Monthly Archives: April 2024

Jackie Wells-Fauth

In the springtime of my marriage, I allowed things to happen that wouldn’t happen today in that same marriage. Mostly I am thinking of the fact that I used to take warm showers and my very young husband thought it was funny to throw a cup of cold water over the top of the door just to listen to me squeal. I didn’t appreciate it and it finally stopped after I explained the particular set of skills I possess that could make his death look like an accident.

It is somewhat ironic then that 40 years into the marriage I am looking at a fad that reminds me a great deal of those very early days of wedded bliss. Now, it has never been a habit of mine to chase after every fad that comes out in this life. I have not made a tic toc video or dyed my hair some unique shade of purple or tried the latest food craze in sushi. In fact, I am probably the person least likely to hear about a new exercise and jump right in to try it.

That’s why my obsession with cold showers (not provided by Roy) surprises even me. I first heard about it on my way home from work when a fellow on the radio was going on and on:

“So, if you want to really feel good and get rid of all of your minor aches and pains, just turn the shower to cold for the last 30 seconds to two minutes. Doctors recommend it and so do I. It will make a new man out of you.”

Now, I have no desire to be a new man and I had no intention of trying the cold rain treatment until I came home and discovered that neurologists were actually recommending it. Well? Was I brave enough to try it? I was pretty sure not.

Then came the night my leg was paining so badly that I finally decided, “What have I got to lose? It’s either do this or cut it off!” I was to remember that choice with fondness later.

My shower was not even enjoyable because of what I intended to do at the end. It’s a little like trying to enjoy your last meal, even when you know the electric chair awaits. I just couldn’t relax and have a nice shower. But, the throbbing leg kept taunting me, “I’m here with you for always. We both know you’re not going to hit me with a cold shower!”

Holding my breath and forcing myself with both hands, I cranked the shower to cold. I started screaming like a banshee…and that was only when a cold spray hit me. Gritting my teeth and stepping forward, I let the cold water hit my nice clean, warm skin and I directed the full wrath of that artic rain on the leg causing me troubles! That would teach it to complain!

The man who described this water torture on the radio said the recommended time was 30 seconds to two minutes, but “if you can stand it for 30 seconds, you can make it to two minutes, no problem!”

I beg to differ. If I could stand it for 30 seconds, that would be the end. I kept sticking a body part under the spray and then jerking back out. That was the coldest of all cold rains! I have read that some people – athletes in particular—take ice baths on purpose. Good for them. I spent 30 bone chilling seconds under that blast and I was a freezing, teeth-chattering, ice queen and I had no plans to go back for more. That was it, I promised myself as I stood by the bathroom heater in mid-July. Two minutes under that icy waterfall and I would have been a popsicle. Let me out of here!

And then an odd thing happened: my leg started to feel better. How could that be in the thirty seconds I had spent in the Alaskan tundra? At first, I was sure I was imagining it, but no—that leg actually felt better.

This was not good news! If it really worked, then I was going to have to do it some more and I had planned to retire my cold shower routine after its maiden voyage. Now, I might have to seriously use the method?

Thus has begun what I like to call my shower screaming years. Roy was upset. He was more than willing to throw the cold water on me if that’s all that was needed. And he wanted credit for trying to “help” me with cold water sprays years ago.

My showers are never quiet and sweet. I take a reasonable shower for the majority of the time, but when I hit that two minute mark at the end, on comes the cold water and out slips some of the foulest language I ever learned in a bar down by the river. Is it for everyone? Definitely not, but if you have a partner who thinks throwing cold water into your shower is funny, you might want to stop and assess the results before you offer to waterboard them with their own towel!

Jackie Wells-Fauth

I have always felt as though I was a voice crying in the wilderness (or whining in the computer store) when it comes to my inability with technology. But, much to my joy, my friend has heard my voice and she sent me an article written by a fellow anti-technology soul that puts a whole new light on this technological world of ours.

David Brooks wrote the article “Why is Technology so Mean to Me?” This man gets me. He understands my struggles and he has put forward a very interesting theory on our computer world: Technology is the devil.

Of course! Why didn’t this occur to me before! All my struggles and all my failures to operate “basic computer programs,” explained away in the simplest of terms. Technology is the creation of the underworld and that is why a good, clean-living Christian like myself can’t handle it. Evil forces have been against me from the start!

