Category: Face masks

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Got Happy? Got Heart?

[I don’t remember writing this. When I read this old TIE O’ THE DAY post which showed up on my Facebook Memories this morning, it was as if I were reading something written by someone else. After reading it, I am pleased to say that I do concur with its message. I agree with everything this author has to say.👍😍]

That is one bigly Post-it Note heart! I thought it best to wear it only for the selfie. Driving while wearing it would probably result in mayhem and tragedy. Let’s see… I’d be pulled over and cited for DWP. Driving While Post-it-ed.

Jumbo Bow Tie o’ the Day is one of my favorites. Actually, I’m fond of jumbo-size bow ties, period. They give off such happy vibes. And we are here to be happy. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise. I’m not saying happiness isn’t work. No, it’s something you have work toward. The happiness a bow tie can give is a fleeting feeling. But if you want real happiness, you have to mostly create it. It’s not going to knock on your door, fully-formed, and say, “I’m happiness, and I’m here to serve you!”

I think we get distracted by looking to/at others to find happiness. We think: “They seem happy. What do they have that I don’t? I need to get what they have, and then I’ll be happy.” It doesn’t work that way. Your happiness is singular to you. It won’t look like anyone else’s. It is authentic to you, and you only. It is your job to figure out what your happiness will look like. Ignore other people’s ideas of happiness. Mind your own happiness business.

If you find somebody (a spouse, partner, etc.) whose happiness pieces fit with your happiness pieces, you have found a powerful and rare thing. Your happiness inventory will not be exactly the same as the person’s you mesh with. But what would be the fun of that? Do you really want to be married to a clone of yourself? Another person isn’t your happiness. Your chosen person can share in your happiness, just as you can share in theirs. You are a part of each other’s happiness, not the whole of it. Let me make this clear: NEITHER A MATERIAL OBJECT NOR A PERSON “MAKES” YOU HAPPY. You decide to be happy. You make a plan and work to achieve it. It’s an attitude.

Living with another person gives you daily opportunities to express your happiness. You can care for and spoil them with whatever happiness you decide to share. Take the risk to spread your joy around the metaphorical house. You’ll get hurt sometimes, even in the best of relationships. But so what? Remember, you’ll hurt your beloved too. You won’t mean to, but you will. Unless you’re perfect. Be kind. Be brave.

To be happy in a relationship doesn’t mean you feel jolly every minute. You can be happy, yet experience sorrow, anger, frustration, and every other emotion. Real happiness is not an emotion. Happiness is a state of your soul, not a mood.

If you make a habit of working to achieve true happiness, you can weather the relationship storms you will encounter—more easily and more courageously. This doesn’t sound like it makes sense, but I promise it does: When you are in the storm of yourself—when you are aching—muster your courage and every power in your heart to choose your happiness. Open up your happy heart just a bit wider. Share just a little more. Give. And then rain your happiness down on you and your beloved. Take the risk to love your beloved—again and again, day after day, second upon second. Your relationship will grow stronger. Your soul will thank you.

And one more bigly note: Selfishness does not grow happiness. Trying to get everything you want, and always trying to get your way, is as far from happiness as you can get.

This has been yet another bossy sermon. Just sayin.’

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Like What You Like

I have been accused of being a wee bit infatuated with paisley. I used to deny I had any such propensity—until Suzanne bought us some paisley sheets. Much to my dismay, I discovered I now have trouble sleeping every night the paisley sheets are not on the bed. Hi. My name’s Helen, and I’m a paisleyholic.

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WRAPPING UP THE 2022 CHRISTMAS SEASON POSTS

Here are a few old “photos” of my face in various X-mas guises; a couple of past holiday TIE O’ THE DAY selfies; and a wee collection of Christmas-related memes I enjoyed when they showed up on my computer screen this year. Enjoy!

I am Helen Skellington, with a bigly Bow Tie o’ the Day. (Say that name 3 times, really fast.)
The suit suits me—but it needs a tie.
My true self, right down to the toothache.
Proud o’ my redneck heritage, always.
My holidogs Tie o’ the Day.
Just sayin.’
I wish the creators of memes would double-check their spelling before they post them.
Another point of view.
A Coke nativity.
For all of you last-minute gift shoppers.
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I Have A Question

Tie o’ the Day is a brand new acquisition to my holiday tie collection this year. It offers up, not gingerbread cookies, but NINJAbread cookies. A clever twist, I must say. Please note that Face Mask o’ the Day is covered with bow-tied deer. And my pants are Christmas-lighted. I’m a happy girl in my attire today.

