SO WHAT'S NEW?

I don’t understand people who never read newspapers. One of my greatest pleasures is rising early in the morning, grabbing a cup of coffee and perusing my daily paper. I start with the weather and the comics, browse sports, read the editorials in depth, and then I study both national and local news.

Some people tell me that newspapers are passé, and that they get their news off of their computers. I do that too, but AOL news is very different from what I get from my morning paper. I must admit that some of the story headers are enticing, but here are some actual headlines I copied off of my computer. Here’s all the news not fit to print:

    “Liven up your potato salad.”
    “Toupee rumors false.”

I didn’t read those stories, but I hope that the chef’s toupee didn’t fall into the potato salad.

    “Age women shouldn’t wear bikinis.”

With some women that age is never!

    “Lady Gaga wears penis shoes.”
    “Attractive use for using old cans.”

Perhaps, the story could have been combined, if she had strapped on a couple of tins of “heavenly original” Chock Full O’Nuts.”  

Then AOL gave us some investigative journalism:

    “How does your mop stack up?”
    “5 cupcake mistakes you are making.”
    “Depressing news about beer.”
    “5 signs your husband may be a psychopath.”

Obviously, some husbands already depressed about their beer become more psychopathic with each cupcake blunder. Some other stories seem to be related to one another:

    “Best diet if you’re short on time.”
    “Pillows look good enough to eat.”
    “Reason fruit is exploding in China.”

Makes sense to me. If you are in a rush in the morning, just take a bite out of your pillow, eat a piece of exploding fruit and you are on your way to losing that excess weight starting with your head.

I almost read the story, “Starbucks sued over dwarf firing,” because I didn’t know that Starbucks kept cannons on their patios. Then I saw:

    “Dad faints during birth.” He was probably only expecting the removal of a gallstone.

I turned off my computer when I finally read:

    “Rapture rumors prove false.”

Oh, heck, I have to empty the dishwasher after all.

Esther Blumenfeld (“Runner forgets one crucial step.” Lace up your shoes, Dummy!)

NOPE

What part of “NO” don’t you understand?

Every language has a word for “No.”  In English those two little letters can deliver a powerful punch. For instance, often politicians with jellyfish brains deliver a version of “No,” that affords them a feeling of empowerment.  However, often they are surprised when their “NOs” are countered with  community voices that shout..” NO! Not Ever!” Those “NOs” can come from around the world such as “Non,” “Net,” “Nie,” “Nein” or the Ukrainian “Ni!”

So when did you last use the powerful “NO” in your life?  Sometimes it’s a hard word to spit out, but once you do it, you will get better at it. “NO” gets easier if you remember that if you don’t say it, you just might have to say, “YES.”

Many years ago, just after I had become engaged to be married, I returned to the University and received a call from a young man who asked me out on a date.  I replied, “I’m sorry, but I won’t be able to go out with you because I am engaged.” He replied, “That’s no problem. How about next week?” Whereupon I replied, “I can’t because I am engaged permanently.”  To this day, I don’t know if he ever got it, but I hope his ego didn’t get a permanent hit.

Rejection is a fact of life for professional writers.  I learned not to take it personally, and I also learned that sometimes “NO” really has nothing to do with you. For instance, when I submitted an article to FAMILY CIRCLE MAGAZINE, it was rejected. However, the two editors who had read my story had inadvertently left their messages to each other in the rejection letter. This is what they said: “Myrna, this article is hilarious, I think it is a one pager, and we can get it for $500.00.  What do you think?”  Myrna replied, “Yes, it is extremely funny, but do we need humor?”

Saying, “NO” can be really difficult because you don’t want upset another person, but keep in mind that your time is valuable. When you say “NO” you are giving yourself permission to spend your time the way you either need or want to.

If you are still hesitant to say “NO” when speaking English, you can always get around it by smiling, lifting a draught of Guinness Stout and toasting the other person with a  hearty Irish “Nil.” If that doesn’t work try the Spanish—“NO way Jose!”

