Month: January 2022

Posted on

Mom Powers On

Saturday morning, we drove to Deltassippi to spend some time with Mom. Mom loved Skitter’s heart-covered Tie o’ the Day. She also told me she loved my socks, shirt, and Bow Tie o’ the Day. I think my shirt was her favorite part of my attire. She notices things, and the things she notices give her joy.

Mom’s week had been a rough one, but she is feeling spry again. Mom and Suzanne spent a lot of the visit discussing how the world works, and how to handle the bad stuff gracefully. They also discussed how if men had to have babies, every child would be an only child. Mom thinks women are really the tough ones, and I can’t disagree with that. Also, The three of us lamented the fact that we couldn’t be drinking on the porch to do this kind of solve-the-world’s-problems chatting anymore.

Every time we visit Mom, she asks how Suzanne’s parents are doing. Mom has only met them one time, years ago, but Mom has never forgotten how much she enjoyed their company. She considers them part of our family, as do I. Fortunately, Suzanne’s parents are usually doing well, which Mom is glad to hear.

Another question Mom always throws Suzanne’s way is, “Are you ready to retire yet?” She knows how hard Suzanne works, and she is determined that Suzanne retire soon—so she can just play. I think Mom will relax when Suzanne’s finally done working even more than Suzanne will.

We left Mom as she was finishing up her lunch. I said my farewell and gave Mom a mask kiss and gentle bearhug, then tearily walked away with the Skit. Neither of us wanted to go. Suzanne and Mom said their goodbyes to each other for the longest time. Skitter and I had to finally just stop and wait for Suzanne to catch up to us down the hall. I asked what she and Mom had been talking about for so long. True to her character, Mom had given Suzanne her thanks and appreciation: she told Suzanne that she’s glad I have Suzanne to take such good care of me. I second that.

So we had a fine visit with Big Helen. The next day, I was on the phone with my Sister Who Wishes To Remain Nameless. She told me she had asked Mom about how her visit with Suzanne and I had gone the day before. Mom replied that I hadn’t been to visit her for weeks. That kind of sums up how it is with Mom these days. When you’re with her, she seems quite present and aware of the basics. But the minute you’re out of her presence, you are very much gone—except in long ago memory. She is so much closer to her past than to her recent. Still, her love for us shows through the haze, and it’s clear she can still feel ours. If she gets to the point that she retains only one vivid connection before she eventually goes, I hope it’s our love. If she does, she won’t be afraid. And neither will we. 💝

Mom digs Skitters heart-y tie.
Mom explains how the world works to Suzanne.
Skitter is a bed-hog.
Skitter is Mom’s favorite visitor when we show up.

Posted on

Golf Pants Are The Best

Even without bright colors, flowery Tie o’ the Day shines every bit as boldly as my newest golf pants. Have I mentioned lately that I have fallen thigh-over-knee in love with crazy golf pants? I mean—based on a pair like this, who wouldn’t be smitten?

A couple of my fave-rave television shows over the years are COPS and LIVE PD. They are real-life cop shows. I’m sure Suzanne and I have seen every episode of both, and we marvel at some of the dopey things captured criminals will say to the cops as they plead their innocence. Our all-time favorite defense has been used more times than you can possibly imagine. It happens when a culprit’s pockets are being searched by a police officer, and drugs are found to be in said pockets. When the cop finds the drug and shows it to the alleged criminal, the suspect will often adamantly explain to the officer, in all seriousness, “That’s not mine. These aren’t my pants!” Gosh, that sounds believable. Maybe putting on someone else’s pants is a more prevalent problem throughout the USA than I’m aware of, but I doubt it. In my entire life, even when I was a professorial-level drinker, I cannot think of one time when I accidentally or purposely slipped on a pair of pants belonging to someone who isn’t me. I still watch re-runs of those shows, just hoping to hear that not-my-pants defense come out of the mouth of captured culprits.

Sometimes when, for whatever reason, things get tense around the house, it is now common for whichever one of us is in the doghouse to irrelevantly declare, “These aren’t my pants!” We immediately laugh, and it easily breaks the tension—no matter what the trouble is about. In reality, I am loyal to my pants, and this is true: no matter what is found in the pockets of my golf pants, no matter who put it there, I will never say, “These aren’t my pants!” These are definitely my pants, and you can’t have them.

Posted on

If You Wear All 4 Together, You Win

This post photo highlights my belief in what I call The 4 Patterns o’ Groovy Fashion. At least for me, these are the 4 staples of sartorial style: paisley, houndstooth, polka dots, and plaid. I try to wear as many of these patterns together as possible. Each individual pattern works against and/or with the other patterns to create a kind of eye-popping symmetry. Often, TIE O’ THE DAY fans (all 2 of them) ask me to explain what it is I’m trying to create with my fashion stylings. What is my personal fashion aesthetic? In a nutshell, I guess I can say that my goal when getting dressed is to end up wearing a get-up that looks as if it might make more sense if those seeing me are wearing those clunky, cardboard, 3-D glasses from the 70’s. Yeah, that wonky look! That’s what I’m going for. Please forgive me.

