WHAT TIME IS IT, ANYWAY?

Time stands still in Arizona.  Our clocks don’t fall back or spring forward. They just stay the same, which only makes sense to Arizonans and confuses the rest of the Country.  In the summer, when my telephone rings at 4 a.m., I know it’s a call from the East Coast.

However the three-hour time difference is a bonus when flying to New York City. People marvel that I can party until 1 a.m., but only I know that it’s just 10 p.m. back home. Of course the trip in reverse exacts nature’s revenge when I wake up at 3 a.m. after going to bed at 7 p.m.

Energy conservation is the rationale for daylight savings time, but when it’s 110 degrees in Arizona no one has any energy anyway, so we got an exemption. The desert does cool off at 9 p.m., and early morning is the time for hiking, biking and not complaining. Late sleepers just avoid getting out of bed until October, which gives new meaning to “killing time.”

It is true that the Navajo Nation does follow daylight savings, because it is easier to keep the whole reservation on one system, since their territory stretches across 4 States (Arizona, New Mexico, Colorado and Utah) and 3 out of 4 are good odds for not going completely loco.

The Hopi Reservation is totally surrounded by the Navajos, but they have joined Arizona in not enacting daylight savings time. My rationale for this decision is that perhaps an enterprising Hopi brave got a gross of digital clocks at a good price. How DO you change the time on those things anyway?

Sometimes religion makes people hesitate to fool around with time. “If God wanted us in an earlier time zone, God would have put us in an earlier time zone.” Surely, Moslems wouldn’t welcome having to fast later into the evening at Ramadan. The shopkeepers were already cranky in the late afternoon when I entered a marketplace in Israel. Their scowls weren’t very welcoming, which I thought wasn’t good for business, but I caught on when I heard in unison the sounds of stomach rumblings. No, another hour of fasting just wouldn’t do during Ramadan.

My Latino friends have a totally different concept of time. I learned early on that manana does not mean tomorrow. It really means, “just not today.”

Esther Blumenfeld (hasta luego)

WHOSE LITTLE GIRL ARE YOU?

When I reached my fourth birthday, my mother thought it would be safe to visit her parents for a few days and leave me with my absent-minded, scholarly father. As the train pulled away from the station, Father and I looked at each other and he said, “Ice cream?” I knew breakfast would be delicious.

After breakfast, we went to a department store. I had never seen an escalator before, and stood mesmerized at the bottom of the moving stairs, as I watched my father step on the escalator, ride to the top of the world and disappear. I promptly found the nearest sales lady and told her to look for a lost man with a worried look on his face. She found him.

When we returned home, he read me my favorite story; the fable of Medusa from Bulfinch’s Mythology. She was the creature with snakes in her hair that turned people to stone when they looked at her. Then Father suggested I go outside to play, since he needed to do some work in his study. On my way out, he told me that if I found a snake, I should not put it into my hair.

I ran around the yard, climbed the neighbor’s apple tree, killed several mosquitoes and swung on my wooden swing until I fell off and skinned my elbow. It started to rain, so I went inside and Father wrapped my arm with Mother’s best kitchen towel. Then I decided to give myself a haircut, so I could wear bangs on my forehead, but I ended up creating a bald spot. Father said it didn’t really look that bad and would make it much easier for outside knowledge to get in. “Have you learned anything?” he asked.  “Yes,” I answered, “No more haircuts.” He let me wear his fedora the rest of the day.

The morning Mother was due to return, I adjusted the kitchen towel, put on my best dress (backwards, because it looked so much better that way) and clamped Father’s hat snugly on my head. When we reached the station and I spied my mother disembarking the train, I ran down the platform shouting, “Mama, Mama, never leave us again.” Everyone within earshot glared at the monstrous woman who had abandoned her befuddled husband and her pitiful waif.

When we got home, Mother tossed the dishtowel into the trash and gingerly removed Father’s hat from my head. “What happened to your hair?” she gasped.
“A snake ate it,” I replied. “Don’t look at my head. It can turn you into stone.”

One more time, she gave me the “weird child” look. Who could blame her? Other little girls sported pigtails. I thought I wore snakes.

Esther Blumenfeld (acting normal)

ICONIC, IRONIC AND ALL THAT STUFF

Every state in The Union has symbols chosen as meaningful by their citizens. For instance, some state flowers have been honored for their beauty, fragrance, and forthcoming crops, such as the apple blossoms of Michigan or the peach blossoms of Delaware. People can pick bouquets of bluebonnets in Texas, sunflowers in Kansas or peonies in Indiana.

