dropsinthewell

Jackie Wells-Fauth

As I have grown older and my daughter has had children, I have discovered that I must learn a new language. That language is called “Grandson.” And despite my headline, I do not speak it fluently, even after 13 years, but I do try. It doesn’t help that the language changes as the grandson ages.

My eldest (hereafter referred to as Eldest so he can’t sue me for libel) grandson has always relied heavily on gestures and looks. He’s really very good at it. For instance, he has perfected the “Grandma’s done lost her mind,” look.

The “Grandma’s Done Lost her Mind,” look appears when I give him something that he thinks may be beneath him in maturity. For Halloween, I thought it would be cute to get each of the grandsons a skeleton to hang on their doors and thus be festively prepared for the holiday. The younger two opened their skeletons and immediately played with them or tried to scare each other with them or whatever. Generally, they were having fun and at that point, not questioning Grandma’s sanity.

I have a photo, however, of the Eldest. He is carefully unwrapping the skeleton, removing all pieces of paper that are stuck in the ribcage or wrapped around the feet. And the look on his face communicated it all: “Grandma has done lost her mind. What am I going to do with this collection of bones?” He was polite and he said to me, “Thanks for the…skeleton thingy.” I know that expression. When you call something a “thingy” that means it’s probably beneath your contempt, but you love your Grandmother (even though she’s done lost her mind), so you try to be polite.

He also has some sighs that convey quite a message. When he was here in October, he decided he wanted some apples from our tree to go home and make an apple crisp. I was charmed. While he was picking the apples, I said to the Eldest, “Now, when you get the apple crisp made, be sure to take a picture and send it to me.” Eldest heaved the biggest, long-suffering sigh you’ve ever heard, shook his head slowly and solemnly and said in his most patient voice, “Oh, Grandma.” Yes, yes, I know, Grandma’s done lost her mind!

The little one (hereafter referred to as Wild Man—you figure it out) is much simpler in his Grandson language, even though he has command of fewer words. His theory has always been “Grandma’s old and fading fast, so be direct.” On a recent visit, I awakened in the morning to find him by my bed, peering into my face. As soon as I came back down from the ceiling where I leapt with a scream, he got down to business. “Hi, Gamma. Wild Man awake.” (He used his own name, but I don’t want him to sue me either).  

After scaring the life out of me, he took my hand, and led me from the room. “Okay,” I said, figuring my heart was off to a good start, “let’s go get you dressed for the day.”  He let go of my hand long enough to grab a package of baby wipes as he walked by, “Pants yucky,” he announced in his usual direct fashion. It’s just as well to have that conversation and interaction when you are still half asleep!

I have always depended upon the middle one (hereafter known as Middle Ground) to be the easiest on his grandmother when it comes to Grandson language. He’s a pretty easy-going guy most times. He’s quick with a smile and a hug and he dearly loves to beat his grandmother at War. In recent times he has, however, taken up the hobby of Lego-building. He’s quick at it, nimble in his operation and never fails to make his point with what he builds.

That’s why Middle Ground kind of threw me for a loop this weekend. He visited my house when I was not there and spent the night as a break on a longer journey. No doubt, he was working on some Lego projects, or even dearer to his grandmother’s heart—reading a book. However, Middle Ground left some of his Legos behind on my desk. If you check the picture above you will see them…exactly as he posed them when he left them there.

Now, I’m not entirely sure what this means in Grandson language, but Middle Ground has left me with something of a dilemma: I’m supposing one of those characters is supposed to be his grandmother—do I want to be the dinosaur who is such a monster she eats people; or do I want to be the poor schmuck getting eaten? So far, his only verbal comments are a laugh and the admission that he is the guy who staged the scene. So I ask you—is he trying to tell me in grandson language that I should be worried???? I need to work on my fluency!

Jackie Wells-Fauth

We have reached that point in the year when we face the dreaded Christmas aftermath. You all know what that’s like: when you are sitting in a sea of wrapping paper and plastic wrap, trying to figure out which of your gifts need batteries and which things just have “some assembly required.” And amongst all that, you are trying to figure out how you got to this point.

