Category: Bow Ties

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And The Vibe Is On The Market

With the arrival of my Maverick, I have no need for my 2007 Pontiac Vibe. When we got the Vibe, I christened it Vonnegut Grace Vibe, in honor of two incredible writers who died in 2007—Kurt Vonnegut and Grace Paley. It is the best vehicle I have owned in all of my driving life. In 15 years, it has given me zero problems. It easily carted around three dogs at a time and Rowan. It performs well in bad weather, and it still gets 36 miles per gallon. I have babied it beyond all reason. It has nearly 165,000 miles on it, and I have no doubt it will drive for another 200,000. I have been trying to justify keeping it, because I love it. But I know if I keep it, it will just sit in the parking lot alone for years, being unused and rotting on its tires. My new truck has all my attention now. Vonnegut Grace needs to belong to someone who loves her and plays with her every day. This is a very sad, but necessary, break-up for me and the Vibe to go through. We were a happy couple at one time, but we have have simply grown apart. It was good while it lasted. I wish Vonnegut Grace well in all her future endeavors. I hope she finds her soul-driver.

In preparation to sell Vonnegut Grace, Suzanne wants to get her detailed before we present her to any prospective new owners. I asked Suzanne if it was okay for me to leave the bumper stickers on and let the detailers remove them. Suzanne made it clear that she wanted me to de-sticker Vonnegut Grace before the car’s bigly spa day at the detailers’ shop. So this morning, I got out my trusty razor blades and went to work. You know me: I not only wear my heart on my sleeve (and on my t-shirts and hats), I also wear it on my vehicles—by way of numerous bumper stickers. I put them on my bumpers. I put them on my windows. If you see me in a vehicle, you see stickers. It was near traumatic to me to divest the Vibe of its sticker philosophies. The car got naked-er and naked-er as I scraped each bumper sticker off its rightful place. I got to the final sticker and I just couldn’t do it. It’s so close to the election that I made a stand. I will not remove my “LIVE, LAUGH, VOTE-OUT MIKE LEE” sticker. I want as many people as possible to see it, even if it’s only the car detailers before they detail it off. It’ll make me feel better, and Vonnegut Grace will not be completely bare just yet.

I think it’s only fair that I share with y’all the last inventory of Vonnegut Grace, just as I shared the Hombre’s last contents. Again, sorta from left to right in the photo: two folded in-case potty pads for Skitter; a blue ice scraper/brush; a blue flashlight; a bottle of antibacterial gel; a black pack of ritzy Daneson toothpicks; a pair of small binoculars; a spare Sylvania taillight bulb for the car; a Hillary Clinton cigarette lighter somebody gave me; a mini Twister spinner board, cuz you never know when a game of Twister will break out; a huge pink manuscript clip; a stack of useless papers from the glove box; 13 cd’s in their cases; 7 notebooks, in case I was driving when I got an idea for the million-dollar poem I’m going to write; my Hello Kitty sunglasses with the bow tie attached to the frame; 2 pocket knives (I know. What is it with me and pocketknives in my vehicles?); the most important AA chip, for getting through the first 24 hours (I carry my 15- year chip in my pocket at all times); a LET PEOPLE VOTE bumper sticker; 3 dollar bills; a GAP hat; 2 packs of Freedent gum; the newest George Saunders book of fiction; a pad of lined, pink Post-It notes; the squattiest screwdriver I own; 2 spare party bow ties; a set of yellow and pink earplugs for concerts; Poligrip; key lime Chapstick; a tube of Burt’s Bees lotion; a roll of Rolaids AND a roll of Tums; a tin of wintergreen Altoids; 4 pencils; 8 pens; one of Skitter’s ties; and a bigly bottle of Aspirin. That inventory pretty much sums up my life somehow. Ain’t it fabulous?!

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Here’s Another Thing About Oak

I’m writing a longer post of formal introduction to my new truck, but I haven’t finished it yet. Y’all will most likely be able to read about that vehicle tomorrow. But for today, I have a brief story about Oakley, which I was reminded of when I encountered the Frank’s Red Hot Sauce in the refrigerator this morning. The hot peppers on my Bow Tie o’ the Day underscore the theme.

I wasn’t there when it happened, but I have heard varying versions of the story many times. I am giving you the bare bones gist here. Oakley was probably about 3 or 4 when she and her family were on the road to or from Delta, which was a semi-long drive. Along the way, the car and its occupants stopped at a convenience store for treats and a potty break. The young princess, Oakley, had one complaint about her convenience store experience. She announced to all of those within earshot, “This toilet paper is spicy.” Apparently, the toilet paper in the bathroom at that particular convenience store was a bit rough on the behind, and Oakley was not about to be silent about it. What a swell description of cheap, grating toilet tissue—especially from a little kid! I’m sure you’ve heard of the Hans Christian Andersen story, “The Princess And The Pea.” Well, we had our very own Princess Oakley And The Spicy Toilet Paper.

