dropsinthewell

Jackie Wells-Fauth

Dear Friend:

Yes, I feel we are friends, because I seem to encounter you at every public event I go to, whether it’s a concert or a sporting event. You are the good-natured individual, male or female, who came to the event prepared to have a good time and then you got stuck sitting in front of, beside, or in back of crabby old me.

Now first, let me say, that I really want to have an attitude of live and let live, but here are a few observations I would make, friend, about how you could help with that.

Obviously, no venue is going to quit selling alcohol at these events, it’s a hard-headed, practical money-maker, so I usually go in knowing that the people around this old tee-totaler are going to be well lubricated. Not a problem as long as you are willing to do two things: 1) Please don’t spill your drinks—normally on me. Whether it’s kicked over and drenches my shoes, or whether it trickles down my back while you clap along to the music and it dances out of the cup with each clap, it doesn’t matter. You are the one drinking like we are in the bar and I frequently come out smelling like I have been there! 2) Moderate. We are in public and I can see what happens when some alcohol has lowered your defenses. It’s not pretty, plus I worry about who is going to be driving when you go home.

The next request I have is regarding the people around you. I have frequently been entertained by the mating rituals which take place at a public event. Okay, so sometimes the dance that is done by people meeting for the first time is a little amusing, but I really did come to the event to watch the game or listen to the concert and all that revving up to hook up later with some individual around you is distracting, since it’s usually done at high pitch to be heard over the event. And at the risk of being gender-biased, lady friends, I especially caution you, since a time or two I have seen you go to the concession stand or bathroom and the gentlemen left behind chortle to themselves about how they are “gonna get lucky and the wife will never know!” Know your companions.

After that, I feel I must take a much more selfish view. I paid for a seat at the event, so I’d like to sit in it. If you are jumping up in front of me to watch every play of the game, I miss those plays unless I get up on my cranky old legs too. As for getting up and dancing to the music at a concert, I don’t mind, but take it down in the pit, where they are standing up anyway. I paid to see the musician, not your butt waving in my face!

And while we are on what I paid for, especially at a concert, I paid to hear the musician sing the song, I don’t really want to hear your well-lubricated, off-key version of the song at the top of your lungs. I know it’s tradition to sing along when you know the words, but please, not so loud. There are no talent scouts hidden in the audience waiting to discover you.

By now, you probably figure we are not going to be friends and I’m sorry about that, but if I don’t point these things out, then I’m the only one who knows there is a problem. Until they do a non-drinking section of public events (like the old non-smoking divisions) where I can sit with the rest of the crabby sober people, I have to go to games and concerts and grit my teeth before I inform someone that we are no longer friends because they drowned out the musician, blocked the games exciting moments, or lessened my faith in humanity.

So for now, I’ll just leave these thoughts right here and anxiously await our next meeting. Thanks for the memories, friend!

Jackie Wells-Fauth

I have become an addict of these little short videos that you can find on Facebook. However, I saw one tonight which may put me off of them forever, and yes, you may have guessed from the picture, it involves laundry.

A man was coming down the stairs of his home and his wife was getting ready to climb up the stairs with a load of laundry. As she walked up the steps, some balloon full of something white and sticky fell from the second floor and hit her and her laundry, creating a terrible mess.

And she laughed. She was standing there with the clean laundry she had prepared and she was covered in a mess that obviously was devised by her husband and she laughed! She was so wrong! She should not have laughed! He should have died, slowly and horribly and hopefully using some method involving the laundry basket!

I know, I know, I have no humor when it comes to the laundry. I feel this has become, quite unfairly, the responsibility of women and I don’t know why–unless men are not capable of handling such an important task. Even to get a picture for this article, I couldn’t come up with a single one where the basket of laundry was held by anyone other than a woman.

I have always felt that laundry duty should go to the household member who is the first to discover that they are out of clean underthings. And I have no problem with each household member doing their own, if they so choose. But for everyone to pile their laundry into an overflowing hamper and then stand back and expect the “woman of the house” to handle it, seems wrong to me.

