Monthly Archives: August 2024

Jackie Wells-Fauth

I have to confess that I am not a real fashion plate when it comes to the clothing scene. In fact, I would say that most people would check my closet to determine what they don’t want to wear.

My approach to fashion is simple: I get up in the morning, shove my hand in the closet and as long as the item which comes out is clean, whole and not made of recyclable plastic (even I have my limits) I am going to put it on. If it covers everything essential, we are ready to go!

I saw an online ad the other day with a headline that announced “What to Wear” or something like that. It featured a woman wearing a jacket and trousers that looked as though they had been fashioned out of my old family rec-room curtains paired with a classic leopard print pair of heels. The trousers ended mid-calf and I’ll tell you right now, nobody wants me to wear my old rec-room curtains sporting a design that reveals my less-than-model like ankles.

I wonder when these fashions come out, if this is just some mind-control experiment. Like, are they doing their worst just to see if we will wear without question,  the hat that’s four feet wide and the dress which won’t allow us to put our arms down properly?

 Picture it: a group of people sitting around in a room, discussing this year’s fashions.

“I know,” exclaims the girl wearing a sweatshirt with the neckline cut so it falls off one shoulder, “let’s make this year’s dresses look like gunny sacks and tell everyone if Marilyn Monroe could wear them, so can they.”

“Marilyn who?” scoffs the young man in leather pants so tight his ankles are actually bleeding. “You want to make sure that everyone wears the latest thing, like something Lady Gaga wore.”

“No one will wear that kind of clothes,” protests the woman with the leopard print shorts and hoodie. “We need something that people can wear more than one season.”

“Are you crazy? They will wear what we tell them to wear and change it as often as we tell them to. Just put the cut-out jeans on a snazzy model and tell the public that everyone who is anyone is wearing this outfit,” the owner of the store in the million-dollar suit declares. “We’ll make a fortune.”

I know that I would never make a fashion designer. For one thing, I am wearing t-shirts that still advertise the political campaign run by the Bushes—father and son and the shoes I most often pick for comfort have formula stains on them from my first child, who is now 40. To mis-quote an old line from a great movie, “I am not one to give up on a garment because it has a little age on it.”

Someone needs to tell those high-rise fashion planners that I have one motivation for buying new clothes: weight gain. When I can no longer fit in my favorite pants, then I will reluctantly go out and buy new ones and I don’t generally base my decision on whether it was designed for Marilyn Monroe, or Lady Gaga.

I don’t like loud colors or prints so wild they give me nightmares. I want the garments to fit me without revealing my heavy ankles, my flabby arm fat or, most horrifying of all, some portion of my upper thighs or off-the-tracks caboose.

Shopping for clothes is painful as well. I can’t possibly figure out on-line shopping because I can’t try on the clothes, and I don’t look anything like the models displaying them on the computer. I also don’t much enjoy standing in a claustrophobic dressing room, squirming into clothes that looked much better on the rack then they do on me!

I know that it’s fall and in some fashion fantasy world out there they think that I should be working on my brand-new seasonal wardrobe. In keeping with that thought, I went to my closet and inspected the clothes I have there. I tossed out the West Wing shirt with the holes worn in it and the jeans from some years back with the metal studs half gone. Beyond that, the line-up of shirts in subdued colors and pants which have the courage to cover me completely are going to have to do for another season.

But I tell you what, if Lady Gaga or Marilyn Monroe would like to borrow any of my things, I will be glad to share!

Jackie Wells-Fauth

I love reading online humorous blogs. The most humorous articles out there happen to be articles which offer household cleaning tips. These cleaning tips are almost always based on the assumption that I want to ‘clean my household’. Hysterical.

Allow me to share the latest humor in the cleaning world. I came across an article that gave the following tips. To make it convenient, I have posted my response to each one, which I figured was a much better use of my time than to actually…follow them!

The first tip told me to have a household plan. That way, I can use the same routine over and over. My household plan is to let my house accumulate as long as I can before I appear on an episode of “Hoarders”. I am midway through that household plan as we speak.