Instead of regaling you with some anecdote or another, I have a question for my fellow Delta Rabbits. I woke up this morning thinking I should wash my truck later this afternoon, and that made me think of the old car wash in Delta. It was sort of on the north side of Main Street, across from where Quality is now located. I say it was sort of on Main Street because it was behind a house that was on that corner. I believe the older couple who lived in the house owned the car wash. They also owned and ran the little trailer park on Main Street beside the house. I can’t remember exactly what the little set-up was called. To the best of my recollection the sign said something like “The B Kitten Klean Car Wash and Trailer Park.” Somebody help me fill in the blanks of my memory. I can see the old couple as clear as day in my mind, but I can’t think of their names. Was it Larsen? Also, did I make up that there was a little RV-type trailer park there? I look forward to any answers y’all can provide.

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And Now It’s Time For This Iconic Selfie, Plus Another

This is the third year in a row I have posted the same pix of me wearing this onesie/thong holiday-wear which some reader sent me in 2020. So far, the first photo is perfect for showing off this revealing oddity o’ clothing someone so graciously gifted me, so I don’t yet feel the need to take new selfies. Note that I’m also wearing a Rudolph Bow Tie o’ the Day, as well as a Rudolph Necktie o’ the Day. The blue-and-gold paisley Face Mask o’ the Day is a crowning touch to my get-up. It looks lush, if I do say so myself. 🦌

Banned Books o’ the Day: Today, I’m re-reading a couple of once-banned books published in the early 70’s. The first, THE CONTEMPORARY AMERICAN POETS: AMERICAN POETRY SINCE 1940 (edited by Mark Strand), was once the target of banning by a group of really feeble university poetry professors who thought it would poison the minds of poetry readers, because most of the poems in the book don’t rhyme and don’t follow traditional poetic forms. I have a feeling those old goats all passed on long ago—so modern poetry is safe from further judgment by those ol’ relics of the Snooty Rhymes-and-Forms Poetry Club .

The second banned book is THE WORLD SPLIT OPEN: FOUR CENTURIES OF WOMEN POETS IN ENGLAND AND AMERICA, 1552-1950 (edited by Louise Bernikow). And what was the reason for trying to ban this collection? Some goober male wanna-be poet was offended that there were no male poets represented in the book. Hello! The title tells you way, way, way up front that the book’s purpose is to be a collection of poetry written by women. Oy, vey! I cannot make up this asinine reasoning.

Oddly enough, I bought both of these banned books at Deseret Book in the University Mall, in Orem, around 1978. At that time, that particular Deseret Book store’s poetry section—as far as I can recall—had only these two poetry anthologies; every Rod McKuen book known to the Library of Congress; a Carol Lynn Pearson book or two (but not her books with the poems about life sometimes being a messy business); and one very dusty copy of a book of Elizabeth Barrett Browning poems—in which Browning counts the ways. That was it—out of all the poetry written since recorded time, that was the entirety of Deseret Book’s poetry section back then. So I bought these two purportedly scandalous anthologies, and the Rod McKuen and Carol Lynn Pearson books. I already had Elizabeth Barrett Browning’s poetry tucked away at home, in my bedroom library. In those days, I bought whatever poetry I could find, wherever I could find it. I guess it’s kinda like what I still do, eh?

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My Cup O’ Words About Free Speech Found In Books Runneth Over: Part One

I thought it was appropriate to wear a book-themed Tie o’ the Day—and my book-y Face Mask o’ the Day to add extra emphasis to this post. When I began writing about the banning of books from public and school libraries last evening, I was struck with a case of the opposite of writer’s block: the post I began writing kept getting longer and longer, and it’s still flowing through my pen this afternoon. Rather than offer my thoughts in one bigly post, it’s clear I’m going to have to chop up what I’m writing into a handful of posts, over the next few days starting Monday.

So today I offer you this one small section of my thinking. I have noticed in the recent blathering of a few very small-but-loud groups, books about the LGBTQ experience and books written by LGBTQ authors are a main target for removal from public/school libraries. (On Monday, I’ll explain in a more personal post why that’s a literal death sentence for LGBTQ kids.) But for right now, for those of you who might think books by LGBTQ authors and illustrators are pornographic just because of who wrote them or the subject matter, I am assigning you to purify your home library. If you have children’s books in your home, you definitely want to start in your own back yard—so to speak—to get rid of any children’s book written by the following LGBTQ authors: Margaret Wise Brown (The Runaway Bunny, Goodnight Moon); Ian Falconer (a number of the Eloise books); James Howe (the Bunnicula series); Ann M. Martin (the Babysitters Club books); James Marshall (the George And Martha series, as well as Miss Nelson Is Missing); Arnold Lobel (the Frog and Toad books); Maurice Sendak (Where the Wild Things Are); and Louise Fitzhugh (Harriet the Spy). Hilary Knight illustrated Kay Thompson’s Eloise books, and the Miss Piggle Wiggle series). For an older child, you’ll also need to ban Louisa May Alcott’s Little Women. She was not straight. And trust me—this list of LGBTQ authors of children’s books is just a small selection, off the top of my head.

