Clean Up Your Act

Recently, I called my cousin who lives in Seattle to wish her a “Happy Holiday.” “Can’t talk now,” was her response. The kids are coming and I’ve just started cleaning the house.” When are they supposed to arrive?” I asked. “Any minute,” she replied. “Housekeeping is just not my thing!”

I told her that Joan Rivers is her soul mate because she said, “I hate housework. You make the beds, you wash the dishes, and six months later---you have to do it all over again.” Before I disconnected the phone, I suggested to my cousin, “Don’t make the house so neat that the kids won’t know where they are.”

I don’t hate housework, but my mind wanders when I am doing chores, and I forget what I’ve already done. For instance, when I put fresh sheets on my bed, I was thinking about the American Constitution.

After washing the sheets, I opened the dryer compartment and noticed black scuffmarks all over the inside drum. There were two possibilities for that phenomenon---either I had trapped a small South Korean rapper doing the Gangnam Macarena in there---or I had dried a pair of slippers with rubber soles. There was no little rapper jumping around in my dryer, so I cursed the shoes as I cleaned the appliance.  Then I discovered that the washing machine had swallowed the bottom sheet from my king sized bed. I called a friend to complain that a sheet was hiding somewhere in my house. She suggested that perhaps I had failed to remove it when I put the fresh sheet on the bed. She was right. It was all Thomas Jefferson’s fault!

Not wanting to be a total nincompoop, I turned on my handy-dandy MacBook (after all it is a “Pro”) and Goggled, “House Cleaning Tips From Heloise.” She was no help at all!

First tip: “Want to clean your refrigerator fast? Unplug it.” Unless someone named, Heloise comes over and helps me move the refrigerator, it’s going to remain plugged in. I think it would have been more helpful had she suggested, “Throw out anything that smells bad and has started growing on its own.”

The next hint was to clean the toaster by removing the crumb tray. It is so much easier to turn it upside down and shake. She probably should have said, “Do not try to remove stuck-on-stuff with a knife while the toaster is still plugged in---unless you want a new hair-do.”

I did like the suggestion about the dishwasher. “Get paper towels to remove shards of glass, bones and other gunk.” My mind began to wonder about people who put bones into their dishwashers. Do you think that’s the way scientists wash  their fossils?

The last suggestion made some sense. ”To conquer kitchen clutter, throw stuff out.” I think that includes husbands and children who want to snack on the party tray before guests arrive.

I quit reading her advice when it came to, “Tackle the toilet.” No way am I going to tackle that thing without a helmet.

Esther Blumenfeld (can a vegan use a feather duster?)

Forget It

When my Father was 90-years-old, he called me and said, “Something terrible happened to me today.” “What happened?” I asked. “For the first time in my life,” he replied, “I couldn’t remember someone’s name.” “Dad,” I said, “sometimes, I do that on purpose.” Of course, for a man with a phenomenal memory, he didn’t think my answer was all that funny.

Recently, I saw an ad in my newspaper headlined, “Age Proof Your Brain.” The advertisement claimed that by swallowing an expensive, little pill, all those forgetful brains out there would get a jump-start. I guess it’s kind of a flim-flam jumper cable to the noggin.

The AARP Magazine featured an article that offered some ways toward a fit mind:

     1.   Get moving: I think they meant exercise and not moving in with your kids.

     2.   Pump iron: I’m not sure if that will make you brainier, but you might end up looking like Arnold Schwarzenegger, and be able to write a forgettable memoir. 

     3.    Seek out new skills: I have learned to pump gas which is much is easier than futzing around with iron.      

     4.  Meditation:  Hummmmm.  Okay, that’s done. 

      5.    Eat Like a Greek: That means fish, vegetables, fruit, nuts and beans. However, if none of those are available drink lots of Ouzo. Opa!

      6.    Spice it up: I think they mean cur cumin---not phone sex.

      7.    Stimulating conversation: “It’s raining outside” is not stimulating conversation.

There is a phenomenon known as “autobiographical memory.” A person who has this gift can remember everything from everyday of his life. Josh Billings said, “There are lots of people who mistake their imagination for their memory.” That sounds like more fun than remembering that on August 18, 1967, you took out the garbage at 7 p.m.

Liars have to have good memories, because unless they keep a liars journal, it’s easy to forget when someone says, “Sorry you missed the meeting. How’s your Aunt Lulu?” A liar should be able to whip out his journal and reply, “The lobotomy was a great success,” rather than saying, “Who’s Aunt Lulu?”

My friend, who was gone for the summer, returned home and said, ”I open the wrong drawers looking for stuff.” I told her, “I don’t have to leave for the summer to do that.”

