Friday Frivolity: Anemic

“Ed, you’re anemic.” Considering that I’ve been pretty much restricted to my recliner for 6 weeks, you could rightfully expect that was Sue taking exception to me ringing the ‘servant bell’.  It wasn’t. It was my doctor.  Seems that one of my blood tests in the ER indicted my body was deficient in iron.

Really? Iron-poor, tired blood?  I remember those Geritol ads. Right on baby…just a swig of Geritol will get you “twice the iron as a pound of calves liver”  Get real. I can’t even stomach a little bitty chicken liver. The pills the doctor prescribed better not taste like they look.

Red…maybe rusty red.  That’s the color I see in the bottle.  It’s either compressed rust or coagulated blood of a calf.  My gag reflex convulses every time I open the bottle.

Coincidentally, about the same time my doctor called to say my excess weight was not due to swallowing scrap iron, my brother in Alabama found out he had excessive iron in his blood stream.  ‘Bama doctors are still in the ‘blood-letting’ era, I guess.  They sent a nurse out to drain some off.

I hurriedly sent off an e-mail to Bob.  “Wait, just a minute, Bob…get those leeches off your arm.  And don’t let that nurse poke you until I can get there.  We could work out a little ‘blood-sharing’ protocol.

Bob wrote back.  “Too late, brother. I’m a quart low so you can’t siphon off any more this time.  But, here’s an idea for the next time the nurse comes around.  I’ll save the quart of blood and boil it. How long do you think I’ll have to stand over a cauldron of boiling blood to smelt down the iron?  Smelt? Nobody wants to have smelt, or even sniffed, a witches pot of blood.

But I wasn’t done with the concept of transfusing iron rich blood into my veins.  My youngest brother is a frequent flier at the Apheresis Lab. I guess that’s sort of a modern day blood-letting.  “Yo, Rick, what do you think of sharing some of your blood with me at your next blood draw?”  Rick claimed he doesn’t lose blood, so there’s nothing to share. They just take plasma out and cycle his blood back in.

Well, I suppose that settles it. Not only is my blood anemic, but my brothers think my ideas are weak as well.

Friday Frivolity: Bad Omen

Yikes. It’s Friday the Thirteenth. Most assuredly a bad omen of certain demise. Demise of what, though? That’s not quite so certain.

Black Cats and Ladders also have omens attached to them.  Forget the ambiguous threat resulting from walking under a ladder. Unless your eyes are glued to the small-screen entertainment in your hands and your thumbs are more in control than your feet, why would you ever walk under a painters ladder. I’ll admit even that is not guaranteed bad luck. That is, unless that painter is me.

Ask Sue.  I have emptied a can of pain while taking one step down from a two-step stool. On another day of redecorating, I painted a large area of our hardwood floor—along with my shoe stuck in a gallon can clunking crazily for a one horribly ungraceful stumble. It was a Technicolor version…both hue and language…of a Buster Keaton silent movie.

A third paint mishap involved me placing a considerably weighted box on top of an upright, uncapped, can of red spray paint. You do understand that hissing is not in the audible range of my hearing aids. The first evidence that I was painting the antique chair, on which I was stacking spray paint, was the off-hand chance that I noticed mottling of my white sneakers and the puddle of drippage on the garage floor beneath the chair’s leg.  Mine too, incidentally.

Very true. None of these involved ladders or black cats.  Nor red ones either, for that matter.  Honestly, I do not recall these misadventures occurring on Friday the 13th. Furthermore, no other of my definitively “Bad Luck” tales have happened on that supposedly fateful day.  My question therefore is expanded from “What bad luck?”, to “Why Friday”?

It’s quite easy to understand why not Monday the 13th.  Mondays are notoriously bad. Especially true if you are still cleaning up paint spills that happened over the weekend.  Tuesdays? Nah. They are just Mondays after a National Holiday. Besides, if the 13th falls on election day, it is necessarily unlucky for half the ballot.

