Uncanny

This diatribe is about public restrooms. For those of you who want to elevate your reading, perhaps you’d better not continue. 

When entering a ladies room stall, many commodes are now equipped with rotating sanitary toilet covers, which go around when you wave at them. I thought this quite civilized until I waved, and sat, and rode around a toilet three times before it stopped. 

I used to know how to flush a toilet. I’d push a handle, and that was that. Now, one has to stand and study the contraption. Does it flush itself or does it pretend to flush itself? There is a difference. Often, self-flushing commodes pretend they are showers and activate at the wrong time. And when they are supposed to flush---they simply refuse. If this happens, a little red Alice in Wonderland button commands, “Push Me”.  This is when I recommend that you push and run.

Sometimes, there is a hidden floor handle to stomp. Other times, you are required to play hide and seek with a secret lever located somewhere in the vicinity of the toilet, but not attached to it. Consequently, with all of these challenges, I often find myself in a public restroom, standing there, staring at the toilet. 

Curiosity got the best of me, so I asked a reliable source if the vicissitudes are the same in the facilities for gentlemen. Oh, pity the men. Not only do they have the same problems, they are confronted with dry, waterless urinals. I have always thought that urinals would be beautiful planters. Of course, if they are waterless, you’d have to plant a cactus. But I digress.

My source told me that now they have composting urinals. I’m not sure who collects that stuff at the end of the day, but it sounds environmentally disgusting. I was also shocked to read that to save energy, toilet scientists are now experimenting with electric toilets. I am not sure if they have to be plugged in to work, but I wonder if they will have a Ben Franklin kite affect in an electrical storm. More power to anyone who can save our planet. I’m all for it.

 Esther Blumenfeld (go green!) 

What's In A Name?

When I was a little girl, I didn’t like my name---Esther. It didn’t fit. I wanted a cute name. Other little girls had cute names. My best friend was named Mary Lou.  Now, that’s cute! She had big blue eyes and curly hair and was named Mary Lou.

 I had brown eyes and straight hair and one ear that stuck out on one side of my straight hair head. I didn’t know any other little girls with my name, but several children told me that they had an “Aunt Esther.” It seemed to me that everyone had an old Aunt Esther who had certainly never been a little girl.

 On my report card from Kindergarten, the teacher wrote: 

“Esther is a bad rester.” 

Resting was never an activity at which I excelled. I am sure that she wrote on my friend’s report card:

“In my class I will never rue, teaching lovely Mary Lou.”

Now that I am a grown-up, I have improved my resting skills. Along the way, I also became an Aunt Esther. Oh, crap! Who made me the grown up?

 Esther Blumenfeld (from a reclining position)

Count Me In---Maybe

 I received a call from a nice young man who wanted my opinion on several issues. When he told me that he was associated with The Gallup Poll, I assumed he was either an equestrian or calling from a small town in New Mexico. He seemed pleasant enough so we chatted for a bit. At first our conversation was quite boring. I was instructed to only count from 1 to 10 or answer “Yes” or “No”.  That just wouldn’t do! 

After a bit of prodding, I found out he was a college student phoning me from Omaha, Nebraska. He majored in English and wrote slam poetry. Oh, Ye of doubting minds! Of course, I know about slam poetry. Slam poets are angry young people who scream and shout something unintelligible at the audience, and when they are finished, everyone applauds and then they sit down. 

He asked me if I think English is a good college major since he wants to be a poet. I told him to follow his dreams, so he won’t reach 70 years of age and say, “I always wanted to slam, and didn’t do it.” Dreams can change and, thank God, so can poetry.

I don’t think that some of the questions in the Gallup Poll will lead the researchers to the right conclusions. For instance, I was asked “Would you feel safe taking a walk at night?” I answered, “No”. Where I walk during daylight hours, there are signs that warn, “Danger! High Mountain Lion Activity. Enter At Your Own Risk.” Most lions are nocturnal hunters. I am not afraid of being mugged. I am afraid of being eaten.

The nice young man also asked me, “Did you experience stress yesterday?” Of course I experienced stress. If you are alive, you experience stress. However, all stress isn’t negative. Cheering for your football team is not the same stress as finding a rattlesnake in your garage. By the way, I did find a curled up rattlesnake in my garage. I told the young man that I had played field hockey in high school and never thought I’d use it, but I grabbed a broom and hockey pucked that rattler right out of my garage.

He didn’t want to talk about that. I think he was experiencing a little stress. Yes?                           

(Esther Blumenfeld (count me In---maybe)

Who's Afraid Of The Big Bad Wolf?

Everyone’s afraid of something. I once met a plastic surgeon who was so deathly afraid of spiders, that he called his wife to come home from work to deal with the creepy crawly. I know a woman who didn’t shower for a year after seeing Alfred Hitchcock’s movie, PSYCHO. I assume she bathed, but I was too polite to ask, since she didn’t smell that bad.

I have a fear of getting lost. It is related to my extremely poor sense of direction.  I would have made a lousy homing pigeon. When I was a little girl, I got lost riding my tricycle around the block from my house. I found myself in alien territory, turned around, and peddled back to where I had come from as fast as my little legs could take me. 

Driving is okay if I recognize a landmark. But if the city elders decide to tear down a building, I have no idea where I am. Consequently, my son insisted that I purchase a GPS system. I got the one they advertize as, “It recognizes your favorite routes. Like an old friend.” Well, none of my old friends yell at me like the miniature tyrant trapped in that little box. I drove up my driveway, and that woman was still screaming “Recalculating!” “Recalculate all you want, Honey,” I replied as I lowered the garage door.

When I told my son what had happened he said, “It’s the satellite. I’ll come and update your system.” He didn’t acknowledge my response when I said, “Can I just connect to a different satellite?” So, now, on occasion, I still take the little woman in the box with me when I go somewhere. I like talking to her. She’s smarter than many of the talking heads on television, and she has the good sense to change her mind.  

So, now, I am not so terribly afraid of getting lost in town, but I have a deathly fear that my GPS system will steer me into the forest one day, and I will either drive off a cliff, or witness that erectile dysfunctional man, and his girlfriend, from the television ad, sitting in two bathtubs in the middle of the woods.  I guess they saw PSYCHO. 

Esther Blumenfeld (on my way to somewhere)

Alive and Loving It

You can’t believe everything you read!  I don’t care what Mr. Google and his henchmen have told you, my name is Esther Blumenfeld, and I am very much alive.

My Pipl profile is mostly correct.  I am a published author and my plays have been produced.  It doesn’t really matter that I never lived in New York City.  I like New York City and must admit that all of those phone book listings add a bit of panache to my background.

I don’t know why they added El Paso, Texas to the list.  I have never lived there either.  Maybe Mr. Google has an Aunt Esther in El Paso and hasn’t called her in a long time.

I don’t get upset easily, but when the Google henchmen killed me and listed my 7 death records, I do take umbrage.  I am neither 94 years old nor did I die in 2007.  Having three additional sons might be nice, although I am quite pleased with the one I have.

Sending an e-mail to the Google death panel to correct this error was less than satisfying.  They informed me that for a fee I could stay alive.

I don’t pay protection money!  Does anyone know if the Google technicians are located in Jersey?

                                                Esther Blumenfeld (still alive and loving it)