The holiday high always starts the season off. That’s when you have pulled out the Christmas hangings and the tree is up and full of lights and tinsel. You can’t wait for that first chance to turn it on and light it up and the first time you put a neatly (or in my case) incompetently wrapped gift under the tree, it’s like all the dreams of the holiday will come true.

We proceed through the season, building on that present mound under the tree, keeping the cat from climbing up it to claim the highest branches from the crowning angel. Most of us get the urge at some point during the Christmas holidays — I think it has something to do with the decorations – to pull out the cookbook and make our attempt at some Christmas baking. Now, you can admit it, most of us by the time we get to the Christmas aftermath, have some leftover sugar cookie dough in the freezer or some fudge that didn’t turn out quite right, that we stuffed in a container in the back of the cupboard where we will forget it until it turns into moldy rocks in July. We may squeeze out a few cookies as we go along, but most people don’t get the holiday baking done that they would like and those that do find that their invitations to holiday parties include a request to bring along a few cookies or don’t come.

By the time we have filled out our last Christmas card and gone to our last holiday party, most of us are probably ready for Christmas to be over. It isn’t until the last few days before Christmas that we finally get into the spirit of the holiday, by which I mean church and religious services, family gatherings, and our own quiet remembrances of the season. This is when the true meaning of Christmas– forgive the expression– really comes through, but we have devoted so much time to all the preparations that the all-important “true meaning of Christmas” arrives when we are the most holiday spent.

And then– drum roll, please– the big day arrives. In a flurry of ripping paper and flying ribbons and exclamations, pleased and otherwise, we open our gifts to each other. Usually we have that profound, weird feeling at the end, that even while we’re sitting in a mass of new things, we still ask the question:  “Is that all there is?”  Somehow, an event this big during the year should come with drums and whistles and parades and elephants and instead of the bang we were expecting, no matter how big the gifts,  it definitely ends with a whisper.

Now, I have some new things and they are wonderful; my family put a lot of time and thought into what they gave me as gifts this year. I also believe that they enjoyed the gifts that I gave to them. But there is something about sitting around, in a food-based stupor, looking at the empty tree and trying to determine which of your gifts you will use first and most, that leaves us feeling like we missed something.

I hope all of you in this holiday week are enjoying your Christmas aftermath and that you all have a happy new year; another holiday we tend to expect too much of. As for me, while I am putting away the tree and the tinsel, I am going to look forward to the next year and perhaps hope that my Christmas aftermath next year contains at least one elephant!

Jackie Wells-Fauth

It’s sad when we have to part with old friends. You know, in that moment of separation, that you will miss the times you spent with them, all the joy they’ve given you. That is, unless what you are parting with is a skin growth that has dogged and annoyed you for a minimum of ten years. Today, I parted with that old friend, and I was never happier.

One of the first questions the doctor asked me when I showed her this thing (hereafter referred to as TAG—for skin tag) was just how long had I had it. That was a tricky question, because TAG located itself on my hip, and my fat rings above it have always hidden it from my immediate view. And, since I don’t examine myself in the mirror (I just can’t) I failed to be aware of its existence until it started giving me problems when I wore my jeans. The first protest came about ten years ago, so we’ve been together a while.

The doctor’s next question was: How much has TAG grown over the past ten years? Well, you know, had I known that this question was going to be important, I would have gotten one of those growth charts and marked down TAG’s progress over the years and hung it on the kitchen doorway. Since, at first, I wasn’t paying a lot of attention, and since then, I tried very hard to just ignore it, I have no concept of if, or by how much, it has grown.

The next step of the doctor was probably the weirdest: she took pictures—of TAG—while he was still attached. She had perfectly good reasons for this procedure, but until she did that, it never occurred to me that TAG might have a future as a model. But the doctor assured me that TAG’s only chances for a future would be in a specimen dish in the lab…without any more pictures.

At last, it was time for TAG and me to part ways. It was emotional, but only because I had to have shots to numb the area and I hate shots. The actual separation was over in a matter of minutes—lots of blood, but no tears. Because TAG is going to leave such a hole in my life, three stitches were necessary. I told the doctor to be very careful with those…I didn’t want her to scar me and ruin my chances as a stripper. She didn’t seem overly concerned and she took no more pictures, which doesn’t bode well for my chances in the field of entertainment.

