GETTING RENEWED

I rarely promise anything. However, I can promise that you will never hear someone say, “Oh, I just love to go to the DMV” (Department of Motor Vehicles.) Unfortunately, two years had passed since I last renewed my Vehicle Registration, and my little old Saturn needed an equipment inspection and emissions test before I could get my paperwork. Consequently, I unearthed and charged up my old GPS system to direct me to the facility. I know how to get there, but during the Pandemic, I had paid someone to run the gauntlet for me, and in two years some road topography had changed. Maybe not so much the roads, but many familiar landmarks were gone.

The facility opened at 8 a.m, so I left my apartment at 7:30 a.m. Reaching a big intersection,  I quickly realized that I was not in one of the three left-turn lanes, so I drove straight ahead and made a U-turn. Suddenly, two police cars—sirens blaring— roared up behind me. “Oh, My God!” had I made an illegal u-turn? I had visions of landing in jail instead of the DMV. The police raced past me, and I made my right turn. Now I was in the correct lane to make another right . A cultured voice from my ancient GPS said, “In a quarter mile, make a right turn at Pantano, the street I needed. However, the street split—one side going up a bridge over the street, and the other side making a right turn on Pantano.

I turned right at the stoplight. It wasn’t Pantano. Sooo—I made another U-turn.  This time it was illegal, but by now jail didn’t look so bad after all. Finally, I made the correct turn and drove several miles  until the cultured lady told me to turn right at the DMV sign. No problem! I had arrived and, miracle of miracles, I was ten minutes early. I pulled to the front of the entrance of the inspection gates. I was first in line! The gates were still blocked by a heavy metal chain, but it wasn’t time to open yet. I began to read my newspaper when I heard a tapping on the car window. I rolled it down, and a man said, “We aren’t lining up at the front of the building anymore. You have to line up at the back to get to the front. I drove around the building and saw a line of at least 25 cars ahead of me. They were lined up all the way into a busy street where once more I had to make a U-turn in order to get into line.

By now the outside temperature had turned to an uncomfortable 85 degrees. The line moved slowly and when I pulled close enough to see the entrance, I noticed that there were four examining stations, but only two of them were open. By now there were at least 20 cars lined up behind me. At that, I suddenly realized that the DMV would suck at least an hour out of my life! Two lines were formed, and I decided not to pull up behind the house trailer. Observing other drivers sitting in line was as much fun as attending a funeral. Then I saw a flashing sign offering a $1000.00 bonus for anyone signing up at the DMV. It didn’t say you had to work there. I was tempted,  but two other inspectors had arrived and the other two lanes opened up. I only waited twenty-five minutes more and arrived first in line.

The young inspector told me to get out of my car and stand in the shade. He didn’t have to ask me twice. I leapt out of the car clutching my $12.25 fee. I was so eager to pull out the money that I ripped the $10 bill in half. Pathetically,  I handed him two singles, a quarter and two halves of a $10.00 bill. A new experience for him. My little, old Saturn passed the test easily, and then I drove to another building to apply for my vehicle registration. I only stood in line for 10 minutes and all went well. The drive home was uneventful without even one U-turn.

Now I am waiting for someone to say,  “See you soon. I’m making a quick trip to the DMV.”


Esther Blumenfeld

TRIBUTE TO RADAR

When my son, Josh adopted his cat, Radar was already three years old, and  had arrived at the Animal Care Facility with his own bed—obviously, a well cared for pet who needed a home.

The first time I met Radar was when I visited my son, the television Meteorologist. Josh had to leave for the studio, and I—a person who had never developed a relationship with a cat—was left alone looking at this fifteen-pound-Norwegian-Forest-Feline, who had made a a bed out of my black trench coat.

I said, “Well, it’s just you and me Kid,” and all he did was stare at me.  I have since learned from the comic, Paula Poundstone that, “Cats get the same exact look whether they see a moth or an axe-murderer.” Getting no response, I decided to leave Radar alone and give him time to warm up to me, so I went into the kitchen and made myself a cup of coffee. I sat at the table and opened the newspaper. However, I suddenly had the uncomfortable feeling that someone was watching me, but nobody was there, until I looked up, and saw Radar, who was peering down at me from the top of the kitchen cupboards.