Posted on

Bow Tie Looks A-OK, But It Reeks

Bow Tie o’ the Day has been a bad bow tie, and it must go to the dump. I discovered it today, laying crumpled beneath shelves in the garage. It is so stinky I had to seal it in a biohazard bag before I could properly dispose of it in the garbage can. I don’t know exactly what trouble it got itself into, but y’all should consider yourself lucky this post is not a scratch-n-sniff. Bow Tie reeks of some kind of nauseatingly malodorous waywardness. If I were pressed to describe the critter’s rotting stench I would say it smells like a triple cross between day-old fish guts, dog teeth tartar, and an ingrown toenail infection. I don’t even want to speculate about the possibilities of what, where and/or how Bow Tie’s tragic olfactory tragedy came about—other than to say that somehow Bow Tie got restless and escaped from the Tie Room, only to eventually come to its nose-offending demise on the garage floor, in a cobwebbed corner. I’m infinitely fascinated by the eventful lives of all my neckwear, but I think I’m glad I don’t know the specific story of how this once-promising little darling came to its sorry stenchification.

Rest In Peace, my ill-fated tiny fashion accessory! I shall never forget you. Especially your rancid scent.👃 R. I. P., P. U.

Posted on

A Visit To The Dermatologist

Here’s a bit o’ wisdom I have gathered over the years: When going to a new doctor for the first time, it is best to tone down the loudness of my idiosyncratic fashion. To display my clashion in its most eye-opening forms at a first doctor appointment risks scaring the new doctor. And you know dang well it is not wise to scare a doctor who is in charge of treating your body. I don’t know about you, but I want my doctor to be focused on my ailment, not on trying to decipher the meaning of my attire—at least not until they get to know me, and realize that my normal is not like anybody else’s normal. For this reason, when I had a first appointment with a dermatologist yesterday, I chose a plain-ish blue shirt, a solid-color hat, a doctor-friendly face mask, and a perfectly mellow-but-gorgeous Bow Tie o’ the Day. Yes, I was wearing a pair of golf pants, which my doctor immediately noticed and swooned over. It seemed I had chosen my get-up well.

Anyhoo… For the past three years, I have had a patchy rash on some areas of my torso. The rash is not hideous, and it doesn’t ooze, hurt, or itch. It hasn’t spread anywhere else. It just hasn’t gone away. For the first year, I tried to treat it with various creams, lotions, and gels—convinced it was just something to do with my notoriously dry skin. I figured it would eventually go away. After almost a year of the recalcitrant rash, I knew it was time to make an appointment with a dermatologist. But that’s when the pandemic showed up, and making an appointment with a doctor to deal with a problem that was stubborn and vaguely annoying but otherwise not causing me any discomfort—well, that wasn’t gonna happen. At about the time it was getting easier to get a doc appointment again, my Cranky Hanky Panky flipped out and I had to deal with doctors about that for almost another year. It’s been three months since my pancreas surgery, so I decided it was time to finally make an appointment with a dermatologist. Which I did.

Yesterday was my initial appointment. I have been supremely curious to get to the bottom of what these seemingly innocuous rashy patches on my front and back are all about. The doctor walked into the exam room and—after complimenting me on my golf pants—her eyes lit up at the sight of my rash. She circled my torso with glee. I kid you not: she was grinning and her eyes got bigly. I asked her if she knew what it was, and a bunch of Latin words came out of her mouth. I had never heard of anything she said. I asked her to tell me in English, and she said: “You have a skin fungus. It’s one of four different types. We’ll have to do a biopsy to find out exactly which one it is, then we’ll know how to treat it.” Well, okay then. I was glad to have something close to an answer. Then she took chunks out of my torso in three different spots and sent them off for biopsy. (The doctor will call me with the results in a few days.) My doctor grinned throughout the whole office visit. She was downright giddy. Apparently, what I have is not something she has seen often. The doctor asked if I would let her colleague come in to view my rash, and I was fine with that. So my doc left and the other dermatologist came in—also grinning as she circled me, again and again, with a special light. She was giddy, too. I was a spectacle, and not for my clothing choices. My doc’s colleague said she had never seen this particular skin problem in real life. She spent more time perusing my rash than my own doctor. And then when she was done examining me, she thanked me profusely for letting her look at my stubborn patches. My skin malady is something exotic! Of course, that makes me feel like I’m cool right down to my literal skin. I felt kind of like the Elephant Man. I should have charged admission.

Posted on

A Colorful Winter’s Day

Not only did my new golf pants arrive, but so did my pink-and-orange argyle vest! My crossword Bow Tie o’ the Day tops the geometrics of my attire. And a paisley shirt lifts the clashion to superb-ity on yet an even higher level of style. I love an outfit like this. There is simply no way anything can discourage me or sadden me as I be-bop through the world when I am dressed like this. I highly recommend it to y’all. If I had to describe what my preferred fashion is to someone in 4 words, I would say it is “dressing loud and happy.” Of course, if anybody asks me to describe my fashion aesthetic tomorrow, I will likely describe the look in 4 entirely different words—because I’ll be wearing something completely different then. I’m fickle like that, but only concerning my wardrobe.

