dropsinthewell

Jackie Wells-Fauth

First of all, my dear, if I spelled your name wrong, I apologize; I must have found ten different versions, but Sacagawea is the most common, according to Wikipedia.

Let me start by saying that I am a huge admirer of you. You took a bunch of explorers and led them through the wilderness without benefit of road maps, Google maps or Interstate and got them all the way to the homelands you left as a small child. Without so much as a road sign or a mile marker, you did all of this, when you were still a young teenager yourself with a baby on your back.

I admire this skill of yours greatly. This is coming from a woman who sometimes has trouble navigating from the bedroom to the bathroom in the middle of the night! I have no idea how you led that bunch of rough and ready men safely through the wilderness, but I am in awe of your accomplishments.

And that brings me to the favor I need. For the past 40 years or so, my husband has been traveling throughout the United States and several foreign countries and the only navigator he has is me…and even without a baby on my back, I have a lot of trouble getting us from place to place. So, what I want to ask is, could you come and show me how to navigate? Before you answer, you should know a few things.

1. I have trouble distinguishing my right from my left. So many a time, my husband has taken a wrong turn because I told him to turn left when the turn was actually right. I once navigated us to the edge of a lake in the middle of nowhere instead of getting us to downtown Denver just by saying, “Yeah, you turn right here.” My husband has learned to say, “Which right?” And I, offended that he doesn’t trust me, will point–“That way.” And his reply is invariably, “Yeah, that’s your other right, also known as left!”
2. I cannot properly read a map. In the first place, the older I get, the tinier that writing is. But it was never easy, even when my eyesight was better.  I just love to have the road map in my lap, carefully marked by Roy with where we are going, and I just follow along. However, if there is a question, or we miss a turn, I am about as useful as an ax in a furniture factory. Finally, on our most recent trip, Roy missed a turn, and I found an alternate way to get through Indianapolis, using the road map. We made it out of town, and I plan to live on that accomplishment for some time:

When he says furiously, “You told me to turn at that last mile marker and now we are completely lost!”

I will reply with, “Well, maybe, but I got us out of Indianapolis that one time, how about that?”

3. I tend to get a little flustered when we are lost. On the downtown interchanges in Pittsburgh this year, I had a little trouble with the GPS: “Okay, turn onto Frederick Avenue…no wait, it’s now saying we should go on the Allegheny Interchange…no, that’s not right, it says to take a right here and do a U-turn on the bridge…for the love of god, GPS, STOP RE-ROUTING!”

4. I am not very good at giving clear instructions. Once, in Passau, Germany, we stopped a lovely young lady to ask for directions to the river. She asked, “Which river; there are two?” I said, “We want the river with the boat!” Since most rivers have boats, this was not helpful. Another time, we were lost in the suburbs of Atlanta, Georgia, so we called the cousin we were trying to find for directions. He asked, “Where are you?” I hollered, “We are in some trees…a lot of trees!” Turns out that silly man wanted a street name!

Okay, Sacagawea, I think you have got the picture. I am very poor at navigation, and it has caused some of the wilder events on our travels. So, if there is any way you could give me some hints or tips on how to get from place to place in a calm manner (I’ve never seen a painting of you, jumping up and down, tearing out your hair, because you took the wrong turn at that last fork in the road) I would be very grateful.

I’ve always felt I had the potential for greatness in the world, but unlike you, it will never be for my ability to navigate. Now, when you get ready to come to my house, you just turn left at the stop sign…or is that right? Anyway, it’s south about two miles, or no, I mean…well, you’re the navigator, I’m sure you can find me. And say hello to Mr. Lewis and Mr. Clark for me!

Jackie Wells-Fauth

One of the fun ways in which Roy and I test our marriage to see if it is strong and healthy is a little exercise we call the “vacation planning test.” This vastly resembles the grocery shopping test that I have already mentioned, but with a few differences. The main one is that unlike grocery shopping which can be solved by sending only one, the vacation planned by a couple must then be ENJOYED by the same couple. This can present some sticky moments.

I’ve always felt if Roy was going to throw me out for good, he would do it while we were planning vacation. Not only do we vastly differ in our desires for activities on vacation, we also differ on just how to plan it.

