Tag Archives: family

June 19, 2026 · 7:10 am

Cooking Gone to the Dogs

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Jackie Wells-Fauth

So, it’s come to this. After years of deprecating my own cooking skills and proving time and again that I probably don’t have any, vindication may have arrived. I might finally have a fan.

Only trouble is, she has four legs, a tail and lacks the ability to brag about my culinary arts. That’s right: the fan of my cooking is Josie, our golden retriever.

Now, Josie and I have had a rocky relationship over the years. It’s no secret that when it comes to human companions, she prefers Roy…and I’m fine with that.

But it is also true that she has a hankering for people food. Occasionally, if I forget to put the top on the butter dish, I will walk into the kitchen to see a cleanly licked butter platter and a supremely satisfied dog.

There is also the time that we were sitting in the living room when we were struck by lapping sounds and a metallic tapping on the kitchen counter. We discovered the dog had helped herself to half a chocolate pie—that was all she could reach. I’ve heard that chocolate can kill a dog, but Josie has consumed at least a boatload and she’s still going!

But about my cooking. Josie had a tough time a couple of weeks ago. She went through several days where she could not keep anything down and she just laid around, not moving all day. She lost all interest in any food, including the popcorn she usually gets from Roy in the evenings. When she refuses that, you know she’s sick.

We watched her struggle for a couple of days and then we couldn’t stand it. So, we bundled her up and went to see the friendly local vet. The people at the vet clinic were so good. They checked Josie over and gave her a shot for nausea. Then, the vet said, “Maybe, instead of dog food, try some scrambled eggs or something that might be easier to keep down.”

Interesting suggestion. The vet was suggesting I cook for the dog. As that was sinking in, I looked at Josie and I knew just what she was thinking: “Please, I’ve seen her cooking. It’s inhumane to expect me to eat it. At least give me another nausea shot!”

As unenthused as she might have been, it suddenly struck me that I had reached a new  low as well: I had been reduced from cooking for unenthusiastic humans to cooking for a dog who wasn’t keeping much down.

It did occur to me, however, that there was some additional pressure: if that poor dog were to die after eating my food, my inadequate cooking skills would graduate to killer status.

Nevertheless, do not let it be said that I did not rise to the challenge. I got out my pan and my eggs. The dog watched me with no enthusiasm. She had no hope, but I knew I could do this. I scrambled the eggs—I even used butter—and holding my breath, tipped them into her pan.

At first, she just sniffed it. Finally, she took a small bite. Then, a little more and a little more. She never “wolfed” it down as they say, but within the half hour the dish was empty—and she held it down!

We decided two mornings of scrambled eggs would be good, just to get her over the hump. By the third evening, we filled her dish with regular dog food. She looked at it and then at me as if to say, “What is this garbage? Where is my freshly cooked meal?”

She abandoned her dish and came and watched Roy and I consume our ham and potatoes. She drooled a little. After the meal, she stood in the kitchen and watched me pack all the leftovers into the refrigerator.

Then and only then, with the air of Joan of Arc headed to the stake, she went to her bowl and ate.

“What was that all about?” Roy asked.

“Isn’t it obvious?” I replied. “The dog is a fan of my cooking.”

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June 12, 2026 · 1:02 pm

Wanda and Me

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Jackie Wells-Fauth

We were sitting in the living room the other night when suddenly, from the stairs leading to the lower level, came what my grandmother would call, “an unholy racket.”

“What is going on?” Roy, startled from his reading, inquired.

“That’s nothing,” I replied, “it’s just Wanda.”

“We have a woman named Wanda rattling metal in our basement?” he said, astonished. “Why did no one tell me?”

“Wanda! Knock off the noise!” I hollered. “Don’t make me come down there!”

But I was just posturing. Wanda and I both know that when she is making those noises, I’m going to have to go down eventually and slap her around a little. It happens every time.

You see, Wanda and I have known each other for about ten years now. That’s how long she has lived in my basement, washing my clothes.

