Monthly Archives: July 2016

A new look…but the same old body

I believe I have mentioned that I’m not exactly a clothes horse when it comes to high fashion. I have always gone with the theory that what I’m going to wear depends on what I have in the closet. I don’t care about matching or coordinates or what colors are most fashionable. I’m okay with all this. Those who have to look at me, however, have a bit of a different opinion.

I try always to sneak out and buy my clothes on my own. I might snag an unimaginative pair of black trousers on the sly or a new blouse of lovely shades of…tan, maybe. Usually I look at bargain racks only when I shop alone because I like to think that bargain racks are just what someone not of my size and taste in clothes left behind for me to buy! After all, someone has to buy the blouse with the peculiarly shaped violet flowers and the odd pleats in the back, don’t they?

So I should have seriously known better than to go shopping with two of my cousins who DO have some fashion sense…but I didn’t. Kristi and Gail both voiced the intention of doing a little clothes shopping, so I went along.

Kristi started it. I was busily perusing a rack in one corner featuring bland blouses and tepid trousers, all marked down, when she walked up.

“Look at this beautiful shirt,” she was holding up a frothy white blouse with beautiful blue trimmings in it.

“That’s beautiful,” I agreed. “But it’s much too large for you. That’s not your size.”

“No,” she responded, taking me by the arm and walking me towards the dressing room, “It’s YOUR size.”

Very well. I could try on the blouse just to make her happy. I wouldn’t have to actually buy it, right? I got into the fitting booth and did you know those things have an open top? I had never really appreciated that before, but I did on that day.

I noticed because before I had a chance to try on the first blouse, Gail had knocked on the fitting room door. “I found this really cute top on the bargain rack,” she announced and the blouse came flying over the door.

From then on, it was as though clothes were snowing in on my fitting room, blowing in over the top of the door. I was trying on more clothes than I could possibly afford or ever find the time to wear. I kept thinking the clerk would announce that we could only have so many shirts in the fitting room at a time, but when she finally knocked on the door it was to say, “Ma’am, your cousins sent me in with these zipper shirts; would you like black, blue or red or maybe all three?”

Watching them when I walked out to model anything was pretty entertaining. If they reared back, nodding slightly with a rather smug look on their faces, I knew that meant, “Oh, yeah, I was right. She can wear red without spontaneously combusting.”

If they were to purse up their lips and twist their facial features, I would be able to interpret that too. They were thinking, “Okay, that one looks like something she would choose. It has to go.”

At the end of the shopping excursion after having tried on enough clothing to cover the poor in a small country, I finally found a selection of clothes that only set me back about two weeks’ worth of groceries.

As we were leaving, I looked over the top of my many packages at my cousins. “What do you guys buy?” I wanted to know.

“Oh, we’ll go back later to get ours,” they said, avoiding each other’s guilty looks.

“Right,” I said. It’s okay, though; I’ll get even. When I get home, I’m going to dye all these colorful clothes tan!

© Jackie Wells-Fauth and Drops In the Well, 2016. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this site’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Jackie Wells-Fauth and Drops In The Well with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

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The Secret Lives of Deadbeats…

I love that new animated movie “The Secret Lives of Pets.” I wanted to see it so desperately that I made my husband take me…without any kids for cover. He wanted to rent a couple of fresh faced kiddos to make it look like we weren’t just going to that movie ourselves, but I made him go without an age escort.

It may have been an error, though. Because now I think he’s beginning to wonder what I do all day long on my summer break. He leaves the house for work each day just like the owners of the pets in the movies and then the pets get into all kinds of trouble all day instead of accomplishing anything.

Since we went to the movie, he’s been questioning me rather closely on my activities during the day. Now, this is bad, because not all of my activities in a day could be termed as “useful.”

He went to work one morning, inviting me to have a good day and adding, “There are some clothes that need washing and a couple of things to be straightened up in the family room. I presume you’re getting up now?”

“You bet,” I say, rolling over and burying my face in the pillow on the bed. “Anytime now.”

He has no choice but to leave it at that…after all, he can’t be late for work. But I know the inquisition as to what I have been doing will come when he gets home. I must in some fashion be ready for that.

That night, sure enough, the first thing he did when he came in the door was to ask, “Did you get those clothes washed?”

“Well, I started to, but I was interrupted and never got back to it,” I answered reluctantly.

“What interrupted you?”

“Well, I sat down for a few minutes and went to sleep,” I told him, “but I was just so tired from all the cleaning I did.”

“Oh, you did some cleaning?” he said, sounding more impressed.

“Yes, I cleaned the floor,” I said. “It was all sticky from the pop I spilled.”

“How did you spill pop on the floor?” he was suspicious again.

“I spilled it while chasing the dog,” I tried to explain.

“And why were you chasing the dog?”

“Because I had taken out my partial and when I looked down at her, she was wearing it in her teeth,” I answered. “And of course, after I cleaned the floor, it was necessary to spend a couple of hours sterilizing my partial.”

“So after that, you couldn’t get back to the laundry?”

“Absolutely, that’s just what I intended to do,” I hesitated.


“Well, I was kind of tired after chasing the dog and cleaning the floor, so….”

“So you took another nap,” he shook his head as he walked away.

Now he’s a bigger believer in the secret life of deadbeats than ever before. And I’m so tired from trying to convince him otherwise, that I need another nap!


© Jackie Wells-Fauth and Drops In the Well, 2016. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this site’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Jackie Wells-Fauth and Drops In The Well with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.


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Following the fashion…after a fashion.