Take our most recent endeavor. We planned a vacation of about a week and a half driving. For me, it’s a matter of getting into the car, having a general direction and then, making it up as I go. This is not a terrible plan, either, because some of my best finds on vacation have come from me reading the map while he is driving down the highway or watching for the signs overhead.

Unfortunately, I live with a mate who not only wants everything planned, but requires that I sit down with him while he painstakingly puts together the trip “itinerary.”  For those of you intensely organized people out there who are nodding in agreement with this plan, may I suggest to you (as I frequently have to him) that you stuff it in your “estimated time of arrival.”

“Okay,” Roy will say, pulling up his already mapped out schedule in Excel, “let’s decide how this vacation is going to go.” I am already half asleep and half annoyed. “The first thing we must plan is to be at our destination for the Twins game in Pittsburg.” It has been his goal in life to see the Twins lose in as many different stadiums around the country as he can. They seldom let him down. My ambition is to find a good book to read while I am sitting in those stadiums. It fascinates the security people when all they have to search for me is the pages of whatever book I am ignoring the game with.

“I thought the idea was to go to Niagara Falls,” I question.

“Yes, but as you can see, that is scheduled for Sunday afternoon. Once we’ve ridden the Maid of the Mist out to the falls, what else is there to do?”

“Go over the edge in a barrel?” My suggestion does not make it onto the itinerary.

“I’m afraid in order to make the schedule work, we will not be able to fit in Millard Filmore’s museum,” he says, making some adjustments to the calendar.

“Poor Millard,” I sigh, “perhaps if we don’t stay too long at the fort (how long can you look at a cannon) we could fit him in. He gets so little respect, we should try to drop by.”

“No chance; if we do that, we have to move around this battlefield and we won’t be able to take the ferry out to this island. Millard’s out,” he decides.

At that point, we begin figuring out (okay, he begins figuring out) how long it takes to get from one event to the next. We will have time for the Wright Brothers—however Wyatt Earp might be in question. While I am thrilled that the itinerary just can’t squeeze in a 15 mile hike, I admit, I would be okay with hitting up the James Garfield museum.

“Well, we’ll have to see,” he says, checking his list. “If we do that, I’ll have to rearrange four other events on the schedule.”

“Don’t do that, it’ll take two hours more with this. Garfield was assassinated in office; he can probably bear the disappointment of our not being there.”

Finally, painstakingly, day by excruciating day, we get the itinerary settled up. We have every moment accounted for and every fun activity planned to within an inch of its life. Will this itinerary hold up? Will we make it to the Sherman museum, or will another ball game squeeze it out? Only time will tell and what I’ve learned over the years is, no matter how well-planned the itinerary, we pretty much end up making it up as we go.

May all of your marriages survive the planning of the annual vacation.

Jackie Wells-Fauth

I am about to confess something to you that probably my nearest family and friends already know: I am a certifiable Star Trek nerd. From the original series, through Next Generation, Deep Space 9, Voyager and on, I have adored every Star Fleet Mission, weird and hostile alien and Red Alert moment that any of the series has ever produced.

So, if you have never seen any of the episodes, the rest of this probably won’t make a whole lot of sense, and I apologize for digressing on one of my favorite fixations. And seriously, if you have not seen these shows, I have to tell you that you are missing one of the greatest fantasy adventures and social satires of all times.

One of the things I’ve enjoyed the most has been the unbelievable number of catch phrases that the program has produced. Spock, with his fingers raised in a weird victory signal as he bids you, “Live long and prosper” or Captain Picard with his precise mannerisms directing you to “Make it so,” add color and life to every episode.

All of the characters are engaging, but I in particular like some of the medical officers. I love the holographic doctor on Voyager, and the alien Dr. Phlox and his love of animal medicine on Enterprise. My favorite, though, has always been the original doctor, Leonard “Bones” McCoy who joined his great friend, Captain James T. Kirk on his space adventures, but never did quite adjust to the unique challenges of the great unknown.

