Handy Dandy

As a little girl, I can remember being frustrated when asking a teacher, “How do I mush this paper to make flowers?” Her answer was, “Do it yourself.” I figured that she probably didn’t know how to properly mush either, and wondered, how could I make the flowers when she wouldn’t explain the process to me.

I don’t believe the saying, ”If you want it done right, you’ve got to do it yourself,” because there is a fine line between being good at everything and being a total idiot. Granted, there are some people who are very handy. However I am not. If I don’t know how to do something, I either ask an expert or hire a trained professional.

My father-in-law thought that anything could be fixed with a tube of glue. He believed that no one would notice a mended crack down the middle of a plate or when the bottom fell out of a china teacup. He rationalized, “The water was too hot.” He ignored me when I suggested that perhaps the teabag was too heavy.

When we purchased our home in Atlanta, the inspector said, “I don’t know who wired this furnace but the green and red wires are crossed, and I have no idea where this black one is supposed to go.” The former do-it-yourself owner had to pay to have his handy work undone.

There are numerous do-it-yourself books on the market. My neighbor, Susie bought Plumbing Made Easy. One morning she called me and asked if she could use my bathroom. “What’s wrong with yours?” I asked. “I took my toilet apart,” she wailed, “and now I can’t put it back together again.” The plumber arrived, shook his head when he examined her dismembered toilet, and charged her twice his normal fee to put it back together again. She returned the book.

When I purchased a new printer for my computer, I jammed the wrong sized ink cartridge into the printer slot and then couldn’t get it out. “How did you do that?” asked my puzzled computer geek, as he fixed the problem. “Didn’t understand the directions. I don’t read Chinese,” was my lame excuse. At that instance, I realized that having faith in yourself has its limitations and can be really disappointing. At my age, I do know that my life is a do-it-yourself project, but I am convinced that asking for a bit of help along the way can’t hurt.

I recognize that some people have the gift of being able to fix things while other simply do not. Some of these virtuosos with tools are the much-coveted handy folks for hire. These people can fix almost anything and have the wisdom to tell you when they can’t. When my husband retired, he often said, “Our handyman, Kenny, is the greatest joy of my life.” I wasn’t jealous. However, to revive the romance in our marriage, I learned to unclog the garbage disposal.

So, here’s my advice:

Don’t try to dip a toothpick in ink and prick out your own tattoo.

Do not try a do-it-yourself colonoscopy, and,

If you’re going to clean your chimney, don’t go down headfirst.

 On the other hand, it’s good to remember, “If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it!”

 Esther Blumenfeld (Where’s the hammer? There’s a scorpion in the house.)

Gather What Ye May

People collect all kinds of things. Elizabeth Taylor collected diamonds and husbands. One definition of collections is“The action of collecting someone or something.” She did both.

Another definition is “An amount of material accumulated in one location.” Graham Barker began his naval fluff collection in 1984. I’m not sure where he mined his collection, but by now he should have enough belly button lint to fill a mattress.

Bill collectors don’t collect people named “Bill,” nor do they collect bills. They should be called money collectors, but I guess then people would confuse them with the Internal Revenue Service---a profession that sounds as if they only go after people who swallow their money.

Some collections such as stamp, coin, paintings and baseball cards can become quite valuable. Who knew that a first edition, Superman Comic Book, would bring big bucks---certainly not my husband’s mother---who threw it away. And, who would have guessed that Wolfgang Laib’s collection of pollen (from Hazelnut) piled up in the 18 x 21 ft, atrium of the Museum of Modern Art in New York City, would be featured as a work of art? The entry fee does not include a dose of Antihistamine.

Sucrologists collect sugar packets. Inadvertently, they often team up with ant collectors. Some people enjoy collecting seashells. Novices forget that sometimes the shell they have collected is someone’s home. Nothing smells as pungent as the demise of a slimy critter that has crawled out of a conch shell in a collector’s suitcase. However, it’s a good trick to pull on airport security.

