BETWEEN THE LINES

My first car was an exceedingly ugly Plymouth with no power steering. In order to parallel park that sucker, I’d have to get out of the car, bend down and manually shove the tires to the curb. Not really, but the pull forward, back it up, tote that wheel, lift that barge action wore me out. Once parked, I never wanted to move it again. Unfortunately, I lived in Chicago, and we had to move our cars to the other side of the street every other day.

Power steering makes maneuvering an automobile much easier, but parking a car well is still an art form that few people have mastered. For instance, visualize this: A parking lot is almost empty. A Porsche and a BMW are parked at the far end of the lot with a space between them. What happens next? If it’s my choice, I will fill in the gap between those two expensive cars because:

If that space was good enough for two rich people, the spot in the middle is perfect for me.

At least one of those cars will shade my car and protect it from leaf blowers.

Expensive cars will be careful backing out.

A thief will prefer a BMW or Porsche to my 2004 Saturn, which General Motors doesn’t even make anymore (and, yes, I am very angry with them, but that’s another story.)

People who drive expensive cars won’t give my car a bump in order to make the parking space bigger. The only time drivers of expensive cars park next to me is at the grocery store, because they want to use my car as a shield against run away grocery carts.

Where you park your car matters! Even on a lunch break; funeral directors know not to park a hearse in front of a restaurant. I would rather walk a mile than give my car to a parking attendant. Usually, these attendants are 12 years old, and their job experience involves driving bumper cars at the county fair. On the rare occasions that I have turned my car over to one of these characters, they invariably lose my car. I guess the little old Saturn doesn’t leave the impression that I am a big tipper.

I don’t like parking next to trucks. First of all, when I am backing out, it’s difficult to see past their long rear ends, and often those drivers are scratchers, and don’t seem to mind leaving a little ding on the side of my car as a souvenir of our time together. Parking next to a wall or tree is good, unless you hit the wall or the tree attracts prune-eating birds.

Once you have parked your vehicle, it helps to make a mental note of where you leave it---“My car is parked in the 13th row, 25 spaces down from the school bus.” Of course, if you don’t remember if that was east or west of the school bus (which has already left) you can wander about looking miserable until eventually pushing the “someone is breaking into my car” panic button on your key chain. Everyone will know you have lost your car, and no one will call the police.

My mother used to say, “If you don’t have it in your head, you have to have it in your feet.”

Esther Blumenfeld (why do all cars look alike?)

THE PLEASURE OF YOUR PRESENTS

When I was nine-years-old, there wasn’t anything I wanted more than a bicycle. My tenth birthday was in a week, and everyday, my Mother happily told me that she and Dad had saved up and gotten me a very special present. I was so excited because I knew that finally I would get my shiny red bicycle.

On the morning of my birthday, I ran downstairs and on the breakfast table laid an enormous, brightly wrapped box. My Mother and Father were beaming, and urged me to open it. So, I unwrapped my bigger-than-I-was World Book Of Knowledge. How was I going to ride that thing down the street?

My parents were so excited and happy with the gift, that I enthusiastically thanked them, excused myself (telling them I wanted to start reading it right away) lugged the albatross book to my room, and immediately shoved it under the bed. The following year I got my blue bicycle.

I enjoy shopping for gifts, and make it a rule never to give someone a present that I wouldn’t enjoy receiving myself. That’s why a few of the gifts I have purchased never got to the intended recipient.  But I digress----

December is a heavy-duty gift-giving season. Some people give homemade bread, cookies, cakes, parsley. Yes, even parsley. I was told that two little girls found out that Aunt Bonnie liked parsley. They collected the garnish off of several dinner plates, put the green stuff into an envelope and mailed it to Aunt Bonnie, “With lots of love.”

Of course, December is a make or break opportunity for many merchants. However, it’s almost a new year, and stores are still offering big discounts. Owners are still touting their merchandise. Perhaps it would serve us well to take stock and separate the sublime from the ridiculous.