He was quirky, talented, emotional and loyal to his friends and his profession. Growing up, I always thought how cool it would be to be Nurse Chapel, working alongside the great man. (At the time, it didn’t occur to me to want to be HIM instead, but I have evolved since then.) Best of all, I loved his standard response to any mammoth request that came from Captain Kirk: Dammit, Jim, I’m a doctor, not a magician, mind-reader, engineer, babysitter, etc. Whatever the situation, Dr. McCoy reminded his captain of his “limitations,” always prefacing it with, “Dammit, Jim, I’m a doctor…”

Because of this fixation, my children have bowed to the inevitable and started gifting me with Star Trek memorabilia. I have a Christmas tree ornament shaped like Voyager, a snow globe containing the original Enterprise, and a set of Pez dispensers for every character in The Next Generation. One of my favorites has to be my Dr. McCoy t-shirt. Emblazoned on the front are pictures of all the various professions he pointed out that he wasn’t (the engineer, the magician, the athlete, etc.) Each picture has a line drawn through it, indicating this is what he is not, while the picture of a doctor’s stethoscope is left unmarred, as he is a doctor. Emblazoned across the top are the words, “Dammit, Jim…”

Now, I think the shirt is hysterical, but it has caused its share of uncomfortable moments. For one thing, I have learned there are certain places you might not want to wear it—teaching school, to church, and so on. While it immediately picks out the Star Trek nerds of your world, it also presents a startled moment for those who don’t know why I would wear a shirt that says, “Dammit Jim” across the front, especially those who know my husband’s name is Roy, not Jim.

I keep on wearing the shirt, though, because it is kind of like a secret handshake, revealing all of the others out there who are a part of the Star Trek mystic. They laugh, and I know, we have made a connection.

And for the rest of them? Well, it can be awkward. I was wearing the shirt at a restaurant recently and the manager had come forward to seat us. Taking one look at the shirt which I had sincerely forgotten I was wearing he said, “Uh, about your shirt. My name is Jim?”

“Star Trek,” I replied, and he either got it or pretended that he did. Such are the hazards for us Star Trek fans.

For my next custom designed t-shirt, I’m going to have the words, “Dammit, Jim, I’m a writer, not a doctor!” printed on it and see how many Star Trek fans get that. In the meantime, all of you, Trek fans or not, live long and prosper.

Jackie Wells-Fauth

This morning while eating my breakfast in a small café in town, I happened to look up in time to see an extraordinary young lady come in, wearing a biking suit and helmet. I am aware of that stigma we small towners have where we tend to stare at anyone who is new, but I will admit to observing her from a distance.

She answered the questions of the friendly people who greeted her and she let them know where she’d been and where she was going. I will admit, I’m very jealous: the question is, am I jealous enough to get back on a bike myself? I tend to think no.

Now, I’m not crazy (at least, that’s my opinion); I would never attempt, as this young lady was, to ride a bike all through the United States, coast to coast. However, I have frequently thought in these last years that getting back on a bike for me holds some real benefits.

I learned to ride a bike late in life. While all of my other friends and relatives were wheeling along, I, at 8 years old, still hadn’t conquered two-wheel transportation. One of the neighbor boys became impatient with this situation and finally terrified me into riding the bike by running along beside me as I wobbled along, shouting, “Don’t you stop, don’t you dare put your feet down or else!” Later, he admitted that he didn’t know what the “or else” was going to be, but since I chose to believe the threat, I almost inadvertently, finally learned to ride the bike.

I kept it up sporadically through my young adulthood and my first years of motherhood. It was handy to put my non-napper child in the car seat and just keep riding until I could feel her sleep-heavy body slumped up against me. When my children became too old to use the bike as a mechanical sedative, I put it away.

Several times later, always in a fever-induced moment, I would decide it was in my best interest to ride a bike again. I needed the exercise and fresh air. Bike riding had always been fun; why not? After I had gotten the bike out, dusted it off, filled the tires with air (twice) and got a couple of feet down the road, I would remember why not. Bike riding is hard work!

I know I should be ashamed to say that, having encountered the young lady this morning who is riding across country, but honestly, I wouldn’t get from Miller to St. Lawrence (all of 1 mile) before I’d be praying for a five-star restaurant to appear before me—attached to a luxury hotel and casino.