So, how about Wednesday?  Nope, that doesn’t get my vote.  Wednesday, any date, already has a great nomenclature substitute…Hump-day.  Besides, Humpday-Thirteen just doesn’t have the roll-off-off-your-tongue feel like Thirteenth-Thursday.  That’s my idea of the best shift from Friday the Thirteenth. Also supporting that thought, statistically Thursday is the least likely day for the 13th of any month. Come on, who wants Friday…the highest chance of the 13th. , to be ill fated.

There you have it friends.  Let’s start a ground-swell movement to get the tradition changed from Friday the 13th to Thirteenth-Thursday. Write your Representatives. Get them to initiate a proposal for a congressional decree. They don’t seem to have anything better to do.  But don’t do it today.  It’s the thirteenth—that’s certainly a bad omen.

Friday Frivolity: Language Laxity

As you know, most days I post a “? of the Day” on my facebook page as well as on my web-site; FridayFrivolities.com  Whether I’ve borrowed a question from public domain or created one from my own personal domain of irrationality, the English language provides me with almost endless nonsense.

Often I come across a thought that doesn’t really fit well into a question.  For example, I once heard Amara’s grandpa ask her for some sugar. She immediately knew he was not needing it to bake a cake.  He was seeking a kiss of sweetness.  My upside down mind quickly formulated the question; Is a man worth his salt if he doesn’t ask for sugar?

I suspect a great many readers would catch the link of condiments in the same sentence yet not realize the relevance of sweetness of a kiss.

Furthermore, Worth his salt, on its own is somewhat of a conundrum. It is available in most stores for far less cost than pepper. But who would ever say someone is not worth their pepper?

Even a scientist would question the value of the total amount of salt in our body. I’m a big guy who salts everything I eat and I don’t have enough salt to fill a shaker.  So, you can see why that question never made it to facebook.

Many questions that invade my mind are founded on phonetics.  In most cases, you cannot accurately type phonetics without spoiling the question’s intended humor.  If you say Console, the meaning is derived from which syllable you phonetically emphasize.  Thus writing Can you console someone across the console? doesn’t work.  Even if I alter it to …console someone’s sadness across your car’s console? a lot of the effect is lost due to explaining the pun.  How I hate trying to explain my inexplicable humor.

The other day I tried combining two different, unrelated, words two ways each.  Almost all of my friends, who usually comment on my word plays, replied with total confusion.  I honestly don’t know how they missed both Can and can(ning) and hide(ing) a hide in the same sentence.   That question is now canned from my archives.

To finish this Frivolous memo, I have a challenge for you.  I saw a sign the other day which stuck in a fold of my brain…medically known as sulcus.  Commonly referred to as it sucks.  Honestly, I would like to have some of you witty souls contrive a ? of the Day from:

 “Affordable Bankruptcy” 

If I was a bettin’ man, I’d surely bet they will list themselves at the top of the creditor list.

 

Friday Frivolity: Ouch

Last week I mentioned that I had a lumbar fracture.  Today, three weeks after the fact, I have regained enough of my senses…not to mention reduced narcotics to enable clear thinking…I will try to relate details of how the facture came about.

Before I begin my tale of woe, I’ll back up to provide some back-ground that may or may not be relevant.  Early in January, I was standing during a conversation with Sue and another person.  I wasn’t dizzy or disoriented, but I did teeter a bit forward before taking a step into the triad of people to catch my balance.  Awkward, but not even close to falling.

Then, just the day before my annual, non-specific, physical check-up, I had another minor tilt which Sue witnessed. And, NO, this is not the “Ouch” mentioned in the title of this Frivolity.

Sue usually accompanies me for Doctor appointments.  She claims I don’t always hear what the doctor says. She is usually quite silent—only observing and listening.  However, with my recent non-alcoholic tipsy tendencies, guess what became a high priority for Sue to discuss with my doctor?

Don’t bother to guess! The result of her anxiety, was NOT a Xanax prescription for HER.  Nor did the doctor suggest No-Doze for me.   Bottom line—to keep me off my bottom… the doctor agreed with Sue that I might benefit from some Physical Therapy.

