A FRIEND INDEED

My mother once told me that I couldn’t go outside to play because it was too dark outside. Nighttime was the only opportunity I had to collect fireflies, so her admonition made no sense to me. I plaintively said, “Mary Lou’s mother lets her play outside when it’s dark.” Whereupon my mother replied, “If your friend, Mary Lou jumped off a bridge, would you jump after her?” I thought about it, and then said, “No, but I’d miss her a lot!

Of course, as the years passed, I lost track of adventuresome, Mary Lou. But I’ve managed to form other friendships along the way, and happily now I can play outside any time I want---with or without fireflies.

Americans use the term, “friend,” very freely. Just sit next to someone on a long flight to Timbuktu, and by the time you land, you will have become best buddies.

A few years ago, I was invited to give a talk to a group in Florida. The woman who introduced me did a credible job, but ended her introduction by saying, “Now I am pleased to present my good friend, Esther.” That was warm and folksy, however I still have no idea who she was.

When my second play, UNDER MIDWESTERN STARS was accepted for production at the Kansas City Repertory Theatre in 2007, the Producing Artistic Director, Peter Altman, came to Tucson to meet me and discuss the play. Before we parted company, he asked me a strange question. He said, “Do your friends think of you as a playwright?” I thought about it and replied, “No, my friends think of me as a friend.”  It took a long time for me to understand why he had asked me that question. I think he was asking, “How do you consider yourself in relationship to others?” Peter is a very clever man, and now I am sure that he was really asking, “How big is your ego?”

The rise of social networking websites has diluted the traditional meaning of “friend.” Now all you have to do is to get on “The List.” You don’t even have to know the other people.

Here’s how I define a friend:

Someone who steals a book from your library, and returns it six months later because he needs his lawnmower.
Someone who isn’t related to you by birth but relates in ways that really count.
Someone who realizes that a conversation takes more than one person.
Someone who knows when to be there and when to back off, and
Someone who laughs with me---not at me.

George Carlin said it best: “One good reason to only maintain a small circle of friends is that three out of four murders are committed by people who knew the victim.”  

Women need their women friends and a telephone. Men are different. As Jeff Foxworthy so aptly put it: “Once we become friends with another man, we may never say another word to him, unless it’s valuable information that needs to be exchanged. Things like, ‘Hey, Jim, your shirt’s on fire.”’

Of course, men and women can be friends. You don’t always have to be on the same wavelength, you just have to develop selective hearing and give a knowing nod. Just be careful when you are asked a direct question such as, “Do these jeans make me look fat?” It’s always good to answer, “Oh My God! I’ve got something in my eye,” and then lock yourself in the bathroom until the next day.

Esther Blumenfeld (I have no old friends---just friends of long standing)

HELL-OF-A-DAY

I have never experienced a Haboob before, but when my beloved mountains disappeared in a dust storm, I knew I was in for trouble.  If I can’t see the mountain range, I become disoriented, and thanks to New Mexico, and the Haboob that they sent, I wasn’t sure what direction was where. It all happened on the day I was scheduled for an emission sticker for my car— as well as a new drivers license. The Motor Vehicle complex is a bit further away than I like to drive, but it’s where I had to go.  

First, I had to find the correct left turn lane (out of three) at a busy intersection. The lane I needed went both left and straight ahead, and once I turned left I had to be sure not to go up a bridge, but turn right on the correct street. I turned right on the street before the correct street, made a u-turn, got on the correct street and noticed massive construction on the opposite side of that road.  However, I had to pay attention to get onto the correct street that led to the Motor Vehicle complex.  I did find the street which was marked, “Turn Here,”  but a sign said “Go to the next traffic light.”  I turned at the light, and after  passing three unfamiliar streets, I finally found the drive-thru for the emission sticker.

Happily, the line of cars wasn’t too long since the outdoor temperature was approaching 100 degrees. A sign instructed me to stop at a machine and push a button for a ticket.  I pushed the button, but the ticket arm didn’t come close to my car window, so I had to open the car door to pull on the ticket which was stuck.  Cars were lined up behind me. I finally pulled out the ticket using both hands.

I reached the examining station and a young man instructed me to, “Step out of your car and stand on the footprints in the cement.” He inspected my car and then said, “Get back into your car.” Then his computer broke, and he left to get another inspector.  The other inspector came to the car and said, “Step out of your car,” and I said, “I will stand on my past footprints.” He examined my car and told me once again to, “Get back into your car. You passed inspection.” I think he meant the car and not me.