I have never envied those biking enthusiasts who ride cross country on their cycles. We pass them frequently in the car, bent over their bikes in the rain, hot sun and high wind and when I see them trudging uphill, I want to volunteer to tie them to the bumper of my car—not that they would probably appreciate that! My youngest grandson (who learned it from his older brothers) thinks a good mountain bike ride is taking his little trike to the top of the driveway, shoving off with his feet and then holding them up to allow the downward curve of the drive to propel him to the bottom. I am with him in this regard!

So, while travel by bicycle may have its good points (I am at a loss for the moment about what  those are) I still think I will find some other way to be an active member of society and my knees and back concur with me on this decision.

Nonetheless, the young lady this morning did give me pause. In her cross-country trip, she said that there was no real plan, just wherever they wanted to go. I have always liked the spontaneity of that. In addition, and perhaps an even bigger draw, was that this biker was reed slim and sat down to the biggest and best breakfast I had ever seen.

While she was enjoying the meal and exchanging pleasant conversation with some of the other diners, I once again thought, “Perhaps I need to get the bike out and go for at least a short ride. What could it hurt?”

And my subconscious answered, “Your back, your knees, your ankles, your disposition and your relationship with those who have to deal with you after you have fallen off a few times. Besides, you sold that bike ten years ago.”

So, to all those bikers out there who are diligently on the road, getting exercise and experience, I say:  I’ll be watching you… from my deck…with a large glass of iced tea…and a great deal of admiration!

Jackie Wells-Fauth

I admit it, I am a small-town girl who is used to small-town roads. And when I say small-town roads, I mean roads maybe wide enough for two lanes and maybe paved with oil rather than gravel, or maybe not. This is my idea of a road; where the worst thing you are likely to face is a large piece of farm machinery in a no passing zone.

That is why attempting to drive in large cities has always been difficult for me. Imagine small town girl meets 8-lanes of fast-moving traffic and little idea of where she is going and you will be imagining me, trying to drive in Minneapolis this past month.

Possibly the worst part of the experience is the fact that my lack of preparation for such a driving adventure is really pathetic. It would be like trying to send a blind baby with one arm into the ring against Rocky Balboa and expecting a win for the babe in the woods!

I never pull out onto a two-lane highway unless all traffic is off the road and has been parked in their own driveways for ten minutes. In Minneapolis, there is never such a thing as a “break in traffic.” What they do have is, “now is the time, take your life in your hands and pull out like all the demons of hell are after you.” Even at that, if you don’t have at least three cars swerve around you with horns blaring, you have done something wrong.

When I am driving at home, I always pick a lane and remain there, even if that lane is the gravelly hump on the side of a gravel path, which forces you to drive in the ditch part of the way. You never move to the center of a road and once you have picked your lane, you stick with it like you are a cow coming down a chute with no chance to veer to right or left.

In Minneapolis, while I was driving the speed limit and fearing to move even a touch to my right or left, I was several times witness to what I like to call the “side scramble.” A driver on my left would cut in front of my car and then veer a little further over, into the next lane, then slice in front of a speeding truck to the lane after that, and on and on until they had somehow, at breakneck speed and in impossible traffic, cut their way diagonally across all five or six lanes of traffic, just so they could exit! Now, if I were to execute that maneuver, I would definitely have to take the nearest exit so I could clean out my underwear and lie down until my heart had stopped pounding into my mouth. It was terrifying to watch and it occurred over and over!

My tactic for getting through the heavy traffic was to do what I do when I am traveling on the two-lane US highway at home: I pick a lane and then never leave it. The problem with this procedure in a major city? Well, the lane you are in can be going along fine and then, while you are clinging to it like a monkey to its mother swinging through trees, suddenly, a sign will appear out of the corner of your eye that says something like: “Get out of this lane, unless you are planning to exit to a new road.” Or “Right lane closed ahead, get out of it a mile ago!” or,  “Hey, Mario Andretti, this is the east bound lane and you are supposed to be going west!”

Suddenly, that lane which had been your friend for several miles, has pulled the rug out from underneath you and now, instead of heading east, towards Stillwater, you find yourself in the northbound lane on the way for a fun-filled week in Duluth. And when you look around at the traffic to get to the exit, you know you will be spending the week in Duluth because there is no way you are going to be capable of performing the “side scramble” to get to the exit.