“Wanda, since you don’t seem to know, is our washing machine,” I told Roy in a rather superior voice.

“You’ve named the washing machine Wanda?” He seemed neither entertained nor surprised.

“When you work as closely as Wanda and I do, you get personal,” I explained to him.

And it’s true. Wanda and I have been together long enough to understand each other. We share more secrets and quirks than coffee klatch buddies.

For instance, I understand that if I want my underwear to not end up wound around the base of the washer, I will wash it on a gentler cycle. That way, Wanda won’t sling it around like she’s a stripper on a pole and twist it irrevocably into the inner workings of the washer.

When I put clothes into the washer, I understand that Wanda is a delicate and well-balanced flower. Therefore, I must lay the clothes in the washer with the precision of a master brick-layer. Because if I don’t, Wanda gets out of balance and throws a very noisy temper tantrum.

Wanda knows that when she does do the “jump and shout out of balance dance,” I will be down to jerk her back into place with a few choice words of my own added. To tell the truth, I think she enjoys my temper tantrums because I often think I see her hiding a smirk in the laundry soap bubbles!

And that brings me to the biggest argument between Wanda and me (outside of “what did you do with the other sock this time?”). We can’t agree on a laundry detergent. She favors the big jugs of liquid, the more additives the better.

I have tried everything (to avoid that). I even went to the pods, but she would chew them up and spit them back on the clothes so that nothing short of a hurricane could get them off. Finally, I thought, “Well, let’s try one of those environmentally friendly sheets or tabs. That should be good.”

Wanda scoffed in disdain. “I’m sorry, but did you mean for me to use that excuse for laundry soap?!” We have ultimately agreed to disagree—meaning we do it her way.

Roy has finally recovered a little from me giving the washing machine a name. “It’s a good thing the dryer is new, you haven’t had time to get hostile with it,” he joked.

“Dougie the Dryer? Oh don’t get me started! He eats so many socks, he makes Wanda look like she’s on a diet…”

If you see Roy at the laundromat, tell him Wanda and Dougie say hello.

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June 5, 2026 · 1:50 am

Rat in a Trap

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Jackie Wells-Fauth

It should have been so simple. I mean; most problems I encounter have simple solutions; if only I stop to work them out. Then, no problem, right?

But on the particular occasion in question, I couldn’t (okay or didn’t) do that. And consequently, the problem quickly became complicated.

My cousin was out of town but had graciously offered me the use of her house on the occasion of my needing a place to stay for a couple of nights. She is so sweet, and her lovely house was just the place for me to crash at night.

She gave me the garage door code and after my usual struggle with any technology, I was able to enter. I spent a relaxing and comfortable night and was so very grateful for the hospitality. Then, it came time to pack up and leave.

I had no key, so I couldn’t leave by the front door with its deadlock. I also couldn’t leave by the back deck door and lock it from the outside. This was a real pickle. How did I exit this beautiful home and lock it with no key?

Don’t worry, I found the perfect solution. I would just outrun the overhead garage door and get out that way!

Now, nobody has told me and I have never learned on my own, that you can actually close a coded garage door by simply stepping outside of it and punching in the code again. The door will then shut and everything’s locked up tight.

But since I didn’t know this, the neighbors were entertained by watching me hit the opener switch by the house door in the garage and then run for all I’m worth, trying to get under the door as it closes and not get caught, making the door automatically go back up again. It didn’t work. The door re-opened every time! I couldn’t leave with the garage door hanging open. Now what?

No problem, though. They have a side yard. I went out the back garage door carefully re-locking it, of course, and went around the outside of the garage. That’s when I discovered that when my cousin and her husband installed a high wooden fence, they enclosed ALL of the backyard–including the space on the sides of the house. I returned to the back garage door. Yup, I had locked that thing up tight.

I was boxed in and locked out. It was ridiculous! I couldn’t be trapped! But I was. I considered calling out, but what do you say?

“Can anybody hear me? I’m trapped in the backyard of this house that doesn’t belong to me! Could you help?” Talk about alienating the neighbors. They would be avoiding my cousin for years after that, telling each other that her relatives were nuts!

