Sometimes a stray Primary song wafts its way through my brain, and I mine its lyrics to find stalwart shards of wisdom. Do not be dissuaded from paying keen attention, by the fact that a message hails from a mere children’s song: simplicity can often rule the day. In any situation, there is always time and space to heed this tiny nugget with huge implications. I hope you can memorize it for future use. Here it is:
“Give”
—a profound quote from the little stream
I most assuredly cannot improve on that directive for us all, which comes straight from the water’s mouth. 🌊 (Pretend the emoji is a stream, not a tsunami.)
Recently, Suzanne threatened to make me a new cape. She didn’t actually say she was going to sew one for me. She simply laid out the fabric and put the pattern on top of it. That was a week ago, and since then, Suzanne has not gone near the project. Now, the cape-in-process just lays there, all stretched out and staring at me—looking exactly the same as the day it was set out. I’m beginning to feel it’s mocking me. It seems to taunt me every time I walk past it. It just lays there, like a smooth trophy pelt from some fabric beast Suzanne slayed on a hunting trip to a fabric store—which is exactly what it is. Often, I hear it calling to me like a bratty child: “I’m not your cape yet! I’m not your cape yet! I’m still not your cape. Still not your cape.”
I have no clue why there seems to be a work stoppage with the cape. Maybe I’m in the doghouse and this is Suzanne’s way of punishing me for an indiscretion, but I don’t recall doing anything that would make her mad enough to leave me in cape limbo this way. Perhaps, after she so carefully laid out the cape caper, she suddenly got too busy with work and doesn’t have the time to create it right now.
I could make it simple: I could ask Suzanne what’s up with the unborn and overdue cape. But that would be too easy. There’s no fun in being direct about solving this mystery. I’d rather attempt to figure it out for myself. Trying to figure out what goes on in Suzanne’s mind is a challenging game, and I’m always much wiser after I come up with the answer on my own. The answer is usually surprising, so decoding her behavior is a fulfilling form of entertainment for me—like pondering a logic puzzle. I’ll keep you updated if I stumble upon the answer. If it turns out Suzanne really is just miffed at me for some reason, I can’t wait to decipher what offense I committed that warrants the seemingly permanent installation of the ever-mocking cape-to-be. Whatever it might be, I certainly don’t want to do it again. 😇
Here at TIE O’ THE DAY, thanks to recent SCOTUS decisions, we’ve been feeling like my gun has more Constitutional rights and protections than my body does. Nevertheless, I believe that a woman has the right to determine what her body will and will not do—especially when it comes to what happens inside her body. She is not an incubator. The ultimate choice in matters of potential childbearing should be made by the one person who will bear all the health risks, most of the practical responsibilities, and all of the physical, emotional, and moral consequences of her decision. A right is not a freebie. Every right we exercise comes at a huge cost. It seems to me that the one who will pay the price with their very body is the one who gets to decide what to do with it. I side with free agency and its complicated consequences.
Isn’t Suzanne so cute you can’t even stand it?!Yup. We ate it all.Glamour ruled the evening.The fabulosity was evident.My naked guava sorbet.
STANZA, one of our fave restaurants in SLC, put on a elaborate Pride dinner last Wednesday. Of course, I had to don the gay apparel rainbow Bow Tie o’ the Evening for the event. We had a savory 7-course meal, designed by “our” chef. His name is Paul, and we always call him “our” chef although we have never actually met him—because I know somebody who knows him, and that counts as sort of a personal relationship, as far knowing local stars is concerned. We eat at STANZA often, and I’m sure I’ll meet him one day soon.
STANZA brought in a kickin’ drag show to entertain the crowd as we dined. Suzanne drank a few boozy special occasion cocktails, so I drove us home in her car—which she never lets me drive unless she’s feeling a bit o’ the buzz. To prove to y’all I was sober, I include this photo of my Diet Coke and my meal’s 4th course: guava sorbet, but sans the Grand Marnier liqueur with which it was supposed to be covered. The waiter was happy to oblige me when I asked, “Can you please bring my sorbet without adding the fun ingredient?” The naked sorbet was plenty yummy, but it wasn’t as pretty or booze-riddled as Suzanne’s. 🍹🍸🍷
Mom and Skitter entertain the troops.Mom’s loves to wear earrings and eat KFC coleslaw.Mom was full of stories and political opinions Saturday.Mom just had to show Skitter her box of jewelry.Skitter sits all amazed.Mom’s got Skitter, a bag of Swedish Fish, and a new phone. Yay!
