dropsinthewell

Jackie Wells-Fauth

The big day

Jackie Wells-Fauth

Roy came home from work on Monday and hesitated as he came in the house. I knew what he was seeing out there, but I decided to let him bring it up.

“Uh, I see the garbage is pretty full,” he began.

“Yup,” I wasn’t going to help.

“It had hardly anything in it yesterday,” he hinted.

Okay, time to let him have all the facts. “That’s because today was “The Day.”

“Ohhhhh, today was “The Day,” he replied in a knowing voice, adding, “Okay, what is “The Day?”

“The day I cleaned the refrigerator,” I answered, swinging the door open to display its now wide-open spaces.

“And you found a dead body in there and so you stuffed it in the garbage?” He was not suitably impressed.

“You’re the one who has been complaining that the refrigerator needed cleaning.” I was expecting more validation than I was getting.

“That’s because stuff in there was reaching out and grabbing me and it smelled funny,” he explained.

“Well, it’s clean now, so don’t complain about the extra garbage. There were several things in there that were unidentifiable and there were the usual leftovers that were really left over. Also, there were the bottles of a little bit of fermented orange juice and apple juice.”

“It looks like there might be something still in between the glass and lettuce holders,” he said, pointing to some marks.

“There is, but I couldn’t get the glass unstuck from the frame, so I left it,” I explained logically.

“Well, why couldn’t you get it loose?” He was incredulous and moved as though to knock it loose.

“Don’t do that!” I exclaimed. “Don’t you remember what happened the last time we tried to get glass loose from the plastic frame?”

A look of remembrance came over his face. “The glass shattered, and replacing it cost as much as a new refrigerator.”

“And when we had it replaced, the whole refrigerator died within the month. I think the shock of being cleaned did it, so I don’t have a lot of hope for this one surviving, but you have to live a little.”

By now, his interest in the refrigerator was over. “How did you cut your forehead?” he asked, noticing the bandage on my head.

“Oh, I was shaking the refrigerator, trying to get the glass loose and a package of the dog treats you keep on the top fell down and cut me,” I answered, trying to make that somehow his fault.

He didn’t take the bait. “Well, from the looks of things, you need to make “The Day” more frequent than an annual event,” he suggested.

“Perhaps, but you could be a bigger help, you know,” I had more to say. “In the contents of that garbage can there are no less than four bottles of expired dill pickles and a half used tube of caulking.”

“And your point?” he said, crossing his arms defensively.

“I never buy dill pickles and the last time I caulked anything I was still in high school. I may not be the only one making “The Day” necessary.” Then I walked away. I had made my point and he was the one who would have to carry the “body” in the garbage can to the street for removal! Another celebration of “The Day” completed!

Jackie Wells-Fauth

I’m exceptionally happy to be talking to you today from my own office at my own desk. There was a brief time yesterday when I thought today, I would be wearing orange and consuming prison food; wondering if I could get one of my relatives to bail me out of airport prison. But, I should begin at the beginning.

I spent a wonderful weekend with my family and especially my aunt as we helped her to celebrate her 90th birthday. I had to fly to Denver and any flight always makes me nervous. Part of this anxiety comes from the airport security process. I know why this is necessary, but I never like to think they might be suspicious of me.

The Denver airport has a wonderful security system, and they endeavor to be as quick and efficient as possible. The first hurdle is to allow them to insert your driver’s license in a machine that immediately takes your picture for comparison. The machine decides whether the horrible driver’s license picture matches the horrible picture of you traveling that day. I felt somewhat judged by a piece of equipment that couldn’t even laugh at my picture.

However, this turned out to be the least of my worries. I was directed to the conveyor belt and instructed to put all my belongings, and any of my clothing that they perceived to be a possible weapon, in a large tray.  While they were thus X-raying my belongings, I was instructed to step into a large machine, hold my arms in an awkward way and be X-rayed myself. While I was in that line, I was having a small chuckle at the flustered fellow ahead of me who had been stopped for further inspection.

