Snakes Alive

A few weeks ago, my eight-year-old neighbor brought over her yellow corn snake for me to admire. “You’re the only grown-up I know who like snakes,” she said, as, in awe, I gently petted the beautiful creature that she had slung around her neck.

Just as there is a difference between a tabby and a cougar, there’s a difference between a corn snake and a rattler, and I know to keep my distance from the latter. In Tucson, the fire department will send a brave fire fighter to catch a snake when it ventures into a residential neighborhood, and then he releases it far away into the desert. So, when I saw a large diamond back rattlesnake scooting across my back yard, I called the fire department. The dispatcher promised that the snake catcher would show up in 15 minutes, but he had one call ahead of mine. I opened my back door and yelled, “Stay!” at my reptile intruder.

Forty-five minutes later, a twelve-year-old dressed in fireman’s garb arrived with oversized gloves, long tongs and a big wooden box. Naturally, by now, my snake was long gone. The fireman poked at several bushes and apologized saying, “I caught 2 snakes before getting here, but couldn’t locate the last rattler either.” I replied, “That was probably the reptile with a cell phone, who called my snake to warn him that you were coming.”

After he left, I phoned my neighbor who has a dog the size of a peanut, and warned her that she should probably find a better place than her backyard for that little thing to lift his leg.

Dusk had arrived and a gentle rain began to wash over the walk in my front yard. I glanced down and saw a big snake peeping back at me. This time I had a closer view. I realized he was not a rattlesnake after all---just a Mexican King Snake. He stuck out his tongue, with a “fooled you!” wiggle before he disappeared into the shrubbery.

So, here’s the difference between probability and possibility.  It is probable that it was the same snake. It is possible that the first snake had a twin brother.  It is a certainty that I was sober.

Esther Blumenfeld (so many snakes and not an apple in the house)

A Mute Point

When learning English, newcomers to the U.S. are advised to watch American television to hone their language skills. Of course, this includes all those commercials that pop up during television programs. I don’t know how these tenderfoots can tell the difference between some of the inane programming and the intrusive sales pitches, because sometimes they run together, and it must prove extremely confusing. 

Recently, while watching the muted marketing on my set, I realized that not only are commercials shorter than they used to be, but one sales pitch blends right into another, which may or may not be related to the previous product. And they run into each other more quickly than before. Airtime is expensive, so obviously companies have decided to cram as many commercials as they can into as short a time frame as possible. Time is money! 

Consequently, I de-muted (Is there such a word?) bringing the sound back, and began listening to the messages as they ran together.  I also grabbed a magnifying glass and tried to read some of the small print disclaimers written at the bottom of my screen. So, without naming the companies, here are some actual commercials that bump into each other. Consider yourself a newcomer to the English language:

  “If you develop an allergic reaction to this medication, stop taking it. Our product helps with stretch marks--- toaster strudel---pizza rolls--- diarrhea--- constipation. For a body in motion. What do you really want from your toilet paper? We’re America’s Natural Gas Company. Destroys odor on contact. This product will transport you to Hair Color Heaven. This is a dating service where God makes the choice. Don’t take this medication if you are about to become pregnant. Lipstick will last for 10 hours. Side effects dry mouth”.

 I especially like the life insurances that are sold to old folks for only a few pennies a day. They come with a lifetime warranty.

Esther Blumenfeld (This statement has not been approved by the FDA)

Summertime And The Living Is Hot

There is nothing as sweet as the sound of rain on the roof after 80 consecutive days of dry, summer, desert heat.  Looking out of my window in the middle of the night, I dub the welcoming drops as “Angel Sweat,” as the large rocks in my yard begin to glisten in the light of the full moon. Monsoon Season has begun in Arizona. Arroyos will fill with water, and a few fools, who ignore the warnings, will have to be rescued or drown in the desert. 

Visitors to my neck of the woods invariably ask, “Doesn’t it get hot here in the summer?” I am so tempted to respond, “Of course it gets hot. It’s the desert stupid,” but I don’t.  Instead I say, “Yes, it’s unbearable. I think you should move to Florida.” I suffer from the same malady that many people do after moving here. We want to pull up the drawbridge and keep the beautiful mountains and desert all to ourselves. Winter in Arizona is a delicious season, but summer is close behind, and it arrives every year without fail. I call it my “Blizzard Season,” because I know when to venture out and when to hunker down, but I don’t have to shovel it. 

I, for one, enjoy summer in the desert. The evenings cool down, and I don’t mind getting up before 5 a.m. in order to hike my 2 miles in the mountains. By 7:30 it is quite hot, but I have enjoyed the birds, the deer, lizards and other creatures that venture out early in the morning. I have also quaffed a bottle of water. One day, after the rainfall, I found a puddle in the middle of a sandy path. In it, tiny tadpoles were paddling about. Yes, the desert is a wondrous and extremely weird place. By 1 p.m. I have already been up for 8 hours and find that a short siesta is a most civilized activity. 

