BREAKING OUT (PART ONE)

Sometimes the old homily, “There’s no place like home,” really means,” There’s got to be a better apartment than this!”

Shortly after our wedding, W.S. and I moved to the second floor of a married student-housing apartment on campus. All the allotted university funding had gone into the uninspired red brick structures, and there was no money left for landscaping---let alone grass seed. The one-bedroom place was sparsely furnished. The bedroom had a bed and the small main room had a table, a desk, two chairs and a bamboo curtain which, when opened, revealed a Lilliputian stove, refrigerator and sink. The bathroom sink, shower and toilet were also undersized, fitting the dimensions of the pretend room.

The first thing I noticed was that there was no covering on the windows, but the un-air-conditioned place was hot, so I opened a window. With that, a swirling cloud of dust blew in and comfortably settled on everything including my hair and face. W.S. figured out that if we coordinated the opening of the windows, by opening the window on the other side of the apartment, with a little luck, the dust storm might just blow through before touching down.

That evening, “Touchdown!” took on a whole new meaning. We hadn’t had time to shop for a lamp, and it was too early to go to sleep, so we sat in our two chairs looking out the window. Getting up and heading toward the refrigerator, W.S. said, “Look at that moon. Isn’t that beautiful? I love a full moon.” “It’s pretty, all right,” I answered. But it looks as if there are two of them, and they are getting closer.”

“What do you mean?” he asked. “I’m not kidding,” I replied. “Come look at this!”
The approaching moons were getting closer, and suddenly our whole apartment was awash with light, as we felt a rumble, and heard the unmistakable roar of an airplane engine. That plane was heading right for us.

“Hit the deck,” W.S. yelled, as we both dove for the floor under our wobbly table waiting for the impact. But there was no crash. The nose of the plane lifted, the pictures on the wall tilted, and it roared up and away leaving the roof over our heads intact.

The next day, we learned that the property where married student housing sat was cheap, because it was directly in the landing pattern of the airport. We got shades for the windows and earplugs, but neither of those things helped when the college band began their daily blaring of horns and marching at 6 a.m. on the field next door. It was definitely time to move. Breaking our lease due to sleep deprivation and fear of flying might have worked, but the waiting list for the clueless, looking for cheap housing, allowed us to make a rapid escape. Little did we know that we would soon become nostalgic for the good old days of approaching airplanes and loud trumpets.

Esther Blumenfeld (To be continued-----)

CROSSING WITH THE BLUE LIGHT, Blumenfeld c. 2006

HALL WALKERS

It is now the end of  September and the weather in Tucson, Arizona is still unseasonably hot. However, I’m not sure with climate change what season means anymore. It is cool enough to take a morning walk outside, and hot enough in the afternoon to take a dip in the pool, but unless I am doing Yoga in my living room, or dancing in my kitchen, the only exercise I have left, in these pandemic days, is to walk the many halls in the building.

Yesterday, I took the elevator to the Club Section on the 5th floor, which is really the 4th floor, but people think it is the 5th floor because their apartment numbers start with the number 5. They tell me it has something to do with the slope of the land, but standing outside the building, all I can see are 4 levels—not 5.

Anyway, when stepping off the elevator on maybe-5 there is a beautiful living-dining-room area, and a mystery unmarked door.  I know it’s not the Unisex Bathroom that has a sign,”currently out of service.”  I have one of those near me too on the kind-of-3rd floor. Obviously, they don’t want any unisex people to use it, because all of these bathrooms have been “currently out of service” for 12 months. There is no mystery door on my floor.

I did ask one of the other hall walkers about the mystery door on almost-5, and she told me, “It’s locked. The thermostat is in there, and they don’t want us to adjust it, so they have it hidden.” A whole room set aside for a thermostat. How fancy!  Well, after all it is the Club Section.

Next, I walked on the 4th floor which is really the 3rd floor. I have a friend on that floor in the Club Section and her balcony is two levels up…kind of like being on 2 but after all  it’s the slope, and the numbers on that floor all start with the number 4, so it must be 4. It is a very nice floor, but there is no special room for the thermostat.

My apartment number starts with 3, so I must be on the third floor except the swimming pool is on that floor and it looks as if the pool is on 2. Also, some apartments are next to the sidewalk. That is some slope! All of this strange numbering is very confusing which is cruel because some old folks are already confused.  To make matters worse, all of the carpeting in the halls are the same except those that lead to the Assisted Living wings.  They are exactly the same except the line down the center is a golden color (like the yellow brick road) otherwise the carpets are identical.

