Just For Fun

Sanitizing Art

Posted on November 11, 2011 by Kathleen Fox

Did you hear the one about the cleaning lady who washed away part of a million-dollar piece of art?

No, really. That's exactly what happened. According to an Associated Press item in our local paper last week, a cleaner in Berlin's Ostwall museum "scrubbed away a patina intended to look like a dried rain puddle." The painted puddle was part of a work by an artist named Martin Kippenberger called "When it Starts Dripping from the Ceiling."

In my experience, combining money and dripping substances in the same sentence usually takes the form of, "Here's what fixing this is going to cost you." Within that context, maybe it's not completely unreasonable that the value given for this piece of art was $1.1 million. Whether many people would have actually paid that much for it, even before the unfortunate puddle-scrubbing incident, is another question.

Not, let me hasten to add, that am unfeeling enough to make light of the pain involved when one's patina is scrubbed away. Quite the contrary. I've actually experienced such a loss myself, years ago. My then mother-in-law was visiting, and she spent half an afternoon and several steel wool pads scouring every last bit of the seasoning off my iron skillet. She was so proud of her accomplishment that I didn't have the heart to tell her that black coating on the skillet was supposed to be there.

But back to poor Mr. Kippenberger's vanished puddle. What is art intended to do? Generate an emotional response in the viewer. Obviously, that's what happened in this case. The cleaning woman saw the puddle and had an emotional response—probably something like: "What inconsiderate, sloppy so-and-so left this big mess for me to clean up?" She acted on that response, thereby becoming part of the process of creation. You might say she took the artwork to a new level.

Therefore, if it was worth $1.1 million to start with, it seems to me somebody ought to pay her at least a couple of hundred thousand for her contribution. Which, I might point out, must have taken a lot of hard scrubbing.

But that's a matter for the cleaning woman, the museum, the owner of the artwork, and all their lawyers. In the meantime, at least I know what to do if winter gets here before the roofers do and our hail-damaged roof starts leaking. I'll just give the mess a catchy name, call it art, and slap a price tag on it. I'd start modestly, I think—$300,000 ought to be enough.

And I'll make sure to tell the cleaning woman not to touch it.

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Virtual Reality

Posted on November 4, 2011 by Kathleen Fox

We were traveling last weekend, and it was a struggle to live under such backward and primitive conditions for four whole days.

Sleeping on the floor? No, that wasn't the problem. The queen-sized air mattress was actually quite comfortable. Well, except for the second night, which got a bit squishy. By morning we had figured out that an air mattress left up for a couple of days tends to lose a little air. After we learned to top off the tank at bedtime, we were fine.

Having only one bathroom for four adults? Hey, we could manage. Members of this family have survived quite a few holiday visits where over a dozen people shared one bathroom, and people were still friendly by the time they went home.

No dishwasher? No problem. I rarely use the one we have at home.

Having the mailbox a quarter of a mile away? Great. It was a good excuse for a walk in the crisp fall air.

It's no problem to live without many of the comforts of home for a few days. It may even be good for one's character.

But there are limits. Here's where inconvenience morphed into real hardship:

Cell phone coverage. What coverage? From half a bar to no bars to the dreaded battery-eating "Searching System" message.

Internet access. Oh, it was there—we weren't quite as primitive as all that. But dial-up only. That's spelled S-L-O-W. Checking email was a project, waiting for a website to load provided ample time to memorize every stray piece of paper on the bulletin board, and downloading a photo was a long-term commitment.

Now that was roughing it.

For four whole days, no one could reach me on my cell phone. I could barely check my email once a day. I couldn't read my local paper online. Browsing Facebook? Forget it. Twitter? No way. Oh, wait, I don't Tweet anyway. Never mind.

Getting back to my familiar electronically in-touch world, I felt the relief of an addict who has just scored a long-overdue fix.

I checked my phone for messages. There weren't any. I checked my email. There was nothing that needed immediate attention. I checked Facebook. I hadn't missed any new pictures of grandkids.

For four whole days, I had been virtually out of virtual touch.

And nobody even noticed.

