Folks, I forgot to wake up this morning. Technically, I got out of bed and went downstairs to the recliner, but I immediately fell asleep and slept for 3 more hours. I never do this sort of thing. And even when I finally did wake up, I can’t say that I felt like I was fully awake. A few minutes before 3 this afternoon, I suddenly felt like my eyes finally opened wide enough to qualify me as actually being awake. That was my good luck, because Judge Judy begins at 3 and I do not miss it. Perfect timing.
Check out this repeat from August 2018.
BEES GOTTA BE WHO THEY BE
Before Bow Tie o’ the Day and I can wreak havoc on Davis County today, we’re jumping in the car to go visit my regular doctor. You see—I am in dire need of re-upping my EpiPen supply. In all the hub-bub of selling the Delta house last year, I didn’t take time to get my yearly EpiPen prescription. My current injectors expired months ago.
The irony of my needing to carry EpiPens is that I am allergic to bee stings, which is not the best allergy to have when your father is a beekeeper and the bee warehouse is in your backyard. Bees around your house can make for some tense times. Oddly, my allergy didn’t kick in until I was 16. Getting stung was a somewhat regular occurrence in my childhood. I considered the bees my siblings, and sometimes we fought. It was really no big deal. I even worked in the warehouse sometimes and hung around with Dad in bee yards.
But the summer I was 16, I was wrangling some hollyhocks growing up against our house, and I got stung by a bee who was enjoying the ‘hocks. A couple of minutes later, I couldn’t stop sneezing. I decided to settle my sneezing by lying down on the couch with a cold rag on my forehead. I had a hard time catching my breath, and when Mom saw me she asked why I was turning blue. That’s when I connected how I was feeling to the bee sting. I hadn’t even considered a sting being the cause of how I felt because I’d been stung a thousand times before without any problems.
So off we went to the old Delta Hospital. I was not breathing well at all. My appendages were swelling up. My eyelids swelled up to the point I couldn’t open them. But I did get four shoes—sort of—out of my bee sting hospital visit. Apparently, when I got into the ER, the nurses needed to take off my shoes. When they couldn’t get my Nike’s off my swollen feet, they cut them off me. Thus, two shoes became four partial shoes. I’ve been armed with EpiPens, all of the time from that point onward.
I was officially excused from helping Dad in the warehouse or in bee yards ever again. And that was kinda sad.
I figured that would get y’all’s attention, but I assure you this is a clean and family-friendly post. It does have its serious moments, though. For the past few weeks, I’ve been cogitating about the idea of “bodily autonomy”: the idea that your body is your own, and that you are the ultimate decider of what you do or do not do with it. Personally, I’m all-in with bodily autonomy. If I’m not the one in charge of my body, please tell me who or what my body belongs to and I will kindly buy it back from its enslaved state of being. Also, I think whoever owns my body needs to pay the bills for its care and feeding, and for the mortgage on where it dwells. Seriously, I am quite certain the only “owner” of my body is me.
It was while contemplating bodily autonomy this afternoon that I remembered one of the many times I got sent to the principal at dear old Delta High School, and it had to do with my breasts. Let me say this at the outset: in my entire DHS career, I never got sent to the principal for doing anything even vaguely considered wrong—except maybe for the time I mooned a trucker while on the volleyball team bus, on our way home from Grand County. I got invited to the principal’s office somewhat regularly because I was simply—but constantly—outspoken about the issues of the times, and my ideas didn’t always sit well with the powers-that-be. I think I made certain people uncomfortable by giving them something to think about. (Story of my life.)
Anyhoo… Back to the breasticles tale. At the time I attended DHS, grades 1-6 were in Delta Elementary and grades 7-12 were in the high school. My cups started to overfloweth beginning in the 5th grade, so by the time my chest and I walked through the DHS doors and into the 7th grade, I was—as Mom would say—”quite busty.” It wasn’t so bad in 5th and 6th grade, probably because some of the guys my age had seen me punch a kid in the face on the playground one day in 5th grade when—I’ll say it this way—he encroached upon my body’s personal space. By the time the kid and I were finished slugging it out, I had him pinned up against the side of the school. I was even wearing a dress at the time! Our fists flew until the playground monitor dragged me away. The guys my age knew I could handle myself. But the older guys in DHS were a whole different experience for me. I learned quickly that the testosterone runs amok in high school boys, if you know what I mean.
