Category: Bow Ties

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Sunday In The City O’ Salt

After a pandemic year of not doing our weekly brunching out, Suzanne made us brunch reservations at Cafe Niche. I was relieved to embark on some of our “old normal” events—sort of. We still had to wear masks in common areas of the restaurant, but I have to be honest and say that I like some of the “new normal” that I hope will not go back to pre-pandemic times. I like that there is now more space between the tables in restaurants. I like that hand sanitizer is strategically placed throughout the restaurant. I really like that I don’t have to touch a physical menu that has a battalion of other peoples’ sticky fingerprints on it. It was such heaven to use my phone to scan the code at the table, then read the menu right on my personal screen. I like that salt-and-pepper shakers—and condiment bottles—don’t sit out on the table to be pawed by forty customers per day. I’m not an OCD germaphobe, but it has always bugged me that every diner who sits at a given table throughout the day touches the stuff to be used there. I like that the server now brings me a personal portion of whatever seasoning or condiment I ask for. I so hope I find these changes in whatever dining establishment where we end up brunching this coming Sunday. I’ll keep y’all updated on things of such high import.

FYI If I ask her next month, Suzanne might not even remember what she ate at brunch yesterday. However, if I ask her in five years about the foliage outside Cafe Niche in May of 2021, she will remember exactly what was blooming there. Just sayin.’

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Saturday Is A Special Day

The LDS Primary songs of my youth continue to make it impossible for me to wallow in tedious labor. “Saturday” is a song that has gone through my head every Saturday for more than fifty years now. I can’t help it. It’s just there, being the soundtrack of one entire day of every week. Some people work all week long just to get to the excitement of a wild Saturday night on the town, but that’s not how it works for me. Because of the aforementioned song, “Saturday,” from the official Primary songbook, being permanently stuck in my head, Saturday is tasks, chores, and to-do lists. But it’s oh-so fun because there’s a song to sing about it.

Like any good kid song, it is simple, and so it easily accommodates new lines about the real-life Saturday tasks I find myself engaged in. One of my best “true” lines came about because my dad—not too long before he passed away—had been on his back in the driveway, fixing something underneath his forklift. Later that Saturday afternoon, he was puzzled because he couldn’t find his lower dentures. Mom was poking around in every nook and cranny of their house to find them. I asked Dad where he had been working. I got the rake and headed for the forklift. Dad was yelling to me out the front window that he didn’t have his teeth at the forklift, so I didn’t need to look there; meanwhile, Mom came outside to give me a run-down of all the places where she hadn’t found his lowers; and just at that moment Suzanne called from Ogden, needing something. My dogs circled my feet, wanting me to throw the ball for them. My head was full of all these voices. I answered the phone and said to Suzanne, “Whatever it is, handle it. I can’t talk to you right now because I’m busy raking the gravel for Dad’s dentures. Click.” Thus, the following line was born, and I forever added it to “Saturday:” “We rake the gravel, and look for Dad’s teeth,/so we can be ready for Sunday.”

I did, in fact, find Dad’s lowers in the gravel under the forklift. My instincts were correct. He had put them in the chest pocket of his overalls while he worked, and they had slid out of the pocket as he tinkered. Suzanne later told me she thought I was drunk on the phone, because it didn’t make any sense to her why I would be raking gravel to find Dad’s teeth. Like any really good story, it didn’t make any sense at all. Of course it didn’t make sense: It was true!

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Grace: The “Terrible 2’s” Fashionista

I’ve been wearing my COVID-19 model Mask o’ the Day quite a bit lately, as my way of acknowledging the wind-down of the pandemic. I think it pairs nicely with purple/lavender Bow Tie o’ the Day.

I got a FaceTime call from Gracie and her parents last night, during which Skitter and I got to watch Gracie open the birthday gifts we left for her earlier in the day. Among the books and sweets and star-shaped sunglasses we thought she’d like, we gave her some balls and a tee-ball mitt—clearly her first mitt, cuz she had no idea what to do with it. Like the whip-smart gal she is, though, she immediately figured out how to make dandy use of the mitt. She decided it was a hat and wore it on her head. I like that girl’s style! She looked smokin’ in the tee-ball mitt hat. I see bigly things for her in her fashion-forward future.

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Skitter Wants To Know: “Where’s Gracie?”

Skitter’s sad, sad, sad face at Gracie’s front door.
Here’s Gracie a few months ago.

