Coffee bean Bow Tie o’ the Day and I mean no disrespect to any of y’all who might be coffee lovers. Nor do we mean any disrespect to those of y’all who might find coffee to be the work of the Devil. Nope. This is just me telling you about my own personal recent relationship with coffee.
I have never been a coffee drinker. I have ordered a cup o’ Joe at various times throughout my life—mainly to see if I can finally taste what the bigly hubbub is all about, and whether I’ve acquired a taste for it yet. It has never seemed tasty to me. People tell me to throw in some cream and sugar, but I think if you have to put a ton of cream and sugar in coffee in order to be able to stand drinking it, it ends up being something other than coffee—so why bother? Fresh peaches can be good with cream and sugar, but peaches are good on their own already. It’s not the same with coffee. So every once in a blue moon, I slurp some coffee, push it aside, and then forget about it for a decade or so—when I decide to give it another try and order myself a cup. My verdict, as always is a resounding, lower case “meh.”
Fast forward to some minor-but-picky issues I’ve been having with my gut since my surgery in October. I did some research and spoke with a couple of my doctors, and the consensus is that I should try drinking a minimal amount of coffee every day to see if that helps my system work out its kinks. So about six weeks ago, I made a morning cup o’ coffee part of my daily routine.
Let me describe to you how coffee smells and tastes to me. When I put a cup of coffee to my lips and take a sniff, I smell what I can only describe as a motel ashtray filled with layers of cigarette ashes and crumpled butts and the tail end of a cheap cigar. And when I take a sip of the coffee, it tastes like I drank the liquified contents of said full ashtray—and then licked the ashtray clean. 😱
Theoretically, it seems like an easy choice for me to simply quit drinking the bean brew—except I’m now “blessed” (stuck?) with a working solution. Yup, coffee seems to be working miracles for me. And I’m a bit miffed that it does. I want my gut problem solved, but I have discovered I really really really really don’t like coffee. Drinking coffee makes me metaphorically sick, but it cures my literal belly woes. Go figure. ☕️ 🚬
[As a favor to a pal who requested it, I am re-posting this post from 2019. Enjoy it again, or for the first time in case you missed it when it originally showed up here.]
Hey! Look what I rescued. It’s my ties-themed 100 oz. mini-keg, which was my go-to sip cup for a couple of years after I bought it. Although it cracked inside last year, I never had the heart to throw it out. Its flex straw had a slight crack in it too, and the lid doesn’t fit tightly either, but its tie graphics are too perfect for me. 7-11 doesn’t sell the tie design “cup” anymore, so I can’t go buy another one. What’s a girl to do with a cracked 100 oz. ties mini-keg? For the last year it’s been mocking me by sitting in the garage whining out its jealousy of my new, differently designed mini-keg. I was about to finally toss the battered, cracked mini-keg over the weekend. And then I had a genius idea I can’t believe I didn’t think of last year: DUCT TAPE. I’ll tape the inside cracks and let you know how it works out.
As I searched for the duct tape, Tie o’ the Day and I were contemplating the weirdities of my life. I don’t care who you are or how straight-laced and “normal” your life has been, you’ve likely found yourself in surreal situations here and there—when you wonder how you got into the predicament and how you’ll ever get out of it. You didn’t set out to be in the situation. The scenario is so outlandish you couldn’t have purposely concocted it if you had wanted to. And you’re positive no one will believe you when you tell them the story.
Because I am I, I have a zillion of ’em. Because I am I, everyone knows my improbable tales really occurred. I call these odd goings-on My Greatest Hits. One of My Greatest Hits is courtesy of the 7-11 in Takoma Park, MD, in the mid-90’s. It doesn’t star a 7-11 mini keg, just a 7-11 Super Big Gulp cup.
Interstate 95 is the main N-S route on the East Coast. The traffic usually runs at a pretty good clip. I used to drive it every school day morning from Washington, D.C. to Baltimore’s inner city where I taught middle school. My drive to work usually took about 35 minutes.
But one morning, when I was just about to exit the freeway and head into West Baltimore, all lanes of the I-95 traffic going my way came to a halt. That was rare for that particular area of the freeway. Rarer still, an hour later no vehicle had moved a centimeter. Something bigly was surely shutting down the road. (It ended up being a many-car accident.) By that time, I had been sitting in the car for more than an hour. For me, that’s venturing into MUST PEE NOW territory. I had finished my Super Big Gulp of Diet Coke, and I needed to get rid of it. And I don’t mean I needed to throw away the cup. A half-hour later, all drivers were still sitting in the precise same place we first were stopped. I was beyond desperate. I had no choice except to do what I had to do.
