Category Archives: Humorous Column

Anxiety of Change…

The spring of the year seems to be a time of change for many people. If they are going to move or change jobs, spring is a good time. Schools end, summer jobs start, graduates are jumping from academic pursuits to on-the-job challenges. And with all that, comes anxiety. I have had conversations with at least four people—three of whom are younger than me, on the topic of anxiety just this week.shutterstock_101041396

How do we eliminate anxiety? Especially when we are a country of such monumental change…all the time? Personally, I hate change so much I wear my shoes until they have holes in their holes and I keep my toothbrushes until the last bristles fall out. Do I have anxiety anyway? Of course! Who doesn’t?

I also have a philosophy about anxiety. (It’s not really mine…I read it somewhere.) With the increase of our mobility as a society, our anxiety has intensified. When our ancestors roamed the world, they didn’t worry about change, they worried about enough food and adequate shelter. Once societies developed, they worried about family ties and social traditions. Today, we worry about all of those things plus we have the added need to search our souls, keep expanding, take care of everyone else, excel at our jobs and all the while wondering how to avoid trashing the planet or blowing it up.

The good news is that today we are smart enough to provide aids when the anxiety gets too overwhelming. Everything from talk therapy to physical and medical aides can help give an edge over anxiety and most intelligent, educated people make use of them when they need them.

The underlying issue of change leading to anxiety is the same, though. We all worry about making the right move with every decision. The only trouble is, anxiety doesn’t help us in making the decision. In fact, it can stop us from making the decisions that are best for us.

I’ve spent so much time in my life letting my anxiety get in my own way when it comes to the things that I want. And do you know what I’ve discovered? That my anxiety doesn’t improve when I refuse to make decisions and refuse to change…in fact, in many cases in my life it has been worse—because I failed to “choose the road less taken.”

This column isn’t too humorous, but at this time of graduation when so many are making choices which are so important to their futures and when we all face a plethora of changes, I thought it might be worth mentioning that we all have anxiety and it isn’t always easy to control. It will never go away, so the secret is to learn to control it—by whatever means you can—so that it doesn’t control you. Take it from someone who knows, anxiety and uncertainty can take many disguises, but if it can, it will try to take over…don’t let it. Go out and get everything you want and let your anxiety worry about maintaining itself!

Have a great week—I promise I’ll be funny next time!

 

© 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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About my new underwear…

I think it’s fair to say most people would state that I indulge my grandsons a little….okay, so maybe I indulge them a lot. And because of this tendency to indulge them, I may have been the victim of a vicious prank by my children.

It all started with a bunch of little rescue dogs collectively known as the “Paw Patrol.” My grandchildren, while not abandoning such old favorites as Curious George and Wild Kratts, have become huge fans of the Paw Patrol.

They watch the episodes so much that I can say the words along with them and I have been grilled repeatedly by the boys as to which one is which. “Which one is this, Grandma?” asked my younger grandson in his best teacher voice on Skype one night. He was pointing to the little canine grinning at me from the front of his shirt, but fortunately, before I had to reveal my ignorance he was so eager to share, that he answered his own question. “That’s Marshall, Grandma,” he told me importantly and I nodded as though I’d known it all the time.

It turns out that the members of the Paw Patrol are a million dollar franchise, to which my grandsons are devoted in their efforts to collect them. They collect stuffed toys, action figures, pillows and blankets, rugs, shirts, hats and socks. They even have some Paw Patrol bubble bath that they use at Grandma’s house.

I thought they had reached the limit of Paw Patrol paraphernalia, but as usual, Grandma was behind the times on Paw Patrol. As my faithful Paw Patrol expert informed me one day, “I just like Paw Patrol unnerwear, Grandma!” Paw Patrol underwear! Grandma went in search of it and sure enough, all those little rescue puppies are decorating some pretty cool pairs of undershorts.

Grandma was able to relax. I had provided my sweet little boys with the ultimate in Paw Patrol gear. That was the end of it…or so I thought.

