STUDENT WIFERY

I was recently married, and “Wifery” had not been part of my college curriculum. So, as I tried to figure out my new role, “Student Wife” was indeed a fitting description. I lived in constant terror that I would commit the ultimate blunder to jeopardize W.S.’s entire professional future. So, when I received an invitation to my first faculty wives open house, I was relieved when Annie, another graduate student wife, invited me to accompany her.

The gathering was being held at the brand new home of a recently arrived faculty member, and neither Annie nor I had been foresighted enough to write down the address. Of course, this was before cell phones or GPS systems had become part of daily life. After driving around the subdivision for 30 minutes, I was elated when we spotted a house with several cars parked in front, and Annie exclaimed, “Here we are!”  Then she added, “We are 20 minutes late. The door’s open, lets just sneak in and mingle.”

Trying to be as inconspicuous as possible, I worked my way through the crowded room to the refreshment table. Pleasantly surprised, I discovered a variety of tea sandwiches, pate, smoked salmon, cheese, fruits and sweets. Filling my plate, and grabbing a glass of wine, I began to relax, and discreetly slid into an empty chair that had been placed into a little alcove next to the living room. Happily, I could sit here until Annie said it was time to go home. But, eating tea sandwiches doesn’t take too long, and after my plate was whisked away by a young woman in a starched white apron, I was left with nothing to do but drink another glass of wine and watch people eat and talk to each other.

Furtively glancing around the room, I made eye contact with a woman sitting on one of the sofas in the living room, and she beckoned me to join her. Desperately wishing that Annie had told me which of these women was our hostess, I smiled and reluctantly walked over and sat next to her, as she greeted me effusively; “It’s so nice to see you!” “It’s nice to see you too,” I responded. Then she asked me, “Have you known Katherine for a long time?” “No, I can’t say I have,” I responded.

Was Katherine our hostess? Perhaps I could find out by asking, “How long have you known Katherine?” “Too long,” she laughed, “She’s my sister.” At that moment a woman of massive girth plopped down next to me on the other side of the sofa. Now I was trapped. “Marie,” said my new friend, “have you met---? “Oh, yes,” I lied, “Marie and I had the pleasure earlier.” Marie, distracted by a waitress bearing another tray of little some things, put a rolled finger-towel in her mouth.

Taking advantage of her predicament, I quickly excused myself and hurried over to Annie, who hissed into my ear, “We’ve got to get out of here. This is the wrong party.” The pate had made her suspicious, and after some discreet questions, she discovered we were one block off course and were now crashing a bridal shower. We had to get out of there before they began opening gifts. The front door was ajar and our hostess was greeting newly arrived guests. Annie whispered, “Keep your head down,” as she shouted, “Thanks!” and dashed past the group at the front door. But before I could follow her, I felt a hand on my arm and found myself face-to-face with our hostess.

“Beautiful affair,” I mumbled. “Well, I am so glad you were able to come,” she smiled, but, “Who in the Hell are you?” hung in the air---heavy and unspoken. How could I explain to this proper lady that I had entered her home, eaten her food and 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 could honestly answer, “I hardly recognized her.”
My hostess let go of my arm, blushed and asked ever so nicely, “ I am mortified, but I have forgotten your last name. Luckily, at that moment, Annie tooted the car’s horn. So, I said, “Oh, there’s my ride. I must run.”

But halfway down the walk, I turned, waved and shouted. “Don’t worry about it, sometimes that happens to me, too.”

Esther Blumenfeld
CROSSING WITH THE BLUE LIGHT, Blumenfeld c  2006

BREAKING OUT (PART TWO)

W. S. found an ad in the newspaper, “Third floor, one-bedroom, walk-up—middle apartment available.” “Perfect!” he yelled. “We can afford the rent. Let’s grab it.” We contacted the landlord, who said he would meet us early the next morning. And, he informed us that another couple had scheduled to look at it tomorrow afternoon. That presented a problem. W.S. had a class with a scheduled exam, and I had to go to work.

