Witty & Wise Ties, Trivia & Lies
My Bow Tie o’ the Day is tough to see. Its navy blue is dotted with green army men figures. Skitter’s Bow Tie o’ the Day is going patriotic with me.
On this Sabbath, Skitter and I are delighted to fulfill the wish of a multitude of our readers by showing you what it’s like to see up our noses. Some of you people ask us to do weird poses.
Or could it be that I simply couldn’t think of a post to write today?
I couldn’t sleep early, early, early this morning, so I got out of bed at 3:30 in the A.M. to watch an hour o’ JUDGE JUDY re-runs on channel 13– which is what I do if I’m not conked-out at 3:30 A.M., Tuesday-Saturday mornings. Well, my desktop computer screen stared at me as I headed downstairs, so I just had to glance at Facebook for a second. And look what Suzanne’s brother, James, had posted to me at some point last night! Thank you, James. Thank you, James. There is no way I couldn’t make this our Bow Tie o’ the Day.
I don’t know where James found the post, but it’s so me. And it’s so anyone-who-reads-these-neckwear-posts, meaning you. The caption under the picture– the author of which, I have no idea– is a swell cherry on top. Here it is: “Some days you just add a bow tie to your chicken hat and get on as best you can.” Story of my life.
Have a brave, bow-tied chicken hat day, folks! I know I will.
I sported a sugar skulls Bow Tie o’ Last Night when we went to CORBIN’S GRILLE to feast. Sugar skull designs should be worn year-round, not just around the Halloween season. They are dandy. When I selfied this picture, Suzanne and I were stuck in traffic on I-15– where we traveled to Layton at zero mph much of the drive. Somehow we still got to dinner on time.
What you can’t see in this photo is my new horse saddle purse– the only purse I’ve ever owned. It’s on the floor. Next time I snap a pic of me in the car, I will make sure my purse is on the back seat, so you can gaze upon it in the photo.
I’m beginning to re-think this whole purse thing though. The saddle purse has made me say words to Suzanne I never thought I would hear coming out of my own mouth, and I don’t know if I feel good about saying such things. For example, if I have to run to the little cowgirls’ room to potty when we’re at a restaurant, I automatically say, “Please watch my purse.” And then when I return to the table, I find the following words leaving my mouth: “Thanks for watching my purse.” It makes me feel so weird to say anything about “my purse.” And it kills me that I don’t even have to think of saying it. It just naturally falls out of my mouth, as if I’ve been using bodyguards for my purses for decades. What has happened to me? What am I turning into? I made it through the world for 55 years, never owning– or wanting to own– a purse. And now, not only did I have to have this one, I constantly worry about its location and safety– like it’s a kid or a pet. How did I turn into a purse lady?
Last night when Suzanne and I left CORBIN’S, we walked out into a waterfall of rain we didn’t know was gonna show up. Gee, I didn’t even have my cape. I always wear a cape when we’re out on the town, but I had left it in the car because I wasn’t cold when we went in. As we leapt through the parking lot to the car through the raindrops, I suddenly became horrified and yelled, “It’s raining on my purse!!!!” I also said a swear word. (Not the really bad one. I don’t say that one.)
Hey, Helen Jr., it’s a purse, for gosh sakes! It’s not alive! 👛
I am pathetic.
Suzanne and I (and Bow Tie o’ the Day) will be eatin’ hoity-toity tonight. Sometimes you wanna go bigly formal with your eatin’-out attire. I always go bigly, but even I need to further stretch my fashion choices in heretofore foreign directions. This designer outfit is right up the experimental alley of my style territory. I think it resembles a 50’s swimming cap. Let me quote from VOGUE’s description of this set of out-on-the-town duds: “…a red-tipped globe of lilac feathers and satin slippers in shocking pink…redefines ‘belle of the ball.'” Sounds like little ol’ girly me, doesn’t it? However, I am still wondering if my arms are supposed to be inside or outside the puffball– or if I’m supposed to simply leave them at home.
Hugh Jackman should wear Bow Tie o’ the Day. He is an entertainer with oodles of class, and a bow tie would top off any look he sports– clashy or matchy. As I was brushing out my hairs this morning to prepare a hairdo for Hairs Thursday, I noticed how my locks had magically fallen into a Hugh Jackman as Wolverine ‘do. I had to keep it. My “sideburns” are nearly lamb chops. Oh, happy day! I even feel like a superhero.
