FoxCraft

Uplifting Gems

This blog is meant to be uplifting and inspiring, a place where little rays of sunshine brighten the mundane realities of life and, in some small way, help make the world a better place.

So I don't suppose anyone is interested in hearing about the newest two and a half million dollar bra.

Of course not. Maybe we could look for enlightenment in a different topic. Election ads, maybe. Or Chinese currency manipulation. Or the difference between a gerund and an indirect object, or . . .

What's that? You think the bra would be more uplifting?

Well, actually, I don't see how it could be. The thing is loaded down with more than 5000 precious gems. It has to be so heavy that nobody but a super-model could even stand up straight with it on. I bet she wouldn't make it through airport security, either. The underwire alone would be enough to send the security scanners into overdrive.

Apparently the bra—size MM, no doubt, for millions—is something that Victoria's Secret creates every year. And no, I'm not going to link to a photo of it. If you want to see it, you can search for it yourself. Then all the resulting underwear-related spam will come to your inbox instead of mine.

I'm just shocked that this has been around for years and I've missed it. I guess they overlooked my name when they put together their list of potential buyers. Or possibly, between my frugality and my fashion-challenged lifestyle, they didn't think I fit the prospective purchaser profile.

They may be right. Even if I had a couple of extra millions lying around, I doubt that I'd spend it on a bra full of bling. In my opinion, it would be a lot less trouble just to put a gem in your belly button instead. After all, as the years go by, that's where those jewels would end up anyway.

The Pitiful Fate of the Passenger Pigeon

And to think we all believed they were extinct.

Passenger pigeons, that is. Millions of them once lived all over North America, but thanks to people hunting them, eating them, and destroying their forest homes like the greedy top-of-the-food-chain predators we sometimes are, the last of them disappeared around a hundred years ago.

At least that's what we were taught in elementary school.

But now, the truth about what really happened to the passenger pigeon has been revealed. It was one of those happy accidents, a serendipitous sighting that casts new light on the unhappy fate of these innocent birds. The truth has been hidden since the days, a century ago, when the Wright Brothers and other aviation pioneers made it possible for human beings to take to the skies.

My partner, passing through New York on his way home from an overseas trip, spotted a pigeon near his boarding gate at JFK International Airport. It seemed to be waiting for a flight just like everybody else, so he immediately identified it as a passenger pigeon.

It wasn't carrying anything, though, which is what really solves the mystery of its disappearance. The passenger pigeon didn't really go extinct. Like so many other unwary travelers, it's just been hanging around the airport waiting for its luggage.

What Crash Test Dummies Won't Tell You

To automotive designers everywhere: Yes, I'm sure you're excited about aerodynamics, safety, sleek lines, and all those other wonderful features that the voiceover people in the car commercials get so breathless about.

But I have just one question. When you finish designing a car with all the latest and greatest technology and breakthrough design, and they build a prototype, do you ever actually drive it? Not just for a couple of quick spins around a test track, but on a real trip. Across South Dakota on I-90 from Rapid City to Sioux Falls, for example.

I thought not. If you did, you might notice a few design flaws you've somehow overlooked.

Take the headrests, for example. Please. Take mine. I know, I know, they're a safety feature, and they have to meet certain requirements as established for the good of the driving public with the help of crash test dummies. If I'm ever rear-ended by a beer truck, they might save me from a broken neck, and I'm sure I'd be very grateful.

But I bet none of those crash test dummies who try out the headrests ever have their hair pinned up with a plastic clip. No matter how you adjust the headrest, the clip hits it, so you're left with three choices:
A. Drive with the plastic teeth of the clip digging into the back of your head;
B. Drive with your neck bent, peering up under your eyebrows to see oncoming traffic, thus endangering yourself and others and arriving at your destination with a sore neck and aching back; or
C. Yanking out the clip and arriving at your destination with bad hair.

Crash test dummies don't need to worry about things like this, since they don't have hair.

Apparently crash test dummies and automotive designers don't carry purses, either. Otherwise, you'd think one of them might have noticed that today's cars have no place to put one.

The front console is full of teeny little cubbyholes and places to plug in all the electronic devices that we aren't supposed to use while we're driving. The space between the seats is filled from seat back to console with arm rests and cup holders and clever little storage bins for more illicit electronic devices and other items, all of which are smaller than the average purse.