It seems that my quest for Paw Patrol “unnerwear” had given my younger daughter and her partners in crime (her husband and her best friend) an idea for something they could do to torment Grandma. On a visit to my town, they all disappeared for several hours at the friend’s house. I didn’t think too much of it until they came back to my house with a little gift for me: my very own “unnerwear” which they had decorated with Paw Patrol iron on stickers.DSCN2397

To make sure that I would not be able to refuse, they had my grandsons deliver the underwear to me. The boys, were of course, confident that I would be thrilled with my new stylish underwear. They brought it to me, exclaiming over how cool it was that now Grandma had Paw Patrol underwear, just like them. Although my  older grandson did point out that there was one significant difference, “It’s such BIG Paw Patrol underwear, Grandma!”

Needless to say, I have not attempted to wear the Paw Patrol underwear. Why? You may ask. I think it would be extremely awkward to put on the underwear featuring the little rescue canines, but even worse would be for me to get into an accident in those things. No, I think this Paw Patrol underwear will remain in the back of my drawer…at least until my daughter and her friend celebrate their birthdays; then they are going to get a Paw Patrol special delivery!

© 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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Slipping him a mickey…

I drove home from Minneapolis this weekend. It’s unusual for me to drive the majority of the trip when we go to the “Cities” to visit our kids. Usually Roy drives and I give him a short break now and then.  But today, I’m proud to say that I did the vast majority of the driving…however, it wasn’t exactly by choice.

It all started with Roy’s backache. He’s been struggling with upper back muscle tension for several days, but this weekend he was particularly uncomfortable. So much so that he actually allowed me to give him some pain medication on Friday—something he prefers not to do.

Nonetheless, he struggled with sore muscles all weekend. I worried. I always do that…I overthink an eye twitch into a stroke or a bug bite into a fatal rash. So of course, a muscle ache could be any number of terrible things and I worried all weekend.

Then, of course, there was the abnormal sleeping. Usually on a trip anywhere away from our beds, we both sleep poorly and he is always up early. He declared both nights we were there that he slept soundly and had trouble getting up in the morning. And he napped every opportunity he got.

This morning was particularly rough. He arose late and was extremely grumpy. His muscles were still bothering him. We went to church and he sat down and fell asleep. That was odd because he doesn’t ordinarily sleep in church. And he was so deep in sleep that he didn’t notice when his son-in-law got up and left the sanctuary because he was overheated. He was really out and he missed a terrific sermon.

We went for a walk after church and he sat on a bench and fell asleep. Since his grandsons were there and he likes to watch them play, I was worried that he fell asleep. Then, when we went back to my daughter’s house, he fell asleep again, so deeply that he was hard to wake up to go to lunch.

He fell asleep on the hard benches we sat on to wait for our table at the restaurant and even when we woke him up, he still acted groggy. My worry finally reached its peak when we had to head out of the cities in heavy traffic and he admitted that he was afraid of dozing off if he tried to drive. Since I normally nap while he drives, this was particularly unnerving.

After this admission, I, of course, took the wheel. I drove and he fell into such a heavy sleep I had to work very hard to get him to respond if I needed something. I was frantic. What medical problem was he having? Should I be stopping in one of the towns along the way and seeking medical assistance?

In my mind, I ran back through the day, searching for something that could account for his grogginess. I remembered giving him some of my over the counter pain medication that morning and suddenly it became important to check the label on that. Maybe it was reacting adversely with a prescription med he takes. I stopped the car and got out the bottle of pills. It was my regular over the counter pain medication…only it was the PM version. In other words, I had been giving my poor husband pain medication with a sleep aid additive the whole weekend!pills

So I had, in effect, slipped my husband a mickey that morning and then tried to put him behind the wheel of the car. As I was driving along, still coming to grips with this, he suddenly woke up. “Do you want me to drive?” he asked in a sleepy voice. “No, I definitely don’t,” I answered, “I’m going to be driving this time.”

