LOST AND FOUND

Three years ago, I went on a trip and when I returned home, I couldn’t find a pair of tiny, gold earrings. Losing things is not my style---misplacing things---Yes! losing things---No! So naturally, I tore my house apart looking for those little suckers and still couldn’t find them. I searched for three years.

Yesterday, I opened my jewelry box and heard two little voices saying, “Here we are. Where the heck have you been?” (No. For you purists, I wasn’t hearing voices. It’s called, poetic license).

Author, Frances Rodman (not the basketball-playing friend of Kim Jong-un) said, “Just think how happy you would be if you lost everything you have right now, and then got it back again.” Rodman, you have a screw loose! I don’t have to lose anything to appreciate what I have. Besides, Frances didn’t mention the headache, indigestion and accompanying ulcer that would accompany the stress of losing everything. 

In life, tangible things are not the only items that can be misplaced. There is such a thing as misplaced anger, like when someone shoots his mouth off at the person delivering unwelcome news. An old Korean proverb says, “If you kick a stone in anger, you’ll hurt your own foot.” That’s why Kim would rather shoot his uncle. He would have been better off listening to Mark Twain who suggested, “When angry count to four. When very angry swear.” But, maybe that doesn’t translate well into Korean.

Since anger is such a corrosive emotion, I suggest that before someone gives another person a piece of her mind, she should check to see if she has enough mind left-over when she is finished.

There is also such a thing as misplaced judgment. Again, Mark Twain gives a good example, “It’s not good sportsmanship to pick up golf balls when they are still rolling.” Metaphorically speaking, going off a trail in an unfamiliar forest is not a good idea. That’s when Albert Einstein reminds us, “Stand still. The trees and the bush behind you are not lost.”

My favorites of the misplaced are misplaced modifiers such as:
“One morning I shot an elephant in my pajamas. How he got into my pajamas I’ll never know.” (Groucho Marx).

But, before I lead you too far astray of the subject at hand, “the misplacement of tangible things,” I can offer a sure fire solution; the easiest way to find something you have misplaced is to buy a replacement.

Esther Blumenfeld (“Lost time is never found.”… Benjamin Franklin

IN AND OUT

I have an “In and Out Box” on my desk.  That would be a good thing, if I only kept the items that needed immediate attention in the  “In” part of the basket.   However, the “In” part is on top, and easier to reach, so almost everything turns up there.

Occasionally, I do browse and toss away things such as ; a playbill from a play I attended (but slept though the second act), a note telling me that my secret code will arrive by mail—What secret code? And, song lyrics such as, “The Impossible Dream,” from MAN OF LA MANCHA. 

The “Out Box” has a notice that my auto insurance payment will be taken out of my checking account three months ago.  No wonder my check book didn’t balance. Also, there was an article from the Detroit Free Press, a 2024 calendar, and my haircut appointments for 2025.

Whether it’s “In” or “Out”  there’s always plenty of room for itty-bitty pieces of paper with notes to myself— including at least 25 names which I intend to memorize. These are folks who have recently moved in. However putting their names with the correct faces can be challenging.

Also, my trust level is low, so until a problem is solved— such as, “Which restaurants will be open on which days?” or “Clarifying the terms of  my new health insurance,”  I make copies of almost everything. Some stuff may be important some day! Consequently, I felled  more trees than Paul Bunyan. I admit that I have lots of material in file folders. Granted, my filing system leaves much to be desired.  However,  I do brag that only one of my files is labeled, “STUFF.”

Impossible as it may seem, I do know where to find most of the information I have filed away —-unless it’s been filed in the wrong place. And everyday, I put a note on my kitchen counter to remind me of my next day activities.  

The bottom line is that I keep three calendars and faithfully check them for scheduled events such as my birthday. That way I rarely miss anything!  It’s a system that works for me and happily, so far, I haven’t missed anything really important such as breakfast, lunch and dinner.

Esther Blumenfeld

HOME COOKING--NOT AT MY HOUSE YOU DON'T

Everything my mother learned about cooking came from my grandmother. Big mistake! 

My grandmother made only one delicious dish, but I had to develop a nasty cold for her to prepare it. At the hint of a sniffle, she’d separate a raw egg and stir the yellow yolk with sugar and whiskey. Then she’d add the beaten egg white to the now frothy mixture, and feed it to me. I’m not sure it ever cured a cold, but the more whiskey she added, the better I felt. The concoction did have a name, but I can’t spell it.

My mother was a beautiful woman who loved to laugh and have fun, but cooking was not her forte. She didn’t really care what foods went together as long as she got them on the table in time for dinner. Therefore, it wasn’t unusual to be served an extremely well done steak with a few red crab apples perched on top. Salami and baloney sandwiches on rye bread, slathered with chicken fat. became a staple for lunch. I was so happy when my friends’ mothers served me peanut butter.  Like Grandma, Mother did have one redeeming dish. Her chicken soup was delicious. Which only goes to show that no one is perfect. 

Life was so much easier when we didn’t know what foods were bad for us. Today, when I smell burnt toast, I become nostalgic for Mama’s cooking.

Frank Tyger said, “Discoveries are often made by not following instructions, by going off the main road; by trying the untried.” That’s the way I cook. I kind of look at recipe instructions and then I improvise.  Of course that’s not being scientific, because I can rarely replicate the dish. However, sometimes that is a very good thing. 