As a middle school teacher at the time, I learned to always have back-up clean clothing in the car. Out of nowhere, middle schoolers can create unheard of messes, and it’s not uncommon for those messes to end up on the teacher—whether you were anywhere near ground zero or not. It’s nice to have clean clothes to step into. Anyhoo… That day, in an attempt to make myself invisible in my car for a minute, I used my spare clothes to cover my front, side windows. I pulled down the visors. With my empty Super Big Gulp cup, I strategically did what had to be done. The contortionist skills I learned as a teenage mooner came in quite handy. Mission accomplished. Almost.
I extremely carefully got my pants back where they belonged. I opened my door and emptied the cup, which I didn’t want to keep in the car, but I don’t litter. I “baby wiped” my hands. (It was the pre- hand sanitizer era.) Although we drivers had all been stuck going nowhere on I-95 for almost two hours, I felt much better.
As I took my back-up clothes down from the windows, I heard a knock. I was sure it was a cop who would soon give me a ticket for Public Urination or Public Indecency or some such charge that would put me on the Sex Offender Registry. But it wasn’t a cop. It was a soccer mom from the van behind me. She asked, “Can I borrow that cup? I gotta go too.” I said, “No, you may not borrow it. You must keep it. Please, for the love of all that’s holy, keep it. Take these Wet Wipes too.”
I kid you not. As time passed and the cars still didn’t move for a small slice of forever, Soccer Mom was not the last person to use my cup. I watched my Super Big Gulp cup and the wipes travel up, down, and across a handful of the halted lanes as we sat parked on I-95 whittling away our time in the pre- affordable cell phone era. The cup that almost ranneth over had a somewhat bonding effect on those who were there that day. That cup was the founder of a different kind of Relief Society. Those of us who got relief became friends for life on that commute, even though we didn’t talk to each other and we would never see each other again. We shared a moment. We shared a cup.
I do not know who finally ended up with the Super Big Gulp cup and baby wipes.
BTW Speaking of my Delta, teenage mooning career, I once mooned a worker at the Taco Time drive-up window while driving and wearing overalls. Now that is a true and rare skill set. (Yes, young-un’s, Delta once had a Taco Time. And an A & W and an Arctic Circle.)
Just a tiny post today. Bow Tie o’ the Day has a purple-and-lavender-and-teal reptilian vibe to its look. Tonight’s dinner is likely to be this colorful bow tie pasta I found. Bow tie pasta is the only pasta we regularly stock in the pantry at our house. It’s our food mascot. 👒
Today, I’ve been busy catching up on a quiver of projects, errands, and even stoking a fervent wish. Tie o’ the Day is symbolic of my wish: I want a beach, somewhere far from the cold and snow I live in. But that’s not on the schedule currently, so I guess I will half-heartedly settle for beach-y, tropical neckwear. I want to rent a palm tree and some white sand. A girl can dream.
I’ve been playing phone tag with the car dealership where I ordered my new truck in November. I have heard nothing from them or Ford since placing my order. I knew I would have a months-long wait to get my Maverick, so I’m not worried. I’m simply wanting to check in with somebody official about it, though, just for reassurance that my order didn’t get lost somewhere in the process. But my car salesguy hasn’t returned my texts or calls yet. I see a drive to the dealership in my plans, which I really don’t have time for—but okay.
I’ve been considering my head hairs this afternoon, and I am having a heckuva time deciding whether to keep shaving it or to let it grow out again. I have kept it shaved for almost exactly a year now. I’m feeling like a hairs change would be nice. But I also really like how it feels to have teensy-weensy head hairs. Maybe I should do both: keep my head shaved, but start a wig collection and wear a different hairstyle every day. Hey, it could be the best of both worlds. I can see the wigs now: all the obnoxious colors I can find and every hairstyle yet known on the planet. I am tempted. But if I start another collection, I can count on collecting divorce papers, too. What to do?
Another bigly project for me today has been to get working on choosing my Oscars gown. I had almost forgotten about the ceremony being only a month from now. I must get crankin’ on that. I know that sometimes I make bold attire moves that I later regret. That just comes with being a fashion genius. Sometimes you hit, sometimes you miss. But messing up with a gown at the Oscars is committing a faux pas in an entirely different universe. I cannot afford to pull a blunder on that socially-enormous, over-blown, bloated-ego stage. Nope. I must get my look right on the Red Carpet. So I’m working on it.
Where there are wild golf pants, there must be wild golf shirts. And here’s the first loud golf shirt to live in my closet. I have always wanted a stained glass golf shirt, although I never knew it until I saw this one online last week. It’s all mine now. I suppose many golfers think of a golf course as their outdoor church. They show reverence to well designed courses they play, so a stained glass shirt fits right into that vibe. I’m partial to stained glass and the eloquent brightness it conjures. The golf part of crazy golf attire, I can take or leave.