What to do, what to do? I should be able to reason it out. There were some supporting rails running horizontally along the inside of the fence. For one wild minute I considered climbing over the top, but I didn’t like my chances getting up on the backside, let alone surviving the sheer drop on the other side.

It was while I was on the back deck looking through the windows at the inside of the house like a stray cat, that I finally faced the fact that I was going to have to call the police and hope they believed my story and didn’t arrest me for trespassing. And it was at about the same time I remembered that my phone was in my car…on the other side of the fence.

Now I got out of that backyard on my own power, but I would rather not tell you how, because I want you to still think of me as a person of reasonable intelligence–and no prison record.

But I will tell you this: An overhead garage door will both open and shut by using the code. I can be taught!

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May 29, 2026 · 11:10 am

Calendar Girl

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Jackie Wells-Fauth

I am a person who is devoted to calendar watching. I have to be, because otherwise I wouldn’t be able to remember what day it is, let alone the month or year! When I get up in the morning, I chant to myself, “Today is Thursday, May 14 in the year of our Lord 2026.” Okay, I don’t say, “year of our Lord” but it sounds elegant and sophisticated.

I am a devoted calendar girl. I always carry a large, book-sized calendar and when I am making any kind of appointments or plans, I have that calendar in front of me to write it all down. I refer to it fondly as “my brains.” And because of all this care and attention, I manage to make it to about half of the things I have scheduled!

I do try. I check it every day at breakfast and then hope that I will still remember that I have a hair appointment at 2:00 that same afternoon! People give me those little appointment cards, and I am grateful for them. But if I don’t transfer that information immediately to the calendar, I’m in trouble. The cards accumulate in my purse and get used to make other notes on, or to mark a page in a book, or just to pick my teeth, but I must have the appointments they proclaim written down on the calendar or I will be getting a call: “Yeah, this is the eye doctor—just wondering if you remembered your appointment that is like, now!”

It’s disconcerting: I have had to rush to massage appointments in my sweaty garden clothes or the dentist’s office with sticky caramel desserts still on my teeth! This year, I even tried putting together two calendars: one for carrying with me and one for my desk at home. Surely that would make me more efficient. It doesn’t. Now, I just miss half of the appointments on one calendar (that I didn’t write on the other one) and half of the appointments on the other calendar!

My children did not inherit this problem. In particular, Tracie has developed her father’s strong sense of organization. She is, of course, using a calendar that is on-line and she refers to it as “the family calendar”—each and every time she gently (or not so gently) reminds me of an event that should be there.

“I didn’t realize that you guys were going to Colorado next week,” I whine. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“It’s on the family calendar,” she replies (somewhat smugly I think) “Haven’t you been checking it?”

“Oh, sure! That’s right, I just forgot about it,” I say, even though we both know that I probably couldn’t find the family calendar with both hands, a flashlight and tech support.

So, I decided that it would be good training for me to try to use the calendar on my phone. Then, when I have mastered that, I could go on to tackle “the family calendar.” I got out my paper calendar and began entering events on my phone’s calendar. I was so excited when I got it all done! It was so easy! I might be ready to master the family calendar after all!

Except when I started checking events, every one of them was listed as starting at 9:00 pm. Birthdays, anniversaries, appointments of all kinds—every one was on that calendar at 9:00 pm. Well, that’s ridiculous! What good is a calendar where everything is automatically at 9:00 pm? You’d think they would have some way to set a time…oh, there it is. I forgot to make that little spinny thing turn around to the proper time. So, I spent another hour trying to make that ugly, uncooperative time wheel spin correctly. That little bugger spins really fast and now, not everything is at 9:00 pm, but there are a couple that stopped spinning at 1:00 am! And I decided I would just be fine with that!

All right. So now, between the appointment cards, the two paper calendars and the phone calendar, I’ve got my schedule all down. No more missing appointments or forgetting birthdays for me! It takes me an hour and a half to check what’s going on for any given day, and most of them don’t sync with each other, but I’m on the right track, okay?

