So… I thought maybe I should branch out from my clash fashion and consider whatever catwalk fashion is trendy now, so I looked through VOGUE magazine and found these jewel-encrusted undershirts– er, I mean “dresses.” After seeing this 2019 stylish attire, Bow Ties o’ the Day said, “Nope. This is not you. This is not us. We must stay on the truly gorgeous Path o’ Non-matchy Get-ups. Please don’t make us be trendy.” I do have handsome legs, but Bow Ties o’ the Day are wise. I completely agree with them in their assessment of the style situation. Besides, anyone can see that their suave-factor puts these jewel-encrusted undershirts– er, I mean “dresses” to eternal shame. Bow Ties win!
You’ve probably read the online meme that says something to the effect of YOU CAN’T PLEASE EVERYONE. YOU ARE NOT A TACO. Bow Tie o’ the Day wholeheartedly agrees. It’s better to eat a taco than be one anyway, so who cares if you can’t please everyone? Bow Tie is all chips ‘n’ salsa and tacos, and so far it has pleased everyone who has gazed upon its menu. Thank the heavens, no one has taken a bite out of it yet.
Bow Tie o’ the Day and I present one of the hairdo concoctions my current hairs are capable of becoming. I call it “The Reverse Ponytail With Wings.”
I’m sure y’all think living my clashion way o’ life is an easy way to live, but I have limits to my clash and style. I try not to offend anyone with my attire or be disrespectful of where I am. Interesting style is who I am. Enjoy. Period. I feel a responsibility to my neckware/style to be snazzy, dapper, eye-catching, etc., not rude or obnoxious. I especially do not strive for my style to be such that people question my sanity to the point they think they should call the cops. This morning at the Dick’s Market, I saw a reflection of myself in the glass doors to the ice cream. I felt like I should call the cops on myself. “Haul me away, officer! Take me to the loony bin! I know not what I do!”
Here’s the scoop. After I took this post photo, I turned my hat around and then sat down and made a grocery list. I then donned my wintry cape, and then I drove through the snow to the store. I’m shopping and crossing items off my list. I’m saying a howdy to familiar faces. All is well.
I always go to the ice cream aisle last, so I can get my cold tubs home before the ice cream melts. So… I’m approaching the ice cream doors– which I call The Pearly Gates– and suddenly, there is my reflection. There I stand: a 54-year-old woman in a snowflake cape, wearing an un-matchy bow tie, which is all wonderfully me. But then I see I have basically the same hair as in this photo. I had forgotten to brush my hair back into some sorta order before I left the house. Yes, my hat was turned the right way at least, but the hairy wings over my ears were still being wings. And somehow the reverse ponytail had wrapped itself around the hat as I had turned it around.
Unfortunately, I did not take a photo of my accidental-style self in Dick’s. I wanted to snap one cuz I knew it would be entertaining. But there was more OOPS! and DOH! I had left my phone at home, which has happened only three times in twenty years.
But do you know what really kills me? When I first went into the store, I stopped at the pharmacy and chatted with my pharmacist about all kinds of topics. We are Dick’s Market friends. We conversed for at least ten minutes, and she said absolutely nothing about my hairs. Oh, she complimented Bow Tie and my cape, as well she should have. But how could she not know that I didn’t mean to invent this hairs/hat display? That’s scary. Clearly, she and everyone else I knew at Dick’s took it in stride, like they almost expected me to walk in looking like my head should be in a freak show.
Argyle Bow Tie o’ the Day is another of my wood bow ties which attaches to a shirt with a magnet. Bow Tie’s magnet makes it a perfect choice for a collar-less shirt of any ilk. Bow Tie and I spent a couple of hours at physical therapy this morning, and my thumb accompanied us. It photobombed us. My Thumb o’ the Day is now on the website in this photo and is, therefore, a star.
A few of the routines I am assigned to perform at PT require me to use a long stick, resembling a cane. It is wood, and it’s about the same length and diameter as a cane. The staff calls it “the wand.” I have been working out my shoulder with it for about a month now, and none of the million spells I’ve cast with it have come to pass. Even Harry Potter couldn’t make this wand work. Hey, it’s a piece o’ wood! But still, I try. I cast my spells and hope.
Sometimes “the wand” inspires my spirit, prodding me to jump off my therapy table and dance with it as my cane– like Gene Kelly in the old movies. Or I want to tap dance with it as my prop as if I’m on a vaudeville stage. Yes, I’ve cast a spell to make those things occur, but that spell hasn’t worked either. So far, I’ve remained an old dame awkwardly pushing and pulling and pointing a stick in various directions.
I do admit that although my rotator cuff still hurts, it’s not debilitating like it was. Miracle? Hard work? Spell? Maybe a wee bit less pain is the biggest spell I can make the wand perform for me. I’ll gladly take it.
