WHAT'S GOING ON?

When Alfred E. Packer ate five companions in a Colorado blizzard in 1873, the furious judge shouted, “There were seven Democrats in Hinsdale County but you voracious man-eater, ate five of ‘em.  I sentence you to be hanged by the neck until you’re dead, dead, dead as a warning against reducing the Democratic population of this state.”

Although chances of a blizzard are slim in Arizona, some Republicans in Maricopa County (Phoenix included) are chomping at the bit and baring their teeth as they support the “Big Lie,” and look for unsubstantiated voter fraud in a secret 2.l million ballot audit.

It’s been almost six month since Joe Biden won this red state, but Doug Logan, a supporter of election fraud claims, and CEO of Cyber Ninjas, is supervising the secret audit.  The Republican sponsored recount is like wading through elephant doo doo after lots of flatbed trucks hauled voter equipment and 78 pallets containing the 2.1 million ballots to a shabby local coliseum for a by-hand audit.

Three previously held recounts of the entire state ballots showed no fraud or reason to doubt the voting results in Arizona, and the Republican Governor signed the paperwork to affirm that Joe Biden did win the Electoral College votes for Arizona. So what is all this hoopla really all about?

Do these bozos (who will not let journalists monitor what is going on) think they can overturn the election results?  Not likely unless they brazenly change the already often counted ballots themselves. However, the results of this unseemly audit could be an excuse for state lawmakers to change how we vote—starting by making it more difficult to  Vote-by-Mail.

The reason all of you in other states should be interested is because your lawmakers are watching very carefully what is happening in Arizona. Some have voracious appetites to also push through changes that will make voting more difficult.  Beware! Our democracy may be the main dish at that banquet.  Georgia has already prepared the appetizers.

Esther Blumenfeld

KEEP YOUR COOL

One of my Father’s favorite activities was to officiate at a wedding. The chapel was full, and he noticed a highly pregnant young woman seated in the front pew. As the organist began to play the wedding march, Dad said, “Please rise.” Everyone stood up including the highly pregnant young woman.  Suddenly, there was a “pop,”  and her skirt fell down around her ankles. However, since she was in the front row, and everyone was standing, few people noticed.  That was when I learned a lesson from my Father.  “When the unexpected happens always keep your cool.” All he said was, “Please be seated.”  He never added, “and pull up your skirt.”

Several times in my career, I encountered the unexpected when I wanted to yell, “Sit down and quit rocking the boat!” but I never did. For instance my co-author, Lynne Alpern and I were often booked as guest lecturers at various meetings and conventions.

At a convention in Tampa, Florida the venue was filled, so, when a busload of senior citizens (old folks) arrived, they were seated in chairs on either side of the stage. Obviously, our humorous presentation was a hit, because one of the old men laughed himself right out of his false teeth, and they scuttled across the floor.  I whispered to Lynne, “Don’t step on the teeth.”  She whispered back, “Don’t step on the WHAT?” But before I could clarify, the old man shuffled over to his teeth, popped them back into his mouth and took a bow. He stole the show!

At another venue in Texas, we started to speak after a  dinner, that had also included a cocktail hour. A humorous talk is always funnier after cocktails.  The elevated stage was very dark so we couldn’t see the audience, but they could see us. Suddenly, I looked down and I was standing in a puddle of water.  A stream of water was slowly coming out from behind the stage. Again, I had to warn Lynne, “Don’t touch the mic,” but this time it was a matter of life or death. I did not want either one of us to be electrocuted in Texas.  Oh, Yes, we did go on with our talk, and no one noticed that we were drowning.

In Atlanta, we were scheduled for a talk show at Ted Turner’s Cable News Station at 2 a.m. It was  dark outside, but lights were blazing in the News Station, and people were calling into the show from other time zones. One man called and said, “My wife has no sense of humor!”  I said, “Mister how long have you been married?”  He snarled, “45 years.”  I said, “Believe me!  Your wife has a sense of humor!”

Another late night TV host invited us to talk about our books. We were seated with other guests in the Green Room (which is never green). One guest was a female hypnotist accompanied by her husband, and another was a man who had invented a video for cats. He had brought two cages filled with cats, and assured us that his cats would sit quietly and watch the video when he was called into the studio.

I chatted with the hypnotist and she told me that she was going to hypnotize her husband on air. I said, “I hope you will be able to snap him out of it.” Offended, she replied, “Of course I can,” and then she proceeded to zone him out.  Then she was invited to go on air. She snapped her fingers and nothing happened. She snapped her way throughout the entire interview and he never emerged from his stupor.  To this day, she is probably still snapping.

The cat guy was on next.  He started his video, released the cats and they ran all over the studio with the studio crew in pursuit.  Our interview went very well since the host was inordinately happy to see us. He laughed a lot.  It might have been hysteria.