Some apartments on all the floors face a lovely courtyard.  It is called “The Events Plaza.” Because of the virus there are no events on the Events Plaza except the occasional dog that poops on the artificial grass. The Plaza is on level 2 adjacent to the lobby where people enter from the parking lot.  There are apartments on level 2. They start with the number 2, so I know that level 2 is not 1 even though you enter from the parking lot.

One of the 4 restaurants on maybe-2 is open for dinner.  Seating is 6 feet apart from each other and since almost everyone wears hearing aids there’s a lot of “What?” in the conversations.

I have discovered that there are faithful hall walkers. One man walks relatively fast and his girlfriend chases him up and down the halls everyday. One lady is not fond of the artwork on the hall walls, and another woman claims that the pattern in the carpet makes her dizzy. I suspect she is that way without the carpet. Sometimes, I can spy a mini cocktail party in one of the nooks and crannies of a hall. People manage to have fun no matter what.

But, I still wonder what else is in that secret room on maybe-5. Is it the lady or the tiger?

Esther Blumenfeld

SO SORRY!

No one likes to apologize, because it is an admission that you have said or done something unacceptable. An apology is also an acknowledgment that you are less than perfect, just like the rest of us. There are all kinds of apologies—-those given from the heart, the half-hearted, and the dim-witted ones. “Better late than never,” does not apply for an apology given to a dead person.

Hugh Kingsmill said, “Friends are God’s apology for relations.” A good friend should accept your apology knowing that you would never intentionally say or do anything hurtful. It is always worthwhile to examine the source of the, “I’m sorry!”

I am always willing to accept someone’s apology, but I also know that my response should fit the “My bad.” For instance, when a worker doesn’t show up at your house when expected, his apology is usually a lament over his wretched truck. A tweak to the ego may be appropriate saying, “I am so disappointed, I thought you could fix anything.”

Some people apologize in a way that makes you feel that their mistake is  really your fault such as, “My dog won’t bite. Oh, he’s never done that before!” Then there is the “Schadenfreude” (sad/happy) apology. “Oh, I am so sorry that your team lost, and mine won, but after all, it’s only a game.”

It’s always fun to look for the little correction box in the local newspaper, where the editor expresses regret for a printed error. For instance, “We inadvertently printed the name, ‘Bootsie, the Stripper’ under the photo of Reverend Mabel, of the Sacred Memories Church.”’

It makes absolutely no sense to remain upset after a sincere apology. Why waste 60 seconds on anger when you can have 60 more seconds of happiness in your life? However, on the flip side, if your apology is not accepted by someone, who enjoys holding a grudge, I suggest you let them wallow and move on.


Realizing that an apology is a good way to have the last word, I often, just can’t help myself.
After a Presidential election, I was sitting at the Community Pool, when four neighbors entered the pool area and sat at an adjoining table. They were disgruntled and complained to each other about the results of the election. Finally, one of my neighbors, turned to me and apologized. She said, “Oh, I am so sorry!  I hope we didn’t offend you.” And, I responded,
“Not at all. My guy won!”

My favorite apology came from the Crystal Cruise Line. I received a call, and the person on the other end of the line said, “I apologize profusely. We double booked your cabin. Would you and your husband consider a penthouse cabin at the same price?” I replied, “Hang on, I will ask him.” I counted 1,2,3,4,5, picked up the phone, and said, “Yes, that will be acceptable. No harm done!”

After the cruise, I considered that instead of  taking my clothes home, I should pack the Butler.

It is very difficult, for me, when in a discussion, a person is not fact driven, but rather faith driven. In other words, “I don’t care about the facts, they are not true, because I don’t believe they are.” So, recently, in one of my classes, when discussing scientific research about climate change, the industrial revolution, the burning of fossil fuels, and the destruction of vast forest areas,  one of the participants said,  “I don’t agree with what all of these scientists are saying.”  Essentially, he was denying scientific evidence. So, uncontrollably, I blunted out—YOU ARE WRONG!  And, immediately, I was sorry. The words had just popped out of my mouth.

So, later, I apologized to him, in front of the class. But, here’s what I said:  “I’m so sorry that I said “You are wrong, because you just might be right.” Whereupon, he replied, “And I just might be wrong.”  

Bingo!

Esther Blumenfeld (“I apologize when I’m wrong.”) Donald Trump

TURN OFF THE LIGHTS

Having house guests from out of town is a great pleasure for me, and I always enjoyed entertaining the many friends who visited and stayed in our home over the years. However, when my husband and I moved to Tucson, Arizona, we were warned that we will encounter people who want a place to stay in the winter, rather than especially wanting to see us.

