"Lions,Tigers and Bears---Oh, My!"

My friend, Ruth is a docent at the zoo. She arranged for a knowledgeable guide to take her friends on a behind-the-scenes tour where we could get close and personal with a few of the featured wild beasts.

Before we began, Chelsea, an Education Coordinator, gave us instructions such as; “Line up with your backs against the wall when we enter the tiger’s space, and don’t stick your fingers into the cage.” “Finger licking good” became the operative phrase. She then, unlocked several padlocked gates, and told us that she would enter first. I guessed that if she didn’t return, our tour would be over. However, she came back and we followed her into the tiger’s space.

Taking one look at this huge kitty, I began to hug the wall. The tiger glanced at us, stood up, ambled around her cage and began to mark her territory with urine. One little growl from this huge cat was enough for me. She could have all the peeing space she needed.

Next, we entered an area that featured an old black bear, which suffered from glaucoma. Our guide told us that the bear receives eye drops when he sticks his snout out of the cage and into a honey pot. Chelsea also added that periodically a dentist cleans the bear’s teeth. Taking one look at his long, sharp claws, I said, “I assume the bear is sedated,” whereupon my friend, Jeannette whispered, “I assume they sedate the dentist.” Since all is fair in love and comedy, and wishing I had said that, I stole her line and got a big laugh. Jeannette called me, “Uncle Miltie” for the rest of the tour.

After our adventure with the bear, we were taken to the zoo kitchen where we were shown some frozen treats that Chelsea dug out of the freezer. First, she showed us a green Popsicle on a very long stick. It was made out of leaves---a treat for the giraffes. Next, she brought out a blood Popsicle in a round container with a frozen rat in the center. She told us that animal experts think up these treats---not only for the animals’ pleasure--- but to challenge their intellect.

The red Pops were lion cuisine, and we were told that the King of the Pride enjoys getting Popsicle blood all over his mane.  I’ve seen kids doing the same with chocolate ice cream, but if Mom found a rat in the dish, there’d be a lot of screaming and an attorney involved (who knows all about rats and going for blood.)

The final treat was the most ingenious. Some mad scientist had invented a coconut with a frozen rat sticking out one end and a mouse out of the other. When Chelsea held up the coconut, I could see that the critters had been scared stiff. Their noses were pointed North and South or maybe it was East and West. I’m not sure because she kept turning around.

Before our tour ended we were taken to visit an enormous hippopotamus, who was much more interested in her breakfast than whatever treat our guide had for her. We were told that because of her bad eyesight, she had run into a wall and some of her horn had broken off, but it was growing back.

Hippo horns are like our fingernails, but bigger, sharper and in really bad need of a manicure. When the hippopotamus finally came to the fence, several people petted her raising a dust storm. I suspected if our hippo had shaken off all of that mud and dust she probably would have been no bigger than a Chihuahua.

At the end of the tour, we were given carrots to feed to the giraffes. Those, who had listened to the instructions, knew not to feed a giraffe like you feed a horse (with the food in the palm of your hand), but rather to hold the carrots out to the giraffes with the tips of your fingers. Those who had been chatty babies didn’t hear the instructions and ended up with giraffe slime-drool in the palm of their hands. Sometimes a simple “Thank You,” would suffice.

Esther Blumenfeld (“The best thing about animals is that they don’t talk much”) Thornton Wilder.

Clean Up Your Act

Recently, I called my cousin who lives in Seattle to wish her a “Happy Holiday.” “Can’t talk now,” was her response. The kids are coming and I’ve just started cleaning the house.” When are they supposed to arrive?” I asked. “Any minute,” she replied. “Housekeeping is just not my thing!”

I told her that Joan Rivers is her soul mate because she said, “I hate housework. You make the beds, you wash the dishes, and six months later---you have to do it all over again.” Before I disconnected the phone, I suggested to my cousin, “Don’t make the house so neat that the kids won’t know where they are.”

I don’t hate housework, but my mind wanders when I am doing chores, and I forget what I’ve already done. For instance, when I put fresh sheets on my bed, I was thinking about the American Constitution.

After washing the sheets, I opened the dryer compartment and noticed black scuffmarks all over the inside drum. There were two possibilities for that phenomenon---either I had trapped a small South Korean rapper doing the Gangnam Macarena in there---or I had dried a pair of slippers with rubber soles. There was no little rapper jumping around in my dryer, so I cursed the shoes as I cleaned the appliance.  Then I discovered that the washing machine had swallowed the bottom sheet from my king sized bed. I called a friend to complain that a sheet was hiding somewhere in my house. She suggested that perhaps I had failed to remove it when I put the fresh sheet on the bed. She was right. It was all Thomas Jefferson’s fault!

