June 12, 2026 · 1:02 pm

Wanda and Me

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Jackie Wells-Fauth

We were sitting in the living room the other night when suddenly, from the stairs leading to the lower level, came what my grandmother would call, “an unholy racket.”

“What is going on?” Roy, startled from his reading, inquired.

“That’s nothing,” I replied, “it’s just Wanda.”

“We have a woman named Wanda rattling metal in our basement?” he said, astonished. “Why did no one tell me?”

“Wanda! Knock off the noise!” I hollered. “Don’t make me come down there!”

But I was just posturing. Wanda and I both know that when she is making those noises, I’m going to have to go down eventually and slap her around a little. It happens every time.

You see, Wanda and I have known each other for about ten years now. That’s how long she has lived in my basement, washing my clothes.

“Wanda, since you don’t seem to know, is our washing machine,” I told Roy in a rather superior voice.

“You’ve named the washing machine Wanda?” He seemed neither entertained nor surprised.

“When you work as closely as Wanda and I do, you get personal,” I explained to him.

And it’s true. Wanda and I have been together long enough to understand each other. We share more secrets and quirks than coffee klatch buddies.

For instance, I understand that if I want my underwear to not end up wound around the base of the washer, I will wash it on a gentler cycle. That way, Wanda won’t sling it around like she’s a stripper on a pole and twist it irrevocably into the inner workings of the washer.

When I put clothes into the washer, I understand that Wanda is a delicate and well-balanced flower. Therefore, I must lay the clothes in the washer with the precision of a master brick-layer. Because if I don’t, Wanda gets out of balance and throws a very noisy temper tantrum.

Wanda knows that when she does do the “jump and shout out of balance dance,” I will be down to jerk her back into place with a few choice words of my own added. To tell the truth, I think she enjoys my temper tantrums because I often think I see her hiding a smirk in the laundry soap bubbles!

And that brings me to the biggest argument between Wanda and me (outside of “what did you do with the other sock this time?”). We can’t agree on a laundry detergent. She favors the big jugs of liquid, the more additives the better.

I have tried everything (to avoid that). I even went to the pods, but she would chew them up and spit them back on the clothes so that nothing short of a hurricane could get them off. Finally, I thought, “Well, let’s try one of those environmentally friendly sheets or tabs. That should be good.”

Wanda scoffed in disdain. “I’m sorry, but did you mean for me to use that excuse for laundry soap?!” We have ultimately agreed to disagree—meaning we do it her way.

Roy has finally recovered a little from me giving the washing machine a name. “It’s a good thing the dryer is new, you haven’t had time to get hostile with it,” he joked.

“Dougie the Dryer? Oh don’t get me started! He eats so many socks, he makes Wanda look like she’s on a diet…”

If you see Roy at the laundromat, tell him Wanda and Dougie say hello.

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June 5, 2026 · 1:50 am

Rat in a Trap

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Jackie Wells-Fauth

It should have been so simple. I mean; most problems I encounter have simple solutions; if only I stop to work them out. Then, no problem, right?

But on the particular occasion in question, I couldn’t (okay or didn’t) do that. And consequently, the problem quickly became complicated.

My cousin was out of town but had graciously offered me the use of her house on the occasion of my needing a place to stay for a couple of nights. She is so sweet, and her lovely house was just the place for me to crash at night.

She gave me the garage door code and after my usual struggle with any technology, I was able to enter. I spent a relaxing and comfortable night and was so very grateful for the hospitality. Then, it came time to pack up and leave.

I had no key, so I couldn’t leave by the front door with its deadlock. I also couldn’t leave by the back deck door and lock it from the outside. This was a real pickle. How did I exit this beautiful home and lock it with no key?

Don’t worry, I found the perfect solution. I would just outrun the overhead garage door and get out that way!

Now, nobody has told me and I have never learned on my own, that you can actually close a coded garage door by simply stepping outside of it and punching in the code again. The door will then shut and everything’s locked up tight.

