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) 

PUT A CORK IN IT

Years ago I sailed on the Rhone River through the heart of Burgundy and Provence. I could regale you with stories about sumptuous cuisine, world-class art, breath-taking scenery and legendary history--- but I won’t. Because, after a week of gazing, swirling, sniffing, sipping and surreptitiously guzzling French wines, I will share with you some wine tasting tips I picked up along the way.

First of all, when pouring a glass of wine, you fill the goblet about one-third full, so when swirling and tilting the liquid, you won’t dump the elixir into your lap. This is a no-no, especially if the wine costs $80 a bottle. But I need to back up.

There is a term called, “stemware awareness.” When tasting wine, it is much more desirable to use a tulip shaped glass, rather than a paper cup. After pouring the wine, the first thing to do is to gaze adoringly at the wine to study its color. It is preferable to hold a white sheet of paper behind it and tilt the glass a little. If you haven’t gotten out of bed yet, you could use your bed sheet. If the wine is brackish brown or slimy green, don’t go to the next step.

It is advised that you hold your glass by the stem, because if you hold it by the bowl, your hand will warm the wine. I don’t understand this rule because I never hold my wine long enough to let it get warm.

Okay, so now you have studied the color of your wine, it is time to start swirling it in the glass. The swirling lets oxygen penetrate the wine and releases its vapors. This is good, because the next step is to stick your nose into the glass. But before you start sniffing, you need to look at the glass to study the little streaks of wine that appear on the inside of the glass. They appear because of the swirling and are called “legs.” It is enjoyable to watch them run back into the wine. Don’t worry if your legs are wrinkly. Now, you can smell your wine.

The smelling part is rather tricky. There is a difference between a “first nose” and a “second nose.” This does not involve plastic surgery, but the smell will change the second time you stick your nose into your glass. It is considered bad form to stick your nose into your neighbor’s glass.

The sniffing is rather arbitrary, because when asked people don’t smell the same fragrances. One man in our group said the wine smelled like fruit loops, and another man smelled garlic, which I suspect emanated from his breath and not his glass.

Now that you have studied the color, swirled the wine, examined the legs and stuck your nose into the glass, it is time to take a sip of your wine. However, before you swallow, it is advised to let the wine linger a bit in the mouth. If you are a champion wine taster, you can tighten your mouth and breathe in over the wine, and send the aroma back into the nasal cavity. Of course if you aren’t a champ, this could also send the wine down into your windpipe and you will die.
Finally, it’s time to say “A votre sante!” and savor the wine. At this point, purists spit it out, pour another glass from a different bottle and start all over again.

Are they nuts!

Esther Blumenfeld (If Shiraz smells like leather can you serve it to a vegan?)

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)

STUCK ON YOU AND EVERYTHING ELSE

Someone in Guangdong China must be quite a practical joker!

I purchased a blouse, brought it home, and discovered an anti-shop-lifting device hanging from the sleeve. I knew that the only way to remove the “gator tag” was to either cut off the sleeve or return to the store. The magnetic strips on the tag were supposed to set off alarms, but obviously, this time, the electronic surveillance thingemajig hadn’t worked. It was made in Guangdong.

When I approached the saleslady, she removed the tag, and accusingly said, “How come the alarm didn’t go off when you left the store?” “Beats me,” I responded. “Maybe you should have your exit door removed.”

Electronic article surveillance was established in 1998, but it is a benign annoyance compared to those little plastic wire price tags that are attached to
most articles that can be clamped, hooked or bolted. They are fastened with an “Attacher Tagging Gun,” which is another argument for gun control. Most of the time, I end up cutting off only half of the tag, and then the other end of the plastic barb hides somewhere in an article of clothing, only to emerge, and then prick me at a most inopportune time, in a most unreachable part of my anatomy.

However, most aggravating of all, are the brand stickers on my fruits and vegetables. These little fellows contain the PLU (price look up) codes for the convenience of store clerks. This helps them so they won’t have to distinguish between red and green apples, and deciphers how the fruit was grown.

This technology was developed by an affiliate of the Produce Marketing Association. So, why, with all of this fancy numbering and sticking, didn’t any of those smart people figure out a way to remove the infuriating stickers from my tomatoes? I can vouch for the fact that they aren’t edible. When I inquired about sticker removal, it was suggested that I soak my fruit in warm water. I don’t even do that with my socks! The upside is that, if I can remove them, I can make a fashion statement by wearing banana stickers as tattoos.

My biggest gripe is the gluing of price tags on books. I love books and do not want anything adhered to them other than my opinion. And, it was suggested that I use lighter fluid to remove those sticky tags off the bottom of plastic cups. Common! Lighter fluid?

Esther Blumenfeld (I give up. The apple wasn’t so good, but the price tag was delicious)

LIKE THIS IS LIKE WHAT IT'S LIKE

A few weeks ago, I was listening to an award-winning interviewer on NPR (National Public Radio) and she used the expression, “My bad.” The next morning, once again, those two words showed up in the newspaper comic strip, Zits. “My bad,” it seems, is the new, ”I’m sorry.”

In 1887, Thomas Hardy wrote, in The Mayor of Casterbridge, “The universe likes nothing better than change.” I’d venture a guess that most teenagers haven’t read, The Mayor of Casterbridge, but they certainly like change---especially when it involves the English language. We used to call it “slang,” but now I think it is a linguistic revolution brought about by modern technology. Kids are better with computers than most adults, and have finally found a way to communicate without “POS” (parents over shoulder).

Some people will think that this creativity is “sick” (awesome, cool, or surprising), but it just leaves me “SMH” (shaking my head). My 15-year-old friend down the block would say, “Don’t get ‘salty’ (bad attitude) on me, while telling me that my new shoes are “ill” (great, cool). Recently, I asked her, “How is your new teacher?” And she replied, “He’s so fly.” That is good. But she had to cut our conversation short, because she wasn’t wearing a sweater, and the weather had gotten “dumb” (very) cold. She also said, “I have to go do my homework, so I won’t be put under ‘house arrest’ (grounded).

I don’t want to be “Old Testament” (old school) about all of this, nor do I want to “Nancy Drew” (over-analyze) it, but sometimes it’s “OBVI” (obvious) that I’m a bit “Jell-y” (jealous) when I try to communicate with kids, and I find that my efforts are on “Epic Fail” (task meant to be easy but isn’t).

Last night was “Flop” (didn’t work out). I was supposed to go to dinner with a friend, but she “flopped” on me. She’s such a “flop!” Then I got invited to a “Kickback” (a small party). Everyone was “uberklempt ” (excited) about the pizza, but the delivery was a “Big Fail Mary” (did not go as planned). The order was “jacked up” (messed up), and everyone thought that anchovies with pineapple tasted “rank” (gross).

Luckily, I had brought my camera, and had the “brillaz” (brilliant) idea to take a picture of the group. Unfortunately, it was a “fail” (failure) because the pizza delivery guy got in the way and caused a “photobomb” (ruined the picture).

Maybe because I exposed their secret language, teens will think I’m a “Hater” (assume I am ruining their lives on purpose). If they believe that, they are “pwned” (pronounced owned, and means, someone has proven you wrong). Because, by the time you read this article, I have already become a “n00b” (someone who doesn’t have knowledge of words for teens that are popular this week). For you purists, “n00b” is spelled correctly.

So read it and weep, or LOL (laugh out loud).

Esther Blumenfeld (my spell check just had a nervous breakdown)