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The Most Expensive Knives in the Kitchen

Posted on October 28, 2011 by Kathleen Fox

The woman on the phone was friendly, polite, and persuasive. Her company sold air purifiers and would like to come to our house and show us one. The demonstration, she promised, would take no more than half an hour. There would be no pressure to buy. Oh, and by the way, just for taking the time to evaluate their product, we would receive as a gift a set of steak knives. "The same ones they use at Outback Steakhouse."

Having a fireplace, a wood stove, and some allergies, we had been considering getting an air filter. Besides, we could use some better steak knives. We made an appointment.

The young man who showed up at our door two days later was enthusiastic, friendly, and very good-looking. Also, apparently, strong, based on the number of big boxes he hauled in from his car.

The first thing he unpacked was the air purifier, ultrasonic or ionic or ironic or whatever it was. He also pulled out a handy-dandy little air quality meter. Its blinking red numbers, he explained, revealed the alarmingly high levels of unhealthy particles in our air.

He set up the air purifier in the bathroom, shut the door, and left it to scrub the air. I hoped it might scrub the tub and the sink while it was at it.

While we were waiting for the air to become pure, he started unpacking the remaining boxes and assembling—a vacuum cleaner. The nice young woman on the phone had not mentioned a vacuum cleaner. We had expressed no interest in a vacuum cleaner. Oh, but this one, he said, was actually a multi-filtration, super-sensitive, supersonic, sanitizing cleaning system.

We politely told him that was very interesting. We also pointed out that (a), we have mostly hardwood floors and (b), we employ a wonderful woman, with a vacuum cleaner of her very own, who comes in every other week to clean house. So (c), we were not even remotely interested in buying a vacuum cleaner.

He was undeterred. His machine was so spectacular, so much more effective than any merely mortal vacuum cleaner, that we simply had to see how it worked. It would only take a few minutes.

My partner, as he admitted after it was too late, was curious. Not about the machine itself so much as the sales pitch. I wasn't curious. Not in the least. But I was trying to be polite. Besides, I hadn't seen any sign of the steak knives yet.

So we let the nice young man demonstrate. He cleaned spots on the underside of the rug. He cleaned spots on the couch. He used up a couple of dozen white paper filters to prove to us just how dirty our house really was. (I've always wondered who decided that telling people they live in filth and squalor would be an effective sales technique.)

After a long, long time, he took his air quality meter into the bathroom, where the air filter had been working away. The meter—surprise, surprise!—showed almost no nasty particles in the air. I was disappointed to see that the sink and tub had not been scrubbed along with the air.

By now the 30-minute appointment had stretched to more than two hours. My partner's curiosity had long since been satisfied. Dinnertime was approaching. I was getting hungry, and when I get hungry I get irritable.

So maybe it wasn't the ideal time for the salesman to quote us the price. It was high. We said sorry, no. He went outside to "let us talk it over." We still said no.

He got mad. Turned out he was upset because we wasted his time. Excuse me? I didn't remember hearing us beg him to drag out his vacuum cleaner.

At least, before he packed up his stuff and left in a huff (well, actually, he left in a Honda Civic), he plunked the steak knives down on the table.

We've used the knives several times. They're okay. But next time we need any kitchen utensils, I think I'll just go to Wal-Mart.

Categories: Just For Fun, Money Matters | Tags: , , , , | 1 Comment

If You Have a Question, Just Raise Your Hand

Posted on October 7, 2011 by Kathleen Fox

What is it with guys and hand signals?

The other day I was driving along Sheridan Lake Road at exactly the speed limit, minding my own business, which at that moment happened to be a trip to the grocery store. Up ahead on the shoulder on my side of the street, I spotted some orange construction cones, a couple of utility trucks, and a Bobcat.

Not being exactly the slowest gear in the transmission, I instantly concluded that some kind of construction was going on. I slowed down and moved into the left lane.

One of the trucks began pulling out from a side street into the right-hand lane. A guy in a hard hat and a fluorescent vest was out in front of it, presumably to serve as a guide rather than a target. As I started past, safely out of the way in the left lane, he made a hand gesture. No, not that gesture. It was sort of a cross between pointing at me and waving.

