Monthly Archives: September 2024

Jackie Wells-Fauth

We got done painting the kitchen three weeks ago. It looks really nice. I moved all the cooking things back into place and it has been working just fine. Except for one thing: the walls are bare.

Now, anyone who knows me knows that I like things hanging on the wall. A blank space on any wall gives me a nervous tic and I have so many of those automatic picture hanger things on the wall, I’m not sure I really needed to paint it. But I stripped everything off the walls, painted them a lovely blue and now, because of another of my idiosyncrasies (procrastination) the walls are still as bare as a baby’s behind, without so much as a trace of talcum powder.

It’s not that I don’t want things back on the walls. I just can’t seem to get organized and get it done. And it is causing me some problems. I took all the pictures and utensils and other items and laid them on the counters where I wanted to hang them on the walls. And for the last two weeks, I have been industriously wiping them down after a round of cooking grease or spilled tomato sauce or errant soap bubbles. This has not been good for the pictures and even worse for Roy’s and my good humor.

“Don’t set that there!” I yelled, the other evening as he tried to place a plate on the counter.

“It’s a dirty dish, where do you want me to put it, in the china cupboard?” He was rather incredulous.

“It would be better in the china cupboard than sitting right next to those kitchen utensils,” I pointed out reasonably.

“Those are kitchen utensils. Why aren’t they in the drawer, so I can put a dirty plate on the counter?” A worthy question, I suppose.

“Those utensils belonged to my grandmother. They are supposed to be on the wall.” It made perfect sense to me.

Unfortunately, Roy wasn’t following the conversation. “Okay, so your grandmother wants her kitchen utensils to hang on the wall. So why don’t you hang them there (I can’t believe I’m asking this) so I can put a plate on the counter?”

Yes, indeed, that’s the question of the hour. Why don’t I get things hung up? I am going to get around to it, but sometimes I just have a little bit of an organization problem. Those utensils are going to take some thought, and I haven’t decided exactly where to hang the antique grater and where the eggbeater should go. It must be considered before I do it, because I believe my grandmother is involved.

Of course, she is no longer alive, but she would laugh herself silly if she saw her utensils hanging on my wall, and I know she thinks it’s ridiculous, because she has already dropped that eggbeater on my head a couple of times. So, I must take some time and consider where it should go. Meantime, it sits on the counter and collects egg yolk from the plates Roy puts there. Grandma, you should drop that eggbeater on HIS head!

But I digress when I really mean to procrastinate. After a few days of wringing my hands looking at the bare walls, I came across some ripe tomatoes from the garden…in one of my enamel pans.

“What is this? Why would you put tomatoes in that pan?” I was furious.

“Because tomatoes should go in a container…oh, wait, this is another one of Granny’s things, isn’t it?” He catches on quickly.

“Of course, and only a philistine would think to put tomatoes all juicy from the garden in this enamel pan,” I raged.

As he emptied them out and washed the pan, he pointed out in vain that my grandmother undoubtedly used the same pan to collect produce from her garden and she didn’t hang it on the wall as a decoration afterward.

I can see it’s time to quit procrastinating and get my things hung back up before he manages to get syrup or ketchup all over the antique measuring spoons. I’m sure there is a proper way to do this, but I still need some time to figure out exactly where to hang the eggbeater. I’ll keep thinking until next week…or maybe the week after.

Jackie Wells-Fauth

We had an interesting time on Saturday night. Our anniversary is coming up and Roy was looking for ways to put a special stamp on our 42^nd time around the sun together. I was therefore delighted when he said to me, “I see that the comedian Jim Gaffigan is coming to Sioux Falls. You like him, don’t you? Maybe we should get tickets.”

Did I say delighted? Oh man, I LOVE Jim Gaffigan! He is such a funny guy and the chance to see him in person? I couldn’t have been more excited. And I was determined not to let any little things surrounding it get to me. I was going to see Jim Gaffigan! And I knew he would be awesome.

We headed out mid-afternoon in order to not be late. My hair was a wreck, my shoes were uncomfortable, and my hip was bugging me like usual. But that’s okay, we were in the car and headed down to see the show.

And in the end, Jim Gaffigan was awesome.

We were laughing rather self-consciously to ourselves as we pulled up to the Texas Roadhouse for supper. It was only 4:30…we were terribly early for supper, and we’d have extra time before the show, but that was okay.

