SCARY STORIES FOR HALLOWEEN

There are  people in life who march to the beat of a different drummer, and then there are those who don’t have a drum. These folks are just plain odd. Here, then, are some true tales of scary folks who have stumbled across my path. I have changed the names to protect the clueless among us.

When I was in high school, one of my friend’s father was an undertaker, and the family lived above the mortuary. My friend, Lily was a shy girl, but nevertheless a friend. However, for me, it was always a challenge to visit her in her home. Her father was a peculiar man who never smiled and rarely talked and seemed to appear when least expected. I always had the feeling that he wanted to take out a ruler and measure me for a wooden box.  Lily’s mother was a cheerful lady who hummed patriotic songs like, “The Battle Hymn of the Republic,” and spent lots of time “downstairs.” I wasn’t sure what she did down there, but the last time I ever went to Lily’s house was when her mother came upstairs with a kit, and asked us if we wanted a make-up lesson. I politely declined and found my running legs.

Later in life, I met three uniquely weird women—all wives of my husband’s three different bosses. These women rated high on the “extremely bonkers” chart. Minnie, the strange one, never talked. She was not clinically mute, she just chose never to speak. Consequently, when we were thrown together, I had to assume that she was an incredibly good listener, so I commenced to ask and then answer my own questions. Of course, I carried on scintillating conversations with myself. To this day, the skill has come in handy. After awhile I didn’t mind that she didn’t join in on the conversation other than an occasional smile.  One day, her husband told me that Minnie really enjoyed my company. I guess that was because I never disagreed with myself.

Then when we moved to a different city, my husband’s new boss invited us to his house for afternoon tea. When we arrived, his wife Belinda was nowhere to be seen. When we sat down, the kitchen door was flung open, and a woman (whom I assumed was Belinda) arrived with a silver tea service, on a silver platter which held three cups and a plate of cookies. Without a “Howdy,” she slammed the tray on the coffee table and shouted, “ I will be sewing in the kitchen,” and then she left. As we awkwardly balanced tea cups on our laps and munched on cookies, I could hear some pithy swear words coming from the kitchen. After an uncomfortable hour, we said our goodbyes. No, I did not enter the kitchen to thank our hostess since sewing involves some extremely sharp scissors. I always assumed that Belinda was not in the mood for company, and happily I never saw her again.

I don’t think that my husband’s job descriptions included, “put up with the insanity of your bosses wife,” but sadly it happened one more time with Clarissa. Clarissa was a fashionable, intelligent well-spoken woman who invited us their home for dinner. When we arrived, we noticed three cats running back and forth across the dining room table. They were feasting on the remains of what looked like lunch. At that sight, I began to miss Belinda. I didn’t offer to help clear the table, because those were three really, really big cats.

My husband’s new boss, oblivious to the situation offered me a martini. I think I stopped at two. After Clarissa cleared and re-set the table, she invited us to come in for dinner. I don’t think she served Kibbles and Bits because that’s for dogs. One of the cats was walking across the piano keys and the other two were somewhere under the table. The next day, out of the blue, I received a call from Clarissa who just wanted to “chat.” She proceeded to chat and chat and chat and then said, “I like you. Now we are friends.”

The strange friendship ended abruptly the next day when we received a call that Clarissa had killed herself,“after tidying up her house.” I don’t think it was caused by anything I said, but am glad we never got around to doing the “pinky pal” thing.  Immediately, we drove to pay a condolence call, but no one was home. Turns out that my husband’s boss and his two sons had gone to a movie. I don’t know what happened to the cats.

Recently, I met a woman who I am convinced is in the witness protection program, because she is not forthcoming about any information about herself. However, she did let it slip that years ago she had to take her 90-year-old mother’s shotgun away from her, because she was too old to hunt for moose.

Some people can be more of a trick than a treat, but with a little toil you can avoid a heap of trouble which is a good thing to remember at Halloween.

Esther Blumenfeld (BOO!)

IT WENT THAT-A-WAY

Whoosh! There’s another day. Where did it go? Then a week—then some more—and suddenly it’s time for another haircut. Yes, I measure my weeks by haircuts. Some days are great, some, not so much, but I am already 15 minutes older than when I began this article.

Some people say, “Age is just a number.” That’s true, but in my case it’s a big one. Then some people tell me, “You don’t look 85.”  I’d rather have them say, “You don’t act 85.” However, I’m not sure how I am supposed to look or act, but then, I never was good at doing the expected.