Collecting New Year’s resolutions is not a good idea, because there’s no place to keep them. My father collected books. When he was 85-years-old, he and my mother moved into a Senior Residence. I asked him, “Dad, is it difficult for you to move again?” He replied, “No, not as long as I have my books. My books are my portable homeland.” When he died, we donated his collection to various libraries.

However, it was more difficult to dispose of Uncle Bill’s collection of malformed teeth. Uncle Bill was an oral surgeon and was very proud of his tooth collection. Over the years, he had amassed hundreds of extracted teeth, mounted them on black velvet, and displayed them in glass cases in one room of his beautiful home in a suburb of Chicago. When he died, none of his kids wanted to sink their teeth into that collection, so they donated it to the “Collection Terminator.”

Hundreds of years from now, some archeologist, digging around, will ask, “Why did all of those weird toothed people end up at the city dump?”

Esther Blumenfeld (My British friend will “collect” me at noon)

Playtime

Ask any child, “What is your favorite period at school?” and he used to answer, “recess!” For a few years, school districts dismissed recess as a frivolous waste of time, but on December 31, 2012, the Academy of Pediatrics stated that recess should not be withheld from children, because it can “benefit children’s cognitive, academic and social development.” It also contributes to physical fitness. They failed to mention that a recess break keeps teachers from going completely batty.

Some psychiatrists claim that freedom of play helps children develop the skills of adulthood. I recall recess as running around time, hanging upside down on the monkey bars and dodging balls that were thrown my way. It never occurred to me to catch them. Playground bullies also honed their skill pushing littler boys around and throwing earthworms at the girls. I wasn’t especially afraid of earthworms, but screamed and ran away with the other sissies.  I wasn’t a very fast runner, so I kept yelling, “Hey, you guys, wait for me,” and usually ended up with skinned knees and elbows. Maybe that’s why I’m still more of a loner than a group person.

The 113^th Congress opened on January 13^th, 2013, and immediately the Senate went into recess, freezing the Chamber on its first legislative day. They did this so they wouldn’t have to debate. So much for “cognitive, academic and social development.” Right out of the gate, the senators chose not to think, learn or get along with each other.

When the Academy of Pediatricians recommended the benefits of recess, they were talking about little children---not big babies. When grown-ups display this kind of behavior, it is unacceptable, and I recommend that they play nicely with the other slackers or be sent home.

Recent polls reveal that the voters ranked the 112^th Congress as less popular than cockroaches and colonoscopies. Maybe the 113^th should learn that recess shouldn’t be their favorite period. If they don’t want to be expelled, perhaps they should leave the fun of recess to their grandchildren and stick to bathroom breaks.

Esther Blumenfeld (There’s nothing like recess in the rain) 

That's Show Biz

My friend, Fay is from Mississippi. She is my go-to person whenever I feel stressed, because she is sensible, and that dulcet musical accent can always calm me down. Besides, she enjoys going to the movies as much as I do, and lets me pick the show every time. Now that’s what I call a friend!

Last week we went to an Oscar nominated “romantic comedy” about mental illness. The characters were crazy in love. But before the feature, we were submitted to upcoming attractions. The first preview was for a bloody slasher flick. I heard Fay muttering, “Oh, Ma! That’s gross! Wha would anyone want to see that?” I couldn’t see what she was talking about, because I had covered my eyes. Then there were three more “coming attractions” exhibiting blood and an array of guts. By now, I had paid good money to put a coat over my head for 10 minutes. Obviously, I have a very low threshold for violence.

When I was a little girl, my parents went to the movies to improve their English, and they couldn’t afford a baby-sitter so they dragged me along. The kids on the block had already taught me all the curse words, so my English was just fine. When the movie got scary, I used to climb into my Dad’s lap and stare at the people behind me.

It was a special treat when the theatre featured an unannounced surprise double feature. The second movie was usually a detective story or a Western. People got shot. They never bled but they’d moan, so you knew they didn’t feel so good, and the stagecoach wheels always turned in the wrong direction.