My husband, Warren was also an author of funny books, so sometimes our  publicity folks would schedule us together on radio or TV shows. One time we were booked for a radio interview in Phoenix.  No one can see you on radio, therefore radio stations are usually messy places—and no one dresses up. However, this radio station was different. The men were dressed in suits, and the women were also in formal outfits. Warren had worn a shirt, shorts and flip flops.  I was dressed a bit better but not by much. When we got into the booth, the engineer came out to fit us with headphones and said, “Are you going to speak about your ministry?”  Oops!  it was a Church Station. The host was an elderly lady with a braid of white hair on her head, wearing a dress with a Peter Pan Collar. She conducted a pretty good interview, but occasionally, Warren would emit a  surprised, “whoops.” When we left, I said, “What’s with the ‘whoops?”’  He said, “She had her hand on my knee.” Now that was a religious experience!

I won’t tell you about the time our publisher booked Lynne and me to do stand up at a comedy club, and the host introduced us by mooning the audience and dropping his pants.  That’s a hard act to follow…but that’s also another story.

Esther Blumenfeld

ADJUSTING THE REARVIEW MIRROR

Recently, when I stumbled upon my Kindergarten report card from 80 years ago, I remembered how much I had been looking forward  to first grade. That must have been the case because my Kindergarten teacher wrote, “Esther is a bad rester!”

After that, I was always in a hurry for the next years to come.  I was never just 6-years-old.  I was 6 (and-a-half) 7 (and-a-half) or 8 (and-a-half).  Then at 14, I looked forward to 15 and that magical path to freedom called a Driver’s License.  A few years later, my 21st birthday offered legal voting and drinking booze (not necessarily in that order.)

I celebrated my 21st birthday as a student at the University of Michigan. A restaurant called “The Pretzel Bell” offered a free pitcher of beer for the auspicious occasion. Not especially liking beer or being much of a drinker was no excuse not to gather a group of friends, stand up on a table, and chug-a-lug a mug or two.

The problem was that I had a date that night, with a very nice fellow, who had blown a wad of cash on tickets for the opera, “Aida.” He offered to call a cab because of the inclement weather,  but I said, “Oh, No!  Let’s walk.” I sobered up enough to sleep through the opera with my eyes open.

At 22, I was married to a different fellow named Warren, who had been devoutly opposed to blind dates, but his Aunt had said to him, “All you have to do is take the girl out. You don’t have to marry her.” He married me out of spite!  Several birthdays just slipped by as I worked to help my husband pay for graduate school, and then move from place to place as his career flourished. Suddenly, my 31st year arrived, along with motherhood. Then my years were measured by our dear son, Josh’s accomplishments. And, of course, the years slipped by all too quickly.

However, during this time I had managed to establish myself as a free-lance journalist with steady work, including two full time humor columns. My 50th birthday marked the publication of OH LORD I SOUND JUST LIKE MAMA written with my friend, Lynne Alpern.  It made several best seller lists and sold a quarter of a million copies. Our second book came out the same year (that is another story). When our 7th book was published I was 57 years old.

Then, I retired at 58 (and-a-half) and we moved to Tucson, AZ. However, life took a cruel turn when my husband died two months after my 62nd birthday. For a year, my creativity lay dormant until a woman suggested, “Why don’t you write a book on widowhood?  You do it so well.” That snapped me out of my Zombie state. All those years ago at Michigan, Professor Rowe had advised me to continue playwriting. It was time to take his advice.

At 67, my first play, HERE AND THERE had a two month run on the 45th anniversary of the celebrated Detroit Repertory Theatre. At that time, I said to Josh, “I think that’s it.”  He replied, “No, Mom. You have another play in you.” So, when I was 72, my second play, UNDER MIDWESTERN STARS appeared at the Kansas City  Repertory Theatre featuring a Broadway cast, and a Director, and an Emmy Award winning set designer—both from Los Angeles.
When a journalist from the Kansas City Star asked me, “How could you have written a play at your age?” I said, “I’m not too old to dream.”

When I was 76 my third play, FATHER’S ASHES” won two awards and had a staged reading at the Scottsdale Center for the Performing Arts in Phoenix, Arizona.When I was  82-years-old, a staged reading of UNDER MIDWESTERN STARS was finally held in my hometown.

Now, I am no longer 84 (and-a-half ) because on May 3rd, I will celebrate my 85th birthday. Some people live a life with their glass half full. Others live a life with their glass half empty.  Frankly, I am happy just to have a glass—while appreciating every precious moment— of every passing day.

Esther Blumenfeld

IT AIN'T VENUS

The last time I had a physical exam, my Doctor, poked my leg and said, “You have a Vascular Malformation. Doe’s it hurt?” I said, “It didn’t until you poked it.” He told me that I should show it to my Dermatologist. “She’ll zap it with a Laser.” I followed his advice and she said, “I don’t zap. This could cause a serious problem if it bursts. Does it hurt?” I replied, “No, unless a doctor  pokes it.”