I recently read that researchers are finally going to study healthy seniors, taking into account that an occasional hip or knee replacement, or running around with a walker does not mean that a person isn’t generally healthy. Consequently, if those smart researchers asked me, I would suggest that they throw away the categories. There’s “young old,” “old,” “old, old” and even older than dirt. Common! It seems as if until now researchers have concentrated their studies on those categories, but they forget that being old is not a disease, and that all old people are not diseased.

Now, those smart folks are beginning to study the many elderly who are on a healthier track. From what I have read they are discovering that healthy aging involves more than the
old standard advice: “Eat better.” “Sleep better.” and “Exercise.” A case in point: My father never exercised, and his sleep was interrupted by nocturnal trips to the loo. Granted, he rarely drank more than an occasional glass of wine and did not smoke, but he did enjoy his meat and potatoes, and had a sweet tooth that matched his sweet and good humored disposition.

When he was 85 years old, he called me and said, “Something terrible happened to me.”  I said, “What happened?” He replied, “I forgot someone’s name.”  As a scholar he was invited to speak to many groups, but when his vision faded, he memorized his lectures and kept right on teaching. One day, after tutoring a student in the morning, he had a stroke in the afternoon and died a day later at 95. I considered him a “young old,” and he was not the only one.

No two people are the same, and old folks should not be pigeonholed. Granted, some people are either physically or mentally challenged, but every old person I know (and I  know lots of them) has a fascinating backstory. It’s a given that no one has led a charmed life, but it is still indeed a life worth living.

I have a great deal of respect for my fellow travelers on this old age journey. Old age is not contagious, but it is a path we all have to traverse. It is better to pack some fortitude, courage and lots of good humor, as well as gratitude, in that bag of tricks, and I predict that those researchers will discover that healthy oldsters have an attitude that warms the cockles of the heart.

Making the most of everyday is the secret, and if you are lucky there will be time for another haircut.

Esther Blumenfeld

EGO BUBBLE

Giving a talk in front of a bunch of strangers is one thing. Giving a talk in front of a large group of people you know is something else. If you flop with strangers you can always rationalize, “I’m never going to see those people again.” However, when I was invited to give a talk at my new Senior Residence I knew that not only would I see those people again, I’d run into them walking down the hall, getting my mail and at dinner in the dining rooms.  Now that is pressure! If I flopped, I’d have to wear a mask over my entire face.

It was going to be a big crowd in an unfamiliar venue. No one had ever given a speech in the newly built Ranch House. When the doors opened the people kept coming, and I knew it was going to be a full house. The topic of my talk was, “What’s So Funny?” If no one laughed I’d have to change the title to, “What’s Absolutely Not Funny At All?”

Before I began, the microphone  was hung around my neck and switched on. I was relieved that at least if I talked loud enough no one would be able to fall asleep. I then asked the audience to turn off their cell phones. That was like telling a toddler that his security blanket would have to go into the washing machine. I told the audience that if their cell phones went off during my talk that it would probably be their grandson calling from prison asking for more money. That went pretty well because no one threw a rotten tomato. As the talk progressed the laughter grew louder, and I prayed that no one would swallow their mask. People are so litigious.

When I was finished everyone applauded  A LOT!  Was it because they had enjoyed the speech, or were they glad it was finally over and they could go home for a nap? Then the question period began. I made up many answers, but was thrown for a loop when someone asked, “Who’s your favorite author?” I should have seen that one coming, but did not. The only author I could remember under pressure was Frances Hodgson Burnett who wrote the children’s book, THE SECRET GARDEN. That was pretty lame.  I should have said—“MOSES!” His writing was succinct, and in 10 simple bossy sentences his self-help tablet book was a huge success— and he became famous. Luckily, he only had to rewrite them once.

After the speech a group of rowdy friends surprised me with a celebratory dinner with wine and flowers and smiley faced cupcakes and candy corn—a tribute to my corny humor. Of course “All’s well that ends well” until someone says:

“That was really funny.  I didn’t know that you did anything.”

“I couldn’t make your speech. Can you do it again?”

I didn’t come because I didn’t know if you’d be funny.”

“How was it?”

“Where was it?”

“I had mohs surgery. Do you want to see the scar?”  AND—-

“I’m looking forward to attending your speech tomorrow.”

That’s the story folks, and I’m sticking to it. No ego trip here!

Esther  Blumenfeld

Physician Heel Thyself

On October 5th my friend received a message on her computer from the office of her ENT (Ear, Nose and Throat) Doctor.“I am the Doctor’s Virtual Assistant. Your appointment has been cancelled. Can you change that appointment to March 30th, 2022? If so, press ‘Yes.’ If not, press ‘No.’” My friend pressed, “HELL, NO!” I think she should have responded, “Hear No Evil, Smell No Evil, Speak No Evil—-You Virtual Nincompoop!”

