Month: August 2018

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If You Have To Freeze, Freeze With Tie Pals

Ties o’ the Day want you to hear the tale of last night’s frozen woe. Here’s the background: The day before I went into the hospital, a vital part in the AC died a sudden death. The house toasted up oh-so quickly.  I immediately worried that Skitter would melt in the heat o’ the house unless the situation could be fixed immediately. Did I call the AC company and schedule a repair ASAP? No. I was having surgery early the next morning, and I had no idea when the heck I would be getting out of the hospital, so making an appointment for the repair folks to show up at a specific time wasn’t possible.

Suzanne was on a flight from Florida when the AC part gave up the ghost, so she was no help at that moment. When she got home late that night, we didn’t spend time worrying about how hot the house was– cuz we had only a few hours left to convince me to show up for my surgery. Apparently, when I scheduled the surgery I wasn’t clear about the fact that the doctor couldn’t operate on me if I wasn’t actually in the operating room to be sliced open. There isn’t an app for that.

I had no doubt Suzanne would handle the AC repair scheduling as soon as I lived through my procedure. I knew the house would be cooled to our satisfaction by the time I returned home from my medical odyssey. Skitter would be saved from melting! But I also knew the repair would cost more than necessary, because Suzanne would be handling it instead of me.

Suzanne likes gadgets and apps. A gadget that comes with its own app is irresistible to her. The AC dudes came and made the repair on the 4th of July, while I was still walking around the halls of Huntsman in my hospital nightie. Later, that day when Suzanne came to sit with me in the hospital, she immediately pulled out her iPhone to show me the app for remotely controlling the AC thermostat. But, of course, to use the app, she had to get a new “smart” thermostat control put on the wall. (Anybody want a working, not-smart thermostat?) And that’s not all she got us. Of course, she had to get a sensor that knows where we are in the house at all times, so wherever there’s a human being, the room is temperaturally correct.

Anyhoo… We have all accidentally “butt dialed” a phone call or have been butt dialed ourselves. Heck, I’ve even “cleavage dialed” a person or two. Last night, as I snored the night away, I somehow rolled over on my phone and some part of my body “skin dialed” the AC app temperature setting– changing it to somewhere in the vicinity of below zero. In the middle of the night, I woke up in Antarctica. I reset the temperature setting to the right temp, but I was still so cold I had to dress like this to get back to sleep. Count ’em: 8 ties, 3 sweaters, and 3 hats.

No more sleeping with the phone on the bed, which wouldn’t have happened if Suzanne had been in it. The moral of this tale is that if Suzanne gets new gadgets with apps, she shouldn’t leave me all alone while she goes camping for four days with her Champagne Garden Club.

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But Which Selfie Is The Real You?

Wood Bow Tie o’ the Day shows us a throwback. An “old school” type of camera isn’t seen much anymore, although I have started to notice more of them in the last couple of years. However, these cameras are not particularly selfie-friendly on the spur of the moment.

It’s my opinion that some folks take way too many selfies. They spend so much time taking pix of themselves that they never actually experience the experience of which they’re taking selfies. It also seems like some people don’t think they themselves even really exist if they don’t constantly take photos of themselves to prove they’re alive. And then, they have to put their selfies on the internet to prove to everybody else that they’re alive.

I know what you’re thinking: “Well, Helen, you take at least  two selfies per day, and then you make everybody look at each one by posting them.” Am I a hypocrite? Oh, I’m sure I am a hypocrite about some things. Aren’t we all sometimes? But on this issue, I think I’m not. Quite.

First, I have this little website about/with ties and our adventures. A post like that needs a photo, and who wants to gaze at a naked tie? My purpose is to do a little not-so-serious (usually) writing every day, and the ties are my props. But they are also the stars, and somebody’s gotta wear them. I would rather not hire models, since I’m the one wearing them anyway.

Second, I have a bunch of untaken photos to make up for, because I somehow made it through the 80’s and 90’s without ever actually being in a photograph. (There might be a few exceptions, but I don’t have evidence of them.) Does it mean I didn’t exist for two decades, just because I don’t appear in photos? No, it means I was snapping the pictures for everybody else. Of course, the photos I took for others were blurry and out of focus, because I wouldn’t stop experiencing the action I was in while I snapped away.

It was fine by me to not be in photographs. I have always disliked myself in pix. In photos, it seemed like I looked like someone else. The pix of me didn’t fit the image I had of myself. I’m not talking about my physical self/face. No, I always thought I looked like a ghost or zombie of myself. A photo couldn’t hold me. It seemed to always hold the not-me.

