Tag Archives: health

August 27, 2026 · 9:10 am

Tupperware fallout

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Jackie Wells-Fauth

Why is it that those Tupperware dishes (and by Tupperware, I mean any plastic storage ware) can’t hang onto their partners? They lose each other faster than Bo Peep lost her sheep!

I have fourteen square plastic lids in my cupboard and 19 round bowls. If there are rectangular lids, they do not fit my rectangular dishes and there is never the right number of lids for the number of dishes, regardless of whether they fit or not. This is a perplexing conundrum.

These random thoughts came to me as I was digging through the cupboard for a dish and a lid that vaguely resembled each other to store some leftovers. As I was pawing through the containers on the second shelf, the stack of old cottage cheese containers (just the containers) on the third shelf hit me in the head.

That is the first time that plastic containers have openly assaulted me, but make no mistake, they have it in for me. They do whatever is necessary to make my life miserable.

“What in the world are you keeping in this cupboard? It’s a plastic nightmare,” Roy observed, peering into the jumbled mass one night.

“It so happens that this is the Tupperware containers cupboard,” I responded in an offended voice. After all, I am well aware that the cupboard resembles the aftermath of a nuclear explosion.

“Tupperware is putting out bowls that say, ‘Cool Whip’ on the side?” he asked sarcastically.

“Those work as storage containers—at least for as long as the flimsy lids last.”

“Same with cottage cheese containers and the ‘I Can’t Believe It’ s Not Butter’ butter bowls,” he continued, picking through the debris that is the Tupperware cupboard.

“Those dishes work for leftovers, and they fit just as well in the refrigerator,” I insisted.

“Yes, and they make it impossible to tell if you are actually getting cottage cheese, or a seriously decomposed leftover helping of broccoli,” he stated. “I still get nauseated thinking about that.”

“Those dishes save me a considerable amount of money. Do you know how much custom storage dishes cost?” I insisted.

“Do you know what decades-old broccoli looks like?” he shot back, adding, “It would probably help if you cleaned out this storage disaster. You could match dishes with their lids and see how many don’t work.”

“Now, why didn’t I think of that? It just so happens that I cleaned this cupboard less than a month ago,” I defended.

“And…”

“I ended up with twelve containers without matching lids and 20 lids that had no match and I’m not sure they ever did,” I reported. “I threw out so much Tupperware that there was a rumor that we were moving.”

It’s true, I did clean it out recently. I stacked all the bowls of the same size, with their corresponding lids under them. I put the large rectangular dishes next to the small ones and had everything neatly stacked.

And for a week I was diligent about keeping things organized. After that, the Chaos Gremlin tossed everything around and I was too busy to keep to the plan and soon I was cramming dishes in there and trying to get the door shut before the whole thing rained down on me like confetti at the Christmas parade!

I justified my behavior: after all, how uptight do you have to be to want your bowls and lids to actually match? If you put the food in a small bowl, you can balance a larger lid on it and that will keep things in order, right?

The plain fact of the matter is that Tupperware lids do not remain loyal to their corresponding dishes. It is much the same truth as can be applied to socks going into the dryer. Until someone invents a method to keep these things together, my Tupperware dishes and lids will continue to have separation anxiety.

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August 20, 2026 · 2:27 am

What happens when therapy gets physical

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Jackie Wells-Fauth

You know those round, silver disability buttons you can push to open a door? Those are a remarkably handy invention. And it’s one I always thanked heaven I didn’t have to use. In fact, I thought it would be kind of a lazy act for a person who can perfectly well open a door to push those silver buttons. Hold that thought.

After the rigors of having my knee replaced, I was passed on to a process known as physical therapy. Everyone told me, “Oh, just you wait! Physical therapy is also known as torture. You are in for a horrible experience.” Well, I’m still waiting for that myth to happen!

Now, I don’t know how many of you have been in the physical therapy section of our local hospital, but I have spent enough time there lately to consider myself a bit of an expert on the topic. In fact, I have learned several truths about physical therapy.