Of course, I need to be clear. I made that assignment to book banners facetiously. The assignment is ridiculous. These books are staples of children’s early years. They belong wherever children are. But they have also been created by people who book banners think don’t deserve to have their work end up residing in public/school libraries. Those who would ban books would rather pretend LGBTQ people don’t exist, than learn about their stories and the struggles they face. The book banners would rather stay in their fear of what they don’t know than understand their fellow human beings who aren’t cookie cutter versions of themselves.

Today, as a preface to the next few TIE O’ THE DAY posts, I leave you with this CAUTION about reading. Reading books that aren’t about people exactly like you, might lead you to understand that those people are every bit as human and precious as you are. Just like they are precious to God. If you read about others, you might gain a rare thing called empathy. You might learn to let go of your fear— which is where hate comes from. You might enlarge your soul. And, like the Grinch, your heart might grow 3 sizes in one day. 📚

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Some Hipster Got A New Hip

When I got dressed to pay a visit to my nephew, Brandon, at Davis Hospital this morning, I decided he needed superhero support, so I wore my caped Superman socks and my cartoon BOOM! BANG! POP! BAM! comic book hero shirt. I tried to exude the vibe of superhero strength, which Bray will need for his physical therapy. The birthday balloons Bow Tie o’ the Day I’m wearing in this photo is in honor of his mother—my oldest sister, BT/Mercedes, whose birthday it happens to be. Brandon got a fancy new hip yesterday, and he is in a screaming state of pain today. There was nothing I could do for him beyond trying to distract him from the OUCH he’s going through. Before I left home this morning to head to the hospital, I told Suzanne I’m well aware I’m not a pro at attracting anything but mosquitoes, but I’m a flippin’ expert at the art of distracting. Brandon and I share a lot of personal struggles in common. We had a good, long chat today, which doesn’t happen nearly as often as I would like. In fact, I think the last time we had an extended chat, one-on-one, was when he was in a different hospital a few years ago after having to have the lower part of his right leg amputated. (Bray now makes a spot-on pirate! ) Brandon and I really do need to quit meeting like this. 🏥 🚑 💉

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Forgot My Mask

This is my first flannel Bow Tie O’ The Day of this Fall-ish time. The morning was a touch chilly. I had to drive to the Farmington Health Center to take my random, but twice-yearly pee test—to make sure my meds are in my body and illicit drugs are not. Yes, I passed. I always do. I’m boring that way. But when I got to the door of the building, the sign saying I needed to wear a mask hit me smack between the eyes: I did not have a mask with me. I couldn’t believe I had forgotten the mantra: MUST. STILL. WEAR. MASK. IN. MEDICAL. BUILDINGS. I dashed back to my jalopy truck to peek in the glove box in search of a face mask. In the glove box, I found three spare bow ties, and a pair of old binoculars, but there was no hint of a mask.

You know darn well I have a bazillion face masks, and you know I have no shame about wearing them. To me, wearing a face mask is just another chance to show off more fashion choices. This was only the second time in the two years of the pandemic I have made this mistake. What’s a girl with a mask-naked face to do? I took a chance the facility still had disposable masks, so I snuck in through the front doors. I tried to look as masked as I possibly could. I was wearing the Emperor’s New Mask, so to speak. I slinked right over to the “Welcome” kiosk, where I’ve seen disposable masks on previous visits. All of the face masks for adults were gone. But there was one kid-size temporary mask there, which I immediately stretched across my face. Then I strutted down the hall to the lab like, “Nothing to see here. Except my mask. Yeah, I’ve got my mask on. You didn’t see me without one. I am always prepared with my face mask.”

The face mask is cute, but it was a too-tight fit behind my ears. I swear—the mask’s straps squeezed the tubes of my hearing aids to the point that I could not hear most of what was said to me while I was in the building. I nodded whenever it looked like someone was speaking in my direction. It’s a good thing I’m familiar with the pee-testing process: I knew right where to go and what to do. When I got back out to my vehicle and took off the mask, it felt every bit as freeing as when I take off my bra for the day. Ahhhhh. My errand was done. I went, I peed, I conquered. 😷

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Skitter Spent Saturday Morning At The Bad Place

Skitter wore her checked collar-with-built-in-bow tie to her visit to the vet, and I wore one of my magnetic, wood t-shirt pieces for my Bow Tie o’ the Day. As per usual, Skitter vibrated with apprehension every minute of her vet appointment. And as usual, having her temperature taken rectally was the single worst moment for her. Her already pleading eyes, got even plead-ier, making her bigly forlorn eyes almost audible to me: Save me, Helen!