We had to be out of our potential landing pad by the end of the month, cheap apartments were hard to find, and we knew we’d lose this one if we didn’t act fast. So, W.S. said into the phone, “We’ll take it. I’ll drop off the rent on my way to class tomorrow morning.”

The outside of the building looked presentable, but the third floor walk-up stairs seemed a bit steep. With promises of beer and fried chicken, W.S. rounded up two fellow students to help us move. “Couldn’t you have found two bigger guys?” I asked. Little Stu must have weighed 100 pounds, and gangly Marty had a bad habit of falling over his own feet. After helplessly watching our mattress tumble down the stairs twice, I decided not to watch what was going on.

We had splurged on a pretty nice flea market sofa. It didn’t smell of mold or cigars. And we had purchased an overhanging lamp that needed to be screwed into the ceiling. W.S. wasn’t handy. But, “This I can do!” he happily exclaimed, screwing in the lamp, that he had plugged into the outlet on the wall. We were finally home.

After sending Stu and Marty on their way, we fell into bed exhausted; anticipating our first good night’s rest in months. Our bed was firmly braced against the wall and no airplane would be shaking our floor.

A light rain pitter-pattered against the window as I drifted off. A few minutes later, I awoke to the unmistakable sound of overly heavy breathing. “You’re snoring,” I mumbled. Whereupon the snoring turned into rhythmic snorts. I rolled over and saw that W.S. was sitting up in bed, and now we were being entertained with a cacophony of sputtering, wheezing and an occasional whistle thrown in for variety.

“It’s not me.” W.S. groaned, “I was kind of hoping that it was you.” “Well, I’m awake,”  I said. “It must be the guy next door. Let me try a little knock.” So, I tapped on the wall, and was rewarded with blessed silence—just long enough to fall back to sleep before the symphony began again.

A few hours later, after our knuckles began to ache, we decided to move the bed to the other wall. It wasn’t a perfect solution, but the snoring became a distant rumble. The sprinkle outside had now developed into a major deluge with intermittent thunder and lightning. Just as I was falling asleep—one more time, W.S. poked me, “Did you leave the water running in the bathroom?” “No.” I growled, “ But if you are worried, get up and take a look.” Reluctantly, he got up and went into the bathroom. Returning to bed, he said. “It’s okay.” “Good,” I replied. “Can we go to sleep now?”

When I awakened the next morning the sun was shining. W.S. was fast asleep and no one was snoring from behind the wall. Life was good—except—except—I still heard the unmistakable  sound of running water. “How can that be?” I mused looking out of the window. “It’s not raining outside.” At that, I walked into the living room, and discovered that our hanging ceiling lamp had transformed itself, in the middle of the night, into a dangling fountain, and water was spraying in beautiful streams all over our new flea market sofa.

W.S., the unhandiest of handymen had screwed our new lamp directly into the middle of the three-apartment rain gutter. Grabbing a bucket, I yelled, “I think we just lost our deposit,” as my chagrined husband came into the room and offered me a towel.

The next night, there was no sound from the other side of the bedroom wall—no snoring, no wheezing, and no whistling. “He’s dead!” said W.S. “What do you mean, ‘He’s dead.’” I asked. “Someone must have smothered him,” W.S. replied. “I’m sure of it.”

“I think this place is trying to tell us something,” I mumbled. “Let’s move!” “Okay,” he replied, as we both drifted off to sleep not realizing that this was only a foreboding of things to come.

Esther Blumenfeld (Dead men tell no  tales.)
CROSSING WITH THE BLUE LIGHT, Blumenfeld c. 2006

BREAKING OUT (PART ONE)

Sometimes the old homily, “There’s no place like home,” really means,” There’s got to be a better apartment than this!”

Shortly after our wedding, W.S. and I moved to the second floor of a married student-housing apartment on campus. All the allotted university funding had gone into the uninspired red brick structures, and there was no money left for landscaping---let alone grass seed. The one-bedroom place was sparsely furnished. The bedroom had a bed and the small main room had a table, a desk, two chairs and a bamboo curtain which, when opened, revealed a Lilliputian stove, refrigerator and sink. The bathroom sink, shower and toilet were also undersized, fitting the dimensions of the pretend room.