Imagine my chagrin then, when I looked for my belongings, and discovered that they were on the other side of a glass wall, and I had been selected for further search. I was astounded. What could they have found in the boring, innocuous things that I had put in that tray, that caused them to look further? When the gentleman indicated that I should step forward and he pulled up my tray, his first question was, “Madam, do you have any sharp objects or knives in your luggage?”

I was speechless, which is odd for me. The last knife I had seen had been one of those plastic ones at my aunt’s party. That wouldn’t even cut the cake!  Dumbfounded, I just shook my head.

“Well it looks here like you have some knives in your purse,” he said, looking at the x-ray.

Then I panicked. This man was going to search my purse! As he put on the blue gloves, all I could think was, “Oh, please don’t search my purse! I haven’t cleaned it myself in ten years, who knows what junk is in there!  I’m standing out here in front of God and everyone and you’re going to search it. Go through the pockets of my jacket, take my cane apart, inspect my shoes, but please don’t empty my purse here.”

Of course, you don’t lip off to a security officer, so I kept my mouth shut while he pulled out my packet of pandemic wipes that were long since dry, a dozen crumbled old receipts and a couple of used tissues. Soon, he had the whole thing laying out there and even I was a little astonished at what was found. No weapons, though. “Madam are there any other compartments?”

Now that he has emptied “the black hole” all over the counter right down to the $0.47 in loose change, two loose breath mints and a used cough drop? I pointed to the sleeve in the front of the bag, and made my first smart remark, “There’s a spot where my phone is, but I don’t think I could stab anyone with a cellular device.”

He was not amused. He pulled out the phone and then he pulled out a black and gold lanyard with a bunch of keys attached. Then he pulled out a bright green lanyard with a bunch of keys attached. Yeah, I should have left those home.  I felt the need to explain, “Oh, those are the keys to the two schools where I work. Please don’t take that fob, I just learned how to use it.”

By this time, I think he had gotten the idea that he wasn’t dealing with Bonnie Parker or the Unabomber, just a woman, carrying too many keys. He dropped the keys back into the pile, and said, “OK, clean your things out of the tray and move along.” It only took me ten minutes to pick it all up.

I know that it is important for airline security to maintain a safe environment. But while I was standing there, in my stocking feet, scraping everything from my purse back into it, I wasn’t sure that I was as appreciative of their diligence as I should have been!

Jackie Wells-Fauth

My grandsons came this week. The first thing the 11-year-old
did was empty one of my smaller cupboards and climb in and shut the door. The
13-year-old enclosed himself in a box which didn’t leave a lot of room for him.
This leads me to a sad but indisputable conclusion: these children are not
related to me.

I have suffered with a rather debilitating fear of close
places and crowded rooms for all of the life I can remember. I have accused my
two older sisters of locking me in a dark closet or a tight space in the house
attic, causing this horrible fear of small places. They deny any complicity in
this phobia of mine, but it had to come from somewhere; right?

I remember my grandmother asking me to squeeze into a small
corner in her attic to retrieve something. “I can’t,” I apologized, “I’m too
afraid of small spaces.”

“Don’t worry about it,” she said, adding, “I’ve got a little
bit of claustrophobia myself.”

Claustrophobia. Being afraid of being shut in a box with
someone sitting on the lid has a name! And a fancy one! From that point
forward, I was set. I can’t be in close places; I am claustrophobic! And what’s
more, it’s an inherited condition! I was so self-important with it, I figure
every time I came out with, “I’m claustrophobic, you know,” somebody would like
to have shoved me into a small space and walled me up!

But living day-to-day with claustrophobia can be a little
problematic. I was sitting in the living room of my house one extremely warm
day and my husband walked in. He looked at the curtains, blowing in the warm
air from the open windows and then he looked at me, sitting in the chair,
wearing less than a nudist at a clam bake and said, “Why don’t you turn on the
air conditioning?”