So now, all that’s left is to tackle “the family calendar.” I either have to figure it out (without direction from the Microsoft corporation) or I have to admit that I can’t make it work. And that’s going to be a little tricky.

“Mom, I heard that you are planning to visit next month. I don’t see it on the family calendar,” Tracie said this last week.

“About that, I’m sending you a letter through the US mail complete with stamps and everything. Be looking for it. It’s called, “Confessions from a failed Calendar Girl.”

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April 24, 2026 · 8:44 am

Goliath Awakens

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Jackie Wells-Fauth

It had to happen. My peaceful, lazy existence over the past few months had to end sometime and this weekend was apparently the start of a new era at our house.

Between some health issues and a busy work time, Roy has left household projects pretty much up to me for the last few months. And I will admit that those “projects” have consisted only of the things I had to do. I like to call my attitude laid-back, but in reality, you’d probably label me lazy. Knowing that about myself, perhaps I should have searched for a lazy partner, but I like my choice—except when he decides to do a project. And even worse, when he decides I need to help.

That is how this weekend went. I have stacked, piled and otherwise mis-located the materials from three rooms of the basement. I had to do that in order for some work to be done in the laundry room and the two bedrooms. However, now the disorder is clogging up the family room and even worse, the weight room. Roy’s sensibilities are offended by this disorder, but up until now, he really wasn’t up to doing anything about it.

I believe the expression “Goliath awakens” had new meaning in our house. Roy had put up with the mess in the basement as long as he was willing to. He appeared in the bedroom doorway where I was contemplating the quiet and considering how many hours I could spend doing nothing.

“I want to do some work on the basement and I need your help,” he announced.

“Oh sure. I have a million things to do, and you think I should just drop everything and help you,” I snarled.

He looked at my prone position on the bed and my empty hands and replied, “I think I can live with myself.”

So down to the basement I stomped. And he was clearly determined to start a fight. His first question was, “What do we have down here that we can throw away?”

In my house, those are fighting words. Obviously, everything I have down there…for instance the three boxes of papers that came from my father, aunt and grandmother (all deceased for some years) is very important. Perhaps, among the old receipts, empty bank books and long-paid bills, there could be the deed to a forgotten gold mine. I can’t throw those things away!

He gritted his teeth and put them on the storage shelves. Then he picked up two garbage bags. “Are these both just garbage?”

One bag contained the remnants of the quilt my grandmother made me as a girl. Someday, I’m going to reconstruct it. I snatched that bag away and made a grab for the other one.

“You said this dehydrator hadn’t been used in years and might not even work anymore,” he said, holding onto it. “Or did this belong to your great uncle Harry and can’t be touched.” Sometimes he can be so ridiculous. I don’t even have a great uncle Harry!

It was a long afternoon. Instead of relaxing and enjoying the peaceful atmosphere, I was in a death battle with a man determined to throw away things like the crumpled remains of a Halloween decoration I haven’t put out for Halloween in 20 years. When it was over, the storage shelves could once again hold everything we were saving and he could use his weight room without having to squeeze past the Christmas decorations.

He was in a much better mood, but I wasn’t. He interrupted my favorite activity—doing nothing—for my least favorite activity—throwing away junk I have accumulated over the years. Goliath had truly awakened, but that in turn had awakened Hera—the most vengeful wife in mythology!

“I’m going to walk the dog,” he said, “you want to join us?”

“No!” I snapped. “I’m very busy right now. I have a column to write.”

He didn’t ask what it would be about!

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April 3, 2026 · 2:27 am

Except for the pain

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Jackie Wells-Fauth

Before I begin, I would like to state in no uncertain terms that I am grateful beyond words for the fine medical care available in Miller. Not only the doctors, but the long-suffering hospital nurses and aides who have to put up with me the most—especially when I am in pain! Thank you all!

And my pain is the topic of my column this week. Not that there’s anything funny about that, but sometimes my adventures with it bring their own comic relief. Without that, it would really be…well, a pain!