As I got a little older, I went to Saturday morning movies with my friends. The movies weren’t scary, but the ushers were. They wore uniforms with fringes on their shoulders and carried big flashlights. They’d yell stuff such as, “No running.” No spitting off the balcony.” “No throwing popcorn.”

Movie film was on reels, and sometimes the film broke. Then the kids would clap, shout and whistle, and if the projectionist inadvertently switched the reels nobody noticed, because they were having too much fun to watch those dumb movies anyway.

Instead of boring audiences with commercials for products and upcoming television shows, projectionists used to show cartoons before the feature attraction. Some of the cartoons were violent, but no matter what fell on the head of Donald Duck, he always lived to quack another day. The most risqué cartoon I saw was Bugs Bunny naked when his fur got singed.

Once a movie started, I’d usually have to go to the bathroom, but I didn’t want to miss anything, and Mother had ordered me not to go alone, and put paper on the seat, and wash my hands. So, I’d hold it, so I wouldn’t miss anything, and I’d miss a lot because I was trying to figure out when was a good time to go without missing anything. In scary parts of a movie, boys would crawl under the seats and grab girls’ ankles. Then the girls would scream, and the admiral usher would flash his light and yell; ”No crawling under the seats.” That was a good time to run to the bathroom, because there was such a hullabaloo that no one could hear the movie anyway.

Now, that I am a grown-up there are no more admiral ushers, but a voice on the movie screen will urge the audience to be quiet and turn off their cell phones. The voice will warn us that if those damn phones aren’t turned off, someone will ask us to leave, but they never tell us who.

Esther Blumenfeld (The price of popcorn is scarier than the movie)

Count Me In---And Out

I recently read an article discussing, “Never Events.” To my understanding, a never event means that something never happens, such as only having to ask your teenager one time to clean up his room. However, this article discussed errors that should never happen during surgery. Half of these cases involve objects left inside patients. The most frequently forgotten items were gauzelike sponges---not chewing gum or car keys.

Every year, an estimated 4000 cases of “retained surgical items” are reported. The most practical way to tackle this problem would be to update operating room practices. The old fashioned method to avoid leaving sponges in patients is to assign a nurse to count the sponges as they go in, and as they come out. Some hospitals use “counter bags.” That’s not what they call the nurses, but counter bags are like shoe bags that can be hung over closet doors. Every sponge has its own compartment, and if a compartment is empty at the end of the procedure, it’s an Oh! Oh! moment.

There’s lots of activity in an operating room. Often a doctor’s favorite music is played. If he starts singing the song, “1979” by the Smashing Pumpkins, who could blame a nurse for losing count. Also, discussing golf scores might give one pause.

Some hospitals use a more technological approach. Sponges can be tracked through the use of radio-frequency tags called “RF Assure Detection.” Every sponge contains a radio-frequency tag about the size of a grain of rice. At the end of an operation, the detector alerts the team if any sponges are still stuck inside a patient. The RF Assure adds $10 to the cost of a procedure. That is about the cost of a single suture, and cheaper than a Starbucks, 13 shot venti- soy, hazelnut, vanilla, cinnamon, white mocha and caramel coffee.

Another tracking system relies on bar code technology. You will know there is a sponge inside of you when you are asked to lie on a belt at the checkout counter in the grocery store.

If it’s any consolation I can promise that there are some “Never Events”:

Whatever the surgeon leaves inside of you, it won’t be his bill.

An obstetrician has never left a baby inside the mother. Loud screams are always a good reminder that there’s something in there.

It’s doubtable that a plastic surgeon has ever dropped his wedding ring inside an enhanced bosom, because a divorce can be so much more expensive than a malpractice claim. And---

After opening and closing that long umbrella, I doubt if any proctologist would ever leave it open where the “sun don’t shine.”

My solution to the sponge problem is to switch from sponges to my Mama’s matzo balls. They’ll soak up anything, and will be digested a week later.

Esther Blumenfeld (Patients count backwards---nurses shouldn’t do that!)