Category: Bow Ties

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Rearing A Purse Is Nothing But Drama

As you likely know, I have owned one—and only one—purse in my long, long, long, really long life. I am not a purse chick. However, when I saw The Saddle Purse in a shop at the airport, I had to adopt it. The chief selling points of the purse were its teensy stirrups and its teensy saddle bag. I have had The Saddle Purse just over a year at this point. Because of the magnificent item, I have become a tad bit purse-y, I must admit.

With the pandemic call to stay at home when possible these last few months, me and mine have done just that. Staying home has been hardest for The Saddle Purse and some of the drinking Ties o’ the Day. They have sat idly by, in a kind of hibernation their party selves aren’t really suited to. I am always aware of my stewardships: I tend to my fashion items with great diligence. I know they’ve been feeling wonky lately. I had planned to spend some quality time with The Saddle Purse and the drinking ties this morning after Suzanne drove off to Ogden to her Champagne Garden Club, but when she was finally gone, I couldn’t find hide nor hair of The Saddle Purse or the drinking ties.

I searched the neckwear crowds of The Tie Room. I searched under the dust in my car and truck. I was just about to call the Centerville police to report The Saddle Purse and party drink ties as having been burgled, when I decided to check the bedroom deck. Lo, and behold! A drunken bash was going on, the likes of which we haven’t seen in this house since ever. Even the wine bottle label had a bow tie on it!

Oh, the fun debauchery The Saddle Purse had created. I have no doubt whatsoever that The Saddle Purse was in charge of this inebriation insurrection. The ties were mesmerized and manipulated by the purse, like we all are. Seriously, if The Saddle Purse asked you to steal some hooch from the fridge and meet up at the bedroom deck without telling the boss of the house, you’d do it. And I wouldn’t blame you for doing it, cuz I completely understand the hold The Saddle Purse has on people. I hope The Saddle Purse doesn’t find where I stored the capes.

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We’re Just Relaxing

Suzanne wears my many-colored mustache Bow Tie o’ the Day while she unwinds after a day at the office. Oh, look how she’s coloring cute whales. And see how her coloring books are about butterflies and flowers and city landscapes. My stress is dissipating by just writing about the topics of her coloring books.

Suzanne and I are alike in so many ways, but our interests diverge when it comes time to chill-out with grown-up coloring books and markers. Coloring itself is relaxing to both of us, but the subjects of my coloring books tend to be a little peculiar when compared to hers. Despite my over-the-top interest in crime shows—and my coloring book about serial killers—with all their murder, mayhem, and mystery, my soul is hopelessly kind-hearted and marshmallow-y. I haven’t the slightest idea how to explain that dissonant phenomenon.

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Skitter Is Askeered, Yet Again

I thought I was lookin’ pretty hip in my geometric-pattern Face Mask o’ the Day and my wood Bow Tie o’ the Day. But after I examined the selfies I took, I realized no one can see the bow tie cuz it’s camo-patterned. On top of that, my total look apparently scared Skitter into a brow scowl rivaling my own when I’m not happy. She looks like she’s ready to jump ship and hie to Kolob in the twinkling of an eye. (Excuse the Mormon hymn reference)

Skitter is as patient with me and my clothing whims as Suzanne is, but Suzanne never gets scared of how I look—because her brain is bigly-er than a walnut and she understands I’m just weird. But I promise—here and now—that from now on, when I get dressed for the day, I will try harder to be more sensitive to Skitter’s easily-afeared canine feelings.

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Redneck Is, As Redneck Does

Rosy Bow Tie o’ the Day is a velvety wonder. Trust me—velvet works with redneck style. Think: Bright paintings of Elvis on black velvet. Personally, I’ve never owned a black velvet painting of any kind. However, I did once own a sculpted portrait of The Three Wise Men, constructed out of macaroni glued to an empty cardboard fabric bolt, then completely spray-painted gold. (My grandma, Zola, created it.)

Ladies and gentlemen, I am proud to be a redneck. I am a highly educated redneck, it’s true. But I have never allowed my advanced education to lessen my redneck IQ. I have proudly had an old couch on my front porch at times—to provide plenty of cushioned room for any stray guests who might redneckly drop by without invitation or warning. (Yes, on the infamous Delta porch.) I have also had an old mattress on my front porch, reserved for my passel of mutts and any cats, goats, toads, or wandering fowl in the neighborhood. And as a redneck bonus, I can fix anything mechanical with duct tape and/or baling wire. My redneck dad taught me well.