My life has been one long list of battles lost to technology. What some people can do with a swipe of their thumb on a phone, I can’t manage if I am  sitting before a computer as big as a room. I finally figured out e-mails, but forget attachments. On-line banking? Might as well be an off-shore account in the Caymans because it is just as inaccessible to me.

I stopped taking classes online when I discovered that I wasn’t even able to sign up, let alone operate the so-called “Blackboards” which manage the classes instead of a teacher these days. Obviously, there was a demonic force at work against me or I would have figured out how to “click here to prove I’m not a robot.” Perhaps I would have had better luck getting into the classes if I had just held a simple exorcism beforehand.

And of course, the only explanation for my inability to place an order, trace an order or return an order in online shopping has to be because Satan doesn’t wish me to stay at home. He wants me to drive to the store and do everything in person…as the only one there.

Technology has always been very rough on me. Every time I learn how to use an on-line program, a special flag goes up somewhere in Hell. “Yeah, she’s figured that one out; time to change it—not a lot, just enough to foul her up again.”

Attempting to reason with computers also does not work. When I was still teaching, I named my computer Priscilla and tried everything from begging, praying, reasoning and screaming, to compel Priscilla to do my bidding. If Priscilla was the mistress of Beelzebub, that would explain why nothing I could threaten her with scared her at all.

I thought it might be worthwhile to put this little demon-possessed theory to the test. I sat down at my computer and pulled up something really complicated—my on-line blog account; that would make a good test. I wore a cross and said three prayers before I started, hoping to cleanse the motherboard, or whatever.

I typed in the address of my account. “You have signed out of this account, please close all browsers,” the servants of evil and misrule intoned.

“I did not sign out, I have all the information right here, you daughter of darkness. Now, in the name of all that is holy and good, open my account!” For good measure, I grabbed the metal plaque off the wall in my office that says, “When I am afraid, I will trust in you, oh lord.” As I was bringing it across my work area, it hooked on a corner of the desk and landed on my keyboard, breaking three keys and cutting my finger.

Yup, Mr. Brooks, technology is the devil…and it’s really kind of mean too!

Jackie Wells-Fauth

I have always avoided doctors when possible, especially when they wanted to cut into me. This has been a strict policy which has been harder to stick to the older I get. It seems like every time I consult with the doctor these days, they want to pull out the knives (they call them scalpels, just to throw you off) and correct issues, many of which have been long neglected.

I encountered this recently when a skin growth turned out to have some cancer on it. After that was removed, it was decided that all of my skin should be checked. If you have ever had this done, then you know any remaining mystery on your body is over; there are no secrets left once this examination is complete. This is both a relief and a discomfort.

It was determined that I had two places where I had the beginnings of skin cancer and therefore, they needed to be removed. One was beside my eye and the other on my chest bone. The doctor informed me that these are due to a lack of coverage from the sun.

Now, this was hard for me, because most of my life, I have fought diligently to keep myself covered. The reason, of course, is because I am a redhead and redheads do not tan. We either remain as white as Dracula in candlelight or we burn like a lobster in boiling water!

Covering up in the sun presents problems. Large, shady hats are really very helpful or perhaps even an umbrella would be nice. In South Dakota, however, the fate of most large, shady hats and umbrellas is annihilation with the first gentle “breeze” that comes along. I have been slapped in the face by many a hat brim and had many an umbrella lose its life to a gust of enthusiastic wind. In every case, it failed to protect my face.

As for my chest, I admit, light shirts in the summer are usually scoop-necked and not inclined to remind me that my chest skin is then exposed to the unforgiving rays of the sun—until it’s too late and I have fried like a fish in hot oil. The fact that these two areas are where the skin cancer is tells me that all those years of covering up in the summer like a Ninja on assassination assignment probably helped the rest of me, but I still have my Achilles heel—or two!

That leads to going “under the knife” to get rid of the offending spots. To make it more fun, I have to do them on two separate occasions, but this week, I finally got the chest infection removed. It reminded me of the dentist’s office in that you sit in a chair and they are working over you. The difference, I found, was that I was able to respond to conversation on this occasion because the equipment was on my chest, not in my mouth.

