Category: Bow Ties

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My Dreams Are Not-So-Silent Movies

Even a slim, wood mustache Bow Tie o’ the Day cannot figure out what’s been occurring in my dreams for the past week. The first night it happened, I thought it was a fluke, but it has happened in my dreams every night since. And just what strange thing is it that’s going on in my dreams? Well, my dream-self seems to be as hard of hearing as I am in real life. If a character in my dream talks to me, I immediately pipe up with, “What?,” “Pardon?,” or, “Will you please repeat what you just said?” If you’re around me in my awake life, you can corroborate that I somewhat regularly ask for whatever is said to be repeated. I can hear, but I don’t always hear the clear edges of words anymore. My hearing aids definitely help with the situation, but they can’t solve the entirety of my hearing dysfunction. So I am now a person who annoyingly has to ask for other people to repeat themselves, sometimes repeatedly, until I figure out what it is they’ve just said to me. I annoy even myself by having to ask it. It’s bad enough that I have to do it in my awake life, but now I am consistently asking for people in my dreams to repeat themselves—which makes my dreams rather nightmarish with real-life tedium. I am wearing myself out in my dreams by simply trying to hear what’s being said by the characters that inhabit my dream-life. Now, that’s odd. Apparently, not only am I an eccentric girl when I’m awake, I even dream in eccentricities.

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If I Truly Wanted A Motorcycle

Floppy-looking wood Bow Tie o’ the Day isn’t the most comfortable bow tie critter I own. In fact, it’s downright heavy. Consequently, I wear it only if I’m going to be out of the house for an extremely short period of time. My new Hat o’ the Day is welcome to go anywhere with me for however long I’m tasking out in the world: ketchup goes with pretty much everything, at least according to what I observed of my dad’s eating habits. Ketchup is now newly memorable to me for its political significance as well.

As far as the topic of motorcycles goes, the truth is this: if it was important to me to own a motorcycle, I’d get a motorcycle. Suzanne couldn’t stop me, no matter how much she’d worry about my safety. I don’t need her permission to buy one, but I do factor in her feelings about the prospect of my riding around in civilization on a motorcycle. Suzanne is my ride-or-die, and I take it seriously that she’d prefer I ride inside a vehicle as opposed to on top of one. Besides, when we met in the early 80’s, I already had a motorcycle. She had no problem with my riding my red Kawasaki all over Utah back then. And I do not recall her ever saying NO to me when I said, “Hop on back and let’s go!” I guess I could say I’ve been there, and I’ve done that.

Of course, I owned a motorcycle at a time in our lives when we had no significant responsibilities on the planet. We had no pets. We didn’t own a house. Our careers had barely begun. There was no Rowan yet either. We could easily take risks because we didn’t really see them as risks. We were so young that we still felt naively invincible. Danger was theoretical: it didn’t seem like a realistic possibility. At this stage of our lives, we both have people, critters, and careers that depend on us. We also have this improbable “we” we’ve made with each other.

When Suzanne and I were together in the 80’s, we barely knew each other yet, and it is difficult to know the value someone holds for you when you aren’t even aware of your own intrinsic value. But now, after all these decades, we both know exactly what we will lose when one of us is the first to go. I’m not being morbid. I’m being practical. I will never play it so safe that I can’t continue to have amazing adventures, but I’m quite content to be more cautious now with what’s important to me. I know Suzanne and I have constructed something rare with each other, and I want it to endure on this plane—and on the plane that follows—as long as it possibly can, which I hope is forever. I am proudly and passionately protective of Suzanne, and I am also more careful with myself than I used to be. Old things, like bones and long relationships, can sometimes be more brittle than they appear. Rapt attention and continual care are where the lasting strength of weathered things resides. Tenderness is the forgiving muscle that will hold it all together.