Wood Bow Tie o’ the Day joined us for a Saturday jaunt to visit Queen Helen of Delta. We loaded up the car with Swedish Fish and KFC coleslaw, two of Mom’s fave edibles. Our mission was to deliver Mom a new-fangled flip phone to replace her old-fangled flip phone which had ceased to do its one job, which is to keep Mom connected to her begats and her pals. She seemed pleased with the new phone because it functions exactly like the one it’s replacing. Mom has made it very clear to me that she does not want a smarter phone because, at nearly 92, she does not want to have to learn one more damn thing (her swear word, not mine). Mom fell in love with the goldfish-in-a-bag earrings I was wearing, and I fell in love with her blue crystal earrings. I don’t recall seeing them before, but they are the color of her dreamy blue eyes. Note to self: Steal Mom’s ice-blue earrings on next visit.
Years ago, Suzanne handed me a copy of a meme she’d printed out. It said, “You can’t please everyone. You are not a taco.” I still have it somewhere in my piles of files. I like running onto it occasionally, because it’s a smart reminder. When I saw this t-shirt, it made me muse about the meme yet again. My own life’s experience has taught me, over and over again, that pretending to be what you are not might seem to work for a while. But it will inevitably end up hurting all who are involved when the truth finally seeps through the facade and shows itself. And—trust me on this—the truth will ALWAYS show itself in the end, despite any meticulous planning you might do. Remember: you are not a taco.
I don’t know why other people’s opinions of us often carry so much weight. Why do we so often feel the need to be what other people want us to be, instead of being content to be the mysterious and fabulous person we really are? It makes no bloody sense. I don’t know how it works with you, but I have found that I am the only one who has to live with me every minute of every day and night—which means I’m ultimately the main human whose opinion of me matters. Think about it: you are the main character in your autobiography. Your life is your story, and your story is about you. Your opinion of yourself as you live your unique life matters, so you probably ought to get comfortable with being the real you. Make your authentic self someone you can stand to live with. If you do that, you’ll likely find that you naturally make the people who matter to you oh-so very, very happy—without even trying. 😃 🌮
Easter weekend is finally upon us. HINT: If you don’t have an Easter bonnet to wear, you can wear your Easter basket. I have my trusty Snoopy and Woodstock Tie o’ the Day to wear, too. Also, please note that the only Peeps invited to our house for the festive Spring weekend are these which wear Bow Ties o’ the Day. I bought these Peeps a few years ago, and they are now as hard as my noggin. (You might not yet know this almost-fact, but I firmly believe Peeps can and will physically outlast Twinkies, in terms of decomposition time.)
Please, oh, please, oh, please, my friends, enjoy your party weekend responsibly! Worship responsibly, as well. Call me if you need a designated driver. 👮🏻♀️
Tiny Bow Tie o’ the Day believes, like I do, that one of the fantastic things about having a bigly extended family and a gaggle of friends is that there is almost always a baby soon to be born. We’ve got infants on the way from all directions right now.
For the brand spankin’ new babies and their parents, we always put together pretty much the same gift cornucopia to present to the new bambino. It’s stuff they will need. Suzanne’s special contribution to our diapers-and-wipes-and-bibs-filled offering is a pile of baby blankets she’s created. She does not believe a baby needs only one of her blankets. And she is right. Any baby who receives many Suzanne-made blankets is guaranteed to be a happy baby, and a happy baby translates into happy parents.
My special contribution to the baby’s gift bundle is buying the diaper rash-slaying Boudreaux’s Butt Paste. With a baby product name like that, you know it’s exactly the kind of thing my eccentric self must give a newborn. Diaper rash is not pleasant, and Butt Paste is effective at soothing the pain and solving the problem itself. At least as far as Butt Paste’s name goes, any baby’s diaper-changer gets a minor giggle out of using it.
