Month: April 2019

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In Praise Of Taxes

I’m wearing my IRS Tie o’ Tax Day, displaying a cartoon icon of the poor guy who is left with only a barrel to wear after he paid his taxes. At some point this afternoon, I’ll switch to my paper money Tie o’ Tax Day. BONUS! Here’s a gander at my chicken Sloggers, as I wore them in my TMS treatment chair this morning (5 treatments down, 31 to go). Who knew garden shoes could be so clever?!

Anyhoo… Yes, it’s that time again. It’s my annual, boring Tax Day post, in which I declare that I get more for my tax dollars than for any other dollars I spend. Don’t get me wrong. I gripe about paying taxes too. But when I remind myself to look at the larger picture I get a grip on my griping. My perspective and attitude always change when I look beyond li’l ol’ me and my personal bank balance. Ultimately, I guess you could say I’m happy to pay my taxes. I even feel sort of blessed to do so. (Don’t faint about that last sentence.)

Blame my dad. He’s the one who prodded me to seriously look around at what my taxes pay for. He’s the one who made it clear to me that there is no way we could have the things we need/want without substantial taxes. He’s the one who showed me we get more than our money’s worth when we pay our taxes. Dad really, really, really, really hated paying taxes, but it didn’t stop him from understanding how much we benefit from what we pay.

We do pay a ton of taxes, but we get a ton of goods and services. Without a complicated combination of city, county, state, and federal taxes, we wouldn’t be able to live our free and secure lives. Think of just some of the “gifts” we get, just for doing nothing more than being born in this country: schools( complete with bus drivers and crossing guards); libraries; parks; sports facilities and programs; roads; bridges; infrastructure (water, sewer, landfills, and more); the military; police officers; EMT’s; firefighters; Medicare/Medicaid; etc. We get services we don’t even know we get– like super secret national security programs that secure us and the communities we have created. I could list more– on and on and on, I could yammer. There is no way I could pay for everything I use. My check helps keep me in neckwear. And it helps keep my family fed and clothed and entertained, but it’s sooooo not bigly enough for me to build an elementary school.

Are some of our tax dollars wasted? Yes. Do some people not pay their fair share of taxes? HELL, YES! We need to work on that stuff. Will I continue to gripe about paying my taxes? Yes, I will. Will I get over it? Yes.

And now I’m off to drive on a road I couldn’t possibly have afforded to build on my own.

End of patriotic preaching.

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Warning! Read Product Labels Carefully!

Tiny Bow Tie o’ the Day believes, like I do, that one of the fantastic things about having a bigly extended family and a gaggle of friends is that there is almost always a baby soon to be born. We’ve got infants on the way from all directions right now.

For the brand, spankin’ new babies and their parents, we always put together pretty much the same gift cornucopia to present to the new bambino. It’s stuff they will need. Suzanne’s special contribution to our diapers-and-wipes-and-bibs-filled offering is a pile of baby blankets she creates. She does not believe a baby needs only one of her blankets. And she is right. Any baby who receives many Suzanne-made blankets is guaranteed to be a happy baby.

My special contribution to the baby’s gift bundle is buying the diaper rash-slaying Boudreaux’s Butt Paste. With a baby product name like that, you know it’s exactly the kind of thing my eccentric self must give a newborn. Diaper rash is not pleasant. At least as far as Butt Paste is concerned, somebody can get a minor giggle out of using it.

But I am here to caution you: Do not confuse Boudreaux’s Butt Paste with Rub Some Butt bbq seasoning. Do not mistakenly put the Rub Some Butt in the baby’s room, while also mistakenly putting the Butt Paste in the pantry. That would be a tragedy. Look at the labels closely, folks. Like the television ads told us in the 70’s, reading is fundamental.

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Catching Up On Posts

These Bow Tie o’ the Day photos have been waiting to have their debut for a couple of weeks now. I refuse to keep them from their public any longer.

The P!NK concert in SLC was incredible, as any P!NK show will be. In the photo of the stage, she’s wearing black, up in the chandelier. And look! My purse had its own seat, as well as its own Diet Coke for the performance– at least when Suzanne went off to the potty room. The purse boogied and sang with us all evening. You know what’s really sad about that? My purse can carry a tune better than I can.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Hairs Thursday #8

This is how my hairs look when I take off the beanie I have to wear during my current bipolar-management treatments. The short version is this: I am doing a 36-
session treatment regimen of Transcranial Magnetic Stimulation (TMS). It is also known as “shock therapy, lite,” but instead of the seizure-creating electrodes of ECT, I get an electromagnetic coil attached to my beanied noggin. The coil creates a magnetic field that shoots pulses into the “mood control” area of my brain, to hopefully stimulate feelings that are more level than the extremes I experience. But let me tell ya loudly and clearly: “Pulses” is the wrong word. I’ve never before experienced any kind of “pulse” that repeatedly pecked and pounded like a mini jackhammer at a tiny section of my hairs, skull, and brain– resulting in bigly pain. I might as well buy a woodpecker and duct tape it to my left shoulder, so it can attack the side of my head. It would certainly be a lot less expensive than TMS. I receive one treatment per weekday. 3 treatments down, 33 to go.

