How Old Is Esther Williams?

Well, the first question might be who the hell is Esther Williams? She's a movie star that swam in all of her films. Glitzy, splashy Hollywood style movies (couldn't resist the pun).

Muzzy (nearly 80) saw a commercial with a young, really young, mom cooing to her adorable, chubby baby. "That's Esther Williams' baby. Isn't it cute?"

"Nah, nah, that's not Esther Williams. THE Esther Williams, you mean?"

"YE-E-E-S," she said sarcastically, "Esther Williams. You know Esther Williams?"

"The swimmer."

"Yes. She's wonderful in all her movies."

"That's not Esther Williams. She's like 80."

"What? Oh, stop. That was her right there."

"Mom, she's older than you. That woman was in her twenties."

"Esther Williams is maybe 40 at the most."

"FORTY!!!"

Then, she used my full name, middle name and all! "Yes, she's young. That's her baby."

"Her daughter's baby, maybe, or her granddaughter's baby. But Esther is OLD. Too old for babies."

"She is not. Don't be ridiculous." Now she's angry.

"Ok, I'll go google her." And I left the room knowing that no matter what I found out she wouldn't believe me.

When I returned, I said, "She was a member of the 1940's Olympic Team and her first movie was with Mickey Rooney. And I think he's dead. She's old."

"Now I know you are making things up. He is not dead, he's about 50."

I'm thinking I should just give up about now. Obviously, she wants Esther to be young, eternally, as she is in all the films. But something drives me pursue this ludicrous venture. "When did you see her movies?"

"I don't know. They're on from time to time."

"No, I mean first see her in the movies." Then, I jump to the chase. "She was born in 1922. You were born in 1927. It be--like you having a baby."

"Well,............................ she's just 40. You're wrong. Not 1922, that must be someone else."

Here we go, I pushed her wheelchair through the house to the computer and showed her the Wikepedia on Esther Williams which was showing a photo of Esther at about 20.

"Yes, that's her. Look, see, she's still young."

"IN THE PHOTO, mom. Not today. Read this--born in 1922."

"Oh. I can't believe that."

So, we go back to the kitchen and she says, "I bet no one knows that."

"Everyone knows she's 80 something. I'll call someone and ask. I bet your sister knows." She scowlls at me as I pick up the phone and dial. "Hi, hey, do you by chance know how old Esther Williams is?"

"I guess she's about 40. Why?"

I am shocked and appauled. Has the world gone mad? Is this a dream? "When did you first see her movies?"

"I guess when I was young."

"How old?"

"When we were in school we used to go watch her in the movies."

"It's 2006. How old is Esther Williams."

Gasp! "She must be in her 80's."

"I am handing the phone to my mother. Tell her how old Esther Williams is."

My mother's face says it all. Esther, we now all agree, is 85.

Why do I feel NO relief, no sense of having won the battle. I feel guilty. I've taken away their false reality. What difference does it make if Esther Williams is 25, 40, or dead? I really did think she was dead actually. So, I guess I'm happy to find out she isn't. We should all be happy she's alive and well and recuperating from an infection for which she was hospitalized in sunny California.

Moral of the story: We are only as old as we feel until someone comes along and throws cold water with an old swimmer in it right in our lap.

(note 6.7.2013: RIP)

What was Once Lost But Now Is Found?

You may have answered Grace, and you'd be right, of course. But this week it is BLUE LOVIE. Seems BL was hiding near the front door under a big ball. Tricky bear.

WANTED!!

Some of us remember losing our favorite stuffed friend, truck, or doll when, against your mother's advise, we took the favored toy out of the house (e.g. say the favorite Lime Sherbert Strawberry Shortcake doll you lost at the ARCH!). The experience may have required you to have counseling later in life. Or maybe you are considering having counseling, unaware that the lost bunny or doll haunts your psyche to this day.

A certain little fella we all know has lost his Lovie. We knew it would happen one day. If you see a blue Lovie somewhere in the vacinity of Cape Girardeau, MO, let us know. Or if you see one for sale in your neighborhood, do give us a call. Here's what they look like. The distraught child would like the blue bear.

http://www.aspecialgift.com/lovies.asp

The Russians Are Coming!

Actually, the Russians have been here and gone. The business associates that B. works with in Russia came to St. Louis, rather than the Americans going over to Russia, as has been the habit. One Russian engineer and his translator [V. and N. the same folks featured in B's blog] were here for the last week. We visited the Wine Country, Lake St. , Louis complete with kayaking and pontoon party boat, the Arch, the Blues game, Halloween in Wildwood, and various restaurants. They were impressed with our fair city. I gained five pounds!

Problem with losing weight is that I always know where to find it, so it isn't actually lost.

The translation between me saying something to the Russian, the translator phrasing it into Russia, his reply in Russian, translated to English left plenty of time to eat whatever was in front of me. Over and over. And chase it with beer, scotch, wine.... The Halloween jokes brought to the door by the children trick or treating were NOT so funny after being translating into Russian. Consider how much is lost in the following joke:
Why doesn't Piglet have more friends? Answer: Because he plays with Pooh.
Not even after the Russians had LOTS of Anheiser Busch products.

In Russian, the joke makes NO sense. Explaining the humor is a lost cause. There were worse jokes, I won't even go into here. The Wildwood home owners had NEVER heard of asking the trick-or treaters for jokes. Can you imagine? GADZOOKS. Silly people in West County. Well, these people are actually Candians, but really they HAVE lived in the states for 50 years.

St. Louis is the only city we've lived in (and we've lived in seven or so) where trick or treaters tell jokes when they come to the door. But you have to ask them. The home owners were amazed that all the children had jokes ready. Geez.

Speaking of St. Louis traditions--we let the Russians go home without eating toasted ravioli or White Castle. I know I know, we are such poor tour guides and hosts. But the one remaining British chap who is here for the rest of the week has tried the toasted ravioli. He was not quite sure what to make of it.

I lost seven pounds while I was in England for thirty days. They NEED toasted ravioli. British food is only as good as the ethnic restaurant you find to eat in.

When all the visitors have gone back across the pond, I'm going on a diet. This week we've still got The Hill, The Loop, and White Castle to look forward to. And beer. Lots of beer.