The result of the older boys’ hormones included a near-daily regimen of bra-snapping. I saw it happened to other girls, too. It happened in class. It happened in the halls. It happened in the gym at sports events. Bra-snapping occurred in the auditorium and lunch room. Adults were usually around and seemed to see no problem with the practice. I am here to tell you: it was never fun to have my bra snapped or undone. It was never fun to be groped in the process. But from what I could tell, it was a fact of high school life. It was a constant reminder that puberty had somehow magically made my body accessible to boys in this way. They seemed to have permission to do these things. Nobody tried to stop it. It was a daily reminder that my community thought it was perfectly normal for my body to be touched in a sexualized way by someone else, whether or not I invited that touch. I learned my body was not completely mine, but was meant to be used in certain ways by whatever guy on his demand, even in public. Indeed, whenever the bra got snapped, laughter filled the area. Some male teachers laughed too. It never seemed to get boring to the guys who did it. It was like they had just then thought it up and did it for the first time. Every time.
The messages girls are sent through our tolerating this kind of unwanted behavior is not innocent. The more it happened, the less I felt like I could say anything about it. Every bra-snap, every grope, every time someone undid my bra—each unwanted touch took a tiny piece of me away. And when it happens so many times, the smallest of things can add up to something monolithic. That’s how it works. Just because an occurrence seems minor, it doesn’t mean it’s okay. Sometimes, it takes a lifetime to un-learn the idea that you are not your own. I am 58, and I still have to remind myself it is not my job to make everybody else happy, at the expense of my own happiness. This idea extends to my body.
So here’s the story I’ve been leading up to telling. One day in my 9th grade year, I was walking down the hall to class. You can guess what happened. SNAP! It happened once, and I girded up my loins and calmly walked on. Then it almost immediately happened a second time. Yup, a second guy snapped my bra when I was about 10 feet past the first bra-snapper. That was it! This had gone on for over two years, and I had had enough! I had reached my limit, and then some. I threw down my books and stood silently in the middle of the hall, amidst a bunch of older students. I pulled both arms inside the sleeves of the t-shirt I was wearing. Whereupon, I unhooked my bra and I wriggled out of it. I did the Bra’s-Coming-Off-Right-Now-Squirm that bosomy women especially know how to do with such finesse. I stuck my arms back out my sleeves and reached down my shirt to yank my bra out the collar of my shirt. I threw the bra on the floor of the hall, picked up my books, and went wherever I had been going. There was silence as I walked away. When I turned a corner into another hall, the laughter began. I did not care one bit. Note that Delta is a small town, so I had known these guys and their families all my life. I considered most of them friends and still do. They clearly saw nothing wrong with what they did, which means they literally did not pay attention to my expression or hear my words whenever they behaved this way. To them, I wasn’t the point, or a person—but an object. I learned a lesson from that, too, as all girls do to some extent from the accumulation of all these tiny infringements: how a guy’s actions made me feel did not matter as much as what a guy wants to do to a girl to show-off for his friends—to get a laugh and an “attaboy” at a girl’s expense.
Fast forward 20 minutes to the loudspeaker calling me from class to the principal’s office. My bra was sitting on the principal’s desk when I walked in. He left his office to give me privacy in which to put it back on. And then, when he came back in, I got read the riot act, albeit only half-heartedly. He understood what I was about, for the most part. A phone call to Mom ensued, during which she told the principal she thought I was completely in the right to make my point in a dramatic way. She also said that if I was ever touched again, she would bring the ladies from her book club to DHS to patrol the halls to ensure girls could walk the halls in safety. The principal did not disagree that the bra-snapping was inappropriate and needed to end. In fact, he usually agreed with my take on things, but he also usually felt compelled to punish me for my unorthodox methods to make my points. I was then written-up for my “disruptive and inappropriate behavior.” I’m sure the write-up still sits somewhere in the file that is my permanent record. Of course, no bra-snappers were talked to or disciplined in any way. I can remember saying, as I left his office, “I’m not the problem. You need to be having a talk with the fine gentlemen in this school.” He replied, “You’re right.” But no such meeting ever happened. This simplest definition of feminism, shown here on my t-shirt, apparently hadn’t reached Delta yet in 1979: feminism is the radical notion that women are people.