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The Ballad Of Floyd And Nuk

How many sister wives did Kent get?
A rare note from Nuk/Knuk.
Mercedes adds the context for Kent’s note and bow tie gift.

It all began in 1969, when I was 4. I met the man o’ my dreams: Kent in a Bow Tie o’ the Day. My oldest sister, BT, married him, which I think I thought meant I had married him, too. Which, I guess, I sort of did, since he has looked out for me and made me laugh ever since, and I have no plans to divorce him in any way, shape, or form. After all these years, he is still McDreamy to me. And no one has rooted more for me about getting my new truck than Kent. In fact, he has practically nagged me about it ever since I ordered it last November. Still, after I relayed word to him that my Maverick was finally built and being shipped, I was a bit surprised when I received a note with an attached origami Bow Tie o’ the Day in the mail from Kent, who I often refer to on TIE O’ THE DAY as Nuk. Nuk has never written to me before, so this gem is a keeper.

How Kent and I got to be known as Floyd and Nuk is a tale of two completely separate tales. First, when my nephew, Travis, was little, he couldn’t pronounce Kent’s name. He called Kent “Nuk.” If anyone else called Kent “Nuk,” Travis would pipe up, “He’s not Nuk, he’s Nuk.” And thus, Kent became Nuk. Simple enough.

Somewhere near the end of 1984, Kent and I began referring to each other as Floyd. I was living with BT and Nuk at the time, while finishing up my college degree at Weber State. Although my major was English, and I was in my last quarter, I had to scurry to find one last English class to fulfill the requirements of the major. It had to be a class I hadn’t already taken and one that was being offered that quarter. I ended up stuck taking a basic Introduction to English Literature survey class with a full-blown herd of students who did not care whatsoever about anything remotely related to literature. But they could read, so they thought the class would be easy to pass. I took the class because it was literally the only English class that was available to me at the right time AND fulfilled the requirement for me to major in English.

Suffice it to say that my teacher for the Intro to Lit class was a dud. He was dull. He took all the “lit” out of literature by his very presence. He took roll every day, with 150 or so students, which took up a good chunk of class time. And if you weren’t there when your name was called, or if he didn’t hear you say “here,” you got what he actually called “demerits,” which he recorded at length in his roll book: you lost points. His bad hearing could actually affect your grade. His first name was Floyd. Well, one day I was bemoaning to Nuk all about my bad luck in getting this boring soul as my teacher, and Nuk asked me what the guy’s name was. I told him the dude’s name, and Nuk said he knew him from some church goings-on having to do with their Stake. With great sympathy, and without skipping a beat, Nuk said, “He’s a nice enough guy. But he’s drier than a popcorn fart.” That was all that needed to be said, and it still makes me chortle when I think about it. It was the perfect description of the real Floyd’s personality, or—in Floyd’s case—the lack thereof. Since then, Nuk and I have referred to each other as Floyd with great giddiness. Kent’s forever Nuk to me, and I’m honored to be his Floyd. 🍿

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The Hombre Inventory

After driving my 98 Hombre since I bought it in 2001, I have happily driven its little guts out. The cushion on the driver’s seat is nonexistent: my butt has been sitting on metal for the last three years. The dashboard is cracked right down the middle, where I’ve had to bang on it if I wanted the radio to work, even though the stereo worked fine. And the dog nose smudges on the passenger side window that I purposely never washed—I almost kept that window and framed it, but I let my good sense win on that account. I traded in the entire Hombre, so now she’s all gone. I expected the dealership to give me maybe $100 for the trade-in value, but I was pleasantly surprised when they offered me a whole $1,000. Seriously, I just handed them the Hombre’s keys and hoped they wouldn’t call me back later saying, after further consideration, I owed them money for all their hassle to take it to car heaven.