I had no idea what he was trying to tell me. The gesture certainly didn't look like the upraised palm that would have meant "stop." I might have assumed he was signaling me to slow down and move into the left lane, except that I had already done both. Confused, I slowed even more but kept moving. This seemed to be the correct choice, since as I crept by another of the workers came trotting up with a "slow" sign. I charitably chose to believe this was a message for the traffic and not an assessment of the first guy's communication skills.

Or maybe the gesture only seemed obscure to me because I'm not a guy.

Any time there is a need to perform some complicated operation involving large machinery—backing up a long trailer, say, or parking a big truck in a small space—the guy in charge immediately begins communicating with a complex system of hand signals.

For some reason, maintaining a poker face is part of the secret code. A slight Clint Eastwood narrowing of the eyes is the only facial expression allowed. God forbid anyone should sully the purity of the hand signals with any other form of communication, especially if it might accidentally clarify the message. This is why the guy at the car wash always looks so bored as he motions you closer and closer till the magic conveyor belt has secured your front wheel.

Is this hand-to-hand, man-to-man language something human males are born knowing? Is it genetic? Or is it a secret code that is passed along at puberty? Perhaps the details are shared during a coming-of-age ritual conducted in private, after the initiate has sworn a solemn oath never to disclose them.

Whatever the reason, other guys understand these hand signals instantly. Women, generally, don't. This can result in misunderstandings. In extreme cases, the cool impassiveness of the sign language even gives way to strong emotion, communicated loudly in strong Anglo-Saxon words of four letters.

If the recipient of the language is a hapless female who hasn't ever been taught how to back a 20-foot trailer up to a loading chute but who is still expected to know, this is not fair.

I don't mean to imply by this that women can't handle large machinery. They can. My mother used to haul grain to town during harvest season, and as the manager of the elevator once told my father, "Lots of women bring grain in, but she's the only one who backs up her own truck." Once, at a truck stop, I saw a woman back her semi into a narrow slot in a row of trucks, perfectly straight on the first try, with a casual ease that was downright elegant. And I've been told that a lot of the drivers who operate those enormous trucks in surface mines are women.

I bet nobody gives confusing hand signals to them.

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Smokey’s Middle Name

Posted on August 26, 2011 by Kathleen Fox

It's an old joke, popular with second-grade comedians. "What is Smokey the Bear's middle name?"

The answer, of course, (provided here for those of you who haven't had your coffee yet or who don't remember second grade) is "The."

Except, really, it isn't.

When I mentioned Smokey in a recent column, I lumped him in with other famous characters who were "the" something-or-other. Jack the Ripper. Attila the Hun. Alexander the Great. Technically, he doesn't belong in such company.

Because, technically, "the" is not part of his name. There is a serious difference of opinion on this issue. People who were children in the 50's and early 60's think of him as "Smokey the Bear." People who were children in the 70's know him as "Smokey Bear." People who were children in the 90's think of him as "Smokey who?"

The confusion over his middle name is all due to the song. You know what song—the one that just started up in your brain.

"Smokey the Bear, Smokey the Bear.
Prowlin' and a growlin' and a sniffin' the air.
He can find a fire before it starts to flame.
That's why they call him Smokey,
That was how he got his name."

And that's only the chorus. There are four long verses. If you care to read or hear them all, you can find the whole thing here.

You may not remember the words, but I bet you recognize the tune. And it was the tune that caused the whole "the" problem. When Steve Nelson and Jack Rollins wrote the song in 1952, they had to put "the" in there to make the rhythm come out right. You'll notice they also needed to stick in a few extra syllables like "a growlin'" and "a sniffin.'" Apparently they came up with the melody first and needed to perform some linguistic gymnastics to make the lyrics fit.

As a result, every kid familiar with the song came to know America's most famous fire-fighter as Smokey the Bear. Dell Comics called him that during the 1950's and 1960's. Some of the official posters from that era even did the same.

His real name, however, has always been simply Smokey Bear. This is according to the official Smokey website at www.smokeybear.com. If you'd like to see some truly scary fire-prevention posters from the 1940's, go to the site and check out the "Smokey's Journey" section.

