The Ties Multiply And Replenish The Tie Room

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.

Meeting My College Pal For The First Time In A Billion Years

Jane deserves for me to don a cape and an ascot.

My old pal, Jane, belongs to a limited circle of people in my life who have been pivotal in my development as a mature human being. These people have helped me in my quest to be a seeker, an empathetic citizen, and a giver-backer—among other things. Jane was the first compatriot I found when I was attending Weber State. She unapologetically read a wide variety of excellent books—and talked about them passionately—which made me feel like it really was a perfectly acceptable calling for an adult to spend way too much time reading and discussing books most people had never heard of. In fact, it was a badge of honor. Jane is the first person outside of my tiny Delta around whom I didn’t feel foreign. Whenever we went to movies, she brought a book to read—just in case. I completely understood this. Jane was in my tribe.

After college, our lives happened and we lost touch for a few decades. We found each other again through TIE O’ THE DAY, not so long ago. Yesterday, I finally visited Jane at her abode. We were in the same room together for the first time in forever—spilling the details of our strikingly different life stories to each other. We talked over each other’s talking, and interrupted each others’ stories to ask questions that sent us on tangents—in the way only solid friends can get away with doing. The hours were punctuated with loud laughter-like-fireworks. Indeed, our conversation was long, but it’s not finished: I still have a portfolio of questions to ask her about her and her family, and more of her life’s adventures. Strategically, I didn’t tell Jane everything about how I’ve spent my post-college existence either, so that I will have to go back for another visit. She’ll have to move and not tell me where she’s going, if she doesn’t want me showing up at her front door occasionally. I refuse to let more years go by before we get together again.

Amazingly, Jane returned two books to me which I forgot I had loaned her in the 80’s. Obviously, she is still in my tribe.

FYI Jane is a cape-worthy and ascot-worthy person, so I wore both.

There’s An Ascot For That

Call me Heathcliff. I woke up feeling a bit Wuthering Heights-y today, which means I just had to don a snooty Ascot o’ the Day. It’s odd that I ever find myself in a silky, ascot-y, Wuthering Heights-y mood at all because I never really got into the vibe of the book. I admit I do overly enjoy the 1939 Laurence Olivier/Merle Oberon movie version of the book. And it is also true that the Kate Bush song of the same name gets pleasantly stuck in my head for hours, at least once a year, prompted by who-knows-what. All I can tell you for sure is that when I’m in a Wuthering Heights mood like I am today, the only logical thing for me to do is to head off for a drive in my truck—in search of windy, foggy, muddy moors over which I will aimlessly run while alternately crying out “Heathcliff” and “Cathy” to all ghosts everywhere in my vicinity. The ascot-less Skitter will surely accompany me and wonder what’s up. Or—more likely—I will just sit here in my ascot and re-watch the old movie until I get the moors out of my system.

Ascots Are Speshul

This is a quick post to say I’m still here, as is the Dogs Pooping Puzzle. TIE O’ THE DAY took the weekend off, so I have not, in fact, finished counting the hung and racked neckties you saw in the photo last week. The truth is I have way too many ties, and my abacus is slower than it used to be. I promise I will have a true necktie critter count by this afternoon’s post. That means I will also be announcing the winning Guesstimator o’ the Necktie Population—who will receive the rare and valuable Puzzle o’ Pooping Dogs. Until then, the neckwear Census can verify The Tie Room has a population of 10 ascots, all shown here. Ascots are mostly worn to project an aura of snootiness. I, like most other human beings, like to pretend I’m snooty on occasion.

Gussy Up Your Isolation

Getting what I refer to as the STAY THE HELL HOME order from our state and county health departments is our ticket to stay in our bedclothes all day, all night, all week, all whatever. So far, I find myself declaring a Pajama Day most days o’ the pandemic. As a fashion genius—which I certainly am, because a real model once called me such—I still try to push the boundaries of pajama couture, whether or not anyone outside the house sees it. I’ve found that a silk Ascot o’ the Day can class up sleepwear like almost no other style of neckwear. An ascot is elegant, charming, and unforgettable— all the things I want my attire to aspire to be. A frou-frou ascot is a touch of neck adornment which can make your thirteen-year-old, ratty pj’s look like a new million bucks.

And The Housework Doesn’t Get Done

So far, the quarantined neckties, ascots, cravats, and bolos have minded their tie business. The home-stuck bow ties, however, have taken over the house. This afternoon, I went to throw in a load of laundry, and I discovered four Bow Ties o’ the Day had already commandeered the washing machine. The Bow Ties tell me it’s their pretend lake. They say they want a ski boat. Oh, the swimming and diving I’ve seen the little bows doing! They are skinny-dipping as they water-frolic, as well! I can’t blame them. I did the exact same things when I was a kid— just not in anybody’s washing machine.

The Most Wonderful Day O’ The Year

It’s National Bow Tie Day, and you know my bow tie choices are seemingly endless. I started out with a clever bow tie-covered Ascot o’ the Day, then I switched to a bow tie-covered infinity scarf. From that look, I sort of morphed into a Bow Tie o’ the Day decked out in bow ties– with matching pocket square, and a bow tied baseball cap. Later in the day, I turned up in a bow tied t-shirt and hat, topped off by a well placed wood mustache Bow Tie o’ the Day. (All the bow tie stuff hails from BEAU TIES LTD. of Vermont, except the mustache bow tie.)