Even with all my wrinkles, sags, and gray hairs, I kind of enjoy the selfies I take. I earned my face. And when I’m picking out a selfie to use in a post, I see me. Most of my self is usually there in my selfies. It’s probably just the effect of the ties. Whatever it is, when I see myself in photos now, I no longer see a zombie staring back at me.

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A Serendipitous Meeting, Part 2

Caught in the crosshairs o’ love, Bow Tie o’ the Day waited patiently to read Part 2 of our little tale. When we left our saga o’ love in the previous post, this is where we were:  Suzanne and I had decided to quit being we/us. And, as I have admitted, it was all because I was a dope. My bad.

Fast forward to the year 2000, when I moved back to Delta from the Baltimore-Washington D.C. area. Between my freshly diagnosed bipolarity and my freshly flaming Hanky Panky, I was not well. I seriously expected to die soon. I was drained of health and hope. I needed to choose a power of attorney (POA) to handle my finances and medical decisions if I couldn’t deal with them myself. I pondered about who knew me best in the world. I pondered about who I trusted most in the world. And even though I hadn’t seen her or talked to her in over a decade, Suzanne was the answer.

I had no idea where Suzanne even was. I searched. Was she still in Utah? Did she move to England? It was almost Christmas so I decided to try to contact her by sending her a Christmas card, in care of her parents– hoping they still lived where last I knew them. A couple of days later, Suzanne telephoned me from her house in Ogden. I was glad her parents still lived at their same address and gave her the card. And I was gladder that she still lived in Utah. And I was gladdest of all that our phone conversation wasn’t one bit awkward.

I drove my 1970 Ford Falcon to Ogden a few days after that phone conversation to meet Suzanne for dinner and a chat about doing a POA. We went to her fave Italian place on 25th Street, where I ate halibut and explained what I needed her to do and why. That dinner changed the course of our lives. Everything since that dinner has been nothing less than a wondrous second chance. From the moment we sat down in the restaurant, we talked easily, laughed far too loudly, and couldn’t quit smiling at each other. It was as if the years we lived through without each other had never happened at all– like we had never been apart. Love at second sight. The decade-long homesickness for something I could never quite pin down made its exit. We were where we belonged. We were home at last.

[Here’s a BTW: When you ask a writer a question, expect to get an extra long, extra detailed answer. 😄]

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A Serendipitous Meeting, Part 1

Love-struck Bow Tie o’ the Day eagerly awaits my answer to another of Wendy Lowery’s questions. Bow Tie is new to our house and doesn’t know much about our history yet. Anyhoo… Wendy asked how Suzanne and I met. Fortunately, I can still remember that long ago.

‘Twas 1983 when Suzanne and I kind of met. We were both wee pups attending Weber State University (Weber State College, at the time). It was fall quarter, in a class called Poetry Writing. I was minding my own business, just sitting in the desk closest to the door, waiting for the first class to begin. In walked Suzanne at the last moment. She scooted between my desk and the chair in front of me, to find a seat on the other side of the packed classroom. Yes, I noticed her the very first moment I saw her. I noticed her every day of fall quarter. I noticed her boots. I noticed her jeans and t-shirts. I noticed her brown eyes. I noticed her elegant hands. Did she notice me? Nope. Not at all. And I mean NOT AT ALL. To this day, she still doesn’t remember I was in that class with her.

Fast forward a year, to fall quarter 1984. 20th Century European History. First day of class. Again, I’m sitting in the desk nearest the door. Class begins, and in walks Suzanne. Once again she scoots past me, between my desk and the chair in front of me. Same elegant hands. Classes happen for weeks. One day, the professor asked me a question about my being from Delta, and I answered something silly, but irreverent. (No, I can’t repeat it.) It was funny enough that Suzanne finally noticed me. But we still didn’t talk. We just smiled at each other in class and in the halls.

And then one day soon after the snark incident, we ran into each other in the WSU library. We started to talk, and then we spoke, and then we conversed, yada yada yada. We stood talking for hours, bothering the other library-goers. Why we didn’t find a place to sit down is beyond me, but we were so entranced by our conversation that we didn’t notice hours were passing. We don’t remember anything specific that we talked about, but we remember we talked about everything.

And then I graduated from WSU a few weeks later, and moved to SLC for Graduate School at the U of U. Suzanne still had a year left at Weber. She occasionally trekked to SLC to visit me at the Ruth Apartments on 3rd South– a big ancient house, where I lived on the top floor with my rubber Gumby and Pokey figures.