I wore my superhero lightning bolts Bow Tie o’ the Day to this morning’s TMS appointment. I figured it will keep me safe and aid me and the electromagnet in my fight for a pair of level-colored glasses. I placed my saddle purse (Purse o’ Every Day?) directly in my line of sight, so no one could pilfer it. Plus, I got to stare at the purse’s adorable-osity. Gazing at my purse got me through my pesky, pecky session o’ “pulses.”

 

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I’m A Tourist Attraction– To Suzanne

I gussied up in a gold-flecked, diamond-point Bow Tie o’ the Day for this morning’s TMS treatment. Suzanne accompanied me this time. Not only was she curious about what the sessions are actually like, she needed to see for herself that the medical professionals at UNI aren’t torturing me. She came away from the experience reassured and feeling I’m well cared for there– especially by my TMS nurse, who routinely declares she digs my bow ties, my fashion, AND my purse. 4 treatments down, 32 to go.

During today’s TMS, Suzanne sat where my saddle purse usually sits when I’m reclined for treatment. It’s the chair that gives me the best view of the purse while I’m being electromagnetically zapped in the head. I made Suzanne hold it on her lap, so I could keep an eye on them both. It was comforting to see them there being my audience watching me twitch and wince while I wore my beanie and earplugs. But mostly, it was comforting to know they were protecting each other from being pilfered by any possible evil clinic passers-by. I absolutely must not lose either one of them. As far as I know there is no Lost and Found for saddle purses and Suzanne’s.

 

 

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Now You See My Bow Tie, Now You Don’t

This selfie shows me wearing a painted wood Bow Tie o’ the Day while venturing to my evaluation appointment at the U of U’s University Neuropsychiatric Institute (UNI) a month ago. I felt like I was due for a tune-up. And I certainly was.

I apologize for not showing up as scheduled to entertain here on TIE O’ THE DAY over the last few days. I’ve disappeared like this before, and I hate it. And I’ll probably disappear like this again, and I’ll hate it again. Occasionally, my neckwear and I go off-grid. We don’t try to scram, but we scram anyway. The posts simply stop. And then our presence eventually pops-up online again, as if we’d never been absent.

I seriously try to be a person who can be counted on. If I say I’m going to post about neckwear twice per day, I feel obligated to do it– whether anyone reads the posts or not. I think most people who know me will tell you I am a gal of my word. But sometimes, I find I have disappeared.

I don’t run off to have a “lost weekend” in Boozeville. I’m not in-hiding from the Feds because I once robbed an armored car and the G-men are now hot on my bow tie trail. Nope. I don’t go under the radar to secretly catch more than my legal limit of fish. I don’t pole dance on dark stages in my birthday suit– for the tip money I “forget” to pay taxes on. Nah. My “bad” is my bipolar paralysis. I get frozen– but not out of fear or indecision. The best way I can describe the “feeling” is this: It’s a frozen agony of nothing and everything, combined.

In TIE O’ THE DAY posts, I have always been open with y’all about my adventures in being bipolar. Most of the time, I’m a pro at wrangling both the mania and the depression into beasts I can live with– to the point that I can often re-make them into charming characteristics. My bipolarity makes my brain feel like a metaphorical pendulum. I know the arc and rhythms of its movement so well that its changes are somewhat routine to me. I know the extreme bungee-cord swings and bounces will eventually give way to more of a porch-glider back-and-forth feel. They always have.

But these days, I find myself at a place on my pendulum’s arc where I’ve never been stationed quite like this before. The damn pendulum itself seems stuck, defying the laws of its own physics. My old tricks to keep my ship upright need some sharpening up as well, so tomorrow I begin an out-patient treatment at UNI. (I’ll explain the treatment in another post.) I’ll drive myself to and from UNI for treatment every weekday, for the next six weeks. Ah, the joys of city traffic! And suddenly, my calendar is full. Unfortunately, it’s full of a bunch of stuff I’d rather not do. Oh, well.

Of course, I’ll write about the treatment escapades whenever I can. Maybe I’ll just post a photo sometimes. I’ll do whatever I can make happen. I will try my best to not simply disappear, cuz I know how much y’all miss the neckwear when I don’t post. And don’t think for one minute that you’ll ever miss out on HAIRS THURSDAY. Suzanne will make sure I get those pics posted for you, even if she has to post them herself.

