BITS AND PIECES

My mother-in law’s cooking motto was, “If you’re out of it—improvise!” I had always assumed that she meant a minor ingredient, until I became the mother of an infant son, who vocally encouraged family get-togethers at two o’clock every morning. Then “out of it” described every cabinet in my kitchen. So, when my husband, Warren called from the office and said, “My former professor is  coming for dinner. Don’t worry, I’ll pick up a meal on the way home.” I was okay with that. Then, he added, “ All you have to do is to make martinis. He is a martini connoisseur, and likes them straight up.”  

I had never made a martini in my life, but I remembered there was a bottle of gin somewhere in the hall closet. I also remembered that we had no vermouth or olives.  I unwrapped the one fancy martini glass we had received as a wedding gift and chilled it. Then I poured the bottle of gin into a pitcher filled with ice, and greeted our guest at the door with a cold, naked gin “martini.” After his third one, he proclaimed, “These are are the best martinis I have ever tasted.” After that, every time we saw him he’d say, “This woman really knows how to make martinis. To improvise means to produce or create something from whatever is available.

When my son, Josh joined a Comedy Improv group in college, he explained, “Improvisation is like building a house without the blue prints. You have to have walls, floors  and a roof, but sometimes you can’t get all of the pieces.”  I guess it’s like cooking without a recipe. In life, all of us improvise one time or another.

One of my favorite true stories involved a speech writer. One of his clients was the CEO of a large corporation. After writing speeches  for this man for a year, the speech writer asked for a salary raise.The CEO’s response was,”I’m not giving you a raise.  All you do is write my speeches. I could do that myself if I had the time.” A few weeks later, the CEO stood on a stage in a big auditorium prepared to address his employees. The speech was in a leather binder on the lectern. He opened the binder and saw a sheet of paper whereupon was written, “I quit! You are on your own.”

Jason Isbell, of the 400 Unit Band said it best, “It comes down to the difference between what you were planning to do and what life throws at you, and you have to end up doing. The one who knows how to improvise is the one who comes out ahead.”

Maybe trying counts a bit.  When Josh was 4-years-old, we took a trip to Florida to visit my in-laws. Their house was near a water-filled moat. Josh wanted to go fishing, but Grandpa Chuck didn’t own a fishing pole, so he improvised. with a string tied to a broom handle. Also, there weren’t any worms available, so Grandpa stuck a piece of salami on a safety pin and hung it from the line. Little Josh stood by the moat with his line dangling in the water.  He caught no fish. However, two ducks really enjoyed that salami.

Several famous  lines in movies were improvised by the actors themselves. One of my favorites came from Dustin Hoffman in a scene from MIDNIGHT COWBOY, that was being filmed on the Lower East Side of Manhattan. He yelled at a car that tried to cut him off in the middle of a scene, “I’m walking here!”  The line stayed in the movie and became a classic.

George Gershwin had it right when he said,”Life is a lot like jazz. It’s best when you improvise.”

Esther Blumenfeld

A BOW, A WOW AND A MEOW

When I was a little girl, during  pre-Amazon days, bottles of milk would be delivered to the front door of our house, and the “Egg Lady” would bring fresh eggs. I never did know her name. All I knew was that she had a birthmark on her face, and lived on a farm with lots of chickens.  She was a jolly lady, and I looked forward to her deliveries. Whenever I saw her, I’d shout, “The ‘Egg Lady’ is here.”’  One morning when she arrived, she said, “ I have five brand new puppies at my house. Would you like to have one?” Luckily, Mama wasn’t home!

I ran to my Father’s study, and said, “Papa, the ‘Egg Lady’ wants to give me one of her puppies. Can I say, ‘Yes?’’’ As luck would have it, Papa happened to be reading, Spinosa’s, Emendation Treatise on THE EMENDATION OF THE INTELLECT. So, his answer was something like “ummm.” The next week the “Egg Lady” brought me my puppy. When Mama came home from the market, she was surprised to see a little whimpering puppy in a big box. All she said was, “No one asked me!” The next morning when I woke up, my puppy was gone. Mama said, “It wasn’t nice to take him from his mother who would miss him.”