The hairs on my noggin are now eight months old. We’re in some kind of almost-final stretch. We’re at least over the hump on our way to my “grown-out” fur. The way my hairs are these days, it looks like a massacre took place right atop my head. I can do this, I can do this, I can do this.
Bow Tie o’ the Day is bravely lending a hand to brighten up the hairs situation with its sequins. At least, Bow Tie’s trying to make things appear better. The only thing that really has any sorta beautifying effect on my fur through all of this is to wear hats and bandanas, of which I have plenty.
I made a decision. Hear me clearly: I will suffer through this terrifyingly hairy growth until May, and then it’s gone. That will make it a year since my last haircut. That’s all you get to see: a year more hair than I’ve had for a decade. Of course, I’ll try a couple o’ different hairdos before I chop it all off again. Those oughta be hilarious for you to see.
Baseball Bow Tie o’ the Day tells you I’m ready for Summer to get its butt here ASAP. It’s not just the cold. It’s the mud. Skitter brings mud into the house every time she comes in from pottying. I have to dust pan and Swiffer at least three times a day. It’s not as if I can tell Skitter to remove her paws before she enters the house. And training her to wipe her feet ain’t gonna happen.
The most important part of this post photo is clearly my newest Suzanne-made cape. The clash it adds to my shirt, tips the scales way over the clash-snappy limit. I win. Whatever the fashion competition, I win. My cape is a superpower all by itself. I haven’t had it long enough to have determined exactly what superpowers it gives me, but I’ll let you know when I find out.
I can say for sure that when I wore it in MCR last week, a few residents did stop in mid-sentence to gaze at its billowy, unfurled-ness as I passed through the halls. It at least has the power to cause momentary speechlessness.
The cape didn’t make Mom one bit speechless though. She complimented the cape, then she went on and on about what a talented seamstress Suzanne is. There I was, in person, with Mom in her room, after driving 2 1/2 hours to visit her, and all Mom could talk about was Suzanne. Of course, all I talked about was Suzanne too. And Skitter. We talked about Skitter, who Mom couldn’t quit petting.
Skitter had to get used to my capes when I began wearing them a few months ago. They whoosh around as I walk, and they are large compared to coats. Occasionally, a cape hem brushes across Skitter’s back. It frightened her at first, but she learned to tolerate it. She tolerates the entire cape thing now because she has no choice .
I usually wear a coat when I take The Skit for her walkies. But for the rest of the outside world, I wear a cape. When I drape a cape on my shoulders, she knows she’s not going anywhere (except when we visit Mom). When I put on a cape to go out alone or with Suzanne, Skitter puts on her I-know-I’m-not-invited, pouty face. I think Skitter blames the capes for her being left alone– as if they’re my new pets and I’m taking them for secret walkies without her. Perhaps Skitter needs her own personal cape to wear, and to play with when I’m not home. I’ll speak to Suzanne, the resident seamstress, about that.
I threw on this bookshelves Bow Tie o’ the Day in order to sit down to breakfast. These dictionaries and thesauri are my metaphorical meal. I am eating my words about how I didn’t think physical therapy for my rotator cuff would do anything except prolong the time I’d have to be in pain until the insurance company would ok some surgical repair of the damn thing. I didn’t hold out much hope for PT to make the pain in my shoulder livable. PT was painful and debilitating. At first. Although it began oh-so roughly, it has begun to help– enough to put off the surgery I and those in charge of my rotator cuff were sure would be happening about now.
I know myself pretty well– the good, the bad, the ugly. And one positive thing I can tell you about me is that I am quick to apologize when I’m wrong. If I’m wrong, I like to know. I don’t care about my ego. Saving face doesn’t matter. Being right for the sake of being right doesn’t appeal to me. I’d rather be corrected than pretend that the truth isn’t true. “Dear PT, please accept my apology for treating you like you were useless. You are not.” Apology given.
I’m crossing my fingers my PT regimen buys me at least another couple of years with my crappy old rotator cuff. If my shoulder pain doesn’t get in the way of me getting through a normal day of living, I won’t fuss about it. I won’t press the issue. I will keep doing my incredibly complex exercises like “the shrug.” Yes, I have to shrug. That’s a big part of my regimen: shrug, relax shoulders, shrug, relax shoulders, and so on. Hey, who am I to argue with it? It seems to be helping.
Now about this photograph: First, I want to emphatically declare I LIKE BIG BOOKS AND I CANNOT LIE.
Second, these different editions of the same information were milestones in my recovery from surgery. They are variations of The Oxford English Dictionary, which is the authority on the English language: spelling, meanings, origins, etc. There was a time in my life when I wanted the complete version of the OED, but I would rather own a house. I had to decide between one or the other. The official, complete OED is 120 volumes long. That would be an extravagant, indulgent purchase. Instead, I have a few much smaller versions that do the trick of aiding me in my serious writing.