Although I’ve only played it a handful of times over the years, I do like the golf course in Delta. I recommend swinging at a bucket of balls on the driving range, as the sun goes down. You’re hitting balls right into the most spectacular desert sunsets you’ll ever find: sherbet colors galore. Who cares if you lose sight of the ball you hit both ?! While playing the Delta course itself, the following have crossed my path at one time or another: rabbits, snakes, deer, dogs, cats, chukars, foxes, ground squirrels, mice, owls, antelope, Wolfenringer, and Sasquatch. It’s a happening place.
Oh, and most importantly, I’ve encountered coyotes on the course. My wiley Tie o’ the Day honors both the desert coyotes and my dad. Dad and those wild pups played tag with each other on a daily basis. 🏌️♀️🐇🐍🦌🐕🐈🐿🐁🦉
Skitter takes a cozy nap in her dog bed—with her hard-working new pal.Skitter joins Rumi at the Roomba helipad.
TIE O’ THE DAY is pleased to introduce the arrival of a new pet at our house. As you know, Skitter and I have been angling for a new critter for a couple of years now. Suzanne has not joined us in our wish. At some point, we finally gave in to the reality that Skitter is so weird there is no plausible way she could handle having another living creature in the house 24/7 without shaking to her tragic death—no matter how badly she tells me she wants an animal pal. Folks, it’s good to let go of the impossible (at least until you figure out how to make it possible). That’s the only way to be free to embrace The Great What Is.
When I got Suzanne the bigly red rug for her birthday, I somehow knew I would eventually be getting her a Roomba to keep her rug immaculate—so a Roomba was Suzanne’s Christmas present. It has made itself at home here with us since then. And it is exactly the kind of pet Skitter can calmly co-habitate with. Part turtle, part manta ray, all vacuum—The Great What Is for us is a Roomba we’ve named Rumi, and we’ve pet-utized it. Suzanne programmed Rumi to be a primarily nocturnal beast.
Skitter has a routine tendency to leave trails of food and slivered bits of dog chews on Suzanne’s red rug—and nowhere else at all—for us to gaze upon with wonder. While Suzanne was initially programming and trying out Rumi, Skitter tried very hard to relate to the new critter, but she was sore afraid of it. She watched it move and it caused her to vibrate with fear, as Rumi seemingly took over the house. It’s not like we could explain a Roomba to Skitter to ease her anxiety. She is just a dog even though I pretend she’s not, and as such she only has a brain the size of a walnut. In the end, I think we came up with a pleasantly livable solution for all involved.
We decided to make Rumi a primarily nocturnal animal. It runs only in the middle of the night. This suits Skitter just fine cuz she’s asleep upstairs when Rumi has run of the first floor. So we have a new “pet,” but Skitter doesn’t have to be askeered of its furtive movements. Skitter ventures over to where Rumi sleeps all day on its own pad, to see and smell her new pet. And Rumi and Skitter occasionally nap together in the dog bed—if Rumi is off. Of course, Suzanne never sees Rumi in motion either because she’s also upstairs asleep when Rumi is awake and active. Rumi and I are tight, however, because I have insomnia often so I go downstairs to putter around and eat popsicles or ice cream while I’m not sleeping: Rumi and I thus share its brief awake time. I guess you could say I supervise the work as Rumi does it.
Twice I have come downstairs in the morning to find Rumi motionless and self-trapped in the tiny 1/2 bathroom, having accidentally pushed the door closed behind itself as it toiled away at cleaning the floor for us. Poor thing. I can imagine Rumi bouncing from one bathroom wall to the next, over and over again, for an hour or so, trying to find a way out and back to home base. Rumi looked so pathetic when I found it like that, so now I try to remember to shut that bathroom door before going up to bed. Yes, I know Rumi is a mere object, but I still felt so sad to picture it trapped and temporarily dead, so close—but yet so far—from its tiny Roomba helipad. Oh, it had places to go.
Bigly Bow Tie o’ the Day has found a sure fashion home here with us recently. I knew it would look outstanding with this particular pair of golf pants and my dotty shirt. Don’t ever let anyone tell you that there’s no such thing as polka dot perfection, because you are looking at it right this very minute. That’s my dotted theme, and I’m stickin’ to it—for today, at least. And I ain’t clownin’ around about it one bit. 🤡
[This is the last hippie hairs re-post I will be presenting, I think. I’ve been trying to finish editing a serious writing project I’ve worked on for months, and I didn’t have time to create new TIE O’ THE DAY posts for much of this past week. Thanks for letting me get by with repeating a few hirsute offerings from 2019.]
It took Suzanne and three Bow Ties o’ the Day to make my hairdo. Orange paisley Bow Tie helped Suzanne put in the curlers. Blue, polka dot Bow Tie was present for the two curlers-out photos. And black/ivory/gold Bow Tie showed up for the unveiling of the finished product.