Not wanting to be a total nincompoop, I turned on my handy-dandy MacBook (after all it is a “Pro”) and Goggled, “House Cleaning Tips From Heloise.” She was no help at all!

First tip: “Want to clean your refrigerator fast? Unplug it.” Unless someone named, Heloise comes over and helps me move the refrigerator, it’s going to remain plugged in. I think it would have been more helpful had she suggested, “Throw out anything that smells bad and has started growing on its own.”

The next hint was to clean the toaster by removing the crumb tray. It is so much easier to turn it upside down and shake. She probably should have said, “Do not try to remove stuck-on-stuff with a knife while the toaster is still plugged in---unless you want a new hair-do.”

I did like the suggestion about the dishwasher. “Get paper towels to remove shards of glass, bones and other gunk.” My mind began to wonder about people who put bones into their dishwashers. Do you think that’s the way scientists wash  their fossils?

The last suggestion made some sense. ”To conquer kitchen clutter, throw stuff out.” I think that includes husbands and children who want to snack on the party tray before guests arrive.

I quit reading her advice when it came to, “Tackle the toilet.” No way am I going to tackle that thing without a helmet.

Esther Blumenfeld (can a vegan use a feather duster?)

Forget It

When my Father was 90-years-old, he called me and said, “Something terrible happened to me today.” “What happened?” I asked. “For the first time in my life,” he replied, “I couldn’t remember someone’s name.” “Dad,” I said, “sometimes, I do that on purpose.” Of course, for a man with a phenomenal memory, he didn’t think my answer was all that funny.

Recently, I saw an ad in my newspaper headlined, “Age Proof Your Brain.” The advertisement claimed that by swallowing an expensive, little pill, all those forgetful brains out there would get a jump-start. I guess it’s kind of a flim-flam jumper cable to the noggin.

The AARP Magazine featured an article that offered some ways toward a fit mind:

     1.   Get moving: I think they meant exercise and not moving in with your kids.

     2.   Pump iron: I’m not sure if that will make you brainier, but you might end up looking like Arnold Schwarzenegger, and be able to write a forgettable memoir. 

     3.    Seek out new skills: I have learned to pump gas which is much is easier than futzing around with iron.      

     4.  Meditation:  Hummmmm.  Okay, that’s done. 

      5.    Eat Like a Greek: That means fish, vegetables, fruit, nuts and beans. However, if none of those are available drink lots of Ouzo. Opa!

      6.    Spice it up: I think they mean cur cumin---not phone sex.

      7.    Stimulating conversation: “It’s raining outside” is not stimulating conversation.

There is a phenomenon known as “autobiographical memory.” A person who has this gift can remember everything from everyday of his life. Josh Billings said, “There are lots of people who mistake their imagination for their memory.” That sounds like more fun than remembering that on August 18, 1967, you took out the garbage at 7 p.m.

Liars have to have good memories, because unless they keep a liars journal, it’s easy to forget when someone says, “Sorry you missed the meeting. How’s your Aunt Lulu?” A liar should be able to whip out his journal and reply, “The lobotomy was a great success,” rather than saying, “Who’s Aunt Lulu?”

My friend, who was gone for the summer, returned home and said, ”I open the wrong drawers looking for stuff.” I told her, “I don’t have to leave for the summer to do that.”

Sometimes a short memory can save a relationship, but then again, a memory can last forever. That begs the question, “So what are you going to do with it?” I suggest it’s a good idea to keep the good ones and file the bad ones into your mental museum.  Remember that Mama’s pot roast smelled so good. Try to forget that it tasted like rope.

Of course, memory lapses are both normal and age related. Teenagers notoriously forget their homework, books and lunch. Children in grade school forget to tell you---until bedtime--- that it’s their turn to bring the cookies to class the next day.

When my husband and I were out-of-town, our son Josh had forgotten to tell us (or the baby sitter) that he had volunteered to bring the first-grade-class pet home for the weekend. Then they both forgot to tell us that the pet had escaped, and was lost somewhere in the bathroom. What kind of beastie was it? And, did we ever find it? I can’t remember. You might ask the new owner of the house, once she stops screaming. It’s been 18 years; you’d think the thing would have died by now.

Esther Blumenfeld (“Women and elephants never forget.” Dorothy Parker)

What's In A Name?

Author, Kahlil Gibran said, “The real test of good manners is to be able to put up with bad manners pleasantly.”

When I was a little girl, I was taught that doctors, teachers, priests and rabbis didn’t have first names, and all other adults were called Mr., Miss or Mrs. Sometimes I was instructed to call a close friend of the family, “Aunt” or “Uncle.” I remember being introduced to “Aunt Birdie,” who made delicious sugar cookies. If she wanted me to---for those cookies---I’d call her the Queen of England!”