Laundry is not all about mating the clean socks and hanging up the wrinkle free shirts. First, you have to stick your hands in the hamper and sort out the smelly, rolled-up excuses for dirty socks and determine just what that spot is on the discarded underwear. It means exploring the mysteries in the pockets of children’s play clothes and sorting out the oily rags someone threw in on top of your dress suits for work.

Laundry is an inexact science of determining if the colored clothes can withstand bleach and if the towels should be placed in the drier, where they will be soft or if they should be hung on the outside clothes line where they will acquire the texture of a brand new Brillo pad. For some reason, most men believe that these decisions are beyond their mental capacity. They don’t mind being considered too stupid to do laundry, as long as it gets them out of it.

I once heard a young man advising his friend on how to get the female in their living group to do the laundry. “Just put a red towel in with the underwear and white shirts. If she has to wear a splotchy pink shirt to work, she’ll take over the laundry in a hurry.” He would have sadly misjudged if it had been me. I would have worn the splotchy shirt with pride and made sure there was a deep purple crayon in the pocket of his best jeans.

One of the first things I taught my husband, at the tender age of 29, to do when we married, was to wash the clothes. He had come from a household where his mother did the washing and the family did the complaining if something came back wrinkled or mis-matched or with a button missing. I remember her reaction when Roy asked me in front of her, “Is it a full cup of laundry detergent for a load?”

While I was calculating just how much damage he could do by mis-measuring the detergent, his mother gave a sharp, short, snort of laughter. We all looked at her and she explained, “I just never thought I’d hear him ask that question!”

At our house right now, we have a system. Roy carries all of the dirty clothes to the basement and helps with the sort. I do the laundry and fold and hang everything. Roy, who is economical on drier electricity, hangs out the towels and carries clothes upstairs. I am appreciative of saving electricity, but not to the extent that I am willing to scrape one of those line-dried towels over my body after a shower, so I don’t encourage him in that endeavor, but I do appreciate the effort!

Since each of us is involved with the process, no one is likely to booby-trap the other with a balloon mess dropped from the stairs. And if that ever does occur, it should be known that I can strangle a full grown person in four seconds with a pair of boxer briefs. I am prepared!

Jackie Wells-Fauth

My daughter just sent me a rude and defaming meme which was titled, “My children coming home from Grandma’s house.” It was accompanied by the above picture. Now, I’m not entirely sure, but I’m thinking she is trying to intimate that I am spoiling her children. How ridiculous! Everyone knows I am a strict granny!

Now, aside from the fact that this is utter nonsense, this isn’t even a picture of anyone’s grandchildren. It’s the King and Queen coming back from coronation. And of course, I haven’t crowned my grandsons king of anything…although I frequently tell them they are the kings of my heart. My husband always snorts rudely when I say that, I don’t know why!

Now, for example, I just had the older two boys out for a week’s visit a few weeks ago and certainly, I did not spoil anyone. We may have had to go to the grocery store a few extra times to make sure we had enough freezie pops to last the week and to get the right flavor of Toaster Strudels, but that is nothing. Boys have to eat, don’t they?

Then, there was entertainment. Now, boys with active minds need all the stimulation they can get, so lots of television and video games are important. Then, there are the Legos sets and latch hook rug sets to keep them busy and happy. Beyond that, are the trips to the water park and suppers and movies and…well, you get the picture. But it certainly isn’t spoiling anyone; just keeping them active.

Boys that age need lots of bubble wands and busy machines and they must have water balloons and firecrackers, because what is summer without fireworks and water balloon fights? And if, maybe three or four times during that week, we made a trip to the ice cream shop, well, that’s just good memories, we’re not spoiling anyone!

It was on about the fourth day when the older child was deciding what toy he wanted for entertainment at the store, that the subject of spoiling came up. I said, “Go ahead and pick something, so you can have some fun this afternoon.” He said, with a rather large smile, “Grandma, do you ever think that maybe you spoil us a little?” I laughed and laughed and said, “Goodness no! If you can’t pick between those two toys, why don’t we get both!”