The only convenient place to park a purse is in the passenger seat, which is fine unless you happen to have a passenger there. Especially if the passenger either: a), doesn't want to hold your purse on his lap all the way from Rapid City to Sioux Falls; b), isn't someone you'd trust to hold your purse; or c), is someone like a pregnant daughter who doesn't have a lap.

Therefore, you need to stash your purse on the floor, where it's in the way, or dump it into the back seat, where it's safe but out of reach. Except to the two-year-old back there in her car seat, who can entertain herself for miles by tearing all your ten-dollar bills into confetti and making calls to Indonesia on your cell phone.

You can, of course, park the phone in one of the handy-dandy little cubbyholes in the front console. Except then if it rings and you reach for it, you're likely to drop it into the plastic grocery bag you have hanging from the gearshift lever. The bag limits the passenger's leg room and obscures the letters on the gearshift that tell you whether you're in Drive or Reverse, but hey, those are minor inconveniences. Besides, there's no place else to put it.

Because apparently, automotive designers and crash test dummies don't use litter bags, either.

Flaunt It When You've Got It

Sex appeal. It's hard to define, but we know it when we see it. We've all seen the woman who can raise the temperature ten degrees just by walking into a room. All the women either want to be her or are tempted to drop a poisoned olive into her martini. All the men want to take her home—and not to meet their mothers.

I have never been one of those women.

Maybe sex appeal is genetic. Maybe it's learned. Or maybe it's simply a matter of paying attention. If you want guys to notice you, it probably is a good idea to notice them back. This is the part I've always missed.

Like the time, as a freshman in college, I was sunbathing on the grass near my dorm. The football coach came by with a couple of high school seniors he was recruiting. With the boys at his heels, he veered off the sidewalk and came over to ask me a question.

My work-study job was in the admissions office, so it wasn't completely unreasonable for the coach to ask me an admissions question. Except I knew perfectly well he knew the answer as well as I did. I answered him politely anyway, he introduced the two boys, I said hi, there was an awkward pause, then they went on their way and I went back to my book.

I'm sure you've seen the formula by now, but it was months before I figured it out. Coach has good football prospects. Prospects are 18-year-old guys. Coach sees girl in bikini. Coach makes introductions. Coach figures chemistry will do its work.

Except the coach didn't know I never took chemistry. He saw a perfect recruiting opportunity, but I blew it. The losing football season the next year was probably all my fault.

Fast-forward about 30 years. I needed to replace a couple of thermal-paned windows in my house. No big deal; I took the windows out of their frames and took them to the store for the repair.

When I went back later to pick them up, the man who waited on me was exceptionally friendly and helpful. He took care of the paperwork, loaded the windows into my car, and then asked me if I had someone at home to reinstall them for me. No, I said. He offered to come to my house after work and take care of it. I said thanks, I could handle it myself. I was a little surprised at the offer—it seemed like taking customer service a bit too far.

Later, telling a friend about it, I asked, "Do I look incompetent to you? That guy thought I wasn't smart enough to do a simple thing like put a window back in."

My friend asked, "How old was this guy?"

"About my age. Why?"

"Didn't you get it? He was flirting. If you'd let him install the windows, he'd probably have asked you out."

"Oh." I hadn't noticed. Never mind.

One time, though, I did experience what it's like to have the attention of every guy in the place. My husband's construction company was working on a job in Minnesota. They needed a new pickup, and my husband found a used Dodge in Illinois. He flew me there and dropped me off to drive the pickup back to the jobsite.

It was a gorgeous truck, one sleek ton of gleaming black and gray with chrome that had been polished till it sparkled. Only a year old, it was so clean that it even smelled new. Its Cummins diesel engine rumbled like a kitten on steroids.

I climbed in, adjusted the seat as far forward as it would go, and roared off toward the Interstate. With the power I had under the hood, the six-hour trip across Wisconsin and half of Minnesota was a piece of cake. It was late afternoon when I pulled into the parking lot of our motel, shut off the ignition, and let the truck grumble into silence.

I got out. I stretched. Then I noticed several young guys across the parking lot, obviously construction workers just getting off for the day. They were looking in my direction. I could see the desire in their eyes. They were practically drooling.