This was the first time Suzanne experienced working on my hair, which she now says is the straightest hair she’s ever known. It is stubbornly straight. I had a few perms in my youth and not one “took.” I’ve always known the near-impossibility of styling my hair. Suzanne learned it first-hand last night.Remember: I haven’t had my hairs cut since May, and it was an asymmetrical cut. I think Suzanne performed magic with what she had to work with. When I told her she has to build a hairdo for me once a week until the end of May—for Thursday posts—she got absolutely gleeful. She sees my hairs as an exciting challenge. She’s getting ideas for hairdo after hairdo. And we had a blast last night while she tried to perform a hairs miracle on my noggin. She chuckled at my locks the entire time, although once her chuckle sounded like it came out of nervous fear. Yeah, my hairs do scary things. (I refer to my hair as “hairs” because each strand has its own straight plans.)
Mom’s Thursday Hair Day appointment always gave her hair what she called “a little oomph.” I told Suzanne I wanted her to give my hair some oomph too. She proceeded to rat and rat and rat and rat and rat.This ‘do is a never-do-again.
[In yet another repeat TIE O’ THE DAY post from March 2019, my scary hairs are again the star o’ the show. I need my hairs cut and I’m trying to decide whether I’m shaving it again or growing it out.]
Colonel Sanders Tie o’ the Day helped me re-think my baseball caps. Do I really need them, or can I get by with this glued-up visor hairdo? I dunno. My hairs visor seems to be keeping the sun out of my eyes so far today. If I got rid of my hats, I could free up their space in the Tie Room, so I could house more bow ties. But alas! I love my hat collection too, so that’s not gonna happen. There’s somehow room in the Tie Room Resort for all things that wander in.
Small towns are like that, even though we tend to think of them as narrow-minded. A small town will generally set a place for you at its table. Trust me, you will find narrow-minded people anywhere you go. You will find jerks everywhere you go, as well. And if you act like a jerk in a small town, be prepared to lose that place at the table you were so kindly given—as you would deserve to. But most people realize nobody’s perfect, and they’ve got plenty of their own issues to work on. A lot of “mind your own biscuits” combined with even more of “love your neighbor” goes a long way toward allowing you to live like a mature human being among other grown-ups.
[Here’s another hairy repeat post from March of 2019. I hope it makes you laugh.]
As I considered what to make my hairdo do today, I started to think about how snazzy mustaches can be. I decided I’d try to create one on my forehead with my head hairs. Here’s my stab at a Fu Manchu. You can see my mustache-styling skills are quite limited. I can’t even do a Fu Manchu that looks right. The important thing is that I tried. Just for y’all, I tried.
My ‘stache makes as much sense as my Prince-Albert-in-a-Can Bow Tie o’ the Day. I mean, these young whippersnappers nowadays have no clue about the old routine of prank-calling a store that sold tobacco and asking: “Do you have Prince Albert in a can?” And when told YES, saying “Well, you better let him out.” I have to do a lot of explaining when I wear this piece. And the young wonderers still don’t find it amusing. And that gets me to thinking about how much more isolated Delta was when I was a kid. Oh, it was the same 140 miles from SLC, but without cell phones, texting, and the internet, your mind was near-completely soaked in the confines of Delta and its offshoots. A phone prank and toilet-papering a house was about the funniest crap you could pull without causing a town civil war.
Don’t think for a minute that Delta was boring back in the day. There was plenty to do: for example, sliding down the flumes easily morphed into cliff jumping; tubing down the Sevier River could end up planting you at the reservoir for a swim and a bonfire; throwing a couch in the back of a truck (Yes, we rode in the back of trucks.) often ended at an Oak City canyon party—complete with a campfire and s’mores.
Like most kids, I was allowed to ride my bike everywhere from the age of zero. (Slight exaggeration.) I was allowed to play on the railroad tracks. The tracks were pretty much my front yard, and we lived on the wrong side of them, too. I was taught the rules, and then set free to explore. Of course, being bored in Delta was your choice. Some people were, and I felt sorry for them.
Delta was also packed with characters who had made their individual lives a little iconic by their bigly, unique actions. For example, there were Bernell and Blanche Ferry (son and mother) whose accidental antics included the time Blanche fell out of their old truck’s passenger door as Bernell rounded the corner to turn onto Main Street. She rolled like a roly-poly into the gutter, stood up, and waited for Bernell to go around the block and come back to pick her up again. That’s right: he did not stop for her immediately when she fell out and tumbled to the road. He went around the whole block, obeying traffic laws. When he finally got back around to where Blanche stood waiting and stopped, she hopped in the truck, and off they went on their merry way—as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened. The scene looked like they were following a script—like they had done this a million times before.Their timing was impeccable. I felt privileged to observe the entire event. I’m still in awe of that old woman’s flexibility and seriously unbreakable bones.