He’s back to full alertness now and has a new appreciation for how cautious he should be about whatever pills I give him. He also informed me that it’s illegal to drug someone and then transport them across state lines. I hope I don’t go to jail for this!

 

© 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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Wide Awake

The thing I miss the most about being a toddler is nap time. I have looked back across the vista of my life at the number of times I had the opportunity to nap or go to bed early and I wonder why I fought it so much.

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Today, half my time is spent in finding ways to sleep anywhere and at any time. The rest of my time is pretty much wasted.
I had a particularly intense session in sleep techniques this weekend. Whenever I have a weekend tournament with my oral interp students, it is a tough weekend for everyone. They, because they must perform and me, because I must stay awake.
I started it out as usual by being unable to get my wake mechanism to shut down the night before. That is a new and clever way I have devised to say that I didn’t get any sleep the night before. I’m always paranoid that I will miss the alarm or get a flat tire, be late in some way. So, I spend the night waiting for the time to get up and go, counting on the chance to get in a nap on the bus on the way.
I rousted the kids out at 6:15 and they showed up…all of them. Most were still in their pajamas and had pillows and blankets, so they were planning on sleeping too. Trouble is, tired as I was, sleeping on that bus was impossible. I don’t know how many of you have tried riding a school bus lately, but the best of them ride so roughly that I would have better luck falling asleep on a pogo stick!
So, I spent the day sitting in a chair at an oral interp meet trying to sleep without appearing  to be asleep. All of the children leave their valuables with me as they go into rounds, so I always try to find ways to protect them. I sit at the table and wind bags around my wrists and ankles. This isn’t totally comfortable, but I do this on the assumption that if someone tried to take something, I would wake up. I’ve never had it tested out, at least I’m pretty sure no one’s attempted to steal and the students never complain about missing anything.
There are only three positions a person can assume when attempting to sleep at an oral interp meet. My favorite is the upright, head back. This involves finding a brick wall and putting your chair against it. I have slept with my head propped against a rough bit of brick many times and it is not too bad until you really fall asleep and your head slips to the side. That leaves some nasty examples of brick burn.
Then there is the straight chair position with head down. I don’t like this position because in the first place, it’s really hard on the neck to hang your head down and secondly, it can be misleading. I once woke from sleeping in this position to a student tapping me gently on the shoulder and saying, “Excuse me, Mrs. Fauth, I hate to disturb you while you’re praying, but I need to look at the schedule again.”
The final position is my least favorite, but the most effective. That’s the full-out, take off your glasses, cross your arms on the table and sleep with your head down. While I get the best sleep in this position, it’s also the one for which there is no faking that you were doing anything but sleeping on the job.
The interp meet was successful and the students were well-satisfied with their work. We went back home on the same rough bus, so I was awake the whole way. However, when I got home, my husband said to me, “What should we do tonight?” My answer? I gave him no answer. I had already slipped into bed and was completely unconscious. Now THAT was the greatest possible way to sleep…and I didn’t have five bags wrapped around my arms and legs, either. See you in the morning!

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And that ends today’s exercise program…

Every once in a while, I get the feeling that I should exercise more. Mostly I get this feeling when I step on a scale (usually by accident) or put on my favorite clothes…which refuse to close. It’s then I get the exercise bug. Not just the “go on a few more walks, big girl” kind of bug. I mean the “get out the mat and start sweatin’ you oldie!” kind of bug.

Well, last week, my favorite pair of navy pants expressed its displeasure with my weight gain by popping the waistband button and shooting it across the room. Very well, I can take a hint. I looked up some exercises on the Internet. “Tighter abs, smaller waist and hips in just 7 minutes a day.” What a great title and it didn’t sound too difficult.

First, I turned off every electronic device in the house. There is no way I want someone to hack into my account, film me wallowing around on the floor like a beached whale and put it on You Tube or something. It wouldn’t go viral, I’m sure, but it would probably be recommended viewing for anyone wishing to lose their appetite!