And in the end, Jim Gaffigan was awesome.

We discovered that Jim Gaffigan was not the only event in Sioux Falls on Saturday and the Texas Roadhouse, at 4:30 in the afternoon was inundated with customers from a golf tournament in town and we had a forty-five-minute wait on a hard bench and ten minutes standing before we were ushered to a very crowded corner. The food was good, and we got in on several birthday yee-haws, so that was exciting.

And in the end, Jim Gaffigan was awesome.

Getting to the event center was a little stressful; my cane (that I was using for my hip) set off the security scanners, they questioned the pillow I brought to sit on (but let me keep it) and we had trouble figuring out the numbering system on the chairs, but we were there fully 40 minutes before it started.

And in the end, Jim Gaffigan was awesome.

We had great seats on the floor straight back from the stage. This was fine until Paul Bunyan sat down in the seat in front of us and I didn’t have the guts to ask if he would remove his hat. So, I developed a crick in my neck looking around him and that hasn’t gone away yet.

But in the end, Jim Gaffigan was awesome.

After the show, we went for ice cream, and we had a tough time getting through to the sweet-faced young clerk that we wanted chocolate SAUCE, not chips or bars or whatever. We finally got it though and enjoyed it before heading out of town.

And in the end Jim Gaffigan was awesome.

On the Interstate, we were abruptly re-routed to a side road by a lot of flashing lights and patrol cars. I said to Roy, “Oh no! Why did we hit the sauce at the ice cream store? Now we’re going to be arrested for driving under the influence of cocoa powder! Why didn’t we just get the chips?!” Fortunately, they were not looking for persons guilty of crimes of chocolate, so we made it home without further issues.

And did I mention, Jim Gaffigan was awesome!

Jackie Wells-Fauth

I knew from the moment I picked up a paintbrush and color pad in kindergarten and watched those around me as they swirled and combined colors in beautiful ways…I knew right then. I knew I had no talent nor inclination for painting.

This has not changed over the years. It’s not like I haven’t tried. I have painted flowers and fruit, and I even went to one of those wine and paint parties—loved the wine, hated the painting. My initial feeling about my painting abilities was confirmed and examples of my art grace landfills everywhere.

That should have given me some hint that perhaps house painting wasn’t for me either. It didn’t help that I married the all-time greatest of house painters. His meticulous attention to detail has made him a wonderful accountant, and it means he puts meticulous attention into everything he does…including painting.

He took on the painting of the outside of the house a few years ago and I assured him that I could be a great help. The first day we were both out painting, I thought some pictures were appropriate, so I got the camera, came around the corner where he was painting and snapped a really cute photo.

He looked away from his work for a moment and said, “I thought you were supposed to be painting.”

I was chagrined, put away the camera and slopped on some paint. He came after a while to check on me and discovered that I had indeed gotten some paint on the house…and on the window…and on the flowers below…and a lot on myself. After observing the area, which did kind of resemble a paint war, he commented, “Perhaps it’s best if you just go back to taking pictures.”

He wasn’t wrong, but it was kind of offensive and it did make me want to prove myself with painting. So, while he was busy with work, for the next year or so, I proceeded to paint the inside of the house. I managed to cover the walls in every single room and, by making a rug constructed of newspaper, I was mostly able to keep it off the flooring. I had a real sense of accomplishment.

For the next several years, we lived in those rooms, and we pretended that when we looked at the ceiling, we did not see the streaks and missed spots. Of course, it was the worst in the bedroom. We carried on with our lives as if there weren’t three large yellow roller marks in the ceiling of the living room. We brushed our teeth and took our showers, without commenting on the green streaks down one side of the bathroom cupboards.

There is a strange dark spot on the ceiling in the guest bedroom where I didn’t quite cover the lavender paint I accidentally sprayed up there and there is just a hint of peach paint on the bedframe in our bedroom.

For as many years as he could stand it, Roy has overlooked these deficiencies, but this fall, he has decided that the time has come to take the painting in hand for himself. I was glad to leave that to him, and I really did try to help.

“Would you like me to tape along the woodwork, so the paint doesn’t get on that?” I asked.

“I think that it is already too late for that,” he said, inspecting all the old paint marks along the door frames. “Did you tape it the last time, or were you trying to paint the woodwork?”

“Well, I was kind of in a hurry to get it done,” I admitted.