I am home again from my fun-filled week on the highway to hell, so that means I am once again driving under the speed limit, stopping at every stop sign until the whole road looks like a deserted apocalyptic byway and waving happily at all of the machinery I encounter in my path. I do not miss all of those cars in such a hurry to get to so many places and furthermore, I will have everyone know that I am very happy that there are crossroads and not exits on my super highway. Happy driving, everyone!

Jackie Wells-Fauth

King Charles III of England had better watch out because I think his throne might be in peril. He is about to be usurped by Socks, king of all the cats.

Socks is the elder statesman of my daughter’s two cats. He has been around for quite a few years and has established himself with the whole family as a very stable and dependable animal. He came to the family from a shelter and has survived the addition of a dog, a baby and another cat with aplomb. So his reputation as a good cat is well-established and I never doubted it.

And then, I got the opportunity to spend a little over a week in his company. That is when I discovered that Socks has truly begun to believe his own legend and has established himself as ruler of the household.

From the moment I stepped into his house, Socks has let me know that he is in charge. When I set a cup of coffee beside the chair I intended to sit in, Socks casually walked over and sat down himself, giving me the look you reserve only for things so far beneath you, they aren’t worthy of your attention.

From then on, he went about the work of establishing his rule. King Socks can let himself in and out of the house, without waiting for permission. He sits wherever he wishes, including on your lap uninvited, sitting on whatever book or paper you might have been using. Socks can also claim the back of the chair, so that he can majestically stare down on the peasants who are merely sitting on the seat.

One of His Majesty’s favorite places is in the bay window containing all the house plants. He will move between the plants like it is the royal forest and then lie down in front of them as if to guard against intruders. I came in with the watering can to take care of the thirsty foliage and waited for the cat to move. He simply looked at me.

“Okay, Your Majesty, but if you stay there, you might get wet,” I warned. He turned away from me,  to look out of the window, letting me know just how important my threats were.

So I admit it, I might have been careless with the watering can, just to get back at him. I managed to “accidentally” spill some water on his back end. “Oh, sorry,” I said as sincerely as I am able, when apologizing to a cat. With a sidewise glance out of his arrogant eyes, the king flicked his tail and sprayed the water right back at me. Score one for the feline royalty.

Socks is a hardy sized cat and so he is especially fussy about his meal times. When his regular owners are there and caring for him, he is fed regularly and deigns to be content with the cat food he gets. When the babysitters are there, he is less regularly sitting down to dine, not because I’m trying to starve him, but because I am not used to it, so sometimes he must fend for himself. Since he is also an agile king, he can get himself onto a kitchen counter, to check out the dining possibilities.

I had some pieces of chicken lying on the counter, and I came into the room as he was carefully making his selection from the buffet that he, of course, assumed was there for his enjoyment.

“Socks!” I snapped, “you get away from there.” He looked up, the chicken dangling from his teeth and his eyes determined slits. “Get down, I say!” At that, he casually leapt to the floor, dropping the chicken as he went.

I assumed it was over, so I delayed picking up the chicken piece. With that, King Socks turned back, retrieved his noon repast and disappeared downstairs, where I presume he enjoyed his picnic in private.

Despite it all, he is a pretty good and mellow cat, but I have to say he is also the most self-assured and complacent animal I have ever met. And I am pretty sure he will have a lot of tales to tell about his adventures with the sub-par humans he had to deal with while his owners were away for a week.

All hail Socks, King of the Cats!

Jackie Wells-Fauth

It was a typical evening, nothing special to warn me of what was about to happen. Nonetheless, the quiet, typical night turned harrowing when my husband uttered three special little words.“What’s that smell?” he asked, sniffing the air.

“How should I know?” I replied, my defenses up. “I don’t smell anything.”

I used to think this was just a phenomenon in my household, but it seems there are a lot of married people and mere roommates who tend to make up two distinct groups: those whose noses are so sensitive that every shift in odor catches their attention and the other group, whose noses are dead to all
smells… and they are better off that way. I am in the second group; my husband is in the first. It makes for some interesting marital moments.