Then I panicked, “What if he falls and hurts himself?” Josh will never forgive me.” I yelled, “Get down you cat. You’re not supposed to be up there.” Of course, he was probably thinking, “This is my house. YOU go away!” I slapped my hand against the newspaper and shouted,”Get down!” At that, he jumped from the cupboard to the counter and onto the floor. Then he ran to the dining room, leapt onto that table and slid off entangled in the tablecloth. He popped his head out and gave me the, “I’m the Boss around here” look. At that, I capitulated. Then he disappeared. Later, I turned on the TV to watch Josh do his weather stuff, and heard a loud multisyllabic yowl. Unfortunately, Radar had fallen asleep behind the TV set , and the sudden noise had made him levitate. Turning off the TV, I looked at him and said, “Kitty, it’s time for milk and cookies.” He got the milk.

Over the years, Radar and I became kind-of friends. I liked him. He tolerated me, but he loved my son and later my daughter-in-law, Barbara. He enjoyed sniffing her hair. I learned a lot from Radar— “When you are hungry eat! When you are tired find a sunbeam and take a nap! And, when there’s a thunderstorm, hide under the bed!” I suspect that Radar was probably part pooch, because around the same time every evening, he’d run to the window and look for my son to come home from work. When Josh arrived, Radar would follow him up the stairs and roll over for a tummy pet.

Radar was also a spoiled brat, because just like a little kid, when my son was on the phone talking to me, Radar would jump into his lap and mew, “Pay attention to me!” At that, Josh would say, “Mom, would you like to talk to Radar?” And, I would always say, “No!” Because if Radar could talk, I know he’d just refuse to do so.

As the years passed,  Radar did seem to remember me when I visited, and he became more friendly. I’m not sure if it was me he liked or the toys filled with catnip that I would bring him. On occasion he’d sidle up to me and sit near me, and let me pet him, and this wild and domestic beautiful creature eventually won my heart, as I accepted him on his own terms.

Having reached 18 years, Radar had led a contented life. He had been cared for and loved. He had been fed and played with and left to his own devices. He had a loving family. He also left this earth on his own terms. One day, he ate a little, he played a little, and then he lay down and died. Just as he had lived, he seemed to have done it his own way.

“When the cat you love becomes a memory, the memory becomes a treasure.”

Esther Blumenfeld

OFF THE RAILS

“Can’t recall the name of your third grade teacher? Don’t worry—it’s just your brain clearing the debris.” (Corrine Purtill, “Forgetting,” TIME MAGAZINE, May 9, 2022).

Neuroscientists who study the biology of forgetting have determined that forgetting is not just a failure of memory, but that the brain has its own molecular tools working to clear what is no longer relevant. It makes sense that since we absorb, “hundreds of thousands bits of information in the course of a single day,” that the brain disposes of some of the useless stuff.
However, this memory loss is not connected to Alzheimer’s Disease which goes way beyond routine forgetting.

Consequently, it’s obviously not serious when you have forgotten the name of the doctor who removed your tonsils when you were six years old, but maybe your first kiss left an indelible impression—or maybe not!

Some people blame their age on forgetting a name or where they misplaced the house keys. However, I have observed that some of the most forgetful among us are teenagers who forget their homework, lunch or where they dropped their stinky gym clothes. Forgetting the time they were supposed to come home is a cop out! That’s a senior moment for seniors in high school.

I am told that Hacienda at the Canyon, where I live, now has 244 residents (capacity 300). That’s a lot of names to remember! So far, there are seven Nancy’s living here. Consequently, it is safe to call everyone, “Nancy.” Eventually, you’ll get it right.

Forgetting is frustrating. There are all kinds of tricks recommended such as, “Go through the alphabet.” If that doesn’t work, do it again, but this time try the English alphabet. Association is also a good trick, but if someone’s name is “Minnie” don’t call her “Mouse.” The brain is like a computer that stores information, and I guess at some point, unless a memory is revisited, it will slowly delete what is less necessary to focus on what is being delivered.