“Because I would have to shut up the house and it makes me
feel squeezed in. I’m claustrophobic, you know, just like my grandmother.”

“All I really know is that in November, you’re going to be a
mighty cold claustrophobic,” he said, shutting windows and flipping on the air.

I never shut the door when I use the bathroom at home and by
the time I have locked myself into one of those little stalls in a public
bathroom, I’m breathing so hard and whimpering so loud, I’m sure people in
other stalls are wondering if I’m giving birth in there or something!

The rug beside my shower is very damp all of the time
because there is no way I can shut myself completely in a little space that
resembles an upright coffin and allow water to pour on me. I at least have to
have a crack in the door so I can see the outside world.

Even my students knew about the claustrophobia. I always
left the classroom door open to the hall and with my loud voice, I’m sure the
teachers in neighboring rooms suffered more from my claustrophobia than I did.
On the rare occasions when I shut the door, I got so worked up and “itchy” as
the students called it, that they would, without permission or instruction, go
and open the door. Ah! That air, smelling of damp winter clothes and incomplete
hygiene, flowing in my room! What bliss!

I never go in caves. The one time I tried, I got as far as
the ladder that would take me down a small hole into the cave. Then, with my
shoulders touching either side of the opening, I suddenly remembered that I had
claustrophobia. I looked up at the lady about to start down the ladder on top
of me and said, “You have two choices: Let me back up out of here, or watch a
meltdown that will make Chernobyl look like child’s play.” I’m sure she
concluded she was dealing with a madwoman, because she mercifully chose the
first option and let me out.  My husband,
unsurprised by my defection, had only one question when he returned from his
completion of the whole cave tour: “Did you get a refund of your ticket?”  My reply: “I don’t think they reward cowardice with a refund.”

So, you can see why I believe those two boys purporting to
be my grandsons can’t actually be related to me. They can close themselves into
spaces which make coffins look big, and I’m claustrophobic. And it’s an
inherited trait, you know!

 

Jackie Wells-Fauth

I had a terrible night’s sleep last night and you have to believe me when I tell you that it was all Kitty Howard’s fault. But I may be getting ahead of myself. Before I can tell you more about my restless night, I am afraid I must digress a little. Everyone knows (I think) that I am addicted to history. It was my college major and I am unable to resist anything that pertains to it.

That’s why I was drawn to a book about Henry VIII. I have studied the life of the English Tudor King Henry VIII for many years. The man was an absolute monster, but he managed to completely renovate the religious structure of his world and at the same time, go through wives like they were toilet paper in the pandemic. He ended with no less than six and rumor has it he was looking around for number seven when he died.

This latest book on him that I couldn’t resist was the story of his fourth wife, Anne of Cleves—noteworthy because she actually survived the terrifying monster, his fifth wife, Katherine (known as Kitty) Howard—noteworthy because she didn’t make it out alive, and Jane Boleyn, the unfortunate lady-in-waiting who served them both.

If this is too much history, I apologize, but if you bear with me a little longer, I can prove that this history is directly related to my terrible night’s sleep.

Now, the book I was reading focused on Kitty, who was executed at the delicate age of 16 by her bombastic and dangerous husband who had reached the great age–of the time–of 50. She was beheaded, a dreadful way to go, along with Thomas Culpepper, her foolish lover and Jane Boleyn, the equally foolish lady who assisted them in their incredibly foolish love affair, while the ex-fourth wife, Anne of Cleves, contemplated her own narrow escape.

Now, for my night’s lack of sleep. The author of the story was an excellent, well-informed and highly graphic writer. Her account was detailed and riveting and I absolutely could not put it down. So, last night, I read to the last page and the final ax fall, and it was very late when I went to bed with this sad and horrible tale on my mind.