But since I didn’t know this, the neighbors were entertained by watching me hit the opener switch by the house door in the garage and then run for all I’m worth, trying to get under the door as it closes and not get caught, making the door automatically go back up again. It didn’t work. The door re-opened every time! I couldn’t leave with the garage door hanging open. Now what?

No problem, though. They have a side yard. I went out the back garage door carefully re-locking it, of course, and went around the outside of the garage. That’s when I discovered that when my cousin and her husband installed a high wooden fence, they enclosed ALL of the backyard–including the space on the sides of the house. I returned to the back garage door. Yup, I had locked that thing up tight.

I was boxed in and locked out. It was ridiculous! I couldn’t be trapped! But I was. I considered calling out, but what do you say?

“Can anybody hear me? I’m trapped in the backyard of this house that doesn’t belong to me! Could you help?” Talk about alienating the neighbors. They would be avoiding my cousin for years after that, telling each other that her relatives were nuts!

What to do, what to do? I should be able to reason it out. There were some supporting rails running horizontally along the inside of the fence. For one wild minute I considered climbing over the top, but I didn’t like my chances getting up on the backside, let alone surviving the sheer drop on the other side.

It was while I was on the back deck looking through the windows at the inside of the house like a stray cat, that I finally faced the fact that I was going to have to call the police and hope they believed my story and didn’t arrest me for trespassing. And it was at about the same time I remembered that my phone was in my car…on the other side of the fence.

Now I got out of that backyard on my own power, but I would rather not tell you how, because I want you to still think of me as a person of reasonable intelligence–and no prison record.

But I will tell you this: An overhead garage door will both open and shut by using the code. I can be taught!

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May 29, 2026 · 11:22 am

Book Bonanza

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Jackie Wells-Fauth

Did you know that one of Thomas Jefferson’s famous sayings was, “I simply cannot live without books.” It’s one of the few things that Tom and I can agree upon!

Did you further know that Samuel Clemens (better known as Mark Twain) read multiple books at the same time? Upon his death, he had no fewer than seven different books scattered in various rooms throughout his house, which he was reading simultaneously. Sam and I apparently share this in common—that and a tendency to shoot off our smart mouths!

I have a lot of books. Imelda Marcos had thousands of pairs of shoes. Jay Leno collects cars. Angelina Jolie collects knives, Penelope Cruz is into coat hangers, while Corbin Bernson follows my own heart and collects snow globes. But above all else, I relate best to people who have more books in their homes than they can ever possibly read. Did I mention I have a lot of books?

Now this collection is not one of Roy’s favorite things. We often go round and round about the books I am reading and leaving around the house.

“Why did I step on a copy of Famous Hauntings of Europe on the floor of the bedroom?” he will ask on any random morning.

“Oh, that’s where it went! I was reading it last night and I must have fallen asleep,” I reply.

“Okay, we will pass over why you are reading about hauntings late at night and I will remark instead that this might explain the copy of Alexander Hamilton in the bathroom,” he continues.

“Well, what am I supposed to do when I have to use the toilet or take a bath?” I ask. “Alexander doesn’t mind, so why should you?”

In order to minimize the appearance of the number of books I have, there is a wide ledge in the stairwell that is big enough to hold several bookcases and best of all, it is usually obscured by a door. (I try to always keep that door open, thus blocking the bookcases.) Roy doesn’t have to interact too much with the books, and I don’t have to keep justifying why I possess approximately a thousand books, and I still check books out of the library.

Unfortunately, this comfortable arrangement hit a snag this week when Roy decided it was time to paint the stairwell. The same stairwell with the large, accommodating ledge, which was even at that moment piled from ledge to ceiling with my books.

There were two choices: either I could clear the books out of the way, or I could let Roy do it. Now I love him very much, but I absolutely do not trust him not to pitch some of those books into the garbage if he thinks I’m not looking.

I got out three totes and began to fill them with books. Surely that would be enough. Except I filled the three totes and there were still books left…a lot of books. So, I grabbed an old laundry basket. I filled it to the top, cramming books into every crevice. That took care of a few more. In the end, I decided to stack some of them in the spare bedroom to get them out of the way. There are four stacks, halfway up the walls and there are still some books that were piled on top of the totes. I was satisfied with my work. The books were out of his way and Jessica Fletcher wouldn’t have to solve the murder case of the missing wife…and her books!