I knew exactly what they wanted, and I knew I had it. My reaction was smug satisfaction. I gave them a big smile, thinking, Don't you wish. What I have here is way out of your league.

I knew they were looking at my truck.

From Armstrong to Zombies

Zombies and vampires. They're everywhere. Their invasion over the past few years has been so successful that it's impossible to escape from them.

Especially in movie theatres, libraries, and bookstores. The last time I browed through the young adult section of a bookstore, there was nothing on the shelves but ominous dark covers with blood-red titles dripping gore. I had to get out of there while I was still breathing.

Some blood-sucking author has even inflicted zombies on Jane Austen. Someone else has saddled Abraham Lincoln with vampires. As if the man didn't already carry enough of a burden, what with the Civil War and all.

It's enough to send cold shivers down the spine of a reader of plain old-fashioned murder mysteries where, when people are killed, they tend to stay dead. Though I have to admit I did read a zombie novel not long ago. I didn't mean to, honest. I thought it was science fiction. But by the time the zombies appeared, I was too far into the story to give up without finding out how it ended. (Hint: the zombies didn't die.)

What I've recently discovered, however, is that the zombie and vampire invasion may be even worse than anyone realizes. The undead may have begun infiltrating humankind much earlier than we thought.

This discovery came via a message embedded in an innocent-appearing newspaper article reporting the death of astronaut Neil Armstrong. When I read it, my blood ran cold. The piece, from the Associated Press, appeared in our local paper on Sunday, August 26. Referring to Armstrong's historic first step onto the moon on July 20, 1969, it stated: "Although more than half of the world's population wasn't alive then, it was an event that changed and expanded the globe."

Of course, it's possible that what this sentence meant to say was that half of the people living on Earth today weren't yet born in 1969.

But maybe not. Maybe there really were that many zombies, all across the planet, living secretly among us. That obnoxious kid in first grade who ate all your paste? The odd guy in high school who wore sandals with socks, even in February? That weird sociology teacher your freshman year in college? Your bullying first boss? This could explain a lot of strange people.

But it gets worse. Just think about it. These are the undead. No matter what happens to them, they keep on going, like a bunch of cuteness-challenged Energizer Bunnies. If they've been around since 1969 or earlier, a lot of them are probably collecting Social Security by now.

Taxpayers everywhere should be very afraid.

Waxing and Warning

You can buy mustache wax at the drug store in Custer, South Dakota. Heck, for all I know, you can buy it at drug stores everywhere. Not having a mustache myself, thank goodness, I've never had occasion to look.

My daughter did, though. Not, I hasten to explain, that she has a mustache, either. At the moment her husband does. His most recent role at the Black Hills Playhouse, as a sword-wielding evil henchman, required a mustache, waxed to suitably swashbuckling points. It looked good on him, too.

Although, even waxed, it wasn't anywhere close to being the most memorable mustache I've ever seen. That impressive growth of facial hair decorated the upper lip of a park ranger whose location will not be revealed in case he and his mustache are still employed there.

My parents, my aunt, and I had stopped at an information center and asked this man some questions. He was tall and slim, good-looking in a middle-aged cowboy way. Though, honestly, the only thing I really remember about his appearance was that incredible mustache. Pulled out straight, it would probably have extended several inches on either side of his mouth like the whiskers of a cat. We couldn't really estimate the length, though, because each end was so tightly curled. Not just into a swoop or a partial circle, but around and around in several ever-smaller spirals. Both curls were perfectly round and symmetrical, kept in place by what must have been enough wax to polish a convertible. Whenever he spoke, those curls twitched and quivered in a most fascinating manner.

After we got back to our car, my father accused my mother and aunt of asking the man unnecessary questions just so they could watch his mustache. They didn't deny it, possibly because they were giggling too hard to say anything.

None of us, though, asked him the things we really wanted to know. Like how he managed to get those curls so perfect. Did he wind the ends around his little finger? Use bobby pins? Roll them on little tiny curlers? He presumably didn't use a curling iron; the heat would have melted the wax.

But for me, at least, the most interesting question was what that mustache must have looked like when he woke up in the morning. Did he wash off the wax and go to bed with each side of his mustache in a little braid? Or tie the ends together under his chin? Or just let the wax stick wherever it would? I had a mental picture of those careful curls, all askew, plastered crookedly to his cheeks with wax. It wasn't an appealing image.