As y’all might recall, the black mold in Skitter’s ear has made her left ear an angry shade of red, as you can see. She has been increasingly miserable over the last two weeks. I am happy to report that the vet inserted a medication into the bowels of the Skit’s ear. This medication will be working in her ear to annihilate her ear fungus for the next month, which gives Skitter the added bonus of at least the next 30 days with no bath or ear cleaning of any sort, allowing her treatment to effectively do its work. After we returned home from the vet, and after she finally wound herself down, Skitter remained in her bed on the loveseat for the rest of Saturday, where she dozed and napped and lounged—before she finally went upstairs to her crate and slept peacefully through the night. The next day, she was a bit more her usual eccentric doggie self. Today, she’s acting even more like herself—skittish and wonderfully odd. I don’t have the heart to tell her about her already scheduled visit to the vet in a couple of weeks to get her teeth cleaned. I’ll inform her about her teeth appointment maybe fifteen minutes before we get in the truck to drive there. I already feel bad about it for her. It makes me feel as if I’m plotting against her. Which, technically, I guess I am.

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Two More Plumbing Anecdotes

[This is another repeat about plumbing from July 2020. It’s mid-afternoon and I’m still tinkering with the troublesome garbage disposal.]

I’ve got a bigly jumbo butterfly Bow Tie o’ the Day for y’all this morning. I will definitely remove my Face Mask o’ the Day before drinking from my infamous potty cup. I just had to fit this toilet cup in my selfie, since the post’s topic is plumbing.

In my last post, I mentioned the plumber had been to the house last week to conquer a few issues. But I forgot to tell you about two groovy things that happened during the plumber’s time here. At some point the plumber said to me, “My hearing aid battery is about out of juice, so if you need to get my attention, you’ll need to yell.” Of course, I am a wearer o’ hearing aids myself, so I yelled, “312 batteries?” And he said in astonishment, “Yes!” So I handed him a 312 hearing aid battery from my stash. Hearing accomplished. I did not present him with a bill for my services.

My favorite moment was when he came downstairs to do his paperwork—tablet work, really. He promptly said, “With all the ties and sewing machines I’m seeing around the house, I’m betting you make ties for a living.” I explained to him that the sewing machines belonged to the crafty, sew-y Suzanne and had nothing whatsoever to do with me. And by the time I finished regaling the man with my quirky love for ties and bow ties, and how I have a tblog so I can show off my neckwear and tell stories—well, the plumber was shell-shocked, to say the least. He stood all amazed. But I enjoyed it. I always love instances when I can go into my what-do-you-know-about-bow-ties-and-would-you-like-to -know-more pitch.

My all-time fave experience with a plumbing problem and the plumber who fixed it occurred a decade ago. We still lived in Ogden at the time, but also had the Delta house. I was at my desk in Ogden when I got a call from someone at the Delta City office. Apparently, the outside water at my Delta house had sprung a very leaky leak underground, and my water meter was racking up the gallons at full speed—lickety-split enough that my water usage had caught the attention of an astute water-watcher in the city office. I was 175 miles away from Delta at the time. What to do?

I herded the dogs into my car, and off we hauled to Delta. In the car, I immediately called a Delta plumber, of course. I had his number already in my phone, because the Delta house was an old house, and plumbing problems had occurred previously. I got his voicemail. I left a message: “Hey, Kelly. I know you’re busy, but Delta City called me and said I have a major outside leak at my place—possibly inside,too—but I’m not in town right now. Could you please go over to my place and check it out ASAP? I’ll be there in 3 hours. Mom has a key to my house, so I’ll call her now and have her unlock my doors. Feel free to go in and out as you need to. Go ahead and do whatever you think needs to be done.” I was only slightly worried on my drive from Ogden to Delta. I was confident the problem would be properly dealt with. When I finally pulled up to the Delta house that day, my yard was torn up and gutted where the pipes were. The plumbing crew was already hard at work fixing my water problem. The leaky water situation was under control.

Mom was at my waterlogged-grass house, too. She was sitting like usual—like a queen—on my front porch in her wild socks, supervising the plumbing crew’s work and promising them a batch of her homemade cookies for their help. I immediately noticed she also had her usual huge, fountain Pepsi-with-mostly-ice from Cardwell clutched in her arthritic right hand. Mom clasped her drink so tightly it looked like a prosthetic that would forever be attached to her real hand. And wouldn’t she love to have a Pepsi-with-mostly-ice permanently attached to her paw, if it could be made a reality! Mom is so cool. Cool learns its cool-osity from Mom. I love her, and I love my small town.