I was distraught over the description of Kitty, grasping at people with frantic hands as she was dragged to the Tower. There was also a description of the gruesome spectacle of Thomas Culpepper’s head on a pike on Tower Bridge. I was squeamish over the description of Jane Boleyn, forced to put her hands in pools of Kitty Howard’s blood as she followed her to the execution block. I was tensed up by the nerves of Anne of Cleves as she sweated buckets, afraid Henry would take her down too, just for spite.

Needless to say, I was not prepared for a restful night and for a long time, I just tossed and turned. At one point, I threw an arm across my body and over the edge of the bed. To my horror, there was Kitty’s pathetic hand, reaching up to grasp mine. Before I could leap, screaming from the bed, I realized that the hand grasping mine was just my own, other hand.

Feeling very foolish, I settled back down, but I couldn’t seem to get the ideas of that story out of my mind. I lay there, asking myself such soothing questions as, “What would it be like to be married to a man forty-five years older than you who had terrible hygiene and the ability to kill you on a whim?”

Surprisingly this was not soothing to go to sleep with and while I was thinking about it, I glanced over to the blinds on the windows and real horror! There was a roundish shadow on the outside of the blinds about the size of a human head! Thomas Culpepper! I reached over to turn on the lamp, and put my hands in a pool of Kitty Howard’s blood!

Too choked to even scream, I finally found the lamp switch and got the light on. The “pool of blood” I had put my hand in was water leaking from my water bottle. When I got the nerve to look out the window, the “head on a pike” was a shadow caused by the neighbor’s yard light. I shut off the light and lay back down, wishing devoutly that Henry VIII, nearly in his dotage, hadn’t married a child, or that Kitty Howard had given Thomas Culpepper a cold shoulder instead of a warm bed.

In the future, I’ve decided I am going to watch a little television to relax at night—a soothing movie like “Psycho” or “It”—something less scary than Tudor Henry and his tragic child bride!

Jackie Wells-Fauth

I have lived my whole life knowing that one and one equals two. I even know the mathematical formula for that: 1 + 1 = 2. You have just experienced the sum total (forgive the pun) of my mathematical knowledge.

I went through 12 years of school and four years of college and I still have to take off my shoes to add up my grocery bill. I wasn’t in too bad a shape in elementary school. Back there, they usually left all numbers in math problems and the world was right with me. Then, I got into high school and they started substituting letters for numbers and writing these “formulas,” which looked something like this: r=2xf (6 squared +  10) to the fourth degree written over 9 pie (2×0). I would look at that formula and my best reaction would be: how the heck did “r” get from the alphabet to math hell????

A benevolent high school math teacher got me through high school and my math-savvy sister got me through simple college classes, but for both of them, they should get credit for leading the blind, because I stumbled through and retained none of it.

Worst of all was when logic problems came into college math. I am the least logical person I know and those logic problems were the equivalent of five days on a torture rack and then burning at the stake. If inability at logic were a capital offense, I’d be the first one led up to the guillotine! On a test, the question was: “State a problem and the logical conclusion.” My answer? “I am unable to understand logic. Therefore, logically, I cannot answer this question correctly.” The teacher’s response: “Nice try, 0 points.” I wasn’t too unhappy—he actually thought I was trying!

As a teacher (of English) my math inability has been somewhat of an embarrassment. Students in study hall will ask for help in math and my best reply is, “Uh…I wonder what the math teacher is doing right now. Here is a pass to go and see.”

Teachers are given the opportunity to take tickets at ball games and run concession stands. I volunteered enthusiastically for the ticket taking because I could bring my husband, the accountant, whose brain is a calculator, with me. Then came the night he wasn’t able to make it to the game and I took tickets alone. It doesn’t make the parents of your students very comfortable when you have to add up four tickets—two student and two adult—by writing it down on a piece of paper. Then, after you have come up with a reasonable price, they hand you a twenty-dollar bill and suddenly, in front of God and everyone, you have to make change! It was not a pretty sight–me, counting three different times to get the change correct and finally handing back the twenty and muttering, “Never mind, it’s free for you tonight.”

