Blog #201

 

A couple of years ago, a plumber came by to fix some things, among which was a broken handle in my shower.  He only replaced the COLD but they come in a set, so I had an extra handle.  He said save it for when the HOT breaks.  It did last night.  So this morning I got out the handle, read the instructions and immediately had a panic attack.  I can’t do this; I can never do things like this.  I will flood the condo and blow up the entire block and break a nail.  Oscar Wilde said, “Experience is simply the name we give our mistakes”, and I have a universe of experience in that regard.  I was terrified.

 

Here were the instructions:  unscrew the screw, pull off the old handle, put on the new handle, screw it in.  Shakespeare, with one paw, could do that.  But the killer was -- First, turn off the water, so I went to the laundry room.  There were two valves – one said hot water, one said all water.  Very clearly marked.  Nonetheless, I felt like the scene in every James Bond movie where the bomb is ticking down to explosion and James has to cut one of a dozen colored wires and if he chooses the wrong one, he will be fatally shaken, not stirred.  But he always does it right and the countdown always stops at 007.  I chose the one marked all water and turned.  Nothing catastrophic happened.  Then I went back to the shower to do steps 1,2 and 3.  It took 12 seconds.  Then back to turn the water valve, where I discovered I had forgotten which way I had turned it to shut it off.  Well, it would only turn one way, so that must be right.  Then back to the shower to turn the new handle.  It worked.  I could not have been more pleased if I had discovered fire.  I walked, smiling, back into my study where I noticed my clock had stopped at 007. 

 

Could have blown up the world with one slip

Or fallen and shattered my hip

But I fixed that old faucet

And smiled because it

Now makes me the home’s only drip.

 

Hi there.  Are you back?  You bet your blue blazer you’re back.  Where else could you get such silly stories?  Welcome.  I am recovering well from eye surgery, and thank you for all your prayers and wishes.  They worked.  And thank you for all the birthday greetings.  You are very nice.  I’m so excited to be 75, because that puts me in the high-risk category for getting my vaccination, if they ever figure out how to do it.  Right now, Missouri tells me I’m in Group 1-B, right after healthcare workers, prisoners, puppies and anyone named Jean.

 

I have been researching the actress Helen Hunt.  She is 57, went to UCLA, is married to Hank Azaria and won an Academy Award for As Good as it Gets.  I’m doing this because I called some nabob at the Public Health Department and asked what I had to do to get the vaccine and the nice man told me I could go to Helen Hunt for it.  I hope she answers the phone.

 

Message from Shakespeare – Hell is empty and all the devils are here (The Tempest).  It sure seems like all the devils are here if you watch the news, but I’m neither a Republi-cat nor a Demo-cat, so I don’t know.  But if Pops wants to go to Hell and hunt for something, maybe he could find an extra leg for me.  Purr.

 

I have some hospital observations to share with you.  Pull up a chair.  First of all, why do they keep it so cold in the operating room?  At first, I thought they had put me in the Covid vaccine storage room.  It was so frozen in there, I started calling my surgeon Dr. Birds-Eye.  They brought me some warm blankets and Dr. Sleep put me under MAC (Monitored Anesthesia Care), so I was fortunate enough to be completely awake – TOTALLY FREAKING AWAKE -- as they sliced, diced and thoroughly chopped up my eye.  The surgeon and I talked throughout the 90-minute operation and there was actually no discomfort at all.  We joked and talked about what he was doing.  When he was finished, I even asked him if I could stitch up my own eye.  He said, “Suture self.”

 

The pre-op included all the vitals and an EKG.  They attached the 12 sticky patches, hooked up the wires, did the EKG, unplugged the wires and tore off the 12 patches.  Ouch!  After dinner that night, I was scratching my chest a little, when I felt something.  I unbuttoned my shirt, and there were two little white patches stuck to my chest.  Where had they come from?  Did they multiply like measles splotches?  Do they have little patch parties while the juice is flowing and spawn more little patches?  I began to feel like a victim in one of those old Sci-Fi horror flicks.  It Came from Beneath the EKG or Invasion of the Body Patchers.

 

About five days after surgery, I looked in the mirror and noticed my eye was bloody, so I consulted the nearest and most comely medical expert I could find – Dr. Wife.  She did her examination and told me she wasn’t worried.  I wanted a second opinion, so I called Dr. Eyeball.  I described the situation and he told me to send him a picture, so I texted him a nice one of me and Carol holding hands on the beach.  I like that picture.  He called back to clarify his instructions and I took a picture of my red eye and sent that.  His conclusion – he wasn’t worried.  Carol is always, always right about medical diagnoses.    

 

Our Weekly Word this week is Nabob, a person of conspicuous wealth or high status.  I, personally, have no wealth or status whatsoever, but I like to think of myself as your Nabob of News and Humor.  I also like to think of myself as George Clooney, but that doesn’t work either.  Stay well out there, count your blessings and come visit me next week.  You have no idea what I’ve got planned for you.  Neither do I.

 

Michael                                    Send comments to:  mfox1746@gmail.com