I suppose one way to find out would be to frequent cowboy bars and look for a man with a similar mustache, then pick him up and take him home. The next morning, all my questions would be answered as soon as I woke up and put my glasses on.

But even for an inquiring mind, that would be carrying research way too far.

If Dr. Seuss Made Chokecherry Jelly

The sink is pink. The stove is, too.
The countertops are splashed with goo.
Little seeds are everywhere
And pulp is spattered in my hair.

Okay, Dr. Seuss would have said it much better. Still, had he seen my kitchen last night, I think he might have been inspired. Martha Stewart, probably not so much.

One of the things I like about making chokecherry jelly is the color. The berries themselves, when fully ripe, are a deep red that is almost black. Jelly-filled jars lined up on the counter glow in the sunlight like rubies. And the juice, while it's being cooked, is a lovely, rich magenta.

It's a good thing I appreciate all that color, because the process of cooking chokecherries and squishing them to separate out the seeds certainly splashes a lot of it all over the kitchen. Besides magenta-saturated kettles, measuring cups, and spatulas, I had magenta drops on the counters. Magenta drips on the floor. Magenta spills in the sink. Magenta spatters on the window. Magenta streaks across my apron (at least I was smart enough to wear one). And, as I discovered when I cleaned up, magenta freckles on my cheeks and several blobs of magenta pulp in my hair.

Not to mention magenta-stained seeds strewn across a 15-foot radius of my work area. As I cranked the handle on the ricer to strain out the juice and pulp, seeds would periodically leap up like out-of-control popcorn kernels and make their escape. I found them at the far end of the kitchen, behind the fruit bowl on the counter I wasn't using, and under the dining room table in the next room.

If she ever makes chokecherry jelly, somehow I doubt that Martha Stewart has to pick up seeds from under her table or comb bits of pulp out of her bangs. But then, she probably wouldn't write rhymes about the process, either.

Maybe that's why I think Dr. Seuss is more fun than Mrs. Stewart.

When There's No "I" in "Sorry"

"Sorry for being three minutes late."

As an example of the apology-that-isn't-quite, it was really rather elegant. First there was the omission of that inconvenient little word "I." Nothing so direct and personal as "I'm sorry," or even "I was late." No subject in the sentence at all. Just the breezy, impersonal "sorry" that implies a certain level of mild regret on a vaguely global scale without necessarily acknowledging that the speaker personally had anything to do with whatever may or may not have happened.

The master stroke, however, was the speaker's subtle but unmistakable emphasis on "three minutes" rather than "sorry." This was a delicate but oh-so-clear statement that any transgression that may have inadvertently taken place was so minor and insignificant that no one could possibly be upset by it unless that person were an unreasonable, obnoxious jerk.

This neatly preempted any possible complaints from the five of us who had been standing outside the locked door of the fitness center wondering why the door was still locked when it was after opening time. If we expressed any annoyance, we would be obnoxious jerks. Especially if we were so unreasonable as to point out that we had, in fact, been waiting for longer than three minutes.

This placing the responsibility on the apologees rather than the apologizer was skillfully done. It was almost up there with the classic phrasing from the public figure who really isn't sorry at all: "I regret it if anyone was offended."

I doubt whether those of us who had been waiting were particularly annoyed at the employee's minor tardiness. Certainly no one said so. We knew perfectly well that any of us can be rushed, forget to watch the time, mislay our keys, or for all sorts of other reasons end up keeping people waiting. It's an ordinary, understandable, and forgivable thing to do.

But any of us can also say, simply and sincerely, "I'm sorry." A genuine apology instead of a pseudo-apology builds connections with people instead of brushing them aside. When we take responsibility for our own little human errors, we make it easy for other people to forgive us, because we are treating them with respect. Most of the time, we'll get their respect and quick forgiveness in return.

But even if it doesn't persuade others to forgive us, there's another reason why a genuine apology is a good idea. It just might keep people from posting snarky little rants about us on the Internet.

Where's That Lonely Maytag Guy When You Need Him?

Splashing in the water on a 90-degree day. It conjures up delightful images of diving into waves from sun-kissed beaches, wading in rippling little streams, or running through sprinklers in the back yard.