Concession stands were no better. If people would have just ordered a popcorn, I could handle collecting fifty cents. But, NO, people also wanted pop and nachos and candy bars and all kinds of other things. The night I decided concession stands weren’t for me was the night I kept telling the students working with me, “Stop talking to me! I’m trying to add up this food bill without paper, pencil or my toes, and I swear, if they pay for it with a twenty-dollar bill, my head will explode!”

The sad fact is that my math abilities are dismal and what’s even worse, I have come to accept it. If I see a math formula or a column of numbers, my eyes glaze over and there is a strange buzzing in my head. So for all of you out there, struggling with math, don’t be like me. Get a tutor, take an extra class or just practice numbers in your head. And whatever you do, if you see me in the concession stand, go to somebody else!

Jackie Wells-Fauth

I am fascinated by the number of different therapies and treatments and tests out there to determine whether or not two people are likely to “make it” through the harrowing years as a married couple. There is a very simple way to determine whether a couple might be suited: send them to the grocery store!

Roy and I answered questions during our pre-wedding council about hobbies, religion, family outlook, etc. But nowhere in those surveys did they ask the most important question: can you grocery shop together without the authorities being called? For us, early on, we discovered that the answer was no!

Our first and only trip together ended in disaster. And it began so well: Roy pushed the cart and I checked the list. “We should get some peanut butter,” I said, crossing it off the list and reaching for a jar.

“Why are you getting that kind?” he was immediately questioning.

“It’s the best kind,” I was amazed he had to ask.

“It’s also a dollar more than that other stuff and that would work just as well,” he said, pointing to the bargain brand. “Peanut butter’s peanut butter.” Now, there’s a philosophy that won’t stand the test of time…and neither did the bargain brand peanut butter!

From there, things just went from bad to worse. The type of mayonnaise I had always purchased was overpriced. The potatoes (potatoes, for crying out loud) were less expensive if you bought the larger bag. In vain did I argue that they would spoil before we could use them all. Three aisles later then,  I was not surprised when we bought the 25 pound bag of rice because “it’s the best deal.”

Never take an accountant with you, as I did, because this man possesses the ability to calculate how much the tuna is per ounce, per can, in his head…very quickly. It was both amazing and frightening.

For us, as the years have gone by, grocery shopping has become my job and I conduct it with all the finesse of James Bond on a mission. Rather than encourage Roy to come to the grocery store with me, I will tell him I’m off to have an affair with some man somewhere, and he pretends to believe me. Our marriage is more likely to withstand that than another conjugal grocery shopping trip!

While I’m at the grocery store, I see both men and women doing the shopping; some are even brave enough to bring their children, but seldom do I see a married couple. Even if one of them has to wait in the vehicle, most couples will do that rather than risk having the local supermarket named in their divorce suit.

I have seen couples fight practically to the death over such things as: Should we buy the more durable plastic plates or the more environmentally friendly biodegradable plates. That argument degenerated into a shouting match. They left without either one as she said to him, “We wouldn’t need plastic plates if your family weren’t such pigs,” and he replied, “This conversation is over, tree-hugger.” I’m hopeful they didn’t go straight to the lawyer’s office from there.

It’s plain to see that a true test of marriage is a trip to the grocery store, by both people. If you can survive that, and most people can’t, you can probably endure anything. As for me, I’m going to continue to be careful. Yesterday, while Roy was napping, I quietly put on my coat and grabbed my purse.

“Where are you going,” he murmured sleepily from the chair.

 “I was just going to check and see if any of the neighbor men are home and their wives aren’t,” I said, preparing to close the door.

“Oh, okay. Pick up some bread, will you? And I think we are probably low on cereal as well,” was his reply as I headed out. Yes sir, our marriage is strong, I tell you!

Jackie Wells-Fauth

Most people are aware that I have three grandsons, but I bet those same people are not aware that I appear to have two granddaughters as well.

I say I appear to have two granddaughters because at the beginning, I was not aware that this was the case. In the beginning I thought my younger daughter and her husband had acquired a couple of cats and I must admit that is exactly how I regarded them.