The first thing I noticed was that there was no covering on the windows, but the un-air-conditioned place was hot, so I opened a window. With that, a swirling cloud of dust blew in and comfortably settled on everything including my hair and face. W.S. figured out that if we coordinated the opening of the windows, by opening the window on the other side of the apartment, with a little luck, the dust storm might just blow through before touching down.

That evening, “Touchdown!” took on a whole new meaning. We hadn’t had time to shop for a lamp, and it was too early to go to sleep, so we sat in our two chairs looking out the window. Getting up and heading toward the refrigerator, W.S. said, “Look at that moon. Isn’t that beautiful? I love a full moon.” “It’s pretty, all right,” I answered. But it looks as if there are two of them, and they are getting closer.”

“What do you mean?” he asked. “I’m not kidding,” I replied. “Come look at this!”
The approaching moons were getting closer, and suddenly our whole apartment was awash with light, as we felt a rumble, and heard the unmistakable roar of an airplane engine. That plane was heading right for us.

“Hit the deck,” W.S. yelled, as we both dove for the floor under our wobbly table waiting for the impact. But there was no crash. The nose of the plane lifted, the pictures on the wall tilted, and it roared up and away leaving the roof over our heads intact.

The next day, we learned that the property where married student housing sat was cheap, because it was directly in the landing pattern of the airport. We got shades for the windows and earplugs, but neither of those things helped when the college band began their daily blaring of horns and marching at 6 a.m. on the field next door. It was definitely time to move. Breaking our lease due to sleep deprivation and fear of flying might have worked, but the waiting list for the clueless, looking for cheap housing, allowed us to make a rapid escape. Little did we know that we would soon become nostalgic for the good old days of approaching airplanes and loud trumpets.

Esther Blumenfeld (To be continued-----)

CROSSING WITH THE BLUE LIGHT, Blumenfeld c. 2006

HALL WALKERS

It is now the end of  September and the weather in Tucson, Arizona is still unseasonably hot. However, I’m not sure with climate change what season means anymore. It is cool enough to take a morning walk outside, and hot enough in the afternoon to take a dip in the pool, but unless I am doing Yoga in my living room, or dancing in my kitchen, the only exercise I have left, in these pandemic days, is to walk the many halls in the building.

Yesterday, I took the elevator to the Club Section on the 5th floor, which is really the 4th floor, but people think it is the 5th floor because their apartment numbers start with the number 5. They tell me it has something to do with the slope of the land, but standing outside the building, all I can see are 4 levels—not 5.

Anyway, when stepping off the elevator on maybe-5 there is a beautiful living-dining-room area, and a mystery unmarked door.  I know it’s not the Unisex Bathroom that has a sign,”currently out of service.”  I have one of those near me too on the kind-of-3rd floor. Obviously, they don’t want any unisex people to use it, because all of these bathrooms have been “currently out of service” for 12 months. There is no mystery door on my floor.

I did ask one of the other hall walkers about the mystery door on almost-5, and she told me, “It’s locked. The thermostat is in there, and they don’t want us to adjust it, so they have it hidden.” A whole room set aside for a thermostat. How fancy!  Well, after all it is the Club Section.

Next, I walked on the 4th floor which is really the 3rd floor. I have a friend on that floor in the Club Section and her balcony is two levels up…kind of like being on 2 but after all  it’s the slope, and the numbers on that floor all start with the number 4, so it must be 4. It is a very nice floor, but there is no special room for the thermostat.

My apartment number starts with 3, so I must be on the third floor except the swimming pool is on that floor and it looks as if the pool is on 2. Also, some apartments are next to the sidewalk. That is some slope! All of this strange numbering is very confusing which is cruel because some old folks are already confused.  To make matters worse, all of the carpeting in the halls are the same except those that lead to the Assisted Living wings.  They are exactly the same except the line down the center is a golden color (like the yellow brick road) otherwise the carpets are identical.

Some apartments on all the floors face a lovely courtyard.  It is called “The Events Plaza.” Because of the virus there are no events on the Events Plaza except the occasional dog that poops on the artificial grass. The Plaza is on level 2 adjacent to the lobby where people enter from the parking lot.  There are apartments on level 2. They start with the number 2, so I know that level 2 is not 1 even though you enter from the parking lot.