My medical woes come from an unpredictable, incapacitating pain in the joints. It’s never brought on by any trigger; just a random, happy notion that can hit anywhere from my jaw to my toes. Its favorite target, however, seems to be a knee or a hip—either one on either side will do. Just so my leg is immovable without a considerable amount of bad language and pain.

Now, these attacks appear to be random, but I don’t think it’s such a happy accident that they like to hit late—after medical office hours and especially long after Roy has gone to sleep.

I’ll wager some of his least enjoyable moments in married life are when I pull him from a sound sleep with the loving words, “Roy, wake up; I’m in terrible pain!”

“What shall I do?” comes the sleepy voice from the dark.

“Take me to the emergency room or shoot me; right now, I don’t really care which you choose!” I lied. I do care, but I always like to make sure he has options.

Then comes the whole procedure of getting me to the car…down the front steps and into a vehicle…hopefully without bending my leg too much. He has learned that there is no possible way to do this gently, so he assists the best he can and when necessary, bends the leg for me. I’m always glad when he does that. “Oh! My Lord! D**m it! Thank you so much, dear!”

Now one of the first things I ever noticed about Roy was that he is always very dapper in his appearance. He’s always dressed appropriately and neatly for whatever errand he is on. That’s why it has to be so hard for him to take me to the hospital in the middle of the night, because my nightwear is not exactly designer and I am not inclined at those moments to get changed.

Mind you, at that point, I don’t care if I walk in dressed like Lady Godiva; I just want to get there. But Roy does care and he knows I will care later, so he tries to drape my pajama rags around me as best he can and away we go.

Once we get to the emergency room, his job kind of slows down. He knows from vast experience that the medical people are going to take good care of me and that once I stop screaming that “somebody please for the love of heaven do something about the pain or hit me in the head,” (I wonder how often that appeals to them) he can relax.

The problem, of course, is now, he’s up in the middle of the night, with a day’s work ahead tomorrow and he has to sit around and wait for me to finally decide that I’m going to live yet another day because the aforementioned fine medical care takes care of the problems.

A lot of times he’s a little out of what has happened. This last time, they asked if I had vomited. At the same time, I said, “Yes,” and he said, “No.”

I turned to him showing him my gown and its suspicious stains and said, “Stay away from the small wastebasket in the living room. You won’t like it.”

He cares so much. He is so diligent about getting me there, but he is also in need of his sleep. However, I don’t worry about him so much anymore. The first time I was in, he sat in a very comfortable chair near me and just as I was really freaking out about the pain and keeping him up, I distinctly heard a snore come from directly behind me! I was getting what I needed, and he was getting what he needed. That’s fair.

Every time I have one of these midnight adventures, I pray it’s the last one. I’ve learned enough about the problem, though, to know it might not be; and that’s okay, I guess. After all, I have the best ambulance driver in the world and the best care for the problem. I think I’ll live to fight another day!

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March 6, 2026 · 10:35 pm

In the year 2525…

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Jackie Wells-Fauth

I will admit that I have always looked on home communication systems (AI systems) as a challenge: What can I possibly do to mess them up?

“Hey Siri, what was my nickname in the seventh grade?”

“I am sorry, I do not have enough information to answer that question.”

“Uh huh, not as smart as you thought, are you, Siri?”

“I am sorry, I do not have enough information to answer that question, Red Top.” I will admit that one was a little unnerving! I’m glad I didn’t ask it how much I weigh or what the nuclear launch codes are—a couple of things, I wouldn’t want it to go looking for!

Climbing on my usual soapbox, I profoundly object to the fact that we are working on machines to not only dry our hair and cook our food, but to anticipate our every wish and answer questions that we did not necessarily intend for them to even hear.

I have been in homes in which the Alexa or Siri or whatever AI systems, have been installed. Okay, it’s nice to be able to tell it to turn off the lights, because I am getting too old and arthritic to want to do the “clap on, clap off” thing any more. But when I step in something unidentifiable and shout, “What the heck was that?” I am not really looking for Alexa to give me a list of vivid possibilities, “Milk, mashed potato, cat pee, feces….”