I scoffed at that, until I received a phone call from a woman in Atlanta, Georgia. I wasn’t sure who she was until she reminded me that we had met at a party several months before I had moved to Tucson. I remembered the party. I did not remember her. She gushed, “My husband and I are coming to Tucson for a week. We would just adore spending time with you.” At that, I replied, “How nice, and where are you staying?” I never heard from her again.

The strangest encounter with house guests was a story told to me by some friends who were hosting a fancy party in their home. Their out-of-town in-laws were invited to stay with them. They arrived the day before the party. That evening they all went to bed early, because of the many preparations ahead. The next morning, my friends entered their kitchen, and discovered that the kitchen walls had been painted an electric blue. The in-laws had painted them during the night as a nice surprise. The day of the celebration was spent repainting the kitchen walls, and the evening was spent entertaining unsuspecting party goers.

Then there is the problem of guests who won’t leave.

I never had a problem with guests who overstayed their welcome, but I am  part owner of a very large house that has had many guests over the years.  Happily, not one of them has stayed longer than was expected. Unfortunately, there is a guest staying there now, who just may overstay his welcome, and refuse to leave. A guest who is no longer welcome, and won’t leave, is technically a trespasser.  So, how should I, and my fellow owners of the house, handle the situation should it arise?

First of all, we must make sure that the trespasser knows that he is no longer welcome. It can be difficult to tell someone, whom you have previously given permission to stay in your house, that he must go somewhere else. If he won’t leave, I guess changing the WI-FI password might work. Stripping his bed while he is in it seems a bit drastic, but taking the key and changing the locks is a possibility.  Things can get tricky if the houseguest has paid any money toward household expenses, because then he may be considered a tenant. I don’t think that this will pose a problem.

Here are a few polite ways to get a guest to leave:
 
Remind him there is an end time on the invitation.
Start helping him to pack.
Throw out the hamburger wrappers and put a lock on the refrigerator.
Politely ask him how he is getting home.
If all else fails, bring out family movies of the people who were guests in the house right before he moved in.

Finally, you have to be prepared that he may be a bit upset—all a-twitter and sputtering tweets. But you have to be firm and let him know he has over stayed his welcome, by saying, “It’s not working out anymore, and we can’t afford for you to live here any longer.”

If none of these suggestions work, call Truly Nolan and ask them to bring an extra big sprayer.

Remember: “Every house guest brings you happiness. Some when they arrive, and some when they are leaving.” Confucius

Esther Blumenfeld

HOMOPHONES ARE NOT A SEXUAL PREFERENCE

Years ago, the precedent of a large corporation dyed, and the second in command called to hire me to right the eulogy he had bin asked to deliver. So, sympathetically I replied,”It will cost you!” And, it did.

Never having seen nor met the man who past away, I needed to due some research before righting a few words that sounded sincere. Of course, the best way to dew that was to talk to sum people who new him. I started by searching out an elderly ant who new him since his berth. She told me that he had been the air to a large fortune on his mother’s side that provided him the lute to begin his business.

Then, I approached the mother of his too children, and she spoke from the hart. It was rather a bazaar conversation, because although she didn’t seem to like him very much, she side when she said, “He eight too much, liked his boos, and was a cheep lyre.”

Well, that would have maid for a colorful eulogy, but all I could rite was that she gave me a pique into his colorful personality. Next, I tried a neighbor, but the on-going lawsuit about a creak that ran between their properties had lead to nothing butt descent.

His forth wife was quite attractive. She had put lots of moose into her  hare  which hung down to her waste.  She war a very tight read cashmere  sweater, body-fitting genes and five-inch heals. She seamed board with my questions, as she waived her wet fingernails near my face. About her husband, she tolled me that, “He had gneiss hare,” and “His aftershave had a gneiss cent.” Then she put on her furze, and left. But, rite before she gambled out, she did mention that her step children were  going to stop contesting the will long enough to attend the funeral. They planned to say a few vial words about hymn.

Whew!  That left me off the hook. They could preys him or tell the grizzly plane truth. All that was left to me was to talk to his secretary, whom I was tolled, thought him a grate boss. Finally, someone who could give me a clew what to say about the old buoy. When it was her tern to talk, she came close to tears, and with a horse voice she whaled something about prophets and duel accounts and doctored tacks, and although he had given her a lone, and she was no none, she had to admit he was truly a “retch.”

Unfortunately, I had mist nothing, but I had an assignment, so I wrote: “He took the rains of his father’s business, and in a matter of daze, it became a success far and wide. He would go on to urn a reputation that would be preys from see to see. This was quite a feet, and he will always be remembered and mist by those in the whirled of business. Let us paws,  raze our glasses to hail him and say, Buy, Buy to The Head of our Teem.”

And that’s the whey it was.

Esther Blumenfeld