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Pretending To Be Miffed

Tie-dye Bow Tie o’ the Day is one of my most prized jumbo pieces in my bigly bow tie collection. It reminds me I was born a hippie—all peace, love, and understanding. However, today I am being a bit perturbed. After years of Suzanne slapping my hands from buying myself a motorcycle (or “donor-cycle” as she refers to them), Suzanne went on an hours-long motorcycle ride yesterday. It was for work, she told me—and it was, in fact, a work activity. But that’s not the point. The point is this: Suzanne got to play on a motorcycle for the day, and all I got was her official event do-rag, which you see here on my head. I admit it’s mostly a fake perturbed-ness I’m harboring against Suzanne’s motorcycle hypocrisy, but I’m going to nurse it for all I can. If I play my wronged cards right, I might be able to leverage permission for a new toy out of Suzanne’s hypocritical motorcycle ride. I do not pretend I see getting Suzanne’s OK for a full-blown motorcycle in my future, but I am now seeing the possibility of a scooter or an electric bike. Or at least a tricycle. 🏍 🚲 🛵 Fair is fair.

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Skitter Survived Her Teefs Appointment

Tropical Bow Tie o’ the Day is a diamond-point piece. My new Hat o’ the Day is an homage to the late Supreme Court Justice Ruth Bader Ginsburg, whose wit, drive, grace, and intellect I find myself missing more and more with every passing minute. Yes, we are Ruth-less, and it shows. Skitter, on the other hand, is merely toothless—at least by by one more gnarly tooth the vet had to pull because it was no longer capable of gnawing on dog chews. At Skitter’s dental appointments, I always tell the vet to yank all of Skitter’s teeth and fit her for dentures. I could easily teach her the denture ropes. It would be a lot easier and a lot less expensive to go the doggie denture route. In my experience, the best thing about dentures is that, except for the rarest of occasions, toothaches are almost completely eliminated. And if, for some reason, your dentures cause your mouth some kind of ache, you can take them out and let them go hurt somewhere in a bowl on their own. Despite my requests, the vet never does extract all of Skitter’s teeth. Some people just don’t take me seriously, I guess. And that’s probably a very good thing sometimes. Anyhoo… Skitter is now resting at home and raises her canine head every few minutes to pout in my direction—and to make me feel guilty about forcing her to get her fangs cleaned on a regular basis.

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Busy, Busy, Busy

Today is Skitter’s dental appointment at the vet’s. I took these photos as we waited in the vet’s parking lot for a vet tech to come fetch Skitter. Notice how Skitter won’t make eye-contact with me cuz she’s petrified and feeling like I betrayed her by dragging her to this hellish place for the second time in less than a month. I tell her it’s for her own good, but she’s not buying it. It breaks my heart to leave her there all by her lonesome self, but it will be so nice to no longer have to smell the stinky plaque on her wee choppers when I pick her up and she gives me a kiss.

FYI I have included a photo of my latest long-winded t-shirt, in case you’re interested to read it.

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The Dame

I often mention that I have had a lifelong love affair with words. They fascinate me. One-syllable words have no less charm than lengthier five-syllable words. They all matter. As I began to compose this post, the word “delightful” came to mind. It’s not a word I regularly use, although nothing is wrong with it. I simply don’t inhabit the world of feelings I would describe as “delightful.” But I can only describe yesterday as utterly delightful. Suzanne and Skitter and I trekked to Delta to spend some time with Big Helen, who seems to have shrunk just a bit more each time I hug her.

I wore my new honeycomb golf shirt, and Mom recognized what it was immediately. Dad was the beekeeper in the family, but Mom lived the bee life right beside him every step of the way. She knew a full comb of honey was not only delicious, but it bought school clothes and made car payments. We wished Mom a happy 74th Anniversary, and she wondered why Dad had to leave her. I reminded her he’s waiting, probably impatiently, for her to meet up with him when she decides she’s ready.

Mom wore her royal purple housecoat, and kept showing us how her ring matched it. She was so surprised at the fact that she matched. She knows it’s a rare thing. She and I share a penchant for mismatching in ways that make sense only to us. To match is nothing short of a miraculous oversight. For me, matching is also somewhat painful to my sensibilities. Mom can blithely relish it when it happens. I mentioned to Mom how the royal appearance of her purple housecoat and purple ring stone would surely capture the attention of every person who sees them, she said, “Well, I’ll just start to bow to them all.” And then she thought a minute, and said, “No. I’ll make the people bow to me.” That’s my mother, in a nutshell.

I took the pictures of Mom’s hands because her hands are amazing. Think about how many pints of peaches and pears those hands have bottled. I can’t begin to count the quilts her hands made over the decades. Potato salads, batches of toffee, pans of candied popcorn. And batches of cookies as far as the mind’s taste buds can remember. As I examined her hands yesterday, Mom said they looked “curdled.” It was an elegant and poetic description. Mom has a gift for language too.