That summer, I mailed Suzanne a letter, finally asking her out. I did not have the courage to do it in person. And then we got an apartment together on 8th East. And then we got another apartment on 9th East. (We called that apartment The Kingdom of Scary Yellow Carpet. We couldn’t walk on the shag carpet with our shoes off because it shot carpet slivers into our feet.) Suzanne was finished with her degree at WSU, but was saving bucks to go back to school to get her teaching credentials. She worked as a lifeguard, and at a camera store. I worked at a magazine, and went to Graduate School in Creative Writing. I also taught at the U of U. Life was good.

And then a thing happened. It was entirely my fault. I take full responsibility for it. I was a full-fledged dope. But it caused us to take a break from each other. For 13 years.

In the next post, Part 2, I will explain how Suzanne and I met for the second time– the time that stuck. Second time was the charm.

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And Then The School Year Started

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Bow Tie o’ the Day and I got approved and educated in Farmington today. At my doc appointment, I got the okey-dokey to take my torso with me on vacation in a couple of weeks. It’s allowed to fly with me on an airplane. The little piece of my pancreas that’s left in me was so excited about being able to go that it clapped. Really, it did. I heard it and felt it. And I know what my Hanky Panky’s capable of, better than anyone else does. (I’ve gotta change Panky’s name since what’s left of it seems to be working sufficiently. Hmmm.)

I learned a new word while the doc was pushing and poking at my belly with his hands: “crepitus.” Doc said he was checking to see if he could feel or hear any of this crepitus thing. And then I said, “That word sounds captivating. What is it?” I so much wanted him to tell me I have crepitus, so I could tell everybody I have crepitus, so I could have an excuse to say crepitus over and over. Crepitus, crepitus, crepitus. And even after the doc defined “crepitus” and told me it isn’t something anyone wants to have, I still wished I had some of it.

Doc told me the short version. Crepitus is air bubbles under your skin or in subcutaneous tissues. It’s a sign of air leaking from/to somewhere it shouldn’t. (After surgery, it can occur on rare occasions.) What he said next is what made me want it. Apparently, the crepitus bubbles feel like Rice Krispies when you’re feeling around, and they sound like Rice Crispies doing their snap, crackle, pop. Sometimes the sound can be heard with the naked ear– or in my case, the naked hearing aid. No stethoscope necessary. Who in their daring, right mind wouldn’t want to be full of crepitation? Alas, I have no Rice Krispies traveling in my innards. Looking at and listening to a bowl of the cereal can’t be the same as having the things move around under your skin. Dang.

After being educated about this new word, I felt compelled to honor public education. To do it, I drove past Farmington High School on my way home. It is FHS’s inaugural year. Brand spanking new. Bow Tie and I stopped to snap a photo of the place, and I’m sure you can guess the reason. A pop-out, grab-ya color. Yellow-orange. Now that’s a building that says HERE I AM! COME IN AND LEARN!

I also drove past Canyon Creek Elementary, which is about a mile from FHS. Its colors are not pop-y in the least. The earthy colors are fine, but match-y. I almost didn’t include this second photo on the post because it didn’t look very interesting. But then I saw IT. And I knew you had to see IT too: my hair in the wind. I’m wearing Trump hair!

It’s your fault though. It’s because of your votes that I’m growing out my head hairs, and clearly my head hairs are now in their Trump phase of growth.

HERE’S A P.S. FROM THIS MORNING’S POST: The “allergy bee” stung me in my hand. My entire hand and forearm swelled up like Popeye’s. To ease the throbbing pain of the swelling, I had to keep my fingers pointed to the ceiling. The incident occurred on a Saturday, and I was scheduled to give a talk in Sacrament Meeting the next day. I couldn’t stand to let my arm hang down for even the few minutes of my talk. So there I stood pontificating at the podium, forearm pointed up. It appeared as if I was sustaining myself for ten minutes. Ward members didn’t act like anything weird was going on. I’m sure they thought I was just going through another one of my eccentricities.

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Bees Gotta Be Who They Be

Before Bow Tie o’ the Day and I can wreak havoc on Davis County today, we’re jumping in the car to go visit my regular doctor. You see– I am in dire need of re-upping my EpiPen supply. In all the hub-bub of selling the Delta house last year, I didn’t take time to get my yearly EpiPen prescription. My current injectors expired months ago.

The irony of why I need to carry epipens is that I am allergic to bee stings, which is not the best allergy to have when your father is a beekeeper and the bee warehouse is basically in your backyard. Bees around your house make for some tense times. Oddly, my allergy didn’t kick in until I was 16. Getting stung was a somewhat regular occurrence in my childhood, with bees as my siblings. It was really no big deal. I even worked in the warehouse sometimes and hung around with Dad in bee yards.