I may be insensitive to smells, but I am hypersensitive to worrying about whether I smell. So, when my husband says, “What’s that smell?”, my first instinct is always to sniff the various parts of my own body
that commercials tell me smell offensive, (but with their product, would smell like roses). The longer he sniffs, the more paranoid I become.

“What does it smell like?” I ask.

“I can’t really say; it’s just a not-very-pleasant odor,” is his very unhelpful answer. I immediately take a shower and change everything, even my hairpins.

An hour later, as I’m still basking in that fresh shower feeling, he begins sniffing the air again.

“Still an odor?” I ask, not troubling to mask my irritation.

He gives a long-suffering nod and walks around the room, inhaling deeply. “I think it’s
coming from the kitchen. Maybe it’s something in all of those dirty dishes in
the sink.”

Now, I recognized this ploy. He doesn’t like dirty dishes in the sink, but neither does he like to do them. If he could make me feel self-conscious enough about a smell, he could get me to do the dishes. Well,
that wasn’t going to work.

Until he actually went into the kitchen and ran his face at a safe distance, across the dishes, sniffing and nodding his head gravely and regretfully. Okay, so at 10:30 at night, I am loading and running the
dishwasher for half a load, scouring out the sinks and pouring vinegar down the
drain.

“That’s all I can do, if you still smell something–which I never did, by the way–then I can’t help you.” I tried to sound very stern and forceful, using the same voice I had used all those years ago to make our
children back down and quit arguing. That voice never worked on our daughters, and it didn’t work on him, either.

“It might not be in the kitchen, because I still smell something,” he insisted. I took out the garbage and cleaned the container.

“Maybe it’s in the bedroom,” he speculated. I washed all the laundry in the hamper.

“Could it be the bathroom,” he wondered aloud—loud enough to be heard.

“I just cleaned the bathroom today, so unless you used the corner instead of the toilet, no it’s not the bathroom.”

We never did track down that phantom smell, because he quit making suggestions, mostly because he could now smell the smoke coming out of his impatient wife’s ears. Peace reigned once more…except for his occasional sniffing of the air around him.

Thanks to this, one of our most long-standing marital activities, the house is very clean and so am I for that matter. However, I am not fooled. I know that sometime in the not-too-distant future, I am going to
be relaxing on a peaceful summer’s evening and he’s going to utter those three little words again…and I don’t mean, “I Love You!” May your home smell like roses and your nose always be too stuffed up to smell it or anything else!

Jackie Wells-Fauth

The seasons have rotated at our house, as they do every year. Oh, I don’t mean we’ve moved from winter to spring; no, no. At our house, we rotate from tax season to marriage reality season. And sometimes the adjustment to having the other partner around much more can be tough on us both.

Being married to an accountant, I have always known that tax season can be rough. It is Roy’s season to shine, but it requires quite as many hours in the day as a farmer at the height of harvest. And since it lasts for several months, I have a tendency to slip into a somewhat slip-shod, self-centered, single mode of living.

During tax season, laundry only has to be kept up so there is a reasonable amount of underwear and clean dress clothes available. No need to wash all those pesky everyday clothes, since they are not likely to be used right now. They accumulate in a pile behind the washer and Roy is too busy wearing business clothes to the office to notice.

 And during tax season, it is possible to be very lax on what passes for a meal—it’s consumed so fast and in such a state of distraction, that I believe I could serve peanut butter sandwiches and Milk of Magnesia and it wouldn’t cause comment—at least until the Milk of Magnesia kicked in!

I get very used to my television during tax season as well. I adore my re-runs of Monk and Murder, She Wrote and every feel good, snot-inducing, sentimental overload movie there is. And there is no one in the house (who is awake) to make gagging noises and rudely mock the main characters (Roy does an imitation of Jessica Fletcher which would be amusing if it weren’t so annoying). But during tax season, Jessica finds the killers without the running, derisive commentary from the accountant.

Tax season, however, has faded into the season, which I like to call marriage reality season. This is where we remember that there are two of us in the house and our views on living with another human being don’t always jive. Take the other night; I really wish someone would!