The guilt trip lasted for a few days, but my affection for dogs never waned over the years, and now, for the first time in my life, I have the pleasure of playing with five precious dogs that belong to my neighbors. I always have the great joy of petting them while at the same time not having to walk them in the heat or the rain—or pick up their generous droppings. Let me introduce you:

Sometimes, I forget that Abbi the pedigree Standard Poodle is really a dog, because she is extremely intuitive, gentle and kind—definitely a thoroughbred lady! Also, she has recently graduated from school, and is now a, “Certified Trained Therapy Dog.” I was told that at the graduation ceremony she wore a mortar board, and didn’t eat the tassel. Florence Nightingale and Sigmund Freud would have been proud of her, because they both pioneered the idea of animal assisted therapy. Florence noticed “patients’ relief of anxiety,” and Sigmund felt that some patients were more comfortable talking to a dog than to him. Makes sense to me!

The other neighborhood heartbreaker is little Bella, a beautiful, white, pure bred Westie (West Highland Terrier). She is all wiggle and pee when she sees me. That is the most enthusiastic greeting I have received from anyone. I did always enjoy audience applause for my plays, but it was nothing like Bella’s enthusiasm (although in intermission some people did run to the comfort station).

Tiny, five pound, Pepe is probably the most unique pup I have ever seen, because he looks like a miniature sheep. I am a sucker for his, “Choose Me!” eyes. He pitter-patters along the sidewalk— minding his own business—in more ways than one.  One day, while on my balcony, I watched as wee Pepe, on leash, was briskly trotting behind his Mistress. Suddenly, he tried to stop. (I guess it was sniffing time) but she didn’t notice and kept walking. So, Pepe dug in his miniature heels and kind of skate boarded behind her until she stopped. Not only does Pepe fit well on a friendly lap, he is also easily tucked into a shoulder bag.

Then there’s Tilly, a fawn colored what’s it? with enough Pug and big brown eyes that even Queen Victoria, the lover of Pugs, couldn’t resist when Tilly begs for treats. Tilly likes to be petted, but is deeply disappointed when she’s not rewarded for the privilege. She is so well trained that her Master allows  her to walk in front of him while she drags her leash with her own plastic pooper bag attached. She justifiably fits the Latin phrase, “multum in parvo,” (a lot of dog in a small space.)

Without a doubt, Sparky, a mixed breed Cockapoo is one of the most popular dogs in the neighborhood. This Cocker Spaniel, Poodle mixture loves everyone—dogs as well as humans—and probably any other living thing that moves. Cockapoos are a dog of the 1960’s, and for sure this clown of a dog has the personality of a flower child. Being greeted by Sparky is worth an early, early morning walk.

Of course, I can’t end this story without mentioning Radar my son and daughter-in-law’s thirteen-pound, Norwegian Forest Cat, who thinks he is a dog. Radar’s ancestors sailed on Viking Ships, and in the 1950’s King Olav V declared them the, “Official Cat of Norway.” Radar is very curious and sticks his nose wherever it doesn’t belong—especially into my suitcase when I visit. He is rather aloof which is okay with me, because we share a mutual respect, and he is never destructive. Radar waits for my son to come home from work, follows him up the stairs and rolls over for a belly rub (just like a dog). I like him because he minds his own business, and except for an occasional hairball, doesn’t cause a fuss—other than the day he trotted across the coffee table and set his tail on fire. It was a Viking thing!  His breed is one of the few domestic cats capable of descending a tree head first. Since he’s an indoor cat, the refrigerator seems to suffice as long as you keep the door shut.

Just like people, dogs and cats have their own personalities.  I did not mention the two ankle biters in my neighborhood. Their dogs aren’t so well trained either.

Esther Blumenfel

BLOOD BROTHER

I think I am probably the only person in the world whose shoe has grown a goiter.

The story begins three weeks ago when I had an appointment to meet my new agent at the Allstate Insurance Company Office. I arrived first thing in the morning, opened the heavy metal door (which was on a spring closure), got one foot into the lobby— and the spring sprung. The door hit my other foot and sliced my ankle open.

