SMALL PROBLEM! BIG AGGRAVATION!

There are all kinds of adventures, but none quite like putting your car into “Park” and not being able to remove the key from the ignition. I pulled and grunted and pulled and grunted and was finally able to remove the key. When I told my friend, the engineer about my problem, he said, “Bring me a pencil.” He rubbed the tip of the pencil on the key, and like magic, it went in and out with no problem. Pencils contain Graphite. So, I purchased a tube of Graphite to insert into the ignition hole. That’s when I learned that the lead in pencils is a lot cleaner than the soot that shot out of that tube. Consequently, I looked as if I had just emerged from a coal mine.

My key behaved for two weeks until I went shopping for shoes. I arrived at the store, parked the car and the key shouted, “I’m not coming out of this hole. Think of all of the  money you will save!” I drove back home.

 Since I couldn’t remove the key, I called the Car Doctor, and made an appointment to take my little eighteen-year-old, 82,000-mile Saturn to the dealership, After all, my little car had earned an A+ when it had been serviced three weeks before.  However, I couldn’t get an appointment for two days, so I had to leave the key in the car. No problem! I always park next to very expensive cars. Why would a thief want my car when he could get his mitts on a brand new Jaguar?

The morning of my appointment, I arrived at my parking place. I pointed the car door opener at the car, but nothing happened. So, I put the key into the door, sat down and tried to start the engine. Again, nothing happened! It didn’t even snort or growl. Silence is not always golden.
I returned to my apartment and called AAA. Perhaps, I had a dead battery or a pack rat  had nibbled on the wires, or I had to be towed—not me—the car!

The white-bearded AAA man arrived in 10 minutes. I was thrilled!  They had sent Santa Claus to help me. He calmed me down, opened the hood, “boosted” something and the car purred like a kitten sniffing catnip. I drove the car to the dealership, pulled into the “Service”Entrance, and got in line with the other sick cars, and turned off the engine. When I was told to: “Pull up the car!” I yelled, “I can’t do that.” The service guy yelled back, “What do you mean, you can’t do that?” I replied, “My car refuses to get out of Park.” He shouted, “You have to get it out of Park, and into Drive.” “You do it “ I yelled back.

The Car Doctor, also was unable to remove the key from the lock. She gave me the diagnosis. I was informed that the problem could have one of two cures: Number 1 involved a part in the warehouse in Tucson (where I live). Number 2 involved a part in a warehouse in Los Angeles (where I don’t live.) Rudy, the kind and sympathetic dealership driver, drove me home.

EPILOGUE

Got a call the next day. THE GOOD NEWS: The problem is not with the ignition. THE BAD NEWS: The problem is with the “Shifter Assembly.” THE GOOD NEWS: “The part they need for surgery is in the warehouse in Tucson. THE GOOD NEWS: Rudy will pick me up.

HOORAY! I am no longer shiftless.

Esther Blumenfeld

DON'T FEEL BAD

Have you ever been at the right place at the wrong time? Or—at the wrong place at the right time? Of course you have, and so have I.  If it’s any comfort, Shashi Tharoor, member of the India Parliament said, “We are where we are at the only time we have.”

Yesterday, I arrived at the apartment of friends who had invited me for cocktails before dinner. I rang the bell (twice) and no one answered. It was then that I realized that I’d have to drink alone. I returned to my apartment and checked the calendar. My hostess had cancelled the first date of our get-together, and we had agreed on a second date. Unfortunately, both dates were still on my calendar, and I had failed to erase the first one.

Years ago, when my husband was a graduate student at Purdue University, I was invited to an afternoon tea given by faculty wives.  It was a command performance. My friend, Annie invited me to accompany her to the brand new home of a recently arrived faculty member. Neither of us was familiar with the neighborhood, nor had we been foresighted enough to write down the exact address. I suggested we stop and call for directions, but ever-confident Annie assured me we’d arrive on time.

After driving around the subdivision for 30 minutes, I was elated when she finally pulled to the curb, pointed to a house with many cars parked in front, and said, “Here we are. We are only 20 minutes late. The door’s open, let’s sneak in and mingle.” Trying to be as inconspicuous as possible, I worked my way through the crowd to the refreshment table which presented a variety of tea sandwiches, pate, smoked salmon, cheeses, fruits and sweets. Filling my plate, and grabbing a glass of wine, I slid into a chair in an alcove. Happily, I could sit there eat, drink and wait quietly until Annie would come and tell me it was over and we could go home.

Furtively, I  glanced around the room and made eye contact with a woman sitting on a sofa, and she beckoned me to join her. Desperately wishing that Annie had told me which of these women was our hostess, I reluctantly walked over and sat down next to her. She greeted me with an effusive “It’s so nice to see you.” “It’s nice to see you too,” I responded. Then she asked, “Have you known Katherine for a long time?” “No, I can’t say I have,” was my truthful answer. At that moment a woman of substantive girth plopped down next to me on the other side of the sofa. I was trapped. “Marie” said my new friend, “Have you met—?”  “Oh, Yes,” I lied, “Marie and I had the pleasure earlier.”