But whether we call him "Smokey Bear" or "Smokey the Bear," we can agree on one thing: Only we can prevent forest fires.

Categories: Just For Fun, Remembering When, Words for Nerds | Tags: , , , , , | 1 Comment

“There’s a Hole in My Bucket”

Posted on August 19, 2011 by Kathleen Fox

A bucket list. Maybe you have a real one, written out and posted on your refrigerator. Or maybe you just have a few things in the back of your mind that you really want to do "someday." ("See the Eiffel Tower by moonlight." "Visit Machu Picchu." "Go skydiving." "Learn to play the banjo." "Use 'quartzite' for a triple word score in Scrabble.")

Either way, it's probably a good idea to have some sort of list of things you want to do before you kick the bucket. And an even better idea, of course, to actually do them.

But here's something else that's also a good idea: a "hole in your bucket" list.

Some of the things on your bucket list might not belong there anymore. Maybe you wanted to do them once upon a time—or thought you did. But by now, one way or another, they're just not worth the trouble. It might be time to let those things just slip through a hole in the bottom of your bucket.

Maybe you've figured out that some items on your list are too risky or too dumb. (Bungee jumping, anyone?) You might be like the rancher who said he wanted to be a bull rider "until I got older and my brains came in."

Maybe some things on your list really aren't your dreams at all, but belong on someone else's bucket list. If your spouse has always wanted to go sky diving or canoe up the Amazon or trek through the Gobi Desert, you don't have to want to go, too. You can wave goodbye with a big smile, then enjoy looking at the pictures afterward.

There might be items on your list that seemed like a good idea at the time, but on second or third thought, you really aren't that interested. When I visited the Grand Canyon a decade ago, a hike to the bottom sounded like fun. Now, not so much. By now I've figured out the drawback to the whole plan. The natural consequence of hiking to the bottom is that you have to hike back up to the top.

Sadly, it might be too late for some bucket list items. If you're a person of mature years, say 59 or 67, you probably aren't ever going to realize that long-held dream of dancing with the Rockettes or playing tight end for the Green Bay Packers. (Let's face it—no matter who you are, "age 67" and "tight end" just don't belong in the same sentence.)

If there are things on your bucket list that won't keep, start actively planning to do them sooner rather than later. And while you're at it, take a close look at your list. It might be time to let some things fall through the hole and disappear. Letting go of goals that no longer fit makes more room for new ones.

It also helps you refocus on long-held goals that really do matter to you. One of these days, there's got to be a place to play "quartzite" and get that triple word score.

Categories: Just For Fun, Living Consciously | Tags: , , , , , , , , , | 2 Comments

Jessikimbrittifer Who?

Posted on August 12, 2011 by Kathleen Fox

It has come to my attention that I just might be a bit out of touch with popular culture. Or, as I prefer to think of it, that popular culture is out of touch with me.

The first clue was being with a group of young adults who didn't recognize the William Tell Overture by name. That part wasn't really so surprising—but what made me realize there just might be a culture gap was the fact that they didn't recognize it as the theme for The Lone Ranger.

My cultural frame of reference is narrow, out of the mainstream, and out of date—perhaps because so much of it is out of books. I grew up without television. Once, at a gathering where for some reason a group of people started singing the theme from "The Howdy Doody Show," I was the only one in the room who didn't know the words. As an adult, I've spent most of my life in a voluntary state of TV deprivation. I have never seen an episode of "Seinfeld," "The Simpsons," or "The Biggest Loser." Or "Dallas," for that matter.

Maybe that's why I don't recognize all the celebrities who feature, by first names only, in the headlines of tabloids and People magazines at the supermarket checkout stand. Who are all these people? Okay, even I have heard of Angelina and Brad and a few of the others. But the various interchangeable Jessicas, Jennifers, Brittanys, and Kims seem to have escaped my cable TV-less notice. The magazines who refer to them so casually seem to assume I ought to know. Even worse, they seem to assume I ought to care.

Once upon a time, in order to be known by only one name someone had to be really famous. Not to mention, quite often, dead. Like Plato, or Socrates, or Aristotle. Frequently they had a title or at least a clarifying description attached. Like Alexander, Peter, Catherine and all those other "the Greats." Or Attila the Hun. Jack the Ripper. Smokey the Bear.