I unburied my exercise mat in the bottom of the closet. As I rolled it out, I know it said, “Oh seriously, lady, not again!” I got down on the floor and that only took three minutes. Imagine my outrage when I realized that those three minutes don’t count in the seven minutes of the workout! Certainly I raised a sweat getting down there!

First, I had to bend my knees and touch my ankles from either side. This one wasn’t too bad, except I didn’t make it quite to my ankles. Okay, to tell the truth I had a little trouble bending my knees, but I waved at my ankles from either side and began to “feel the burn” as they say.

I had been somewhat worried about the dog bothering me during this process. I shouldn’t have concerned myself. She disappeared into the basement the minute she heard me grunting and groaning, no doubt supposing that I was dying slowly and painfully from something she didn’t want to catch!

Next were two exercises requiring me to connect opposite ends of my body. I must make my right elbow touch my left knee. Well, I’ve already explained about the knee-bending thing, but the elbow was much more cooperative. I managed to get my bent elbows almost over my bosom and my knees ended up somewhere in the region of my hips. I’ll get better as time goes on, I suppose, but somehow, I am not expecting a knee-elbow reunion anytime soon.

From there it just gets worse. The next exercise wanted me to bend my knees again (they were obsessive about bent knees) and then sit up and stick my hands as far as I could between my thighs. Now I had some problems with this. First, there was the problem of being able to sit up far enough to do this and then, when I could, it looked like I was performing some weird, sexual ritual. Definitely don’t want to do that one around anyone else!

The final torture…I mean, requirement was to do something called a plank. This is where you get up on your toes and your forearms and hold your body in a straight line—the plank. I had just done ankle touches, elbow and knee bends and another exercise I don’t like to talk about. Nonetheless, I decided to do the plank. I got up on my forearms and my toes. Unfortunately, I had slipped down on the mat, so that my toes hit the linoleum instead of the mat. I pushed up into the plank and observing myself in the glass of the door, I could see that I resembled a camel with my butt as the large hump in the middle; it didn’t look very much like a plank. As I began to count, my toes slipped on the linoleum and I fell on my face.

And that wraps up this session of my exercise program. Any bets as to how long I can keep this up?

© 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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It’s Finally Happening…

 

Before I say anything on this subject, let me assure you that I know what Easter is truly about. I know it’s not about the Easter bunny or who wore what to church or anything like that. I know Easter is the celebration of the fact that my Redeemer lives. Having said that, I have a few more comments on the holiday.

As a child growing up, Easter was always the time of year when we got new clothes—something fancy for Easter, because my mother insisted that new clothes on Easter Sunday was an important tradition.

For me, it was more often the cramming of my body into clothing that was stiff and new and most definitely not of my choosing. There are pictures of me as a child in little green sailor dresses and pastel plaid skirts with pleats and little headbands full of flowers, etc., you get the picture.

Worst of all, believe it or not, were the shoes and stockings. We couldn’t just wear regular ones—it was either socks with stiff decorations on them that made my ankles itch, or even worse, white panty-hose stockings that made my legs itch all over and which invariably had a large blot of mud on them somewhere that I got by climbing carelessly out of a farm vehicle. The shoes were no better, white patent leather, black patent leather, it didn’t matter. They were stiff, uncomfortable and frequently made my stockings snag.

My mother dressed me up in these outfits in the name of “Easter Sunday Fashion.” She couldn’t help it; it’s what her mother did to her and probably what Grandmother’s mother did to her. It was a family tradition of misery that went way back, and while we celebrated the Risen Lord, we itched, scratched, tugged and stained our way through that fateful day.

We usually went to some family dinner or another after church, which meant we had to keep those miniature torture chambers on and try not to get our ham dinner on them—for me an impossible task. We were allowed to change into more comfortable clothes after dinner, but usually I was too stubborn for that. I continued to wear the dress-up clothes and sat tugging at my collar and itching my legs while everyone else ran around and had fun in their old jeans.