At that, Annie hurried over and said, “Excuse Me.” She grabbed my arm, yanked me off the sofa and hissed in my ear, “We’ve got to get out of here. This is a bridal shower!” Annie got out of the door, and I almost made it when I felt a hand on my shoulder, and I was face to face with our hostess, who smiled, and  said, “I am so glad you were able to come.” She was smiling, but—“Who the Hell are you?” hung in the air.

“Beautiful affair,” I mumbled. How could I explain that I had entered her home, eaten her food, 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 honestly answered, “I hardly recognized her.” She gave me a hug before I left.

Oh, Yes, there’s more—Years later, my husband and I prepared for a large, fancy party at our home which was to be held the next day. The caterers had left and we ordered a pizza for dinner. The doorbell rang at 7 p.m. but instead of pizza, two of our extremely well dressed friends had arrived a day early. We invited them to stay for pizza. They did return the next day. He wore the same suit, but she had changed her dress. I  greeted them each with a slice of leftover pizza.

Conventions are often held in hotels. Meetings are held during the day and parties are thrown at night. It’s always fun to see colleagues that you haven’t seen for a very long time.  We looked forward to a big party sponsored by the American Psychological Association. Getting off the elevator we entered the packed room, grabbed some drinks in fancy glasses, and looked for a familiar face—or two or three, but there were none. It didn’t take long for my husband and I to realize that we had gotten off the elevator at the wrong floor. This was a Convention of Plumbers and Pipe- fitters. Realizing our mistake, we elbowed our way through the crowd, got back on the elevator and rode up a floor to the correct venue. The psychologists were just as boisterous as the plumbers and pipe-fitters, but they were drinking out of paper cups.

Esther Blumenfeld

BIRTHDAYS ARE GOOD FOR YOU

It was a sunny afternoon in Atlanta, Ga in 1993 when, at a production meeting, I informed my editor at Peachtree Publishers that I was retiring, and that my husband and I were moving to Tucson, AZ. The staff sat in shock, and no one said anything until the editor said, “Does that mean you won’t be writing any more books for us?” I said, “That’s what it means.  I am retiring.” Of course the company had many more authors in their stable, but my book, OH, LORD I SOUND JUST LIKE MAMA, written with Lynne  Alpern, had sold a quarter-of-a-million copies, and this, together with some of our other books, was their mother lode. What I didn’t tell them was that at a previous meeting (discussing our new book, I REMEMBER WHEN—) someone had said, “This product will really sell!”  I don’t write products!

When my husband Warren retired his colleagues gave him a fancy clock. Why in the world would a person need a clock when everyday is Saturday?  When the actress, Helen Hayes retired she said, “Always leave them wanting more.” I am convinced that she was right! There is a difference between quitting and moving on.

 The newspapers are now running schandenfreude  stories about 88-year-old Senator Dianne Feinstein, who after a long illustrious career in the U.S. Senate, is now suffering from diminished memory, and she refuses to leave gracefully. It’s way better to quit when people laugh with you rather than at you.

We moved to Tucson in December, 1994 and my husband died in July, 1998. My brain didn’t work for a year, but then I started over as a playwright, and eventually directors began to recognize and produce my plays. So, when I was in my 70’s, audiences  around the country enjoyed my work until I retired once again.

Now, I am looking forward to my 86th birthday. Yes! looking forward. There’s no going back.
I have little patience with people who say, “I don’t want to celebrate my birthday. I’m too old!”
So how do I respond to that? I say,  “Well, my friend, I like knowing you, and am happy that your parents had sex!” The visual alone will stop all that complaining.

Occasionally, someone who reads my weekly computer story (or whatever you want to call it) will say, “You have written over 500 over these stories, you should submit them to a publisher,”and I will reply, “I don’t have the fire in the belly anymore.”

I know my limitations. There are things I have chosen not to do anymore. For instance, I don’t drive at night, and when I do drive in the daytime I don’t go too far because I don’t have to. A woman in my Senior Residence didn’t know when to quit driving until she tried to drive her car up a traffic pole. She didn’t stop until the light turned red.

I have discovered that where I live everyone has a fascinating story, although no one has led a charmed life. People here have been creators as well as survivors, and they are to be admired and enjoyed. “Yes!”  I’m having lots of fun getting to know them, and the folks who live here are making the most of everyday. Birthdays are good for you. The more you have the longer you live. Everyone wants to live a long and happy life, however too many people don’t want to get old doing it.

Robert Benchley said it well, “Except for an occasional heart attack I feel as good as I ever did.”

Esther Blumenfeld

TOO MUCH OF A GOOD THING

An article I read re-affirmed that breakfast is the most important meal of the day—so I had two of them. I figure that if too much of a good thing is bad for you, then too much of a bad thing must be worse. Given a choice, I will take the good thing every time. Mae West said, “You only live once, but if you do it right, once is enough!”