The second tip was to declutter and organize. As part of this plan, you were to pick up each out of place item and decide to: (a) find it a permanent spot, (b) donate it to a local charity, or (c) discard. Items in my house seldom have a permanent spot (unless they are stuck down with something I can’t identify) and no self-respecting charity would take the garbage I find. That means I choose (c) where I just rev up the bulldozer and shove it all out the back window.

Tip number 3: Gather all your cleaning supplies. What cleaning supplies? They did suggest the possibility of “do it yourself” construction or mixing of cleaning supplies—In fact, the last “do it yourself” thing I constructed around the house was a piece of plywood connected to my favorite television chair, so I could have dinner without spilling too much in my lap!

I am advised to clean my house from top to bottom. As part of this rather ambitious tip, I am advised to start by making sure the ceiling fans are all turned off. I must stop laughing at this long enough to admit that this, is indeed, good advice. Speaking as one who once swung a broom up over my shoulder, where it connected with a running ceiling fan, I believe this is a sound tip.

Clean up stray pet hair. And this tip kept referring to it as “stray” pet hair, like there might just be a few strands. Please, there is so much pet hair in my house that it makes up 50 percent of the composition of some of my chairs and rugs and no matter what I have tried, it cannot be induced to “stray its little self” out of my house.

Use the vacuum cleaner to its full potential. What does this even mean? When did vacuum cleaners achieve potential and who out there is not taking full advantage of their vacuum cleaner? It is philosophical questions like this that keep me awake at night.

Wipe mirrors and glass. This is great advice, because what else would we do to mirrors and glass? Certainly, shooting macaroni and cheese at them wouldn’t improve their appearance; believe me, I’ve accidentally tried that!

Keep bathrooms especially clean. Use disinfectant cleaners on all countertops. Clean grout with specific tools. I was with them until the bit about cleaning the grout. The only tool I would use on grout on a bathroom tile is a chisel to get it out of there!

Always sweep, then mop. If you don’t mind changing dirty mop water fifty times, you can skip that whole sweep thing. Otherwise, what would you do besides sweep and then mop?

Remove food and drink stains from furniture. I have never met a chair or a couch that could resist the kinds of food and drink stains that I cause and once they are on the furniture, there is no removing them. The best I can hope for is that they look like a part of the design.

By now, I’m sure that none of you out there is anxious to visit my house, but actually things around here are not so bad. After I’ve laughed myself sick over the cleaning tips articles, I proceed to my own method: Run through the house with a large black trash bag, throwing in anything within reach, close the bag and put it with the others in the garage and wait for your turn on “Hoarders”!

Jackie Wells-Fauth

Hosmer is the hometown of my husband, Roy. It is the place where I got my first high school teaching job and where I met Roy through my friendship with his sister (another Jackie).

However, Hosmer has a further significance in our family, since it is the name of the only cat still living at our house. She was the cat belonging to my daughter, Stefanie, who acquired her as a kitten, named her Hosmer–because that was the place where she was born–and whisked her off to Minneapolis.

In her young years, Hosmer was known as a real bad ass cat. She kept the yard cleared of birds, mice and other vermin that can be found in a big city neighborhood. She had the dog under control, (not necessarily an easy task) and didn’t hesitate to take on anything she saw as a threat.

Things changed when it was necessary for her to move back to South Dakota to my house. This bad ass cat was now dealing with an established cat and a different dog, who wasn’t all that thrilled to have to deal with a second feline.

It mattered very little to Hosmer. She was tough enough to take on anyone. She and Jinx (the other cat) had a few go-rounds and were in an armed truce when “the event” happened. Both cats were the type to want to go outside at night, so one nice summer’s evening, they wandered out.

At first, I could hear them “smack-talking” each other. They had reduced their feud to a verbal one by this time, because they had each discovered that the other one was no wimp and fighting only entertained the dog. On this particular night, though, it sounded different. The growling was loud and constant. It took a few minutes to realize that there were actually three cats in that yard, and all three eventually growled and challenged each other until they ended up on the deck.