“You moved all the books yourself?” I could tell he was impressed when he came home and found the empty ledge in the stairwell.

“It was the only practical solution. If you moved the books, there would have been a divorce or a murder by book to the head,” I said. “When you’re done painting, don’t concern yourself. I’ll put the books back.”

“You want to sort them out and get rid of some?” he asked hopefully.

“No, I have some new ones that I need to add in,” I replied.

Did I mention, I have a lot of books?

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May 29, 2026 · 11:10 am

Calendar Girl

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Jackie Wells-Fauth

I am a person who is devoted to calendar watching. I have to be, because otherwise I wouldn’t be able to remember what day it is, let alone the month or year! When I get up in the morning, I chant to myself, “Today is Thursday, May 14 in the year of our Lord 2026.” Okay, I don’t say, “year of our Lord” but it sounds elegant and sophisticated.

I am a devoted calendar girl. I always carry a large, book-sized calendar and when I am making any kind of appointments or plans, I have that calendar in front of me to write it all down. I refer to it fondly as “my brains.” And because of all this care and attention, I manage to make it to about half of the things I have scheduled!

I do try. I check it every day at breakfast and then hope that I will still remember that I have a hair appointment at 2:00 that same afternoon! People give me those little appointment cards, and I am grateful for them. But if I don’t transfer that information immediately to the calendar, I’m in trouble. The cards accumulate in my purse and get used to make other notes on, or to mark a page in a book, or just to pick my teeth, but I must have the appointments they proclaim written down on the calendar or I will be getting a call: “Yeah, this is the eye doctor—just wondering if you remembered your appointment that is like, now!”

It’s disconcerting: I have had to rush to massage appointments in my sweaty garden clothes or the dentist’s office with sticky caramel desserts still on my teeth! This year, I even tried putting together two calendars: one for carrying with me and one for my desk at home. Surely that would make me more efficient. It doesn’t. Now, I just miss half of the appointments on one calendar (that I didn’t write on the other one) and half of the appointments on the other calendar!

My children did not inherit this problem. In particular, Tracie has developed her father’s strong sense of organization. She is, of course, using a calendar that is on-line and she refers to it as “the family calendar”—each and every time she gently (or not so gently) reminds me of an event that should be there.

“I didn’t realize that you guys were going to Colorado next week,” I whine. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“It’s on the family calendar,” she replies (somewhat smugly I think) “Haven’t you been checking it?”

“Oh, sure! That’s right, I just forgot about it,” I say, even though we both know that I probably couldn’t find the family calendar with both hands, a flashlight and tech support.

So, I decided that it would be good training for me to try to use the calendar on my phone. Then, when I have mastered that, I could go on to tackle “the family calendar.” I got out my paper calendar and began entering events on my phone’s calendar. I was so excited when I got it all done! It was so easy! I might be ready to master the family calendar after all!

Except when I started checking events, every one of them was listed as starting at 9:00 pm. Birthdays, anniversaries, appointments of all kinds—every one was on that calendar at 9:00 pm. Well, that’s ridiculous! What good is a calendar where everything is automatically at 9:00 pm? You’d think they would have some way to set a time…oh, there it is. I forgot to make that little spinny thing turn around to the proper time. So, I spent another hour trying to make that ugly, uncooperative time wheel spin correctly. That little bugger spins really fast and now, not everything is at 9:00 pm, but there are a couple that stopped spinning at 1:00 am! And I decided I would just be fine with that!

All right. So now, between the appointment cards, the two paper calendars and the phone calendar, I’ve got my schedule all down. No more missing appointments or forgetting birthdays for me! It takes me an hour and a half to check what’s going on for any given day, and most of them don’t sync with each other, but I’m on the right track, okay?

So now, all that’s left is to tackle “the family calendar.” I either have to figure it out (without direction from the Microsoft corporation) or I have to admit that I can’t make it work. And that’s going to be a little tricky.