 I quickly sat on the floor, because my ankle spurted as much blood as a Las Vegas fountain, and I didn’t want to bleed on the office furniture. The young man (my new agent) called out,”I’ll be right there.” Whereupon I shouted, “You’d better come now because I’m bleeding all over your floor.” The ankle has lots of capillaries, so by now the blood was coming out in puddles.  I called out, “Bring some chalk, so we can draw the shape of a body around the blood.”

He rushed out with a mop and bucket. Turns out that he knows a lot about blood because he is a hemophiliac. Before starting to mop, he helped me to stop the bleeding.  The only medical equipment I had in my purse were two band-aids, a panty liner and my mask which served as a tourniquet. Now my friends can call me, “Mrs. MacGyver.”

Since the bleeding stopped, I stayed to fill out the paperwork, but the computer was going through a menopausal change, so I left for home. I  called my doctor’s office and the receptionist said to come right in to see the nurse practitioner named Karma.  I discovered that her parents had been hippies, so I guess that her grandmother must have taught her needlepoint, since she sewed 9 stitches into my ankle. Nils Lofgren is now my new hero.

I left the office with two weeks worth of stitches and medical orders:  “No hiking! “ (hobbling is permitted).” No swimming!” and, “No exercise that involves the feet,!” But I was allowed to wave my arms around.

Now that the stitches are removed, I can only wear sandals. The sick foot calls for a sandal with no heel. Consequently, I have taped the back strap around the bottom of my shoe and placed a big, lumpy white bandage one one side. Now my shoe looks as if it has grown a goiter.

When I returned to the Allstate office to finally fill out my paperwork, my agent quickly opened the outside door for me. Of course he did! After all, how could I expect less from my new blood brother?

Esther Blumenfeld

PHONES AND STRANGERS

A couple of days ago, I received a phone call,  “Hi, Grandma!” I replied, “I am not your Grandma, and I’m not sending you any money” and then I hung up. He didn’t call back.

My friend and neighbor, Pamela is recuperating from an injury, so I bring her mail to her every morning.  Every time I enter her apartment she is either on the phone— or it is ringing. I have decided that either she has lots of friends, or she is “Making Book.” One day I heard her say, “Pickles on five.” Either she meant “aisle 5” in the grocery store, or “the bet on Pickles is 5 to 1.”

Some of my favorite comic phone routines were done by Mike Nichols and Elaine May. To paraphrase one of Elaine May’s conversations:  She frantically calls her Mother because unexpected guests will be arriving for dinner in two hours. She has to find something to throw together for dinner, clean up the bathroom, since there had been a plumbing problem, put the kids to bed and run a vacuum over the rugs. She really needs her Mother to come help her.  Her Mother consoles her, but then says, “What number did you call?” Elaine replies, “301-9789,” and the Mother says, “Sorry, Dear, you have the wrong number. This is 301-9787.”
Whereupon Elaine wails, “Does that mean you’re not coming?”

Here’s an assortment of some of my favorite (true) phone adventures:

When living in Chicago, my in-laws (and all the aunts and uncles on that side of the family) decided it would be fun to have Thanksgiving dinner at our Lilliputian apartment. The kitchen was so small that when I opened the oven door, my back hit the wall, and my kitchen was filled with wall to wall bosoms of “helpful” aunts. After my husband herded them out—the  turkey  landed on the floor. Then, the phone rang, and a deep voice said, “What are you wearing?” I said, “the turkey just fell on the floor, the aunts are trying to break back into the kitchen, and I am not wearing a smile!  Call back later!”

When we lived in San Diego, a woman called and asked for the Urologist, Dr. Blumenfeld. I politely  said, “You have the wrong number.” She said, “No, I don’t!  My doctor gave me this number.  Put Dr. Blumenfeld on!”  I said, “My husband is not home, and he’s not a Urologist.  He is an Industrial Psychologist.” She said, “What’s that?” and I replied, “Lady, you are out of luck. My husband can’t even fix a dripping faucet.” and I hung up.

Then, there was the sweet little Southern lady in Atlanta who wanted to chat. She finally said, “Honey, you are the nicest wrong number I have ever had.”