Someone once said, “A recipe is a series of step-by-step instructions for preparing with ingredients you forgot to buy, using utensils you don’t own, to make a dish even the dog won’t eat.” W.C. Fields had the right idea when he said, “I cook with wine. Sometimes, I even add it to the food.” 

I’ll drink to that!

Esther Blumenfeld (“The kitchen is a walk through at my house”) Johanna Stein.

JUNK AND SPAM

Junk and Spam sounds like the name of a law firm that advertises on television, but they are two features on my amazing MacBook Pro. Computers are truly astonishing---especially when they work. Most of the time, my computer can discern the difference between legitimate e-mails and the unwanted kind. I don’t know how it does that, but when these unsolicited e-mails arrive, they are automatically tossed into “Junk and Spam” folders, and then, with a flick of the finger, I can delete them.

Everyday, my folders are filled with at least thirty or more pieces of junk mail. Usually, I quickly scan them to be sure that legitimate communications haven’t landed into one of those slots, and then I get rid of them.

However, as a less than scientific experiment, in the past few weeks, I decided to jot down some of the subject matter that ended up in my folders. Had I opened them up, I could have “learned more about cremation” after “taking a walk in my
bathtub,” or “eaten some of the foods that will kill my brain.”

Several of these junk inquiries seemed inordinately interested in my brain. One advertized a “brain revolution.” I would need this to invest in “penny stocks” or “crush my fat.” Ouch! One enticing subject only said, “enthralling.”  Maybe that involved how I’d feel if I needed a “nail fungus remedy,” or wanted to “meet a cougar.” I’ve seen cougars in the mountains. No way do I want to meet one up close.

I guess it wouldn’t be so bad to hire a “Russian woman” if she did windows. I found it very confusing, when there was an offer to “remove bedbugs” with a “bedding blowout.”  If I had bedbugs, I would blow up my bed!

Then there are pretend professionals who dive into the river of spam. I was offered and “option for a divorce attorney,” a “Buy now pay later” deal, and a “one stop dental implant.” I guess that’s a kind of drive through experience.  You open your mouth, the dentist sticks in an implant, and you can get a Big Mac on your way out.

A “Luxury Weight Loss Resort” might be your last resort, because even with “permanent dentures” one would have to have a “mental disorder” to “lose 30 pounds in 30 days,” unless they plan to do some really deep “erasing of all those wrinkles.” In case any of you are interested, there is still “open enrollment” if you want to “sell your assets.”

Many years ago, before the advent of computers, there was a place called Maxwell Street in Chicago. It was the carnival street for hucksters, con men and scam artists. The inside of a raincoat could be lined with watches for sale, and a fortune could be made if you could discover the prize hidden under the three   cups which were quickly moved around by the man behind the table. Designer purses and clothes could be purchased, if you didn’t care where they came from or if they were fakes. My favorite con was the perfume trick. Perfumes that usually were available for big bucks were sold from a small table that could quickly be folded up if the police arrived. 

The salesman had a convincing spiel. “Smell the stopper in the bottle.”  It always smelled so sweet. The fragrance was delicious and the price was right. When the customer got home, she discovered that the perfume was soaked in the stopper, and the bottle was filled with Chicago River water that didn’t smell half as good.

Even with technology, the more things change, the more they stay the same.

Esther Blumenfeld (“A sucker is born every minute.”) “attrib.” P.T. Barnu

MAD ABOUT THE GIRL

There are worse things in life than dropping a sizzling, hot baked potato on the floor, but when I did it twice, I recognized, that using an oven mitt would have been a good idea. Of course, I know the difference between a microwave oven and an oven oven.  It’s not stupidity. It’s hubris. I was impatient, in a hurry, and wanted my baked potato---NOW!

I am woman see me roar, but in this case I was roaring, “Hot! Hot! Hot!”
Naturally, as I wiped smashed potato off the floor, I was angry with myself, but happily, I can’t stay angry with anyone. Anger is more corrosive than rock salt.

In contrast, the next morning, on my way to a dental appointment, I encountered my first experience with “road rage,” which is way scarier than dropping a hot potato.

With cars streaming in both directions, I sat behind the wheel of my automobile, at a busy intersection, waiting for the traffic light’s left turn arrow. It was safer to wait, because I couldn’t see around the cars that were going to turn on the opposite side of the street.

A young man, in the car behind me got my attention as he sat in his car flailing his arms, yelling, and honking his horn (not his horn but rather the horn of his dilapidated car). My windows were closed, so I couldn’t hear what he was shouting, but I got the impression that he was very angry with me.

In a few seconds, the green arrow appeared, I made my left turn, and flipped on my right turn directional signal since I immediately was going to turn right onto the road that led to my dentist’s office. The man in the car behind me was still honking, and yelling and waving his arms, and he continued to follow me—very close. At this point I was concerned that he was steering his car with his feet, and that he might decide to shoot off something more than his mouth. This guy didn’t need anger management. He needed nitwit management.

As I parked in front of the dentist’s office, my brave, pudgy, little dentist ran out with his drill going full blast and scared the road raging fellow away. No, that part of the story isn’t true, but I think a couple of well-placed shots of Novocain, would have done the enraged man some good. Happily, he sped off, tires squealing, obscenities spewing, ready to face the rest of his venomous day. This is when you want to advise someone to; “Remember to always be yourself, unless you are a jackass.”

Esther Blumenfeld (“Whoa, who peed in your Cheerios?”) Becca Fitzpatric