Category Archives: Humorous Column

Jackie Wells-Fauth

It happened again the other day. Roy had to buy himself a new reading lamp and after he had unpacked and assembled it, he asked that fatal question:

“Where are the lightbulbs? This didn’t come with lightbulbs.”

What he may not know (and should by now) is that his wife doesn’t come with lightbulbs, either. There is never a spare lightbulb in the house, unless it is lying unwrapped in the cupboard and cracked so that it will not light. As I was sneaking around the house, stealing lightbulbs from any available unlit lamp, I reflected on this fact. The idea that I am the keeper of supplies (known in the Army as the Quartermaster) is a little like putting a four-year-old in charge of the aspirin supply. I never know how much of anything we have and the chances that we are out of something is equal to the desperation for which we need it.

My shopping lists are usually very detailed. They give me everything I need when I go to the store. And while I am at the store, the shopping list is laying conveniently on the counter at home. That forces me to shop by what I like to call the “take a stab at it and rely on my ever more failing memory.” This is not a good method.

While things like lightbulbs and stamps and ink pens are neglected in supply at our house, I have at present four boxes of Zesta saltines, five and a half tubes of Crest toothpaste and enough eggs to feed an actual army if they came for breakfast.

I like to make jelly when I can get my hands on enough chokecherries. I know that sometimes lids are in short supply, so the fact that I have a kitchen drawer I can’t shut because of all the lids doesn’t surprise me. What I’m still trying to figure out is why I felt the need to buy four packs of a dozen jelly jars each—given the fact that it has been three years since I made jelly. Now those are at least useful. Having never been taken out of the package, they make an excellent place for me to store all the bottles of Super glue, hot glue and Elmer’s glue that I have drying in the basement. They also are great support for the two dozen glue guns that I keep in stock. You think I’m joking…I wish I was!

I try to make do when I must. I have found that those large Christmas light bulbs, of which I have dozens, fit into most of my lamps, so Roy is lucky that he did not get a red or green light to read by until I was able to re-stock regular lightbulbs. Too many crackers lead to a lot of soup (if I have any in stock) and the eggs can be used in any number of dishes, until I start clucking like a chicken and have to desist.

I can’t even imagine what life would be like for me in the quartermaster’s corps. My father used to describe the work he had to do to keep uniforms and equipment available for the soldiers in his unit when he had to serve on the supply line. He made jokes about the wrong sizes, wrong equipment, etc., but I have to say that had I been in charge, it would probably not have been funny!

Imagine we are in the forests of middle Europe. Guns are blazing, troops are advancing, and I am in charge of supply.

“Sergeant Fauth, we need more bullets!” would come the demand.

“I’m all out of bullets; I’ll have to go to the store. While I’m gone, just fire these tubes of toothpaste at them. Aim for the eyes!”

I would be demoted in a real hurry on that job. And when I couldn’t find any lightbulbs for Roy to put in his new lamp, I was demoted to undependable at my house as well.

I don’t see myself getting any better at this supply thing, so when I finally did get lightbulbs, I only got enough to fill his lamp, with one left over. That one is presently on a shelf in the bathroom…and I’m pretty sure I cracked it when I put it in there!

Jackie Wells-Fauth

Roy’s phone did one of its funny little quirks this week, so he did what we always do when our technology fails: he called one of our IT guys. Now, it should come as no surprise to most people that I gave birth to two of the IT team and they married the other half of the set. And take my word for it, our IT guys are always delighted to hear from us…especially when everything must be done by phone!

The phone issue for Roy was a tough one and he had to use my phone to communicate with our elder daughter to describe what his phone was doing. Since she was at home, alone, with the four-year old computer trainee in the family, it made for an interesting conversation.

“It won’t show me my e-mail, and I like to get that on my phone,” he complained.

“All right, I need you to go into the apps and click on the Google app,” she said, while in the background, the little one was chanting, “Hi, Grandpa; Mommy, I’m saying hi to Grandpa.”

By the time our IT guy had sorted out what was wrong, handled the minor crisis or two that the little one had and convinced her father (customer) that he had to Face time her so she could SEE what was on the phone, I’m fairly certain she was wishing she was an orphan.

Her ultra patient customer service voice was very soothing, but I’m pretty sure that underneath it, she was thinking that she could send us poison through the mail, but then she’d have to explain to her sister why she had done it.

She shouldn’t have worried though. Her sister, another one of the IT support staff in our family, has also dealt with her parents and their issues. “Okay, is the computer plugged in?” You laugh at this question, but half the time, that’s the problem. “Well, now, try turning it off and turning it back on,” is the second step. This always makes me mad. Do they think we can solve a huge problem in technology by just powering down and powering back up…how stupid or naïve do they think we are…oh wait a minute, that worked!