So now, I am back home and TAG is on the way to a lab where they can determine how such a hideous little thing had the nerve to attach itself to me. I have several theories, but I think the most likely is that I was kidnapped by aliens and TAG was the spy they attached to me so he could gather information for the inevitable alien invasion. I guess we put a stop to that!

My hip is kind of sore and I can’t seem to remember that I had that tiny bit of surgery there because I keep hitting it, turning the wrong way and bending straight over it. I worked with my drama kids this afternoon and discovered that apparently I have a tendency to stand like Captain Janeway on the bridge of the starship Voyager—with my arms and legs akimbo and my hands on my hips. Every time I tried that today, and it was a lot, the Captain had to give a little whimper and find another place to put the hands!

I know that once my stitches heal and the soreness leaves, that I will not miss TAG at all. No more careful donning of my jeans or hitting it with the bath brush. As for now, I think it is important, after ten years, that at this parting of ways, I finally say to TAG, “Good riddance!”

Jackie Wells-Fauth

Couples are supposed to spend more time together, right? I mean, a healthy, solid marriage is built on mutual respect and time spent in each other’s company. Or so I always believed.

Today, I put that theory to the test and it didn’t fare so well. I went with my husband on one of his local hunting excursions and we came back from that and almost headed for the divorce courts. And why, you might ask? I’ll tell you, it’s because when he drives out to go hunting, he calls the rutted, pitted messes he is driving on roads or maybe “section lines”. I call them the highway from hell, and that should in no way indicate for you that there is anything remotely like a highway anywhere near where we are driving.

He always takes the pickup on these pheasant tracking excursions, and apparently if you have the pickup, you can drive through anything. And while the pickup does fine on paved roads and even gravel or dirt, I don’t happen to trust it to navigate grass tracks barely touched by farm equipment, let alone a pickup.

It started out fine. We got in the vehicle and went driving down a fairly wide, paved road with hardly any chunks out of it. On that road we were able to play “chicken” with a pheasant—not  easy to do. The pheasant refused to fly away and just kept walking towards us…I thought for a moment we were going to bag it with the pickup! Eventually, with a cackle, it flew into the air and bang! Roy had ‘em.

“Splendid,” I praised as he came back to me. “Now that you have your pheasant, we can go home.”

“That’s only one,” he answered. “I’m not done. I haven’t got my limit.”

“Your limit? What is your limit?”

“I can get three pheasants in any hunt, that’s my limit. And I haven’t reached it yet.”

As we got back in the pickup and headed down a somewhat narrow, gravel road, I contemplated telling him about MY limit, but I had just watched him shoot a pheasant that refused to back down…I wasn’t going to take any chances!

After a few minutes of spitting up gravel and dust, we turned onto a narrow, dirt road. Now, I was raised on a farm…I know when we have reached the end of the road and when we got to the end of the dirt and the start of grass, I knew we were through.

“Well, too bad, we’ll have to turn around,” I said, trying not to chortle.

“Turn around? What do you mean? The road is up ahead.”

What he optimistically called a road looked more like two tire tracks across a football field, but a football field that was full of potholes and littered with bales of hay which served more as blocks than guides. As we bumped along, the pickup tilted because on one side, the wheels were deep in a rut and on the other side, the wheels were driving at a precarious angle on some high grass.

At last, without running into a single pheasant, we came to a gully in the tire tracks which could only have been crossed with a ferry.

“What a shame!” I said. “We will have to turn around and bump our way back on this section line superhighway. We can’t get over that.”

I was wrong. He put the pickup in reverse, bumped across a couple more tracks, and, squeezing between the scratchy bale and the vicious barbed wire fence, he managed to detour around the hole. Oh, yay!

We finally came to a point in the section line which was fenced off for cattle. We stopped, Roy did some hunting, and I did a little exploring and discovered that to one side of us was a fine dirt road, which looked like the European Autobahn compared to the section line we were on.

“Well, at least there is a road to this side that is an actual road,” I said, pointing to be helpful.