Nothing is more depressing for me than to go shopping for clothes. It’s not just a matter of not having the body for the fashions…I also have no fashion sense. I just can’t visualize how something on a hanger is going to look on me. Hence, I have been known to make some…oh, let’s call them “fashion faux paux”

The first thing you will notice when you go clothes shopping today is that the small, petite and medium sizes are pretty cute, but the large, extra-large, and candidate-for-a-tent sizes never look all that attractive. If I’m already of a rather large size, why would I want bright orange flowers pasted across my belly or worse, my backend? Give me the delicate and dainty pink rosebuds you put on the small dress, please!

On a recent trip through the latest summer fashions, I noticed an alarming trend. I found a beautiful pattern of a dress and it even had larger sizes, but it left my back almost entirely open. I do not plan to show off my back…I have moles, skin tags and back acne which make it necessary to keep my back covered…so crowds of disgusted people don’t gather.

Moving along, I found some beautiful tops, several colors and mostly my size. They covered my back and left my shoulders completely uncovered. No can do: my shoulders belong in football pads and they are not enhanced by sticking out of the sides of my blouse. Another problem.

The prettiest pattern in the dresses was one that hung long on one side, but came up above the knee on the other side. Now, my legs are not a thing of beauty and putting me in a dress which shows them off at a slant might make the observer wonder if he had been drinking…or if he should start!

Next, I found some beautiful dresses and jackets. They fit well and they covered all the right spots. Good, I found something, you’re thinking? You would be wrong. While the dresses were a nice, sedate pattern, the jackets were bright tangerine. All I could think when I looked at these suits was that no one at sea would need a signal flag. They could see me for miles!

I sorted through pants with rips already in them (I make enough of my own, thank you), blouses with chains and beads for a neckline (ow), and beautiful prints that were much too small. And while I looked, I began to get a wonderful idea…what if I started to design my own line of clothes????? Wouldn’t that be fantastic?

Okay, so put your imagination in gear: I would design a dress that was slimming, but didn’t hug my multiple fat rolls, all colors would be tan, khaki or the ever-popular grey. The clothes would cover my neck (too many wrinkles), my shoulders, my back, and my legs. Oh, also, it would have to cover my arms, my wrists and my ankles. The picture this brings to my mind is a kind of a quiet, unimaginative, institution kind of garment that made have been popular at the end of the last century!

I suppose it’s too much to hope that this kind of garment exists anywhere in the stores, so there is only one solution. I will have to start sewing my own fashions. Yes, that is the answer. Now, does anyone know where I could locate a bathing suit pattern with skirts, bloomers and sleeves????

© Jackie Wells-Fauth and Drops In the Well, 2016. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this site’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Jackie Wells-Fauth and Drops In The Well with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.


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Farmer Boys

Although my husband and I were both raised on a farm, we are the last generation in our immediate family to do so. My daughters were both raised in a small town and they have since moved on to the Twin Cities, so my grandsons are bona fide “city slickers” by farm standards.

While visiting Grandma and Grandpa’s house in a small town last month, the grandsons were then invited to visit at a small farm nearby. This is when the differences became painfully apparent.

The boys were greeted by two farm dogs when they arrived. The dogs were polite and friendly, checking them out as they arrived on their territory, but the boys were charmed by the fact that they didn’t knock them over like their grandpa’s hunting dog did. Then, the cat joined in, rubbing against their feet as they walked. They seriously wanted to take that friendly farm cat home—to their third floor apartment.

The best was yet to come, though. Standing and lying in the first fence were two cows. Those were bigger than anything those two boys had ever seen. With big eyes and cautious feet, they went around the large livestock with great respect and no interest in approaching them. They were invited to pet the lambs and they did so tentatively, but even these were a little awe-inspiring to a couple of boys who live in the city.

The pigs were fascinating. They were having a nice mud bath when the boys got there and there was nothing they would have liked better than to have joined them. They loved the soft grunting noises and the older one had to be persuaded that these grunts were indeed the oinks that their “Old Macdonald” song had led them to expect.

Their reaction to the chickens was the best, however. They loved the fact that they had found an animal on the farm that was more afraid of them than they were of it. In addition, they were fascinated by the notion that this animal would lay eggs (yes, just like the ones they got from the store). Unfortunately, a quick check of the hen house revealed no eggs at that time, so they tended to look upon the whole egg-laying theory as a kind of an “urban myth” if you’ll forgive the expression.

The chickens proved to be a wild good time. The boys chased them all around the chicken coop and before they were done with the cackling, flapping birds, they had even shaken up the sheep until they joined the race and ended up squeezing themselves out of the henhouse and into the chicken yard via the chicken door flap. They were highly confused by this, but the boys were thrilled. Arthur stuck his head out the window of the chicken coop calling, “Here chicky, chicky, chicky,” with no regard to whether he was addressing chickens or sheep. In all fairness, I think the chickens and sheep were pretty confused too!

Arthur discovered that he could crawl under and climb over most of the fences, and when he was given a dozen eggs laid by the hens he was happy with his visit. He became hysterical when we got home, however, when he saw me crack one of the eggs and put it in food. “The chickens gave me those eggs and you broke it.”

Royce was somewhat quiet after we had come home. He didn’t say too much about the animals and when asked about it, he just said the farm was fine. When it came time for bed that night, however, he said, “Grandma, I don’t want you to be a teacher. I want you to be a farmer.”

“Really?” I replied, my mind obviously not following his.

“Yeah,” he said enthusiastically, “because then you would have all kinds of animals.”

That’s my little farmer boys!


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