Today is The Divine Miss Gracie’s 2nd Birthday. I cannot believe it. It seems like she just barely showed up in our family. On the other hand, Grace has taken over like none of us even existed before she was born into this world. She’s a blessing, a spit-fire, and a tornado all in one. She is also wise beyond her years, according to anyone who has ever spent time with her. When she and Skitter finally met last Christmas, I don’t know which of them was more taken with the other.

This morning, Skitter and I threw Gracie’s gifts in the car and headed to Provo. We had hoped to surprise her with our good tidings. We miscalculated and found no one at home. See how forlorn Skitter’s expression was as we discovered at the front door that our Grace Anne was nowhere to be found at her house. We should have known better. We should have assumed her little birthday dance card was full. Clearly, it was.

Skitter and I left Grace’s gifts at the front door and headed back north to our turf. Skitter was beside herself about not seeing Gracie on her birthday. I told Skitter that not being able to see Gracie might turn out to be a favorable thing for us in the end. I said, “Travis and Collette will feel so bad about missing our visit that we could probably ask them if Gracie can stay with us for a whole sleepover at our place soon.” Skitter looked at me with deep concentration as I then went on to explain the concepts of “guilt” and “manipulation”—and how to use them to your advantage, to get things like playdates, sleepovers, and extra treats. 🤡

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Wood Bow Ties And A Wonky Phone

Remember how my phone inadvertently and repeatedly called 9-1-1 yesterday? It shaped up for a while—until I decided to play another game of solitaire on it. An ad came across the screen again, and the dang thing froze up again, and it dialed 9-1-1 again as I attempted to shut it down. The solitaire app had to go. I dumped it and my iPhone hasn’t frozen up for at least 24 hours. I’m no fool, though. No phone lasts forever—although they are tougher than they used to be. I always prepare for the worst, and hope for the best—like the cliche says to do. This is why I always have a Phone Fund slowly building up in a piggy bank. It’s right there by the Fun Fund For Travel; the Mom Fund, in case she needs something; three College Funds For Family Who Can’t Afford It; and the Gambling Fund for when we go to Las Vegas again. Oh, and there is also the Bee Piggy Bank Date Night Fund for nights out on the town, which we have not used for over a year. I tell you about these savings stashes so you can see that my spare change already has lots of places to go. My Phone Fund is not quite bigly enough for me to need a new phone right now. I hope keeping solitaire apps off my phone will make it possible for my phone to live a much longer life—at least until my Phone Fund is equal to the cost of a new iPhone.

Interestingly, I have recently realized I’ve been using a terrific investment strategy for decades, which I wasn’t even aware of until now. I’ll let you in on it, in case you want a sure bet as you follow your road to prosperity and obscene wealth. Three words: wood bow ties. Do you know what lumber is worth right now? It’s worth exactly… a lot of money. It’s certainly worth more than it was worth a few weeks ago. I could build—and sell—a wood cabin with the bulk of my wood neckwear, or I could just sell the bow tie wood outright and move to Ireland right this minute. But you know me. I’ll hang on to my wood neckwear collection because it makes me happy. However, with wood prices what they are today, I’m buying a gargantuan gun safe to house all the wood critters in my neckwear collection. I must remember to leave room in the gun safe for my gun.

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The Dog Days O’ May

A couple of times a year, Skitter and I get pet-hungry. We sit around on the deck with our popsicles, wondering if it’s time to add a little critter of some kind to the household. I think Skitter needs a kitten. I think she would do well with a baby feline who would curl up with her for naps and nighttime, but otherwise demand absolutely nothing from her. Cats are so good about living their own lives as independent royalty—so separate and above us peons who feed them, change their kitty litter, and keep them supplied with catnip. Cats don’t even pretend to care about anybody but themselves—even though we know they secretly tolerate us. Skitter needs a pet like that: a pet with no needs, except to curl up and snuggle for warmth.

Skitter is usually the one who brings up the possibility of adopting more exotic types of pets, like maybe a chimpanzee or a kangaroo. I suspect Skitter watches National Geographic animal shows when I’m not around, because today she asked if we could get a meerkat. I will give Skitter just about anything she asks for, but I don’t think Centerville is a place a meerkat wold want to live—even with us. We probably could have made that work in Delta, but we don’t own a tumbleweed ranch there anymore.

Skitter and I will talk about pet options for another day or so, and then we’ll move on to another subject. My Bow Tie o’ the Day and Shirt o’ the Day in this photo scream out the kind of pet I’m always angling for. I’m a card-carrying mutt gal. Skitter doesn’t know it yet, but that means she’s a mutt gal too.