In a rare show of unity, Jinx and Hosmer took on the third cat as a team. The noise escalated as the fight became physical and then came a rhythmic thumping noise as the three felines rolled down the steps. That was enough for the third cat—it took off and Jinx and Hosmer shook paws and licked their wounds.

The largest wound, however, was the so-called “hidden pain.” From that day on, Hosmer, a true outdoor hunter, never left the house. I never saw the strange cat again and Jinx didn’t seem to be stopped from foraging outside, but Hosmer became a “house cat”, in the true sense of the word.

I tried everything to re-ignite Hosmer’s interest in the out of doors. I tried coaxing—holding the door open and crooning, “here we go, look how nice it is outside. Just try it out.” Hosmer lay down on the kitchen rug looking at me as though to say, “Are you kidding? I ain’t doin’ that! That lion could be out there.” Meanwhile, the dog, confused by the open door would have run in and out four or five times.

Next, I tried physical persuasion. I picked her up, set her outside the door, said, “Have a good time,” and walked back inside. Within two minutes, she had climbed the outside screen and was eye level, clearly indicating she would like to be indoors. I lowered myself to ridicule, “You’re afraid to go outside? Really, this is the bad ass cat who once dragged home half a rat, and you’re afraid of a weenie, South Dakota cat?” She was unmoved.

I finally gave up and Hosmer remained indoors. It wasn’t bad for her. She found plenty of soft things to lay on and cover in fur and she was always right there if anything edible was accidentally dropped in the kitchen. Her favorite winter activity was to lay on the furnace grates when they were blowing warm air and she refused to be moved, even when she saw me coming with the broom.

We were together here for at least a dozen years, and I learned to appreciate her finer qualities, and she learned to put up with me—and the dog.

This week, Hosmer passed on to whatever place cats find as Heaven; undoubtedly somewhere loaded with mice—indoors, of course—to keep a bad ass cat happy and occupied. I have always said, I am not a cat person, and that is true, but I must admit, I’m going to miss Hosmer, and I won’t be the only one!

Jackie Wells-Fauth

I received a video from my almost four-year-old grandson this week in which he very proudly told me he had bugs for lunch, and they were “yummy” and “tasty”. Before my stomach heaved too much, he went on to say they were “ants on a rog” (he’s still having trouble with his “l” sounds).

By the end of the video, he had requested that his mother make “ants on a rog” at home and she agreed. I should have known that it wasn’t a real bug he ate, because he is so very careful with bugs. He doesn’t want flies, ants, ticks, etc., to be around him in the house, but at the same time he doesn’t want them to be harmed. He actually expects that they will be caught and removed safely to the out of doors.

This is where he and I differ. When I see a bug, my first instinct is not to eat it or return it to the wild. I just want to viciously stomp it and if it could die without leaving messy remains, that would be even better!

I’m sure I don’t need to tell anyone that bug season is here. However, I do believe that my house is the gathering place for more than my fair share of the population. I have about 20 flyswatters loaded and ready for action, but of course, when I’m sitting down trying to read or watch television, and the flies and mosquitoes are buzzing or the spiders are climbing down the walls, I never have a weapon handy!

The other day, I was driving down the road when suddenly, a fly managed to drop between my eye and my glasses. If a policeman had been watching me drive, I would have been stopped for a sobriety test. By the time I got the car under control and stopped and the fly out from behind my glasses, I was a little angry.

I spent five minutes with the windows open trying to get the fly to simply leave the premises. The fly had other ideas. He kept flying into places I couldn’t get him out of and there was nothing in my purse that served as a proper fly killer. In addition, while we were having this battle, reinforcements showed up for him in the shape of three more flies.

In desperation and rage, I got in the car and rolled up the windows. I told the flies, “Whatever happens now, is on you.” They were unmoved and simply stared at me from their stronghold on the dashboard.

I stopped at the nearest gas station and when I got out of the car, they invited another fly in. I stomped into the gas station, bought the largest fly swatter they had, stomped back out to the car and declared to the flies, “It’s on now, boys. Come and get me!”

