Tie o’ the Day is made of a thick, weighty cotton weave. I wish you could feel its considerable heft. Even better, I wish you could watch me attempt to tie it. Its thick knot is so stiff it can only barely be tightened or loosened. Tie’s heaviness makes it a wonderful choice for wearing on a chilly day. In a pinch, you could crawl inside and use it as a very tight, but cozy, sleeping bag to toast your bones. Or, at least a finger or two.
Last night was the first time since June it was cool enough to sleep with the windows open. Not only does that mean we’re close to cape weather, it means we’re hitting long sleeve weather, which means we’re entering cufflinks weather. We here at TIE O’ THE DAY welcome you with open arms and closed cuffs into a chillier time of year– with mustard and ketchup bottles Cufflinks o’ the Day.
This morning, I wrote out a list of chores on a Post-it note, listing Tie o’ the Day’s assignments. Tie got started early, and began doing some much-needed ironing for the household. Good Tie!
When I was a wee sprite, one day while Mom was at work at the Delmart, I decided to learn to iron. Unfortunately, I began my ironing education by attempting to iron my swimming suit. Guess who melted her swimming suit? And then I tried to hide the iron-shaped, melted spot by secretly letting it go for a spin in the washer, putting in gallons of Tide. Foam escaped the washer lid, so I used every towel in the house to sop it up. Of course, the washer venture wasn’t successful in restoring my swimsuit.
My thinker then decided that because there were heavy-duty chemicals in the city pool (the old outdoor pool), going for a swim session in my melted garb would surely put the swimsuit back into its original state. No luck with that either. Alas, I had to confess my well-meaning misstep to my mother. Fortunately for me, she thought it was a funny story. Whew! I never ironed in that house again. Nor did I do any laundry. Mom’s heart was gladdened about all that. 😇
Tie o’ the Day invaded my office in the loft a few minutes ago. I was busily doing the hunt-and-peck thing at my keyboard–writing money-making poetry, which doesn’t really make much money. And then much to my amusement, the scoundrel hopped up on the printer/copier to do what we’ve all done during office parties where the holiday punch was purposely spiked. Like each of us once did, Tie o’ the Day made copies of its butt! Yup, I did that once. Oops! (At least I did it before the internet, so I probably don’t have to be afraid copies will show up anywhere in my future.)
Perhaps I haven’t always been the best example for my ties and bow ties. But heck, that was way back in the 80’s. I have repented many times since then, for many 80’s things. And for the 90’s things. And for the 2000’s and 2010’s stuff too. As evidence of my contrition, I can show you dozens of pairs of my jeans where the knees are completely worn out from my dropping to my knees to pray for forgiveness for my various missteps.
Gee, all that repenting makes me sound like a not-so-perfect person. I guess we are all in that same sailboat, huh? And I guess our imperfection is the reason we are supposed to help each other move through the choppy waves of life. That’s what people are for. I’m gonna repeat something I’ve preached often: Things are meant to be used. People are meant to be loved. We’re supposed to keep that straight.
Paisley-adorned wood Bow Tie o’ the Day went with us on a Sunday outing for an “infrared massage.” Suzanne’s back had been pitching a fit all week because of her long days at work, so I ferreted around in my out-of-control gift card/coupon folder, and VOILA! Two gift cards for infrared massages popped up.
We had no idea what an infrared massage might be but we scheduled one anyway. As we were driving to our appointment, I said to Suzanne, “You know, it could be something a like a lampless sunlamp.” I was close.
We ended up brrrr-naked and enclosed in something like a long phone booth, in which wall panels put out intense heat. I believe we maxed out at somewhere around 165 degrees, for 40 minutes. It was a Sweat Lodge, but without steam.
We were able to program what our infrared massage was supposed to do for us. We choose the “anti-aging” setting. The heat really did feel great on our aches and pains, but we look just as old as before we spent our time in the Infrared Time Machine.
One thing really messed with my head while we were being heated up. We could program what music we listened to during the massage, and I went with a simple Pandora 80’s Rock station. Folks, I was fully conscious about music in the 80’s. I had a stereo, a Walkman, and an armband radio. I was ALWAYS listening to all kinds of music. I know my 80’s Rock. Pandora presented its version of 80’s Rock as if it was all Whitesnake, Guns N’ Roses, and Scorpions. Over and over and over. I WAS THERE! I know they weren’t the only three rock ‘n’ roll bands playing music during that decade. But Pandora made me doubt my own music memories. I kept thinking I must have been wrong. It must have been the heat.
Tie o’ the Day makes me matchy, as I head out on the town in my new tie-length dress on this city-fied Saturday night. Let’s all play safely, boys and girls! And don’t be late for church tomorrow.
When I was a much younger chick, I seriously contemplated whether or not to have my own biological children. I decided it wasn’t my thing, and I’ve never regretted my decision. Nonetheless, I ended up being a parent my whole adult life anyway.
Bow Tie o’ the Day laid out across this 8th Grade school picture helps present some of my reasoning for remaining bio-childless. I’m sure I’ve made this true joke before in a past post, and you’ll probably have to read it again in the future: If I had a bio kid it would have bad hair, bad teeth, big boobs, and be bipolar. And who wants to give their kid those blessings?