“Oh no,” was the emphatic answer. “If we turn around and go back (past the gully, remember), there is another section line to drive. I hope that big mudhole has dried up.”

Yup, in the future, I think our marriage will stand a better chance if we spend less driving and hunting time together!

Jackie Wells-Fauth

Now, for those of you who have never suffered with insomnia—the inability to sleep—this particular entry in my writings will affect you very little—enjoy your nap. For the vast majority, however, who have suffered from at least occasional insomnia, I may be able to strike a cord.

Insomnia has been my companion since childhood. I can remember getting up in the middle of the night and going outside to walk so I wouldn’t disturb others with my sleeplessness. This, of course, created its own set of issues as I lived on a farm and some of those walks were dangerous in total darkness, while others just involved the annoyance of stepping in a hole or in some animal’s droppings. Usually, however, youth and fresh air solved the problem and I went back to my bed and slept.

The trend of sleeplessness grew more prominent when my girls were born. Every mother out there can tell you that deep sleep (that REM kind) is difficult to achieve, when you are listening with your half-asleep ears, for every grunt, groan or breath of a small child. We train ourselves to sleep lightly so that we are ever-present for our little ones, but the joke is on us: when the little ones don’t need that vigilance anymore, we are still trained not to sleep!

Beyond that, there is a little fun activity called “brain mania” which attacks at night. I can go for months without worrying about what there is in my freezer or whether the neighbors are going to replace the loose tile on the roof, but let me get into bed on a weary evening and suddenly, that is all my brain can think about, in addition to how much shopping I have left for Christmas (in July) or whether I should trim my hair or cut it at my next appointment. If future plans can’t occupy my brain, I can always go backwards and wonder if I should have bought those pears when they spoil so fast or whether the odd look on my husband’s face means I said something wrong. A little tip here: if you have that problem, your partner will not appreciate your waking them up at 2:00 in the morning to ask them if they are offended. At 2:00 in the morning, the answer is YES!

Insomnia has caused me to take up things like jig-saw puzzles. I work on them at 3 in the morning through blood-shot eyes and then, when the sun is up, I go back and re-arrange all the pieces I shoved into the wrong spots. I write in the middle of the night a lot, but when I read most of it in the shine of the morning light, it doesn’t make a lot of sense. I still don’t know what I meant by such notes as: “Napoleon was misunderstood,” or “check out light switches.” Sleep deprivation doesn’t necessarily promote clarity of thought, especially at midnight!

I watch a lot of television on sleepless nights, but if you have ever perused the television schedule for the middle of the night, you will find it is not appealing. This is when they binge-play such fascinating programs as “Night-Stalker” about the supernatural and “The Best of Naked Housewives” which makes Night-Stalker look good! Mostly, there are paid programs on in the middle of the night, but I’ve never been tempted to buy the age-defying face creams or the jewelry made from Alaskan pines. The down side, of course, is this programing doesn’t make me go to sleep either.

Now, before anyone suggests home remedies, just let me tell you that I have tried pineapple juice, hot vinegar, noise-blocking sounds, hot milk (who ever thought of that anyway?), exercise before bed, meditation before bed, no food past 8 o’clock, a heavy snack at 10:00 and so on. As for over the counter sleep aids, I believe I may have a bottle of every single one of them. My medicine cabinet looks like a yard sale for night-time aides and they all have one thing in common—they don’t work!

The sad fact is, that the only cure for my insomnia may be a sharp blow to the head with something hard and I’ve never been desperate enough to try—but give me a few more sleepless nights and we shall see. Happy sleeping, everyone!

Jackie Wells-Fauth

Now, anyone who knows me, knows I am no friend to the telephone. I actually spent a year in therapy and most of it involved my difficulties with the phone. So when I pick on the use of the phone, you must consider my natural prejudices to the darn thing, but seriously, am I the only one who thinks the phone is taking over our lives? Forget other artificial intelligence, just look at that thing that seems to be attached to everyone’s hand today!

I liked the phones of yesteryear. They hung on the wall; you couldn’t take them any further than the cord would stretch and the only thing they did was make it possible for you to communicate with the outside world—one person at a time.  They knew their place and it was comfortable. You couldn’t put them in your pockets or get a weather report on them or discover how far you walked that day. I was very satisfied with this.