It was on about our fourth visit to the ice cream shop when we took their grandfather along that they stabbed their old grandmother in the back. The younger one said, “We are going to get Grandma a shirt that says, ‘World’s Greatest Grandma.” And while my chest began to puff out, the older one added, “She really spoils us a lot.”

Grandpa looked at me over their heads and said somewhat cynically, “Boys, everyone already knows that.” Now, this was a bit tough to take from the man who repairs their remote control planes and flies them with them and indulges in the greatest battles on the water balloon front. Not to mention all the things that Grandma does for HIM!

“I would say that all of you are pretty spoiled and I don’t hear anyone complaining, do I?” I said it quietly, though. I wouldn’t want to be overheard because I don’t spoil my grandchildren. I merely see to it that they are well taken care of.

The youngest, who is not old enough for a week’s stay, always jumps up and down when he sees me, but that is because I am such a stellar individual, not because I get him out of bed before his parents can get there or because I just mailed a rather expensive package to him to return two very shabby sleep toys he had left at my house. He can’t live without his “Boppy,” the name of the sad little bear he loves, now can he?

So, now that I have established that I do not spoil my grandsons, I would like to make one more observation on that carriage that is pictured: There is no way that my grandchildren would be allowed to ride in that vehicle. With all that gold on it, there are certainly not enough guards around it–my boys wouldn’t be at all safe in such a thing. Maybe a Ferrari or something would be better; I’ll go shopping.

I was visiting with a friend the other day and I began to realize during the conversation that a lot of what we were talking about were the things on our bodies that were not working the way they used to. We stopped for a moment, looked at each other and sighed before she said, “Aging is not for the faint-hearted.”

And it struck me (and certainly not for the first time) that I am getting old. If I didn’t already know this, there are many little signs that my age is catching up with me. The number of times I am in the doctor’s office and the ever-increasing amount of pills I take each day is proof enough. In addition, I find myself wandering in stores, admiring the designs on canes and the many varieties of braces there are and the imaginative areas of the bodies where you can use them.

People have a tendency to talk more loudly to me than they used to and of course, I am also talking a lot louder…mostly so I can hear what I am saying. When they talk to me about new technology, they try hard to “dumb it down” for the woman who can remember when the phone was attached to the wall and it didn’t do everything but sing and dance and wash the dishes.

I take a list to the grocery store, but frequently forget it in the car. I was the last person of my acquaintance to learn to use modern payment methods and I still haven’t been on PayPal yet. I do know how to text on the phone, but I can’t check my voice mail and I can’t delete it either. That’s okay, though; I can barely hear to speak on the phone. I’d never make it with voice mail!

I can vividly recall when people began to address me as Ma’am and stand aside so I could go through the door first. And I thought, “They think I’m getting old; how funny!” Now, I am perfectly content to stand and stare at others until they remember to carry things for me and I’m regularly referred to as “Dearie” or “Sweetie”. It’s okay, though, because usually while they are calling me that, they are doing things for me that I could do myself, but I’m just as glad to let them.

I can tell that I’m getting older because I can’t lift what I used to be able to and the only reason I would run is if the house was on fire or Harrison Ford was operating a kissing booth on the corner. And right there is a good indication of my age…I’m looking at Harrison Ford, not Charlie Puth! Age has come to us all, Harry!

Some days, I feel all of what my friend said–aging is not for the faint of heart. But there are other days when I know I’m lucky to have made it this far. I’m lucky I have to sit down to rest my tired back, because usually I’m sitting in the company of good people. I’m lucky that the grocery boy bags my groceries in smaller amounts, so that I can still get my own supplies.

I can enjoy my children without having to worry about their grades in school or the costs of their clothes. I have lovely grandchildren to spoil–well, they say I spoil them, I’m sure that’s not true! But, I’m old, what do I know?

I generally get the best chair in any room, and I always get to ride in the front of the car. No one expects me to do the driving, and since I never could read a map, not much navigating is required of me, either. I read somewhere that some cultures value their old people for their wisdom and experience. I like that idea, but so far I don’t feel all that wise and my experience isn’t something anyone else wants to share. I may have to get as old as Yoda before anyone cares.

