TELEMEDICINE: THE ULTIMATE REALITY SHOW

Walmart is giving their employees a—WHAT A DEAL! Their workers can now see a doctor for only $4.00. The catch is that the physician will be a “virtual health care provider,” (Definition of “virtual” by Merriam-Webster,”being simulated”; Oxford Dictionary, “almost or nearly but not completely,”; Cambridge Dictionary, “Can be seen by computer, therefore won’t have to go anywhere.”)

In other words, if you have a rash on your derriere, you can turn on your computer, and hear, “The Doctor will be with you shortly.” Then you can wait until Dr. Google appears, smiles and tells you to “lower your britches, and put your tuchas against the screen.” He will then make his subjective judgment remotely, and he may be remotely right or remotely wrong, but chances are that you will never see him again. I am guessing that $4.00 gives you a one time visit, and that a follow-up may cost a bit coin more.

To their dismay, employers are finding out that most of their workers are less than enthusiastic about being diagnosed and treated on a screen by a tiny person wearing a white coat.

Personally, I like to study medical diplomas hanging on my doctor’s wall, and having a one-on-one face time discussion, in an office, with a professional, whose hand I can shake—-unless he’s a proctologist. And I want a doctor who views me as a patient, has a record of my medical history,  and with whom I can have a long-term relationship.

In case of an emergency, or if you are really sick, do you really want to trust a doctor who costs less than a cup of coffee at Starbucks.  At $4.00 a visit, I am sure that he will pay off his student loan at Flinkus Medical and Bible School on his 130th birthday.

And, what if your computer gets hacked by some guy in Nigeria, who then blackmails you by threatening to send your derriere photos to everyone on your virtual season greeting cards? A smiley photo is nice, but it should be from the right end.

Wishing you good health,

Esther Blumenfeld

LOSING BY A NOSE

Some people are truly irritating. They have an ingrown toenail ability to be painful, and they invariably get under my skin. For instance, I find nosy people who like to meddle most annoying.

When I was engaged to be married, my mother-in-law treated me to a day of pampering at a famous beauty salon in Chicago. The hairdresser told me that I had beautiful eyes and eyelashes, but that if I’d get my nose “done,” I’d be drop-dead gorgeous. I said, “I don’t want to drop dead, and I think I am gorgeous enough!”

Barbara Streisand did every girl of Semitic origins a great favor when she didn’t have a “nose job”, because it could affect her million-dollar voice. Shortly after that, Vogue Magazine put her on the cover, stating that she was as beautiful as Nefretete, the Egyptian Queen, and  Semitic noses became fashionable. From then on, Jewish girls could thumb their noses at plastic surgeons and feel like Egyptian Queens.

I know that the nose is designed for breathing and blowing, but unfortunately some women use it as an escape valve for the voice. Granted, women's’ voices are pitched higher than most male voices, however, I find a high pitch through a nasal passage vexing.

Also, when a person wears too much perfume or aftershave, it makes me sneeze, and is especially upsetting when I am sitting in a crowded theatre or in a  restaurant. And, it is well to point out that when in a restaurant, linen table napkins, as well as tablecloths, belong way under one’s nose—not wrapped around it.

Sometimes, I think I’d be better off staying home, because the minute this well-adjusted, happy person leaves the house, it seems as if someone is out to ruin my day,—-If it’s not the guy speeding past me, so he can get to the red light ahead of me, just in time to pick his nose,—it’s the Mariachi band that arrives at my table in the restaurant (playing “Vaya Con Dios”) just in time to drown out the punchline of my joke. And, then, the waiter shows up saying, “Are we enjoying our meal?”

A friend and I were having lunch on the terrace at a fancy restaurant. We enjoyed the view until two children started hitting each other on the head with croquet mallets.  Their mothers had their noses deep in their second or third martinis, and refused to recognize those kids.  It was indeed a sticky wicket.

So to sniff out  an answer as how to exist in this irritating world, I looked up Warren Buffet’s philosophy. It was simple. He suggested, “Be lovable.” What can I say about that except,
“Be rich enough to pay someone to go away.”

Esther Blumenfeld

THE CRUELEST CUT OF ALL

I cut my finger again!   But before you become too upset, let me fill you in on my first encounter with a very sharp set of knives.  