Anyhoo… I’ll write about my bipolarity developments for the same reasons I write about anything I write here: maybe you’ll find it interesting, or funny, or enlightening, or all of the above. Maybe it can help somebody else out. I can only write about my life. Who else’s life do I know as much about? But I hope to connect somehow.

Let me be clear: I am ok, and I will be ok. I’m hoping this new treatment protocol will make me even okay-er. I’m viewing my impending course of treatments as just more life experience– from which to learn; by which to be amused; and throughout which to wear bow ties. But I’m pretty sure it won’t be as fantastic as my hot air balloon ride in Albuquerque. I am realistic about things like that.

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Hairs Thursday #7

We didn’t forget today is Hairs Thursday. We’ve simply had a P!NK hangover from last night’s concert (no alcohol involved). We slept in this morning and have been singing badly and dancing even more badly all day. I shall post about our P!NK adventures tomorrow. And yes! My saddle purse made it through Vivint Arena security and was able to see the show with us.

Anyhoo… This afternoon, billiard ball Bow Tie o’ the Day and I were thinking of an idea for my hairs, and Suzanne said, “I know what your hairs should do! Here’s what you do when you don’t have curlers.” She then cut the ends off a plastic Diet Coke bottle, grabbed some bobby pins, and gave me a bigly fat curl atop my noggin.’ It felt weightless. It felt like I had a curler of air in my hairs. But my hairs are too thin for even a curler o’ air to stay in its place very long. It was fun while it lasted.

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My Last Hairscut

This week, as I’ve been going through past photos I’ve used in TIE O’ THE DAY, I found this gem. I adore this bigly jumbo butterfly Bow Tie o’ the Day. I selfied this picture right after my last haircut, last May. Oh, how I long for a cut like this again. Just seeing it makes me all weepy. In case I haven’t made it clear a bazillion times, I cannot wait to get my hairs back to the way I want them again. The end of May can’t come quickly enough for me. Seriously, wasn’t this a nice style? Doesn’t it look more like my kind o’ hairdo? And you must admit the ‘do is flattering to my old face. The secret to any hairdo which appeals to me is that it be more like a hairs-not-do than a hairdo. I’m a wash-and-go girl. Always have been, always will be.

When I was in high school, some chick decided she had been anointed to bully me about my daily lack of effort to make my hair into an official ‘do, as well as my refusal to wear make-up. She did it every dang day. Well, I was up to my top nerve about her harping, and so I cogitated about what I I could say to shut this girl up. I did some figuring one evening at my desk in my bedroom, and I was ready for the barrage of torment from her which I knew would be coming at me the next day. I let her do her mean routine.

Finally, I said, ” We are 15, and our life expectancy is 70 more years. If it takes you an hour per day to do your hair and make-up, in your lifetime you will spend 25,550 hours doing your hair and make-up. That equals 1061.6 days, which equals 2.9 years– spent solely on hair and a face. I, on the other hand, will be spending that same amount of time doing cartwheels; vacationing on beaches; going to plays and concerts; reading; writing; wearing bow ties; playing quarterback for the Seattle Seahawks; being a rodeo clown; and counting my millions. I choose to use that same amount of time doing whatever the heck I want to– while wearing my own naked face and a simple, wash-and-go haircut.”

She never bothered me about it again, nor did her chorus of friends who had egged her on in bugging me. They became my pals, and still are. The lesson of this post is this: If you just be you, people will respect you. They will know exactly who you are and the principles you stand for. And if you ever find yourself in need of it, they will stand up for you.

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I’ll Keep My Lips Chappy, Thank You

I feel obligated to point out stoopid products I run across. Brown-and-tan Bow Tie o’ the Day was afraid to get near this one. I was too, at first. But we put our disgust aside and gathered our bravery so I could acquire it. I bought it for you. I care about you, and I sacrificed to bring it to your attention. Consider yourselves forewarned.

This is chocolate-flavored lip balm, and it is packaged with a bigly poop emoji printed on its cap. Who came up with the idea to market chocolate-flavored lip balm in this manner? Who wants to put pretend poop on their lips? Who wants to encounter the implication that it’s not chocolate in the tiny tin? Not me– even if it’s clearly chocolate-flavored lip balm. I kinda hope I don’t know anyone whose brain would come up with such a rank idea.

If a tin o’ this kind of lip balm is the only cure, I prefer my chapped lips to simply chap until they crumble off my face. Just the thought of slathering this paraffin “poop” anywhere sickens me. Do not buy this item. It will only encourage the lip balm makers to produce more of this crap (no pun intended), and to produce even grosser things nobody needs. We certainly do not need more gross-osity on the planet.

But even as I’m doing my duty to warn you about this item, I know I’m part of the problem. I only bought the product so I could give y’all a heads-up, but I did– in fact– buy it. I guess the lip balm company’s marketing worked, didn’t it? If they keep producing 💩, blame me for keeping them in business.