For instance, they don’t mind at all if you whine. I go in frequently (early in the morning usually) and I always feel like I’m sacrificing myself by going. After all, that’s a lot of work and my knee is sore, and I’m tired, and I’d rather go out to breakfast. As I said, they don’t mind at all if you whine. They also don’t listen. They have heard it all, and they further know that in order to get me past the whining, they are going to have to (as my grandmother would say) turn a deaf ear.

Now, that’s not to say they are unsympathetic. They are extremely sympathetic and they work hard on their facial expressions to keep it sympathetic. It’s just that if they listen to all of my complaints, and all of my whining about the machines being too heavy and my knees being too delicate, they know that in a few months’ time the machines will still be too heavy and my delicate knees will not have improved at all. And that is not the point of my being there!

Second thing I learned: there are some words they don’t know the meaning of. For instance, they seem not to know what “can’t” means. “But Kayla, I can’t stand up without using my arms.” “No Marissa, I can’t walk over those little track hurdles of yours.” “Forget it, Bobbie, I can’t bend my knee that far.” “You must be joking, Tim, I can’t go upstairs with a walker.” They apparently don’t have a definition for “can’t.” They continue to stand and look at me until I move.

And upon reflection, this part might be my own fault. After telling them I can’t do something, it is not good training for them if I turn around and do the very thing I said I “simply can’t do.” This behavior gives them the idea that I was just whining, and since I have eventually done all of those things, then I most certainly can do them! How did they know?

When you are in physical therapy, it is important to keep your eye on the therapist, because they are kind of tricky. “Why is it so much harder to move that forty-pound weight today? I could do it last time!” I will grouse; certain I have gone backwards. “That’s because I put up the 60 pound one today,” will come the answer. I never saw that coming.

And that brings us to my biggest observation: the ankle weights. They insist on having me do some of the exercises with an ankle weight. In vain have I told them that I will not be wearing ankle weights in normal activities. And there again, you have to keep your eye on them. “Wow, this five-pound weight is heavier than I remember.” “That’s because it’s ten pounds today.”

The biggest observation I have made about physical therapists is that they have to have a tremendous amount of patience. They have put up with my whining, changed my bandages, pushed me farther than I ever thought I could go, and because they did it all without strangling me, I have a new knee, and I am on the road to taking full advantage of it.

And that brings me back to those silver disability buttons to open the doors. I normally don’t use them, because they are for those who truly cannot open doors. However, after a good physical therapy session, I always push those buttons; not because I really need to, but because I figure that on those occasions, I’ve earned it!

Want to feel better in a real hurry? These guys have the answer. Thank you, physical therapists, I couldn’t have done it without you!

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July 24, 2026 · 4:10 am

Me and my Shadow…

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Jackie Wells-Fauth

Well, I have taken the plunge, so to speak, and had my left knee replaced. Now, this was a difficult choice for me, but one that I am assured–by everyone who knows–that I will be glad I did…after a while. I’m glad to be on the backside of the surgery, but it has had one unexpected consequence. I have acquired a new shadow.

One of the things you must have (other than a whole lot of ice) when you do knee surgery, is a walker. Now, I have no objection to a walker; I have indeed on rare occasion used one for a sore leg in the past and have been glad of it. However, this surgery has required that I take on a walker as my constant companion, for at least a few weeks.

This really doesn’t sound like that big a deal, I know, but it has required some adjustments. I have to remember each time I get up that I must bring along my four-legged friend. And usually, I am carrying something with me when I move, and this does not make my shadow happy.

“If you are going to carry that glass of tea, who is going to push me?” The walker will demand. “When you are operating me, I want all hands on the walker!”

I have learned the fine art of holding onto the walker and the coffee mug in the morning, both at the same time. Of course, I won’t say all the coffee makes it the whole way in the mug, but as long as I don’t splash the walker, it doesn’t complain!

I have discovered that the walker comes with a long list of demands. If I find a spot to sit in the house, the walker snaps, “That’s fine for you, but where is my spot? And don’t put me in the corner, like you did the last time, it’s so demeaning!”

Leaving the house is even more of a trial. Once I am in the car, what do I do with the walker? Should I put it in the back seat, like a second-class citizen or should I confine it to the trunk like so much luggage? By the time my shadow and I are loaded, it’s taken an extra half hour just to get started going anywhere.