“Mom, I heard that you are planning to visit next month. I don’t see it on the family calendar,” Tracie said this last week.

“About that, I’m sending you a letter through the US mail complete with stamps and everything. Be looking for it. It’s called, “Confessions from a failed Calendar Girl.”

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May 15, 2026 · 7:03 am

Take a knee–please!

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Jackie Wells-Fauth

If anyone asks you in the next month or so, what I am up to, be so good as to tell them that I am having a baby. That is all they really need to know.

And of course, no I am obviously not having a baby. But it is a better story than what is actually happening and that is knee replacement. There, you see, the minute I say knee replacement, you immediately think of some horror story having to do with knee replacement! Or if you don’t, I have a few hundred that have been related to me every time I tell someone I am having a knee replaced.

So, until the operation is over and hopefully successful, I am just telling everyone that I am having a baby. No one has horror stories about that because most old women such as me don’t have babies. It’s a simple psychological trick so I don’t have to wonder, while listening to one more sad knee replacement story, whether I should stay with what I’ve got.

I assure you, however, that I have no desire to stay with what I’ve got. Ever since the doctor gave me the sad face a few years ago, “I’m afraid you’ll be facing knee replacement—on both knees,” I have known that this day was coming.

There were some false starts. The first stage I went through was, “Oh, well, I come from hardy stock—I can make do with the knees I have.” Then my knees began to formally protest any time I climbed up steps. Okay, I’m getting my knees replaced, and I’m starting with the right one; that’s the worst.

“Oh, my grandma had her knee replaced and they put it in backward. She never did walk right after that!” Okay, I can hold out a little longer.

Next, came shots. Now, those shots did help a little bit, but after a while the knees began to send up signals that the drugs were no longer doing the trick. By send up signals, I mean they would crack and pop like a bowl of Rice Krispies everytime I bent down to pick something up. Okay, I’m getting my knees replaced, and I’m starting with the left one because it sounds more ominous.

“My great aunt had knee surgery, and they had to go back in twice and readjust things.” No, I don’t know what that means and what’s more, I don’t want to know! I’ll just hang in there and suffer a little.

The next phase was braces. Just wear those elastic bands on your knees and everything will be fine. Except the braces wore nasty welts on the back of my legs which caused parts of my knees that had never created issues to start hurting. That’s it—I’m having my knees replaced, and I’m definitely starting with the right one because it protests more when I sit down or stand up.

“I don’t know…when my sister Carol had her knee replaced, she landed in the hospital with heart problems, and her knee hadn’t even healed yet at the time of her funeral.” Okay, if you insist, I’ll stick with the knees a little longer and put off that funeral as long as I can.

Now we are at the “I can no longer pretend that my knees are going to cooperate for the duration of my old age.” I crawled into the surgeon’s office (crawled is metaphorical—I haven’t been able to crawl on these bumpy joints since my last child left home) and announced, “Okay, okay, I give up! The knees have sued for separate living accommodations, and I am ready for them to go! Take a knee, please!”

So, in a very short time, I will be getting my knee replaced and every time I say that I am having my knee replaced, someone cheers me up by sharing a knee story.

“My uncle had his knee replaced—he’s permanently in a wheelchair now.” I don’t care! I’m having my knee replaced—I mean, I’m having a baby; and I’m definitely going to start with the left one!

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May 8, 2026 · 7:15 pm

What are the odds?

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What are the odds???

Jackie Wells-Fauth

Picture the following: there are three very good books in excellent shape lying on the table. Two are books I own; one is a book borrowed from the library. Suddenly, from out of nowhere, a glass of iced tea is overturned. How do we know for sure which book will lap up that iced tea like a thirsty tourist? Odds are, it will be the book that isn’t mine.

I have lived with these odds my entire life. Some people call it Murphy’s Law—whatever can go wrong, will go wrong. I just call it “odds are”. And odds are if I borrow a book from the library, I’ll end up returning it explaining how that tea got on the bottom of the pages or how that mark appeared over the picture on the jacket or how there appears to be teeth marks and a bite out of the back cover. Don’t ask.

