Month: July 2021

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Hangin’ At Huntsman Again

Flip flop Bow Tie o’ the Day hitched a ride with me and Suzanne to the appointment with my Cranky Hanky Panky surgeon at Huntsman today. The radiologist’s report about my CT scan said my pancreatic stone had been crushed and the resulting rubble was making its way out of my body. I was hoping it was true, but there was no explanation for why I felt continued pain, if my problem really was solved. And then, my surgeon showed us my scans. She said, “Hey! The stone’s still there! It wasn’t blown to smithereens at all.” Even I could see the dang stone. The thing is, I don’t think the radiologist was a dope for misreading my scans. What’s left of my re-built pancreas is weird, and I’m sure it’s not easy to figure out. I’m just glad my pancreas doc wanted to look at the scans with us. The fact that she caught the radiologist’s error makes me doubly confident in her as my surgeon.

So, what does this mean? It means that all of the tests and procedures I’ve been having since February have not been able to deal with the pain in my Cranky Hanky Panky which is apparently a calcified-tissue factory. The next step is, unfortunately, surgery. There are a couple of hoops to jump through before surgery’s a 100% go, but as it stands now, I’m scheduled for surgery to extricate my pancreatic stone in early September. My Panky surgeon told us this surgery is done so rarely that there isn’t even an official name for it yet. It will be similar to the Whipple surgery I had three years ago on my pancreas. It will not be as extensive as the Whipple, but it will be more complicated, in the sense that because of my previous surgery, there is less of my Panky for my surgeon to work with, and my Panky now has scar tissue from the last operation.

I am not a happy camper, folks. If only a bow tie could solve my Cranky Hanky Panky pain, but it can’t. So often in life, we are left somewhere with no real choices. Stuff happens, or stuff doesn’t. We are called upon to endure stoopid stuff that, in itself, has no meaning for us. Stoopid stuff is not a judgment. It just is. How we endure it is where the meaning is made, and we get to make it mean whatever we choose. Will we build joy in what happens, or will we wallow and complain? We’re in charge of the meaning of our days. Choose wisely. Hey, I’m a happier camper already.

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It Is Hairs-mageddon!

I know it’s time for a hairscut when my Spock ear gets all covered up, but today it feels like the end of my head hairs’ world. You see, I am in dire need of my noggin hairs being hacked off and otherwise managed, and I just found out Miss Tiffany—the masterful cutter o’ my head hairs—no longer works at Great Clips. She is, in fact, nowhere to be found. Now I know how Mom felt when Vonnie retired! Where, oh, where did my Miss Tiffany go? She appreciates my style, and she knows how to wrangle my straight, limp hairs, like no other of these “up north” shear-wielders can. She is a prize I lucked into finding, and now it seems I’ve lost her. Woe is me! And woe-er are my head hairs! The end is near! I hate when that happens.

And then suddenly, just as mustache Bow Tie o’ the Day and I began to surrender to the end of life as we know it and plan a full-out pity party for me and my head hairs, Suzanne texted me from work and said, “Your Miss Tiffany just called me. She wants us to know she’s cuttin’ hairs at a new place now. Here’s the phone number.” Yay! All is right with the world! No pity party needed! No hirsute end of times! No Hairs-pocalypse!

I’m crossing my pancreas that Miss Tiffany is working tomorrow.💇✂️🔪💈

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Fashion Fact: Cowboy Boots Work With Everything

It’s a rare day when I don’t have a to-do list—or at least a vague idea for what I’m going to do with my waking hours. Today was one such day. If you don’t know what you’re going to be doing, it’s a tad difficult to dress appropriately for your adventures, tasks, or whims for any given day. On the other hand, sometimes what you feel like wearing can help you narrow down what you decide to do with your time. So I wandered around the Tie Room, and peeked in drawers and closets throughout the house. In one closet, I happened upon this dress—with the tag still on it— which Suzanne decided doesn’t work for her. She has recently offered it up to anyone who wants to take it off her hands. Seeing it hanging there in the closet made me ask myself a question: “What is the last thing anyone could imagine I’d do for a TIE O’ THE DAY selfie?” These photos are the answer: I’d wear a dress. And now that I’ve done the last thing anyone could imagine I’d do, I am left to wonder what the next last thing anyone would imagine I’d do is. Hmmm. 🤔 👗 👒 👢

FYI The last memory I have of me wearing a dress was in 1986, when Suzanne and I were pallbearers at a funeral for a friend’s daughter. If I’ve worn a dress since then, I have no memory of it. I have nothing against dresses, except they do not resemble my soul.

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Why I Sometimes Hate Email

For the past week, I have dedicated a bigly chunk of my time to culling through my various email accounts. I keep up with personal email efficiently enough, but the what’s-this-about?/who’s-this-from? junk email and spam sort of pile up on me. A week ago I had 17,000+ unread emails. As of today, martini Bow Tie o’ the Day and I have managed to read and obliterate 12,000 specimens of the unwanted email. I’m still working on dealing with the final 5000 emails, which I estimate I can finish before the weekend. It is a largely tedious project, which I always promise myself to do more regularly, so it never gets this far out of hand again. Promises, promises.