Therefore, I spent the 2nd & 3rd weeks of January being retrained on “Balance” techniques at a place called “Recovery Project.”  The morning after my 5th session, January 24th, I needed to check on Amara’s car tire.

Amara had mentioned that her tire might be damaged, so I was headed out to check on it.  There had been, and still was a misty rain.  I did grab an umbrella to shelter me.  It was not cold enough to even put on a coat. Clad in T-shirt and sweat pants, I was walking to Amara’s car parked in our driveway when I heard a very loud thud.

It was not Amara’s tire exploding. That reverberating thud was my skull contacting the asphalt shortly after passing my fanny going the other way. What I had perceived as a “wet” …it was clearly raining onto my umbrella.  At least until the umbrella was tossed skyward along with my feet.  “Wet” was water on ice now soaking into my sweats. I managed to crawl across the frozen pond, previously mentioned as driveway.  I was headed to ER.

I’m going to bring suit against “Recovery Project” for failure to meet my expectations.  A lot of good it did for me to practice standing on one foot on large sponge.  They should have known that my driveway is not foam padded.

The ER staff at Sparrow Hospital categorically rejected being co-litigant.  So a few wonderful nurses and one doctor with no sense of humor, accomplished blood tests every hour, plugged in an IV, heart monitors, took CT and x-rays of everything but my big toes.  Then they advised me of an L1 compression fracture, as well as C4 & 5 degradation (that’s Cervical, not the crania degradation often questioned by friends).   Though not visible in any pictures, it was also noted that there was aching spasms of back & neck muscles.  Ah, but only abrasions on my noggin and elbow…no breaks. They did agree some bruising of my ego could surface later.

Because I am on blood thinner, bleeding internally was a concern I shared with everyone in ER.  After my CT, I asked the doctor if my grey matter was blood stained. Did I mention he lost his sense of humor around puberty? He didn’t even smirk, but allayed my fear of inter-cranial bleeding. For that news I was extremely relieved.  I still had a massive headache, but there would be no drilling my skull for a blood-letting.

So, for the past three weeks, I have been in my recliner, lounging UNcomfortably in a cinch that would fit a Clydesdale. Okay, so maybe my back brace would only fit snuggly on a pony, but it is nevertheless miserably cumbersome.  A friend of mine characterized that contraption as scaffolding.  Then, purportedly as encouragement, she advised me to “hang in there.”

The very good news is my plight will likely only last 4-6 weeks.  Sue said I didn’t hear that prognosis correctly.  She claims I am under her unilateral control for 4 MORE weeks—until I get a new CT.  THEN hopefully I’ll get a reprieve from my orthopedic surgeon…, that makes it the 8 weeks she heard.  Ouch! I hate it when she’s right.

Friday Frivolity: Tale of Two Tails

Due to a compression fracture in my lumbar region, I am spending a lot of time watching nature outside my front window.  Particularly entertaining is the squirrel feeder.  It is a platform my daughter and her husband crafted to simulate a cafe table and “rustic” chairs.  The table has a spike to skewer a cob of corn on.

The greatest entertainment value comes when two squirrels come to feed at the same time.  That event is enhanced by my imaginative animation.  Such was the case earlier this week when two squirrels were at the feeder.  Okay, so one was at the feeder and one was shouting every possible password for admittance.

The feeder itself is for a single corn cob, mounted upright on a nail.  A cob a day is usually sufficient. Some of the cobs I bought are very short. They do not have enough kernels for a whole “day” of feed, so Sue shucks those cobs onto the ground.

Anyway, the grey squirrel obviously could not come up with the password the red squirrel required.  Red shouted  discouraging words, “Stop yelling at me.  You’ll never get it.  Down there is your lunch.”

“I’m not eating off the ground,” Grey countered.  “Those are the kernels Sue spreads out for the poor rodents.  I’m not a vagrant.”

“Vagrants? You idiot. They are down there because Sue is vertically challenged.  She can’t reach this high.”

“Yeah, sure. Then explain how she got the preferred cob you are seated on, up here.”

“She jumps…which is more than I can say for you.  Why don’t you just slinky your way down there for lunch!”