Most times the odds aren’t for anything too serious. I can live with the fact that if I drop a glass, it will break and glass shards will scatter across the floor like flour in a windstorm. But odds are that whatever was in the glass will not be water—it will be tea to stain something or orange juice to live forever in the crevices of the carpet or worse, the very last of the soda.

I’ve never had a serious car accident, but if I bump fenders against the post in the parking lot, it’s going to leave paint marks…and they will be of some garish color that I will never convince my husband came from a careless child walking by. Not too long ago, I bumped the good car (that’s right, we have a good car and then there’s my car) against a wooden work bench in the garage. Now normally, the odds would be that the car would get a serious dent, but this time, odds were in my favor and the car bore no mark. No need to mention it to Roy, right?

Except that a month later, when he moved the work bench for some unknown reason, he found it to be slightly embedded in the wall behind it. What are the odds that he will believe that the bench has been sitting there so long it just became naturally embedded? My odds stayed steady, because he had the temerity to ask me if I might have hit the work bench with his car! Can you believe it?

If I’m printing something important, odds are I’ll run out of ink or paper (probably both) halfway through. If my bank account doesn’t balance, odds are always that it’s in the bank’s favor, not mine. For a woman who figures the odds, I don’t do that well with numbers!

I realize that my little troubles tend to be pretty minor. Most of the major events in my life have turned out well, but that has allowed me to focus on the little, annoying things; like the odds are pretty good that if a light bulb burns out, I’ll have every type of light bulb in stock except the one I need. And odds are always that if I go to write a check while out shopping, I will mess up the check—and it will be the last one I had with me.

If I schedule or plan entertainment, odds always are that something will come along that pushes my schedule off balance. “No, you can’t go to the doctor for a medical emergency when I have scheduled an evening with friends. Just put some ice on that bump on your head and let’s go.” Odds are, someone out there is going to think my attitude is pretty heartless.

If I paint a room, odds are that I will run out of paint on the last wall…that is if the paint roller doesn’t break or the ladder doesn’t fold while I’m at the top. Odds are that if I really am looking forward to a meal, I will burn it and if I try a new foot cream I’ll break out in hives.

I really don’t think I would have had any better luck if I had been born in another time. Odds are if I had married a king, it would have been Henry VIII, or if I had climbed to the top of the highest mountain, odds are there would already be a flag planted there.

If I had been one of the travelers heading west in the pioneer days, odds are I would have been with the Donner party. I’ve never been able to decide whether it would have been worse to die and be eaten or to have to survive that way. Odds are, the Donner Party didn’t feel too lucky either way!

By now odds are that you are really beginning to be irritated by my whiny little rant, so I’ll have to cut it out now. But I’m telling you, odds are as soon as this gets in print, I’ll have thought of twenty more things that didn’t go in my favor! I have to go now anyway to return that book to the library. Odds are the librarian won’t believe that those pages are just naturally brown and stuck together!

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April 24, 2026 · 8:44 am

Goliath Awakens

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Jackie Wells-Fauth

It had to happen. My peaceful, lazy existence over the past few months had to end sometime and this weekend was apparently the start of a new era at our house.

Between some health issues and a busy work time, Roy has left household projects pretty much up to me for the last few months. And I will admit that those “projects” have consisted only of the things I had to do. I like to call my attitude laid-back, but in reality, you’d probably label me lazy. Knowing that about myself, perhaps I should have searched for a lazy partner, but I like my choice—except when he decides to do a project. And even worse, when he decides I need to help.

That is how this weekend went. I have stacked, piled and otherwise mis-located the materials from three rooms of the basement. I had to do that in order for some work to be done in the laundry room and the two bedrooms. However, now the disorder is clogging up the family room and even worse, the weight room. Roy’s sensibilities are offended by this disorder, but up until now, he really wasn’t up to doing anything about it.

I believe the expression “Goliath awakens” had new meaning in our house. Roy had put up with the mess in the basement as long as he was willing to. He appeared in the bedroom doorway where I was contemplating the quiet and considering how many hours I could spend doing nothing.