Now it was time to drive to the Auto License building. Miracle of miracles, I found a parking spot. As I entered the lobby, I read instructions to, “Sign in on one of the  computers.” All of the computers refused to work. So I proceeded to get into line with other disgruntled folks who had also wrestled with those inoperable machines.  

Finally, a nice lady at the license counter filled out the paperwork for my automobile license, and then she took my photo.  For the next five years, I will have a picture of me looking like the Pillsbury Doughboy.  When I was all done, I followed a sign that said, “Exit Here.”  Had I followed instructions I would have run into a wall.

Driving home on the construction side of the street was daunting, because the detour instructed me to drive on the on-coming traffic lane.  When a car, whose driver could not
follow instructions, came directly at me, I immediately got on an unfamiliar road—hoping it would lead me toward my Haboob covered mountains.  I had to fly by the seat of my pants, but obviously I made it, because you are reading this sad story.

When I entered the elevator on the way up to my apartment, a fellow traveler said, “And how was your day so far?”  I kept my mouth shut and got off on the wrong floor.

Esther Blumenfeld

SLEEP ON IT

The 4th of July is a Federal Holiday that commemorates the Declaration of Independence. To celebrate the occasion, folks enjoy parades, cookouts, athletic events and mattress sales.

After 18 years of good service, I decided it was time to replace my lumpy mattress. I had kept the original paperwork, and thought, “This will be easy. I’ll go to the mattress store and just order the same kind of mattress I had before.”
When I showed the sales lady my old bill of sale, she said, “This was a really good mattress. Unfortunately, the company is no longer in business, but we have many, many, many new brands for you to consider. Our price range goes from $500 to $10,000, but we can order a more expensive mattress if you so choose.”

I responded, “I don’t want to have to replace it again in a year, but I don’t want to drive it out of here either.” She said, “Before we begin. Do you have any sleep problems? What is your night like?” I replied, “I go to bed when it’s dark and get up when it’s light.” “So, you don’t have any body problems,” she surmised. “Well,” I answered. “I’d like to lose 5 pounds, but I don’t think that is mattress related.”

At this point, I think she wearied of our conversation, so she suggested that I try out some of the beds in the store. Eying a snotty nosed kid with his sneakers on one of the mattresses, I said, “I don’t think I want to try that one.”

First, I sprawled out on a Memory Foam mattress. “Unless, it can tell me where I misplaced my earrings, I don’t think this one’s for me,” I told her. “Do they make water mattresses anymore?” I asked. “We don’t carry those,” she replied. “Great,” I said. “Getting seasick is not my idea of a good night’s rest.”

After jumping from bed to bed, I decide that foam is not for me, unless it’s on top of a glass of beer. The “spring forward, drop back” mattress would be too confusing since I live in Arizona and we don’t have Daylight Savings Time. I’d probably be springing and dropping at the wrong time. Also, I was never good with numbers in school, so why would I want a Sleep Number” mattress that would be smarter than I am?

“Does the Temper-Pedic snap at you in the middle of the night?” I asked. The patient sales lady explained that the mattress isn’t angry and it is spelled Tempur-Pedic.

Finally, lying on one of the mattresses, I shouted, “This one is for me!” It was as close a match as I could get to replace my old one. Because it was a July sale, my sales lady took $400 off the listed price, and since she had a special deal on sheets and a super-duper mattress cover, I used the discount to complete the order.

Two days later, two men who must have been hired right out of the circus delivered my mattress. One carried my mattress on his shoulder, and the other one carried my old one out the same way. “You are the strongest men, I have ever met,” I exclaimed. “We do it all day long,” one man replied, “and after work, we go to the gym.”

My new sheets arrived a day later, which was a good thing, because the old sheets didn’t fit and I awakened that morning with the bottom sheet wrapped around my neck. I’ll bet the store doesn’t give a refund for a hanging!

Esther Blumenfeld (The princess should have removed the pea. It would have been cheaper.)

TRICK OR TREAT?

With a tongue-in-cheek disaster preparedness message, Homeland Security recently warned us that, “The Zombies Are Coming!” At first, I thought they meant that Congress was going back into session, but soon realized that they are urging emergency planners to better prepare local communities for calamities. So what’s with the zombies?

