SLEEP ON IT

The 4th of July is a Federal Holiday that commemorates the Declaration of Independence. To celebrate the occasion, folks enjoy parades, cookouts, athletic events and mattress sales.

After 18 years of good service, I decided it was time to replace my lumpy mattress. I had kept the original paperwork, and thought, “This will be easy. I’ll go to the mattress store and just order the same kind of mattress I had before.”
When I showed the sales lady my old bill of sale, she said, “This was a really good mattress. Unfortunately, the company is no longer in business, but we have many, many, many new brands for you to consider. Our price range goes from $500 to $10,000, but we can order a more expensive mattress if you so choose.”

I responded, “I don’t want to have to replace it again in a year, but I don’t want to drive it out of here either.” She said, “Before we begin. Do you have any sleep problems? What is your night like?” I replied, “I go to bed when it’s dark and get up when it’s light.” “So, you don’t have any body problems,” she surmised. “Well,” I answered. “I’d like to lose 5 pounds, but I don’t think that is mattress related.”

At this point, I think she wearied of our conversation, so she suggested that I try out some of the beds in the store. Eying a snotty nosed kid with his sneakers on one of the mattresses, I said, “I don’t think I want to try that one.”

First, I sprawled out on a Memory Foam mattress. “Unless, it can tell me where I misplaced my earrings, I don’t think this one’s for me,” I told her. “Do they make water mattresses anymore?” I asked. “We don’t carry those,” she replied. “Great,” I said. “Getting seasick is not my idea of a good night’s rest.”

After jumping from bed to bed, I decide that foam is not for me, unless it’s on top of a glass of beer. The “spring forward, drop back” mattress would be too confusing since I live in Arizona and we don’t have Daylight Savings Time. I’d probably be springing and dropping at the wrong time. Also, I was never good with numbers in school, so why would I want a Sleep Number” mattress that would be smarter than I am?

“Does the Temper-Pedic snap at you in the middle of the night?” I asked. The patient sales lady explained that the mattress isn’t angry and it is spelled Tempur-Pedic.

Finally, lying on one of the mattresses, I shouted, “This one is for me!” It was as close a match as I could get to replace my old one. Because it was a July sale, my sales lady took $400 off the listed price, and since she had a special deal on sheets and a super-duper mattress cover, I used the discount to complete the order.

Two days later, two men who must have been hired right out of the circus delivered my mattress. One carried my mattress on his shoulder, and the other one carried my old one out the same way. “You are the strongest men, I have ever met,” I exclaimed. “We do it all day long,” one man replied, “and after work, we go to the gym.”

My new sheets arrived a day later, which was a good thing, because the old sheets didn’t fit and I awakened that morning with the bottom sheet wrapped around my neck. I’ll bet the store doesn’t give a refund for a hanging!

Esther Blumenfeld (The princess should have removed the pea. It would have been cheaper.)

TRICK OR TREAT?

With a tongue-in-cheek disaster preparedness message, Homeland Security recently warned us that, “The Zombies Are Coming!” At first, I thought they meant that Congress was going back into session, but soon realized that they are urging emergency planners to better prepare local communities for calamities. So what’s with the zombies?

Naturally, this piqued my interest in the popularity of ghouls in the 21st Century. In my research, I discovered that teenaged girls find blood sucking vampires and hairy werewolves much sexier than zombies, so I wanted to find out why.

There are three kinds of zombies:
Hollywood zombies who are dead but “re-animated”.
Haitian zombies made that way by magical potions, and
Philosophical zombies, who have a “lack of conscious experience, but are identical to normal people”.

I’ve seen Hollywood zombies on Rodeo Drive, never been to Haiti, but am sure that some of the philosophical ones were in my college classes, because they slept with their eyes open.

From everything I read, I think that teenagers don’t love zombies, because they are “emotionally unavailable.” Besides, their diet consists of human flesh, (which is gross!). They rattle and groan, drag one of their legs behind them, have bad breath, and are covered with rotting skin and pustules. Maybe teens could identify with the pustules part, but the rest is seriously disgusting.

On the other hand, many teenaged girls want to marry a vampire. If you can overlook the “drinking blood” part (no one’s perfect), vampires are handsome; they can seduce any girl on the block; get rid of bullies; never get old (just like Peter Pan) and can party all night.