Roy came home all excited. “I’m going to fix that water head in the toilet and hang the new curtain in the kitchen, but before that, I’m going to go out and mow and fertilize the lawn.”

“Maybe you should pace yourself,” I respond. “You don’t want to run out of fun too quickly.”

“I am ready for something besides taxes,” he says, rubbing his hands together as he stands before the dresser, searching through the clothes. “Where is my green plaid shirt? You know, the one I wore when I spackled the basement? I want to use that to work in the bathroom.”

“Well, I don’t think it’s clean,” I remark, kicking it further into the pile behind the washer.

“But I spackled the basement last fall,” he protests.

“Exactly, what was the rush? And while we’re at it, the kitchen and the bathroom are none too clean right now. I was meaning to get at that this month, but I was distracted.”

“By the frozen pizza we’re having for supper?” he said, checking the oven.  I think he was trying to make some point there, but I refused to get it. So, he became more direct. “There’s a lot of hamburger in the refrigerator, maybe you should use that up first?”

“I had a busy day,” is my excuse. “And I don’t need you to be a back-seat driver when I’m cooking.”

“Jessica Fletcher and Monk too busy repeating their accomplishments finding the criminals?” he asked, adding sarcastically, “Or maybe you spent the day using up kleenix over the Hallmark channel. By the way, the timer’s going off on the pizza. Looks like a gourmet meal tonight.”

When I next went into the living room, he was not watching Murder, She Wrote, or Columbo. No sir, he was flipping the television back and forth between the Timberwolves, who are just getting ready to wrap up their basketball season and the Twins, who are just getting started on the baseball grind. Nothing in anything he was watching made me think, “Aww, what a fun evening of television we have ahead!”

Yes, indeed, the seasons march forward. And when I am in the midst of marriage reality season, cooking actual meals and washing all of the clothes every week, to the background sounds of a Twins game gone wrong, I always wonder, “What was it about tax season I didn’t like, again?”

Jackie Wells-Fauth

In the springtime of my marriage, I allowed things to happen that wouldn’t happen today in that same marriage. Mostly I am thinking of the fact that I used to take warm showers and my very young husband thought it was funny to throw a cup of cold water over the top of the door just to listen to me squeal. I didn’t appreciate it and it finally stopped after I explained the particular set of skills I possess that could make his death look like an accident.

It is somewhat ironic then that 40 years into the marriage I am looking at a fad that reminds me a great deal of those very early days of wedded bliss. Now, it has never been a habit of mine to chase after every fad that comes out in this life. I have not made a tic toc video or dyed my hair some unique shade of purple or tried the latest food craze in sushi. In fact, I am probably the person least likely to hear about a new exercise and jump right in to try it.

That’s why my obsession with cold showers (not provided by Roy) surprises even me. I first heard about it on my way home from work when a fellow on the radio was going on and on:

“So, if you want to really feel good and get rid of all of your minor aches and pains, just turn the shower to cold for the last 30 seconds to two minutes. Doctors recommend it and so do I. It will make a new man out of you.”

Now, I have no desire to be a new man and I had no intention of trying the cold rain treatment until I came home and discovered that neurologists were actually recommending it. Well? Was I brave enough to try it? I was pretty sure not.

Then came the night my leg was paining so badly that I finally decided, “What have I got to lose? It’s either do this or cut it off!” I was to remember that choice with fondness later.

My shower was not even enjoyable because of what I intended to do at the end. It’s a little like trying to enjoy your last meal, even when you know the electric chair awaits. I just couldn’t relax and have a nice shower. But, the throbbing leg kept taunting me, “I’m here with you for always. We both know you’re not going to hit me with a cold shower!”

Holding my breath and forcing myself with both hands, I cranked the shower to cold. I started screaming like a banshee…and that was only when a cold spray hit me. Gritting my teeth and stepping forward, I let the cold water hit my nice clean, warm skin and I directed the full wrath of that artic rain on the leg causing me troubles! That would teach it to complain!

The man who described this water torture on the radio said the recommended time was 30 seconds to two minutes, but “if you can stand it for 30 seconds, you can make it to two minutes, no problem!”