When my own girls were growing up, I tried once or twice to go the dress up dollies route, but it seemed I was either too broke or too busy to get the job done right. I was pleased with myself. I hadn’t forced my girls to wear silly headbands or gender-defining tights (at least, not very often.) By the time they could voice a real opinion, they thought that if the jeans were Silver Jeans, that was dress-up enough. As for flowery headbands—forget it. I once used ribbon and a headband base to make them fancy, braided, elegant headbands with elaborate bows on the ends. Those little engineers were far more interested in how they had been made than how they would look in their hair. It took little time for them to deconstruct them, discard the headband base and use the ribbon for something more fun—like, decorating the dog!

No, I was not like my mother. I was not going to force my daughters to dress up as I had to. I was feeling pretty smug about this until today. Today, I was sent a picture of my grandsons, enjoying the Easter holiday. And what were they wearing? Little suit outfits I had sent them crowned by the bunny ears headbands I had put in their Easter baskets.

Hear that splash? That’s the dam breaking as my mother starts to leak through!

© 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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Flying—need I say more?

There are a few things I do because they are necessary and inescapable. Physical exams, root canals on my teeth and flying…don’t forget that. If I had a choice of flying or being run over by a fast cyclist, I believe I’d take getting run over!

Unfortunately, getting run over by a cyclist will not get me rapidly from one place to another, so I must fly. I know I should have paid more attention in science class and if necessary, I’ll take a make-up exam now if it will help, but so far, no one has been able to tell me to my satisfaction how that giant, heavy machine can stay in the air like that. A balloon, maybe, but not a plane.

In spite of all my misgivings, getting to a family wedding this week made it necessary for me to get on not one, but two planes. There were some handicaps involved in this enterprise, the main one being my tendency to make wrong choices, and the other being that I was wearing glasses that were ten years old. Why, you might ask, was I not wearing my current prescription which would have allowed me to properly read airport signs? Well, because this last week I made a wrong choice in laying my good glasses down and the dog made an even worse choice in eating them!12514086_1035695299802233_1135785988926585391_o

With this handicap, I spent a lot of time peering through these old glasses and asking random people, “Is that Gate T17 down there?  Do you see any bathrooms listed down there? Is the Sioux Falls flight on this baggage carousel?” Not the best way to make friends and influence people, I assure you!

Once I actually got a ticket and checked my bag, I had the joy of security, but there, surprisingly, I generally have pretty good luck. They take one look at me with my hair hanging in my face, my handbag slung around my neck and my boarding pass in my mouth and they decide that I’m probably not a threat—a terrorist threat anyway. This time, however, they ran my hand luggage through their scanner and decided it needed a further check. What red-flagged it? The fact that I had the papers I was correcting for school all neatly paper clipped—with those giant, oversized clips—a lot of them.

After deciding that my research papers on the Grapes of Wrath were probably not a threat to national security, they sent me on my way. The next step is always the hardest because I like to be there early. What do I do with all that time on my hands? Sometimes I read, sometimes I write and sometimes I just watch the people coming over to join my flight group, trying to determine what a terrorist would look like and making bets with myself about how close to me the couple with the fussy baby will be sitting; ordinarily, it’s somewhere within a row of me!

This particular time, I got a ticket for a middle seat. For a woman of my size, a middle seat is a torture test, not just for me, but for the poor passengers on either side of me. I found my seat in row 25, seat B (the middle seat). I sat on the woman in seat 25A, tried to grab her seatbelt to fasten and wedged my heavy bag under the seat in front of me. No way was that thing going to budge during flight!stm51658b789b9f520130410

I apologized to the poor woman I had sat on and then settled back. Glancing to my right, I got a look at the seat row on the overhead compartment: Row 26. It was necessary for me to grope the woman beside me again to undo my seat belt and then I spent several minutes huffing and puffing as I un-wedged my bag again. I crawled over the lap of the disgruntled man in the aisle seat in row 26 and crawled over the lap of the disgruntled man in row 25, sat on the disgruntled man on the other side of me and groped him as I found my seat belt. I spent another few breathless minutes as I again wedged my bag under the seat.