“Oh, so your hop like a lame rabbit is smoother than my lope?”

“Lope, hop, bound…whatever. Either eat off the ground or be patient until I get my fill.”

“What? You can’t eat all of that corn yourself.”

“True, but yelling back and forth is delaying my lunch. You come back later.”

The gray squirrel tried the old run around the tree—sneak in the back door tactic.  Red did a marvelous 180 pirouette on the cob to easily counter that maneuver. Sneering at Grey,  “That’s an old trick.  You ain’t foolin’ me.”

“You old fool…I just want my share,” Grey complained from the edge of the platform.

For several moments they bobbed and weaved like sparing partners without gloves. Red would lean precariously from the top of the cob screaming “Be gone you miserable rat.”

Grey would attempt a snatch and grab, whilst yelling a retort for the slur on his heritage.  “You’re nothing but an overweight chipmunk.”

“Well, I’m not so fat that I can’t chase you off this tree,” and proceeded to do just that.

What befuddled me, is that during this 10 minute standoff…which included “explitive deletives” that I did not repeat to you…neither squirrel got even one kernel.  I must conclude that rats, regardless of how glorified their fur coat might be, are far more selfish than birds.  But bird chatter at my feeder is a story for another day.

Friday Frivolity: Plastic Candles

Every year at Christmas we light up our front yard with festive décor.  When we do, my heart pangs for my long gone Christmas Candles.  You know…the 1960’s, 4 foot, lighted, red plastic ones with the vibrant orangish-yellow flame.

I had a pair of them once and I dearly miss them.  Actually I had them for 25 years—right up until the first Christmas after I married Sue.  Then they had to go.  Sold as rummage.  I guess Sue’s allergic to plastic candles.  At least every time we drive by a pair glowing in someone’s yard, she starts to gag and convulse; “Oh, no…gulp…they’ve got…cough, cough… those hideous…choke… PLASTIC CANDLES.”

It’s not the candles, though.  I mean, we’ve got candles everywhere in the house.  And not just at Christmas.  All year long she’s got them on tables, counters, bookshelves, ledges, …anywhere flat.  Even in the fireplace.  We don’t burn logs, she lights candles.

And during Advent, candles go on every window sill.  But NONE outside.  That would require really large candles.  Plastic candles.  Nooooope!  Not gonna happen.  No plastic ornamentation in our yard.  A Wire Snowman is just fine.  Foil wrapped packages, velveteen bows, rubber boots stuffed with tinfoil stars and ever-greenery are all acceptable.  Oh, and don’t forget the bubble-wrap stuffed, Styrofoam headed kids on a sled.  But no plastic candles.

So, now as I stand in our drive…forlorn… Our yard gleams with lighted splendor, but I sure miss my plastic candles.  But wait.  What’s that in our living room window.  The glow of 4 candles.  Not four foot red ones, but faded white, clear bulb lit, PLASTIC candles.  I can’t wait to hear Sue’s justification of this double standard.

She said they were something-something-styrene…not plastic.

 

Friday Frivolity: Fast Recovery

There was most certainly a blur in my vision, not to mention my mind was a bit foggy.  The ceiling was moving as I heard a voice, “How are you doing Mr. Kaiser?”

Regardless of what may seem to you as me lying on the floor in a drunken stupor, I assure you it was drugs, not liquor.  I was waking up following a colonoscopy. And the voice was the “Recovery Nurse”, Joey.*

My brain began to clear enough for me to easily revert to my senses…especially the sense of humor. “Joey, you say?”

“Yes.  Typically a boy’s name, but you got it right.” She was methodically locking my gurney, shining a laser beam into my eyes and checking my IV.

“Well, Joey, you are aware that you just carted me down the hall from a colonoscopy.  I’m also quite certain you know that clear liquids is all the libation I’ve had for 2 days.  I’ve complied with the directive of no meals, snacks, or early trick-or-treating.  For a guy who eats something every two hours, my stomach is not only growling, it seems to be inverting itself up into my throat looking for anything consumable.  Furthermore, I just finished a session with an internal photographer and you wonder how I’m doing?”

