SAY WHAT?

SAY WHAT?

The day my son said to me, “Mom, no one uses that word anymore,” and I replied, “I just did!was the day I decided that the art of conversation has gone the way of callused thumbs.

Tapping a text message requires no colorful language, nuance and certainly no eye contact— except with your cell phone. So, before all is lost, here are some helpful hints for the conversationally challenged:

 It takes more than one person to have a conversation, and
 It helps if one has something worthwhile to say.  “I just flossed my teeth” is not stimulating chitchat.
Some people drone on and on  because they find the sound of their own voice extremely entertaining. A drone is a pilotless missile.
Silence does not always require sound. Pregnant pause does not necessarily require delivery.

It seems as if everyone likes to talk, but few people listen. Maybe it’s because if you are the only one speaking, you don’t have to hear what the other person wants to say. Sometimes that can be a lifesaver, but on the other hand, listening can be illuminating.

I often go to restaurants by myself, and have decided that eavesdropping is okay if the speakers at the next table have turned up their volume. However, out of compassion, I did tune out one couple after the woman exclaimed, “It’s not the egg roll Harold, it’s out whole life!” Not sure I wanted to hear the rest of that.

Some people talk very fast. They are from New York. The rest of the world is not. Some people mumble. That is a great cover for being a teenager, not knowing the answer to a question or having a mouthful of pasta.

My last two hints for the conversationally challenged are:

5. Do not say, “Get to the point,” because you can’t assume that there is one.
6. Don’t start a conversation with, “How are you?” You just might find out.

Esther Blumenfeld (say what?)

BOO! A CAUTIONARY TALE

When I was  a teenager, the annual Halloween party was held in the spooky basement at my home.  We ate lots of scary food I had purchased at the grocery store. My Mom wasn’t that much into snack food unless you wanted Sauerbraten for Halloween. Then we bobbed for apples, and later roamed the neighborhood for treats—not many tricks but lots of treats. Then everyone came back to the house to find out which team had won first prize in our yearly  scavenger hunt. And then, every year,  we would sing, “HAPPY BIRTHDAY” to my Dad, because it was his birthday. He wasn’t invited to the party, but he always enjoyed the song.

My costume was always home-made and simple. I am still into simple, and it’s easy to pick out my costume among the crowd at a Halloween party. When asked, “Who is that masked woman?” My answer usually is, “I am the Masked Stranger.” Yes, I am the “Lone Masked Stranger,” wearing a mask which has obviously slipped from my eyes to cover my nose and mouth. A crowd of people in a small area still makes me want to avoid a Covid hangover in the next few days, and I don’t care if I’m the only one who hasn’t gotten sick.

Recently, a group of women went to a friend’s house to play Bridge. Happily I wasn’t invited because: 1. I did not know the hostess. 2. I don’t play Bridge and 3. It hurt’s my hand to hold a fan of cards.

 It turns out that the hostess’s husband had Covid, and although he wasn’t in the vicinity, his germs obviously joined the game, and, unfortunately six of the guests, including the hostess,
got the prize.  Sadly they had gone a bridge too far.

Happily this tale does have a happy ending, because, as far as I know, everyone recuperated.  However, the next time, when you are in a crowd, and see a lone woman wearing a mask over her nose and mouth…just greet  me  with a hearty…”HI, HO, SILVER!”

Esther Blumenfeld

TRUTH, BEAUTY AND THE YUCK FACTOR

When I was in 4th grade, the art teacher instructed us to draw a dragon. It didn’t take me a long time to finish the assignment, so I handed it in, took a book out of my desk and proceeded to read until the school bell rang. As I gathered my supplies, the teacher asked me to stay. I stood at her desk. She held up my dragon and said, “This is the worst piece of art I have ever seen.” She was probably right, but I thought it was beautiful.

Art is a value judgment. As a matter of fact, good art is not always aesthetically appealing to viewers. Obviously, mine was neither good nor appealing. However, I wonder what my art teacher would have thought of Tracey Emin’s exhibit,
My Bed (1998).  It was the actual messy bed where she slept and engaged in various activities that involved the secretion of body fluids. The bloody and semen soiled bed was exhibited in the Tate Gallery in 1999, won a prize, and was later purchased for a great deal of money. It brought fame and fortune to Emin, but I don’t know if she used the money to buy new sheets. A work of art exists in the mind of the creator, but sometimes it is okay to ask, “What in the world were you thinking?”