I have discovered that getting older is all in your perspective, however. I went through some of my old articles and read the one where I am lamenting the fact that I am getting older and turning 35. I should go back and slap that 35-year-old, because she didn’t get that she was only old at 35 from her perspective. From my view now, she was an ignorant child.

When this getting old thing gets to be too overwhelming, I try always to remind myself that it is far better than any alternative. I curse the bad days and rejoice when my body breaks out occasionally in a rendition of its 40-year-old self. That never lasts long! I read and nap and work when I want to and there is no one left who is old enough to be the boss of me. This isn’t too bad!

Except–this morning I awoke with a stiff neck from sleeping on it wrong and my hearing aid needs a new battery and I hate changing them and the guy at the grocery store loaded my bags down too heavy so now I have to carry them in a few things at a time. Yup, aging is preferable by far to the alternative, but it’s also not for the faint of heart!

Jackie Wells-Fauth

Recently, I was privileged to visit the dentist for my six-month checkup. I say privileged because due to their vigilance, my teeth are no longer the diseased, cavity ridden, hellhole they once were. I credit my husband for making me more conscious of good teeth care, but it is still up to me to drag myself to the dentist for those checkups.

The hygienist scraped and tapped and washed my teeth a little bit and then she said something that’s never been said to me before in a dentist office: “Your teeth are pretty clean; there’s not much I need to do.” I was still basking in the pleasure of this comment when she brought up the touchy subject of flossing.

“Your husband is very good at flossing,” she said. “He uses a waxed mint flavored string; is that what you do too?”

“Well, no. I don’t like the string,” I confessed. “I use those little pick things. They work much better for me. But I haven’t convinced my husband that he should try them, too.”

“Oh,” she laughed, “so you two are in a mixed marriage. It’s good that you’ve been able to stay together all of these years with such different opinions on floss.”

Now she was kidding, but it got me to thinking about living in a mixed marriage. And it isn’t just the great floss controversy which is mixed about our marriage. On my way home from the dentist, I began to add up the various things which make us a couple with mixed expectations.

Take our banking styles for instance; we differ greatly on that score. My husband, a certified public accountant, believes that your checkbook should be balanced, your transactions should be checked every day, and you should never spend more than you have in the account. My views are different: I usually have my checkbook balanced within $100, I check my transactions sometimes daily, sometimes not, and I have been known to get that little slip of paper called an overdraft. When we married my husband was unaware of the fact that we were in a mixed marriage having to do with finances, so with all the confidence of young love, he set up a joint checking account. After the first overdraft on an accountant’s bank account, he revised our account and divided it into two parts. He adopted a theory of tough love: he figured if I got tired enough of getting overdrafts, I would learn to handle my account. I appreciate his misplaced faith.

We have a mixed marriage when it comes to food as well. For Roy, it is important to follow a healthy diet. According to his beliefs, you eat a certain amount of vegetables, meat, bread, and you tailor that to whatever your health needs are. For me, my eating habits are a little different, considering that I believe that sugar is its own food group and should never be denied. I have, to some degree, brought Roy over to the dark side when it comes to sugar, but he would still prefer to eat a good healthy soup or salad, while I think chocolate cake is an appetizer.

Entertainment is another place where we are in a mixed marriage. Roy believes any sporting event, from professional football to amateur spitting, is worthy of his time and attention.  For it to be entertaining for me, there must be a plot, interesting characters, hopefully a science fiction background, and it must contain no hint of reality. Therefore, he watches a lot of football, basketball, et cetera, while I sleep in a chair, and when Star Trek, Star Wars, or The Twilight Zone comes on, he finds something else to do immediately. Regarding music, our tastes are a little more similar.  He enjoys the head-banging, guitar screaming music of the 70s, while I reach back a couple of more decades to seek the soothing tones of classic rock. Occasionally we overlap-we both love The Beatles-but there is very little other common ground. At least this portion of our mixed marriage allows us to be polite enough to listen to the tunes of the other.