In any public setting, the walker immediately becomes an issue. “Where am I going to sit?” it clearly demands, as it straddles the aisle, or blocks the seats behind it. Since folding it up and holding it in my lap is not an option, it means that wherever I go, my shadow makes it necessary for me to take up more room than usual. It makes staying home more and more appealing.

My walker definitely makes me feel bigger than I was before. By the time I have wiggled all six of our legs and the width of the walker, wrapped around my already considerable width, through a doorway, it makes me rethink that second doughnut I had for breakfast. I need twice the normal space to get around the living room, down the hall and into the bathroom.

While the walker may have problems with me, it has started an all-out war with the dog. She is not excited about my new companion and has attempted to play chicken with the walker on several occasions. So far, the score in that competition is Walker-10, Dog-0 and a well-stomped tail!

Possibly the greatest difficulty in my new shadow is that it does not automatically join me in my travels. Sometimes I forget that I need my mechanical companion and I take off on my own. Especially is this difficult when I wake up. I got up in the middle of the night and went to the kitchen for a drink. It was while I was reaching for a glass that I suddenly had that exposed feeling, like something was missing. That’s right, while I was having a drink in the kitchen, the walker was standing in the bedroom hollering, “Did we forget something…or someone?”

For anyone out there who is worried for me because of my knee replacement, you really shouldn’t be concerned about that. I am in very good hands. However, if you want to worry about the fact that I’m sitting at home having conversations with a walker, now that’s probably something you should worry about…

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July 17, 2026 · 9:35 am

A nurse I am not!

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Jackie Wells-Fauth

The medical world and its workers have always fascinated me. Imagine having that much knowledge of the workings of the human body! And it seems they discover something new every day. For an old hypochondriac like me, knowing that much about my body would be mentally unhealthy. I still remember being diagnosed with rheumatoid arthritis and having my doctor say, “Ask the questions here…don’t Google it.” She had no worries: if I had Googled it, I would have just updated my will and lit candles to wait for the end because I have no clue how to interpret medical data and generally come up with the wrong diagnosis! I will leave it to the professionals.

And now back to these medical professionals. It just so happens that I have made a few observations about those in the medical world myself. A recent stay in the hospital caused me to note a number of phenomena which prove to me that I will never be in the medical profession, because I couldn’t make it.

For instance, in order to be a nurse, I would have to keep an orderly watch on any number of people, made excessively crabby by their infirmities. And I would have to do this with empathy and no slapping the whiners around.

For an example of duties, as a nurse or other medical professional, I would have to touch urine containers, feces containers and highly aromatic bags of vomit, and anything else which might emit from the human body. I can barely force myself to handle a coffee filter filled with used coffee grounds and these people are handling much worse with calm assurance.

Were I to go into the medical field and someone were to hand me bags full of vomit (as I did to nurses this week) my reaction would be immediate. “You’ve got to be kidding! What do I look like, waste disposal???? Empty that yourself!”

They also have to be the kings and queens of optimism. While I am melting down over having to walk or not being able to salt my food, they are following along behind me and my walker declaring, “You’re doing great; you’re looking just beautiful.”

I find this a particularly endearing and brave comment for them to make considering that they are making a statement like that and sounding sincere, while what they are most likely looking at is my bare behind sticking out of the back of my gown as I go limping along. That is positivity!

Medical professionals are required to look at you with a straight face as they inquire about your poop output, and the quality of your urine—and they must look as though the answers are not going to gross them out. They are required to check out our mouths, our ears, our eyes and other orifices less pleasant so they can draw their conclusions on our health. I am never more aware of things like bad breath and the otherwise unwashed condition of my body than I am when someone has to check me out. They must explain to a horrified patient where they are going to check for body temperature and then proceed to do it—quickly—before the patient has time to consider!

One of the things I find most amazing is their dealings with drugs (nothing illegal implied). They can look through my list and discuss medications with me that follow no writing or speaking pattern. They pronounce the names with skill, overlooking the fact that the words defy any phonics or any alphabetical rule out there. What’s more, they know what these drugs do and whether or not they play nice with other drugs. Unbelievable. “Ma’am, do you take ****** (word unpronounceable)?