“I want to do some work on the basement and I need your help,” he announced.

“Oh sure. I have a million things to do, and you think I should just drop everything and help you,” I snarled.

He looked at my prone position on the bed and my empty hands and replied, “I think I can live with myself.”

So down to the basement I stomped. And he was clearly determined to start a fight. His first question was, “What do we have down here that we can throw away?”

In my house, those are fighting words. Obviously, everything I have down there…for instance the three boxes of papers that came from my father, aunt and grandmother (all deceased for some years) is very important. Perhaps, among the old receipts, empty bank books and long-paid bills, there could be the deed to a forgotten gold mine. I can’t throw those things away!

He gritted his teeth and put them on the storage shelves. Then he picked up two garbage bags. “Are these both just garbage?”

One bag contained the remnants of the quilt my grandmother made me as a girl. Someday, I’m going to reconstruct it. I snatched that bag away and made a grab for the other one.

“You said this dehydrator hadn’t been used in years and might not even work anymore,” he said, holding onto it. “Or did this belong to your great uncle Harry and can’t be touched.” Sometimes he can be so ridiculous. I don’t even have a great uncle Harry!

It was a long afternoon. Instead of relaxing and enjoying the peaceful atmosphere, I was in a death battle with a man determined to throw away things like the crumpled remains of a Halloween decoration I haven’t put out for Halloween in 20 years. When it was over, the storage shelves could once again hold everything we were saving and he could use his weight room without having to squeeze past the Christmas decorations.

He was in a much better mood, but I wasn’t. He interrupted my favorite activity—doing nothing—for my least favorite activity—throwing away junk I have accumulated over the years. Goliath had truly awakened, but that in turn had awakened Hera—the most vengeful wife in mythology!

“I’m going to walk the dog,” he said, “you want to join us?”

“No!” I snapped. “I’m very busy right now. I have a column to write.”

He didn’t ask what it would be about!

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April 11, 2026 · 3:51 am

The Beauty of Beauty

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Jackie Wells-Fauth

When I was much younger and stewing about whether or not to try applying makeup, I remember my grandmother saying, “Even if you put lipstick on a pig, underneath, it is still a pig.” I understood that she wasn’t trying to call me a pig, she was trying to say that my looks (be they perfection or the portrait of Dorian Grey) ultimately didn’t depend on what I wore for makeup.

I always thought that this clever saying was hers, but I have learned over the years that “putting lipstick on a pig,” is a popular saying, meaning you can’t hide things with some elaborate cover; the lipstick isn’t going to fool anyone.

This attitude, however, has stuck with me over the years. I will never be a raving beauty, and I’m good with that. I don’t know if I’ve always felt this way, or if I just started to develop this attitude the older I got and the more I looked at the worship of beauty in the world.

You are looking at a woman who personally flunked the “tissue test.” My teeth are not as white as a tissue, but then, I don’t hold tissues in my teeth, so it’s probably all right. I don’t have a skin regimen to perform for hours nightly. I splash a little soap and water on my face to remove the excess sweat and dirt, and I call that good.

I was never any good with makeup. I tried mascara when I was young and by the end of any given day, I resembled a raccoon with a snub nose. Lipstick (when I did try to decorate the pig) came off in splotchy patches the first time I drank anything and getting that greasy stuff off of my dishes dampened my enthusiasm for it. Besides, I always used the wrong colors and had a kind of “here comes Jackie’s lips,” motif going, so eventually, I chucked the lipstick tubes and the mascara brushes.

As for wrinkles—facial or otherwise—I have ‘em and I have no idea how to stop them, so I just tell everyone my face is full of character. I went to college with a girl who woke us all up in the middle of the night, crying because she had gotten hemorrhoid cream in her eye. As we were flushing her eyes with water, it occurred to me to wonder how she had gotten hemorrhoid cream there (it just seemed like a long way to miss the target.)

When I asked her, she stared at me in shock. “Well, it’s a well-known treatment to prevent wrinkles, didn’t you know?”