The greatest point in our mixed marriage must be room temperature. During the summer, I am convinced that Roy was the son of a tribal chieftain located along the equator in his last life. He prefers the temperature in the summer to be warm and he doesn’t object to humidity either. In the winter, he digs down to his Eskimo roots and keeps the temperature as cool as possible. I’m not sure if this has to do with heredity or just to the fact that he doesn’t want to spend too much on temperature control, but it is definitely not compatible with me.  I find myself in a quandary, because my ancestors hail from somewhere between the equator and the North Pole. That means in the summer, I like a comfortable temperature which doesn’t require me to wear a headband to catch all the sweat, and then in the winter, I’d rather not wear my ski jacket while sitting in the living room relaxing on a cold afternoon. Therefore, one of our mixed marriage problems is that we spend all of our time turning the thermometer up and down on the furnace and on the air conditioner until the dial starts to smoke and a message comes up from the basement telling us to get our hands off.

After all these years, the things which make our marriage mixed have also provided a great deal of entertainment; or maybe that’s just distraction. So even though we don’t agree on food or temperature or even dental floss, I think this mixed marriage will continue to stagger forward. I wish you a compatible day and whatever floss you use, just make sure you do it!

It’s a well known fact that I have little respect for the commercials that come on television these days. The fact that we get so many of them as compared to the amount of television programming we get doesn’t help the situation. While I realize that it is difficult to develop an advertising campaign that pleases everyone, I have to question how many people are pleased with what they are seeing today. I’m not sure my husband was as aware of this fact as I was until the other night when we decided to watch a program together.

Now the program we wanted to watch was an old movie on a cable station, so it had to be figured that they were going to cut out some portions of the movie in order to fit in a few more commercials. As it turned out, the most entertainment we got was complaining about the commercials.

“I really like the movie that we’re watching,” my husband said, “but there do seem to be a lot of commercials and a lot of the movie is being lost.”

“Oh I know what you’re talking about,” I responded, “and I have to say the quality of some of the commercials don’t make it worth the cuts.”

We spent the next few minutes eating popcorn, quoting our favorite lines from the movie, and grinding our teeth over commercials which offered you everything from food delivered to your door to elaborate weight loss programs and exercise equipment. It seemed a little counterproductive, but it didn’t make us enjoy our popcorn any less.

“Okay, I think my least favorite so far has been the musical that the pharmaceutical company puts on to sell its pills,” I said, after having watched this commercial for the thirteenth time.

“Well at least there’s a catchy tune that goes along with that one,” my husband responded. “The one that’s beginning to freak me out is the one with the little blue box that walks along and talks to you and tries to convince you to take a dump in it. That one’s just wrong.”

“It’s all for the sake of medical improvement,” I was trying to be fair. “Wait until you see the one with the little bladder. It takes you by the hand and leads you to the bathroom. I have to admit if my bladder ever shows up and tries to lead me to the bathroom, I’ll probably have to have something for a heart attack.”

At that moment the movie started up again so we had some comfortable time watching that romance develop on stage. It was the perfect movie; I enjoyed the romance, my husband enjoyed the action. Unfortunately, it was necessary for them to pause for the station identification. That means 10 commercials in a row, most selling or offering nothing that I want to buy or take.

“I’ve given it a great deal of serious thought, and I think that if someone shows up in bed between us trying to sell us higher quality furnishings, I’m gonna call the police, I don’t care if they are a celebrity,” was my husband’s next observation.

“Oh I would agree, but even that is not as disturbing as finding a little green lizard or large ostrich and his weird friend appearing before me trying to sell me insurance,” I decided. “When I see those commercials, all I want insurance for is to make sure that none of them show up at my house.”

“I have to say I really like the candy commercials, except the one where they’re trying to convince us that one side of the candy bar is different than the other. I know they’re just trying to get my attention, but it gives me the impression they don’t think much of my intelligence.”

“Well, the movie is nearly over,” my husband said. “Hopefully, we won’t have to watch anymore commercials for cars we can’t afford, exercise systems we would never use, or kitchen utensils intended for a professional chef.”