“I don’t know,” I stumble over a reply. “Is that the one that controls my blood pressure or handles my indigestion?” They keep good records of that and it’s a good thing, because the medicines confuse me considerably—even if I could pronounce the names.

I think the thing I most admire—especially in the nursing staff—is their ability to maintain an emotional balance. They must operate somewhere between too much sympathy (Oh, is that making you upset?) and the attitude of a prison guard in the 18th century (Suck it up, buttercup, it’s only going to get worse.) The fact that they can be both practical and encouraging says a lot about them.

Knowing as well as I do that I am not going to make a good nurse, it only remains for me to thank the nurses, nursing assistants, doctors, ect., for being willing to take on the job for me. Without them, there would be no one concerned about the state of my bodily functions and certainly not a soul who would want to help me with that vomit bag!

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May 15, 2026 · 7:03 am

Take a knee–please!

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Jackie Wells-Fauth

If anyone asks you in the next month or so, what I am up to, be so good as to tell them that I am having a baby. That is all they really need to know.

And of course, no I am obviously not having a baby. But it is a better story than what is actually happening and that is knee replacement. There, you see, the minute I say knee replacement, you immediately think of some horror story having to do with knee replacement! Or if you don’t, I have a few hundred that have been related to me every time I tell someone I am having a knee replaced.

So, until the operation is over and hopefully successful, I am just telling everyone that I am having a baby. No one has horror stories about that because most old women such as me don’t have babies. It’s a simple psychological trick so I don’t have to wonder, while listening to one more sad knee replacement story, whether I should stay with what I’ve got.

I assure you, however, that I have no desire to stay with what I’ve got. Ever since the doctor gave me the sad face a few years ago, “I’m afraid you’ll be facing knee replacement—on both knees,” I have known that this day was coming.

There were some false starts. The first stage I went through was, “Oh, well, I come from hardy stock—I can make do with the knees I have.” Then my knees began to formally protest any time I climbed up steps. Okay, I’m getting my knees replaced, and I’m starting with the right one; that’s the worst.

“Oh, my grandma had her knee replaced and they put it in backward. She never did walk right after that!” Okay, I can hold out a little longer.

Next, came shots. Now, those shots did help a little bit, but after a while the knees began to send up signals that the drugs were no longer doing the trick. By send up signals, I mean they would crack and pop like a bowl of Rice Krispies everytime I bent down to pick something up. Okay, I’m getting my knees replaced, and I’m starting with the left one because it sounds more ominous.

“My great aunt had knee surgery, and they had to go back in twice and readjust things.” No, I don’t know what that means and what’s more, I don’t want to know! I’ll just hang in there and suffer a little.

The next phase was braces. Just wear those elastic bands on your knees and everything will be fine. Except the braces wore nasty welts on the back of my legs which caused parts of my knees that had never created issues to start hurting. That’s it—I’m having my knees replaced, and I’m definitely starting with the right one because it protests more when I sit down or stand up.

“I don’t know…when my sister Carol had her knee replaced, she landed in the hospital with heart problems, and her knee hadn’t even healed yet at the time of her funeral.” Okay, if you insist, I’ll stick with the knees a little longer and put off that funeral as long as I can.

Now we are at the “I can no longer pretend that my knees are going to cooperate for the duration of my old age.” I crawled into the surgeon’s office (crawled is metaphorical—I haven’t been able to crawl on these bumpy joints since my last child left home) and announced, “Okay, okay, I give up! The knees have sued for separate living accommodations, and I am ready for them to go! Take a knee, please!”

So, in a very short time, I will be getting my knee replaced and every time I say that I am having my knee replaced, someone cheers me up by sharing a knee story.

“My uncle had his knee replaced—he’s permanently in a wheelchair now.” I don’t care! I’m having my knee replaced—I mean, I’m having a baby; and I’m definitely going to start with the left one!

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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 21, 2026 · 4:21 am

Eating My Way to Health

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Jackie Wells-Fauth

Before I begin today, I should probably mention that I understand and appreciate the benefits of good health. I also know that human health depends on several things: 1) genetics, and mine are pretty good; 2) attitude, which can sometimes not be as beneficial as it should be; and 3) eating habits.