It’s a joke which drips with truth. You can’t see the bipolar in me here, but it’s already working in full force. I have no doubt that the breasticle genetics are so formidable in me that even a bio son would likely end up with a trophy rack, and that wouldn’t be pretty. My teeth only lasted about five years beyond when this photo was taken. And my hairs in this photo are a perfect example of how stubbornly straight my hairs are. I had just had a permanent which was supposed to give me a tight afro.
A bunch of months ago, I managed to snag us a couple of tickets to a concert by THE NATIONAL that was somehow sold out before the tickets even went on sale, which meant the $20 tickets were selling for an exponentially pricey sum. I pried my frugal wallet open. We put the date in our calendars. And then we waited for the bigly day. The bigly day was yesterday, but Suzanne had to work to finish a project and couldn’t get away for an evening. I was going to the concert solo.
I thought of asking somebody to go with me. But I didn’t ask anyone. Secretly, I held out hope that at the last minute, Suzanne would be able to show up. I knew she wouldn’t, but my hope is stubborn. Outside the venue, I faced the facts. I finally asked if anybody needed a ticket. Ding, ding, ding. A winner emerged. Bye-bye, pricey ticket. Bye-bye, stubborn hope that Suzanne shows up.
Yup, it was just me and The Saddle Purse at the outdoor concert. Well, er, me and The Saddle Purse and around 9,000 other people. At the Ogden Amphitheater, there is bench seating for 2000 souls. There’s grass and standing room for about 7000 souls. No assigned seating. General Admission, folks. Bench seating, full. Bleacher seating, full. Grass, full. Bathrooms, full. You’d think that finding one seat for a person with no butt would be an easy feat. Nope. But The Saddle Purse and I finally wedged ourselves into a slice of a bleacher seat. (I could have shown up hours before the concert to stake out the highest seat, but ain’t nobody got time for that!)
The concert was a smash, even in the brief rain which fell. There was sort of a glitch in my experience though. I shall remember THE NATIONAL concert in Ogden forever. I’ll remember it because it was stupendous. And, more interestingly, I’ll remember it because it was the one and only concert I’ve ever attended without once seeing the band. Everybody in the audience stood for the duration of the concert. I’m short. That tells you all you need to know. You can’t fight height.
And still, I give the concert a thumbs-up. That “thumbs-up” means a lot, considering I saw no trace of the band. For all I know, the whole event was an elaborate hoax– a joke on me. The sound system might have been spinning music on vinyl, with no band there at all. I don’t care. I had a fantastic time.
I took this snazzy Bow Tie o’ the Day for a walk at Walmart last Sunday, which was the day before Labor Day. Suzanne was off with the shopping cart, most likely being mesmerized by office supplies or fabric quarters. Aside from me and Suzanne and this seemingly harmless family, there was almost nobody shopping. I have often been a middle-of-the-night shopper when I can’t sleep, but I don’t think I have ever seen so few consumers consuming there in the afternoon.
Initially, I was gleeful at the thought of having a subdued, barely inhabited shopping outing. Imagine doing your Walmart shopping, without the People of Walmart! But no. Lucky me– I don’t get to enjoy a nice, simple outing of unbridled consumerism. Nope. Why? It’s that nondescript family you see in the otherwise barren aisles of my snapshot. They look pleasant enough, but one of those kids will forever be known as The Centerville Walmart Master o’ Screaming Tantrums.
I know, I know. We’ve all heard the loud tantrums of kids in public. We’ve all felt for the parent whose offspring is having an uncontrollable cow, despite their every attempt to get the child to turn it down a notch. And sometimes we’ve even wanted to spank the parent for not spanking the kid after the first or second or twenty-sixth howl.
But I must declare I have never in my 55 years encountered one of these fits with decibel levels of these olympic heights. Nor have I heard such a regular, near-constant, turmoil. The kid didn’t skip a beat. The kid was a pro. The fact that there were few other shoppers seemed to make his yelping echo vigorously through the building. The sound kept making my hearing aid screech. The kid’s shrieks were literally blood-curdling. I felt like I needed a transfusion by the time we left the store. Even Bow Tie o’ the Day couldn’t get out of there fast enough. So much for a quiet Sabbath.
The poof is in the dress. Not only do we have to have the puffy coat and puffy sleeves to be fashionable this Fall season, this VOGUE ad says we’ve gotta have the puffy dress. At least y’all can see Bow Tie o’ the Day with this outfit.
I think my usual uber-dapper clash fashion forays suit me better than going the VOGUE route. As a “fashion genius” and tblogger, I feel it’s my duty to investigate other styles every now and again, just to make sure I’m not missing something I can’t get from my own personal style of attire. I’m here to tell you, folks: I am not missing one amusing or interesting thing in the world by not wearing a puffy, poofy dress. Clash-y beats puffy every time.
Apparently, according to this ad in VOGUE, puffy sleeves are all the rage this Fall. You know your sleeves are the proper puff-fashionable when the sleeves are so bigly you can’t even see Bow Tie o’ the Day.