Even Elvis, by the time he needed only one name, was "the King." Lassie, on the other hand, needed no descriptor.

Then came Cher, who dropped her last name about the same time she dropped Sonny. And Madonna. Oprah, of course. Elton John uses two names, but that doesn't count because they both sound like first names anyway.

But now it seems to take less and less fame to become a one-name celebrity. One quick scandal, a tell-all book, or a season or two on a cable channel, and there people are in the tabloids, first names only, as if we run into them every week at the grocery store. Which, come to think of it, I guess we do.

Maybe it's because fame comes and goes so quickly that we don't have time to learn their last names. Or maybe it just saves room in the tabloid headlines and takes fewer characters on Twitter.

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Why My Plants Are Thirsty

Posted on August 5, 2011 by Kathleen Fox

Warning: The following story may not be suitable for small children or those with weak stomachs. If you're eating while you read, any adverse consequence are not my fault. Remember, you have been warned.

Just before bedtime one night, I was sitting in the recliner in my office, reading. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw something little and gray run across the floor and disappear under the printer stand in the corner. Trying to convince myself that I hadn't really seen a mouse, I went to bed.

When the phone rang a few minutes later and I had to go into the office to answer it, I made sure to walk as loudly as bare feet allowed, just to scare off anything small and scampering that might possibly be in there in the dark.

Two days later, needing to give a drink to the thirsty pansies out on the deck, I grabbed the watering can from under the kitchen sink. It was already full because, thrifty soul that I am, I empty half-finished water bottles into it instead of dumping them down the drain. When I watered the pansies, the water didn't seem to come out of the spout properly, but I thought it was just because I was tipping the can too far. I also caught a whiff of an unpleasant odor that I hadn't previously associated with pansies.

After the can was empty, I noticed that something gray seemed to be stuck in the spout. It took me a minute to realize what alert readers have no doubt already figured out—the gray thing was a drowned mouse. I banged the watering can on the deck railing to shake the dead little critter loose, then tried to dump it out. Instead of falling out of the rather small opening at the top of the can, it got stuck in the spout again.

I am not afraid of mice. I don't consider myself especially squeamish about critters in general, even dead ones. I am a practical, prairie-raised woman who knows how to clean a fish and pluck a chicken. But at this point I lost it. There was something about the pathetic little dead feet hanging out of the spout of the watering can that was pitiful and disgusting at the same time.

I threw the mouse, watering can and all, off the deck into the back yard.

After I recovered from my spasm of disgust, I told myself to look on the bright side. With the combination of 100-degree heat, ants, and other scavengers, I should be able to recover the watering can in a couple of weeks. And at least the mouse was gone.

That evening, just before bedtime, I walked into my office to shut down the computer. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw something little and gray run along the wall.

 

Epilogue: Three weeks later

The second mouse succumbed with gratifying promptness to an easy-to-set and—far more important—easy-to-empty contraption named "A Better Mousetrap." So far, I haven't spotted any more little gray critters. (At least not moving ones; dust bunnies don't count.)

But watering the house plants just doesn't work as well with the recycled juice bottle I've been using. For some reason, I haven't wanted to use the watering can. It's still out there in the yard.

Categories: Just For Fun, Wild Things | Tags: , , , | Leave a comment

Flat Green Tomatoes

Posted on July 29, 2011 by Kathleen Fox

Despite the belief of my sister's neighbor, who is "kind of different," the United States government does not control the weather. All those jet trails that crisscross South Dakota's expansive skies really are not part of an elaborate weather-manipulating grid that is managed from a secret bunker hidden somewhere in the Rocky Mountains.

I find it reassuring that we haven't yet managed to control the weather. It's a reminder that, no matter how high-tech and sophisticated we humans may be, we and the planet we inhabit are still subject to powers greater than ourselves.

Somehow, though, this philosophical point of view wasn't much comfort on Wednesday afternoon as we stood in the doorway watching a hailstorm pulverize our garden. It poured rain (I'm sure I saw a couple of Chihuahuas and a Siamese in there somewhere) for almost half an hour, and it hailed steadily for ten to fifteen minutes.