I, on the other hand, on September 29th received an e-mail from my Dental Office. It was short and sweet. “Please call the office to reschedule your appointment.” I called immediately. The Phone Robot informed me  that I could not reschedule my appointment, because the office would be closed from October 1st to October 7th to upgrade their equipment in order to “enhance my patient experience.” I felt neither patient nor enhanced.

Admittedly, physicians are very busy people. Consequently, I am usually required to make my follow-up appointments either 6 months or a year in advance. However, after arranging my schedule, and sometimes transportation, it is most annoying to get a call a few days before my appointment that the Eye Doctor won’t be available—like it was my fault and not a joint decision. Then, after making the change, it is most aggravating to get a call which informs me that, “The doctor won’t be in this office on the day of your appointment. Can you hitch the huskies to your sled and come to his far, far away office on the other side of the world?” Of course, my “No, I don’t go there,” will get me another appointment on another day. Two appointments down. I hope I don’t have a third one. I don’t need a charm. I need a check-up.

My recent experience was in the Twilight Zone. My favorite doctor now has two offices and their human schedulers could not seem to coordinate appointments. I was shunted from one scheduler to another and they just couldn’t figure out where I was supposed to go (or when!) I am really not a tough case. All I needed to do was to stick out my arm, bleed for the technician and then have my doctor interpret the gobbledygook  on my report card. I was afraid that if I couldn’t get an appointment with my doctor, I’d have to register as a new patient and then be informed that, “The doctor doesn’t accept new patients.”

Finally, I did get an appointment. “Your appointment with the doctor is at 9:15 a.m. but he will see you at 10:15 a.m. Come 15 minutes early and bring your insurance cards.” I know that the pandemic has taken a toll on all of us including my talented physicians, and I will continue to trust and respect them—as long as they don’t refer me to their new partner—Dr. Google.

Esther Blumenfeld

SWEEET AND SOUR TONGUE

My cookbook MAMA’S COOKING, CELEBRITIES REMEMBER MAMA’S BEST RECIPE (co-authored with Lynne Alpern) was published in 1988. I didn’t care so much about the recipes, because my emphasis was on the funny stories. However, Lynne did test some of the “a pinch of this and a fistful of that” recipes. Cooking was never my favorite sport although occasionally I still enjoy uncomplicated baking.

When I moved into my newly built senior residence two years ago, I was the first occupant in my apartment. Consequently, no one had ever used the brand new oven in my G.E. stove. I generally use the oven to store pots and pans unless I get the urge to bake a cake or some assorted cookies. My stove burners have a glass top and work just fine, but the oven seems to have a mind of its own, so I have had to drastically adjust the baking time other than the recipes suggest. Consequently, a month ago I requested a visit from the G.E. Service Technician.

A burly, heavily tattooed fellow, who yelled like a Marine Drill Sergeant squatted in front of my oven and turned it on. After couple of minutes he barked, “The temperature seems fine.” I think he tested it with his index finger. Then he added, “Maybe you are having trouble because of the altitude. You do know that Tucson is a high city.” At that, I suspected he might be higher than the city and I replied, “I have lived here for 25 years. My former house is right across the street.” Then I added, “However, I do live 3 floors higher than I did. Do you think that could make a difference?” He thought about that for awhile.

Then he said, “Ovens have hot spots. If you bake a cake you need to keep turning the pan so it will brown on all sides.” Then I knew that this Bozo had probably graduated at the bottom of his oven class, because every baker knows that if you keep opening the oven door to turn a cake, some cakes will just give up and deflate. Obviously, he was going to be no help at all.

As the weeks passed, I kept baking, and adjusted the oven temperature or baking time, as best I could. I also gifted some of my dear neighbors with some of my creations. They are all such nice people whom I now know will eat almost anything.

Finally, I purchased an oven thermometer. I took all of the pots and pans out of the oven, and put the thermometer into my oven and set the “Bake” button at 375 degrees. When the stove beeped  informing me that the 375 degree heat had been reached, I put my cake into the oven. Then I looked at the thermometer which registered 325 degrees. Oops! I turned the oven up to 400 degrees and adjusted the baking time by 20 minutes. Miracle of miracles the cake turned out just fine. I think it was okay, because my neighbor asked for the recipe and she assured me that her taste buds are intact.

So, now I have requested a return visit from a G.E. Technician…BUT!  not the same one, because I am sure he would blame the discrepancy on my thermometer.  I wonder if Sylvia PIath had her oven checked by a G.E. Technician. Boy, am I glad mine is electric.

Esther Blumenfeld