Now, you might think I would re-check the row number one more time, just to make sure, but you would be wrong. I sat in that seat which I believed to be Seat 25B and never looked to the right the entire way to Chicago. If I was still in the wrong row, I just didn’t want to know about it!

Flying is definitely for the birds!

 

 

 

© 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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A word about a body’s shape…

When I was in the fifth grade, the school systems were still doing public measuring and weighing. I suppose they did it other years too, but I remember fifth grade, because I stepped on the scale, the dial spun around, and it was official! I weighed 105 pounds and the people doing the measuring identified me as the heaviest student in the class.

Before that, I didn’t think about body shape or size and after that, I spent a lot of time wishing I could be the size of the smallest girl in my class. It wasn’t until a long time after that when I finally realized that the smallest girl in my class, wished her body was bigger and stronger.

I was raised in an era when body shaming was done to make us strive for a more healthy body. “You shouldn’t eat so many potatoes, you will end up with a larger waistline.” I still remember the gym teacher who told me that at lunch one day. I still have to resist the urge to take my potatoes to the closet and eat them in the dark.

For years, I dieted and ate and dieted and ate, and dieted and ate. After it all, I ended up with the body I was going to have anyway…the body all the women in my family seem to attain. And in the end, I finally realized I am okay with that.

I don’t think that body shaming is going anyplace very soon, though. Any day you are on the Internet you can see “25 celebrity body blunders.” Or, even better would be, “Analyze your body shape to learn to disguise your body flaws.”

I applaud the women who were presented in this year’s Sports Illustrated this year who did not have the traditional model body, but modeled swimsuits with grace and elegance. I have come to accept my body, but I don’t think I’ll take the acceptance that far. I don’t think I would be easy modeling bathing suits, no matter what, because I not a bathing suit person.

I wear bright colors, snug-fitting clothes, and items that are not in keeping with my size and age. I keep in mind that the frame of my body is not what should define me, and I would love it if I could encourage other people to feel the same. Remember, pretty much every one believes that another body shape would look better on them, but we need to come to peace with our own bodies—while keeping them as healthy as we can.

When I think of body worship in the world, I always think of what my grandmother used to say about the human body. “I don’t want to see anyone else’s body, no matter what it looks like. If I want to see my body, I’ll look in the mirror—there won’t be any shocks when I see it and it won’t cost me anything.” I going to go with that, for now. And just maybe, I’m going to take a little pride in being the biggest girl in the fifth grade class!

© 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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You are there, but where is there, and can you call?

When she ate my socks, I just thought she was expressing the thought that my feet were so beautiful, they didn’t need cover. When she ate the letter I had ready to send to a book agent, I thought maybe she was expressing a literary critique on my work. When she ate the Christmas presents, I assured myself it was simply her silent protest to the commercialism of the holiday.

But when the dog ate my address book,  the fun was over. She ate it in pieces; I had plenty of warning. She started on the leather cover and chewed out a couple of addresses for people I didn’t contact anymore anyway. But I was careless once more and left the battered book where my intrepid billy goat dog could, by stretching herself up onto the desk, retrieve it, and my communication notes became her endive salad!

It was so angering—all my addresses, telephone numbers, important dates—gone in a flurry of ripping teeth. I banished the dog to the basement, but that did not recover my address book. And for a woman with the memory of a kitchen sieve, this became a real crisis.

I knew from the start that it was serious. Not only is my memory notoriously unreliable, but I have a real mental block when it comes to numbers. It’s true; you can ask my high school math teacher—oh wait, his telephone number was in my address book. Well, take my word for it. Although I might remember that my daughter lives on Green Street, even though I’ve been there, I have trouble conjuring up the  house number.  I don’t remember zip codes, and as for street, avenue, drive, boulevard, etc. and S, E, NW, SE, forget it!

Telephone numbers are even worse. I didn’t realize just how much I relied on the address book to call people. Since the dog’s impromptu banquet,  I have  had occasion to need to call my sister, and I had several short and apologetic conversations with the people I called before I finally hit on her telephone number. My children’s numbers are all in my husband’s cell phone, but I’ll have to wait until he has more time to assist, so I can retrieve them. By then, I’ll have acquired them some other way—perhaps I’ll write and ask them…no, that’s not going to work is it?

