Like This Is Like What It's Like

A few weeks ago, I was listening to Diane Rehm, the award-winning interviewer on NPR (National Public Radio) and she used the expression, “My bad.” The next morning, once again, those two words showed up in the newspaper comic strip, Zits. “My bad,” it seems, is the new, ”I’m sorry.”

In 1887, Thomas Hardy wrote, in The Mayor of Casterbridge, “The universe likes nothing better than change.” I’d venture a guess that most teenagers haven’t read, The Mayor of Casterbridge, but they certainly like change---especially when it involves the English language. We used to call it “slang,” but now I think it is a linguistic revolution brought about by modern technology. Kids are better with computers than most adults, and have finally found a way to communicate without “POS” (parents over shoulder).

Some people will think that this creativity is “sick” (awesome, cool, or surprising), but it just leaves me “SMH” (shaking my head). My 15-year-old friend down the block would say, “Don’t get ‘salty’ (bad attitude) on me, while telling me that my new shoes are “ill” (great, cool). Recently, I asked her, “How is your new teacher?” And she replied, “He’s so fly.” That is good. But she had to cut our conversation short, because she wasn’t wearing a sweater, and the weather had gotten “dumb” (very) cold. She also said, “I have to go do my homework, so I won’t be put under ‘house arrest’ (grounded).

I don’t want to be “Old Testament” (old school) about all of this, nor do I want to “Nancy Drew” (over-analyze) it, but sometimes it’s “OBVI” (obvious) that I’m a bit “Jell-y” (jealous) when I try to communicate with kids, and I find that my efforts are on “Epic Fail” (task meant to be easy but isn’t).

Last night was “Flop” (didn’t work out). I was supposed to go to dinner with a friend, but she “flopped” on me. She’s such a “flop!” Then I got invited to a “Kickback” (a small party). Everyone was “uberklempt ” (excited) about the pizza, but the delivery was a “Big Fail Mary” (did not go as planned). The order was “jacked up” (messed up), and everyone thought that anchovies with pineapple tasted “rank” (gross).

Luckily, I had brought my camera, and had the “brillaz” (brilliant) idea to take a picture of the group. Unfortunately, it was a “fail” (failure) because the pizza delivery guy got in the way and caused a “photobomb” (ruined the picture).

Maybe because I exposed their secret language, teens will think I’m a “Hater” (assume I am ruining their lives on purpose). If they believe that, they are “pwned” (pronounced owned, and means, someone has proven you wrong). Because, by the time you read this article, I have already become a “n00b” (someone who doesn’t have knowledge of words for teens that are popular this week). For you purists, “n00b” is spelled correctly.

So read it and weep, or LOL (laugh out loud).

Esther Blumenfeld (my spell check just had a nervous breakdown)

Stuck On You And Everything Else

Someone in Guangdong China must be quite a practical joker!

I purchased a blouse, brought it home, and discovered an anti-shop-lifting device hanging from the sleeve. I knew that the only way to remove the “gator tag” was to either cut off the sleeve or return to the store. The magnetic strips on the tag were supposed to set off alarms, but obviously, this time, the electronic surveillance thingemajig hadn’t worked. It was made in Guangdong.

When I approached the saleslady, she removed the tag, and accusingly said, “How come the alarm didn’t go off when you left the store?” “Beats me,” I responded. “Maybe you should have your exit door removed.”

Electronic article surveillance was established in 1998, but it is a benign annoyance compared to those little plastic wire price tags that are attached to most articles that can be clamped, hooked or bolted. They are fastened with an “Attacher Tagging Gun,” which is another argument for gun control. Most of the time, I end up cutting off only half of the tag, and then the other end of the plastic barb hides somewhere in an article of clothing, only to emerge, and then prick me at a most inopportune time, in a most unreachable part of my anatomy.