But in Tracie and Charles’ house, these cats, two girls named Haru and Mako, are most definitely the grandchildren of that branch of the family. The “girls” as we call them, are adopted children, joining the family one after the other. They are like most siblings in that they get along sometimes and sometimes they don’t.

I didn’t give them a lot of serious thought, however, as I entered my years as a grandmother. I know I was grandmother to Royce and then Arthur and then Emmett, but it never occurred to me that I was also grandmother to others.

It is my custom when on vacation, to send postcards back to the boys, to let them know we are thinking of them. On returning from a vacation, we were discussing the postcards the boys had received, when I was brought up short by my son-in-law, Charles. Keeping a most solemn face, he said to me, “The girls didn’t get any postcards.”

How silly! To think I would be expected to send postcards to a couple of cats, one of whom hides herself when “Grandma and Grandpa” are visiting and the other who guards her resting spot on her cat tree with a swift hiss and a set of fine claws. The girls wanted a postcard?

Okay, I went home, picked a couple of postcards from the local drugstore in Miller, filled them out (“Having a wonderful time here in Miller, wish you were here,”)  and sent them to “the girls.” The proud parents were happy. They took the postcards, taped them to the cat tree and photographed the girls with them. While “Mom” and “Dad” were satisfied with the postcards, the looks on the cats’ faces were more expressive of boredom or indifference. However, I was assured that the girls were thrilled and everything was good.

The following vacation, I simply bought five postcards and filled them out. I didn’t allow “Cat Grandpa” to fill the girls’ out because he thought it would be funny to give them a picture of a coyote and tell them it would eat them, or a picture of a panther and tell them that was their real mother and they had been kidnapped at birth. I don’t know if they would have been traumatized by it, but I’m pretty sure Mom and Dad would.

This last Christmas I bought inexpensive Christmas music boxes for “the boys” and Tracie got that same serious look on her face and said, “The girls like music.” Okay, that’s ridiculous. Are you telling me those cats love music so much they would like a music box? What, do they go out and carol to the neighbors at Christmas?

So, I bought another Christmas music box, knowing the girls wouldn’t care. And you know what? They liked it. They didn’t break into Christmas carols, but both showed great feline interest in the music box.

Okay, I give up. I have become grandmother to two cats. However, that will be where I draw the line: three boys and two cats. When I saw my older daughter Stefanie’s dog, sniffing around the music boxes, I set her straight at once. “Oh no, poochie, I may have two cats in line to inherit the family silver, but I draw the line at dogs. Enjoy your doggie treat and be happy.” You have to be firm with these four-footed family members!

Jackie Wells-Fauth

I went to the dentist a week ago and something very weird happened. The hygienist looked in my mouth and said, “Good job! I don’t see any issues here.”

I nearly had an emotional meltdown all over her dental cleaning tray. That hasn’t happened before.  In fact, my association with dentists has not been a pretty one.

And if you look at my teeth, you can see why.  Years of dental neglect have given me battle scars:  fillings, crowns, implants and sadly missing teeth. This monument to dental carelessness is sobering.

Keep in mind that a woman my age started going to dentists practically back in the days when you went to the local barber and let them yank out a sore tooth. Okay, okay, maybe not that far back, but I will say that the first dentist I went to  (at the age of 18) pulled a tooth for me with very little pain medication and using a method that I like to call “put your knee into the patient’s shoulder and then lean back on all your own weight to get that stubborn cuss out of there.” That method resulted in the dentist pulling the tooth—or at least most of it. Suffice it to say I avoided the dentist after that.

For several years, my visits to the dentist were only when I had a toothache so bad that it lifted the hair off my head and made my eyes water and cross at the same time. Even today, when I try to describe some pain or other to someone, I inevitably say, “You know how it feels when you have an abscessed tooth?” Most of them don’t because they took care of their teeth, but some of my favorite sleepless nights were spent walking the floor promising God anything if He would just make the toothache stop. Usually His reply was, “Brush your teeth and you shall be saved.”

