The Peanut Butter Trick

A few years ago my son, Adam, was back home for a visit. I can't remember now what auto repair he needed to do, but he was working in my garage, replacing a part under the hood. The repair seemed to take a long time, but finally he came back in with a triumphant look.
He described the issue to us, and the problem he encountered turned out to be an unexpected left-hand thread on the part. He tried over and over to get it assembled until, he told us, he remembered "Dad's Peanut Butter Trick."
My mind raced to remember any kind of mechanical trick I had learned and taught that used peanut butter. It didn't seem to be a lubricant I'd ever want to use, and he probably wasn't talking about baiting a mouse trap with it. I came up empty when I tried to figure out what my trick had been.
After the pregnant pause, he continued and reminded me how I taught him as a little boy how to thread the lid back on the peanut butter jar by turning it backward first until it went "thump" and fell down at the beginning of the thread. That was what he meant by the "trick". He apparently heard the tiny "thump" while turning and turning the bolt to the right, and when he finally realized what it meant, he turned the other way and determined it was a left-hand thread.
The simplest little skills sometimes mean a lot in the right situation.

Do-It-Yourself Injury

Self-inflicted injury is a long and time-honored tradition among do-it-yourselfers. Ask around and you can hear the bloody tales of how to bring about visible scars or even missing limbs in the interest of saving a little money or having a product NOT made in China. I installed a recessed light fixture once from the attic, and broke two ribs in the process. I've turned a thumbnail black with a hammer, more than just once.  Fishermen like to tell about the one that got away. Waiters talk about the famous people who came in the restaurant. But do-it-yourselfers have real, actual evidence of the things they talk about. This week was one for me to remember, and I have the evidence. Part of my hand is missing.

Now, before you get all excited about this being a gross, self-serving story, let me assure you that there is a clear lesson from this and it’s not all that big a deal. It could have been worse, but it shouldn’t have happened at all. Maybe someone (besides me) will learn something from this too-true tale, and it’ll be worth my time telling it to you.

My wife currently works with three- to five-year-old kids, and manages to teach them some useful lessons along the way. I’m sure she would tell you that the most important things she teaches are how to read and how to be respectful to each other, but on this occasion she was planning to show them that no matter what shape a bubble wand tries to force on a bubble, the bubble is always round. There is no way to blow a square bubble, or any other shape but r-o-u-n-d, round. She already had some round bubble wands, but she needed some obviously different shapes to help them discover the stark truth of the matter. There is nothing like using discovery to learn important lessons (when they don’t get you in trouble). She knew I could make bubble wands, because I can usually figure out such things.

The process was clear to me as soon as she asked; I just needed some wire coat hangers and a good pair of pliers. We discussed shapes, and decided on a rectangle, triangle, and heart. The coat hanger wire was pretty thick, but I had a sizeable tool that could grip and cut, so it wasn’t difficult. I had a long-ish piece of wire left from the second coat hanger, and decided to make a star for a “bonus” wand. It had lots of points, not like any traditional stars I’d seen. After the last bend, I just needed to cut the wire. That’s when I got careless. You see, I’d been taught all my life to keep myself out of the reach of tools. I knew how dangerous they could be. I knew a man who lost a finger because he wore gloves in the winter when operating a table saw (ripped the finger and glove right off, and flung them across the garage). Saws and knives deserve considerable respect (and distance), but somehow a pair of pliers just didn’t register as a dangerous weapon. That was the mistake.

As I positioned the cutting jaw of the pliers on the wire, I just let one corner of the jaws get too close to my hand, and the force I had to use to bite the wire in two was easily equal to the task of ripping a hunk of my hand away and bringing the bright red wrath that followed. I think I yelled “OW!” (really!), dropped the pliers, and pressed the painful wound with my other hand. My wife, ever the merciful soul, quickly took all the blame on herself for even ASKING me to do something so obviously dangerous, and got me something to soak up the oozing stream, while also telling me to elevate the wound and keep pressure on. It wasn’t her fault, of course, and I assured her so. No, I didn’t get stitches or rush to the emergency room. It was just a little hunk of flesh about 3/8 of an inch square near the “web” between my thumb and forefinger.

The next day I saw the doctor just to make sure it was all right, since it hadn’t clotted under the band-aids I used overnight. I got a tetanus shot, just to be sure. He said it will leave a scar, so I have evidence on this one. Take that, you fishermen and waiters.