My bras continued to be snapped for the duration of my high school days, but it happened significantly less often after my silent striptease meltdown in the hall. The killer irony for me was when I went to church the Sunday after I had met with the principal, the second dude who snapped my bra in the hall the day I’d had enough was the one who passed the Sacrament to my row. I’m not going to lie: I felt sick to my stomach. ⛪️
Wow! In the 4 years since TIE O’ THE DAY originally posted what is today’s FB memory, the Total Tie Tally of my all-things-tie collection has increased bigly. I estimate the current tabulation is somewhere around 2,000 neckties and 2,500 bow ties. That’s a lot o’ ties. And don’t forget: I also have ascots, cravats, and bolo ties, too. Hey, it sounds crazy even to me. But they make me so very happy. Read the re-post from 2018 below.
I’VE WONDERED ABOUT IT MYSELF
A couple of days ago, I wrote about how important asking questions is in our lives. Wendy Lowery promptly asked me a few. I will answer them all, but only one in this post.
Wendy made a query about how I got into the tie/bow tie thing. She wondered what big life experience got me hooked. Ties o’ the Day also wonder how this all came to be. What’s the origin of the burgeoning Tie Room and its inhabitants?
The honest answer to the totality of Wendy’s question is that I don’t know exactly how I got here. I know that as a kid, I was fascinated by ties. I looked forward to Sunday every week because church meetings offered up what seemed like an infinite number of ties for me to behold. (An occasional bow tie showed up in the pews, but only rarely.) Plus, it was the late 60’s and early 70’s, so the necktie designs were varied and often as wide as paperbacks. The fabrics were richly soft. They absolutely looked hip. And then at some point in my kidhood, I created a Halloween costume that required a bow tie. I don’t remember what the costume was, but I remember I liked wearing the bow tie. It felt like me. It felt like home. And I am serious about that.
Over the decades, I picked up a swell tie/bow tie here or there in my travels, if I felt like I could not live a fulfilled and clever life without it. About four years ago, I looked at my neckwear as it was doing absolutely nothing in the closet, and I thought, “Why the heck am I not wearing these grooverrific pieces all the time?” I had only twenty or so, but I began wearing them. They completed something in my soul, so I wanted others to see and appreciate their characteristics. People who saw me wearing them seemed to appreciate how they popped out from the norm. Bow ties, especially, really do make people smile. That’s when neckwear became my regular uniform—my trademark.
Of course, I had to expand my collection if I was going to wear neckwear each day. And then after I started writing the website/tblog/Facebook posts, a few folks requested I wear and post at least two per day. (BTW I call you faithful readers “tbloglodytes” since this is a “t”ie “blog”.) Gee, I was in Heaven when I realized I had to acquire even more neckwear to properly post twice per day. Although I yammer on and on about my adventures, the tblog really is all about sharing the ties.
As far as an actual count of my neckwear bodies goes, I refuse to count them. If I did, I would feel compelled to tell Suzanne the exact number, and that could cause me trouble. Even though she probably owns as many yards of fabric as I own ties/bow ties, I have determined it’s best for me to remain in the dark about the total tie tabulation, so I can keep her in the dark about it. Some things just sound all wrong when they are said out loud.
Since Suzanne’s currently where there is no internet/phone service and can’t see this post, I will tell you—if you promise to not tell her that I estimate the necktie count to be around 200. And the bow tie count is somewhere in the range of 900. I have an old wood library card catalog, where the bow ties sleep in the drawers, each dreaming mighty dreams of their turn starring in the tblog. Each morning, I hear them yell out,”ME! PICK ME!” as I enter the Tie Room to select my attire.
Some people fish. Some people craft. Some people restore classic cars. I show off ties of all ilks. In my opinion, it should be an Olympic sport. I win.
Wow! The same camo Bow Tie o’ the Day, posted twice in one week. This old post is from August 2019. Good anecdotes—and bow ties— can always be repeated. Please read it with joy, as always. 🌵 👔 💻
SOUNDS CRAZY, I KNOW
Camo Bow Tie o’ the Day is one of my faves. Its size is referred to by Beau Ties Ltd. of Vermont as “butterfly jumbo.” Here, I am waiting in line at DICK’S Pharmacy. Of course, as a fashion maven, I know my cactus-print shirt needs to be ironed, especially down the front. Suzanne is as picky about ironing as Mom and Peggy always were. That’s one of the Top 10 reasons they’ve always liked Suzanne. Those three gals were born to be Wrinkle Whisperers. All Suzanne will see when she looks at this photo is the bigly wrinkle by the buttons. I didn’t iron my shirt, but on purpose.