No doubt she had heard retorts like this before—mostly intended as complaint.  However, my voice inflections and facial expressions certainly reflected my intended sarcasm. When she smiled brightly, I knew she gathered as much, so I felt comfortable in saying,
“You definitely do not look like any Australian Joey I’ve seen on the Nature Channel.”

“Well, thank you very much.  I think you are quite awake now.  Would you like something?”

“Steak or Lobster would be nice.”

“Ed, stop harassing her.” That was Sue entering my recovery stall. “I can take him out, but cannot make him behave.”

When Joey hopped back into my stall with a Coke, she advised me that they had pumped quite a bit of CO2 into my system so I probably feel a little bloated.  “Don’t try to hold it in. Just let it out.”  Before you get the impression that all men “just let it out”, I opted to try to force the gas back into my stomach and burp quietly.  Do you realize there is a pyloric valve to prevent that from happening.  Pressure anywhere in the lower digestive track pushes equally on a valve that will not open and the wide open…

Oh, was I happy I had not eaten anything in 24 hours.

The Doctor came in to tell Sue and I what he had found.  He admitted that he had removed a rather large polyp which he did not want “scratched at” by abrasive foods.  “No popcorn or nuts for two weeks.”

As he left, I announce my opinion of that proscription, “I don’t like you right now, Doctor.”

Joey continued the Doctor’s discharge instructions…including reiterating his emphasis of no  popcorn.  “I don’t like you either.” I glibly responded. “You’d better give Sue that no-no list.  She is the one who will be in charge of what I should not eat.”

“That’s the way it is supposed to be…women in charge, right?”  Sue and Joey ‘high-fived’ and I knew I had met a formidable repartee foe.

When she finished all the paperwork, Joey attempted to confirm if I was ready to leave.  “Would you like to get dressed now?” she asked.

“I don’t know.  Is it still raining outside?”

“Why?  Are you afraid you might melt?  Sue interjected for me. “Ed would say, ‘melt’ is heat related. Rain might cause ‘dissolving’, but not melting.  However, I would say it’s too cold for him to melt and his sugar content is obviously debatable.”

That I would totally agree with.  I had not had even an M&M in two days. But now, my fast was over. I got dressed then we headed for anything other than popcorn.

* I told Joey that I would be writing this Frivolity involving her and she gave permission to accurately use her name.  This is a true story.  No names have been changed to protect the guilty parties.

Friday Frivolity: Halloween Loot

Probably because Halloween is my birthday, my brother, aka ‘bama Bob, asked if I ever shared my “birthday loot” with him and little brother, Rick. Not only does his question have a subtle inference of un-brotherly selfishness, it also challenged my recollection of what Trick-or-Treat was like 65 years ago.

Let me set the stage for you. Bob is 5 years younger than me and Rick would probably have been dressed as a toddler with rabbit ears the first time all three of us went out into the neighborhood to Trick-or-Treat. Though I cannot recall for certain, I am quite certain mom went with us on that first brothers-three Halloween evening.

I’m sure you can imagine that adding Little Rickie to the trek around the neighborhood slowed us down. Mom emphatically alerted Bob and me; “No, you two cannot take off. We are going as a family this year.”

“Really, mom?”, I foolishly countered. “Dad’s home watching Douglas Edward’s with the News (and Timex watches taking a lickin’ but keep on tickin’). Besides, a walrus moves faster than Rickie. Can’t you carry him?” I guess you know that ill-timed question was met with an unmistakable glare: Do you want to go home right now?

Fortunately, Rick was far too young to understand the stamina required to get a bountiful harvest of treats. He tired quickly. Besides, his treat-container was a plastic pumpkin. You couldn’t even fit a popcorn ball into it. Bobby’s bag was the recipient of all goodies that would not fit into the pumpkin. New rule of Halloween—Never question mom about family inclusive issues.