The married half of the IT team has no better luck, although for each of them, the approach is different. Stefanie’s husband, Marty, once confiscated Roy’s phone for an entire afternoon, industriously inputting the locations and directions for the places we intended to visit in Germany. We had all of that set up in our GPS, so it was annoying that Marty tied up the phone the whole afternoon to do what was not necessary. We thought this right up until the GPS, and every other location device we had, failed us in a foreign country and we were hanging on the every word of the directions Marty had put into the phone. We confessed that it was very helpful and he, as any good IT customer service member would, kept his mouth shut and refrained from saying, “I told you so.”

Tracie’s husband, Charles, is the epitome of patience as well. Each time I buy a new laptop, he sets it up for me. He asks questions that I don’t have an answer for and he attempts to set up the programs I need without any help or suggestion from me. He has even, on one rare occasion, locked into my computer from his house and fixed a problem I was having. I am convinced he learned that trick during his computer magic training at Hogwarts. However, I am also convinced that he has mastered the art of mentally facepalming himself every time he asks, “What is your password for your server?” And I answer, “I think it’s something to do with cheese. Try that.”

It’s possible that all four members of our IT team get away from their work on our technology only to bang their head against a convenient wall, but so far, they have not refused our calls or sent us any bills. We will probably never master the fine art of technology, so it’s necessary for us to continue to make use of our IT support team.

The good news is that we have discovered that we have new trainees for IT support, since the two older grandsons are now almost as good as their parents at adjusting our technology. They aren’t quite as patient, however.

“No, Grandma, you didn’t do it right! Didn’t you listen to what I said?”  They will have to work on that if they want to be good IT guys.

Jackie Wells-Fauth

Before I begin, I should give the following disclaimer: I recognize how important medical tests and exams are. There is so much that the medical community can do for us and help us to solve using their potions and pills and machines and tests. That having been said, I feel years of being x-rayed, ultra-sounded, run through the MRI, having endured multiple thyroid biopsies and the ever-enjoyable colonoscopy, I have a right to try and find the humor somewhere.

So as grateful as I am for modern science, I’m here to tell you that the little blue box that allows you to screen for colon cancer “your way” is misrepresenting things and the yearly mammogram for women is really no picnic, either!

I was thinking about the mammogram specifically during my yearly screening this last week. For the men in the reading audience, I realize the word mammogram makes you a little squeamish and that is too bad; maybe this is the week you don’t read this article to the end. For the brave men and the women, however, I believe I have something worth sharing.

The mammogram has always freaked me out. The first one I ever had was the baseline and they did so many views, re-takes and follow-ups that I was pretty much convinced I was just going to die right there. The trauma of that one has stayed with me, so I admit, I drag my feet and try everything to put it off—don’t ask me why; I know it must be done.

When they finally get me dragged in there, it is in some ways even worse, because when it’s over, I have to wait for that phone call. You know the one. “Yes, this is the clinic, and we have the results of your mammogram…” I don’t want those preliminaries. In fact, if they could arrange for a phone ringtone that was like an “All-clear” button, that would put me out of my misery immediately. However, I realize that there is a certain professional protocol, so I just have to be happy if at some point, they say everything’s normal.

All of these feelings were present when I reported for this year’s mammogram. I took my book along as usual, because I have heard that anxiety is handled better if you have something to read while you wait. I have never read a book while waiting for a mammogram that I did not have to re-read later, but it is something to hold in my hands, so I look reasonably calm.

I knew it was going to be different when I didn’t have to wait at all and the technician doing the mammogram led me into her exam room where I discovered calm, soothing lights and party music playing. You can’t get too wound up with a girl who is playing party music in the mammogram room.

A friend told me recently that she is sure that the mammogram machine was concocted by a man, and she is probably right. They don’t look friendly at all. They look like a giant monster with a huge mouth ready to swallow you. Erma Bombeck once said that in order to prepare for a mammogram, a woman should slam her most delicate appendage repeatedly in a refrigerator door. I have never tried that, but I think of it often when I approach those machines.

I particularly hate that you have to stand there in a gown open down the front (every year I put it on backwards first, don’t ask me why) while the technician puts little stickies as markers for any moles, etc. These stickies are meant to cling, and they do. But this technician, as she was liberally putting them on, said, “I just got a new set of stickies. They are great.” Can’t argue with that kind of cheerfulness.

At last, we got to the actual mammogram. This fantastic technician announced, “Now, we are going to do what I like to call the “Mammo Mamba.” When I got done laughing, I discovered that she had a whole set of footsteps on the floor, showing me exactly where to stand and how to approach the mammo monster. Before I knew it, I had concentrated so much on where to put my feet in those dance moves, that the exam was pretty much over. Somehow, she made having the most delicate portions of my body awkwardly squashed, not quite so bad.

When I was ready to leave, she even gave me a prize for being so good. I got a string of gold, plastic beads. It didn’t occur to me until later that this was kind of like Mardi Gras: Women flash themselves and get bead necklaces. It didn’t matter, I was so happy to be done, that I even left the machine without calling it my usual bad names.

So, I got a good report, and I was happy about that. I really enjoyed the attitude and atmosphere set forth by that technician. The question remains: Now that I can do the Mammo Mamba, will these tests be better in the future? Not a chance!

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!

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!