My two favorite calls in Tucson were at Democratic Headquarters where I volunteered at the front desk for several years. One morning, I answered the phone and a man said, “I have an unusual request.”  I replied, “Well, I’m used to that. How can I help you?” He said, “I’m a Republican and have been looking for their headquarters’ number, but can’t find it. Can you help me?”  I said, “ I think we have it.” I gave him the number and then said, “It’s an old number. If it’s not correct, call back and I will look it up on the computer for you.”  He thanked me and hung up.  Five minutes later he called back.  “They were so rude to me! and you were so nice to me.” “Well, I replied,”Now you know that Democrats are nice people.”

The next day, I received a call from a man who wanted me to check if his absentee ballot had been counted. I looked it up and assured him that all was well. Whereupon he said, “You have such a nice voice. Would you like to go out for a drink?” I said, “No thanks, but I understand that there are lots of nice voices at Republican Headquarters” and gave him the number.

It’s always an adventure picking up the phone—sometimes good, sometimes not so good, but always funny—- when it’s Steven Wright:

“Today I dialed the wrong number—The other person said, “Hello?” and I said, “Hello, could I speak to Joey?” They said, “Uh…I don’t think so…he’s only 2 months old.”  I said, “I’ll wait.”

Esther Blumenfeld (call me sometime)

APOLOGY TO JOYCE KILMER

Elizabeth Bernstein of the Wall Street Journal wrote an article, “The Benefits of a Tree Friend.” You got it—-not a true friend, but a “Tree Friend.”  It began: “I’ve got a new buddy. She’s a Banyan Tree.”

When I was a little girl, I had a tree buddy.  She was my neighbor’s Apple Tree. When the old lady took her annual trip to Europe, I’d climb that tree, sit in the branches, look at the sky and gorge myself with green apples. I’d also knock the dirt off of some carrots I had pulled out of her garden and munch away on them. When my neighbor returned from her trip, she’s always complained about pests in her garden. She was right!

Bernstein wrote, “Trees have a lot to teach us.”  You bet they do! When my brother, David was working in his garden, he was listening to a Stephen King novel on his ear phones. At a very scary moment in the story, a squirrel jumped out of a tree and landed on David’s shoulder. The tree remained calm. Can’t say the same about David.

Bernstein continued: “Trees know a thing or two about surviving harsh years and thriving during good ones.” That’s a favorable review. However, they can also be dangerous. When my son, Josh was in grade school, I chaperoned a field trip to the park. The television meteorologist had predicted rain, but neither rain, nor sleet nor snow would keep this teacher from escaping her classroom. So we herded 20 children onto the school bus, and she instructed them to, “Stay with the group, and if there is a thunderstorm do not run and hide under a tree!” As soon as we got off the bus—BOOM! Sounded like thunder to me, and then a BIG WHITE SLASH in the sky.  At that, all of the kids scattered and headed for the trees.
The teacher shouted to me, “Herd them. We came with 20. We have to return with 20.” I shouted back, “Does it have to be the same 20?”

Adam and Eve befriended a tree. It double crossed them, and they learned a hard lesson. The Tree of Knowledge can bare bitter fruit. As Woody Allen said, “Only God can make a tree—-probably because it’s so hard to figure out how to get the bark on.”

Personally, I would love to once more befriend a tree, but that’s hard to do when living in the Sonoran Desert. For instance, Catclaw Acacias are beautiful multi-trunked trees, but unless you are a Hindu ascetic who enjoys sitting on a bed of nails, you wouldn’t nurture a relationship. Palo Verdes are thornless and have vibrant yellow flowers that promote allergies. To prune The Desert Hackberry you would not only need gloves but would have to wear goggles. The Texas Laurel, with evergreen leaves and purple flowers smells like grape “Kool-Aid,” but attracts big, black carpenter bees. Also, their seeds are poisonous, but they are so hard to chew that they provide little risk—unless you chew them.  I find the Desert Willow especially attractive, but then so do “friendly” snakes, coyotes, bobcats, fox and hawks. There are many more beautiful desert trees, but most of them will stick it to you—one way or another. It’s called survival.

Unfortunately Banyan Trees don’t grow in the desert. With such a tree one could feel close in a spiritual way. However, I can guarantee that if you hug a tree in the desert, you will definitely feel a deep rooted connection.

Esther Blumenfeld