Esther Blumenfeld

AND WHOSE LITTLE ASSUPTION ARE YOU?

And Whose Little Assumption Are You?

I recently received a postcard with the photo of a baby girl wrapped in a bath towel. The parents had written, “Can’t wait for you to meet our little Daphne.
Love, Minnie and Buck.” They had made the assumption that, even though I didn’t know them, I’d send a gift to little Daphne, and that I wouldn’t notice the misspelling of my name. I finally figured out that Minnie and Buck are the progeny of people I haven’t seen in 40 years.

Wethern’s Law states that, “Assumption is the mother of all screw-ups.” I am convinced that not being a mind reader causes most arguments in relationships.
“You should have known,” makes the assumption that your partner knows what you are thinking, so there’s no reason to clue him in.

Another common assumption is that when someone is silent, he may not be saying anything because he’s thinking. Few people consider that he may just be stupid. And what about the “dumb blonde” rap? The blonde bombshell, Jane Mansfield had a genius IQ level of 163, spoke 5 languages and was a classically trained pianist and violinist.

We all make assumptions such as; (a) People will be on time for appointments. (b) The refrigerator will be cold when we open the door. (c) The medicine the doctor prescribes will cure us immediately.

My friend, Judy went to the drugstore to pick up a prescription. She said, “I am picking up a prescription for Judy Cook.” The pharmacist said, “There is no such prescription on record.” She replied, “Well, maybe it was made under my husband’s name, Don Cook.” “No such prescription,” said the pharmacist. “I don’t understand,” said Judy. “The veterinarian said she’d call in a prescription for my dog, Xerxes.” “Oh,” replied the pharmacist. “I have a prescription for Xerxes Cook.” I assume that Judy had to pay for the prescription, but then again, maybe Xerxes does have a charge card.

One of the worst assumptions is if a person supposes that documented facts can change another person’s opinion.  After all, we are all experts on our own opinions. Validity is based on fact. Faith validity is based on “I believe this is true, so consequently it is.” I recommend that it is useless to muddle up already befuddled thinking with facts.

Years ago, when my family took a car trip through the South, we ate at a small restaurant in Alabama. As we were leaving, the waitress said, “Y’all come back now. You hear!” Mom turned around and went back. She assumed the waitress had meant for her to “Come back.” “So what do you want?” said Mother. “Nothing,” replied the waitress. “So why did you ask me to come back?” said Mother. “I didn’t.” said the waitress. “Yes, you did,” said my Mother. “Well, Honey, I didn’t mean right now,” said the waitress. “So, why did you want me to come back?” said Mother. “I didn’t,” said the waitress, and she left in a huff.

As with most assumptions, I don’t think my Mother ever understood what that encounter was all about. She did have eyes in back of her head, but she wasn’t a mind reader.

Esther Blumenfeld (I assume my flight will be on time---or not.)

IN TENTS DISLIKE

Recently, a friend called to ask if I’d like to go to summer camp with her. I responded, “Maybe,” but I really meant, “Hell, No!”

When I was a kid, my friends attended all kinds of exciting specialty camps that offered horseback riding, classical music, ballet, drama, or science and technology. These places had beautiful names such as: Mountain Meadow, Eagle Hill and Chestnut Lake, and they cost a bundle. My parents didn’t have a bundle, so I was exiled to Camp Stagnant Water in South Dakota.

My cabin roof leaked, but only when it rained. It rained the entire week. I had chosen the bottom bunk, so I stayed relatively dry, but my bunkmate kept flicking spiders off her bed and they landed on me. Every night I watched her sagging mattress as it swayed and dipped closer to my face. She must have suffered from motion sickness because she threw up into my shoes twice. Obviously, her digestion wasn’t as good as her aim.

Counselor Bruin Hilda called the parents of one of the other girls in the cabin to come and get her because she put a pillow over the face of her snoring bunkmate. The snorer didn’t make it through the week either because she had chosen constipation over the snake rimmed outhouse, and had picked a bouquet of poison ivy.