No, I really didn’t know. In fact, I still don’t know what the philosophy was for putting a medicated treatment intended for the lower regions of the body on your face. I didn’t ask any more questions and I have never learned the theory behind it (pardon the pun), but I have spent some hours awake in the night with my imagination working on the problem. I’m sure it couldn’t be as fantastic as I imagine!

Put that together with the question of why a girl that age was concerned about facial wrinkles and it seems like she might have gotten an overdose of worry about her beauty. I would say you’d make a fine start on the wrinkles scrubbing that cream off your face!

Then we come to “inner beauty”. Now, I’m a firm believer that some people look a lot prettier on the outside than they sometimes are on the inside. However, I also know that no matter what I look like on the outside, I am not always so pretty on the inside, either. Occasionally, I have the inner beauty of Belle, from Beauty and the Beast. Other times, however, I’m just the beast—everywhere!

I’m not really sure where I am wandering with this particular train of thought. It just always amazes me what we can do to enhance our appearance, but whenever I see a carefully and attractively put together woman, I always think of another saying my grandmother used to repeat to me, “It is not always necessary to gild the lily.” I like that—I’m a non-gilded lily!

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April 3, 2026 · 2:27 am

Except for the pain

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Jackie Wells-Fauth

Before I begin, I would like to state in no uncertain terms that I am grateful beyond words for the fine medical care available in Miller. Not only the doctors, but the long-suffering hospital nurses and aides who have to put up with me the most—especially when I am in pain! Thank you all!

And my pain is the topic of my column this week. Not that there’s anything funny about that, but sometimes my adventures with it bring their own comic relief. Without that, it would really be…well, a pain!

My medical woes come from an unpredictable, incapacitating pain in the joints. It’s never brought on by any trigger; just a random, happy notion that can hit anywhere from my jaw to my toes. Its favorite target, however, seems to be a knee or a hip—either one on either side will do. Just so my leg is immovable without a considerable amount of bad language and pain.

Now, these attacks appear to be random, but I don’t think it’s such a happy accident that they like to hit late—after medical office hours and especially long after Roy has gone to sleep.

I’ll wager some of his least enjoyable moments in married life are when I pull him from a sound sleep with the loving words, “Roy, wake up; I’m in terrible pain!”

“What shall I do?” comes the sleepy voice from the dark.

“Take me to the emergency room or shoot me; right now, I don’t really care which you choose!” I lied. I do care, but I always like to make sure he has options.

Then comes the whole procedure of getting me to the car…down the front steps and into a vehicle…hopefully without bending my leg too much. He has learned that there is no possible way to do this gently, so he assists the best he can and when necessary, bends the leg for me. I’m always glad when he does that. “Oh! My Lord! D**m it! Thank you so much, dear!”

Now one of the first things I ever noticed about Roy was that he is always very dapper in his appearance. He’s always dressed appropriately and neatly for whatever errand he is on. That’s why it has to be so hard for him to take me to the hospital in the middle of the night, because my nightwear is not exactly designer and I am not inclined at those moments to get changed.

Mind you, at that point, I don’t care if I walk in dressed like Lady Godiva; I just want to get there. But Roy does care and he knows I will care later, so he tries to drape my pajama rags around me as best he can and away we go.

Once we get to the emergency room, his job kind of slows down. He knows from vast experience that the medical people are going to take good care of me and that once I stop screaming that “somebody please for the love of heaven do something about the pain or hit me in the head,” (I wonder how often that appeals to them) he can relax.

The problem, of course, is now, he’s up in the middle of the night, with a day’s work ahead tomorrow and he has to sit around and wait for me to finally decide that I’m going to live yet another day because the aforementioned fine medical care takes care of the problems.

A lot of times he’s a little out of what has happened. This last time, they asked if I had vomited. At the same time, I said, “Yes,” and he said, “No.”

I turned to him showing him my gown and its suspicious stains and said, “Stay away from the small wastebasket in the living room. You won’t like it.”