You could probably take a vampire home to meet your father. He just might prefer a pale guy with long incisors (especially if dad is an orthodontist) to one who staggers around in a muddy suit, grunts and keeps dragging that dang leg around the house.

Then there are werewolves. I guess they appeal to girls who like dogs and are vegetarians, because werewolves don’t eat flesh or drink blood. You could split a pizza with this puppy---unless he decides to kill you for the last slice. Werewolves wear forest colors, howl, bark and hangout---kind of like a Rock Band. They are usually moody teenagers, unlike vampires who look young, but are really 300-year-old guys who enjoy sucking on the necks of young girls. Yuck!

Breaking up with a werewolf is much easier than getting rid of a vampire, because all it takes is a silver bullet.  

Dating a vampire can’t be all that much fun. They can’t go out in the sunlight, so that leaves out hiking, biking, tennis and golf. And, if you want to get rid of this guy you need to carry a stake with you wherever you go, unless you happen to have a bottle of holy water in your back pocket.

Halloween is coming and one of these monsters might ring your chimes. Before you open the door, try to avoid becoming the treat. Give the vampire a chunk of garlic. The werewolf might appreciate a flea collar, and the zombie?  Well, I suggest the name of a good dermatologist. Then slam the door shut!

Esther Blumenfeld: “No place is safe only safer” (Max Brooks, The Zombie Survival Guide).

ALLEGORY

The Tower of Babel is a myth and parable in the Book of Genesis. It means to explain why people in the world speak different languages. According to the tale, in their arrogance, people started to build a Tower to Heaven to avoid another flood. However, suddenly they couldn’t communicate, because they all started to speak different languages.  So, they gave up on the Tower enterprise.

Most people living in the United States do speak English, but everyday, more and more, it seems as if we aren’t speaking the same language. For instance let’s examine a hypothetical subject such as— MY HAIR.

Invariably, after I get a haircut, some people will insist that I should never let it grow again, because they like it this way.  And, five-weeks later, other people will tell me (usually on my way to the Beauty Shop) not to get it cut, because they like it this way.

I would take a poll on the subject, but polls are only reliable on the day they are taken. Consequently, I am in a quandary. To whom should I listen? What is the reasoning behind the long and short of it—the conflicting votes?

Some would say: “Short hair gives the impression of youth and vitality.” While others would point out that, “Longer hair offers gravitas”.

I know that the care of short hair seems quick and easy, but it takes time and patience to let it grow. Also, some people could argue that “A short cut keeps hair out of your eyes.” However, I can always braid longer hair to see clearly what’s ahead.

What do my hair voters see that I do not? Am I being short sighted? Maybe if they could communicate with each other—- compromise could be reached —-and a reliable vote could be taken. However, then some Bozo in the crowd would probably bring up the question of color.
“Should she color or go white?” No compromise there!  No way will I ever go purple.

Can we ever compromise? Can we ever reach viable decisions on anything? For that we would all have to speak the same language, and communicate in a civil manner. However, it seems as if,  The Tower of Babel  has ruined everything.

Esther Blumenfeld  

WHAT'S THE QUESTION?

Here’s a good bit of advice; “If you don’t know what to say—SAY NOTHING! It will keep you from looking clueless while taking up less oxygen in the room.

The other day, when I was in the grocery store, I heard a woman ask, “Do you have any regular bananas?  These are green.”

One time when I went to a movie and sat down, a friend sitting in the row behind me, tapped me on the shoulder and said, “Hi, what are you doing here?”  And, I love it when the tooth cleaning lady at the dentist’s office sticks her hand, and metal sticks, into my mouth and says, “Let me know if it hurts.

When I asked my pharmacist if he has ever heard a dumb question, he rolled his eyes                              and said, “A man just asked me, “‘How often should I take a one-a-day vitamin?”’

I live in Arizona where, in June, people start taking bets on the arrival of the first triple digit heat wave.  Well, it has arrived, and it’s not like a friendly wave from an air-conditioned car. When you have a week of 10l, 102, 105, 108 and 107 it not only gets your attention but, in some cases, seems to dull the mind.  It is at this point I feel obligated to answer some of the dumb, dumber and dumbest of questions.

