Month: August 2022

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Naps From The Past

Thanks for indulging me in my current interest in past TIE O’ THE DAY offerings as they pop up on FB. I’m amused by these posts from soon after my first pancreas surgery, in 2018. I do not remember these posts at all, so it’s like finding out new tidbits about myself. What I do vaguely remember about that time is being sleepy 24/7. I recall I had the uncanny ability to doze off for a quickie nap anytime, anywhere, and without experiencing any guilt for doing so. For a few months post-surgery, I napped with reckless abandon. In fact, I dare say napping during that time of physical recovery was both my job and my hobby. Napping was my purpose, my reason, my quest. I napped, therefore, I was. I pursued naps. I was, in fact, promiscuous with my naps. I literally and brazenly napped around, and I didn’t give a sweet damn who knew about it. I made no excuses for my sleepy behavior. I knew no nap shame! I was a nap tramp, a nap hussy, a nap-ophile! Ah, those were the days.

So here’s a TIE O’ THE DAY re-post from August 2018:

OH, IS IT MORNING?

No, my puffy eyes and dopey look aren’t because I’ve been crying. This is my face 90 seconds after I got out of bed. I found the right Bow Tie o’ the Day, put it on, and here I am. Having to wake up in the morning can sometimes be a kick in ye olde noggin. But I’m working to get back into the normal daily routine of being a normal person, as opposed to being a convalescing-for-weeks-after-surgery kind of gal. And y’all know what I mean when I use the word “normal.” I mean MY normal. I’m getting there, even though I have to take short naps a dozen times in my day. The normal I’m eager to get to most is shown by Bow Tie: burgers, hot dogs, fries, and pizza. I’ve followed my prescribed bland diet pretty faithfully. Even if you eat out, you can find bland, tame, easy-on-the-pancreas dishes on the menu wherever you go. And so far, I’ve managed to stick to that, even at our Sunday brunches. But I long to scarf down tasty, greasy, not-necessarily-healthy food occasionally. Just wearing Bow Tie makes my mouth water and my tummy growl. I almost want to cook it and consume its food fabric print. I can’t believe I just thought that, let alone wrote it. For sure, I would never do such a thing to any bow tie, and y’all know it. It would be a horrific sacrilege. But I do kinda wish Bow Tie were at least a scratch-n-sniff. 🍔🌭🍟🍕

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There Is No Good Time To Not Serve Your Fellow Beings

Here’s some TIE O’ THE DAY food for thought to gnaw on.

We tend to get wrapped up in ourselves and our own wants. We lose perspective when we embrace the narrow habit of taking care of “me, me, me, me” first—ahead of those in desperate need of assistance simply to survive. I don’t think we ignore others’ needs because our human nature is evil. I think we do it because there is so much help needed in the world that we have no clue where to begin to help. We can willingly blind ourselves to the seemingly endless need of others, in order to be able to survive what we see. Knowing there is so much work to be done can paralyze us into doing nothing except looking out for ourselves. But that’s ‘s no excuse for inaction. I can’t fulfill all the needs of the entire planet, but I can do some things—beginning with helping those around me who are in need. I can’t do everything, but I should what I can do—and I should do no less. What I cannot do is nothing. There’s is no peace that comes with choosing to live a life of giving nothing of oneself to others. Nobody has to steal in order to share. We can all be rich in providing service of some kind every day, even if it is simply checking on a neighbor. Just an observation.

Below, is a revised post from 2018, which made me think about—and write about—serving others today.

IT’S FUN TO THINK ABOUT STEALING, IN A MOVIE SORT OF WAY

Robbing a Loomis armored truck as it waits in front of Dick’s Market is not a brilliant idea. Even Tie o’ the Day knows that. It’s especially not a smart idea for me to attempt it, cuz I kinda stand out. I’d be way too easy for witnesses to identify. I can just hear the witnesses in the parking lot all report the same things about the perpetrator: “I saw a woman in a purple tie, and the license plate on the red truck she drove away in said HELEN W.”