However, most aggravating of all, are the brand stickers on my fruits and vegetables. These little fellows contain the PLU (price look up) codes for the convenience of store clerks. This helps them so they won’t have to distinguish between red and green apples, and deciphers how the fruit was grown. Conventionally grown produce has a PLU code of 4 numbers. Organically grown produce has 5 numbers beginning with number 9, and genetically engineered produce has 5 numbers, beginning with the number 8.

This technology was developed by an affiliate of the Produce Marketing Association. So, why, with all of this fancy numbering and sticking, didn’t any of those smart people figure out a way to remove the infuriating stickers from my tomatoes? I can vouch for the fact that they aren’t edible. When I inquired about sticker removal, it was suggested that I soak my fruit in warm water. I don’t even do that with my socks! The upside is that, if I can remove them, I can make a fashion statement by wearing banana stickers as tattoos.

My biggest gripe is the gluing of price tags on books. I love books and do not want anything adhered to them other than my opinion. And, it was suggested that I use lighter fluid to remove those sticky tags off the bottom of plastic cups. Common! Lighter fluid?

Esther Blumenfeld (I give up. The apple wasn’t so good, but the price tag was delicious)

Are We There Yet?

Recently, I overheard a friend telling someone that I don’t drive at night. This is not true. I drive at night. I just don’t love it. As a matter of fact, driving is not my favorite activity.

When I was 15-years-old, I learned to drive on the icy roads of South Dakota. It was either you skid or you miss. I never missed.  South Dakota was the last State in the Union to require a driver’s license. Consequently, it wasn’t unusual to see young children, who were accustomed to operating farm equipment, driving cars down country roads. There wasn’t much traffic, and people didn’t drive too fast, so I enjoyed it---but not anymore.

I’ve been in three accidents in my life. A young man who was on his way to procure brakes for his car caused the first. Unfortunately, he tried to get wherever he was going by running a red light and crashing into the driver’s side of my car. He claimed it wasn’t his fault because, “How was I supposed to stop without brakes?” He went to jail.

The second accident was with a man who thought he was on his side of the road, and couldn’t figure out why I was coming right at him. He took several swigs from his whiskey bottle before the impact. He told the police, “I’m too drunk to get out of my truck.” They believed him. He went to jail.

An old lady who couldn’t tell the difference between her gas pedal and her brake pedal caused the third accident. “I guess I stepped on the wrong one,” was her defense. She didn’t go to jail, but had an “S” for “Stupid” tattooed on her forehead. Well, she should have!

Who, in his right mind, thinks rush hour in Los Angeles, New York or London is fun? Or, who thinks driving in Italy or Greece is anything but insane when people drive on sidewalks? There are some nutty drivers out there. I was almost hit by a flying taxi in New York City. The driver yelled at me in a foreign language called “Bronx.”

Atlanta is a city with three perimeter highways. A few years ago an Atlanta Braves player couldn’t find the exit to the ballpark. He never did make it to the game. As far as I know, he is still going around and around and around. He is probably an old man by now.

I was in Tijuana, Mexico when the electricity failed. Drivers sat on the clogged streets and honked their horns hoping that someone would move. The police didn’t seem to care, because they were busy arresting a street vendor who was caught stuffing his tacos with iguana meat.

On the plus side, cars are built much better than they used to be, and I tend to get attached to my old car and want to drive it forever. My feeling is, “When you have something old and reliable, why take a chance on something new?”

Years ago, my parents asked me to drive them somewhere in their brand new automobile. After driving a stretch of highway, I came to an abrupt stop in front of a telephone pole. I didn’t hit it, but slammed on my brakes. When my Dad exclaimed from the back seat, “What are you doing?” I pulled out the steering column, with the attached wheel, and handed it to him.  I think that’s when I learned to say, “Next time, you drive.”

Esther Blumenfeld (“Everything in life is somewhere else, and you get there in a car.” E.B. White)

Beware Of The Child In You

My friend, Joanna is a beautiful, brilliant retired computer wizard. She was the only woman executive working for a large international company, and was in charge of the creative geniuses, whose innovative work made them what regular people would call, “other worldly folks.”