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Summer Waits For No-one

My Klimt-inspired Bow Tie o’ the Day is a perfect cherry-on-top selection for my green-and-white, old-timey swimming suit. I found a green-and-white striped Face Mask o’ the Day which almost matches. I’m good with almost matches on rare occasions.

It’s pool time folks. I’m wearing my cowboy boots here in the photo just cuz I like to wear my cowboy boots. They make an especially bold statement, but I won’t be swimming in them. I swam in my cowboy boots at the Reservoir near Delta once when I was a kid, and I got stuck in the sand at the bottom. No matter how hard I tugged and pulled, I could not budge my boots from the muck. I got stucker and stucker. I stood out in the water, calling for help for what felt to me like hours, but it was probably more like 10 minutes. There was no way in heck I was gonna just pull my feet out of my stuck boots and swim to shore. No way in heck was I going to leave my cowboy boots out there to drown without me. I waved my arms, again and again, and yelled for assistance. Even then, people knew I was eccentric, so they just thought I was waving hello and putting on a show for those on shore.

Finally, some drunk hippie I didn’t even know suddenly realized I was in a predicament. He swam out to save me, and he patiently dove beneath the water to release me and my boots. He carried my boots to shore for me.

I learned two lessons that day: 1. Don’t swim in your cowboy boots, no matter how much you love wearing them. 2. Sometimes the drunk stranger will be the first one to save you from yourself.

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O’ The Day

Another wood Bow Tie o’ the Day clashes bigly with both my shirt and what I will call my Face Mask o’ the Day. Face Mask comes from Beau Ties Ltd. of Vermont, my bow tie company. I call it “my” bow tie company because I order my non-wood bow ties almost exclusively from them. They are a small business, with skillful seamstresses. If you want them to, they can even take your favorite necktie and turn it into a flawless bow tie.

In mid-March, with Beau Tie Ltd.’s employees making bow ties in their homes, they also began to create homemade fashionable face masks. And now the company has begun to make matching bow tie/face mask sets—none of which I plan on purchasing, cuz that would be too much matchiness for me to wear.

Anyhoo… Get ready to enjoy a bonus helping of Face Masks o’ the Day on the tblog posts for the near future. No matter which side of The Great Face Mask Debate o’ 2020 you find yourself on, I think you’ll like the stylish masks.

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It’s Just A Time-out For My Eyes

Bow Tie o’ the Day and I have been taking a look at the world recently, and we haven’t liked the us/them division we’ve been seeing. We don’t believe in using rose-colored glasses, so we are going to rest our world-weary eyes by looking at things through our silly-colored glasses for a few hours. These glasses come in handier than you might think.

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Born Into Blue

TIE O’ THE DAY challenges y’all to guess what major university employs this little Bow Tie o’ the Day’s parents. I’ve promised myself to wear red whenever I’m around Gracie, and to whisper “Go to the University of Utah” in her ear every flippin’ time I get a chance—just to bring a proper Utah balance to our fledgling munchkin.

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I Ain’t Got No Stinkin’ COVID-19

I was able to go to my physical therapy appointment at the U of U this morning, cuz yesterday I got the news I passed my COVID-19 test. I had to prove I was virus-free before the staff at Pain Management Center would even open the door to me and wood Bow Tie o’ the Day. It was my first PT visit for the current torso distress I find myself in. (It feels like my ribs are squeezing my innards to death.) I am not convinced PT will do a dang bit of good for what aches me now, but I will do as I am told. I felt the same hopelessness about going to PT for my gnarly rotator cuff last year, but PT almost completely eliminated my shoulder issues. And so, I will give PT for my gut a whole-hearted go.

By the time I was done with today’s PT appointment, I had been through a thing called “trigger point dry needling” therapy, which I had never heard of before. It is sorta like acupuncture, but with electricity being pumped through the needles and into whatever muscles they are sticking out of. Electrified needles protruded down both sides of my spine and across my belly for most of my appointment. I kid you not.

While I was experiencing dry needling, it came to me. Here’s how you can determine whether or not you’ve hit your pain limit: You know you’ve hit your pain limit if you’re happily willing to endure new and different pain for the merest smidgen of a chance to get rid of the old familiar pain. Or something like that.