Some of the advertisements in my local newspaper have gone way overboard. “Come in and receive a free gift.” Aren’t all gifts free? Buyer, beware! I can understand why a store would urge you to buy an “adorable wallet”. After all, you do need a place to put your adorable credit cards, and that extremely cute money that they covet.

However, on the same page were “Discounted Holiday hearing aids.” You could get those just in time so you wouldn’t miss Aunt Shirley’s complaints about her gastritis at Holiday dinner. There were several other ads on that page. There was one for a “Decorative bone for Fido,” and a dentist urged, ”Stop tooth pain for the Holiday.” My favorite advertisement was one that promised, “Direct Cremation---$650 Complete.” Now there’s a gift, for that special someone, who has absolutely--- everything.

Esther Blumenfeld (Gift me the pleasure of your company)

AND WHOSE LITTLE SUPPOSITION ARE YOU?

I recently received a postcard with the photo of a baby girl wrapped in a bath towel. The parents had written, “Can’t wait for you to meet our little Daphne.
Love, Minnie and Buck.” They had made the assumption that, even though I didn’t know them, I’d send a gift to little Daphne, and that I wouldn’t notice the misspelling of my name. I finally figured out that Minnie and Buck are the progeny of people I haven’t seen in 40 years.

Wethern’s Law states that, “Assumption is the mother of all screw-ups.” I am convinced that not being a mind reader causes most arguments in relationships.
“You should have known,” makes the assumption that your partner knows what you are thinking, so there’s no reason to clue him in.

Another common assumption is that when someone is silent, he may not be saying anything because he’s thinking. Few people consider that he may just be stupid. And what about the “dumb blonde” rap? The blonde bombshell, Jane Mansfield had a genius IQ level of 163, spoke 5 languages and was a classically trained pianist and violinist.

We all make assumptions such as; (a) People will be on time for appointments. (b) The refrigerator will be cold when we open the door. (c) The medicine the doctor prescribes will cure us immediately.

My friend, Judy went to the drugstore to pick up a prescription. She said, “I am picking up a prescription for Judy Cook.” The pharmacist said, “There is no such prescription on record.” She replied, “Well, maybe it was made under my husband’s name, Don Cook.” “No such prescription,” said the pharmacist. “I don’t understand,” said Judy. “The veterinarian said she’d call in a prescription for my dog, Xerxes.” “Oh,” replied the pharmacist. “I have a prescription for Xerxes Cook.” I assume that Judy had to pay for the prescription, but then again, maybe Xerxes does have a charge card.

One of the worst assumptions is if a person supposes that documented facts can change another person’s opinion.  After all, we are all experts on our own opinions. Validity is based on fact. Faith validity is based on “I believe this is true, so consequently it is.” I recommend that it is useless to muddle up already befuddled thinking with facts.

Years ago, when my family took a car trip through the South, we ate at a small restaurant in Alabama. As we were leaving, the waitress said, “Y’all come back now. You hear!” Mom turned around and went back. She assumed the waitress had meant for her to “Come back.” “So what do you want?” said Mother. “Nothing,” replied the waitress. “So why did you ask me to come back?” said Mother. “I didn’t.” said the waitress. “Yes, you did,” said my Mother. “Well, Honey, I didn’t mean right now,” said the waitress. “So, why did you want me to come back?” said Mother. “I didn’t,” said the waitress, and she left in a huff.

As with most assumptions, I don’t think my Mother ever understood what that encounter was all about. She did have eyes in back of her head, but she wasn’t a mind reader.

Esther Blumenfeld (I assume my flight will be on time---or not.)

LET'S TALK

The art of conversation has become a technological hodgepodge of texting, twittering and tweets that can all be organized with a hash tag. No eye contact is required. It’s communicating with your mouth shut starting with e-mails. Looking at the bright side, this is technologies revenge on those who never wrote a letter home. For people who are really into developing their thumbs, there is even a U.S. National Texting Competition.