They worked up close, which made me regret the garlic I had with lunch and made me wish I could stop the burping and gurgling noises my stomach was making. I waited, fatalistically, for someone to say, “Oops” and while I never heard that, I heard, “Boy, you bleed well,” a couple of times. I gave them my standard reply: “Everyone has to have a hobby.”

Once she was done, she put a bandage on it, announcing, “This bandage is way more bad-ass than it needs to be.” Upon reflection, however, I decided I liked bad ass. So, for the rest of the day, every time I noticed someone looking at my bandage, I volunteered, “I was in a knife fight in a bar downtown. I won.”

Since the doctor tells me that anything beyond a 30 in sunscreen is just showing off and not worth it, I suppose I’ll be back to buying wide-brimmed hats and umbrellas and praying for calm days in South Dakota. In the meantime, I go back under the knife for the second spot on my face—wonder what story I can come up with for that!

Jackie Wells-Fauth

In my defense, what I’m about to tell you is something that many people have experienced. I just seem to manage to mess it up more than other people would. I’m speaking of course, of my wild flirt with going to jail for car theft.

I blame the manufacturers of today’s cars. It would be so much better if they didn’t make them all look alike and then stir up a giant vat of paint and paint them all the same color!

I have always had difficulty with finding my car in a parking lot. I comforted myself with the idea that  this was only true if we were in a large parking lot, but this past week, I discovered that I would probably be able to lose my car if it was parked on the street outside my house!

I was in a hurry and I stopped at a small local store for several items. Coming out of the store, I registered that there were only two cars in the small lot, looking very similar. That was okay, mine was the nearer one. I whipped open the back door and arranged my packages on the back seat, having to move over a box on the seat to make room. Then I started to climb in the front. Just as I was arranging myself, it suddenly occurred to me: Box? I didn’t have a box in the back seat! I also didn’t have a hairbrush and a magazine on the front seat beside me, but there they were.

Moving as fast as my old legs would carry me,  I hauled my butt out of the front seat and then snatched my bags out of the back, trying to rearrange the box in the best approximation I could of what it was before I tried to steal the car.

I was then considering whether to wipe my fingerprints off the car and trying to remember where the one place is that crooks never wipe down (according to Monk, Columbo and Jessica Fletcher) when out of the corner of my eye, I saw another person coming out of the store. Assuming all the panache of a water buffalo leaving the mudhole, I jumped to the other car. As I was throwing myself, packages and all, into that one, it occurred to me that I hadn’t checked to make certain that one was mine, but the odds were in my favor: It was the only other one there and it was certainly dirty enough to be mine.

This brush with car theft is a common theme in my life anymore. I was once in a large parking lot and I had been wandering for a few minutes, searching for my steel-grey car in a sea of steel-gray cars, when to my relief, I found it. I went to the driver’s door and discovered to my astonishment that I had locked it. I know I should always do that, but since I don’t usually, I was standing there, using my best cuss words and digging for my keys in my purse.

I finally located them and then, as I was about to insert the key in the car door lock, I saw the reflection of a man standing right behind me. Whirling around, prepared to defend my honor, I was horrified to hear him say, “Sorry lady, but that’s my car.”

I eventually found my car, but I have often wondered how many times I can do that without ending up behind bars for inadvertent vehicle pinching.

I find it happens more at night, of course, when no matter what the vehicle, they all look alike. Modern conveniences have taken pity on me, however, with the invention of the keyless fob. Now, in addition to starting the car, your fob will actually find it for you. Just press the little button and your vehicle will light up and holler, “Over here, dummy!” You have to be paying attention, though. After a school event one night, I went up to my car and pressed the button to unlock (cause I had actually locked it that time). Nothing happened. I was flabbergasted. I had done everything right, and now my fob wasn’t working. Frantically, I pressed it again and again with the same results.

It finally dawned on me that every time I pressed the fob, and it wasn’t working, a car several more down the line was beeping and lighting up. With the quick wit of Einstein, I concluded I had done it again, but this time, the person pointing out that I was at the wrong car was the car itself. I’m not sure if this is a step forward, or not. All I know is that if I get locked up for car theft, I’m going to need someone to bail me out!