What’s new with you?” I thought about it and said, “I caught a grasshopper.”

Esther Blumenfeld (Cool off. Things could be worse)

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.)

Who Was That Masked Man Anyway?

When I was a little girl, my mother read me the grim story of Hansel and Gretel written by brothers of the same name, except theirs had an extra “m,” because there were two of them. She read me that story several times in order to warn me not to wander off or talk to strangers.

Today, I do tend to wander about, but never “off.”  However, talking to strangers is one of my favorite activities, since they are often a source for humorous material. Also, I remember that The Lone Ranger was a stranger who used to ride into town when no one else had a good story to tell. Of course, I am rather selective about the people with whom I engage in conversation, and judiciously avoid old crones who live in sugar candy cottages in the middle of a scary forest.

People are only strangers until you talk to them. My mother-in-law had a friend who sat next to a young woman at O’Hare Airport in Chicago. While waiting for their plane, they began to chat, and my mother-in-law’s friend took a liking to the personable young woman. As, she prepared to board the plane, she said to her new friend, “My son lives in Chicago. Would it be okay, if I gave him your telephone number?” “Sure,” said the young woman, and my mother-in-law’s friend turned a stranger into her daughter-in-law, and they resumed their conversation for 40 more years.

I volunteer for a worthy organization, and my duties include sitting at the front desk, greeting people, and entering data on a computer. Last week, a man came into the office. He was early for his appointment. As he sat down, he said, “How’s that computer working out for you?” “It’s great!” I responded, “When it works. When it doesn’t work, it’s not so great.”

At that, this stranger proceeded to relate a story, which I am happy to share with you now:

He said, “I have a friend, who had a problem with her computer, so she telephoned for technical help. When the computer technician started to explain how my friend should repair the problem, she didn’t understand his instructions at all, so she said, “Wait a minute. My five-year-old son is really good with computers. Let me put him on the phone with you”---which she promptly did.

The five year-old easily understood what the instructor was telling him, and followed his directions step by step. The little fellow had no problem at all, until the technician said, “Now, press the Command Key with your right hand.” “Okay! Okay! Okay!” said the child, and then he shouted---“Mommy, Mommy, which one’s my right hand?”

I don’t think my stranger was the Lone Ranger, but he sure rode into town with a good story.

 Esther Blumenfeld (Hi-yo Silver Away!)