The author of all this misery, is of course, living at my house so I don’t have to call her or remember her address. She’s clever enough to know when I’m thinking about that lost address book, because as soon as I start squinting at the ceiling with the phone in my hand, muttering, “That’s 857…or is it 587..or, oh, I don’t know,” she puts her tail between her legs and slinks down to the basement.

Eventually, I’ll get my address book back together and this time the pages will be stainless steel with a lead lock. In the meantime, I’m going to do a lot of driving around, trying to use the GPS I call a memory to find the people whose addresses are presently in the digestive system of a dog who seriously did not get any nutritive value out of my records!

 

© 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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I’m just gonna walk my paint cans now…

Some people go skiing in the mountains on the weekends. Some people enter marathons and walk and run their way through days at a time. I envy these people because they have normal, ordinary activities—things people would understand and often, things that they admire.

That’s right, I’m about to tell one of those whiny tales about how all the bad stuff happens to me. If you don’t want to read that, stop here. But I warn you, you’ll miss a pretty good story. The things that happen to me aren’t necessarily normal, but they are entertaining!

The storeroom needed cleaning and I decided that definitely, this was the weekend. And what’s more, all that stuff I didn’t need was finally going. I sorted the paint cans and put everything that I couldn’t identify (and that was too many of them) on the track of the exercise walker that has been serving as a laundry hanger because it hasn’t worked right in a year. All of that was going.

I surprised the cat, who has apparently been taking afternoon naps on the Easter decorations and while I was stopping the rain of plastic eggs, gaily-decorated baskets and multi-colored Easter  eggs from hitting the floor, the cat chose that moment to walk across my arms, over my head and then cast herself off my shoulders onto the freezer, from where she could get to the floor.

While digging the Easter decorations that I couldn’t catch out from behind the freezer, I encountered an empty beer can. Aside from wishing at that moment that it had been full and cold, I was left to wonder how it got there—Roy drinks beer, but not usually behind the freezer.

The next order of business was cleaning the shelves because the dust had me sneezing so much, I was bumping my head on walls, shelving and the window. I pulled an old hand vac out and plugged it in as best I could behind the freezer.

Except I didn’t plug in the vacuum, I plugged in the mal-functioning exercise walker. Guess what? It wasn’t malfunctioning right then, it was ON. Paint cans began shooting off the sides and the end like a mortar attack in a war zone. Once they were done and I had cleaned up the damage, I tried to look on the bright side: at least the walker was working. Except it wasn’t. I discovered with some experimenting that if you unplugged it and then plugged it back in, it would run for approximately a half a minute…or about the amount of time it takes to walk about 10 paint cans at a sharp jog.

It was getting  to be too much. I was contemplating a break when the dog decided to aid me. She found some Christmas wrapping paper where I had put it in the hallway outside the door. I was alerted to that fact when I heard paper ripping. I looked out to see her joyously dismantling  a half-used roll of paper. As I was cleaning that up, she nosed her way in, trying to get some of the bigger pieces and that’s when I noticed that her head was extremely damp-looking.

I was busy; I didn’t ask questions, but I should have investigated. When I finally dashed upstairs to get more garbage bags from the kitchen, I did some unexpected cross-country skiing across a very slippery kitchen floor. When I slammed into the stove, I discovered that the dog had washed her paws in a skillet full of frying grease that I had left out to cool off. She had distributed it over every counter and surface and turned the floor into a pre-greased skating rink.

By the time I had cleaned up the paint mess, the shredded Christmas paper mess and the greased kitchen mess, it was time to call the weekend to a close. So, although I didn’t go skiing in the mountains or run a marathon, I skied through my kitchen and I definitely walked those paint cans at a brisk pace! However, I don’t think anyone’s going to admire me for it!

 

 

 

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