What have I discovered by going through my pile o’ email housekeeping? Two things. First, I need to further tweak the settings on each account to send even more of the questionable email into the spam/junk folder, so I don’t need to be bothered with it. The second thing I’ve discovered is more of a question: Why is it that the single most repeated topic of the unsolicited emails sent to me is about crackpot Erectile Dysfunction cures? I get at least 3-4 ED emails per day, every day, in one of my accounts alone. Do y’all get them in your email, too? Is ED the new pandemic and I just haven’t heard? What words could I have possibly written on TIE O’ THE DAY that put me into the internet ED algorithm? And how do I undo it? I mean—I don’t know everything, but I feel absolutely certain when I declare that ED cures are nothing I will ever be in the market for. Just sayin’.

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A CT Scan At Huntsman

Bow Tie o’ the Day and drove up to Huntsman Cancer Hospital for what I hope will be our last medical test for a while, and we had a blast. I didn’t have to change any of my clothes for the scan, which meant Bow Tie o’ the Day was with me for the duration of the CT. I was even allowed to wear my hearing aid in the machine. (I still only have one hearing aid. My new one is on order.)

Without having to change in to, and out of, a hospital gown, the appointment went by lickety-split. My test was scheduled for 2:30, and my habit is to always be at least 10 minutes early—which I was. I checked in, took a few TIE O’ THE DAY selfies, sat down, and then I was immediately called to go in for my test. When I walked out of the hospital, I was so shocked at what time it was, that I took a screenshot of my phone’s screen to prove it: 2:35 PM. Quickest. Medical. Appointment/test. Ever. I was done almost before my official appointment was set to begin.

You should have seen my smile widen beneath my face mask as I left the hospital. I mean—it was cool that the appointment flew by so quickly, to be sure. And it was groovy I didn’t have to don a hospital gown or remove Bow Tie o’ the Day for the CT scan. But the bonus aspect of my being done by 2:35 was even bilgier. If I drove just a tad over the speed limit the whole way, I could be home in time to watch most of the Judge Judy hour! You know how I am about Judge Judy o’clock each weekday. From 3 to 4, it’s just me and Judge Judy. When I originally took the 2:30 appointment, I secretly cursed that it meant I would have to miss my daily dose of Judge Judy for the sole purpose of getting my squishy innards scanned. I was not a happy camper, but it was the first appointment I could get, so I took it. The way it played out, I figured I might be able to arrive home soon after Judy o’ clock. I made it home at 3:09. Only missed 9 minutes. Score! It was a magical day, all around. (And yes, Suzanne will back me up on this: I really am that easy to please.)

FYI In case you thought only my legs were fish belly-white, the third photo here is proof of the whiter-than-whiteness that is my head skin. You know that flashlight you have on your fancy phone? I have never had to use mine. In any degree of darkness, my flesh lights my way. I’m so pale I’m a human nightlight. 🔦💡🕯

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Another Day, Another Zoom Appointment With A Doctor

Yesterday, I matched—even with my Zoom background. You know I did not plan to do it. I didn’t know it had happened until I saw myself on the screen. Those orchids behind me are birthday gifts I gave Suzanne, and that’s where she put them. I wasn’t even thinking about them when I set up for my Zoom appointment. Matchy, matchy, matchy with my Bow Tie o’ the Day. I survived the matchiness, with no apparent negative side effects.

My appointment was with my crazy-head doctor. It was a regular check-in and check-on for my bipolarity. Fortunately, my brain is chugging along nicely right now. No bigly swings of the pendulum that is my head. I’m as ready as I can be for whatever’s around the corner, though. There is no cure. There’s always something lurking, and all I can do is not be overly surprised when it decides to jump out at me. In other words, it’s always with me. I think my bipolarity is my mental shadow. It ain’t goin’ nowhere.

Not long after my Zoom appointment, Suzanne packed up her car with treats and wine and what was left of her birthday cake, and she drove to the mountains to meet up with her Champagne Garden Club ladies for their annual long weekend getaway. I’ve been to the cabin with them a few times. The weekend there is like Las Vegas, but without phone service. What goes on there, stays there. What I can disclose to y’all is that the Champagne Garden Club gals never garden there at all. And I swear, late last night when I was alone and drifting off to sleep, I was sure I could hear them faintly exploding in fireworks of laughter, a few mountains north, over and over again. Yes, their voices carry. Or maybe—and much more likely—it was just my own tinnitus I was hearing.

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A Summary Of Suzanne’s Birthday

Well, I was there in my magnetic, wood punch-hole Bow Tie o’ Suzanne’s Birthday. My beach hat alerted me to the fact that since I shaved down all my head hairs, my hats are too bigly. Hey, it’s a look, right?

We watched movies—The Shape of Water, and Babel—and ate popcorn. The birthday cake, truffles, and cookies I ordered from Milk Bar showed up on time. I installed a mammoth “57” formed with Post-it Notes on the wall, which was my feeble attempt at being artistic. When I’m trying to get my craft on, I wisely keep it as simple as possible, so I can’t screw it up into an all-out hideous decoration. The “57” wasn’t too icky.