Sometimes a short memory can save a relationship, but then again, a memory can last forever. That begs the question, “So what are you going to do with it?” I suggest it’s a good idea to keep the good ones and file the bad ones into your mental museum.  Remember that Mama’s pot roast smelled so good. Try to forget that it tasted like rope.

Of course, memory lapses are both normal and age related. Teenagers notoriously forget their homework, books and lunch. Children in grade school forget to tell you---until bedtime--- that it’s their turn to bring the cookies to class the next day.

When my husband and I were out-of-town, our son Josh had forgotten to tell us (or the baby sitter) that he had volunteered to bring the first-grade-class pet home for the weekend. Then they both forgot to tell us that the pet had escaped, and was lost somewhere in the bathroom. What kind of beastie was it? And, did we ever find it? I can’t remember. You might ask the new owner of the house, once she stops screaming. It’s been 18 years; you’d think the thing would have died by now.

Esther Blumenfeld (“Women and elephants never forget.” Dorothy Parker)

What's In A Name?

Author, Kahlil Gibran said, “The real test of good manners is to be able to put up with bad manners pleasantly.”

When I was a little girl, I was taught that doctors, teachers, priests and rabbis didn’t have first names, and all other adults were called Mr., Miss or Mrs. Sometimes I was instructed to call a close friend of the family, “Aunt” or “Uncle.” I remember being introduced to “Aunt Birdie,” who made delicious sugar cookies. If she wanted me to---for those cookies---I’d call her the Queen of England!”

My father, a rabbi, (which means teacher) was invited to lecture at a Catholic college. The woman who introduced him didn’t want to use his first name, so she said, “And now I have the pleasure of introducing Father Richter.” My Dad’s response was, “Biologically, Yes. Theologically, No.”

Except for Mr. Whipple, the guy who used to squeeze toilet paper for a living on TV, many famous people don’t have last names. For instance, in history there were Napoleon, and Alexander, The Great. Unless “The Great” was his last name, we all recognize him as the King of Macedon who was tutored by Aristotle, another eminent guy with no last name.

In modern times, we have Lady Gaga, (which I always thought would be a lovely name for a golden retriever), and “The Donald”---not the duck, but the man with the bad haircut who fires people.

Nowadays, everyone calls me by my first name, even the five-year-old boy down the street, and it doesn’t even make his mother flinch. The Southern pleasantries of “Yes, Ma’am,” and “No Sir,” have given way to “What ever.”

I must admit that I contributed to the no-first-name-phenomenon, because when we used to get fresh eggs delivered from a farm, I’d yell, “Mama, the egg lady is here.” Never did know her name, but she did have a red birthmark on her cheek. Dad told me that an angel kissed her when she was a baby. I didn’t have much respect for angels after that. To think of it, Raphael, Gabriel and Michael didn’t have last names either.

Nicknames are another way to eliminate last names. Good golly, neither Little Richard nor Miss Molly had last names. Fats Domino, the rhythm and blues musician was recognized by both his girth and his game piece name, and of course most people know who Dubya is.

One way to have your last name recognized by others is to be named, Bright, Addison, Hansen, Crohn or Alzheimer. Diseases get lots of respect.

Esther Blumenfeld (“I call everyone ‘Darling’ because I can’t remember their names.”) Zsa Zsa Gabor.

Watch Out For The Trombone

Samuel Taylor Coleridge wrote, “Swans sing before they die---t’were no bad thing did certain persons die before they sing.”

The world is filled with unsuccessful singing careers, but many of those vocalists, with hope in their hearts and unrealistic expectations, continue to pollute the air with unpleasant sounds.

Two weeks ago, I attended a big band concert with my two best friends. The band was most entertaining, and the talented soloists made my heart sing. I enjoyed the evening immensely, until the bandleader announced that we were in for a big surprise. Ever since Pearl Harbor, I don’t like surprises. This one was a big man, who walked onto the stage without bending his knees—kind of like a mini-march. He stood in front of one of the trombonists, jerked his shoulders from side to side, snapped his fingers, and put the microphone into his mouth. Either he was going to swallow the thing, or sing.

I had driven several miles, paid good money to listen to a big band. Putting Herman Munster into the mix was like sticking a maraschino cherry into a dry martini. As he began to sing, the guys in the band were grooving and didn’t seem to pay much attention to the warbler. It would have been nice if this singer had at least pretended to keep up with them.

His performance reminded me of when George Burns said, “I love to sing, and I love to drink scotch. Most people would rather hear me drink scotch.” When the vocalist belted out “It’s almost like being in love,” he should have sung,” It’s almost like being alive.”