But the summer I was 16, I was wrangling some hollyhocks growing up against our house, and I got stung by a bee who was enjoying the ‘hocks. A couple of minutes later, I couldn’t stop sneezing. I decided to settle my sneezing by lying down on the couch with a cold rag on my forehead. I had a hard time catching my breath, and when Mom saw me she asked why I was turning blue. That’s when I connected how I was feeling to the bee sting. I hadn’t even considered a sting being the cause of how I felt, because I’d been stung a thousand times before without any problems.

So off we went to the old Delta Hospital. I was not breathing well at all. My appendages were swelling up. My eyelids swelled up to the point I couldn’t open them. It was all EpiPens, all the time from that point on. But I did get four shoes– sort of– out of my bee sting hospital visit. Apparently, when I got into the ER, the nurses needed to take off my shoes. When they couldn’t get my Nike’s off my swollen feet, they cut them off me. Thus, two shoes became four partial shoes.

But at least I was excused from helping Dad in the warehouse or in bee yards ever again.

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I’ve Wondered About It Myself

A couple of days ago, I wrote about how important asking questions is in our lives. Wendy Lowry promptly asked me a few. I will answer them all, but only one in this post.

Wendy made a query about how I got into the tie/bow tie thing. She wondered what big life experience got me hooked. Ties o’ the Day also wonder how this all came to be. What’s the origin of The Tie Room and its inhabitants?

The honest answer to the totality of Wendy’s question is that I don’t know exactly how I got here. I know that as a kid, I was fascinated by ties. I looked forward to Sunday every week because church meetings offered up what seemed like an infinite number of ties for me to behold. (An occasional bow tie showed up in the pews, but only rarely.) The tie designs were varied. The fabrics felt richly soft. They absolutely looked hip. And then at some point in my kidhood, I created a Halloween costume that required a bow tie. I don’t remember what the costume was, but I remember I liked wearing the bow tie. It felt like me. It felt like home. And I am serious about that.

Over the decades, I picked up a swell tie/bow tie here or there in my travels, if I felt like I could not live a fulfilled and clever life without it. About four years ago, I looked at my neckwear as it was doing absolutely nothing in the closet, and I thought, “Why the heck am I not wearing these grooverrific pieces all the time?” I had only twenty or so, but I began wearing them. They completed something in my soul, so I wanted others to see and appreciate their characteristics. People who saw me wearing them seemed to appreciate how they popped out from the norm. Bow ties, especially, really do make people smile. That’s when neckwear became my regular uniform– my trademark.

Of course, I had to expand my collection if I was going to wear neckwear each day. And then after I created the website/tblog/Facebook posts, a few folks requested I wear two per day. (BTW I call you faithful readers “tbloglodytes”  since this is a “t”ie “blog”.) Gee, I was in Heaven when I realized I had to acquire even more neckwear to properly post twice per day. Although I yammer on and on about my adventures, the tblog really is all about sharing the ties.

As far as an actual count of my neckwear bodies goes, I refuse to count them. If I did, I would feel compelled to tell Suzanne the exact number. Even though she probably owns as many yards of fabric as I own ties/bow ties, I have determined it’s best for me to remain in the dark about the actual total, so I can keep her in the dark about it.

Since Suzanne’s currently where there is no internet/phone service and can’t see this post, I will tell you– if you promise to not tell her– that I estimate the tie count to be around 200. And the bow tie count is somewhere in the range of 900. I have an old wood library card catalog, where the bow ties sleep in the drawers, dreaming mighty dreams of starring in the tblog. Each morning, I hear them yell out,”ME! PICK ME!” as I enter The Tie Room to select my attire.

Some people fish. Some people craft. Some people restore classic cars. I show off ties of all ilks. In my opinion, it should be an Olympic sport. I win.

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Realistically, How Much Trouble Can I Cause?

Suzanne is leaving this morning to go cabin-camping with her Champagne Garden Club for four days, which means Bow Tie o’ the Day and I are free to do some scampin’. Of course, exactly how much scampin’ we accomplish depends on my energy level. But we’re ready, and I’m attempting to consolidate all the oomph I can gather. Clearly, Bow Tie and my Shirt o’ the Day have energetic clash going on. Perhaps I can feed off that.

