Witty & Wise Ties, Trivia & Lies
Face Mask o’ the Day depicts a glimpse of the fabled race characters, the tortoise and the hare. I have paired it with a recently acquired Bow Tie o’ the Day made of painted wood. Other than that, I don’t have anything else to write today, because for once in her working life, Suzanne just now came home from the office early. Trust me—it’s the kind of thing that will never happen again. I’m going to post this as is, and then sit down and make her watch Judge Judy with me.
I am miffed this afternoon, but in worse words than “miffed.” Suzanne and I had made plans to go visit Mom in her room at Millard Care and Rehab Thursday, and then I got an email from MCR saying that in-person, in-the-flesh visits are once again not allowed. Apparently, the COVID-19 positive rate for Millard County has risen over the CDC guidelines, and there will again be no in-the-flesh visits until the positive rate is below 10% for two Monday’s in a row. I won’t be hugging Mom again for at least two dang weeks from today. Don’t get me wrong: I’m pleased MCR puts its residents first, keeping them as safe as possible. Mom often mentions how safe she feels living there, and her feeling of security is priceless to us. We know they will take care of her. But I don’t have to like it that I can’t be in the same room as my mother—even if it is for her own safety. Just let me be grumpy about it for the rest of the day.😡
I just had to share. I was cleaning drawers in the Tie Room and I came across these Cufflinks o’ the Day, representing the oft-asked question: boxers or briefs?
If you’re a longtime reader of TIE O’ THE DAY, you know what I’m doing today. If I’m wearing my money Bow Tie o’ the Day, it means we’re filing our taxes. You also know that my tax post always contains a few words about how I consider my tax dollars give me the biggest bang for the buck, relative to any other dollar I spend. Yes, I gripe about paying taxes, but it’s an ironic gripe. Due to nothing more than good luck, I was born in the United States of America. I get to live here. The least I can do is pay an annual tithe to my country to help pay my way. 💵 💰🇺🇸😁
I can now cross my COVID-19 vaccinations off my list. As of this morning, I am fully vaccinated. I wore my wood, lobster claws Bow Tie o’ the Day out to the Davis fairgrounds to get my second shot. Bow Tie got a couple of compliments from the clinic workers, and the guy I handed my documents to through my car window congratulated me on having manual windows in my car. He said he couldn’t remember when he last saw a vehicle with manual windows—and he’s the guy who sees all the cars as they line up. Folks, my Vibe is fourteen years old—and I know that’s a bit old for a car—but it runs perfectly and I still get 36 mpg, and I ain’t getting rid of it until I absolutely have to. The guy acted as if I was driving a classic antique car, with a much-coveted, near-extinct feature: an un-gadget, in an electronic world. I told him he could have a turn rolling the windows up and down if he wanted to, but he was too busy. And then I told him my car is really like those mini clown cars in the circus, from which—when the doors open—a parade of two dozen clowns comes traipsing out from who-knows-where. Hey, it could be true. My car is a magic relic.
After eating a bowl of popcorn for breakfast, guess what I ate for lunch today! Two words: fish sticks.
Guess what I ate for breakfast!
Remember the short film about Johnny Lingo and his 8-cow wife? Well, I once owned a coat that became legendary among my friends, and we called it my 12-Beer Coat because I could fill its many pockets with a total of 12 cans of beer. I had the 12-Beer Coat when I lived in Maryland. I’d fill up my coat with brewskis, and a group of us would go off on some beach or mountain adventure for the day, and my 12-Beer Coat provided refreshment for us all. Sometimes we packed the coat more than once per adventure. In my 12-Beer Coat, I could sneak beers anywhere. I’ve heard rumors that we also filled up the 12-Beer Coat coffers before going out to see movies. I do recall that we were once hiking up a mountain in New Hampshire while I was wearing my 12-Beer Coat, and I slipped and almost tumbled off a ledge. I did not slip because I was tipsy. I slipped because I had 12 full beers for the group stuffed into my coat while hiking. Try keeping your balance with 12 beers rolling around on your body. If I had fallen off the mountain and died, it would have been technically correct to say my death was alcohol-related, just because I was the beer mule.
I adore this Levi jacket, but it is wimpy in comparison to my long-gone 12-Beer Coat. I can pack only 8 drink cans in it. Of course, if I bought a bigger size of Levi jacket—with bigger pockets—I could load it with a 12-pack or more of cans of whatever not-beer I drink these days. From the looks of it, I think I can fit a couple of cans inside my hat, too.
Bow Tie o’ the Day can be found on this can o’ Budweiser Zero. Sometimes a product comes along that has me written all over it. I found this one recently. Bud Zero is bow tied right down to its very bar code, and it contains O% alcohol and 0% sugar. It also contains 0% buzz, but it tastes like beer, and I have missed the taste of beer since 2007. In all honesty, Bud Zero really tastes more like beer-flavored water. And so, of course, it’s more expensive than both bottled beer and bottled water. Just my luck.🍺
I went with a floppy Bow Tie o’ the Day this afternoon, and I donned my “HATE HAS NO HOME HERE” Face Mask o’ the Day for my trip to the store. I was inspired to wear this mask because I keep thinking of my visit with Mom last week. Mom is bigly into kindness and compassion. Mom thinks people should be nice. At large family dinners, Mom took charge and said a few words before the prayer. She always found a way to incorporate the message that we should always be nice to each other and to others. Even with family, being nice is sometimes a difficult way to behave, but it’s still the right thing to do.
As Mom and I were sitting on her bed last week, she brought up kindness yet again. As we were chatting about various kindnesses that had been performed on behalf of our selves, I remembered my new word tattoos—”empathy” and “kindness”—which happened to be covered by my long-sleeved shirt. As I rolled up my shirtsleeves, I said “Mom, I know you don’t like tattoos, but you have to see my new ones. I think you’ll sort of appreciate them.” She said, “I don’t mind your tattoos. You can have whatever you want on you, and people can mind their own business if they don’t like it.” After I rolled up my shirtsleeves, Mom read each of the two words out loud. She was pleased. She even touched the words with her fingertips and told me whoever tattooed me had done a very good job.
Let me be clear: Mom is not a fan of tattoos on anyone, but she is too nice to say so. She’s not about to take a chance of making someone feel ashamed of themselves and their tattoos, just because tats are not her thing. She’s certainly not about to judge someone about something as surface-y as their skin getting inked. In fact, Mom pointed at my “empathy” and “kindness” tats and expressed a familiar sentiment. She said, “We’ll be judged on those words.” I can’t disagree with that.
And on we talked about the niceties of being nice.