When Rickie’s pumpkin overflowed with more sugar than he should ingest before Thanksgiving, Bob and I were released from our brotherhood tethers. Neither he nor I insisted on togetherness for our sprints to the best houses. You see, we each had a separate “Halloween Brotherhood”.

We didn’t go around the neighborhood as gangs of kids. Nevertheless, our separate clans of school chums would loudly shout, in passing, of where the Jackpot houses were. Why waste time on porches to get good-for-you fruits, Safe-T-Pops or sticky popcorn balls. Crackerjacks with a prize inside was a high priority stop for me. Nobody was yelling where you could get Hershey Kisses. Hershey Bars…oh, yeah! Houses giving Chicklets, mini-packs of CandyCorn and Dum-Dums were to be skipped to efficiently scramble across lawns to haul in Double-Bubble, jaw breakers and All-day suckers.

Now, to address my brother’s opening question of candy distribution at home. In the interest of “brotherhood”…and Dad, who now was more interested in treats than the newspaper, we would dump the contents of our rope-handled grocery bags on the floor then kneel to paw through the pickings.

Safety Patrol mom searched diligently for “home-made” stuff and opened packaging. “Yes, mother, I know the box of Good&Plenty is open, but I did it. They were good but not really plenty.” Of course mom would answer, “Then Bob can have that one”, pointing to a second box that obviously came from my bag. We didn’t dare fight over the treats or the entire lot would be confiscated. However, I’m not saying we exactly shared equally.

Lest you have already forgotten, it was MY birthday. So, if I happened to dump out anything with nuts or peanut butter, don’t think for a minute I was buying into my mom’s ‘share and share alike’. Oh, sure, I might agree to “one for one” trading. “Here Bob, you can have my 3 boxes of MilkDuds and 2 big lollipops for those 5 measly little Reese’s cups.” He was old enough to do one-for-one math, but too young to do good negotiations. Besides at his age, sugar is sugar.

I cannot say that every smidgen of sweetness was distributed. I seem to remember a dishpan quite full of all the non-prioritized goodies. For quite some time into November, it sat out for easy pickings. Who got most of the loot out of that pan? Let’s just say my hands were bigger than either Bob’s or Rick’s.

 

Friday Frivolity: Faulty Fall

Last week my brother, Rick, sent me a very nice piece of prose that he wrote.  Within that story, Rick described the magnificent colors on the trees which he could see from his “Front Porch”.

This week I should invite him to come to my house. I’m hoping he will be able to write another heart-warming story about the view from my “Front Yard”…while he is helping me rake leaves.

Last week he could see the glorious hues of fall.  This week all I see are grungy smudges of brown after the fall.  What do you think?  If Rick can find splendor in the tree’s last week, he ought to be able to write Splendor in the Grass Too, this week.

Actually I am only halfheartedly complaining about the hard work of clearing the lawn. I do appreciate the vibrantly dyed leaves on the trees surrounding my home.  The operative word is “on”. “Off” their limbs the leaves seem stained rather than painted. That’s the half of fall I do not look forward to.

I have chosen to stay in Michigan because I honestly enjoy all four seasons.  Certainly there is visual beauty all year round. Unfortunately, observable magnificence is soon-after mitigated by physical exertion.

Freshly fallen snow with drifted sculpturing is a marvel to see.  Snow blowing, in opposition to blowing snow at negative wind-chill, is a task I do not particularly enjoy.

In the Spring, there is always glorious “new life” of sprouting bulb plants. Of course also sprouting are the grass runners I didn’t get out of the lilies when cutting them back last fall.

Ah, yes…Summer eventually arrives. Progressively warming sunshine, …gradually longer days to increase daylight pleasures, …steadily varying beautiful and fragrant blooms, …more and more of everything—including mosquito bites, weeding and lawn-mowing.

Now it’s fall. Yup, it is nice that the scorching heat of August is falling to a more comfortable level.  I suppose most folks don’t actually mind the steadily shortening days.  Now the sun falls below the horizon while we’re still awake enough to enjoy those God-crafted paintings. And, as I began this bit of Frivolity, Fall is fabulous before the fall.