I didn’t mention it, but I thought in my own head I wouldn’t mind those commercials, but if I have to inspect the bear’s behind one more time to be certain that his toilet paper got it clean, I may stop watching television altogether! I hope you all enjoy your summer programming.

I swear that every year, at the end of the school year, I clean up my cupboards and desk before I leave for the summer. At least, I think I do this…but this year I discovered that I may not have been quite as thorough as I imagined!

This year is different because I plan to retire this spring. That means none of my stuff should be left in the cupboards and desks to make some bright, young teacher wonder about me. The trouble is, the more I dig through things, the more I’m beginning to wonder about me.

One cupboard was where I kept my cleaning supplies. I admit it, I normally come in the fall and automatically bring an entire range of cleaning products without checking to see what’s already there. When I began setting out all the cleaning items in that cupboard, I discovered I have enough product to clean the moon and several stars, although some of the wipes and spray are so old that they are kind of dry…okay, they are as dry as the moon as well!

When I dug behind them, I discovered that I had a huge supply of paper products. I have enough napkins, Kleenex, cups, paper plates, etc., to supply a small nation. What do you do with fourteen opened packages of cups, plates and napkins? I’d tell you what I did, but it would require me making a confession that environmentalists would not care to hear!

I enjoyed going through the books the most. I discovered that about half of the single titles in the stacks in the cupboard had my name in them. Some of them are books I have looked everywhere for at home, while others have not been missed and so will doubtless be donated to some library where they can wonder what to do with them! The rest I’ll take home and shelve next to the new copy I bought of them because I thought I’d lost them!

I sorted through a mountain of construction, card and other colored paper that has somehow landed in my room as my students worked on projects over the years. Index cards cropped up from pretty much every drawer and there aren’t enough recipes in the world to fill them. I also found enough envelopes with the school’s return address on them to send a personal letter to everyone with whom I ever came in contact and have some left over. My only comfort here is that with this amount of paper supply, the school should be able to cross off those supplies on next year’s budget. I’ve got it covered!

It was when I began going through desk drawers that I found the things of most personal regard. My desk is a big, old wooden number with deep drawers and tunneling to the bottom of those was interesting…or maybe disturbing. I found that I had three lighters and a box of matches—we’re not allowed to have candles, so I don’t quite know what they were for. I found three tape measures, two spools of white thread and an old film canister full of needles. Perhaps I could take up dressmaking in my retirement years!

Then there was the silverware. I unearthed no less than 18 forks brought to eat luncheon leftovers and then crammed in the drawers—no, I don’t know why! I also found the other half of my set of white-handled spoons and two perfectly good steak knives. My silverware drawers at home will be overwhelmed!

Amongst the half empty bags of cough drops and outdated bottles of aspirin, I found a set of feminine products that I haven’t needed for 15 years. I donated that to the trash can.  At the very bottom of the drawer were two cans of pears…one of them outdated and the other not. Obviously, I intended to use the spoons to eat them, I just don’t know when.

My desks and cupboards are pretty clean now, so I won’t be leaving any mysteries behind for the new teacher in this classroom. However, I’ve just realized that I have several shelves in the room that I need to sort through…I’m not sure I want to leave things behind like my bust of Shakespeare, which might make sense to a new English teacher…but I know I don’t want to leave my statues of Santa Claus and the goat behind—it would leave a certain amount of questions! 25 years sure goes fast!

I know better than to volunteer to make food to bring to a family gathering. When it comes to holiday parties, I should always stick to volunteering the three Ps (Paper Plates, Paper Napkins, Plastic Forks). That’s why it puzzles me about myself that I would volunteer to bring pumpkin pie to this year’s Easter dinner. And of course, the bakery in the grocery store didn’t have one left!

No problem. How hard could it be? My grandmother used to make a great crust with flour, lard and her little beat-up, round metal bowl. I inherited that bowl, but it hangs on the wall because I didn’t inherit her ability to make a decent pie crust. Not to worry, though, they have them ready-made…all you have to do is roll them out into the pie plate.