I live in Arizona where we honor the beautiful but impossible to reach white flower that blooms at the top of the 43-foot-tall-2000-pounds-full-of-water-covered-with-sharp-spines saguaro cactus. There are other beautiful flowers in Arizona, but characteristically those Arizonans who made the decision wanted something out of touch.

We also have a state fossil. It is not the Arizona State Legislature, but it is petrified wood, which is similar in makeup. The Arizona green tree frog is the state amphibian elected by school children in 1985. Kermit declined the honor, and the green tree frog (usually found in the mountains) won out over 3 toads. The children knew that if you kiss a frog, you might get a prince, but if you kiss a toad you’ll likely end up with warts. Those children are now registered voters.
Our state bird is the cactus wren, which has a white stripe behind each eye. It is the largest wren in the United States.

The Fossil State Legislature decided that Arizona should have an official firearm, and passed a bill declaring the Colt single-action Army revolver to be the state gun. Now that the Governor has signed this legislation, Arizona is the first state with a symbolic gun, so Sierra Club members are applying black eye makeup on cactus wrens. Utah is considering following suite. I don’t know why those clean-cut missionaries need a state gun, but when they ring your doorbell, it will give new meaning to the term, “Don’t shoot the messenger.”

Arizona’s official neckwear is the bola tie that is really not a tie, but a noose. The palo verde is the official tree. Palo verde means “green stick,” so Arizona has a green stick as it’s official tree. Arizona’s mammal is the ringtail, an animal no one has ever seen. It has 5 toes on each foot, equipped with sharp curved, non-retractile claws. Bigfoot was not available.

And finally, the state reptile is the Arizona ridge-nosed rattlesnake. I don’t know why they couldn’t have picked one with a regular nose, but this one is a coward who slithers away from people, emits weak venom, and has never had a reported human death on record. I’ll bet the state gun will do better than that!

Esther Blumenfeld (humming the official Arizona March Song)

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)

PUSH BACK

The definition for assertive is: “Having to show confidence and a forceful personality.” However in life, I sometimes have had to fake it. I have found that the older I get the more some people think that I am a push-over. Oh, have they got it wrong!

I do pick my battles carefully—I always did.  I try to listen and respect the opinions of others, and I do believe in problem solving  and  compromise, when possible. Also, I never shout at people giving them an excuse to yell back, because that’s being aggressive ( a whole other bag of worms.)

Once a year, I have an important examination of my eyes by a Retina Specialist.  He is in great demand thus the appointments have to be made a year in advance (unless a problem arises). Invariably, six months down the road, after I have made my appointment, I will receive a phone call that my appointment date has to be changed.  No problem!  And, YES! it happened again.
Consequently, I received a confirmation—-by computer, by text and by a phone call—of the date and time of my appointment. I answered them all. And, I printed out the computer information. I always print out important stuff (killing many trees.)

On the day of my appointment, I arrived first thing in the morning, and the receptionist informed me, “You don’t have an appointment in this office. The doctor is at his other office on the other side of town. I will have to re-schedule you.” I looked at her, and said, “No you won’t.  I’m not going anywhere, and I am keeping my appointment that you already re-scheduled once.”

She finally, looked up from her computer, gave me that, “You are a  Senile Old Broad look,” and slowly said, “But the doctor’s not here.” I gave her the print-out of my scheduled appointment at the present location,  and equally slowly said, “You changed my original appointment and gave me this one—at this location.This is a big practice. The mistake wasn’t mine.  Surely, there’s another specialist who can examine my eyes.” She said, “Well, Dr. So and So is in but he has a full schedule.” I replied, “Please, go tell him what happened, and ask him if he can work me in. I brought a good book and can wait all day.”

Morosely, she left her desk. After a few minutes she returned, and cheerfully chirped, “The Doctor will see you in 10 minutes.”  And he did! He was my doctor’s associate and gave me the whole enchilada exam.  All is well, and I made an appointment for next year, at the same time and at the same location, with my absentee doctor.  

When I left the office, the chagrinned receptionist looked 10 inches shorter than when I had arrived.

Sometimes, it pays to push back, and not take “No” for an answer.  However, if someone does say, “No,” I suggest that you politely say, “I understand that’s your answer. Now who can I talk to?”

Esther Blumenfeld