Skitter grudgingly humored me by wearing the bow tie Hairband o’ the Day. She didn’t like it one bit though, and she’s usually fine about joining in my bow tie games. I hope she’s not sick. Or sick of me.

The “Kiss Citrus” bow tie you see here is the gift Suzanne gave me for National Bow Tie Day. She has no idea she got me a gift. Well, I guess she knows she got me one now.

Who the heck do I think I’m kidding?! Every August 28 is National Bow Tie Day, that’s a fact. But from where I sit, every day of the year is an exciting bow tie holiday to me. I have a tough time sleeping every night because of all the anticipation I feel about being able to wear a bow tie the next day. It’s like I live a speshul National Bow Tie Day Entire Life. I cannot complain one iota.

I Got Scolded

I sure did, and it wasn’t even about politics– which I will gladly talk about one-on-one with anyone, in person, but I will not address the subject on Facebook or the website. So it wasn’t about that, but it was a mini brouhaha anyway. Ascot o’ the Day reminds me it is not my job to be in charge of other people’s ruffled feathers. Nevertheless, I did get called on the proverbial carpet by a reader who thought I was attacking marriage in yesterday morning’s post. Not so, my friends. Not at all. Not one bit.

I thought I was very clear in my post. My point was that marriage has its near-impossible moments of pain and discontent, as does life in general. Because of that fact, it’s helpful to have a stash of stupid tucked away in your love, in order to soldier on. Even the best of marriages get bumpy and convoluted occasionally. If you could see– before you got hitched– every land mine you’d experience in your marriage, there’s a good chance you might not have gone through with it. That’s why it’s good to be clueless/naive about some ventures. Being stupid about love is part of what makes us brave and hopeful enough to risk hitching our ball to someone’s chain. (That sounded very wrong, but you understand.) A healthy dose of stupid when you’re in love is, well, healthy.

So I apologize if anybody took offense. I won’t, however, budge on my belief in the value of stupid when it comes to marriage– and kids and all of the important people we choose to love. The stupidest things I’ve ever done, I did for love. Those stupid moves– and the courage they required– have earned me the strong, enduring relationships I have. That’s everything.

And it’s all because of stupid. Really, if you wanna know a secret, here it is: I will surely do more stupid things for people I love, until the minute I die. I recommend you do stupid things for those you love too. Will I sometimes get hurt for doing those stupid things? Yes. Will it eventually be worth it to me and to those I love? Yes. In fact, sometimes the stupider it is, the better it turns out. Why? Because The Kingdom of Stupid is where we all learn how to be better human beings. Nobody learns anything in The Kingdom of the Easy Things We Already Know.

[I really should have stuck with the word “naive” in yesterday morning’s post, instead of “stupid.” But “stupid” is probably closer to the truth. Plus, it’s funnier to say.]

You Can’t Get Away From Her. JOANN, I Mean.

Remember that early-1970’s Public Service Announcement right before the 10 o’ clock news began that said, “It’s 10 o’ clock. Do you know where your children are?”

Well, orange and black Ascot o’ the Day and I are often in a similar situation with Suzanne. When we can’t find her, we say, “It’s whatever o’ clock. Do we know where our Suzanne is?”  The answer is always the same: JOANN’s. Yes, here we are in St. George at 8:50 AM, and Suzanne is off to be at JOANN’s at the very minute it opens.

Come on! Is the St. George JOANN’s really any different from the one in Centerville? “Of course,” Suzanne will say, “There certainly is a bigly difference. The JOANN’s here will have at least two bolts of fabric different from what the Centerville store has.” I don’t actually ask her what’s so different about each JOANN’s store, because I already know her answer will be something that makes me think : “yada yada yada.”

Really, I don’t care that Suzanne spends what’s supposed to be our retirement fund at fabric and craft stores. It keeps her jolly, and it keeps her out of my hair for a few hours every now and again. I’m not stoopid. I know it really has more to do with her needing to escape my constant weird games and ever-present snappy attire.

So I’ll just sit here on the couch with Mom until Suzanne gets back and makes me and Mom and Skitter look at all the new treasures she bought. I’ll “ooh” and “ah” out loud at everything she shows us. And then I’ll promptly forget every bigly and teeny thing she pillaged on her JOANN’s dash.

Suzanne did mention something about how she’s finally ready to make me a cape, and so she’s looking for a cape pattern and cape fabric this morning. I care about that. Any mention of a cape for me will make me pay closer attention during the fabric show she’ll put on for us when she gets back from her spree.

Or Was I Sleepwalking?

That night when you have insomnia so you put on Ascot o’ the Day and drive to Walmart for no reason because you don’t need a darn thing so you prowl the aisles to find something to amuse you and you begin to feel like you’re just a loitering transient wearing an ascot and then you’re in the infant section and you remember you need to buy a gift for a baby shower and you’re you so of course you decide to give Butt Paste. 👶 Yeah. That night.