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Best Intentions

When I woke up this morning, I fully intended to throw Skitter in the car and drive to Delta to see Mom. I put Skitter’s diaper bag in the car, then waited for Suzanne to get off safely to work, at which time I would head for the west desert. I waited and waited, but Suzanne didn’t come downstairs at her usual time. I figured she knew what she was doing, schedule-wise. About 30 minutes past when she was supposed to actually be at work, I finally went upstairs to see if she was okay. She must have slept through her alarm, because she was still sleeping. I woke her up to verify she wasn’t dead or comatose, and then I told her how late she was. She was up in a flash, and out the door in another flash. If I hadn’t been home, she’d still be in bed snoozing this afternoon. This is why I like to wait for her to leave before I do.

Meanwhile, I had noticed that I kept nodding off from the moment I got out of bed. I didn’t feel tired, then all off a sudden, my eyelids would close and my head would fall back against the couch—and ZIP, I was wide awake again, until the next time I dozed. I can take a hint. I made the bigly, unilateral decision that taking a long drive was probably not the smartest plan today. If you drive on Utah freeways frequently, or at all, you have likely come to the conclusion that many drivers surely seem to be driving in their sleep. It might work for them, but I ain’t up for driving like that. Nodding off is not how I roll—especially with a Skitter on board.

BTW Yes, I am! I am wearing the same Bow Tie o’ the Day I wore yesterday, just because I can.

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Mother’s Day Approaches

Here’s a photo of Mom eating a sandwich while sitting on her sofa, back in August of 2017—weeks after breaking her hip. Mom has always been a good sport about donning the neckwear I hand her for what she calls “our tie pictures.” This lavender Bow Tie o’ the Day was privileged to spend some time with her that day. You’re probably saying to yourself, “Why the gosh are you showing us a snapshot of your mother with her eyes closed?” Go ahead—ask Mom, and she’ll be the first one to tell you that one of her claims to fame is that she has somehow managed to unwittingly close her eyes in most of the photos taken of her throughout the 90 years of her life. Actually seeing Mom’s gorgeous, ice-blue eyes in a photo is, indeed, a rare thing.

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Our Little Hoover

I was sweeping and mopping in the kitchen this afternoon, and I found a small edible stuck to the floor, the likes of which I don’t even recall buying or stocking in the pantry. It was normal to find mysterious “food things” on the floor when Rowan was a wee sprite, but he’s got his own place now. I know Skitter hasn’t brought any edible trophies into the house, because she would be too afraid to touch a food that I didn’t personally give her. Anyhoo… During my sweeping today, I found a tiny unidentifiable blob on the floor under the kitchen island. I am not going to stress out about where it came from and who might have dropped it there. I’m going to forget it completely, figuring Suzanne recently ate something and a sliver of it got away from her—depositing itself where it wasn’t visible to anyone until I did the bigly sweep.

I impart to you all of this information to help paint a picture of how a freaky blob turned me all teary and nostalgic for our long-departed canine, Roxy Lou—as seen with me here in the accompanying photograph from 2008. Back when Roxy was on floor patrol, sweeping in the kitchen was a cinch for me. Why? Because Roxy was our Hoover. She was our Electrolux, our Oreck, our Shark. She was our Roomba. In her younger years, I swear, she could hear a crumb falling from the counter and be stationed right under it with her choppers open to catch it before it even hit the floor. Our floors sparkled effortlessly with Roxy on the job. Of course, she did become the fattest mini-dachsie in the world, but she was happy. As she slowed down in her old age—and got whoa! wider, she didn’t even try to beat the occasional cooking crumbs and scraps which fell to the floor. She knew darn well that whatever was falling would be untouched on the floor when she waddled over to claim it. While cooking, I sometimes let things fall to the floor on purpose, just to watch Roxy at her anteater-like work.

I am proud to say that the beauteous Roxy Lou was an equal opportunity eater, which amused us to no end. We’ve always had dogs, but only Roxy hoovered every edible thing. A fallen watermelon rind? Roxy ate it. A dropped banana peel? Roxy ate it. A stray piece of cauliflower or broccoli from the cutting board? Roxy devoured it and wanted more. I gave her a pickle once, just to see what she would do. Without batting a sour eye, Roxy gobbled it up with doggie glee. Near the end of her days on earth, when she only had three teeth left in her ancient mouth, she hoovered a few fallen chopped onion fragments. I can report that the onion improved the smell of her stinky breath by leaps and bounds.