I only swam once in the river at Camp Stagnant Water, because when I got to shore, I was covered with hanging leeches. It was an educational experience. Counselor Bruin Hilda was waiting for me with lit matches. She kept yelling, “Stand still!” That was not easy to do with bloodsuckers clinging to my body and Bruin Hilda lighting them like firecrackers.

Camp is obviously not my favorite activity. However, as a teenager, my son was an avid camper. He backpacked for 50 miles in the desert, slept in tents, slogged through mud and muck, and his postcards confirmed that he loved every minute of it:

“Dear Mom and Dad,” Great trip! We put out the fire on the bus. Love, Son.”

“Dear Mom and Dad, It’s real hot here. We haven’t had any rain for two weeks. The dust is pretty bad. I spend most of my time in the water or mud. I got a sunburn. It doesn’t hurt that much anymore. Camp is really fun. Love, Son.”

“Dear Mom and Dad, I’m learning about reptiles. Wait until you see my collection. We are having pizza for dinner. Today I saved a camper’s life. Thanks for the cookies. Love, Son.”

Esther Blumenfeld (survivalist.)

LINEAR LUNACY

Waiting in line (on line, if you are from New York City) is one of my least favorites activities. But, sometimes, if you bide your time, the payoff can result in a delicious meal at a restaurant, or an entertaining movie without a car chase.
However, standing in formation at the post office is as close to purgatory as I ever want to come. The reward for patience is negligible. No wine. No popcorn.

I discovered that you should never go to the post office on a Monday morning, before April 15th, especially when there are five customer service windows, twenty irritated people in line, and only one traumatized mail lady assigned to service everyone. Standing in the middle of that group gave me the opportunity to observe the ensuing drama. The young woman at the head of the queue had a screaming child attached to her left leg. The child’s cries echoed throughout the building, and I learned that if you want people to allow you to go ahead of them, it’s smart to cement a wailing toddler to one of your appendages.

As luck would have it, the next person was an indecisive stamp collector, who, after a painstaking perusal of all of the stamps available, finally left, after purchasing a single stamp. Then a guy stepped up to the window carrying an odd shaped package. He was mailing it to his mother-in-law. It resembled either a machete or a baseball bat. Either way, he’d better never divorce his wife.

The next customer purchased a roll of “Hardly Forever” stamps, and then a man stepped up to the counter with a flat box that he proceeded to assemble, tape and address. An old lady yelled, “Step aside S--- H---!” and as the muttering crowd pushed forward, he complied. Everyone cheered when a second mailman appeared behind one of the counters, but he left posthaste because he had no change in his cash drawer. Then the phone rang and he carried on a jolly conversation. When he finally returned to the counter, he had to leave again to collect a month’s worth of mail for the next person in line. This was the final straw for the woman in front of me, who demanded to see a supervisor.

After impatiently tapping, The Battle Hymn of the Republic, on the counter with her blood red fingernails, she finally got her wish, and the supervisor reluctantly slunk out of his hiding place. He informed her that because of cutbacks, the Postal Service was understaffed, but she could fill out a complaint form. “While I am here,” she begged, “Can you help me send this registered letter?” “No,” he replied, “I don’t do that. I supervise. You will have to get back into line.”

Finally, it was my turn. My forms for the Internal Revenue Service were prepared, addressed, sealed and ready to send. The next day I tracked my package on its way to “Never, Never Land”. My IRS form had been picked up, confirmed and delivered to the wrong destination. April Fool!  It took a month, and several phone calls to get my package to the right destination, but my taxes finally got delivered to the IRS.
I received a letter of apology from the U.S. Postal Service with a sheet of “Almost Forever” stamps. I think I will go to the grocery store, get in line and use a machine to check myself out.

Esther Blumenfeld (“The machine is broken. Get in line.”)