A few months ago, my son, Josh was visiting with me and tried to slice a loaf of bread.  He said, “Mother, these knives are so dull, I don’t know how you can cut anything.” So, he gave me a gift certificate, and for the first time in 25 years, I bought a new set of sharp kitchen knives.

A few weeks later, I had some new neighbors over for dinner. They moved to Tucson from Canada, and I like them very much. Canadians are such reasonable, calm people, and seem to adjust to the shenanigans of we folks down-under with a smile and a shrug.  As a matter of fact, my friend Paul said, “To cure our government ailments, we should declare war on Canada—and surrender immediately!

But back to my finger:

I have learned to never serve bread with dinner, because when I started to slice it, my new knife sliced bread like going through butter and then through my finger.  Luckily, no spurting blood hit the bread. My guests suggested that I keep pressure on the wound, cover it and then keep my hand up very high. When the finger turned blue, they suggested that I loosen the bandage.
Neither of them are doctors—just reasonable Canadians!  Irene is a world famous artist, and Lewis a prominent attorney and law professor. So, we talked about art and law and stayed away from discussing my finger.

We had a really enjoyable evening, and they didn’t seem to mind that I pointed at the ceiling throughout dinner. We laughed and talked and ate and laughed some more. The evening was a success—especially when my finger stopped bleeding.

So, one would think that I had learned my lesson.  Yes, I did!  Now I only buy sliced bread. However, I did not buy a sliced onion. Yes, it was a really big onion and a very big knife.  Happily, I still have five fingers on each hand.  Experience, even bad experience, does have an advantage, because I now know the bleeding finger drill..bandage, not too tight, pressure on wound and keep pointing up.

Then, I remembered what a movie cowboy does, when he gets shot. He is bleeding and the bullet has to be dug out. He pours whiskey on the wound and bites down on a thick piece of wood. I had no wood in the house and used an anti-biotic cream.  So, I just drank the whiskey. It works!

When I told Josh that I had cut my finger again with the knives he had bought me. He replied,
“Don’t worry, Mom. I’m never going to buy you a gun!”

Esther Blumenfeld

SOCIAL OPPROBRIUM

I don’t own a smart phone. I have a dumb phone. With a little flip, I can open it and take a picture—-but I have a very fine camera that I prefer—- and with lots of patience, I can text. The only thing I can’t do is to call Uber, and that’s okay with me, because my Mother always told me not to get into a car with a stranger. I rarely use my cellphone, and few people have the number. I prefer a land line because, by voice mail, I can screen my calls, and talk to the people with whom I want to speak.

Admittedly, smart phones are a wondrous invention, but people’s inability to disconnect is an increasingly serious problem. Common Sense Media found that “69% of parents and 78% of teens check their devices at least hourly,” and, according to a global survey by Counterpoint Research, “Smart phone users spend between 3 and 7 hours a day on mobile devices”.

So, communication with a friend now means Face-time with a screen, not with a human being. And, the harvesting of personal information has revealed the dark side of Silicon Valley’s let’s-all-get-connected idealism.

Recently, when reading an article about technology, I had to look up the meaning of “dystopia.” It is the exact opposite of “utopia,” and a not so good place. Dehumanizing and extremely unpleasant, there is a long list of problems with data mining of information, and the insidious exploitation by bad players to manipulate information, influence national elections and foment violence. Lawmakers are beginning to take a hard look at unbridled technology, but they are not the only ones.

On October 1, 2018, Wyndham Grand’s five U.S. resorts gave families a 5% discount on their stay, if they managed to put their phones in timed lockboxes. They knew they had a problem when guests, sat in beach chairs and had to check their mobile devices, “roughly every 12 minutes.” Some vacation!

Wyndham started to offer perks to guests,  who managed to exist without their mobile devices. Lisa Checchio, Wyndham Hotel’s Chief Marketing Officer said, “Everyone wants to be able to disconnect. They just need a little courage.”  Are you kidding me? Courage is dismantling a landmine—NOT LOOKING UP FROM YOUR PHONE!

I recently showed a young woman my flip phone. She said, “I am going to get one of those. My smart phone is taking over my life.”

 I suggested that she start a group where people stand up and say something like, “Hello, My name is Lisa, and I am a smart phone addict.” Whereupon, other members will raise their arms, wiggle their thumbs, look directly at her, and say, “Hello, Lisa.”