Heck, let’s all be honest. Most of us have, at one time or another in our lives, thought about robbing a bank—in a not-serious way, I hope. We talk about doing it because of the money, but also for the challenge of making a perfect plan that is soooo much better than the plans of stoopid criminals who bungle their schemes. We watch TV crime shows about the hapless thieves, and we are positive we could pull off the robbery without a hitch, whatever the thieves are attempting to steal.

“Pretend robbery” planning also leads into the amusing conversation game we all play on occasion when we talk about what we’d do if we had a filthy, obscene, bigly amount of cash. Of course, we all know we are never going to earn that kind of money from our jobs, so we’re stuck cogitating about things like winning the lottery or robbing Fort Knox. We selflessly say that if we somehow end up with a pile o’ money, we’ll buy our parents a new house, and we’ll give money to charity, and we’ll build a school in some impoverished country, and we’ll end world hunger, and so on. But guess what! We know damn well that if we hit it rich, we’d immediately quit our job. And the first thing we’d truly do with our new-found fortune is to blow it all on a fancy-shmancy car, a motorcycle, an airplane, and a yacht. And the bigliest new smart television on the market. Oh, and a case of Junior Mints. We’d likely be more selfish with our winnings than philanthropic.

Anyhoo…Entering Dick’s Market, I walked right past the armored truck, waving cordially to the driver. Inside the store, I spent the tiny fortune in my teeny pocket to buy a maple-frosted apple fritter. I can attest to the fact that the fritter was rich—even if I’m not. 😜

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Hairspray Is Almost A Requirement In Delta

Delta wind is a force unto itself. If you have never experienced it, but want to feel it for yourself, I recommend you don’t confront it alone. Yes, you need a spotter with you. The Delta wind’s superpower is not necessarily its speed, but its quirkiness. It comes out of nowhere, and it leaves the same way. It might last 10 minutes or 10 days. When dormant, the Delta wind lurks quietly and perpetually in the background, until it finally unfurls itself—wildly, and in uneven gusts—to remind you that you’re merely mortal. And the Delta wind reminds you the material objects human beings think they own are really just on temporary loan from the cosmos until/unless the Delta wind decides it wants to take them back. The Delta wind owns each of us who is familiar with it, right down to our very dust. The Delta wind will surely outlast us all.

The following is a revision of a post from 2018.

THE DELTA WIND MISPLACED MY KITE

Bow Tie o’ the Day begged to head outside to experience the concept of wind. I explained to Bow Tie what it is, and why it exists. I also explained that any wind that shows up in Centerville, UT is not “real” wind.

Dirt devils in the desert are also not real wind. Tornadoes and hurricanes are not real wind. Those breezes are merely a taste of wind. Even the wind in Chicago, which is known as The Windy City, is not real wind. If you want to experience real wind, you have to spend time in Delta, UT. It’s not even a contest. Delta wins.

I’ve observed the Delta wind blow cats out of trees. On many occasions, I have seen the wind there blow bigly dogs over while they tried to potty. I have regularly seen the Delta wind move sheds, lawnmowers, trampolines, and even bags o’ golf clubs. And, I kid you not, I once saw the Delta wind blow a chainsaw off a picnic table. Where it ended up, I can only imagine.

I myself was once blown over onto a washboard road while riding my bike in a Delta wind, and my bike was nowhere to be found after I uprighted myself and managed to dust myself off. I have seen Delta wind blow herds of humongous tumbleweeds against fences, covering the fences so thoroughly—and artfully—that the fences themselves were not visible. In fact, I once saw the wind in Delta blow so ferociously that it threw a bazillion acres of tumbleweeds so high into the air that they actually disappeared. And when gravity was finally able to pull them back down to earth, it appeared as if the heavens had opened wide and were raining tumbleweeds down upon the whole of Millard County. That, my friends, is wind. And trust me, there is no umbrella for tumbleweed rain. 🌪️☂️🤡

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Bow Tie o’ My Tender Heart

I named this jumbo Bow Tie o’ the Day Luau Labrador. It reminds me of the dog o’ my life, my yellow lab, Araby. She’s been in the bigly dog park in the sky for almost nine years now. From the moment she became mine, she and I were in sync in a way that cannot be duplicated with any other mutt. Some days, I swear, Araby acted more like me than I did myself. She would have completely enjoyed dressing up in a grass skirt an coconut shells like the Luau Labrador and showing off to the neighborhood. Araby was up for any adventure, especially if it involved a bright yellow tennis ball or riding in the back of my truck.