Finally, after years of neglect, I resolved to do a better job with my remaining teeth. I went to a dentist and I was set up with a hygienist. She looked in my mouth and said, “How long exactly, has it been since you had your teeth cleaned?” My reply? “What does that mean?”

For better than an hour she scraped, dug and scrubbed to try and clean years of neglect off my teeth. I have heard that some torture experts use dental equipment to extract secrets from their enemies. I think that hygienist trained with them.  I would have told her anything she wanted to know if she had just stopped!

And then she made a critical mistake: She said, “I think we should give you a break. Come back in a week and I will clean the other side then.” The other side????? You guessed it; that week stretched into a further five years at which time I was forced back to the dentist for another abscessed tooth, on the side that hadn’t been cleaned.

Since then, I have gone to the dentist semi-regularly and there is usually a long list of things to correct. Dentistry has come a long way in my lifetime and they do everything they can to make it easier. But all the soft music, eye covers, and bubble gum flavored medications do not help when you hear that drill start up. There is no pain like the pain you get when you have a shot of Novocain delivered into the nostril (oh, yes, I’ve had that), and the only reason I let them put a needle in my mouth is because having dental work done without it is unthinkable. Those poor people who had their teeth pulled by the barber!

After years of playing Russian roulette with my teeth, I have finally learned the benefits of regular cleaning, brushing and flossing. Those teeth that are missing are the brave soldiers who gave their lives so that the rest of us could wise up and live clean.

So when I went to the dentist this past week, it was a heady feeling for the whole appointment to take about 15 minutes, for the hygienist and dentist to tell me what a good job I had done and for there to be no list of additional work that needed to be taken care of. A weird sensation? Yes, but one I really liked!

Jackie Wells-Fauth

It was supposed to be simple. My passport is coming due this year and although I don’t presently have plans to be out of the country, I thought it wise to get it renewed. Little did I know the process might make it so I have to flee the country!

For those who have never been so foolish as to do this, to get a passport, you must fill out a lot of paperwork, give the State Department an inordinate sum of money, and best of all, have a very specific picture taken. I presume this is so the guards at the borders have something to laugh at and break up their day!

I accept that my pictures on official identification are never going to get me a spot on America’s Top Model. My driver’s license picture always makes me look like a thug working for Al Capone, but the passport pictures! My expiring passport had a mediocre picture at best, but we must understand that they weren’t working with prime material. So I would like to state right here that I was not expecting a lot. But I was hoping for reasonable.

It seems that when you take passport pictures now you don’t wear your glasses. Without my glasses, I couldn’t see from where I was sitting to the camera. She took the first picture and announced, “We need to try again, you look uneasy.” That’s my natural expression whenever I have to take a picture, especially without my glasses!

Her camera was “acting up” according to her, so it was taking pictures not just when she pressed the button, but at random times as well. She got one of me picking something out of my teeth, looking down because I noticed my shoe was untied and rubbing my forehead because the whole process was giving me a headache. I presume it was doing the same for her!

She told me, “Do this with your eyes.” And she proceeded to pull her eyes wide open with her fingers. I wanted to get done, so I did the same, which caused my eyes to water. “You’re squinting in this one. We have to try again.” Of course I was squinting; I couldn’t see a foot in front of me and I pulled my eyes open and made them burn!

“We have to get a picture with some of the whites of your eyes on all sides,” she explained to me. So, I concentrated on holding my eyes wide open. “Shut your mouth,” she said. It’s not my fault, I can’t hold my eyes wide open without hanging my mouth open too!

“You’ve a terrible frown on your face in this picture, that won’t work,” she said, snapping three more as I attempted to hold my eyes open, not squint and not frown.

“You need to hold your eyes wide open, but have a natural expression,” was her next instruction. By that time, I was afraid she wouldn’t want to see my natural expression, but I kept trying.