I’m well aware that many of my health issues come from what I put in my mouth and also, how much of it I put in there. It isn’t that I don’t try. It’s true, there are times when more Hostess Twinkies are consumed in this house than any fresh fruit. But then, there are times when I really try and I really want my health to be good.

In that frame of mind, I did some research. Now, I did this research on the internet, so everything I tell you here should be taken with a grain of salt (which I understand is also bad for you). The internet does not have a degree in nutrition, so proceed with caution. I did find some of the ideas interesting, however.

For instance, it is apparently a myth that you must cut out certain foods in order to lose weight. What a relief! I have heard of the keto diet, the Mediterranean diet and the lo-carb diet. All of them are rejected by me because of one word: diet. I haven’t been able to remain on an eating diet for more than the time it takes me to discover that there is a stray Tootsie Roll stuck in the couch cushions. Diets do not work for me, so I’m glad to hear someone agrees with me—even if it is the internet. The only food I have ever successfully cut out of my diet is liver—and that is an action I do not regret!

Apparently, in the healthy eating world, you should not snack between meals. I am here to tell you that the only reason I get up every morning is in anticipation of whatever snacks I have lined up for the day. Meals, fine, but what have you got for those long hours in between?

When they get into types of food, it always upsets me, because they usually attack my favorites to begin with. I switched from regular soda to diet, only to discover that what diet lacks in calories, it makes up for in other undesirable things. So, I switched to fruit juice. Nothing wrong with that, right? Wrong. Fruit juice is apparently, in many ways, worse than soda. They suggest sparkling water as a lovely alternative. I have tasted sparkling water, and I would just as soon dip my glass in the toilet, which is also probably not very healthy!

It is important not to eat too much processed food. I did some looking to see what counted as processed food. My biggest heartbreak there was peanut butter! Who knew that the most delicious bread spread in the world is considered a processed food! I just can’t believe they got that right. Another processed food they warned against was frozen pizzas and TV dinners. When I read that, I felt terrible, because I love those and they are so easy. Thank heavens they didn’t mention pot pies; I guess I can still have those, huh?

There were a couple of pieces of good news. They debunked the idea that sushi is diet food. For me, sushi definitely IS a diet food because I’d rather go without food than eat it!

The other piece of good news had to do with lettuce salad. Now, I eat lettuce salad when I am trying to be good, but I can never say I enjoy it. Imagine my surprise, then, to hear that the dressings that are put on lettuce salad have more calories than a doughnut! You know what this means, of course. If I’m eating the same calories anyway, I’m definitely eating the doughnut! I just didn’t know that it would be considered healthier than lettuce salad! Yay!

I was excited to see that late night snacks are permitted because that is my favorite. I was not so excited to see their suggestions for a late-night snack: yogurt or pistachios. That’s a hard no on yogurt and as for pistachios, they aren’t bad, but they aren’t going to hold me over until morning! I need a hearty late-night snack, like a bologna sandwich—or wait, I know! Peanut butter! No, that’s not right…maybe a diet soda or…

I put the computer away and got up to leave the room. “Where are you going?” Roy asked.

“Downstairs to find my Twinkie stash. This healthy eating is gonna kill me.”

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February 6, 2026 · 12:52 am

Blender Wars

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Jackie Wells-Fauth

I’d like to say a few words about my blender. Unfortunately, none of the words I want to use would be printed in the paper. And to top it all off, I have once again declared war on an appliance…and I’m not winning!

I really blame it on the smoothies. I got the brilliant idea to start having smoothies for breakfast and everything since then has been downhill…on a very smooth track!

It sounds wonderful, right? A morning meal that is entirely fruit and protein powders combined into one delicious drink. I bought a small single blender, I piled all the fruit in: strawberries, bananas, peaches, protein powder and oh, a little bit of milk. I turned it on and waited for the magic. There was no magic. The blender hummed, but the fruit did not puree into a delicious liquid. It just sat in the blender laughing at me.

“This blender doesn’t work,” I grumbled.

“Did you do it right? What do the directions say?” Roy was being practical, which is so annoying.

“I don’t need directions to operate a blender, thank you very much,” I said with confidence. And waited until he was gone to dig the directions out of the garbage. Turns out, you have to put the liquid in FIRST, then soft fruit, then frozen fruit. Oh!!! Once I had properly stacked the smoothie, it worked beautifully. For a while.