I’m uncomfortable with any device that can engage in conversation with me, but now I’m told they can actually drive me to the store and then comment on which dress looks nicest on me; that is a little too far. That is when I start singing that old 60s song, “In the Year 2525.” We’re getting there!

This week, I saw an advertisement for an AI system that will literally insult you if you ask it to. Truly! That is the limit. We have rampant hunger, disease and war in the world and you think the biggest problem is that I need help with being insulted! As my husband said, “Then what am I good for?”

It’s probably jealousy on my part, but I hold the hand phone responsible for a lot. You can pay for anything with it, order movies with it, start your car with it, make lists and calendars on it, check your mail deliveries and know just when packages and food will arrive at your door. Considering I spend half my time looking for mine, this could be a problem!

My favorite of all the recent innovations, however, is the camera that is in the doorbell. Now, for the past 30 years, I have struggled to find a way to make a doorbell work in my house. We have tried system after system and we still find ourselves telling people, “You may want to knock—that’s where you rap your knuckles on the wood—our doorbell is taking the week off.”

BUT if your doorbell works properly, you can attach a camera that, with the proper set-up, will show you your own front step! I suppose this is intended so that we are able to watch what’s happening around our property when we are miles away. We will know about but can’t help it if the outdoor cat gets sprayed by a skunk or it rains on the shoes we accidentally left outside. I think it would be most useful, however, for telling you if someone (or something) undesirable is outside when you are at home.  It could sound some sort of alarm telling you to stay away from the door!

For myself, I don’t need the camera, since when I’m away, I don’t want to worry about the house, and when I’m home, I have few enough callers that I never contemplate not answering the door…except for the time the guy was standing outside my door with an ax. I admit, I didn’t answer that call, but then again, I didn’t need a doorbell camera to tell me that!

I know, I know, these things are the wave of the future, but I will admit, I’m not all that impressed. I went shopping for a new stove recently. I saw stoves that adjusted their heat, could be set to turn on at a specific time, and had burners for boiling and burners for melting and burners for frying. There were stoves that told you when the bread is done and how many minutes they suggest for a good casserole. But me? I went looking until I found one with four burners, four knobs to turn them on and without the ability to utter a word when I’m cooking! It would be wrong for an appliance to swear!

How do you like them apples, Siri?

“I am sorry, I do not have enough information to answer that question, Red Top.”

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February 27, 2026 · 7:18 pm

Not Making It

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Jackie Wells-Fauth

Don’t worry, this isn’t some comment on my mental health. That remains as it always was—a little crazy. No, “Not Making It” is my official declaration on the state of the beds in my house.

Somewhere, far back in time, I imagine some uptight prehistoric woman. She was tidying her cave one morning, when she decided, “The furs in our sleeping nook need to be laid out straight.” So every morning after that, she spent ten minutes tugging and pulling and smoothing to make the furs look neat. And that was ten minutes less she had to spend on skinning whatever was for dinner.

A few millennia later, the lady of the castle looked at the bulging, billowing feather and straw mattresses and said, “You know what, the maids don’t have enough to do. In addition to the covers on those beds, let’s add some smooth undergarments that we can shove the mattresses into to make them look neater.” And so sheets were born.

And if I could touch a stone and travel in time like they do in Outlander, I would go back to both of those eras with one simple question: Why?

Also, where in our country’s Constitution does it say, “We the People (Women) in order to form a more perfect bedroom, must each day “make” the bed.” And I’m not perfect on the Bible, but I don’t remember it being in there either that while Moses was parting the Red Sea, some woman would be back in the tent, making up the bed so the Pharoah wouldn’t think they were slobs!

If you come to my house on any day where people have spent the night, you may not want to look in the bedrooms if the sight of rumpled bedding upsets you. I’m willing to bet most people in charge of the family’s housework won’t mind a bit! And while we’re being candid, the beds are more than rumpled. You’d be lucky if all the blankets and sheets were still on the mattress!