You should know that the late Araby once flew right before my blue eyes. I kid you not. When she was still a puppy, I had Araby and Dad’s old dog, Bert, in the back of my truck, as I was driving to Oak City to drop off a quilt for binding. A light drizzle came down from the clouds, and as I slowed a bit on the last curve before arriving in Oak City, Araby must have slipped and lost her balance on the wet truck bed. In my rear view mirror, I saw Araby fly to the side of the road and pick herself right back up. Bert— who was still in the truck— was looking at me, as if saying, “I told Araby not to do that, but she wouldn’t listen! You know how stoopid puppies are!” I immediately put the truck in reverse and backed up to where Araby was dutifully waiting for me—but on only three good legs. One of her hind legs had been broken when she landed. I lifted her into the truck bed by Bert, and off to the vet I drove, hoping she didn’t like flying enough to try it again on our return trip. The quilt was still on the front seat and I cursed its existence all the way back to Delta.

In the end, it required a 7-inch metal rod to fix Araby’s leg. The vet bill was almost $800. After weeks of Araby healing, the rod was removed and I asked to keep it. Her leg healed perfectly and served her well for the rest of her life. I framed the vetbill and the rod in a shadowbox and hung it just inside my front door for visitors to see. I told anyone who asked about it that it was the most expensive piece of art I owned at the time, so I wanted it on display.

And nope, Araby never flew again. Once was more than enough for all of us.

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Brandi Wore A Tie

Last night’s Brandi Carlile concert at Vivint Arena in SLC was a rip-roarin’ tune fest. The Indigo Girls and Celisse were the opening acts. The evening’s combination of superb musicianship and stellar performances was nothing short of amazing. These folks are all compelling songwriters of the highest order. Brandi wore a tie—just for me, I’m sure. It was a loose necklace-type tie which balanced out the ostentatiously sparkly gold sequins of her shirt. (I wore my 3D-printed purple Bow Tie o’ the Evening, which attaches itself by sliding over the top button of my shirt.) Ticketmaster flubbed our ticket order, so instead of the reasonably priced tickets for upper-level seats I had originally ordered, we were given mega-expensive terrific floor seats. We did not complain about it. Sometimes you’ve just gotta roll with the good fortune that system errors can conjure up to your benefit. Especially if it gets you closer to Brandi Carlile’s stage. 🎸 🎹

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An Accurate Descriptor

My melty Bow Tie o’ the Day is my witness. Skitter does this thing sometimes, which still weirds me out after the almost nine years since she rescued us: Skitter perches herself somewhere and stares at me for extended periods of time. I don’t have to be doing any particular activity to get her attention. She will simply and suddenly decide to motionlessly watch me for as long as an hour. It’s a rather cool trick on her part, albeit a tad creepy. She’s never threatening when she does this, and she doesn’t move or make a sound. But it does appear to me she is under something like a spell. It’s as if she’s my own private gargoyle. I suppose I have my moments when I can be downright mesmerizing to whoever is in my vicinity, but whatever doggie thing Skitter is feeling when she gets the need to stare at me, I am sure my human brain will never know for sure.