There followed a scene of great carnage. I murdered all the flies, and I may have desecrated the dead by smacking them several times more after they were dead. I vented all my fury on them, scraped up the remains with the fly swatter and scattered their ashes in the gas station parking lot. Perhaps it will serve as a warning to all other bugs not to mess with me.

I have been feeling pretty tough since then. I march around my house with my six-swatters, yelling, “tar agus faigh dom” (“come and get me” sounds so much tougher in Gaelic and besides, what do the bugs know? So far as I know, they can’t speak any language!).

Last night, I sat down in my chair after a routine reconnaissance through the house. Not a fly, spider, water bug or even an “ant on a rog” in sight. Things were great. Just as I picked up my book, a fly flew between my eye and my glasses. I think it might have been a relative of the guy that was in my car because he was sure after revenge and by the time I got him out, I had bent my glasses, and poked myself in the eye three times.

I wonder how you say, “I give up” in Gaelic?

Jackie Wells-Fauth

I am about to make a confession which I know will make me unpopular among many of my friends and family. But here it goes: I am not a “dog person”. I am also not a “cat person”. In fact, I am not a “gerbil, goldfish, house pig or any other pet animal you can name…person.”

Having said that, I must then tell you that we have both a cat and a dog. We have had several cats over the years, mostly by accident, but the dog, a hunting Golden Retriever, was definitely on purpose. That dog walked in the door, we looked at one another and I said, “To be clear on this, I don’t hunt, and I don’t like dogs, but if you stay out of my way, I won’t accidentally lose your dog treats.”

The dog has learned the fine art of annoying the lady of the house without pushing things too far. It helps that her master is very much a “dog person” and in addition to that, he loves to hunt, and she is good at that.

“Look what that stupid dog did,” I come out to the deck where Roy is sitting petting the dog.

“Now what?” He’s heard this whining all too often.

“She chewed up more of my socks!” I hold up a sock with large holes in the side. “How come she always goes after my socks?”

“That’s because she likes the taste of rancid foot odor and also, I hide my socks,” he answered, while the dog relaxed, knowing she was being defended and undoubtedly planning to chew up my slippers next.

So, the dog is pretty comfortable in life and knows that she is the top (another name for a female dog) in the house and I rank second by the same name.

I did not pass this distaste for animals on to my children. My older daughter has two cats and a dog, and my younger daughter has two cats, all of which are just an extension of the grandchildren. Whenever my dog and cat see my daughters and families, they run for them, knowing they are about to be pampered, at least for the duration of the visit.

My older daughter has kept my dog on several occasions, so when they recently decided that their dog would not be comfortable on their camping trip, they asked if we would keep Cora (their dog) for a week or so. Of course we would be happy to, but I always envision Cora’s reaction, while my daughter was on the phone, asking us to dog sit.

“Yes, we would be so grateful if Cora could come to your house for a week,” she would be saying, while Cora was sitting on the floor beside her (or more likely in her lap) looking totally horrified.

When Cora walked in the door, Josie (our dog) stood looking at her for a long time. I know Josie was thinking, “I wonder what this dog did to be condemned to doggie prison.”

Cora has adjusted quite well to the fact that I won’t let her sit in my chair or on my lap. She hangs out with Roy a lot, instinctively recognizing an authentic dog person, but since Josie is kind of territorial, she has to share Roy, which is hard for her–the queen of dogs at her own house. She has no little boys or loving adults to share her days with, but Josie’s dad is taking her for walks, so she’s grateful for that.

Now, for all of you out there who stand ready to call the Humane Society, I maintain that Cora (and Josie) are being well looked after, fed and fluffed by the one dog lover in the house. They are intelligent animals, so when I walk in the room, they generally leave it and that’s okay. Cora only goes out for potty breaks if Roy takes her, and I am not offended by that. After all, the dog is smart enough to know who her friends are, who am I to complain?

Now, I could not ever harm a living creature, but I do know that domesticated animals are probably not for me. I think that if I’m going to have a pet, I would like a wild squirrel. That way, I could be assured that it would quickly run away from home!

Hang in there, Cora, only two more days to go!