Okay, so I’m in a minor snit at Suzanne today, and knowing how she feels about pressed shirts and ironing, I know this wrinkle biz will get under her skin mightily. It will bug her. That’s my goal. This is how I’m being passive-aggressive in a way that is tiny, but irritating enough to get her attention. She’ll know exactly what I’m up to when she sees this photo’s shirt needs pressing, then she’ll think about what she could have done which might possibly be upsetting me. She’s smart, so she’ll figure it out and fix the wrong. I will then notice she fixed the problem, and I’ll say, “Hey, will you please iron a couple of shirts for me?” That will signal to her that she’s forgiven, and all’s right with us. The whole routine saves us a squabble over some crumb of an issue that amounts to nothing, without either of us ever having to bring up the real topic.
Weird? Yes. It’s a kind of shorthand that lets us both save face. If you’ve been attached to someone for a long period of time, you know darn well you do similar dances with each other about certain things. The dance’s strange footwork is part of what helps you stay with your person long-term. You have to choreograph your own “happy family” groove. Sometimes you both have to just pipe down and dance a jig together no one else in the galaxy could possibly understand.
Here at TIE O’ THE DAY, we recommend a reasonable amount of looking back on one’s life. One should occasionally revisit where one has been, if only to appreciate the fineness of where one is now. The important thing to remember while engaging in the act of looking back on one’s past is that it’s a nice place to visit, but nobody can live there.
Here’s a re-post from 2018, about just that kind of thing:
IT WAS FUN, THEN IT WAS NOT FUN
Hey, Bow Tie o’ the Day’s wearing its neon green animal print for our dinkin’-around afternoon. We played around with the mirror and the camera for a few minutes, and we snapped this blurred shot.
Have you ever had a day when you felt a touch blurry? I occasionally feel blurry. And raggedy. And generally out of focus in the details. Those days happen because we’re tired, or upset, or confused, or have too many bills to pay—you name it. Blurry days are normal. It’s a human being thing.
Back in the day, when I drank, I felt blurry more often than not. I’d like to be able to say I hated the buzzy beer blur, but I was smitten with the feeling. I liked it waaaay too much, though. I finally figured out that my life—like anyone’s life—wasn’t all about me. What I did affected the people around me more than I realized. I had no idea how blurry I was to the people who seemed to care for me. I’m lucky I had enough awareness to do what I needed to do, so I wouldn’t lose Suzanne and other people who gave a damn about me.
Don’t misunderstand me. I enjoyed my time with a near-constant beer in my hand. Pub-hopping all across Ireland. Lots of get-togethers with friends in backyards. Hangin’ at beaches along the Atlantic Ocean. 4th of July fireworks on The Mall in front of the U.S. Capitol. Sittin’ on porches. Canoeing on the Potomac River. Picnics all over creation. And always a cooler full of brewskis nearby. Even now, if you name a brand of beer, I can remember the precise taste of that particular brew. And I tell you honestly that I cannot barbecue as skillfully without a beer in my hand. A can of Diet Coke doesn’t have the same heft or magic to it.
At some point in my life, it was clearly time to dissolve my relationship with beer, no matter how much I liked it. (I miss no other version of alcohol.) After I knew I needed to choose a new beverage, it took me a couple of years to get completely sober. But I finally managed to do it. I don’t regret picking up my first beer, and I don’t regret putting down my last one. I’ve found that it’s impossible to completely regret doing things that taught you bigly lessons—lessons that make you a better person. At least, that’s how it’s always worked for me.
Purple-striped Bow Tie o’ the Day was on display when we had a second appointment at the attorney’s office, to help us get our when-we-die concerns in order. The process is somewhat lengthy, which seems weird since our “estate” is straightforward except for a couple of things. We don’t have more than one house anymore, and we don’t collect cars or yachts, or stamps or coins. We do not have a fortune in cash locked away in a secret safe hidden behind a picture on the wall—or anywhere else, for that matter. We do have books, but there’s no money in having them. There is value in books, but not money. I doubt anybody we know has the space to adopt the whole bigly herd of slender volumes and bigly tomes we have acquired over the decades. It’s a huge job to look after thousands of books under one roof. We’ll have to do some deep thinking to divvy up the books. We know a ton of readers and I think we have a pretty fair idea of who might be interested in what. Still, it’s sad to think of our books living with other people in the not-too-near future. Yes, it’s the circle of life, but it kind of sucks anyway—to not be alive and reading, in the thick of things on the planet.