When I am truly distressed, I will have nightmares. The most traumatic dream is one in which I have been locked in a 20-story hotel and I can’t leave until I’ve made all the beds! The worst part is that when I wake up in a cold sweat from this nightmare, I realize I’m going to have to change the bedding. More trauma!

Perhaps the most heinous crime of all was the invention of the “fitted sheet.” Now, when it comes to putting them on the bed, I get it. It makes it easier to keep it in place. But when it has to be untwisted from the dryer and folded, it’s a little like hanging curtains in a high wind—there aren’t enough hands to do it! Everyone has their own method; mine consists of starting to fold, getting frustrated and wadding up the sheet and cramming it in the closet. This works for me!

And then, there are those people who think I really want to do these things; I just need some instruction on how to do it. They are wrong. I once read an article that said making the bed was easy if you just woke up in the morning, and before you got up, you used your toes to straighten the bedding. I tried that once; I put out both hips and got cramps in every toe. The beds stay unmade.

The day I read that it is actually healthier to leave the bed unmade for a time to let it air out, I celebrated for a week—the approximate time I left the bed open to “air.” Think about it: this is a great out. If someone comes and your bed is unmade, you just tell them, “Oh, I’m thinking of my health and letting the bed air out.”

I have decided that it is time for me to write some instructive articles on bed making myself. “Leave it open to air in the morning. Remove all lumpy objects: coffee cups, cracker crumbs, books, etc. That night, wrap yourself in the quilt and fall into the bed, it will have aired enough by then—it’s safe.”

And so I say to the overly enthusiastic cave girl and the ambitious lady of the manor—handling beds is very simple: I’m not making it!

I’ll sleep so much better tonight—and the blankets won’t be smooth!

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February 15, 2026 · 12:59 pm

A very cold shoulder

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Jackie Wells-Fauth

It has been a tough winter in a lot of ways. But then, I never like winter. I whine about the cold, feel trapped indoors, whine about the cold, do everything but “mainline” my vitamins and oh, did I mention, I whine about the cold!

In the winter, all of my bad habits magnify: I eat too much, move too little and watch television, even in my sleep! An episode of Midsommer Murders came on the other day and as the opening credits were scrolling, I said, “This is the one about the witch murders. The killer is the priest.” I need an outdoor hobby.

With all of this fun and weather setting new cold records, I woke up one morning, in a particularly foul mood. The weather forecasters were gleefully predicting the lowest temperatures of the year that night and I was already cold. In fact, I was even cold while I was still in bed.

I got up, drank a lot of coffee and wrapped my feet in a heavy towel. The day kept getting colder. I built a small fire in the wood-burning stove downstairs, but I couldn’t sit by the stove because then I couldn’t watch the Midsommer Murders episode where the local nobility was having affairs with local women and then killing them off. So, I sat upstairs wrapped in blankets and growled about the weather.

Roy came home a little after five on that fine Friday and immediately said, “It’s cold in here!” My answer was muffled in all the blankets, so he went over to the temperature control on the wall, checked it, and announced, “The furnace isn’t running!”

Now, to fully understand the situation, you have to know that the furnace has been pretty much on life-support for the last three years. Every year, during the worst of the winter, we usually have to reset it or worse, call a repairman. And every year, the thought goes through our minds that we should replace it, but oh, it got through the winter, we’ll hang on a little longer.

Until this year, on the coldest night of the year, when the furnace finally called it quits. The repairman, bless his soul, came out on a Saturday morning in sub-zero weather to pronounce that although he got it running, it was now officially in hospice. A new furnace was needed. But then the repairman stood in my laundry/storage room and announced, “All the shelves and stuff are going to need to be moved.” That’s cold, man!

I tried to keep it cheerful. I cleaned everything on the shelves and helped Roy remove the planks that make up our storage shelves. “We work so well together, we should open our own construction business,” I chirped, as we were maneuvering the planks out the door and around the corner.