For those of us who enjoy talking, there are still telephones that, for the time being, still include this capability. However, I recently found out that a person has to be very careful when actually speaking aloud.

A few weeks ago, I was chatting on my (land line GASP!) telephone with a friend.
Suddenly, her voice sounded as if she had her head in a bucket. I probably should have asked her if she was washing her floor, but instead, I said, “I can’t believe your brother-in-law has stayed with you for a month. Why don’t you tell him to go home?” After a moment of silence, my friend said, “Because you just did.” Unbeknownst to me, she had switched to speakerphone to clean up his spilled Cheerios. Speakerphone. Whoever came up with that miserable invention? It is just a distant relative to the old fashioned party line which was much more fun anyway.

When I was a kid, we shared a phone line with a bunch of other people, and I could listen in on all of their conversations. When mother said, “Get off the phone,” it didn’t necessarily mean I was talking to anyone, but it honed my listening skills.

Call waiting is another annoying invention. The same person, who complains about being put on hold while waiting for a computer geek to answer, doesn’t hesitate to put me on hold when receiving another call. Admittedly, the new caller might be more interesting than I am, but when put on “Hold” I hang up.

And, what’s up with the friend who calls me on her cell phone to tell me that she can’t talk because she’s out of range and then everything goes silent. Why did she call me?

Smart computer innovators have now made it possible to see the person you are talking to on your computer screen. That is a nice feature, if you haven’t just stepped out of the shower.  One day, my son called and said, “Hey, Mom, what are you doing?” I held up the toilet brush and replied, “Guess!”

Esther Blumenfeld (call me sometime)

NOT A WHOLE LOT OF SOWING GOING ON

Most children have a favorite book. Mine was The Secret Garden by Frances Hodgson Burnett. What enchanted me was the beautiful garden hidden inside a stone wall. It reminded me of the Garden of Eden--- without the snake or naked people.

I romanticized the idea of gardening, not realizing that it involves sore muscles and dirt under the fingernails. Some people have a gift for enhancing nature. I can look at a plant and it will wilt. My mother planted a garden of miniature vegetables, but they weren’t supposed to be that way. Maybe it’s genetic---me not the vegetables. I have a friend, who has such a green thumb, that she told me, “I couldn’t get to the tomatoes. It was like a jungle out there.”

When my husband and I moved into our first home in Atlanta, we discovered that the previous owners were horticulturists. They had labeled all of the plants and trees in Latin and English, and our 4-year-old son ran through the yard, filled his little bucket with the labels, and presented them to us as a housewarming gift.

I was not totally ignorant. I knew the difference between a dogwood and a pine, and recognized magnolias. However, some of the plants closer to the ground were puzzlement. I called in a professional gardener to help with my education, but first I pulled some weeds around a beautiful plant with shiny leaves. When the man arrived, he looked at me and said, “Lady, do you feel okay?” “Yes,” I replied. “Why do you ask?” “Well,” he said. “Maybe you should go inside and take a Benadryl. You’ve been nurturing a patch of poison ivy.”

Now that I live in the desert Southwest, I have learned that planting a garden involves a jackhammer to break up caliche (sedimentary rock). Journalist, Clay Thompson says, “God put this hard deposit of calcium carbonate under the surface of arid soils to keep overly ambitious do-it-yourself types from digging post holes when they should be indoors out of the sun.”

My Secret Garden now consists of strange plants and trees that have thorns to keep me from picking their flowers and fruits.  And what of that little boy who pulled the labels off of those trees and plants in Atlanta? Well, I never asked him what he did with his little bucket, but years later he wrote a thesis at the University of Wisconsin. It was titled, “The Development of Vegetation Theory in the United States.” I guess that those Latin and English labels came in handy after all.

Esther Blumenfeld (“A weed is a flower in disguise”--- James Russell Lowell)