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!)

Are You Sure?

On my calendar, I noted that my cousin Dan is going to celebrate his 69^th birthday. However, his mother told me that he would be 70. In spite of her memory problems, I figured that she should know the age of her son, so I sent him a “Now You’re 70” birthday card. Inside, I wrote, ”If I am wrong, keep this card for next year.”

So what are you supposed to do when you’re not sure? There is an old saying, “When you don’t know what to do---do nothing.” That is good advice unless you have your back to the wall and have to make a decision.

At the office where I volunteer, I snagged my sweater on a nail sticking out of a wall. Since I couldn’t find a hammer, I had to decide, ”Do I leave the nail sticking out to snag the next person?”  Nope! I grabbed a scotch tape dispenser off of someone’s desk, turned it upside down and banged the sucker into the wall. So what if the dispenser will be forever a bit lopsided! I made a decision, will accept the consequences, and hope that the person who sits at that desk won’t notice his crooked tape dispenser.

We all know people who can’t make up their minds. Never ask them, “Where do you want to go for dinner?” because you will never find out. And, whatever you do, don’t go shopping with an indecisive friend. I can promise that after several hours of shopping, when she finally finds a dress that looks good on her, she will hem and haw about finding an outfit that; “might look better,” “might be cheaper” or that she “might have something in her closet she can wear one more time.” When in a quandary, my advice is to pick something. Sometimes there is no wrong choice, unless you pick an outfit made by Omar the tent maker.

My father was running late for an appointment. As he was dashing out of the house, my mother handed him a bag with the admonition, “Don’t forget this!” He got in the car and tossed the bag into the back seat. He arrived at his office, put the bag on his desk and decided not to open it until after his meeting. Later that day, he called my mother and said; “I’ve got the garbage.  Do you have my lunch?” It’s always good to know what’s in a bag before you decide what to do with it.

I was sitting next to a young mother on an airplane, when she suddenly asked me if I would please hold her crying infant for just a minute, while she retrieved something from the overhead compartment. Making a snap decision, I said, “Sure.” Turns out that the article she retrieved was a diaper bag. In that “minute” I ended up with a damp lap and a suit that smelled like spit up.

Sometimes decisions do have stinky consequences.

Esther Blumenfeld (“Maybe” is not a decision)

Dream On

Many years ago, when I graduated from the University of Michigan, I was informed that I had an over-abundance of credits in philosophy, psychology and English. Because of University policy, I could only claim two of those areas of study as “minors”. I can’t remember which two I selected. However, I do remember immersing myself in the works of Sigmund Freud, and discovering early on that the good doctor had provided himself escape hatches to some of his theories involving dreams.

I remember clearly that he wrote, “All dreams are wish fulfillment, attempts of the unconscious to resolve a conflict of some sort---something recent or from the past.” Then he covered his butt by discussing dreams that “do not appear to be wish fulfillment.” Whew!

When I worked full-time as a deadline writer, my friend Nancy, who was an artist used to call me and describe her dreams. They appeared to her in vivid colors, and then she would translate them to canvas. I kept my mouth shut during these glowing descriptions, because my dreams consisted of words running across a piece of paper, and they were in black and white. All night long, I dreamed words and more words. I never knew if the occasional “cha-ching” was the paper moving through my dream machine, or my husband’s snoring. A few times, I woke up and scribbled something on a piece of paper in the dark, but it never made any sense in the morning since I couldn’t read what I had written.

One of the most famous dream stories is the one about Jacob, who put a stone under his head, fell asleep and dreamed of angels running up and down a golden ladder. If I had put a stone under my head, I’m sure I wouldn’t have such a dazzling dream, but rather I would have awakened with a headache and a very stiff neck.

In his early works, Freud would have found a sexual connotation to Jacob’s dream, but in his Interpretation of Dreams (Fifth edition, 1919, Chapter 6, Section E) Freud said that he never claimed that all dreams require sexual interpretation. At some point he even said, “Even a cigar may be just a cigar.” Rest easy, Jacob!

So, why all of this talk about dreams? It’s because for the first time in my life, I had a colorful geometric dream, and this is a big deal for someone who almost flunked geometry. I dreamed of a solid, golden sculpture made of squares, triangles and rectangles---gleaming in the distant sunlight. I woke up feeling good.

My first impulse was to call my broker to advise him to invest in gold bricks, but I thought better of that. Don’t know why I dreamed it, or why I remember it, but I suspect that my dream was more Tiffany than Freud.

Nightmares are a different kind of dream. When my nephew was a very little boy, he had a bad dream about monsters in his closet. I told him that I would stuff them into my suitcase and take them home with me. Now that he is an avant-garde artist in New York, I guess I should ask him if he wants them back.

Actors have nightmares about forgetting their lines on stage. With some plays, that might not be such a bad thing. I often have nightmares about my computer, and I’m not even asleep. The best dreams are those that when you wake up and have to think, “Did that really happen?”

Joseph, a prisoner in Pharaoh’s hoosegow had the best political dream. He dreamed about 7 fat cows that were eaten by 7 lean cows, and 7 fat ears of grain eaten by 7 lean ones. Joseph got out of prison when he predicted that a famine was coming. Pharaoh put enough grain aside to save his people and Joseph became something like Vice President of Egypt.

And, I learned that grain has ears.

Esther Blumenfeld (Sleep tight, but first check the mattress for bedbugs)