Today, however, I am proud to announce I have created a word that I think properly describes how Skitter’s gargoyle-esque gazing strikes me. It is a combo of Skitter’s name and the word “disturbing.” When Skitter stares at me without making a sound or moving a muscle for an hour, it is “skitturbing” to me. In fact, much of Skitter’s normally eccentric behavior can be accurately described as skitturbing. If, despite all my decades of writing, I have contributed nothing more to the betterment of the English language, I feel certain I have at least made my singular lasting mark by conjuring up the remarkable word, SKITTURBING. I have not lived in vain! 🤓 🤡 🐶 🗿

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I Got Tickets To Bruce

If you asked me to estimate how many concerts I’ve attended in my life, I think I’d feel comfortable saying the number is in the 175-200 range. I have seen everybody from Kenny Rogers and Barry Manilow to Cyndi Lauper and even the recently deceased Olivia Newton John. I have seen Neil Diamond and P!NK in concert, as well as Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds. Elton John was my first concert when I was 11, in October of 1975. I saw Elton with all four of my siblings and their significant others. Although I have no musical ability myself, music has been a bigly constant of my days and nights. The music I’ve listened to is the necessary soundtrack of my life. I know I am not alone in this need to be encompassed by music.

My white whale of concerts has always been Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band. I consider myself a serious, decades-long Bruce fan, but I’ve never made it to a Bruce concert. I didn’t see him in the 80’s mostly because I had no money. In the 90’s and early 2000’s, with a family, I had neither money, nor time. By the 2010’s, when I finally had both money and time to spare, whenever Bruce was out on tour, I thought: “Why go see him now? He’s not in his prime, and his show will probably have a noticeable geriatric vibe to it.” But by all reports, old Bruce was still fabulously dynamic on his most recent tour, and reviews of his concerts were replete with rave reviews. I felt I had missed out. And now, in 2022, if I still want to see Bruce—and I do—I figure I better go to a performance ASAP, because he himself might be dead by the time his next tour rolls around. So the other day, I got us tickets to see Bruce in February 2023, in Portland. So far, SLC is not on Bruce’s tour schedule, so off we will fly to Portland for the primary purpose of seeing The Boss perform.Do you wanna know another indication that I’m sure I’m gettin’ on the old side of my time? Well, from the moment I bought the concert tickets, let’s just say I began to worry about the February weather, and to pray that said weather will be good enough for the airports to be open on those specific winter days in February, so we can fly safely there and back home. Yup. That worry is practical, it’s way too early, and it’s one more thing which makes me officially old. I never used to worry about weather: I just went wherever I felt like going, whenever I felt like going, and I simply handled any not-so-good weathery thing which might have happened. These days, if I’m headed out of town at a time when there might be “weather,” I make sure somebody knows exactly where our important documents are—just in case. 🛫✈️🎸

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Naming A Truck Is Tough, But Necessary

My Maverick is still “in production,” but I’m making lists of names for it. I have made a tradition of naming all the vehicles I’ve owned, right down to mopeds, bikes, and a skateboard. The name of my first car is so long that I will have to tell it to y’all in a post of its own sometime. I’m sure I named my trike when I was wee mite, too. You might be wondering how I go about coming up with the name of a vehicle, especially when I haven’t actually seen it in person. Well, I begin with bigliest o’ names. Of course, the first names any right-thinking ‘Merican has to consider when naming a vehicle are “Elvis” and/or “Marilyn.” I doubt I have to explain this to my fellow ‘Mericans. Neither of these names seems right for the vehicle to me, so I can cross those names off my list—although I must admit “Marilyn Maverick” sounds as voluptuous and spunky as she was. However, I’ll leave that name for some other Maverick owner to use.

I then wrote down some relatively obvious names, like “Dallas.” “Dallas Maverick.” That name might be okay if I were a Dallas Maverick’s fan, but I am not one, nor have I ever been one. I considered some names using horse-related words, like “Colt.” “Colt Maverick.” Nah. Then I thought about naming the truck “Maverik”—like the convenience store spells it, without the “c.” Its name would then be “Maverik Maverick.” I told Suzanne that the name would be memorable and clever, but it would also be—and these are my exact words—”think-y and spell-y.” And since few people like to think or spell, I will nix this name from my list. Maybe I should name it “Bret,” after Jame’s Garner’s character from the television show, MAVERICK: “Bret Maverick.” Nope. “Bret” doesn’t vibe like a fitting name for any vehicle I can think of. Also, in sticking with a Western theme, I wrote down “Festus” from GUNSMOKE as a possibility. “Festus Ford Maverick.” See how choosing the name “Festus” begged for adding “Ford” as a middle name? It almost sounds regal. It does give the name a groovy, near-universal cultural reference, but it strikes me as yet another not-quite-right name.