My husband, Warren was a generous man, but he really hated shopping. For instance, when I tried on two dresses in a fancy store, I asked him, “Which one should I buy?”  He replied, “Get both of them. Can we go home now?”  It made him happy when I bought things for myself, but occasionally he would bring me a gift— such as on the day, when I picked him up at the Commuter Rail Station. He smiled and handed me a very large bouquet of flowers. I thanked him, but noticed that they looked a bit wilted (the flowers not my husband), and  were tied together with a black ribbon. Suspiciously, I said, “These flowers are really beautiful. Where did you get them?” “Well,” he answered, “You know that today was the funeral of Senator Flinkus.” “Yes,” I replied. He said, “ They were for sale on the street, but at the end of the day, sellers were giving them away to commuters, so I thought you’d like to have a bunch.”  I said, “That was a very sweet thought Dear, but I am glad you didn’t bring me the funeral wreath.”

Warren was definitely a “good thing” so I appreciated the lobster he brought me from Boston, and the loaf of Sour Dough Bread stuffed in his suitcase from San Francisco.  After all, this was the kid who had given a basketball to his petite Mother on her birthday. However, his two offices—one at the University and the other at home— were definitely too much of a good thing.

Because he was involved in many research projects and made 10 copies of everything, his mess grew and grew. Had he thrown a few beans, into the piles of paper, he could have probably climbed up and met a giant. At the University, his graduate students would knock at the door, and ask, “Dr. Blumenfeld, are you in there?” And, I entered him in the “Messiest Office in Atlanta” contest.  He came in second. It seems a guy from IBM was a much bigger information hoarder. I used to tell people, “My husband suffers from piles.”

Too much of a good thing can be taxing—just ask your accountant.

Often “Stuff” we collect can be overwhelming, and you never know how much is too much unless you move. Then you realize that you have to rid yourself of the clutter. After all, when you get settled in your new place, you can always collect more. The best way to get rid of “Stuff” is to give it to your kids, so they can add it to their clutter, and if you feel nostalgic, you can visit the beautiful things you used to own.

Certain people can’t get rid of anything. They love to hang on. Unfortunately hanging on to old ideas, and memories of harmful relationships, can be too much of a bad thing. Clutter is not always physical stuff. It’s really better to visit the beautiful memories and share them with the people you love. Too much of a bad thing can spoil the broth.

For instance, when you are cooking, too much salt can ruin the dish.  However, when you are really cooking it’s always good to add some wine. However, when you cook with wine, don’t forget to add it to the food, but if you do—sometimes— that’s when too much of a good thing may be just about right. Cheers!

Esther Blumenfeld

HOOAH!

I’ve never served in the military, but when I was a little girl, during World War II,
my Father was a Chaplin at The Army/Air Force Base in Sioux Falls, South Dakota. When the jeep picked him up at our home, I’d go along for the ride. My Father said that my presence would help the morale of the soldiers who missed their own children. For me, it was lots of fun, and I learned early on that the military has its own creative language called, “Military Slang.” It is filled with acronyms and insider phrases that aren’t usually understood by civilians or— for sure— little girls.

Recently, I discovered a 400 page dictionary of military terms. One of the reasons that the military has its own lingo is probably in part because of the thousands of acronyms that the Department of Defense foists on its employees. Some of these military words or phrases have gotten into the vernacular partly because of Hollywood.  For instance, What’s with “Chow?” Why can’t a solider just say, “Food?” Maybe it’s because “Chow” is a better term when you are standing in line at the “Mess Hall” and the server throws tapioca pudding on top of your mashed potatoes. The “Scuttle butt” is that the brown baseball on your plate is meatloaf.

Most of us have heard the terms: “Boot” (recruit in Boot Camp), “Grunt” (Infantryman in the U.S. Army or Marine Corps), “Leatherneck” (Marine or John Wayne),or “Dear John Letter”(a sad letter to end a relationship).  One of my favorites is “Snafu” (situation normal: all f’ed up).
But, perhaps you have never heard, “Susfu Situation”(situation unchanged: still f’ed up) or
“Tarfu”( totally and royally f’ed up.)

Just for fun, I’ve chosen some PG Rated Military Slang Sayings for your enjoyment.
When he was a “Boot,” my husband, Warren had to pass a marksmanship test, and it was required that he hit all of the bullseyes..far, far away. Unfortunately, marksmanship was not his strong suit, but friendship was, so he hit more bullseyes than the number of rounds in his rifle. Happily, he was not a “Bolo” (someone who can’t pass marksmanship training). He also learned not to be an “Oxygen Thief” ( a recruit who talks too much.)

“Dynamited Chicken” is Navy slang referring to Chicken a la King. “Fangs” is a Marine Corps term for teeth, and “Five-Sided Puzzle Palace” is the Pentagon. Ribbons and medals worn on uniforms are “Chest Candy,” and maps presented by Military Intelligence are “Comics.”

Acronyms are invented to drive people insane. However, those serving in our military deal with them with alacrity. “PMS” is Professor of Military Science, and Marine Corps Planning Process depends on how you say it “MC—pee pee.” A “Rain Shower” is a shower, and a “Sky Blossom” is a parachute.

So much creativity…So little time, but when I came to ICBM, I decided not to touch that one with a six foot pole.

Esther Blumenfeld