Unfortunately, like all other addicts, smart phone users will fall off the wagon, but not to worry, they won’t hurt themselves ,because they are always looking down.

Esther Blumenfeld

WORDS COME IN HANDY

After sharing my misadventures on radio, television, on the lecture circuit and in the classroom, I thought it only fair to give you some insight about some of the magazine editors I had to survive. Working for a magazine editor is a whole other kettle of fish, and sometimes as pleasant as encountering the Red Tide in Florida.

When I started out, I was so happy to be published and paid for my work, that I could overlook the eccentricities of many editors, and like P.G. Wodehouse, I’d “just sit at a typewriter and curse a bit.” However, as I became more experienced and enjoyed having my name on the masthead of several magazines, I realized that editors often come and go as quickly as hair dressers, and with a bit of patience, I’d outlast them.  Also, it was an “Ah- Ha moment” when I realized that no magazine can go to print if writers don’t meet their deadlines. That is power! And, that is probably one reason I got so much work—consistency counts.

The first article ever accepted by a major magazine was about gathering material for,  “Oh, Lord, I Sound Just Like Mama” (book written with Lynne Alpern). The magazine was Good Housekeeping. Big Time!  Big Check! and Big Disappointment when the editor called for a re-write because “The article is too funny for our readers.”

Several years later, I submitted an article to another major magazine. It was rejected by their editors. However, when it was returned to me, the editors had inadvertently left their notes to each other in the envelope. One editor wrote, “Myrna, this is  a very funny, one page article.  I think we can get it for $500.00. What do you think?” And, Myrna replied, “You are right. It is hilarious, but do we need humor?”

Okay, so now it was time to approach the notorious editor of Business Atlanta Magazine with an idea for a humor column.  He growled, “It will never work! Leave me the column you brought, but know that you have never worked for an editor as good as I am. Now get out!”
He called that afternoon, and said, "I’ll put a contract in the mail today.” To his credit, he did give Lynne and me free rein to write on whatever subjects we wanted to write, and the monthly column became quite popular. Then, he resigned, and the new sweet-young-thing editor told us that she would give us topics to write about in our humor column. The first thing she said, was, “Write something funny about turtles.” As it so happens, turtle lovers don’t have much of a sense of humor, so before we had to write  the one about “ponies”, she was out, but we were still in for several more years, with several more editors, until technology won and the magazine shut down.

Atlanta Magazine was another slick city magazine. However, the editor made the Business Atlanta editor look like a pussycat in comparison. He was a failed writer. To paraphrase H.G. Wells, “There is no passion in the world equal to the passion to alter someone else’s work”
He had good writers, and I was happy to be associated with them and to be awarded a column. This editor wanted a “light touch” to bolster some of the stories in the magazine.

One of my friends, the gifted writer, Tish Sweitzer (who has since written several books and plays) was assigned a story by this editor. She conducted 40 interviews for the article and submitted it to him.  He glanced at it and said, “This is not what I want! But, I don’t know what I want.” She sat in her car and screamed.  Tish had four small children, and her office was in a closet in their house. She was not given to screaming nor claustrophobia.

When, this editor assigned a story to me about Buckhead, a very upscale area in Atlanta, he said, “ Give me a sidebar about a residential street.”  I said, “Which street?”  He said, “What?”  I said, “Tell me which street you want me to write about, so I won’t turn in the story and have you say,  ”Wrong Street!” He resigned and went to work for another magazine.  Not my fault!

An editor for Lions Club Magazine offered lots of money for an article about humor in business, but for political reasons, he didn’t like one of the businesses we had included in the story.  There is an ethical line that journalists should never cross, and that was one of them. The rule is,” Be ethical and spell people’s names right!” So, I turned down the money, and submitted the story to Kiwanis Magazine. They took it, paid an even better fee, and it was reprinted in several  magazines around the Country.

Through the years, my writings seemed to pop up everywhere—even in the National Enquirer, but that’s a story for another time.

 Now I’ll share with you the secret of becoming a writer. “Writing is easy. Just put a sheet in the typewriter and start bleeding.”  Thomas Wolfe 1900-1938)

Esther Blumenfeld