Fill that water with half-laundered clothes, however, and suddenly the enjoyment factor goes down faster than the water drains out of a washing machine. Well, as fast as the water would drain out if the washer were actually working. Which, in the middle of the wash cycle for a large load, on the day before my partner was leaving on a six-week overseas trip, our washer stopped doing.

First I did the obvious things like checking the circuit breaker, trying to restart the machine, and plugging it into a different outlet. No luck. Then I thumped the washer a few times, hoping to resuscitate it with what a handyman member of the family calls "percussive maintenance." Nada.

The next step was to haul the sopping items out, dump them into a bucket, and lug them over to the big sink in the utility room. In the process, I learned an effective method to fish for floating socks at the bottom of a washer full of cold, scummy water. If you swish your arm around the tub a few times to start the water swirling in one direction, then move your hand against the current for a couple of cycles, you can grab those last few elusive socks as they swim by.

I filled the utility sink with water and rinsed the clothes by hand, twice. Looking on the bright side, I did discover that our big bath towels were every bit as absorbent as they were supposed to be. Judging from how much they weighed, they held a lot of water. Wringing them out by hand was probably wonderful for the triceps and shoulders, but by the end of the second rinse I wasn't fully appreciating the fitness benefits.

Once the clothes were finally in the dryer, it was time to deal with the water in the washer. For anyone who cares to know, a Kenmore Model 110 heavy duty washer, extra large capacity plus, holds approximately 15 gallons of water. This estimate is based on the number of scoops it took to bail the water into a bucket with a one-quart yogurt container. Unfortunately, anything bigger didn't fit between the agitator and the side of the tub.

Finally, it was time to sit down and rest, with chocolate in one hand, the phone in the other, and the yellow pages open to "appliance repairs." Of course, someone would be glad to come look at the washer. The earliest available appointment? Certainly. That would be 10 days from now.

On the wall of our laundry room hangs an old, well-used washboard. It's a reminder of just how much hard work laundry used to be and gives me a sense of appreciation for my grandmothers and great-grandmothers. I'll probably think of it, and them, a lot next week.

While I'm sitting at the Dew Drop Laundromat with my e-reader.

The Secret to a Clean Garage

"We need to clean the garage." It's one of those phrases that strikes fear into the hearts of organization-challenged homeowners everywhere.

And with good reason.

Suppose you've decided it's time. You're going to take on this task. You're going to march right up to it, look it full in its glaring red eyes, and challenge it on its own turf, with every intention of conquering.

You head out to the garage, with energy in your step and determination in your soul. Then you take a good look at the clutter. You realize you don't have a clue where to start. You remember that all the unsorted junk on the shelves and in the corners is there because you couldn't decide what to do with it last time. You feel your determination starting to leak out through the soles of your grubby old tennis shoes.

Before long, overwhelmed, you remember several very important things you need to do in the house, like finishing the Sunday crossword puzzle and filing your toenails. You slink back inside, with a faint hope at the back of your mind that a tornado will come along and rip the garage off the house—leaving the house itself undamaged, of course—to take care of the garage clutter for you.

Take heart. There is a better way.

Sometimes the best way to take on a big job like cleaning the garage is to sneak up on it. It helps, too, if some outside event pushes you into action.

On Thursday of last week, two guys spent the day in our basement and garage installing a new furnace. In addition to banging and clanging and using power tools, this necessitated moving a cache of vertical stuff standing in one corner of the garage. When they were done, we had an array of skis, ski poles, old mops and brooms, curtain rods, and leftover pieces of woodwork piled on the floor.

On Sunday afternoon, we went out to spend a few minutes putting these things away to make room to put the car back in the garage.

Two and a half hours later, we had two garbage cans full of stuff to throw away, a big pile of stuff to give away, and a lot of other stuff put away. Without intending to, we had cleaned and organized one half of the garage. All it took was something to get us started. With the help of the furnace installers, we had sneaked up on a dreaded task and discovered it wasn't really so bad.

So now we know how to get the garage cleaned. Just start by buying a new furnace, and the rest takes care of itself.

Of course, that strategy only works once every 30 years or so. Somehow, I can't bring myself to see that as a problem.