“I don’t think this blender is working too well anymore,” I complained one day.

“What makes you say that?” Roy was not paying much attention; my complaints about appliances are somewhat repetitive and pointless.

“Because it started smoking this morning and there are chunks in it the size of frozen strawberries,” I said, spitting out a half-chopped specimen.

“Get a better blender, that one’s too small and cheap,” he advised.

Great idea. I went out and bought the fanciest one I could find. It was very powerful, but it took a distressing amount of time to chop everything up and make the smoothie. I didn’t understand it.

“Possibly, you shouldn’t put in a half a bag of strawberries. That might be overloading it,” Roy said, looking at the array of fruit I was trying to cram in the blender.

“Are you implying that I am a fruit pig?” I asked in a tone of voice which told Roy there was no safe way to answer.

“Oh, no, that looks like a reasonable amount,” he answered, his voice and face carefully blank. Fortunately for him, the blender was not functioning very well because of all the fruit I put in it, or I might have tried to puree his tongue!

That brings us to blender number three. All the past blenders have worked so slowly that it was never necessary to put on the lid. That way, I can add fruit and watch the progress. And occasionally flirt with disaster by pushing an errant piece of fruit down into the blades with a knife.

The new blender recommended a larger amount of milk than I have been using. Okay, do whatever they say; anything to get a smoothie. It started off well. The milk and the bananas and the protein powder had no problem. It slowed down and complained a little when I started adding frozen fruit, but it still continued to grind. It was as I was adding the honey and the final fruit that it happened. I looked down into the blender and with a sudden surge, it pasted my face with about half of the smoothie.

“Why in the world have you got smoothie on your face?” Roy asked, coming into the room.

“Because this blender and I are at war,” I answered, “and I have not yet begun to fight!”

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August 29, 2025 · 4:25 am

Go ahead; Bite Me!

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Jackie Wells-Fauth

I would like to write an article today in praise and admiration of that most humble and small insect…the mosquito. I would LIKE to write an article in praise and admiration of them, but unfortunately, mosquitoes do nothing to incite my praise or admiration!

I love the summer, but at about this time, when I am nursing the 910th mosquito bite of the season, I am ready for a good frost…something that will offer warm days after it but will kill off the mosquitoes! Of all the beings God put on the earth, this is the one I can’t quite reconcile myself to!

If a person is walking in the early morning, especially after a rainstorm, your walking companions are sure to be mosquitoes. If anyone saw me waving my arms and screaming at nothing, “Get off me! Will you get away from me?” they would have one of two reactions. First, if they are from this area, they would know I’m talking to mosquitoes. If they are not from this area, they might just assume I am the local harmless madwoman. And with enough mosquitoes around, it might just be both!

What is there about that dratted insect that causes it to go straight for the face? My grandson was here for a week and on the first day, he had four bites on his cheeks and one on his eyelid! Poor child looked like he had been in a street brawl!

I slap the most mosquitoes from my face and especially do I despise the hardy little varmints who try to crawl under my glasses. I have deformed, defaced and downright ruined more glasses while going after mosquitoes crawling under them than I can count, and a lot of times by the time I tear off the glasses, scream, “I’ve got you, you little devil!” and slap myself in the face, that is all I’ve accomplished—a slap in my face! The mosquito is flying away, laughing, “No, no, it is I who have got you! Thanks for the blood donation—happy itching!”

And therein comes my next complaint—what is there that effectively stops a mosquito bite from itching? Usually, by the time I realize I am scratching a mosquito bite, I have successfully removed one layer of skin—at least. Nothing I have tried has made a difference, and I think I’ve tried it all. I have slathered myself with enough oatmeal paste to feed a small nation and I have tried myriad types of jellies and creams and only succeeded in greasing myself up like a pig in a wrestling competition.  None of the treatments I have tried have stopped the itching.

In order to distract myself from my latest set of bites (seven of them on my feet, no less), I looked up information about the mosquito. Only the female “bites” apparently, but she does it so she can develop eggs. That means that miserable witch is using my blood to make MORE mosquitoes! Whatever they use it for, they draw blood with the precision of a needle and the skill of a surgeon. They live about 30 days, which is just 29 and three quarters too long, and best of all, while they are digging around in our blood vessels, sucking blood which would make Count Dracula proud, they are able to share all the nasty diseases they are carrying!