I have always liked to vacuum. There’s something inherently satisfying about pushing around a noisy machine and watching dog fur, crumbs, and dry mud disappear– VOILA!– from the carpet. In fact, when I was earning bucks during school breaks– while working on my Master’s at the U of U– I often worked with Mom’s custodial crew in the IPP Administration Building, on the swing-shift. My job was to conquer the floors. I vacuumed. I swept. I mopped. I buffed. Buffing was my favorite. (If I ever take up a new hobby, it will be buffing floors.) My IPSC floors and stairs were pristine when I left that building at midnight. With my Walkman blaring Bruce Springsteen and Cyndi Lauper into my headphones, I had a fabulous and clean time.
But today, for some reason, I couldn’t get myself in the mood to do the vacuum dance with the Shop-Vac on the stairs, which my the Honey-Do List I made for myself said I better accomplish. I have found that when I have to do housework I’m not in the mood to do, it helps me to gussy-up in a swell outfit– in which I then parade around the house doing my duties like I’m on a fashion show catwalk. So that’s what I did. And yes, argyle Tie o’ the Day and I sang a duet of the 1991 song by RIGHT SAID FRED as I did it. Sing with me, people: “I’m too sexy for my shirt/ Too sexy for my shirt/ So sexy it hurts/…. ‘Cause I’m a model, you know what I mean/ And I do my little turn on the catwalk/…On the catwalk, yeah/ I shake my little tush on the catwalk.” And so on.
I cannot believe I even remember that song. I disliked it decades ago when I first heard it, and I still don’t like it. There are so many other songs– and a zillion other things– I would like my brain cells to remember. But no– I’m stuck remembering this piece of trite crapola song. Why do our brains remember hideous stuff that we wish we had never crossed paths with in the first place, while our brains forget important information like our blood type? It kind of makes you wonder how smart our brains can really be, if that’s how they insist on functioning.
BTW Yes, I did get our stairs vacuumed this afternoon. I can at least cross one task off today’s Honey-do List.
Skitter and I haven’t gotten out of our pajamas yet, but we have donned our smiley Ties o’ the Day. We are happy clams this morning, and we expect to have a grin on our faces all dang day. That’s our goal. Ties will lead us merrily through our day of vacuuming and writing. Oh, about wearing my John Deere Hat o’ the Day for the second day in a row: It is my go-to hat when I can’t quite decide which of my gaggle of hats best un-matches what I’m wearing. The hat’s green-and-pink plaid generally makes effective clash no matter what duds I sport.
People have asked me if Skitter minds being a neckwear model in my posts– you know, since she’s skittish about everything on and in the earth, as well as in the heavens above it. Let me just say this: Skitter tolerates it. She’s not askeered of modeling neckwear, but she simply doesn’t understand what the neckwear photos and ensuing fuss are all about. I have often heard her mutter under her breath, “What the gobstoppers is up with this?”
Skitter is unaware she’s a star. She also doesn’t know that even our readers wonder what the gobstoppers the posts are all about. The posts just show up on the website, or on Facebook, or in their email. People read them or don’t read them. And still, I write posts and poetry. And still, Skitter watches me while I plunk away on my laptop. And still, even I have no clue what’s up with this venture, or where it will lead me. (Suzanne says there’s a book in it. I will cogitate on that.)
Things don’t have to have a clear purpose. Experiencing them– and deciding to find personal meaning in them– is plenty more than enough reason to engage in pursuits that interest us, no matter how odd those interests might be to others. Or even to ourselves.
True art transcends language. Bow Tie o’ the Day will be the first to tell you that when you’ve created an outfit that ranks on the highest artistic level of clash fashion, words are not enough to describe it. Just wear it. Let people gaze at your get-up until their eyes hurt, which probably won’t be long if you’ve clashed your threads in a superior way. Talk about shock and awe! I can’t really see the mismatch-mix while I’m wearing this set o’ duds, but my eyes are in pain at what I can catch of it in my peripheral vision. Skitter naps all amazed at the look I’ve put together.
I love clashion days like today! It’s a mismatch score of 10. I win!