I have been privileged to befriend several artists over the years, and recognize that they see the world with unique vision---different from the rest of us. Artists see lights and shadows, color and forms, shapes, textures, line patterns and various materials which, combined with a wide range of ideas and feeling, contributes to the overall meaning of their finished work. I have visited art galleries all over the world, and maybe because I don’t have the gift, I have a keen appreciation of the remarkable talent of truly great artists, whose work can bring tears to my eyes. Sometimes, I enjoy just sitting on a bench admiring an inspired creation.

Recently, a friend invited me to join her to view a special museum exhibit of “Modern Work.”  When I entered the first gallery, I saw some scaffolding with paint cans on top, and asked the attendant, “Are you remodeling this gallery?”
“No,” he replied. “That’s a work of art, but you can walk under it.” “Is the hole in the wall and the plaster on the floor part of his exhibit?” I asked. “No,” replied the attendant, “That’s the work of a different artist.” I couldn’t say, “My kindergartener could do better than that,” but I could have said, “ A demolition crew-----!

The next artist gave us 6 framed bottle caps accompanied by 6 matching framed bottle openers. He didn’t paint them. He framed them. I’m not sure his was a quest for knowledge as much as a quenching of thirst, and I got the message that he prefers imported beer. I don’t think that bottle caps and openers will stand the test of time, but then famous works are also often misunderstood.

Martin Kippenberger’s $1.1 million “When it Starts Dripping from the Ceiling” in the Ostwall Museum in Germany was damaged when a cleaning woman scrubbed away a painted rain puddle beneath a rubber trough placed under a stacked tower of wooden slats. Obviously, his work made an impression on her.
The final exhibit in my tour of the “Modern Works” was indeed bizarre. Some people say that “Art is in the eye of the beholder,” but not in this case. Five plaster casts of a man’s male organ were placed on five books. I have heard of thumbing your way through the pages, but not in this case.  I don’t know if the artist used his own anatomy for the plaster casts, but if he did, I do know--- he wasn’t Jewish!

Esther Blumenfeld (My dragon wasn’t that bad after all)

AND THEN THERE ARE CATS

I was recently invited to a party where the host’s little French bulldog greeted me at the door with a few enthusiastic yips and the wagging of her little behind.  Although throughout the evening, she barked at some other guests, it was the last time she vocalized at me. Rather, she spent much of the evening sitting near me on the sofa, or on my feet under the dining room table. For some unfathomable reason, I seem to have a calming effect on animals. I don’t soak my feet in beef bullion, nor do I wear chicken liver eau de cologne.

Another friend has an old, part-chow-part-imagination, dog with a ferocious growl, but she too, only wags her tail when she sees me, and invariably sits near me throughout the evening.

When I hike in the mountains, the deer glance my way, and then continue to nibble on plants while I sing to them. I can get close enough to touch them, should I so choose, but I must admit that the music lovers tend to distance themselves.

One day a Road Runner (bird) ran over my foot on his way to a lizard lunch, but he wasn’t afraid of me. Bull feathers! He didn’t even know I was there--- my Rodney Dangerfield moment.  My favorite bird encounter was with the little “What’s It”, who sat in a tree and chirped without pause. When he spied me, he flew to a branch close to my head and kept right on singing. I finally walked away when he began to sound too much like my teakettle.

Cats, of course, either accept you, or they don’t. It took awhile for my son’s cat, Radar to welcome me into the family. When I first met him, he ran behind the sofa and peeked out from time to time---giving me the once over. Soon, he discovered my black coat, which I had tossed on a chair, and it became both his property and cat hair depository.

The first time I was left alone with that cat, he looked at me, ran around the apartment, climbed and jumped on everything he wasn’t supposed to, and finally took a running leap, skid across the dining room table, tumbled off, taking the tablecloth with him. He untangled himself and meowed, “Now, I guess you know who’s boss around here,” as he rubbed against my leg.

I didn’t tell anyone about his antics, because I was afraid he’d take out a contract on my life. That’s one big cat! We’ve been friends ever since.  Occasionally, he will sniff my hair to check out if I washed it with catnip. I guess it’s a guy thing.

Esther Blumenfeld (“A cat always leaves a mark upon a friend”) Spanish proverb.

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)