But I am here to caution you: Do not confuse Boudreaux’s Butt Paste with Rub Some Butt bbq seasoning. Do not mistakenly put the Rub Some Butt in the baby’s room, while also mistakenly putting the Boudreaux’s Butt Paste in the pantry. That would be a tragedy. Look at the labels closely, folks. Like the RIF television ads told us in the 70’s, Reading is Fundamental.
I considered my “Pub time” mostly my “SWWTRN time.” Here I am when I drank beer. I was at my drinkin’ weight, of course.I teased the late Lee Jorgensen (far left) by re-naming him “Brokeback.” He was such a cowboy. I’m the one wearing the bow tie. My SWWTRN is always in the middle. And Gary, every woman’s hubby, is always on the far right 😉.Here, Mom and my Sister Who Wishes To Remain Nameless, are watching the news on our private TV at our private table by our private window—which we decorated seasonally throughout the year. This window display includes our mini tank of goldfish and frogs. Clearly, it was summer.Gary, Darrell, and Mike. The Three Wise Men? The Three Stooges? The Unholy Trinity? Take your pick, and you’d be right.
Word has reached TIE O’ THE DAY that the Pub in Delta has closed its beer-and-pool-and-pizza doors. The Pub was my fave Delta place to hang out after I returned to Utah in 2000, until we sold the Delta house in 2017 and I was no longer a Millard County resident. I was a regular at the Pub back when I drank their beer, and I was still a regular when I got sober and drank only their Diet Coke. The bartenders let me keep my own cup in the cupboard, and they let me fill it up myself at the soda machine whenever I was ready for another round of caffeine. I was allowed to be my own soda bartender. Oddly enough, my bar pals were a bigly part of my getting and staying sober. Any one of them would have jumped between me and an incoming beer, in order to save me from it.
When I walked into the Pub in 2000, after I had returned from living away from Delta for nearly 20 years, I found myself somewhat of a stranger in my own hometown—at least with those who were much younger than me. When I entered the Pub for that “first” time, I walked in alone. I sat down at a table that looked like it probably didn’t belong to any of the regulars, which meant it was smack dab in the middle of the room. I was literally the center of attention. Everyone seemed to be holding a bottle of Bud Light, so I ordered a Bud Light. And then I made my move: I opened my messenger bag and pulled out a book and a notebook and a pen. I set up my little desk on the table, opened my notebook, and began writing. A Bud Light arrived at my table. I thanked the bartender, paid up, took a swig, and went right back to writing. Slowly but surely, I could hear the whispers build amidst a table full of cowboys I hadn’t yet made eye contact with. They were Pub regulars, clearly, and I was a newcomer to them. I was certainly an irregular on the scene, as I have always been. Things seemed to be getting a bit tense.
And then it happened. One of the guys stood up and walked straight over to me at my table. I looked up at the man’s face, prepared for whatever remark—friendly or foe-ly—was coming. I immediately recognized what Delta family his face belonged to, but I couldn’t place him exactly. In my peripheral vision, I could see every eye in the place was on us, and nobody was making a sound. I swear, even the jukebox shut off so everyone could hear what was to come. The young man said to me, “Hey, aren’t you related to Travis and Kyle? They lived across the street from me and we played basketball all the time when we were kids.” I said, “Yup. Their mom is my sister. And you are a Roper.” Tension gone. Those burly cowboys had sent Ricky Roper to investigate me. Ricky Roper bought me my next beer, and I was a stranger at the Pub no more. My book and notebook and pen were not a threat, nor were the burly cowboys.
Mom is as fragile as she is tough. She’s needed a little extra care the past few days, so she’s been getting some rest at the hospital, next door from Millard Care and Rehab. We kids have all been doing our best to bother her in small doses by spending time with her there, which is just as she seems to like it. She got shrimp with her salad at lunch on this day, and you’d have thought it was Christmas at Rockefeller Center. That’s another bigly lesson Mom has consistently taught us: it doesn’t take much to be happy—if you wanna be happy.
BTW For this visit with Mom, I wore some of my animal-print accessories: pink Bow Tie o’ the Day, brown Sloggers, and orange print face mask (not shown), so Mom would be inspired to reach down into her deep animal instincts to get well and get back to her digs at the care center soon. I threw on my Bernie socks just cuz he’s old and still thriving. Bernie’s always good for a laugh.