We could have gone kayaking down our driveway or in the fast-moving miniature river that flowed around the corner of our neighbor's house and filled the gully that separates the two properties. By the time the storm was over, our yard was covered with an inch of hail. Much of the grass was still white the next morning, and on Friday morning one shady spot still held a drift of hail several inches deep.

Of course, half a dozen destroyed tomato plants and a few stripped chokecherry bushes doesn't exactly count as a major life event. We weren't watching the destruction of crops we depended on for our livelihood or even a garden we were counting on to feed a family. The minor pang of a lost garden isn't anywhere close to the heartsick discouragement of a farmer who sees hail or wind pound a year's potential income into oblivion.

Still, the storm made me wish, for just a moment, that my sister's neighbor was right. Then I had a truly terrifying thought.

Maybe he is.

Maybe the government really is controlling the weather. You have to admit it's a bit odd that just around the curve, not 100 yards north of our house, there was hardly any hail at all. A paranoid person might find the apparent targeting of our property more than a little suspicious.

Do you suppose somebody in that secret weather-control bunker knows I voted Libertarian in the last election?

Categories: Food and Drink, Just For Fun | Tags: , , , , , , , , | 1 Comment

Overdoing the 60’s

Posted on July 1, 2011 by Kathleen Fox

It's a good thing that old peace medallion necklace is still in the bottom of my jewelry box somewhere. I might want it any day now.

This past week I had one of "those" birthdays. As one of my sisters delicately phrased it, "one that ends with a zero." There's nothing wrong with the zero—it's that six in front of it that's the problem.

At least it was until a couple days ago, when I was hiking with a couple of my grandkids and had a life-transforming revelation along the trail to Harney Peak. I realized I've been given a unique opportunity. I have a second chance to experience the 60's.

There's the joke about, "If you can remember the 60's, you didn't fully experience them." That would be me. I lived through that decade with modesty, sobriety, restraint, and high grades. I didn't ingest or smoke any strange substances. I went to class regularly. The only time I attended a campus protest, I wandered in by accident. I didn't burn any bras (not that anyone would have noticed) and never even ironed my hair.

Now, I get to do the 60's over again. It's the perfect opportunity to try some of the things I missed the first time.

Like drugs. Well, maybe not so much. By the time I take my daily multi-vitamin, calcium, vitamin D, fish oil, and estrogen, the last thing I'm interested in is another pill to pop. I suppose I could try smoking my new hemp Tilley hat, but after that whole skin cancer on the nose experience last year, I need the sun protection more than the high.

Peace? I'm all for it. Just give me a universal jamming device to shut down all those obnoxious television sets in waiting rooms, bass-thumping speakers that damage the eardrums of people three cars over, and cell phones being shouted into by anyone in a public place. I'd be glad to give that kind of peace a chance.

Fashion? This one is too easy. The 60's are so In right now, in a retro sort of way. Never mind that anyone old enough to remember a fashion from its first incarnation shouldn't wear it the second time around. Bellbottoms? Absolutely. So what if the bell is a little rounder and swings a little lower than it used to. Love beads? Well, maybe; are love handles close enough? Long, beautiful hair? Never mind; I don't even want to talk about it.

Sit-ins? Tell me where and when, and I'll be there. I am an expert sitter. I'm willing to sit anywhere, anytime, for hours. Just as long as I have an ebook reader, an Internet connection, and a nice comfortable chair.

Free love? Absolutely. The more the merrier. I'll bring all my friends. Maybe the grandkids, too. What? Oh, wait. I thought you said "free lunch." Never mind.

Questioning authority? Challenging the establishment? Back then, I was too busy being well-behaved to get involved with any of that hippie change-the-world idealism. Now? I've learned just how important that idealism can be—especially when it's combined with some life experience. This time through, no more little miss nice girl. I am grandma; hear me roar.

A 60's do-over. I can't wait.

But in case anyone cares, let me add just one reassuring note. I promise I will never "let it all hang out."

Categories: Just For Fun | Tags: , , , , | 2 Comments

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