It said in the article that mosquitoes can be “controlled” with insecticides, or by destroying the areas where they breed. I am sure that the scientists out there know what they are doing, but I have to say that nothing is so satisfying in controlling a mosquito as the “slap, slap” of my hand, producing a squashed insect! I know that makes me bloodthirsty but look who I’m fighting.

I suppose, since I have nothing praise-worthy or admirable to say about the mosquito, I should end this article. But let me say in closing, “Mosquitoes: we are bigger than you and sometimes even smarter and besides all that, winter is coming; so why don’t you just bite me? Oh, wait! No, I take it back! ‘Slap, Slap’ I don’t mean to actually bite me, ‘Slap, slap, slap…”

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July 26, 2017 · 2:03 am

The “yearly” physical 

I know that they are important. After all, all the television doctors got together in a commercial to tell us that regular medical checkups are important. And when Alan Alda puts on his Hawkeye doctor face, I try to listen.

The problem, of course, is that for the last five years I have found one reason after another not to have a “yearly” physical. You’ve heard the reasons: I’m too busy; I’m not sick; I can’t afford it; It’s just too creepy. And then there’s my reason: If I go, they might find something wrong with me and want to treat it. It doesn’t matter that even if they didn’t find it, it would still be there and getting worse…I have spent five years believing I can’t be sick if I don’t go in for a checkup.

Finally, it was time. I am getting old, my knees are aching, I haven’t gotten the required vaccinations and worst of all, all the doctors I knew before have all retired and when I fill out forms I have no family doctor’s name to put down. Reluctantly, I called for an appointment. Unfortunately, they were able to schedule one.

Of course, for the month that I waited, I obsessed about it every day. I was sure they would find something direly wrong with me and I would then be confined to my bed, so I had to get everything done before I went. I nearly killed myself with household projects.

Finally, the day arrived. Adding to my anxiety level, I sat down in a waiting room where the news was on. Everyone knows that the news is no way to reduce your anxiety. I was alone in the room, so I turned it off. Five minutes later, it switched back on…by itself. Another thing that does not reduce your anxiety is ghosts.

I was called in before I could get out my ghost-o-meter. First thing they wanted me to do? Step on the scale. Great. The darn thing actually groaned when I stepped on it. I’ve been comforting myself that my scale was just not accurate..weighing too heavy. According to the doctor’s scale, my scale is being generous.

They handed me a gown that didn’t quite cover and a questionnaire to determine if I’m depressed. Well, of course I’m depressed! I’m at the doctor’s office for a physical! Duh!

Blood pressure and blood work were next. It is hard to maintain a really good blood pressure when you have that cuff strangling your arm…the arm that was just jabbed for blood, mind you. Then I was treated to a dizzying set of numbers and for each one, my response was the same: Is that good?

The actual exam was just as fun and invasive as I had anticipated and they ask the most ridiculous question in the world: Okay, now we’re just going to (you fill in the blank with any procedure). Are you ready? My answer? “Of course not! Just get it over with.”

The worst part, of course, is the additionally scheduled tests they want. Mammograms have always been a particular favorite of mine. “When do you want us to schedule your mammogram?” the nurse, inquires, holding pen over paper.

Let’s see: they’re going to smash one of the most delicate parts of my body between two paddles (for want of a better name), twist it closed until my eyes are leaving their sockets and then instruct, “Don’t move.” When do I want to do that? How about the twelfth of never?

Thankfully, my physical is done (except for the mammogram) and all that’s left is to wait for the results of the tests. The doctor assured me that so far it looks like I am in excellent condition: blood pressure, cholesterol and other blood work were excellent; the exam found nothing unusual, so I’m hoping for good results overall. I’m at that point now where I am feeling relieved that I went for the physical and good about myself for not throwing a fit over all the vaccinations.

However, for the next year, when Alan Alda puts on his Hawkeye doctor face, I’m going to tell him exactly where he can stick his advice…and it’s somewhere on his person!

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