After it rains, the air is redolent with the smell of the creosote bush, a smell that no one can describe. Whenever you ask old-timers about creosote, the answer is: “They put it on railroad ties.” I assume they are talking about something extracted from the bushes---not the bushes themselves, because a bunch of bushes on the tracks would probably slow down our already sluggish trains. I have never put my head on a railroad track to smell the creosote. The woodsy smell is pungent, but not worth losing my head over. So, rain brings out the “heavenly essence of the desert.” Forgot to mention that the Spanish word for creosote is hediondilla, which means “little stinker.” I just saw a streak of lightening over the mountains. Can the rain be far behind? 

Esther Blumenfeld (A desert rat and proud of it)

Must The Show Go On?

My friend, Jean enjoys avant-garde theatre and has dragged me to some rather strange productions. When she told me that she had tickets for a one-man show at a performance art studio, I agreed to join her, because I like her and figured how bad could one guy be? 

The studio was located near some railroad tracks, and the small building looked as if it had been well shaken for many years. As we stepped inside, we were greeted with a view of assorted paraphernalia hanging from the walls and ceiling, that I assumed a performing artist might need from time to time. There were ropes, musical instruments, bicycles, whips, swords, balloons, masks, clown costumes, and a collection of extremely large paper Mache figures, which looked as if they had fallen off a Mardi gras parade float. Everything was extremely dusty. 

Our seats were in the front row, because it was the only row, and I sat smack dab in the middle, facing a large, white enamel toilet that was plopped in the middle of the performance area. A recorded dirge began to play, but abruptly stopped, as the room became ablaze with light. The actor came forth, sat on the toilet and began to moan. At first I thought perhaps he was constipated, but then he began a conversation with an imaginary friend about his life. I wondered why he would be talking with a friend while sitting on the toilet. 

On occasion, as his conversation became more animated, he would stomp his feet sending a cloud of dust my way. Consequently, my eyes began to water, and tears began to run down my face. Seeing my reaction, he surmised that I was inordinately taken by his performance. When I blew my nose, he, too, began to cry. That actor sat on that toilet for one hour, extremely moved by his own acting skills while delivering his lines directly to me. All I wanted to do was to jump up, flush that damned thing and get rid of him. 

When the show mercifully ended, I tried to sneak out, but it was impossible, because the actor stood at the door gathering accolades. As I reached the blocked exit, he looked at me with a grateful smile. I blew my nose one more time, and blurted out, “Wow! That was really something,” as I escaped, gasping for air. 

On the way home, Jean told me that she and her husband were going to take dance lessons. I called her a few days later and asked, “How did the lessons turn out?” “Not so good,” she replied. “My husband suffers from motion sickness, and the dancing made him nauseous, so we had to get our money back.” To know her is to love her. 

Esther Blumenfeld (That’s show biz)

Do It The Write Way

There’s an old story about a man who approaches an artist and says, “I wish I had the talent to paint like you.” Then he approaches a musician and says, “I wish I had the gift to play like you. And, then, he approaches a writer and says, “If I only had the time-----.“ 

I wish I had a dollar for every time someone has said, “I have a book in me,” and for all those occasions I resisted replying, “Perhaps that’s a good place for it to stay.” 

When I taught writing classes, I often encouraged students to write family histories or get their original poetry bound.  No one should diminish the value of these projects for those individuals and for the people they love.  However, I take umbrage when they call themselves “published authors.” 

For once, I want to clarify what distinguishes a published author from a self-published author. A published author gets an advance of payment on royalties that are paid to the author by the publisher. The publisher absorbs all of the costs of publishing a book. This includes paying an editor, an illustrator (usually one of their choice), paying publication costs, distribution and (if you are lucky) a publicist. When a company publishes a book, the author does not pay the publisher. The publisher pays the author. If authors pay to get their books published, then they should call themselves “self-published.” There is an ethical and professional difference. Always ask, “Who published your book?” When the author starts coughing, be suspicious. 

Although most people can carry a tune, few would think that qualifies them a spot in the Metropolitan Opera. And, although everyone has the capacity to doodle on a piece of paper, few would expect their doodles to show up at the Louvre. However, an inordinate number of people think they have the ability to kick an author like Stephen King to the curb, because how hard can it be to write scary stuff? After all, who wouldn’t want to read about the family who got ptomaine poisoning from Aunt Emily’s meatloaf? 

Most professional writers will tell you that writing is hard work. My favorite book review for OH, LORD, I SOUND JUST LIKE MAMA was the one where the reviewer wrote, “Many people will think they could have written this book, but it takes a lot of work to make it look so easy.” 

I admit that book publishing is ever changing with new technologies. That’s okay. But, on the other hand, if you have lots of money and a matching ego, almost anyone can get published these days, and you don’t have to put up with rejection. For a hefty fee, you can hire people to produce your book. You can also pay people to distribute, advertise and even write computer reviews of your creation. It does help if you have a big empty garage, an extremely large family or many employees who are waiting for your book with baited breath as an inclusion in their holiday gift basket. Don’t get me wrong, there’s nothing dishonest about self-publishing, and a few people are successful going this route, but the successful ones are usually honest about the process that got them there. 

If you really want to brag that you are an author and don’t think you have the “time,” you can even hire someone to write your book for you, and no one ever has to know that you never developed an idea, lifted a pencil or tapped a computer key. Of course, if you tried this with a violin, the audience would catch on right away, because being a professional musician requires some talent. 

Esther Blumenfeld (practice, practice, practice)