Finally, on about attempt number 55, she said, “Well, that  one’s not too bad, we’ll use it.” The picture she felt was “not too bad,” has me, holding my eyes wide open, looking like someone just shoved something up my rear. “Not too bad,” for me was extremely bug-eyed. I’ve never looked so surprised in my life. However, the good news is you could see the whites around my eyes!

I paid $15 for the picture which was $14.75 too much and took it home to show Roy. “Don’t laugh,” I said, and he truly tried, but within seconds, he was holding his sides and snorting water out his nose. Yep, it was that bad!

I sent the picture in with the form, and I figure the people at the State Department had a lot of fun that day, which makes me wonder what using that passport is going to be like. The border guard is going to say, “I can’t tell this is you. Take off your glasses and bug out your eyes.”

I will end this sad saga by stating that I did not take this picture locally and I will not be including that picture with this article. Suffice it to say, however, that with that for a passport, I may need to leave the country permanently!

Jackie Wells-Fauth

There was an old show years ago called “Green Acres.” On that show Eva Gabor played a socialite-turned-farmwife who was a terrible cook. She made one particular dish that she pronounced something like “hoss-cakes.” They were pancakes (or hotcakes)  that she cooked so horribly that they came out like hard, white hockey-pucks.

I was thinking about this the other day as I was whipping up a batch of pancakes for lunch on one of those cold, cold days. Because as I took the pancakes out of the pan, they very much resembled those “hoss-cakes.” They were thick, and hard and tasted like chalk and I’m pretty sure that a reasonably skilled hockey player could have hit one into the goal without much damage—at least not to the pancake. And that’s not even the worst cooking disaster I have ever had.

Now, I’m no socialite like the hapless Eva Gabor, but my cooking talents are much like hers. I’m not sure exactly how I got the cooking job in our family, but I think it’s because my husband likes cooking even less than I do.

And that is why he attempted to eat those hockey pucks without complaint. I had one bite and got up and, with that bite lying heavily in my stomach, proceeded to scramble some eggs—something even  I rarely mess up.

My husband politely took a small helping of the eggs, but after another bite of the “hoss-cake” he emptied the egg platter and made himself a piece of toast to go with it. I put the rest of the pancakes down on the floor next to the dog dish. She sniffed it once and then looked at me like, “You have to be kidding if you think I’m touching those. How about some eggs?”

Another cooking disaster to add to the long list of cooking disasters that I have written about so fondly over the years. And the list is so incredibly long.

I’m not completely ignorant, you know. I know there are people out there who cook very well. My own family has some wonderful cooks. My cousin, Diane, makes a homemade jelly that she could sell to Buckingham Palace and my cousin, Melody cooks masterpieces for which she uses no recipe. Then there are the husbands out there who happily take on the cooking chores because they “like cooking.”

I keep telling my husband that he needs to take some of the cooking chores. I’ll happily mow the lawn and change the oil on the car if he will just throw something on the stove that comes out edible. I know he can do some things, because he frequently volunteers to do the grilling of the steaks because he doesn’t like to eat shoe leather and he does make a better fried egg breakfast than I could ever do. So, I have spent some time trying to rearrange the chores around the house—and don’t tell him but the way I would change the oil on the car is to take it to the mechanic’s shop.

I guess it’s too late to teach this old dog some new cooking tricks and I have never figured out a way to enjoy the work. If the baked fish isn’t underdone in the middle, then I manage to singe the edges all the way around on the bacon. I can slap a potato in the oven for baking, but don’t ask me to mash it (smoothly) hashbrown it (evenly) or French fry it (at all). Cooking just ain’t my thing.

So now, with the “hoss-cake” episode added to my major cooking disasters, I will continue the argument Roy and I keep having about what I should do: he says I should take some cooking classes and I say I should hire a cook! I’ll let you know how that comes out and if you want my pancake recipe, you’ll find it at the bottom of my garbage can!