Posted on

They’re Here

Snazzy red Tie o’ the Day is here to announce that my new dotty Golf Pants o’ the Day finally showed up in the mail. I am so excited to go grocery shopping this morning and show them off! When I first put this pair o’ pants on, I immediately sensed that they will likely be my new favorite pants. Prepare to see them often. Where have golf pants been all my life? Clearly, I have been looking for pants in all the wrong places. 👖

Posted on

My Calls To Mom About Mortality

I tied on a neon-hued Tie o’ the Day to change the furnace filters this afternoon. And after that was done, I sat my butt down at my desk in the loft. My intent was to make my regular call to check on Mom. I am always excited to talk to Mom, especially if I find her to be having an especially clear-ish mind. No matter her state of mind, she remains ever playful and interested in whatever, whatever.

I initially intended to call Mom yesterday, but I found myself unable to go ahead and make the call. And today, the call didn’t happen either. I was paralyzed. You see, I do not exaggerate when I say that almost every time I call Mom, I have to deliver the news of another death of someone significant in her life. At 91, she is outliving so many of her people—friends, family, and close acquaintances. It’s her own fault this is constantly occurring: she made it her life’s mission to know and care about so many people. They, in turn, have cared for her. When I finally call her this time, I must relay the news of two more people passing from her life. She will be the first to tell you that her life has been rich with good folks—so it’s sad when they pass on.

I could choose to not tell Mom about dreadful things at this point in her life, but I wouldn’t want to risk her overhearing snippets of sad news and have it not make sense to her. I’d rather be able to explain the information and answer her questions, sometimes over and over again—even if she will likely forget the news and then need help being reminded about it at a later date. Her best friend, Peggy, passed away around 4 years ago, and Mom will still ask me sometimes about what happened to her “Pegetha.”

As time passes, Mom needs more and more reminding about her own life. With a little help, she can often at least temporarily reconnect with the gist of whatever she’s trying to access in her brain. Still, occasionally—like yesterday and today—I can’t rustle up the soul-strength to make a call to her to deliver not-good news. I can’t rise to the task sometimes. I do always feel incredibly guilty about postponing any phone call to Mom, however. But all I can do about it right now is hope I’m stronger than I was yesterday and today, when I attempt to place the call to Mom again tomorrow. ☎️ 📞 📱

Posted on

Well, Here’s An Idea

How ’bout these bigly hair Bow Ties o’ the Day! This is simultaneously my kind o’ thing and NOT my kind o’ thing. The Australian singer-songwriter, Sia, can clearly pull this off. It is definitely and completely her kind of thing, and I’m going to pay it proper homage by not even attempting it for myself. When someone else has created a singular style, don’t let yourself become a knock-off imitation. Simply appreciate it. Relax and enjoy the specific points of someone else’s self-expression. I admire the audacity, flair, and panache of Sia’s bigly hair bow ties. No matter how you feel about this look, one thing is for sure: you cannot look away. And it’s about bow ties. No bow tie has ever taken life too seriously. What’s not to adore about that vibe?

Posted on

What Mountains?

Argyle Tie o’ the Day and I usually have a nice view of the mountains, from morn until night. Unfortunately, we haven’t seen hide nor hair of a mountain in the mornings for days. It’s the ever-dreaded inversion time of year up in these parts. Even after the worst of the haze burns off mid-day, the skies are generally grayer than their usual winter-gray or blue. I take all this air muck as a personal insult. You see, I was born of the sky. The sky is my spirit animal, so to speak. And not just any sky. I was born of the Utah, west desert sky that makes you feel like you’re living in a snow globe. There, the sky begins at your feet and doesn’t really end anywhere. I get sky-withdrawal when the inversion comes to town.

When I lived in Virginia and Maryland, I knew it would be a temporary relocation. I knew I could not live long without bigly sky. For all the beauty and sights and things to do in the D.C.-area, there was just not enough blue sky for my taste. Too many trees, too. The most at home I felt back there was, oddly, at the beach in Delaware or New Jersey—where water and sky met, and together created the illusion of the never-ending bigly sky of my kidhood and young adulthood.

When I left Maryland for the last time, there was no question where I would move to begin to figure out a new life. When I came back home, it wasn’t to Delta itself that I was headed. It wasn’t necessarily to my mostly-Delta family I decided to return. The fact that my hometown and my family were there was added blessing. No, I was broken, so I went to the sky I knew. I bought a truck and I drove and thought, and drove and thought under that bigly sky. I did my best thinking under that sky, as I always had, while traveling on washboard gravel roads between farms.

When I was a child, I had driven those same roads on my bicycle and composed my first poems as I pumped—getting off my bike when necessary, to sit alongside ditch banks covered in asparagus, where I could write down every kid-profound word I’d strung together into whatever I thought was surely poetry and my fate. After I was done writing a kidhood masterpiece in my tiny notebook, I’d fill the pockets of my overalls with as much fresh-picked asparagus for Mom as I could carry—careful to not crush it as I peddled home to supper.