My father, a rabbi, (which means teacher) was invited to lecture at a Catholic college. The woman who introduced him didn’t want to use his first name, so she said, “And now I have the pleasure of introducing Father Richter.” My Dad’s response was, “Biologically, Yes. Theologically, No.”

Except for Mr. Whipple, the guy who used to squeeze toilet paper for a living on TV, many famous people don’t have last names. For instance, in history there were Napoleon, and Alexander, The Great. Unless “The Great” was his last name, we all recognize him as the King of Macedon who was tutored by Aristotle, another eminent guy with no last name.

In modern times, we have Lady Gaga, (which I always thought would be a lovely name for a golden retriever), and “The Donald”---not the duck, but the man with the bad haircut who fires people.

Nowadays, everyone calls me by my first name, even the five-year-old boy down the street, and it doesn’t even make his mother flinch. The Southern pleasantries of “Yes, Ma’am,” and “No Sir,” have given way to “What ever.”

I must admit that I contributed to the no-first-name-phenomenon, because when we used to get fresh eggs delivered from a farm, I’d yell, “Mama, the egg lady is here.” Never did know her name, but she did have a red birthmark on her cheek. Dad told me that an angel kissed her when she was a baby. I didn’t have much respect for angels after that. To think of it, Raphael, Gabriel and Michael didn’t have last names either.

Nicknames are another way to eliminate last names. Good golly, neither Little Richard nor Miss Molly had last names. Fats Domino, the rhythm and blues musician was recognized by both his girth and his game piece name, and of course most people know who Dubya is.

One way to have your last name recognized by others is to be named, Bright, Addison, Hansen, Crohn or Alzheimer. Diseases get lots of respect.

Esther Blumenfeld (“I call everyone ‘Darling’ because I can’t remember their names.”) Zsa Zsa Gabor.

Watch Out For The Trombone

Samuel Taylor Coleridge wrote, “Swans sing before they die---t’were no bad thing did certain persons die before they sing.”

The world is filled with unsuccessful singing careers, but many of those vocalists, with hope in their hearts and unrealistic expectations, continue to pollute the air with unpleasant sounds.

Two weeks ago, I attended a big band concert with my two best friends. The band was most entertaining, and the talented soloists made my heart sing. I enjoyed the evening immensely, until the bandleader announced that we were in for a big surprise. Ever since Pearl Harbor, I don’t like surprises. This one was a big man, who walked onto the stage without bending his knees—kind of like a mini-march. He stood in front of one of the trombonists, jerked his shoulders from side to side, snapped his fingers, and put the microphone into his mouth. Either he was going to swallow the thing, or sing.

I had driven several miles, paid good money to listen to a big band. Putting Herman Munster into the mix was like sticking a maraschino cherry into a dry martini. As he began to sing, the guys in the band were grooving and didn’t seem to pay much attention to the warbler. It would have been nice if this singer had at least pretended to keep up with them.

His performance reminded me of when George Burns said, “I love to sing, and I love to drink scotch. Most people would rather hear me drink scotch.” When the vocalist belted out “It’s almost like being in love,” he should have sung,” It’s almost like being alive.”

During one song, I think the trombonist stabbed him in the rear, but instead of bleeding, he pointed to the sky and hit a high note. The man had no rapport with the audience. As a matter of fact, he was so enamored with his own performance that he forgot there was an audience. My thoughts began to wander, but he got my attention when he snapped his fingers and shouted, “Come on Band!” I don’t know why he yelled at them because by this time they seemed to be doing just fine without him.

It was time for intermission. One of my friends (the kind one) suggested, “Maybe the singer is suffering from stage fright.” I replied, “Sometimes an entertainer has stage fright, but this is the first time I’ve seen an entire audience afraid that the guy is coming back out to sing.”

I read somewhere that music can make chickens lay more eggs, but I know chickens, and this character couldn’t even imitate a good cock-a-doodle-doo. After the break, the band returned and Herman Munster staggered in behind them. He had one more offering for the audience. He began to sing, “What a day this has been”---as if I didn’t know by now. He then beat his chest with both fists when he belted out—“A bell is ringing for me!” Scattered applause accompanied him off the stage. “Ask not for whom the bell tolls”---and all that stuff.

To paraphrase Thomas Beecham, “Some people don’t appreciate music, but love the noise it makes.”

Esther Blumenfeld (“Listen Edith, I know you’re singing, you know you’re singing, but the neighbors may think I’m torturing you.”) Archie Bunker