As we escorted Mom to lunch, Terry—one of Mom’s fave nurses—passed us in the hall. We chatted briefly. And suddenly, Terry started dancing, and then she got Mom dancing along. I can’t explain how it happened, but it did. Terry then went on her way, and Suzanne and Skitter and I continued walking Mom to her lunch table. As we left Mom, I couldn’t get her happy dancing out of my mind. Mom not only dances at Millard Care and Rehab, but she never dances alone.

BTW I wore my Wonder Woman socks to visit Mom, my own personal Wonder Woman. The Minions Bow Tie o’ the Day is a trip.

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My, What A Bigly Bow Tie Hat O’ The Day, I Have

Voting is so fundamental to the health of our representative democracy that it should be easily accessible for all eligible voters. We shouldn’t encourage only certain kinds of citizens to vote, while making voting a hardship for other citizens who are usually already under-represented in public life. The higher the percentage of eligible voters who vote, the more protected every American’s rights will be. 🇺🇸 End of civics lecture.

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But They Didn’t Play My Fave Song. Again.

Almost three years ago, we bought tickets to see The Lumineers in concert at the Maverik Center. The performance was originally scheduled for August of 2020, but then the pandemic hit and the concert was postponed. And then it was postponed a second time. We held onto our tickets until last night, when the show finally happened and we got to experience the Lumineers right here in Utah. (We had previously seen the band in Nashville, on our last trip before the pandemic speed bump.) The Lumineers song that most speaks to me is “In The Light,” which they didn’t play at either of the two concerts we’ve attended. I can forgive that oversight on the band’s part, because both shows were fantastic in every other way. And another reason I can forgive the Lumineers for not singing “In The Light” is because I fully recognize that I am not the center of this universe—or any other—and my every wish doesn’t need to be fulfilled by musical strangers who don’t even have a clue who I am, in order for me to have a good time at a concert.

We did have one unhappy camper in our crowd last night. The Saddle Purse was with me when we left the parking lot to walk to the Maverik Center, but before we had walked very far, Suzanne and I spied the signs telling us NO BAGS ALLOWED IN THE VENUE. I had to walk the Saddle Purse and Suzanne’s purse back to the car and put them to bed early for the night. The Saddle Purse was crushed to have to miss the concert. We had been building up the event for almost three years, after all. I owe my Saddle Purse, big-time. 👜

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Skitter Has Her Favorite Neckwear, Too

I’m no fool: Skitter’s devotion to me has more to do with her love for my Batman wood Bow Tie o’ the Day than anything to do with me personally. I don’t mind, though. A dog kiss is still a dog kiss, with all its salty stinky charm. Secret of Life #38: Never say “no” to a dog kiss. 🐶 💋

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The Business Side O’ Living

We use infrastructure like bridges and roads and water pipes daily, and we usually do it without giving these things a second thought. We just expect these things to work effectively and safely, whenever we need to use them. Of course, infrastructure needs continual planning and vigilant maintenance, which is what allows us to not have to think about it. We’re kind of spoiled like that, as we should be. If we approach a bridge while we are driving, we are generally safe to assume it’s not going to come crashing down if we drive across it. There are people whose job it is to look out for us when it comes to stuff we routinely use. If everybody does their job correctly, things go smoothly and we don’t even notice.

Likewise, there’s plenty of metaphorical infrastructure to plan and take care of as we go about our lives. We have to make plans for “in case” or “when”—as in, “in case one of us has to go to a care center,” or “when one of us dies.” Yes, we spent the afternoon meeting with an attorney to do our estate planning. It’s not a glamorous task, but it is a kind of infrastructure that needs to be set up to make sure your money and material things do what you need them to do, as well as what you want them to do. (We even signed up our dead bodies to go to the University of Utah for research.) I don’t want relatives fighting over who gets my ties and bow ties. And Suzanne doesn’t want anyone arguing over who gets her towering stacks o’ fabric. We certainly don’t want to leave all the decisions for Rowan to manage, so we’ll make the decisions and get them all in writing. If we’ve planned the documents correctly, when we die things will go so smoothly that nobody will even know we’re gone. 🤡 ⚰️ ⚰️