I beg to differ. If I could stand it for 30 seconds, that would be the end. I kept sticking a body part under the spray and then jerking back out. That was the coldest of all cold rains! I have read that some people – athletes in particular—take ice baths on purpose. Good for them. I spent 30 bone chilling seconds under that blast and I was a freezing, teeth-chattering, ice queen and I had no plans to go back for more. That was it, I promised myself as I stood by the bathroom heater in mid-July. Two minutes under that icy waterfall and I would have been a popsicle. Let me out of here!

And then an odd thing happened: my leg started to feel better. How could that be in the thirty seconds I had spent in the Alaskan tundra? At first, I was sure I was imagining it, but no—that leg actually felt better.

This was not good news! If it really worked, then I was going to have to do it some more and I had planned to retire my cold shower routine after its maiden voyage. Now, I might have to seriously use the method?

Thus has begun what I like to call my shower screaming years. Roy was upset. He was more than willing to throw the cold water on me if that’s all that was needed. And he wanted credit for trying to “help” me with cold water sprays years ago.

My showers are never quiet and sweet. I take a reasonable shower for the majority of the time, but when I hit that two minute mark at the end, on comes the cold water and out slips some of the foulest language I ever learned in a bar down by the river. Is it for everyone? Definitely not, but if you have a partner who thinks throwing cold water into your shower is funny, you might want to stop and assess the results before you offer to waterboard them with their own towel!

Jackie Wells-Fauth

I have always felt as though I was a voice crying in the wilderness (or whining in the computer store) when it comes to my inability with technology. But, much to my joy, my friend has heard my voice and she sent me an article written by a fellow anti-technology soul that puts a whole new light on this technological world of ours.

David Brooks wrote the article “Why is Technology so Mean to Me?” This man gets me. He understands my struggles and he has put forward a very interesting theory on our computer world: Technology is the devil.

Of course! Why didn’t this occur to me before! All my struggles and all my failures to operate “basic computer programs,” explained away in the simplest of terms. Technology is the creation of the underworld and that is why a good, clean-living Christian like myself can’t handle it. Evil forces have been against me from the start!

My life has been one long list of battles lost to technology. What some people can do with a swipe of their thumb on a phone, I can’t manage if I am  sitting before a computer as big as a room. I finally figured out e-mails, but forget attachments. On-line banking? Might as well be an off-shore account in the Caymans because it is just as inaccessible to me.

I stopped taking classes online when I discovered that I wasn’t even able to sign up, let alone operate the so-called “Blackboards” which manage the classes instead of a teacher these days. Obviously, there was a demonic force at work against me or I would have figured out how to “click here to prove I’m not a robot.” Perhaps I would have had better luck getting into the classes if I had just held a simple exorcism beforehand.

And of course, the only explanation for my inability to place an order, trace an order or return an order in online shopping has to be because Satan doesn’t wish me to stay at home. He wants me to drive to the store and do everything in person…as the only one there.

Technology has always been very rough on me. Every time I learn how to use an on-line program, a special flag goes up somewhere in Hell. “Yeah, she’s figured that one out; time to change it—not a lot, just enough to foul her up again.”

Attempting to reason with computers also does not work. When I was still teaching, I named my computer Priscilla and tried everything from begging, praying, reasoning and screaming, to compel Priscilla to do my bidding. If Priscilla was the mistress of Beelzebub, that would explain why nothing I could threaten her with scared her at all.

I thought it might be worthwhile to put this little demon-possessed theory to the test. I sat down at my computer and pulled up something really complicated—my on-line blog account; that would make a good test. I wore a cross and said three prayers before I started, hoping to cleanse the motherboard, or whatever.

I typed in the address of my account. “You have signed out of this account, please close all browsers,” the servants of evil and misrule intoned.

“I did not sign out, I have all the information right here, you daughter of darkness. Now, in the name of all that is holy and good, open my account!” For good measure, I grabbed the metal plaque off the wall in my office that says, “When I am afraid, I will trust in you, oh lord.” As I was bringing it across my work area, it hooked on a corner of the desk and landed on my keyboard, breaking three keys and cutting my finger.

Yup, Mr. Brooks, technology is the devil…and it’s really kind of mean too!