Hiking in the heat is not recommended unless it’s done early in the morning. Consequently, I am out and about at around 5:30 a.m.  Yesterday, I passed the fenced-in dog park and saw a medium sized, caramel colored dog standing outside the fence. He was looking up at a very old man, hanging there.  One of the man’s legs was over the fence and the other leg was hanging over the dog park. Suddenly, he levitated  himself and then disappeared as he fell flat on his back.  

I ran to the other side of the fence (where the dog stood looking at his prone master) and I said, “Are you hurt?”” Do you want me to get help?” “Can you stand up?”—all reasonable questions.  Covered with foliage, he gingerly stood up and said, “That was dumb of me to do.”
I said, “Everyone does dumb things, but I don’t think you should do that again. Use the gate!”

As I continued my hike, walking with my two walking sticks, another man said to me,”Are you going to climb Mt. Everest?” Whereupon I answered, “No, I just got back!” Then I went home to change clothes into my bathing suit.  Walking down the hall to the pool, wrapped in a towel, wearing sunglasses, a hat and carrying a pool noodle, I passed a woman who said, “Are you going to the pool?”  “No,” I responded, “I am going horse-back riding.” Then on the way back there was, “How’s the water?”   I replied, “Wet.”

When I went down for dinner, I was stopped by a woman who said, “I heard that the books in the library are now alphabetized. What do they start with?” I replied, “A.”

Of course the blessing of offering smart aleck answers to stupid questions is that most people would rather talk than listen.  I know that because everyday I am met with many of  the same
questions. Must be the heat!

However, if anyone ever asked me,”What is your least favorite question?”  It happened to me after every book was published, every column was written, every speech given and every play produced—-“You are a writer—So, how much money do you make?”  And, my answer was always the same—-“ENOUGH!”

Esther Blumenfeld

WATCH OUT FOR THE TROMBONE

Samuel Taylor Coleridge wrote, “Swans sing before they die---t’were no bad thing did certain persons die before they sing.”

The world is filled with unsuccessful singing careers, but many of those vocalists, with hope in their hearts and unrealistic expectations, continue to pollute the air with unpleasant sounds.

Two weeks ago, I attended a big band concert with my two best friends. The band was most entertaining, and the talented soloists made my heart sing. I enjoyed the evening immensely, until the bandleader announced that we were in for a big surprise. Ever since Pearl Harbor, I don’t like surprises. This one was a big man, who walked onto the stage without bending his knees—kind of like a mini-march. He stood in front of one of the trombonists, jerked his shoulders from side to side, snapped his fingers, and put the microphone into his mouth. Either he was going to swallow the thing, or sing.

I had driven several miles, paid good money to listen to a big band. Putting Herman Munster into the mix was like sticking a maraschino cherry into a dry martini. As he began to sing, the guys in the band were grooving and didn’t seem to pay much attention to the warbler. It would have been nice if this singer had at least pretended to keep up with them.

His performance reminded me of when George Burns said, “I love to sing, and I love to drink scotch. Most people would rather hear me drink scotch.” When the vocalist belted out “It’s almost like being in love,” he should have sung,” It’s almost like being alive.”

During one song, I think the trombonist stabbed him in the rear, but instead of bleeding, he pointed to the sky and hit a high note. The man had no rapport with the audience. As a matter of fact, he was so enamored with his own performance that he forgot there was an audience. My thoughts began to wander, but he got my attention when he snapped his fingers and shouted, “Come on Band!” I don’t know why he yelled at them because by this time they seemed to be doing just fine without him.

It was time for intermission. One of my friends (the kind one) suggested, “Maybe the singer is suffering from stage fright.” I replied, “Sometimes an entertainer has stage fright, but this is the first time I’ve seen an entire audience afraid that the guy is coming back out to sing.”

I read somewhere that music can make chickens lay more eggs, but I know chickens, and this character couldn’t even imitate a good cock-a-doodle-doo.
After the break, the band returned and Herman Munster staggered in behind them. He had one more offering for the audience. He began to sing, “What a day this has been”---as if I didn’t know by now. He then beat his chest with both fists when he belted out—“A bell is ringing for me!” Scattered applause accompanied him off the stage. “Ask not for whom the bell tolls”---and all that stuff.

To paraphrase Thomas Beecham, “Some people don’t appreciate music, but love the noise it makes.”

Esther Blumenfeld (“Listen Edith, I know you’re singing, you know you’re singing, but the neighbors may think I’m torturing you.”) Archie Bunker