My Dermatologist then sent me to a Cardiologist  who specializes in hearts and veins.
When she said he was a “vein” Doctor, I thought, “He must be full of himself,” but it wasn’t that kind of vain.

The Ultrasound Technician told me I had a “Venus  Cluster.”  It sounded so beautiful. I said,” If a man has one, do you call it a Mars Cluster?” He said, “It’s not that kind of Venus.” I still like my Venus better than his Venous. Then, I met with the Doctor (who wasn’t full of himself) and scheduled my surgery.

The receptionist said, “There’s a cancellation in two days.  Do you want it?” Of course, I wanted it. Who wouldn’t want to avoid more Venous poking? The receptionist then told me to get to the surgical office thirty minutes early, if I wanted  to take a Valium. I said, “I don’t take that stuff!  I am loopy enough on my own.”

I arrived on time and took the elevator to the second floor, and was taken in for the procedure. the Ultra sounder, the Doctor and two nurses were ready for me. First the Doctor and the Ultra sounder traced the veins in my legs to see which ones led to the Cluster. Of course, being me, my veins went every which way and more so. Finally, they found a good path.

The Doctor kind of deadened the area when he inserted the needle, but no one warned me that he was going to set my leg on fire. I jerked and almost kicked his face.  He shouted, “Don’t move. You might dislodge the needle.” I froze in place. Everyone seemed so pleased when he was finished—especially me! He said, “It’s working. See, the cluster is turning pink.” Then, of course, he poked it, and said, “It’s getting soft.”  Suddenly, pink became my favorite color.

After he left, the nurse put a long support stocking up my leg, and then wrapped tape around a hard boomerang she had placed above my knee for added compression. I was instructed to keep it there for 48 hours.  I was given directions not to lift anything over 15 pounds, so I won’t buy two gallons of milk  and a box of cookies anytime soon. Also, I was not to exercise or walk up and down hills for two weeks. However, I was encouraged to walk for 30 minutes a day.  Heavy duty Ibuprofen became my best friend.

The first night I wrestled with a pillow trying to put it under my leg. I lost the pillow when it fell on the floor, and then I couldn’t find my leg.

Seven more days and I can remove the compression stocking. I hope that the next time I see the Doctor, he won’t poke around and find Jupiter.

Esther Blumenfeld

LOOK WHO'S TALKING

When I was sequestered in my apartment during the pandemic year, I had many illuminating conversations with myself. The upside is that I tended to win most of the arguments. Even though I was relatively sane, I also talked to inanimate objects. For instance, when I found my misplaced cell phone in the pantry, I said, “What are you doing in here?” However, even though it’s a phone, it didn’t answer me.

I must admit that at times I also shouted at my television set. Not really!  However, I screamed at the news pundits appearing on my television set. They never yelled back at me, but sometimes the TV set did rebel.  On occasion it would go to a black screen and challenge me to go to a different “TV input.” That wasn’t one bit calming!

Now, that I have had my Moderna shots, I am free to don my mask and  get out and about. Happily, I can talk to anyone within listening distance. When I entered Walgreens for the first time I gleefully cried out, “I am back! It’s the first time I have been here in a year.” The clerk hid under the counter and whispered, “We missed you.” I think she was just being kind, because I had never seen her before. The fellow at Ace Hardware was more sincere when he handed me a toilet plunger and said, “Welcome back!”

When I entered the grocery store I felt as if I was entering Tiffany’s. Although I had always appreciated the grocery home delivery service, it felt good not having to tip myself. For a year, once a week, I drove my car for twenty minutes to exercise the battery, but I never went anywhere except back home. I always apologized to my little Saturn. It got even with me by killing the battery.

For several months, until the beauty shop in my residence re-opened, I cut my own hair. When my son Josh saw me on Face Time he said, “Mom, you are looking more and more like the Beatles.” And, I hoped it was more like Paul than John.

During the  pandemic, it was a great consolation to be able to take walks around the beautiful property, and I enjoyed joining some other early bird walkers, but we all wore masks and stayed 6 ft. apart from each other, so most of the conversations were a muffled, “What did you say?”  It was exhausting.  I did enjoy when I walked by myself and  could talk to an occasional deer, rabbit or road runner on the path.  The coyotes never stopped long enough to even look at me as dinner. However, it was disconcerting when two big, long tusked javelina ambled toward me. When I shouted at them, they ignored me and kept on coming until they reached their familiar path, looked at me with great distain, and walked away.

Slowly, things are starting to return to normal and I am able to have dinner with friends who live in the residence.  All of us have had our shots and the atmosphere is relatively normal. The only problem that presents itself is that now my conversations include more people than myself. So, I’d better develop some engaging conversation, and learn not to interrupt myself while talking.

Esther Blumenfeld