When I cleaned out the old girl, I found everything I have laid out for you in these photos. I was not surprised by much, although I was a bit fascinated by a couple of things, as you will see. Here’s my truck’s Ed Hardy “LOVE KILLS SLOWLY” sunscreen, which I have used here as the display for the rest of the inventory. Kinda moving from left to right: 2 pairs of work gloves; a spare party Bow Tie o’ the Day; a keyed gas cap; fluffy holiday antlers and a red nose for the truck to wear; 4 notebooks; a pack of argyle tissues; a pack of Virginia Slims Superslims cigarettes I used as a prop in a TIE O’ THE DAY post years ago; a dime; 4 pocketknives; 8 pens; the printed name “MERCEDES” I used to cover up my sister’s Betty Rae’s name on Dad’s headstone when she first came to see it, cuz she doesn’t like her name; a dog chew; 2 TIE O’ THE DAY bracelets; a pack of cough drops; a bottle of antibacterial gel; my Ute window flag; a copy of the The Constitution; a book of matches; 3 all-in-one utility tools; a boxed aluminized emergency blanket; jumper cables; a green comb; an ice scraper/brush; a baggie o’ old pretzels; a pile o’ maps and truck documents. And finally, look closely at my Ute flag. You will see I finally found the hearing aid I lost almost two years ago. Yup, I found it on the floor behind my seat in the Hombre, under a layer of dog fur. It has been surreptitiously listening to me this whole time. Oh, and the really final thing you can see on my Ute flag is the last tampon left in existence on any property I live in or drive in. It will not be moving into the new truck. 🚬

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Retired

License plate Bow Tie o’ the Day heralds its own retirement. With the delivery of my new truck, I put my 98 Isuzu Hombre out to pasture. My red Hombre served me well for more than two decades, and it now romps freely on acres of other junked vehicles—where it will likely be used for parts. And in that way, its pieces and parts can live to ride another day. Not only did I decide it’s time to retire my faithful truck, I decided it is time to retire the infamous “HELEN W” license plates. Mom first ordered the vanity plate in the 80’s for her Oldsmobile, which we immediately began referring to as the Helenmobile. With each new car she got, she transferred her HELEN W license plate to it, and that car automatically became the new Helenmobile—whether it was an Oldsmobile or not. When Mom gave up her car keys a few years back, it made sense that she transferred the HELEN W license plate to me. I gleefully transferred it to my Hombre. I fully intended to transfer the license plate to my fancy new truck, but the testy climate of the world as it is now makes it not so wise to drive around with a license plate that shouts out your first name and last initial to passing strangers. So, with all due respect and gratitude for their previous service, I have retired the HELEN W license plates, although I will officially own them until I die.

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Two Updates

TIE O’ THE DAY is at the ready to keep y’all informed as to what’s up. And what’s up today is the current state of my right eye socket, after I pulled my own truck door into it last week. Bow Tie o’ the Day can verify it looks much worse than it feels. I seem to display new colors on my eyelid and forehead almost daily. It’s as if I’m wearing a rainbow on my right orbital region. And the second update concerns the fact that today is the 1-year anniversary of my most recent Cranky Hanky Panky surgery. Here’s a Breast Cancer Awareness Ties o’ the Day photo of my belly, showing you how my most recent incision is healing. The 5-inch horizontal scar is from my 2018 pancreas surgery. The 7-inch vertical scar is from last year’s operation. I am an excellent healer, eh?

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Sometimes I Forget

When I venture out into the community, I am used to receiving a certain level of attention to whatever my Bow Tie o’ the Day might be that particular day. My neckwear often gets a second look from people as I walk past. But when I was erranding one day last week—while wearing my jumbo seersucker cirtrus Bow Tie o’ the Day—some members of the public were giving me what I deemed to be an extra-long double glimpse. I asked myself, “Why is this bow tie more double-take-worthy than it has ever been before?” It’s true I was also wearing my new Lemonhead socks, but folks weren’t looking too over-long at them. No, I was sure something was up with the bow tie itself. Had I spilled something garish on it? Was I wearing it upside down? I was just about to take off my bow tie and examine it, when some old geezer caught my eye and said, “I forget about mine, too.” He pointed to my right cheekbone, and I knew immediately what I had done: I had forgotten to wash the lipstick off my cheek from Suzanne’s kiss goodbye when she went to work that morning. I do this more often than you can imagine. I replied to the guy, “Yeah, but we never forget we’re loved.” And we both went happily on with our respective errands. 💋

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No, That’s Not Eye Shadow

My polka dot Bow Tie o’ the Day and I are astonished to see my distressed eyelid deepening in color to this extent. I guess I could say I’ve inadvertently discovered a free eye shadow hack, and I could easily do this to my other eyelid—for purposes of symmetry. But my good sense tells me it is a wiser move to stop at a single pretty, purpled eyelid. I shall not purposely attempt to injure my left eyelid the way I accidentally fwhomped my right one.