One of the 4 restaurants on maybe-2 is open for dinner.  Seating is 6 feet apart from each other and since almost everyone wears hearing aids there’s a lot of “What?” in the conversations.

I have discovered that there are faithful hall walkers. One man walks relatively fast and his girlfriend chases him up and down the halls everyday. One lady is not fond of the artwork on the hall walls, and another woman claims that the pattern in the carpet makes her dizzy. I suspect she is that way without the carpet. Sometimes, I can spy a mini cocktail party in one of the nooks and crannies of a hall. People manage to have fun no matter what.

But, I still wonder what else is in that secret room on maybe-5. Is it the lady or the tiger?

Esther Blumenfeld

SO SORRY!

No one likes to apologize, because it is an admission that you have said or done something unacceptable. An apology is also an acknowledgment that you are less than perfect, just like the rest of us. There are all kinds of apologies—-those given from the heart, the half-hearted, and the dim-witted ones. “Better late than never,” does not apply for an apology given to a dead person.

Hugh Kingsmill said, “Friends are God’s apology for relations.” A good friend should accept your apology knowing that you would never intentionally say or do anything hurtful. It is always worthwhile to examine the source of the, “I’m sorry!”

I am always willing to accept someone’s apology, but I also know that my response should fit the “My bad.” For instance, when a worker doesn’t show up at your house when expected, his apology is usually a lament over his wretched truck. A tweak to the ego may be appropriate saying, “I am so disappointed, I thought you could fix anything.”

Some people apologize in a way that makes you feel that their mistake is  really your fault such as, “My dog won’t bite. Oh, he’s never done that before!” Then there is the “Schadenfreude” (sad/happy) apology. “Oh, I am so sorry that your team lost, and mine won, but after all, it’s only a game.”

It’s always fun to look for the little correction box in the local newspaper, where the editor expresses regret for a printed error. For instance, “We inadvertently printed the name, ‘Bootsie, the Stripper’ under the photo of Reverend Mabel, of the Sacred Memories Church.”’

It makes absolutely no sense to remain upset after a sincere apology. Why waste 60 seconds on anger when you can have 60 more seconds of happiness in your life? However, on the flip side, if your apology is not accepted by someone, who enjoys holding a grudge, I suggest you let them wallow and move on.


Realizing that an apology is a good way to have the last word, I often, just can’t help myself.
After a Presidential election, I was sitting at the Community Pool, when four neighbors entered the pool area and sat at an adjoining table. They were disgruntled and complained to each other about the results of the election. Finally, one of my neighbors, turned to me and apologized. She said, “Oh, I am so sorry!  I hope we didn’t offend you.” And, I responded,
“Not at all. My guy won!”

My favorite apology came from the Crystal Cruise Line. I received a call, and the person on the other end of the line said, “I apologize profusely. We double booked your cabin. Would you and your husband consider a penthouse cabin at the same price?” I replied, “Hang on, I will ask him.” I counted 1,2,3,4,5, picked up the phone, and said, “Yes, that will be acceptable. No harm done!”

After the cruise, I considered that instead of  taking my clothes home, I should pack the Butler.

It is very difficult, for me, when in a discussion, a person is not fact driven, but rather faith driven. In other words, “I don’t care about the facts, they are not true, because I don’t believe they are.” So, recently, in one of my classes, when discussing scientific research about climate change, the industrial revolution, the burning of fossil fuels, and the destruction of vast forest areas,  one of the participants said,  “I don’t agree with what all of these scientists are saying.”  Essentially, he was denying scientific evidence. So, uncontrollably, I blunted out—YOU ARE WRONG!  And, immediately, I was sorry. The words had just popped out of my mouth.

So, later, I apologized to him, in front of the class. But, here’s what I said:  “I’m so sorry that I said “You are wrong, because you just might be right.” Whereupon, he replied, “And I just might be wrong.”  

Bingo!

Esther Blumenfeld (“I apologize when I’m wrong.”) Donald Trump