After my surgeon stole 2/3 of my pancreas at Huntsman at the end of June, he told me I was forbidden to lift anything over 1-2 pounds for a couple of months. The tiniest Compact OED set in this picture weighs 2 pounds, so after a week or so, when I felt like writing again, I could lift them and use them, with only the slightest pains. OED Milestone #1. Score!
After the third week of my recovery, I figured it would be okay to pick up the the one-volume Pocket OED Dictionary/Thesaurus edition, which weighs 3 pounds. (How large must a pocket be to hold this Pocket OED?) I began using the book within a month of my surgery. Lifting it resulted in only a tug or two in my gut. OED Milestone #2. Score!
I wasn’t quite sure about graduating my lifting limits to the two-volume Compact OED Dictionary and OED Thesaurus. Each of the volumes weighs 4 pounds. I played it conservatively and didn’t pick them up until the end of the second month of my recovery. Just a strain or two in my gut. OED Milestone #3. Score!
And now, the two-volume New Shorter OED. Each of these volumes weighs in at a touch over 7 pounds. I was hesitant to pull these off the bookshelf long past the time I’m sure I could have done it without causing damage to my innards. Despite having conquered the smaller editions by the end of the second month of my convalescence, I held out picking up these tomes past the four-month mark. But I finally began freely using them in October, resulting in just a pinch of a pinch in my gut. Milestone #4. Game! Set! Match!
And yes, I do need and use every one of my OED reference books..
I declared another Pajama Day for the house on this Sabbath. That’s two pj holidays in a row. I did nothing and thought about nothing, yet again today. Oh, wait. I had a brief nap. I walked up and down the stairs a number of times, half the time forgetting what I went upstairs for in the first place. But that was the extent of my action-packed day. In case you’re wondering, I did grace myself with fresh pj’s and a sweet Tie o’ the Day, which I knew you’d want to see. Ties are what TIE O’ THE DAY is truly all about anyway– except for when it’s about every other topic in my head.
Even though I said I wasn’t going to stay in my pajamas all day cuz I had errands to do, I did finally declare an official Pajama Day for myself. I went nowhere. Suzanne didn’t honor the holiday I declared, which is rare for her, but she had to go to JOANN. Of course. I did absolutely nothing with my day, and I didn’t think about anything either. Thus, I have no words of cleverness or wisdom to write in a post, so I won’t try. I’ll just continue to sit in the recliner, wearing two gorgeous Ties o’ the Day.
It’s early in the day, but I don’t have any intention to declare a Pajama Day for us. Got errands? We do. For a few hours this morning though, I’m gonna remain in my pj’s doing nothing. I’m just sitting here in the recliner with the Loch Ness Monster Tie o’ the Day. I believe!
Okay. I don’t believe in the Loch Ness Monster. Nor do I believe in Sasquatch. But I understand why some people chase these mythical creatures. First, they want a little mysterious stuff in their lives. They want to believe the impossible is possible. Personally, I have enough mysterious stuff in my own life. If you’re alive, and if you examine your life and what goes on around you, you’ll see plenty of things that have no explanation.
Second, we want to believe in things. There are so many fundamentally perplexing things going on all across the planet that our foundations can seem to be shifting beneath our feet– sometimes in dangerous ways. Things we were sure of when we were young now feel shaky. We’re not sure how that transformation happened. Believing in ideas helps us move along our paths.
Personally, I do not think things here or elsewhere in the world have generally changed. I think we have just matured as we’ve grown older, and now we have a clearer picture of “reality.” And part of discerning “reality” is that thanks to technology, we are able to see events in real time as they happen, no matter where they happen. In that way, our picture of the world is more enlightened. Unfortunately, it also amps up our fear, and makes our thinking a bit cloudy with the sense of doom that sometimes overwhelms us
But the events we have front row seats to viewing– which is everything– have always existed. There has never been a time in human existence when wars have not been going on somewhere. There has never been a time when rulers have not taken advantage of their subjects. There has always been poverty. Sexual predators have always existed. There have always been bigots who feel they are superior to some race, religion, or culture. And on and on. As we find in Ecclesiastes, “there is nothing new under the sun.”
It might seem to us like there’s more of the crap, because we can see more of it than past generations. But there’s a positive flip-side to this. Technology has also made it possible to do good beyond our own cities, states, and country. We have the ability to do good works and save lives across the globe. We can do a lot of it right from our computers.
We don’t have to believe in that. It isn’t mythological. It is a reality, a fact. We can see it and participate in it. We can turn our compassion into something knowable and concrete– into actions. We can transform belief into “reality.”
Except for the Loch Ness Monster and Sasquatch. We can’t believe those characters into a reality. And who would want to? It’s fun to contemplate those wild creatures, mysteriously out there somewhere doing their own thing.