I bought a set of the economy pie crusts (because, why spend more than you have to?) and one can of pumpkin. I recently cleaned out my cupboards, so I knew I had the evaporated milk and another can of pumpkin at home.

I got out my pie plates and opened the packages with the crusts. They were full of flour, very dry and apparently rolled and packaged about the time of the third Crusades. I pinched and poked and cursed and blasphemed (a good Crusades word) and managed to lay down a semblance of the crust. Oh well, who eats the crust on a pumpkin pie anyway?

Then I turned to the pumpkin. I needed two cans; I reached into the cupboard for the second can–and I didn’t have one. I was sure I had it, but everything in the cupboard was soup or fruit or pork n beans, none of which would work. I quickly ran back to the store and got a second can of pumpkin. Back to work.

I emptied out the two cans of pumpkin into the bowl (see photo above) and then, I shook the evaporated milk vigorously. I opened the first can and without checking, poured it in. If you refer again to the photo above, you will see the evaporated milk–that orangish brown liquid and the little curds. I checked the bottom of the can. It seems I have been harboring that particular can of evaporated milk since 2018. I looked at the other can: it was much better; I have only had that since 2020 and it looked a lot like it might have had the virus.

Now what? No evaporated milk and no pumpkin. Everything went into the garbage and I went back to the grocery store. The disadvantage to a small town grocery store is they KNOW when you’ve screwed up your cooking project. I had been in there buying pumpkin less than an hour before and now I was back, for the third time today. The stock boy smirked knowingly at me and I refused to ask for help when I had to get down on my knees (something they don’t like to do) and reach to the back of the bottom shelf to get more pumpkin. Then, I went to the evaporated milk aisle. I read the bottom of those cans to make sure that they were not old enough to vote and then for good measure, I got some brown sugar. I had a momentary thought that maybe I didn’t have any. As an added bonus, I also bought some name brand pie crusts. Might as well go whole hog.

I didn’t know the clerk who checked me out and I could tell she was trying to remember if I had been in there shortly before. She studied the cans of pumpkin and then my face. Something about my face must have convinced her not to question it. She rang up my purchases. I inserted my debit card. The machine rejected it. I tried again. It rejected it again. I dug through my coat, my pockets and my purse and came up with enough dollar bills and coins to pay for my food and dragged myself out of there.

Back at home, I tried again to make the pies. The final straw was that the cans of pumpkin that I dumped right into the bowl, did not call for the evaporated milk that I had also dumped in. I had to dig through the garbage to find the recipe that called for evaporated milk. But I was sure to have enough brown sugar, because I bought a bag…which is now being stored with the other three bags I already had.

The pies are in the oven and I’m hoping to be lucky enough not to burn them or drop them, etc. before I get them to Easter dinner. I will probably not tell the story of the creation of these pies until everyone is done eating them and still upright with no digestion issues. But in the future, I’m going to be much smarter and stick with the three Ps.

Okay, I’m a little steamed right now. In fact, I’m downright angry right now. Why? Well, if you’re still reading this far, I’ll tell you: I just read an article from a so-called “decorating expert” about all of the things you shouldn’t have in your house because they are just “tacky” and I fit just about every category she didn’t like.

So, just for her, I took a picture of what my living room looked like this morning. It shows every bit of my early, antique, faux, reality Jackie look and if that decorator were to see it, she would undoubtedly light it on fire!

For one thing, my pictures are not quality, they are things my family makes and the prints (not originals) that I saw and liked, so I bought them. My furniture, according to her standards, is too bulky, mismatched and in some cases, loudly printed. I have taken care of that with the comforters hanging off of much of the furniture and the pillows I set in the mostly unused chair, in case we are watching something boring on television (like a home decorating show) and we want to take a nap instead. I have furniture that is from the 1950s, the 1990s and some ultra-modern stuff from this century. I don’t put rugs down (except for that crooked one the dog always slides on) because I am messy and rugs pick up dirt and smells quickly.