I then thought of naming the truck “Motley” (“Motley Maverick”), but people would think of Motley Crue, and I do not dig that band a jot or a tittle. I thought of naming it something like “Tie” or “Bow Tie”, but as much as those words are dear to me, neither of those names shines as a truck moniker. As I pondered the truck name and how long it might be for the truck to get here, I started to think my bro-in-law, Kent, is right: the truck doesn’t exist and never has. Its existence is a myth. Hey! I’ve always liked the word “myth.” Let’s see: “Myth Maverick.” Try saying that, three times quickly. It sounds like a beauty pageant announcer with a lisp, introducing a contestant. No, to that as a name.

When I consulted the Periodic Table of the Chemical Elements to discover a good name, I turned up the metal element molybdenum (Mo). “Molybdenum.” “Molybdenum Maverick.” I’m all for some good alliteration, and I’m also certain that no other truck in the country—probably on the planet—will ever have the same name. For some inchoate reason, I’m keeping this name in contention. But as of now, I am not as excited about it as I should be when I find THE perfect name. My list of names is almost as long as Santa Claus’ X-mas list, so I’m not worried about finding one. As always, I will keep you posted about the Maverick and its forever name, as well as its christening.

FYI I attached my goldfish earrings to my t-shirt magnet to wear as a fishy Bow Tie o’ the Day. My ears were hurting and I was out of the house, and the magnet was handy. This is very practical, which is so unlike me.

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Baby, The Rain Must Fall

I had to zip over to the pharmacy to pick up my meds Saturday afternoon, and it just happened to be at the very same time a Noah’s Ark-style deluge of rain decided to drop from the sky right over my head. By the time I had made my way inside the store from the parking lot, I was soaked. Fortunately, I was wearing one of my water-resistant golf caps, so my gorgeous hairdo was not rained out. And of course I had to make the equally wet trek back to my car after I had purchased my meds. I seriously wanted to snap a selfie of me getting soaked as I dashed back to the safety of my vehicle, but I feared my phone would drown if I took it out of my pocket. As I drove home, I was reminded of Mom’s creativity when it came to devising ways to shield her weekly-done hair from any rain or snow she might encounter as she went through her busy days. Yes, she had rain bonnets, but they easily got left hither and yon—wherever she was when the rain stopped. I’ve lost umbrellas the same way in at least three states and the District of Columbia. So, after I got home Saturday and changed into dry clothes, I made a list of some of Helen Sr.’s bonnet-type choices. I marvel at Mom’s ingenuity.

Mom’s go-to when she had to leave the house in the rain, but couldn’t find a rain bonnet, was to shield her hair with a section of the newspaper. Of course, she thoughtfully selected a section Dad wouldn’t miss, like the classifieds or the Arts. I also saw her shield her hair with any one of his old Field & Stream magazines on occasion. Back in the olden days before cell phones, I once discovered the Delta phone book in Mom’s car. When I asked her why she needed a phone book in the car, she quickly told me she had used it a few days before to protect her freshly done hair from the rain when she had to rush from the house to the car to do an errand in a drizzle. But her efforts to hold a fortress around her hair in rainy times did not stop with reading material. No, I once saw Mom hold a basketball directly above her preciously coiffed hair as she scurried from the front door to her car as the clouds let forth a humble sprinkle. Her most creative and surprising choice of hairdo shield by far, however, has to be the time I saw her walking down the sidewalk in the rain carrying one of Dad’s pistol cases—pistol inside—over her impeccable hair. I’ve got to hand it to the old girl: that is heavy duty hairdo protection. Ain’t nobody dared mess with Mom’s salon-done hair. In her words, “It has to last until Church.”

BTW Bow Tie o’ the Day is one of my duct tape creations. I admit I have the duct tape bin open this morning. No good can come of that. 🤡