During one song, I think the trombonist stabbed him in the rear, but instead of bleeding, he pointed to the sky and hit a high note. The man had no rapport with the audience. As a matter of fact, he was so enamored with his own performance that he forgot there was an audience. My thoughts began to wander, but he got my attention when he snapped his fingers and shouted, “Come on Band!” I don’t know why he yelled at them because by this time they seemed to be doing just fine without him.

It was time for intermission. One of my friends (the kind one) suggested, “Maybe the singer is suffering from stage fright.” I replied, “Sometimes an entertainer has stage fright, but this is the first time I’ve seen an entire audience afraid that the guy is coming back out to sing.”

I read somewhere that music can make chickens lay more eggs, but I know chickens, and this character couldn’t even imitate a good cock-a-doodle-doo. After the break, the band returned and Herman Munster staggered in behind them. He had one more offering for the audience. He began to sing, “What a day this has been”---as if I didn’t know by now. He then beat his chest with both fists when he belted out—“A bell is ringing for me!” Scattered applause accompanied him off the stage. “Ask not for whom the bell tolls”---and all that stuff.

To paraphrase Thomas Beecham, “Some people don’t appreciate music, but love the noise it makes.”

Esther Blumenfeld (“Listen Edith, I know you’re singing, you know you’re singing, but the neighbors may think I’m torturing you.”) Archie Bunker

Thar She Blows

I don’t lose my temper often. As a matter of fact, in my adult life, I can think of only five times that I’ve let off steam, and I know it involved bullying, which I abhor. I remember that losing my temper felt pretty good at the time, until remorse set in over my loss of self-control.

When I was a child, I once lost my temper and it caused me great suffering. I was in fourth grade, walking home from school, when a big 7^th grade boy confronted me, and called me a “Dirty German!” A bit of history is necessary at this point of the story. When I was a toddler, my family and I escaped the Nazis by the skin of our teeth, and we loved the United States of America as only formerly persecuted immigrants can. So, when I was called a “Dirty German,” I stared up at my tormenter, made a fist, closed my eyes and screaming, “I am an American,” swung my fist as high as I could, and connected with his nose.

Everything went silent. Even the birds ceased chirping. I opened my eyes. The big boy had disappeared. Then I looked at my little dress and saw that I was covered with blood. I had killed him! But where was the body? It began to rain, and by the time I got home, I was soaked. Luckily the rain had washed away much of the evidence. I threw the dress into the bathroom hamper, told my mother that I had killed somebody and went to bed. Mother was upset that I didn’t want any dinner, but thought it was just another story told by her weird child, and assured me that I hadn’t killed anyone, because I was too short. I dreamed about the electric chair.

The next day, when I arrived at school, I spied the not-so-dead boy at his locker. His nose was a bit swollen, but otherwise he looked okay. I was so relieved that he was alive that I ran over to give him a hug, but he yelled, “You stay away from me.” So I did. On second thought, I decided that I didn’t want to hug him anyway.

I also remember losing my temper when I was twenty-five years old. My husband and I were visiting my parents, who lived in a small town in Indiana. They had a meeting to attend, so my husband and I went to dinner at the one nice restaurant in town. Our waitress was a woman with whom I had attended high school. In our yearbook, she was voted, “The most popular girl in the class.” Now she was a single mother, raising a young son, waiting tables in the small town she had never left.

We chatted a bit about days gone by, when suddenly the door opened and four boisterous men, who smelled of beer, entered the restaurant and plopped down at the table next to ours. They began to insult and hassle my former classmate, who avoided their groping hands while she took their order. I remembered that she had always excelled in Dodge Ball in P.E. class.

When she went into the kitchen to place their orders, I turned to them and said,  “The four of you owe that woman an apology. How would you feel if she was your mother, and four buffoons came in and hassled her? That woman is working hard to raise a child on her own. You jerks should be ashamed of yourselves, and you need to make up for your rotten behavior. Give her a big tip and straighten up!” Then I noticed their Notre Dame Football jerseys and added the coup de gras, “God is watching you!” Which I thought was a really good touch.

The men fell silent. I turned back to my table and noticed that my husband had slid down so far in his chair that he was practically under the table. “There are four of them,” he hissed. “I can’t take on four drunken Notre Dame football fans.” “Well,” I responded, I know how to make a bloody nose or two.” That didn’t console him at all.

When the waitress returned with their orders, the four men were perfect gentlemen. They said “Please” and “Thank You” in their best Altar Boy voices. She didn’t know what had happened, but was obviously pleased. My husband was so relieved that he wouldn’t be beaten to a pulp that he also left a big tip, and the “bloody nose” remark gave him something to think about for the next 40 years.

Esther Blumenfeld (A push too far. Not a pretty sight)