Scam?

July 10, 2012

When you've been unemployed for over three months, it’s easy to get lazy and not do any physical exercise for days at a time. It started out as one of those days, but I finally got myself out of the house on a walk around the neighborhood. It really is a nice area, with a lake big enough to host wildlife but small enough to walk around in a half hour or so. I completed the loop and continued exploring the edges of the neighborhood when my Mother called. She’s a retired trainer, and still does some limited training from home, so I sometimes help her with paperwork. She wanted me to help her fax a copy of her business card. I explained that I don’t have a home phone to fax from, but if she had an email address she could scan the card and send a copy to them.

I questioned her about the project and found out she had received a phone call from “Brandy”, soliciting advertising to be placed on the back of t-shirts. These would be sold as a fund raiser for the local fire department. I confirmed that she had not talked to anyone at the fire department about this, and that she only knew of it from this phone call. The caller had told her she would charge the credit card in three monthly installments and send her two of the t-shirts. She just needed to fax a copy of her business card to the phone number she gave. My Mother gave her the credit card info, and needed to send a copy of her business card. That’s when I got worried.

It was when I started calling “Brandy” a SCAMMER that my Mother got very irritated with me. I tried to explain that you NEVER give your credit card number to a caller without properly verifying their identity, preferably by calling a documented phone number and confirming that they are who they claim. Finally, my Mother agreed to call the city and see whether this was a real fund raiser or just a scam.

I looked up the fire department’s phone number and called it to find someone in authority. In my mind, there was definitely one of three problems:  1) the fire department was authorizing someone or a company to make unethical calls to raise money or 2) the company the fire department hired was taking an unethical approach to completing an authorized job or 3) she was being scammed. Call after call to listed numbers at the fire department went to voicemail or to a menu. Following the menu went to voicemail, but pressing zero got me the city receptionist/operator. I talked to the sweet lady who answered, and was told that she just talked to my Mother. She had told her that the city did not authorize such things, and that she believed it was a scam. She had suggested to my Mother that she file a police report and call her bank to alert them.

I thanked her, and called my Mother back.

Did my Mother follow her advice? Of course not. By now my Mother had called “Brandy” back and had been assured that this was not a scam. She gave my Mother another phone number for someone else who, when she called him, told her that this was authorized by the city fire department and there was nothing to worry about. She was convinced. I was not.

I explained to her that unless she could independently confirm that this was authorized by the city, it was a scam; unless she could call a city phone number to verify the fund raiser, her credit card was at risk. I then called the fire department again and reached the same receptionist/operator. After I discussed the situation with her (it’s a small city) she transferred me to the police dispatch desk. I explained what I knew of the situation with the dispatcher, and she created a report with my Mother’s address and phone number. I clarified that either someone at the fire department needed some training or the city needed to use public media to alert its citizens to the scam quickly. She said she would send someone to her house to collect the information.

I got a call later from the officer after visiting with my Mother. “Everything’s all right,” she said. Then she let me know my Mother had cancelled the order and there was nothing to worry about. No laws had been broken by anyone, and now that it won’t cost her anything. She was wrong, of course. I explained that she still needed to follow up with the fire department (in person—they don’t answer the phone) and find out whether they had, indeed, authorized this unethical approach to raise funds. If so, they needed some instruction to protect the local citizens. If they did not authorize it, someone needs to quickly alert the others in the community to the telephone scam going on. She assured me that she would take care of it. I’m not relieved.

First, the company still has her credit card number. Second, someone is calling people and asking for their credit card information. It occurs to me that the officer, indeed, others may not know the problem with a company asking for credit card information over the phone. The trouble is this:  If we allow even reputable companies to call and collect credit information, we never know whether we are talking to someone we can trust. We cannot assume that a caller is who she says, or that our credit card number will be protected from misuse. Anyone can call and identify themselves to us and ask for private information. Unless we insist on proper verification, we are unprotected.

My Mother called back to let me know she talked to the officer, and that she wouldn't give her credit card number to anyone over the phone again without talking to me first. She sounded hurt.

It’s for her own good, I tell myself. I don’t like being the parent to her. I know she needs me to sometimes, but it’s difficult to take away any freedoms she has.

I should go on another walk, but the hot afternoon sun is more than I care to face.