Naturally, this piqued my interest in the popularity of ghouls in the 21st Century. In my research, I discovered that teenaged girls find blood sucking vampires and hairy werewolves much sexier than zombies, so I wanted to find out why.

There are three kinds of zombies:
Hollywood zombies who are dead but “re-animated”.
Haitian zombies made that way by magical potions, and
Philosophical zombies, who have a “lack of conscious experience, but are identical to normal people”.

I’ve seen Hollywood zombies on Rodeo Drive, never been to Haiti, but am sure that some of the philosophical ones were in my college classes, because they slept with their eyes open.

From everything I read, I think that teenagers don’t love zombies, because they are “emotionally unavailable.” Besides, their diet consists of human flesh, (which is gross!). They rattle and groan, drag one of their legs behind them, have bad breath, and are covered with rotting skin and pustules. Maybe teens could identify with the pustules part, but the rest is seriously disgusting.

On the other hand, many teenaged girls want to marry a vampire. If you can overlook the “drinking blood” part (no one’s perfect), vampires are handsome; they can seduce any girl on the block; get rid of bullies; never get old (just like Peter Pan) and can party all night.

You could probably take a vampire home to meet your father. He just might prefer a pale guy with long incisors (especially if dad is an orthodontist) to one who staggers around in a muddy suit, grunts and keeps dragging that dang leg around the house.

Then there are werewolves. I guess they appeal to girls who like dogs and are vegetarians, because werewolves don’t eat flesh or drink blood. You could split a pizza with this puppy---unless he decides to kill you for the last slice. Werewolves wear forest colors, howl, bark and hangout---kind of like a Rock Band. They are usually moody teenagers, unlike vampires who look young, but are really 300-year-old guys who enjoy sucking on the necks of young girls. Yuck!

Breaking up with a werewolf is much easier than getting rid of a vampire, because all it takes is a silver bullet.  

Dating a vampire can’t be all that much fun. They can’t go out in the sunlight, so that leaves out hiking, biking, tennis and golf. And, if you want to get rid of this guy you need to carry a stake with you wherever you go, unless you happen to have a bottle of holy water in your back pocket.

Halloween is coming and one of these monsters might ring your chimes. Before you open the door, try to avoid becoming the treat. Give the vampire a chunk of garlic. The werewolf might appreciate a flea collar, and the zombie?  Well, I suggest the name of a good dermatologist. Then slam the door shut!

Esther Blumenfeld: “No place is safe only safer” (Max Brooks, The Zombie Survival Guide).

ALLEGORY

The Tower of Babel is a myth and parable in the Book of Genesis. It means to explain why people in the world speak different languages. According to the tale, in their arrogance, people started to build a Tower to Heaven to avoid another flood. However, suddenly they couldn’t communicate, because they all started to speak different languages.  So, they gave up on the Tower enterprise.

Most people living in the United States do speak English, but everyday, more and more, it seems as if we aren’t speaking the same language. For instance let’s examine a hypothetical subject such as— MY HAIR.

Invariably, after I get a haircut, some people will insist that I should never let it grow again, because they like it this way.  And, five-weeks later, other people will tell me (usually on my way to the Beauty Shop) not to get it cut, because they like it this way.

I would take a poll on the subject, but polls are only reliable on the day they are taken. Consequently, I am in a quandary. To whom should I listen? What is the reasoning behind the long and short of it—the conflicting votes?

Some would say: “Short hair gives the impression of youth and vitality.” While others would point out that, “Longer hair offers gravitas”.

I know that the care of short hair seems quick and easy, but it takes time and patience to let it grow. Also, some people could argue that “A short cut keeps hair out of your eyes.” However, I can always braid longer hair to see clearly what’s ahead.

What do my hair voters see that I do not? Am I being short sighted? Maybe if they could communicate with each other—- compromise could be reached —-and a reliable vote could be taken. However, then some Bozo in the crowd would probably bring up the question of color.
“Should she color or go white?” No compromise there!  No way will I ever go purple.

Can we ever compromise? Can we ever reach viable decisions on anything? For that we would all have to speak the same language, and communicate in a civil manner. However, it seems as if,  The Tower of Babel  has ruined everything.

Esther Blumenfeld