Today, the telephone has shrunk in size, but grown gargantuan in use. If I have this right, the phones in our shirt pockets have the ability to: provide internet access, make videos, take all types of pictures, give a weather report, comment on our fitness activities, open the garage doors and turn on and off the lights, babysit and entertain the children, report on who is at the front door, monitor our health, serve as our secretary by reminding us of our schedule and oh, yes, serve as an actual TELEPHONE! And I know, since I am a non-technological marvel, that for many people, I have not even scratched the surface.

And why do I object to all of these many talents of today’s “mobile device”? Well, for one thing, I can’t begin to use all of the dizzying “apps” that are available: I once had a medical office worker complain that she tried to leave a voice message for me, but my voice messages were full. I didn’t even know I HAD voice messages on my phone, let alone have any clue how to access them!

Beyond that, I find that as a reasonable, non-threatening-appearing human being with some entertainment value, I cannot socially compete with the phone. I find myself trying to make conversation with the people near me, only to look around and discover everyone is on their phone. No doubt conversing through text about what a bore I am, talking about the latest funny joke I heard on the television—yes, television; that was the entertainment addiction before the smart phone.

It is impossible to have a conversation that doesn’t get interrupted by at least a half dozen “fact-checks”: “I’m pretty sure that flood happened in 1973, but that really isn’t the point of my story”. Before I can get all of that out of my mouth, three people have checked it out and the flood was actually in 1975—and everyone, including me, has completely lost interest in the point of my story by then! Conversation has been reduced to snippets shared from the internet on our phones and a good weather forecast can be brought up minute by minute, while simultaneously tracking where we are every minute of the day.

Unfortunately, the non-amusing part of these devices is the fact that they are causing accidents on the road and interruption of bodily functions—such as sleeping. Beyond that, we face the ever present danger of someone hacking the phone, losing the phone or having the phone destroyed—like when someone’s trying to get your attention and the only way they can find to do that is to snatch the phone, throw it onto the driveway and back the car over it repeatedly. This can produce a great deal of satisfaction—or so I am told.

Now, I know that the modern telephone is a technological wonder—personally, I wonder how to use the darn thing—but as a human being who was born when computers were still so big they filled entire rooms, I have trouble adjusting to the world being contained in the palm of my hand and people giving me that sad, superior little smile when they look at my set of encyclopedias and pronounce them “quaint.” So, since all of us go our own way, I will continue to fact check with my World Book Encyclopedias and attempt to hack into my own phone. Anybody out there know how to check Voice-Mail?

Jackie Wells-Fauth

I have always had a rival for Roy’s affections. No, I don’t mean he has another woman; that would be easier. The rival I have for Roy’s affections is the dog. Not just any dog. She is a purebred Golden Retriever who goes out hunting with him. This is a tough rival to beat.

If this dog’s activities were restricted to hunting, I might be able to live with it, but that is not even the beginning of the ways in which the Princess (as I not so affectionately refer to her) intrudes on my life. And she’s not the first Golden Retriever to prove competition for me. The Grand Duchess started the rivalry and when she passed on in an untimely fashion (no, I didn’t murder her) that is when the Princess stepped in.

First of all, the Princess believes that she is welcome anywhere that Roy is. She lays on the floor like a throw rug, tripping all who try to pass her, because she is getting as close to Roy as she can be. If he so much as shifts in his chair, she is on her feet, ready for any adventure. If he fails to shut the bathroom door securely, she accompanies him in there as well. If I happen to walk in the bathroom, Roy will react like a startled virgin and say, “Do you mind? Shut the door!” For the Princess, however, we make sure the bathroom rug is straightened, so she has somewhere comfortable to recline.

When it comes to meals, the Princess is always thought of first. Not only does Roy fuss over when, where and how much dog food he is giving her, but he inspects my plate after a meal as though the dog were a starving orphan. “Are you going to eat the rest of that hamburger? The dog would like it.” And I would like caviar and cheesecake, but nobody goes around collecting it for me.