When you’re dressing up in clashiness, not only are you making a loud choice of your attire, you are saying to everyone who sees you, “Out of all the clothes in my closet and drawers, this is the ensemble I chose to put together just for you. Today, I chose to show this version of me to the outside world. Please enjoy my outfit being original enough to get in your face, in all its non-matchy color and dapper-osity.”

At the cabin the Champagne Garden Club Girls will inhabit, there is no cell service, which means Suzanne can’t check on me. She won’t be able to get a daily report of my healing and/or not-healing. I told her I will follow the rules for my continued recovery. But when I told her I’d follow those rules, I crossed what’s left of my pancreas, and I didn’t use the word “promise” when I said it. I figure that gives me a bit of leeway in my behavior while she’s gone.

With no communication possible between us, she won’t have a clue in the world as to the things I’ll really be doing. But I tend to feel guilty when I don’t come clean about performing my inadvisable antics– or even advisable antics. So when she gets home, I’ll tell her everything. I’m a dope that way. I’ll take whatever lectures and punishment I deserve.

I’m completely transparent about my doings, to the point of ridiculousness. Out of my mouth comes every teeny and bigly detail of my existence. Suzanne, on the other hand, doesn’t tell me a fragment of what goes on at the annual cabin get-away. You know– what happens at the cabin, stays at the cabin. What occurs there is on a need-to-know basis. That sort of thing. And I’m sure that’s a good policy. At least it’s a good policy for Suzanne. So far, I’m the only one who ever gets in trouble when she’s at the cabin.

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It Was Fun, Then It Was Not Fun

Hey, Bow Tie o’ the Day’s wearing its neon green animal print for our dinkin’-around afternoon. We played around with the mirror and the camera for a few minutes, and we snapped this blurred shot.

Have you ever had a day when you felt a touch blurry? I occasionally feel blurry. And raggedy. And generally out of focus in the details. Those days happen cuz we’re tired, or upset, or confused, or have too many bills to pay– you name it. Blurry days are normal. It’s a human being thing.

Back in the day, when I drank, I felt blurry more often than not. I’d like to be able to say I hated the buzzy beer blur, but I was smitten with the feeling. I liked it waaaay too much though. I finally figured out that my life– like anyone’s life– wasn’t all about me. What I did affected the people around me more than I realized. I had no idea how blurry I was to the people who seemed to care for me. I’m lucky I had enough awareness to do what I needed to do, so I wouldn’t lose Suzanne and other people who gave a damn about me.

Don’t misunderstand me. I enjoyed my time with a near-constant beer in my hand. Pub-hopping all across Ireland. Lots of get-togethers with friends in backyards. Hangin’ at beaches along the Atlantic Ocean. 4th of July fireworks on The Mall in front of the U.S. Capitol.  Sittin’ on porches. Canoeing on the Potomac River. Picnics all over the place. And always a cooler full of brewskis nearby. Even now, you can name a brand of beer and I can remember the taste of that particular brew. And I tell you honestly that I cannot barbecue as skillfully without a beer in my hand. A can of Diet Coke doesn’t have the same heft or magic to it.

At some point in my life, it was clearly time to dissolve my relationship with beer, no matter how much I liked it. (I miss no other version of alcohol.) After I knew I needed to choose a new beverage, it took me a couple of years to get completely sober. But 11 years ago, I finally managed to do it. I don’t regret picking up my first beer, and I don’t regret putting down my last one. I’ve found that it’s impossible to completely regret doing things that taught you bigly lessons– lessons that make you a better person. At least, that’s how it’s always worked for me.

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Through The Valley Of The Shadow Of The Wasatch Front

Bow Tie o’ the Day wore its molecules, and we all went out to Daybreak for an appointment with my crazy-head doctor. Contrary to the picture here, I was not in need of “urgent care.” Nah, me and the doc just had a scheduled talk-talk-talk-and-talk-some-more therapy session. I never leave my sessions with answers to anything, but I think I do figure out the right questions– which allow me to surf the waves of my bipolar life.

Questions can give purposeful direction to our travels. They make our lives our own. If we follow the herd for the sole purpose of following the herd, we have no individual selves. We murder our individual souls by allowing the herd to decide and to act for us. Herds don’t like questions. Questions lead to thinking, which is an individual act. Herds aren’t high on personal responsibility either. “I didn’t do it. The herd did it,” let’s us off the hook for what happens– whether it happens in our house, our city, our country, our schools, etc.. The herd mentality makes us believe we’re powerless without the herd. That’s not true. You have all the power. You even have all the superpowers. And I’m telling you about your power as one li’l individual to another li’l individual. Put on your cape, and ask questions.