He cares so much. He is so diligent about getting me there, but he is also in need of his sleep. However, I don’t worry about him so much anymore. The first time I was in, he sat in a very comfortable chair near me and just as I was really freaking out about the pain and keeping him up, I distinctly heard a snore come from directly behind me! I was getting what I needed, and he was getting what he needed. That’s fair.

Every time I have one of these midnight adventures, I pray it’s the last one. I’ve learned enough about the problem, though, to know it might not be; and that’s okay, I guess. After all, I have the best ambulance driver in the world and the best care for the problem. I think I’ll live to fight another day!

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March 21, 2026 · 4:21 am

Eating My Way to Health

Photo by Valeria Boltneva on Pexels.com

Jackie Wells-Fauth

Before I begin today, I should probably mention that I understand and appreciate the benefits of good health. I also know that human health depends on several things: 1) genetics, and mine are pretty good; 2) attitude, which can sometimes not be as beneficial as it should be; and 3) eating habits.

I’m well aware that many of my health issues come from what I put in my mouth and also, how much of it I put in there. It isn’t that I don’t try. It’s true, there are times when more Hostess Twinkies are consumed in this house than any fresh fruit. But then, there are times when I really try and I really want my health to be good.

In that frame of mind, I did some research. Now, I did this research on the internet, so everything I tell you here should be taken with a grain of salt (which I understand is also bad for you). The internet does not have a degree in nutrition, so proceed with caution. I did find some of the ideas interesting, however.

For instance, it is apparently a myth that you must cut out certain foods in order to lose weight. What a relief! I have heard of the keto diet, the Mediterranean diet and the lo-carb diet. All of them are rejected by me because of one word: diet. I haven’t been able to remain on an eating diet for more than the time it takes me to discover that there is a stray Tootsie Roll stuck in the couch cushions. Diets do not work for me, so I’m glad to hear someone agrees with me—even if it is the internet. The only food I have ever successfully cut out of my diet is liver—and that is an action I do not regret!

Apparently, in the healthy eating world, you should not snack between meals. I am here to tell you that the only reason I get up every morning is in anticipation of whatever snacks I have lined up for the day. Meals, fine, but what have you got for those long hours in between?

When they get into types of food, it always upsets me, because they usually attack my favorites to begin with. I switched from regular soda to diet, only to discover that what diet lacks in calories, it makes up for in other undesirable things. So, I switched to fruit juice. Nothing wrong with that, right? Wrong. Fruit juice is apparently, in many ways, worse than soda. They suggest sparkling water as a lovely alternative. I have tasted sparkling water, and I would just as soon dip my glass in the toilet, which is also probably not very healthy!

It is important not to eat too much processed food. I did some looking to see what counted as processed food. My biggest heartbreak there was peanut butter! Who knew that the most delicious bread spread in the world is considered a processed food! I just can’t believe they got that right. Another processed food they warned against was frozen pizzas and TV dinners. When I read that, I felt terrible, because I love those and they are so easy. Thank heavens they didn’t mention pot pies; I guess I can still have those, huh?

There were a couple of pieces of good news. They debunked the idea that sushi is diet food. For me, sushi definitely IS a diet food because I’d rather go without food than eat it!

The other piece of good news had to do with lettuce salad. Now, I eat lettuce salad when I am trying to be good, but I can never say I enjoy it. Imagine my surprise, then, to hear that the dressings that are put on lettuce salad have more calories than a doughnut! You know what this means, of course. If I’m eating the same calories anyway, I’m definitely eating the doughnut! I just didn’t know that it would be considered healthier than lettuce salad! Yay!

I was excited to see that late night snacks are permitted because that is my favorite. I was not so excited to see their suggestions for a late-night snack: yogurt or pistachios. That’s a hard no on yogurt and as for pistachios, they aren’t bad, but they aren’t going to hold me over until morning! I need a hearty late-night snack, like a bologna sandwich—or wait, I know! Peanut butter! No, that’s not right…maybe a diet soda or…

I put the computer away and got up to leave the room. “Where are you going?” Roy asked.

“Downstairs to find my Twinkie stash. This healthy eating is gonna kill me.”

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