As far as travel is concerned, the Princess gets top billing there, as well. I would love to go shopping or visit family without having to worry about whether the drive will be comfortable for the Princess. He would leave me in a hot car with no windows rolled down, but the Princess must be given a break and then be placed in a vehicle strategically placed in some shade—even if we have to park three blocks away from wherever we have stopped. And the amount of time it takes to roll the windows down for her is phenomenal…not so closed that the air can’t flow and not so open that someone could steal her. Please, I would leave a $20 bill taped to the outside of the window if it meant she was in danger of being stolen.

I have never had a real fondness for dogs and the fact that I have to fight one for Roy’s affection has not sweetened my attitude about them. He is a most attentive owner and he finds her most attractive feature to be that she can find a pheasant he has just shot and bring it back to him in her mouth. What is MY most attractive feature? Not that, I assure you!

The other day, however, I discovered that I may move even further down the affection chain at my house. We were traveling through the town where we had purchased Roy’s new fancy red sports car. As we were driving, he patted the car’s dashboard and said, “This is the town where you were born, Charger…well, at least the town where we adopted you.”

When we got home, I went immediately went and found the dog. “Bad news, Princess, we both have a brand new rival! And she’s way younger than either one of us!”

Jackie Wells-Fauth

Roy and I went on a wonderful little driving getaway this last couple of weeks. I couldn’t find too much to complain about, but I think Roy was a little upset with my packing ability.

“Don’t forget, you need to pack your prescriptions,” he reminded me. “Enough for the time we are going to be gone.”

I pointed to the medium-sized carrying bag on the table and said, “Don’t you worry about that. Everything’s there.”

He went over to the table and tried to heft the bag…and failed. “What in the world is in here?”

I was ready with my answer. “I have every type of over the counter medication we might need for our ten days on the road.”

“You have every kind of over the counter medication we might need for a 30-year trip to the moon,” he said, digging through the top cartons and bottles. “Are you feeling that bloated, stopped up sensation?” he asked, holding up the Miralax.

Sometimes, men just don’t understand. Okay, so maybe I’m not constipated now, but what if, during some point in the ten days, I eat too much cheese? A person has to be prepared for that. I put the Miralax back in the bag.

He pulled out a series of elastic straps and hooks. “What are these for?”

“Who knows when my ankle might act up?” I asked indignantly. “I can’t go through ten days limping on one foot, can I? I need a brace.”

“And the same is true for your back, your knees and both of your hands,” he said, as he pulled each brace out of the bag.

“Yes, yes, and double yes,” I answered, putting all of them back in.

He continued to look. “When was the last time you had a random toothache, or sudden hemorrhoids or even a sprained finger? All of these medicines look new. Did you clean out the pharmacy?”

“No, and that reminds me, we have to stop back there before we leave town.”

“What, you forgot heartburn tablets? Liver pills? Contraception?” Sometimes he’s so sarcastic.

“No, smartie, I just forgot to pick up my actual prescription drugs,” I was reluctant to admit this.

Despite this shaky medical start, the trip got off splendidly…until we realized we had to test for Covid because of an exposure we were unaware of.

“No problem,” Roy said, raking through the medicine bag. “I’m sure you brought some tests along.”

“I wonder if that pharmacy across the street is open until 10 pm,” I speculated aloud.

“You mean…”

“Yes, I mean I didn’t even think about bringing along Covid tests, so now I have to make another pharmacy visit.” I was a little frustrated by this. I had proven that I could pack the entire medicine chest and still not bring along the things I needed.

The good news was that the Covid test was negative, so we were able to continue on our trip. But every night, Roy carried in the medicine bag, set it in a neglected corner and held his tongue…although he did look pretty smug.

And then, justice–or at least, vindication! The poor man stepped off a curb and did some minor damage to his dignity and his body.

“Don’t you worry,” I said. “I’ve got sanitary wipes, antiseptic and bandaids. I’m so glad.”

“You’re so glad I fell?” he questioned through his teeth.

“Of course not,” I said. “I’m just glad I was prepared with this medicine bag.”

“I have a headache,” he complained.

“Have some Tylenol, I’ve got a whole bottle right here,” as I handed it over, I was already thinking about what I will pack next time in the medicine bag…but I’m probably gonna need a bigger bag!

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!