And then there is my neckwear circus. Exactly who will inherit the thousands of ties and bow ties I’ve amassed over the decades is an entirely different story. It’ll be challenging to divide them and/or designate them to go anywhere, because I can’t think of anyone who shares my adoration of the critters. Maybe I can get the Guinness Book of World Records people to send somebody to declare my neckwear collection to be the bigliest tie/bow tie menagerie in existence. That could increase the collection’s value, making it worth a tidy bit of pocket change. Rowan could then sell my collection on ebay and make enough money to buy himself a gallon of almond milk and a vegan Slim Jim to eat. Or he could just decide to open up the Tie Room as a museum and charge admission. That ought to be a negligibly lucrative money pit venture. Of course, Suzanne and I will be dead when anything happens to our belongings, so it really won’t be any of our business anymore. And that’s probably a good thing. All we can do is love the stuff we love for as long as we’re here. 📖 👔
Jumbo camo Bow Tie o’ the Day and I spent part of the day erranding—with lots of pauses in our mission. I’m always aware it can come to pass: when I’m wearing a wordy t-shirt, sometimes people politely stop me in my tracks so they can read the whole thing. I don’t mind it when it happens, but it’s never happened to me so many times in a single outing before. Beginning with one of my pharmacists at Dick’s Market, I was stopped in my tracks 6 different times at various and sundry businesses, just so inquisitive folks could read every word of my shirt. It was taking me an inordinate amount of time to accomplish my tasks, so I finally retreated to the car with my half-done list, and I drove straight home. I had a bigly smile on my face. Right here in Mormonville —er, Centerville—where I was erranding, the responses to the shirt’s sentiments tallied up to be 6-out-of-6 thumbs-up. I am pleased to report that there were no dissenting opinions. Human decency wins again. 🏆
I could not let this FB memory with me wearing makeup be forgotten. I’m fairly confident ain’t nobody gonna see the likes of this again. In case you haven’t noticed, I am not—nor have I ever been—a wearer o’ makeup. For me, it was a conscious decision I made decades ago for my own personal philosophical reasons. I cast no judgment on those who choose to wear makeup, but as far as I’m concerned, my unpainted face has a right to exist in the world. Nobody’s face needs to be altered in order for it to be considered presentable to the masses. I have some important true news for y’all: in case you don’t know it already, your naked face is perfectly worthy of being seen. Your naked face is enough. You and your face—just as you are—are enough. Don’t let anyone ever tell you otherwise.
The following is a post from August 2018. Jump right into it.
SUZANNE PERFORMS A MIRACLE
OMGolly! Last evening, Bow Tie o’ the Day pinned me down, and Suzanne opened up every makeup bag she owns. I mean—I was simply reclining away in the loveseat, watching LIVE PD. Suddenly, a foundation brush was headed my way. And then eyeliner went everywhere except where it was supposed to go, cuz I couldn’t quit blinking when Suzanne was applying it. I kid you not: she had to wipe it off and apply it a second time. And then it felt like the mascara applicator was gonna poke my eyes out every time it got near my eyeballs. Suzanne asked me when I last applied mascara to my lashes. To the best of my recollection, the answer is 7th Grade—and once was enough. I must admit that last night I did enjoy the application o’ the eye shadow. It felt dreamy.
The lipstick is so me, the way its color pops out. You know how I like a dash of bright color. Suzanne told me her philosophy about wearing lipstick has changed over the years. She used to wear calm, subdued colors, but now she thinks if you’re gonna wear lipstick, people ought to really, really, really see it. See what happened there? My loud style has rubbed off on her lips a little bit.
BTW Do you know what most weirded me out about this whole makeup ambush? All evening long, there was lipstick on the rims of my Diet Coke cans. I kept wondering: who is this mysterious woman who keeps drinking my Diet Coke?
So often, what we anticipate our day will look like only slightly resembles what our day turns out to be. That’s the nature of living on a planet with nearly 8 billion other people. We aren’t completely in control of much that occurs beyond our own physical body. What we are always in control of is our behavior in response to the goings-on around us. How we behave is certainly our legacy to others. Our actions—including what we say—are what others will remember of us. Our actions will be the crux of any story someone tells about us. What we ultimately do will far outlast any plans we made or intentions we had.