Often, when I forget a name or search for a word, it will come to me later. Eureka! it’s been there all the time, but it isn’t immediately there..there. However, I have found that once it has been recollected, it is easier to remember the next time if I write the word (or name) on a piece of paper and make a concerted effort to remember it.

Someone once asked me, “What’s the secret of a happy marriage?” I said, “Selective hearing and selective memory” Of course, you really don’t know how good your memory is until you try to forget something.

Along with other scientists, Oliver Hardt, a professor at McGill University suspects that, “The culling of nonessential memory is one of the key purposes of sleep.”  In other words, a good night’s sleep produces a clearer mind.

Sometimes it’s weird which old memories I can recall. For instance, many years ago, when browsing in a bookstore, I noticed two young women enter the front door. They were covered from the head down with  a myriad of colorful tattoos. As far as I could tell, there wasn’t a patch of clear skin left. They seemed a bit confused as they looked around, so I said, “In case you are looking for books on tattoos, I think they are on aisle 3.” As I left, I heard one girl say, “Do you think she’s psychic?” Perhaps, that memory should have gone into my brain trash can, but it was just to colorful to forget.

Forgetting and remembering are two sides of the same coin. Steven Wright said it best,
“Right now I’m having amnesia and deja Vu at the same time. I think I’ve forgotten this before.”

Esther Blumenfeld

SMALL PROBLEM! BIG AGGRAVATION!

There are all kinds of adventures, but none quite like putting your car into “Park” and not being able to remove the key from the ignition. I pulled and grunted and pulled and grunted and was finally able to remove the key. When I told my friend, the engineer about my problem, he said, “Bring me a pencil.” He rubbed the tip of the pencil on the key, and like magic, it went in and out with no problem. Pencils contain Graphite. So, I purchased a tube of Graphite to insert into the ignition hole. That’s when I learned that the lead in pencils is a lot cleaner than the soot that shot out of that tube. Consequently, I looked as if I had just emerged from a coal mine.

My key behaved for two weeks until I went shopping for shoes. I arrived at the store, parked the car and the key shouted, “I’m not coming out of this hole. Think of all of the  money you will save!” I drove back home.

 Since I couldn’t remove the key, I called the Car Doctor, and made an appointment to take my little eighteen-year-old, 82,000-mile Saturn to the dealership, After all, my little car had earned an A+ when it had been serviced three weeks before.  However, I couldn’t get an appointment for two days, so I had to leave the key in the car. No problem! I always park next to very expensive cars. Why would a thief want my car when he could get his mitts on a brand new Jaguar?

The morning of my appointment, I arrived at my parking place. I pointed the car door opener at the car, but nothing happened. So, I put the key into the door, sat down and tried to start the engine. Again, nothing happened! It didn’t even snort or growl. Silence is not always golden.
I returned to my apartment and called AAA. Perhaps, I had a dead battery or a pack rat  had nibbled on the wires, or I had to be towed—not me—the car!

The white-bearded AAA man arrived in 10 minutes. I was thrilled!  They had sent Santa Claus to help me. He calmed me down, opened the hood, “boosted” something and the car purred like a kitten sniffing catnip. I drove the car to the dealership, pulled into the “Service”Entrance, and got in line with the other sick cars, and turned off the engine. When I was told to: “Pull up the car!” I yelled, “I can’t do that.” The service guy yelled back, “What do you mean, you can’t do that?” I replied, “My car refuses to get out of Park.” He shouted, “You have to get it out of Park, and into Drive.” “You do it “ I yelled back.

The Car Doctor, also was unable to remove the key from the lock. She gave me the diagnosis. I was informed that the problem could have one of two cures: Number 1 involved a part in the warehouse in Tucson (where I live). Number 2 involved a part in a warehouse in Los Angeles (where I don’t live.) Rudy, the kind and sympathetic dealership driver, drove me home.

EPILOGUE

Got a call the next day. THE GOOD NEWS: The problem is not with the ignition. THE BAD NEWS: The problem is with the “Shifter Assembly.” THE GOOD NEWS: “The part they need for surgery is in the warehouse in Tucson. THE GOOD NEWS: Rudy will pick me up.

HOORAY! I am no longer shiftless.

