Ding-a-lings

Esther Blumenfeld
The purpose of this web site is to entertain. My humor columns died along with the magazines where they were printed, although I cannot claim responsibility for their demise. I still have something to say, and if I can bring a laugh or two to your day, my mission will be fulfilled.
Everyone I know thinks he has a sense of humor. Here is my unsolicited advice. If you try to be funny and no one laughs, don’t worry about it. However, if you try to be funny and no one EVER laughs, you might have a little problem.
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!)
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)
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)