Every tiny and bigly moment of action matters because someone important to you is always watching your every move: you. You are always a front-row witness to your own actions. If you don’t like what you see when you’re observing yourself as you live your life, you might want to seriously consider changing how you go about your living. If your actions don’t sync up with what you profess to value, you are degrading yourself. Your responsibility to yourself as a human being is to act in ways that glorify who you are. Your job is to act in tune with your singular self. That’s the stuff we want others to remember about us, isn’t it?
What follows is a repeat post from August 2019. Re-enjoy!
FRIDAY NIGHT TESTS
Worst. Dinner. Date. Ever.
I got all gussied up for a Friday on the town. Bow Tie o’ the Day was right there with me, ready to start the weekend the minute Suzanne came home from work. And then, I got a text from Suzanne at work, saying “Blah, blah, blah… leg pain… blah, blah, blah… leg is swollen… blah, blah, blah… doc says I should go to the urgent care NOW… blah, blah, blah… could be a blood clot!” So, off I run to the urgent care clinic in Farmington to find Suzanne. When I get there, she’s waiting for me in the lobby, where she explains the clinic can’t do the correct testing on her leg. We immediately amscrayed to the ER at Lakeview Hospital in Bountiful.
We spent the next couple of hours in an ER exam room, where Suzanne’s left leg was x-rayed and ultrasounded, and a bigly insurance deductible was forked over to the hospital. Panic not, my friends! Suzanne’s mysterious swollen leg passed its x-rays and ultrasound tests. We have no definitive answers about what’s going on in her left leg, but we are relieved to know it’s not an evil blood clot.
We got home from the hospital last night in time to watch all three hours of Live PD. Suzanne reclined all evening in the loveseat, with her legs further lifted atop 2 pillows I retrieved from upstairs. I’m certain Suzanne was plenty comfy, since she kept asking me if I would please go pee for her so she wouldn’t have to move. I would do anything for Suzanne. You already know I don’t say “no” to anything she asks of me. However, pottying for her is one task I cannot put on my honey-do list. But I would, if I could.
So, yeah, as I wrote about last week, I came up with the word “skitturbing” the other day, to accurately describe how it feels when Skitter engages in some of her disturbing eccentricities. I offereded up the example of when she decides to perch like a gargoyle somewhere across the room and she just stares at me for an hour or so. It can only be described as kind of “skitturbing” when she does that. But she does other odd things that need to be described a bit differently. For these less creepy behaviors, I created a combination of “Skitter” and “absurdity,” and came up with the word “skittsurdity.” Skitter commits many “skittsurdities.” The example I and my Bow Tie o’ the Day will regale you with this afternoon has to do with Skitter’s canned food. After Skitter has gone outside to empty her doggie bladder first thing each morning, she jumps up in her bed beside me on the loveseat for her first nap of the morning. I write, I putter, I make calls, I plan for the day. Skitter wakes from her first morning nap around 9, and then she immediately prances over to her food and water bowls to make her official inspection. She samples the water and oh-so carefully surveys her food bowl. It holds some dry dog food, like it always does. It does not contain any of Skitter’s allotted wet food—a serving of which I place on top of her dry food each day at Skitter’s request. What makes the story of Skitter and her wet food result in it becoming a bona fide “skittsurdity” is the fact that although Skitter doesn’t like to eat her wet food until the evening, she will not settle down until she sees her gooey wet food is placed in her bowl in the morning. So she checks her food bowl after her first nap, then paces back and forth in front of me in a highly agitated state, whereupon she returns to her food bowl—again, watching me to be positive I’m watching her—to make sure I understand she is alerting me to the fact that there is no sign of wet food in her food bowl yet. That’s my cue to spoon the correct amount of her wet food into her food bowl—not because she’s hungry and wants to eat it immediately or even soon, but so she can observe it sitting atop the dry food in her food bowl for the entire day. She needs to see it there, just in case she decides she wants it earlier than her normal suppertime when she actually devours it. If the blob of wet food is there, Skitter relaxes and continues her day. Yup, the wet dog food simply sits there silently, for hours before she wants it, like the cherry atop the dry food—so Skitter can check on it at various times during the day. The gushy wet food sits for hours to naturally harden and crustify and stink and change colors before Skitter happily consumes it a couple of hours before she retires to bed. That, my friends, is just one “skittsurdity” in a long list of Skitter’s behavioral “skittsurdities.” I am always glad to find the right word for things—even if it means I have to make them up myself. 🤓