Yup, fall I did while climbing the unstable compost pile to dump a bag of Toro-scrunched leaves. However, I think that was more my fault that the fault of fall.

Before………………………….and……………..After the fall  [about 4’ high]

Friday Frivolity: Dollhouse Sequel

If you happen to be one of the folks who bought my first book…Laughing at Life…then you would be familiar with the “Dollhouse” story.  Well, 20 years later, here’s a sequel.

Sue has done some improvements to the dollhouse over the past 20 years.  Now she has decided to put a lot more concentrated effort into finish it.  Although I have some doubts as to when any particular point her decorating could be considered “finished”, I do know that she is very intent on sweeping improvements the past several weeks.

Of course, you do know that this is a typically scaled dollhouse.  It is not miniature.  But it’s not exactly a size easy to assemble with 70 year old eyesight either.  Even when she finishes the grandfather clock, I won’t be able to tell the time from more a foot away.

Before I expound on the clock, I want to back up to the bed she assembled last week.  The bed needed a string matrix to rest the mattress on.  Even though it is her project, she does ask for my assistance at times.  Drilling holes for the strings was her request.  From the directions which came with the kit, she advised me of the size of the drill bit along with a template of the hole spacing.

Now, I have a very comprehensive collection of drill bits.  I’ve got some that are large enough for a prehistoric dentist to drill out cavities of a Wooly Mammoth—if such a hook-toothed monster would have complained to a human.  I also have drill bits small enough to hide in dust if I drop it on my work bench.  But I did not have one of the size described in the instructions.

I opted for the smallest that I did have.  I took out my cordless Milwaukee drill and set the bit in the chuck.  With the jaws of the chuck fully clamped, the bit was not.  Yes, I know, most every store selling these furniture kits also sell “Miniature Tools”.  Pllleeeze…80 bucks for a tool box containing a drill that couldn’t cut through anything tougher than balsa?

But wait.  I have a Dremel that should chuck up this tiny bit.  It did.  With success of that aspect of drilling, I am next faced with the challenge of my spastic hands aligning a bit I cannot see with the marks on the template which are larger than the bit size.  Wonderful.  How could I possibly miss on the spacing when there’s a built-in error factor of 25% within the template marks.  Sue was happy enough to ask for my assistance on another miniature-home improvement project.  She’ll surely be happy with the hole if I erase the pencil mark after I almost hit it with the bit.

Yup, she was pleased so, on to the clock I mentioned previously.  And it also involved holes. I’d already put the Dremel away and dropped the bit.  If I had intended it to wedge into the crack on my workbench, I would have failed. But there is was…scale-wise about like a flag pole in the St. Andreas Fault.  I couldn’t get my smallest screwdriver into the crack.  It’s a good thing Sue didn’t need me to drill holes in the clock.

The holes were pre-drilled but she was getting frustrated trying to install the clocks weights into the drive box. Allow me to assist you in getting the picture of this procedure.  First of all, even if I scanned THEIR picture at 200% you would be hard pressed to note the variance between the weight’s “chain link” and the pre-drilled hole.

Have you seen the Tupperware, Child’s toy Ball of shapes and pieces to put in them.  Kids can eventually learn to fit shapes into the appropriate openings. Because their hands are tiny like the clock pieces, I suspect they would proudly announce “It doesn’t fit, Grandma.” Grandma on the other hand…which are noticeably humongous trying to grip minuscule chains, are much slower to recognize that oblong chains do not easily fit into round holes.

Adult get frustrated and mumble things kids should not hear.  Keep in mind the ROUND holes are there…somewhere, and the OBLONG links are not big enough to go over a mosquito’s head—BUT THEY STILL DON’T FIT…and I don’t have any oblong drill bits.

After a half dozen failed attempts to glue them ‘close’ to the holes, Sue finally decided to forget the weights.  After all, you can’t see them unless you open the door.  And the knob on the door is comparable to a pin-head. Guaranteed: If I were to reach into the dollhouse living room to show off the clock-works, I might utter “Fe, Fi, Fo, fumble”.  Nobody’s ever going to see the clock doesn’t work.