For eats, I made clam strips for Suzanne for breakfast. And I surprised her with a dinner of Happy Meals because she makes me happy. When we lived in our SLC apartment which we called The Kingdom of Scary Yellow Carpet, in 1986, I created a hanging sculpture of empty Happy Meal boxes in our living room. So, after dinner last night, I made an attempt to recreate that hanging sculpture from the past. It brought back memories of a time when we were young and poor and always in school or working—and our hanging light fixtures weren’t nearly as nice as the ones we own now. And finally last evening, to top off her birthday, I sent Suzanne on a treasure hunt through our domicile which culminated in her uncovering a pile of what I call Chips On A Chair, as seen here. You see, although she enjoyed the expensive and luscious birthday cake, Suzanne always falls in deepest, truest love with whatever potato chip she’s with. 🤡🍟🍔🥔🎂

BTW Suzanne was overwhelmed with the birthday wishes some of y’all sent her yesterday. She says THANKS. She also thanks to y’all for reading TIE O’ THE DAY. After this many years of showing off my neckwear and telling stories, I don’t think she’d let me quit writing it even if I wanted to: it keeps me out of her hair.

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Suzanne Has A Birthday Today

Every year on this date, Suzanne catches up to me, age-wise. She now joins me in my 57-ness. I kinda like that I get to get older first, so I can scout out the new territory that comes with the next age number. I get to tame the wilds of each year’s age and pave a clear way through it. I get to map out the age by myself for four months, making sure it’s safe for her to proceed. I consider getting there first—whatever age it is—to be part of my job. So far, I haven’t found 57 to be significantly different from 56, so I think Suzanne will easily manage the transition to an older number quite well. Of course, Suzanne manages to do just about everything well. Everything except dancing. Dancing is not in her skill set. We will not be going out dancing tonight to celebrate her birthday. At 57, her old bones are getting too brittle to try something so dangerous for her. I have learned at least that much from being 57.

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Longest. 4th Of July. Ever.

Wood stars-and-stripes Bow Tie o’ Yesterday is a fitting tank top bow tie for any patriotic occasion. I believe the idea of “dissent” is appropriate to this American occasion, too. This country was born out of dissent, and our history tells us that every expansion of the idea of what America is, has been mined from veins of that original dissent. Dissent is neither good, nor bad in itself. It is a force for change, and change will always be imperfect. It is the responsibility and right of each citizen to use our dissent gun wisely.

When I woke up this morning, my first thought was, “Is it still the 3rd/4th/5th of July?” Since the holiday fell on a Sunday this year, celebrations were scattered across all three days. We watched fireworks coming from various nearby locales from the bedroom deck for three nights in a row. Some of the parades happened on Saturday, the 3rd and some on Monday, the 5th—the 5th having been declared the official observance of this year’s Independence Day. Some parades happened on the actual 4th, but none of those happened around here. So, for me, it was the 4th of July for three days in a row, and I never quite felt like any of the three days was a complete 4th. Independence Day should feel somewhat unified in time and purpose, but nobody seemed to know exactly where and when the “real” party for the U.S. of A. was taking place.

I’ve been to more than a few dinner parties where some attendees disregarded the information on their invitations and simply showed up late, at their own convenience—making everybody’s dinner cold. Those kinds of dinner parties are generally the ones where something goes unnecessarily wrong. The people who showed up on time tend to get a little too tipsy, drinking whiskey sours on empty stomachs while waiting far too long for the inconsiderately late guests to show up. People get edgy. Too tipsy and too edgy? No good can come of that. To stifle confusion, can’t the 4th of July be on the 4th of July every year? There’s something simple and logical about that radical idea, I know. But we could try it. Please, oh, please!

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Liquor Stores Can Be Fun

Suzanne has an annual get-together with her Champagne Garden Club gals later this week, so we had to take a jaunt to gather plenty of champagne for their retreat. We had never been to the new state liquor store in Farmington before, so off we flew to see what it was like. The new liquor store is so shiny and pristine that I swear it still has that new car smell to it.

While Suzanne made her potation selections, I amused myself by finding a theme to follow as I wandered the aisles. As a daughter of St. Ron, The Beekeeper, I decided to sniff out honey. After my research, I can attest it is a verifiable fact that current vintners and brewers are using more honey in their new-fangled concoctions than ever before. I was finding honey used as an exotic ingredient in almost every ilk of alcoholic beverage in the liquor store. Honey is trending right now.

Bow Tie o’ the Day and I settled most of our liquor store selfies on various offerings of honey-imbued whiskey. Y’all can see honey whiskeys in the first three pix of this post. But wait! I also found a couple of peanut butter-flavored whiskeys. Y’all can see the PB whiskeys in the last two shots.

If you put those two flavors of whiskey together with a fine red wine (the jelly) and a heavily yeasty brewski (the bread), you’ve got the alcohol version of a PB and J w/ H sandwich. 🥜🍯🍇🍞