“No we shouldn’t,” he grumbled. “Watch it, don’t hit that wall!”

We cleaned out the room, the furnace people installed a new furnace and I was able to retire the electric blanket I’d been wearing as socks. I even did a good job putting the storage items back on the shelves.

“Where is everything?” Roy asked when he came down and looked at the half-empty shelves.

“Everything’s here that’s supposed to be,” I answered, “just don’t look in the garbage can.”

Our new furnace is working well and you can all thank us for the warm weather we’ve been having since we got it. It’s working so well, in fact, that we decided on some more improvements in the laundry room.

“Well, what did you find out?” Roy came home from work and asked about my meeting with the repairman.

“Oh, it’s going to work well and it won’t cost too much,” I answered. “All we have to do to prepare is…clear out all the shelving in the laundry room.”

Now I’m getting a cold shoulder from a different source!

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December 19, 2025 · 7:19 am

Opulent Outlook

Photo by Jou00e3o Gustavo Rezende on Pexels.com

Jackie Wells-Fauth

I read a long list of hints or household tips for making my house look richer than it is. This was kind of a shock, since I don’t plan to have Elon Musk or anyone of the kind over for a visit and if I did, they could put up with the squalor that is my comfortable house.

The tips were, to say the least, rather amusing. I didn’t go through all of them because there were forty-five (it takes a lot to make your house look rich, apparently), but a few of them did catch my eye and some of them made me howl with laughter, the laughter of the poor, obviously.

The first tip I would like to address has to do with my cushions. The tip is to add matching cushion covers to all of my soft furniture. If I could find cushion covers that would match, I can’t imagine why I would want my house to look like the impersonal waiting room at a large business firm. My mix of blues and yellows, grays and oranges catches the eye as you walk into my house. If I want to feel rich about this conglomeration, I would tell you that my style is “eclectic.” That sounds very snobby and upper crust, right?

It suggested that to look wealthy, I should use trays to group décor. What décor? On the same note, it said to declutter open areas. So, I ask, what open areas?

“Hang curtains higher to elongate a room.” Does this really make me look richer or just too stupid to correctly hang curtains?

Then they got nasty. “Make your bed every day.” Let’s not get crazy here! And “Use two pillows each side for hotel vibes.” Am I really going for hotel vibes? And finally, “Tuck your throw at the foot of the bed.” This is not where I usually need a throw!

“Decant pantry items into matching jars.” Decant…what a nice, snobby word. And the bag the noodles come in will work just fine, thank you! “Use glass containers or baskets in the fridge.” Answer me one question: If I’m so rich, why am I giving tours of my refrigerator? “Wipe down cupboard fronts regularly.” I want to look rich, not obsessive!

“Keep cleaning products out of sight.” Because…rich people don’t have cleaning products? “Keep one candle, reed diffuser or eucalyptus in the shower.” There are several problems here, beginning with why would rich people invite others into the shower, how would you keep a candle lit in the shower and what the heck is a reed diffuser???

“Add a small hand towel on the basin, folded neatly.” I can’t tell you how this would make me look richer. Also, I can’t tell you how fast it would no longer be “folded neatly” at the side of the basin. I’m trying to imagine explaining to Roy, “Yes, this is a towel and no, you are not to use it; I want other people to see it, and think we are rich.”

“Move furniture slightly away from walls.” So…in the middle of the room? I like furniture placed as the good lord intended—plastered against the wall, scraping the paint.

“Keep entryways clear and welcoming.” If I do that, how will people know where to leave their shoes and coats without mine thrown right there in front of them, to give them the hint?

“Declutter one thing from every room.” This is the first really good idea I have read. And the first thing I’m going to declutter from the living room is the magazine containing the article about tips for looking richer!

I’ve given it a lot of consideration, and I’ve decided to stay with my lower middle-class house-with-a-lived-in-look-to-it status. I’m sorry if this means Elon Musk won’t consider my home grand enough to visit. I confess, however, that I would like to visit his house (or one of them). I want to look in his shower to find out what a reed diffuser is!

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