I also have no color scheme and my lighting comes from mis-matched lamps that allow me to see what I’m reading or sewing in the evenings. I had no idea that there was such a thing as too much lighting or “appalling” lamps. Now that I know that, I will turn on my too-bright lamp, so that you will be able to see my face, which just doesn’t care.

I have a cupboard in the corner containing all of the mugs I have collected in my travels. They are all there, but I put them there, so I could look at them and remember, with some fondness, when I traveled to those places. If the decorator does not wish to look at them, she should probably not look in that corner!

However, if she turns to look in the other corner, she’s going to see the copy of the Lord’s Prayer that I have hanging there. No, I do not believe my house is a chapel, but I also don’t believe you get to tell me whether I hang up religious quotes in my house or the latest quotes from the stock market.

By now you’ve figured out that I have a problem with decorators. People who want to use them are most welcome to do so and I have seen many a beautiful home which has been decorated by them. However, if I want to hang up wallpaper with fake books on it, I think that’s my prerogative and no skin off the decorator’s nose.

I feel so much better for having got that off my chest and now, I’m going to go get a cup of coffee, sit down in one of my mismatched chairs and probably leave whatever book I’m reading on the mismatched end table beside me! Happy decorating!

My daughter posted on Tik Tok the other day about her lack of belief in people who react strongly when surprised. She said any jumpiness she has is because of me, her mother, and MY jumpiness. She says people can look me in the eye and say “Boo” and I will jump. This, of course, is not quite accurate, but I was startled enough by her post to decide to address it.

While it’s true that I am a little jumpy, I take issue with the fact that someone who looks me in the eye and says “Boo” can make me jump. This is not true. They do not have to go through the effort to look me in the eye. Just say “Boo” from anywhere in a 20-foot radius and I will hit the sky.

I know that I’ve always been like this and I also know that people tend to use someone else’s jumpiness to entertain themselves. My husband and I had not been married very long when he discovered that I was a very jumpy individual. He exploited this in a way that he somehow instinctively knew he could get away with then. He was a new bridegroom. I was too much in love to kill him so early on.

So, he would come into the bathroom during my peaceful showers and throw a cup of water on me. He soon discovered that it didn’t have to be cold (although he preferred that), just any cup of water would cause me to jump a foot off the shower floor and shriek.

He also found that hiding around corners and barking like a dog (we didn’t have a dog then) would cause the desired jumpy reaction. He continued that until one day, he tried to bark at me and discovered that it was his mother coming around the corner. My mother-in-law is a very mild woman and that is the only time I heard her give him the “I brought you into this world and I can take you out” speech. It ended the barking.

Over the years he has learned that only a new bridegroom gets away with scaring his wife and things for us have settled down. Not so with others.

I once whacked my boss in the face for appearing in a doorway where I was not expecting him. He wasn’t terribly pleased, but it seems his wife was also a jumpy person, so he understood. My children liked to wait for me in unusual places: in the bushes, in large containers, in cupboards and then, when I actually registered that they were there, they would say “Hi” or something and I would throw whatever I was holding into the air, emitting the requisite scream.

Being jumpy for a teacher can be even worse. Students will leap into the room or bang on the side of the door, or sneak up behind me and they get the hoped-for response. Some have been hit or lambasted with books or papers, but that does not seem to slow them down. I recently had a new administrator tap me on the shoulder from behind and he received a fist to his shoulder for his trouble.

My jumpiness when people are around is nothing compared to my reactions when I am working late in the school building. It’s dark through most of the building and even my desperate singing to the radio does not alleviate all of my jumpiness.

The worst reaction ever was when I was ready to turn off the lights in my room and head for home. As soon as I doused the lights, I became aware that someone was crouching on the floor; I could feel their presence on my leg. I reacted instantly: I screamed and kicked that person soundly, even following them as they tried to get away. Then, I hit the wall light switch and discovered that I had very ably drop-kicked my large trash can across the room. Serves it right. Never rub up against a jumpy woman in the dark. That trash can has learned its lesson and now does its best to stand over in the corner, making itself small whenever I walk by! Sometimes it pays to be jumpy!