I have always been The Grocery Shopper. It’s one of my housewifey chores. For the first few weeks after my surgery last summer, Suzanne was the one who had to regularly go to the store. The horror! Because Suzanne doesn’t grocery shop, she is a total comedy of errors when she tries to complete the task. She has no idea where items are located. It takes her an hour to do ten minute’s worth of shopping, and she gets a two-mile walk as she tries to figure out the aisles, while attempting to decipher the unreadable list I give her.
When she’s on the hunt at Dick’s, she sends me a boatload of texts. It’s as if she’s on a treasure hunt for food and she needs clues. In fact, when she’s at Dick’s, we text more than when she’s at work or out of town. And Suzanne is so unenlightened about how to correctly use the self-checkout line that she knows to not even try. It’s a fiasco. Suzanne is brilliant, but not in the self-checkout-line way.
Anyhoo… A few days ago, I didn’t feel like leaving the house, and I needed a grocery or two and some stoopid prescriptions from the pharmacy. I texted Suzanne at her office and said, “Hey, on your way home from an extra-late day at work, will you please add to your overtime by stopping at Dick’s for my Diet Coke and my meds?” I don’t even have to tell her I’m having one of my bipolar days. I don’t have to tell her I couldn’t handle leaving the house and going to Dick’s myself, even though it’s only a block away. If I ask her to go to the grocery store, she knows. And she also knows to not know exactly what I’ll be like when she gets home. The only question in her brain is which side I’ll be on: Will I be manic or depressed? She’s used to both.
While at the store that evening, Suzanne bought me this bouquet of flowers from the we’re-trying-to-get-rid-of-these-almost-dead-flowers section of the floral arrangements. They were discounted. That’s how Suzanne and I both roll. We are not tightwads with our bucks, but we are thrifty. As we know, it’s the thought that counts– with some things, but not all. She knew I would be double happy with this bouquet because it was both a bargain, and– despite its near-deadness– it was still kinda pretty. Blue and tan Tie o’ the Day thought so too.
I thought of this bunch o’ flowers as I think of the Charlie Brown Christmas tree: pathetic and in need of love. It’s cute, in its own way. When she put them in the vase, Suzanne pulled out the really, really dead flowers and threw them in the garbage. I rescued them and stuck them back in. Suzanne wasn’t happy about that, but I was– so she let it go. They were for me, you know.
The second photo was taken fifteen minutes after the first one. The flowers did not suffer long. I can prove that’s exactly what happened. See, I’m wearing the same shirt and same Tie o’ the Day in both pictures. There’s absolutely no way I could fake that. It’s not like I could wear the same attire for a photo a week later. You know it’s against my clash fashion rules to wear the same exact outfit twice– ever! And I am not a rule-breaker. 😉 🤡
Skitter and I– and Bow Tie o’ the Day– jumped out of our beds this morning and said to each other, “Hey! Let’s get ourselves into the car and go visit Helen, Sr.!” And so we did.
I always enjoy my visits to Millard Care And Rehabilitation. I get to see my former bishops, school teachers, church teachers, bosses, neighbors, coaches, etc. It is somewhat strange to see them “old.” They resemble their young selves enough that I know who they are. In fact, I know most of the MCR residents. That’s an effect of being from a town small enough that you know everybody. I knew these folks as I grew up, and I know them now as we all grow older. MCR is like a rickety, hard-of-hearing, cane-and-walker version of the “real” Millard County.
I’m always amazed by how much laughter I hear wherever I go in MCR. Staff and residents share a genuinely playful banter with each other. I know it sounds cliche, but it really does feel like family there. The staff is always trying to feed me like I’m family, too.
Like in any family, there are a few “problem children” who live at MCR. In fact, I have seen a sourpuss or two among the residents. Oh, well. I remember those fuddy-duddies when they were a heckuva lot younger, and they were sourpusses even way back then. People gonna be who people gonna be, I guess.
I met someone today at MCR who Mom has raved about since she was in MCR with her broken hip almost two years ago– Tess Greathouse. I have always known Tess’ family, but I had never actually met her before, since she is decades younger than me. As Skitter and I were walking to Mom’s room, Tess stopped me and asked if I was Mom’s daughter, and almost before I could answer, Tess’s hand shot out to shake mine. I don’t think I have ever visited Mom at MCR without her telling me how much she enjoys Tess reading stories to her. She loves Tess. Tess is one of Mom’s blessings, that’s for sure.
Jeez, Mom has more blessings than anyone else I know. I might need to borrow some one day.