Esther Blumenfeld

DON'T FEEL BAD

Have you ever been at the right place at the wrong time? Or—at the wrong place at the right time? Of course you have, and so have I.  If it’s any comfort, Shashi Tharoor, member of the India Parliament said, “We are where we are at the only time we have.”

Yesterday, I arrived at the apartment of friends who had invited me for cocktails before dinner. I rang the bell (twice) and no one answered. It was then that I realized that I’d have to drink alone. I returned to my apartment and checked the calendar. My hostess had cancelled the first date of our get-together, and we had agreed on a second date. Unfortunately, both dates were still on my calendar, and I had failed to erase the first one.

Years ago, when my husband was a graduate student at Purdue University, I was invited to an afternoon tea given by faculty wives.  It was a command performance. My friend, Annie invited me to accompany her to the brand new home of a recently arrived faculty member. Neither of us was familiar with the neighborhood, nor had we been foresighted enough to write down the exact address. I suggested we stop and call for directions, but ever-confident Annie assured me we’d arrive on time.

After driving around the subdivision for 30 minutes, I was elated when she finally pulled to the curb, pointed to a house with many cars parked in front, and said, “Here we are. We are only 20 minutes late. The door’s open, let’s sneak in and mingle.” Trying to be as inconspicuous as possible, I worked my way through the crowd to the refreshment table which presented a variety of tea sandwiches, pate, smoked salmon, cheeses, fruits and sweets. Filling my plate, and grabbing a glass of wine, I slid into a chair in an alcove. Happily, I could sit there eat, drink and wait quietly until Annie would come and tell me it was over and we could go home.

Furtively, I  glanced around the room and made eye contact with a woman sitting on a sofa, and she beckoned me to join her. Desperately wishing that Annie had told me which of these women was our hostess, I reluctantly walked over and sat down next to her. She greeted me with an effusive “It’s so nice to see you.” “It’s nice to see you too,” I responded. Then she asked, “Have you known Katherine for a long time?” “No, I can’t say I have,” was my truthful answer. At that moment a woman of substantive girth plopped down next to me on the other side of the sofa. I was trapped. “Marie” said my new friend, “Have you met—?”  “Oh, Yes,” I lied, “Marie and I had the pleasure earlier.”

At that, Annie hurried over and said, “Excuse Me.” She grabbed my arm, yanked me off the sofa and hissed in my ear, “We’ve got to get out of here. This is a bridal shower!” Annie got out of the door, and I almost made it when I felt a hand on my shoulder, and I was face to face with our hostess, who smiled, and  said, “I am so glad you were able to come.” She was smiling, but—“Who the Hell are you?” hung in the air.

“Beautiful affair,” I mumbled. How could I explain that I had entered her home, eaten her food, drunk her wine (two glasses) and didn’t even bring a gift. In desperation I blurted out, “I had a nice visit with Marie.” Relieved at hearing a familiar name, she responded,”Doesn’t she look marvelous after her face lift?”  I honestly answered, “I hardly recognized her.” She gave me a hug before I left.

Oh, Yes, there’s more—Years later, my husband and I prepared for a large, fancy party at our home which was to be held the next day. The caterers had left and we ordered a pizza for dinner. The doorbell rang at 7 p.m. but instead of pizza, two of our extremely well dressed friends had arrived a day early. We invited them to stay for pizza. They did return the next day. He wore the same suit, but she had changed her dress. I  greeted them each with a slice of leftover pizza.

Conventions are often held in hotels. Meetings are held during the day and parties are thrown at night. It’s always fun to see colleagues that you haven’t seen for a very long time.  We looked forward to a big party sponsored by the American Psychological Association. Getting off the elevator we entered the packed room, grabbed some drinks in fancy glasses, and looked for a familiar face—or two or three, but there were none. It didn’t take long for my husband and I to realize that we had gotten off the elevator at the wrong floor. This was a Convention of Plumbers and Pipe- fitters. Realizing our mistake, we elbowed our way through the crowd, got back on the elevator and rode up a floor to the correct venue. The psychologists were just as boisterous as the plumbers and pipe-fitters, but they were drinking out of paper cups.

Esther Blumenfeld