“Obviously,” he replied, as he cut, chopped and strong-armed the electrical outlet covers off the wall. “You are supposed to wait until the paint dries to put these back on you know,” he said, as an entire strip of paint came off with a light switch cover that had been glued on to that paint for years. “And why can’t I get any of the ones off in the kitchen?”

“Because I left them on when I painted,” I replied defensively, “I was in a big hurry by then. I’d like to see you do so much better.”

So, of course, he did. He edges without any guide; he paints quickly and efficiently, and he can roll paint on the ceiling so that it looks like the whole ceiling has actually been painted. My kitchen, dining room and living room are looking great and so far, I can’t find any paint smears, drips or skipped spots. I can’t help feeling a little inadequate, but just as it was when I was in kindergarten and all those other kids were painting squares and circles and triangles, while I was getting paint on the floor and my fingers, I understand that everyone has their particular talents and the art of painting in any way is not one of mine. And if I’m a little patient, I can get the other rooms in my house painted by the guy who does have the talent.

Jackie Wells-Fauth

I used to love reading romance novels about a couple who first see each other and the room just ‘floats around them in a romantic whirl.’ That always sounded kind of cool to me, until recently.

I woke up one morning not so long ago and the world was just swirling around me. The difference here is that mine was not swirling for fabulous romance. For one thing, Roy had already gone to work and before you ask, no, I do not have some gorgeous swain as an illicit lover. I could have if I wanted, I just don’t happen to want to!

Where was I? Oh yes, I was standing in the hallway. I’m pretty sure it was the hallway, but it wasn’t acting like a hallway. It had more the appearance of an out-of-control roller coaster. So, I did what I always do on a roller coaster—I threw up. Then I fell down. And I liked it a lot better on the floor, even though it was acting like a canoe on the water rapids.

This rather unsettling experience led me to the conclusion that perhaps I should share this adventure with my local medical personnel. I waited until I could walk without hitting a wall or a piece of furniture, and then I went in and described the condition. They listened sympathetically to my explanation:

“Well, I got up and I ran into the dresser…that’s where I got this bruise. Then I went into the hall, and it was all kinda whoozy-like and I didn’t like that, so I fell down and threw up…or I threw up and fell down, I can’t remember…”

From this convoluted ramble, they decided that I might have a dizzy issue. (No, not my personality, a physical issue—unrelated to romance). They made me lie down (not a good idea) with my head hanging off the back of a pillow. This was REALLY not a good idea. I didn’t throw up, but it must have appeared as though I was contemplating it, because as I quickly sat up with a hand slapped over my mouth, a bucket appeared in front of me.

“Yes, I would say you have vertigo,” came the medical conclusion.

Vertigo! At last, my roller-coaster condition has an actual name. Okay, just give me the pill that cures it, and I’ll go home.

“I’ll schedule you for physical therapy,” was the unbelievable prescription to cure my vertigo. Physical therapy! That’s where they make you jump around and use your body for physical activity. Now, I have always found physical therapy to be helpful, but I’m not sure with a head that is swirling like a flushing toilet every time I move, that physical therapy is what I need. Do they have vomit buckets handy over there?

Nevertheless, I went to therapy. I’m glad I didn’t get my usual therapist. I love her and I always benefit from her help, but I have a tendency to argue with her. She might not have enjoyed trying to help with the vertigo, and I want to keep in good relations with her for all the other things that go wrong.

The brave lady who took it on didn’t disappoint. Just as I thought, she wanted me to do things that brought on the vertigo. “Lay down on your side and then point your nose towards your armpit,” she instructed. Now, there’s a joke there, but I didn’t make it; I was too busy being dizzy.

In spite of all of my doubts, by the time she was finished, I was not dizzy anymore—well, mostly not. She played a small video, to show me what had made me dizzy. It seems there are some granules in your ear that when they stay in place, maintain your equilibrium. Mine had apparently decided to travel to places they weren’t supposed to be, so it was necessary to tilt my head and call them home. (The previous statement is not an authorized medical description—you’ll have to watch the video.)

The main outcome is that I am no longer walking into walls or throwing up and it is a great relief to me that my ear granules have decided to quit running away from home. But I will tell you that the next time I read a romance novel, and they describe the meeting of the couple by saying, “the room just swirled around them,” I’m going to immediately vomit on the book!