Here’s the absurdly simple thing I did to myself which gave me a black eye: Early Saturday morning, before it was light outside, I was packing my truck for our drive to Oakley’s funeral. My arms were full of things we needed to take with us to Delta. You know how, when you get a new vehicle, you have to get used to where various controls are located? Well, I guess I needed to get used to how tall and wide the truck’s doors are in the dark. I juggled what I was carrying to load up. I set a few items on the ground to get a free hand, so I could open the truck door. I grabbed the door handle. I lifted the handle and pulled the door open with the extra oomph of joy I felt at finally having my new truck living with me. Apparently, I and my oomph are stronger than I imagined, and the doors to my truck are of significantly larger dimensions than those on my old jalopy truck. As I pulled the door open, I slammed the door’s edge right into my right eye. (Be fair in your judgment of me—it was still dark outside.) My eye socket, fortunately, was stronger than the door, and it protected my eyeball. Above my right eyebrow, you can see a barely-there scratch or two where the door made its impact. The door hit particularly hard—I’m sure because of the Mr. Atlas strength in my writing arm. I did not, however, anticipate that my eyelid would put on a show of color for all to see. Although I could feel the bump I got on my eyebrow all during that day, I didn’t notice the bruise showing at all while we were in Delta. On the way home, we stopped for a potty break in Nephi, and both Suzanne and Rowan told me they could see the beginnings of a bruise. Today, its color has deepened to a pleasant shade of home-bottled grape juice.

It is a crumby thing—especially for a writer—when a groovy-looking visible wound comes with a such a pathetic back story to be told about its true origin. I could have lied about it and made up a much more interesting-but-false tall-tale about how anxiously engaged in a good cause I was when I acquired my eye’s Red Badge o’ Courage. Some days, though, the simple klutzy truth is what comes out of my noggin. 🙄

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Everything Left To Say

Suzanne, Rowan, and I spent most of Saturday in Delta for Oakley’s funeral and burial. We ended our day there with a visit with Mom. Mom had been able to attend the funeral, but was glad to be back home at the care center. (I will write more about our visit with Mom in another post.) In honor of Oakley, I tried to pack as much purple into my wardrobe as I could, including Bow Tie o’ the Day. Even my socks and shoelaces were purple. When I commit, I am true.

I’m taking a deep breath this morning. Oakley was privately and publicly honored over the weekend, and then her body was laid to rest near family. Last week was a constant shock—of loss, and breakdown, and gutting through every moment. I can only speak for how it seemed to me, but it felt like, from one minute to the next, family and friends were alternating between being supportive to each other and being supported by each other. Now, we are supposed to get back to normal. We are supposed to go back to business as usual. But the thing about the idea of “normal” is that there is no such thing. There never was. Things are always changing, always in flux. Movement in time and space is the way all of this works. Change is the constant. Last week, in barren grief, time seemed to stop for our family. But we were the ones standing still. We stood as witnesses to Oakley’s earthly dance, and we applauded her as she entered into the eternal present she now inhabits. Today, we are again tasked with finding our momentum. We are left to choreograph our own dances. We are left to interpret the moves Oakley taught us while she was with us. I will tell you this: If you did not learn something about life’s dancing from our Oakley, it’s only because you didn’t know her.

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Oakley Gets All The Attention At Mom’s 75th Birthday Bash

I was ecstatic to run onto more photos of this event at Mom’s house. It struck me that Oakley’s Grandma Mary is the only person in this photo who remains with us. The late Shirley Peterson is sitting in the stuffed chair. Mom’s best friend, the late Peggy Crane, sits on the blue folding chair, playing with Oakley. Mary supervises.

I forgot I had even taken the second picture. Here, a wobbly Oakley is being escorted across the family room floor by her Uncle Jake. I know she had a unique bond with him. All through her short life, she could count on him to be solid. If I remember correctly, Jake baptized her. In the hospital with her the other night, while we were reconciling ourselves to the fact that Oakley would not live, it fell to Jake to give Oakley an encompassing blessing of release. It provided some semblance of comfort to us all.

Also, in that second photo, we see Peggy and Grant Crane. Grant is also now gone. Whenever Mom was watching the wee Oakley while Mary worked, Oakley had the privilege of accompanying Mom and Peggy on their irreverent daily Pepsi runs. I would bet my bow tie collection, that Oakley talked more than the both of them together, and that’s saying a lot because Mom and Peggy never quit talking when they were out together on a Pepsi run, driving through the wilds of Millard county.

In the third photo, that’s my oldest sister, BT/Mercedes, sitting at the table. She is clearly an early member of Oakley’s fan club. But it’s Mary’s stare that Oakley holds, as it always was. In the hospital when Oakley was born, Mary helped give her her first bath. Always, Mary has been Oakley’s champion and fervent protector.

Our vast family is too small with Oakley not here with us.