No one in her department showed up for work before 2 p.m. For them, “Dawn” was the name of a dishwashing detergent, not a time of day. None of these computer nerds were morning people. So, when the Head of Human Resources sent a memo requiring Joanna and her department to attend a motivational workshop at 7a.m., her creative staff spent the afternoon developing imaginative excuses as to why they would be absent. Unfortunately, since she was the Department Head, Joanna felt arm twistingly obliged to make an appearance.

Business people attend many meetings, and motivational speakers are hired to “energize the team”---whatever that means. Here is where I am obliged to reveal that since my co-author Lynne Alpern and I taught a course called, “Adding Humor to Your Life,” and had written the book Humor at Work, we were invited to entertain at different venues around the country. However, we never claimed to “create contagious leadership skills.” Our simple aim was to make people laugh and sell some books.

A motivational speaker differs from an inspirational speaker. Inspirational speakers usually tell the audience about overcoming a Sisyphean obstacle, while motivational speakers try to energize and influence workers to pull together and move them to action. At 7a.m., the only movement Joanna wanted was toward the coffee pot.

The speaker began by shouting, “My aim is to expose the child in you!” He began by asking the audience to jump up and down, and shout out, “Let’s have some fun.” No way was Joanna going to risk breaking a heel on her designer shoes, nor did she think this was going to be any fun, so she stood up and quietly developed the mantra, “If he knows what’s good for him, he will keep away from me.”

After a few more childish exercises, the speaker said, “Now that you all have recaptured the child inside, I want to find out, “What was the best advice you remember getting when you were very small?”

“You,” he said, pointing at Joanna. “You, tell us the best advice you ever received as a little girl.” The room fell silent. None of her colleagues thought Joanna was ever a “little girl.” Joanna took a sip of coffee, patted her coiffure with her manicured fingers and replied, “Don’t eat the yellow snow.” She was allowed to leave early.

Esther Blumenfeld (ask and ye shall receive)

And Then There Are Cats

I was recently invited to a party where the host’s little French bulldog greeted me at the door with a few enthusiastic yips and the wagging of her little behind.  Although throughout the evening, she barked at some other guests, it was the last time she vocalized at me. Rather, she spent much of the evening sitting near me on the sofa, or on my feet under the dining room table. For some unfathomable reason, I seem to have a calming effect on animals. I don’t soak my feet in beef bullion, nor do I wear chicken liver eau de cologne.

Another friend has an old, part-chow-part-imagination, dog with a ferocious growl, but she too, only wags her tail when she sees me, and invariably sits near me throughout the evening.

When I hike in the mountains, the deer glance my way, and then continue to nibble on plants while I sing to them. I can get close enough to touch them, should I so choose, but I must admit that the music lovers tend to distance themselves.

One day a Road Runner (bird) ran over my foot on his way to a lizard lunch, but he wasn’t afraid of me. Bull feathers! He didn’t even know I was there--- my Rodney Dangerfield moment.  My favorite bird encounter was with the little “What’s It”, who sat in a tree and chirped without pause. When he spied me, he flew to a branch close to my head and kept right on singing. I finally walked away when he began to sound too much like my teakettle.

Cats, of course, either accept you, or they don’t. It took awhile for my son’s cat, Radar to welcome me into the family. When I first met him, he ran behind the sofa and peeked out from time to time---giving me the once over. Soon, he discovered my black coat, which I had tossed on a chair, and it became both his property and cat hair depository.

The first time I was left alone with that cat, he looked at me, ran around the apartment, climbed and jumped on everything he wasn’t supposed to, and finally took a running leap, skid across the dining room table, tumbled off, taking the tablecloth with him. He untangled himself and meowed, “Now, I guess you know who’s boss around here,” as he rubbed against my leg.

I didn’t tell anyone about his antics, because I was afraid he’d take out a contract on my life. That’s one big cat! We’ve been friends ever since.  Occasionally, he will sniff my hair to check out if I washed it with catnip. I guess it’s a guy thing.

Esther Blumenfeld (“A cat always leaves a mark upon a friend”) Spanish proverb.