While I was stocking up on the household staples of hearing aid batteries and tuna and fancy waters, I struck gold with this treasure: a bigly Peeps-bedecked head bow tie. Although I have more bow than existent hairs, this Bow Tie o’ the Day gem comes in handy for me today. This is the kind of day where I pretend to be a gifted handygal around the house. On my honey-do list for the day are tasks like climb a warped wooden ladder to change light bulbs; stand on furniture to put clean filters in the house vents; go through storage bins in the garage, to see what I can sneak to D.I. without Suzanne noticing; etc. I will also be putting together a new book organizer—known to commoners as a bookshelf. For jobs like these, a necktie will surely get in the way, to the point of becoming dangerous. There’s no need to worry about strangling myself as my tie gets caught on household machinery I might have to reach around to make adjustments. And a bow tie can poke me or fall off into dark crevices as I contort myself into the handygal poses I’ll have to make to successfully complete my current list o’ tasks. These headband Peeps are lifesavers. (LifeSavers. Sounds sweet. I officially hate Lent.)
I went sorta matchy with Bow Tie o’ the Day and Vest o’ the Day this afternoon. Matchy, blendy clothes make me seasick, so I try not to look at myself when I’m being matchy and/or blendy. Aside from trying to keep the seasickness at bay, I’m feeling both excited and apprehensive about something wondrous I get to do tomorrow: I get to spend some time with a Weber State University pal I’ve had no communication with for nearly 40 years. Our conversations were some of the highlights of my college days. Oh, I can’t wait for our meet-‘n’-gab, but we’ve probably changed bigly since the early 80’s. For one thing, we’re both 40 years older, and 40 years of living can change a broad. What if we don’t like the person each other has become? What if we find each other boring or politically haywire? What if a profane word falls out of my mouth and it’s not appreciated? (I didn’t swear back in my college days, but now I’m old enough to know that the goings-on of this world occasionally require an appropriate swear word.) What if we find we have absolutely nothing to say to each other about books, which were a bigly topic for us back then?
And what precisely is the right thing for me to wear to visit someone I haven’t seen or talked to in almost 4 decades anyway? I know you won’t believe it, but my attire can be a bit shocking to the system of someone who isn’t used to seeing me regularly in-person. Maybe I should consider toning down my clothing choices a notch for the visit. I wouldn’t want to end up having to find a defibrillator for my pal just seconds after she opens the door to let me in. “Hi, nice to see you again. Let me call an ambulance to jump-start your heart!” I know I’m getting ahead of myself here, but that’s kind of what I do—thank you, Bigly Bipolar Head o’ Mine. But I shall ponder important choices. To cape, or not to cape?
I was thinking about the future of my head hairs, and that got me ruminating about mustaches. And that made me think of my bigly MAX wood Bow Tie o’ the Day, so that’s how I decided what piece of neckwear I wanted to wear this morning. All this cogitation about my head hairs is because my hairs are currently undecided, as to their next formation. I’ve kept a shaved head for just about a year. The style feels good and I can see my face for what it really looks like, but a shaved head is not the most flattering cut I’ve ever had. Besides, Suzanne has gotten too used to my prickly head, and she doesn’t rub it when it’s freshly shaved like she did at first. I think she’s over any fascination she once had with my stubble. Of course, she says I can do whatever I want with my head hairs. But I know better. What she thinks about my hairs does count. I know she would like my asymmetrical hairdo back, but I don’t know if I’m ready to start pointing at my lopsided hairs ‘do and saying things like, “You can’t cut down a symme tree🌲.” Like my head hairs, I am still undecided as to whether to shave or grow.
I remember when I was 5—before I was even a student at the long-gone Delta Elementary School on Main Street—I fell in love with a single word. Mom had been doing some painting around the house, and I overheard her say to somebody, “Blah, blah, blah, TURPENTINE, blah, blah, blah.” And then I overheard her say to someone on the phone, “Yadda, yadda, yadda, TURPENTINE, yadda, yadda, yadda.” I remember saying TURPENTINE myself, over and over until I could pronounce it like a pro. What was this word that skipped so jauntily through my lips? It was downright fun to say. When I asked Mom about the word, she explained what it was and what she used it for. I saw the cupboard where she kept the can of turpentine (and other paint-related stuff), and I would occasionally open the cupboard door and stand there staring at the magic can o’ turpentine. I’d look at the word and try to memorize how it was spelled. Mostly, I repeated the word to myself—well…repeatedly for days and probably weeks. Much to the annoyance of my family and pals. The word itself sounded like a catchy song lyric to me. It felt like singing to say it out loud. To me, TURPENTINE is the first word I have memory of collecting for future use. It was, in a sense, the moment I became a writer. I was hopelessly in love with this word, and I knew I always would be.
Writing is what I do every day. Sometimes slinging words together even keeps me up all night. Words are my most valuable tools. A writer is what I am. Specifically, I am a poet (mostly). I can tell you this: poets are odd. A real poet will gleefully give up eating dinner for a week to save up enough money just to buy a newer, thicker thesaurus. Yes, back in my struggling college/grad school student days, I somewhat regularly skipped meals in order to have the necessary funds to acquire books. And I would not be surprised if I find my literary self skipping meals again—just to prove I still can. The darnedest things tickle a poet’s fancy.
With that in mind, don’t tell anyone about these photos I’m letting you see. The photos show me looking at the literary equivalent of a naughty magazine. Not the content, just the form. This is poetry porn. I bought this book of poetry by C.D. Williams, and when I saw it had a centerfold, I fell in love yet again. Poetry centerfolds are my new obsession. Now that you’ve seen the centerfold, I must hide this poetry porn somewhere Suzanne will not be able to find it. I told you poets were odd, right? 😮🤣😂📓🗒✒️✏️🖍
BTW Tie o’ the Day is covered in fancy bound notebooks and various writing instruments. This tie says, “The writer is in!”
Today, I’ve been busy catching up on a quiver of projects, errands, and even stoking a fervent wish. Tie o’ the Day is symbolic of my wish: I want a beach, somewhere far from the cold and snow I live in. But that’s not on the schedule currently, so I guess I will half-heartedly settle for beach-y, tropical neckwear. I want to rent a palm tree and some white sand. A girl can dream.
I’ve been playing phone tag with the car dealership where I ordered my new truck in November. I have heard nothing from them or Ford since placing my order. I knew I would have a months-long wait to get my Maverick, so I’m not worried. I’m simply wanting to check in with somebody official about it, though, just for reassurance that my order didn’t get lost somewhere in the process. But my car salesguy hasn’t returned my texts or calls yet. I see a drive to the dealership in my plans, which I really don’t have time for—but okay.
I’ve been considering my head hairs this afternoon, and I am having a heckuva time deciding whether to keep shaving it or to let it grow out again. I have kept it shaved for almost exactly a year now. I’m feeling like a hairs change would be nice. But I also really like how it feels to have teensy-weensy head hairs. Maybe I should do both: keep my head shaved, but start a wig collection and wear a different hairstyle every day. Hey, it could be the best of both worlds. I can see the wigs now: all the obnoxious colors I can find and every hairstyle yet known on the planet. I am tempted. But if I start another collection, I can count on collecting divorce papers, too. What to do?
Another bigly project for me today has been to get working on choosing my Oscars gown. I had almost forgotten about the ceremony being only a month from now. I must get crankin’ on that. I know that sometimes I make bold attire moves that I later regret. That just comes with being a fashion genius. Sometimes you hit, sometimes you miss. But messing up with a gown at the Oscars is committing a faux pas in an entirely different universe. I cannot afford to pull a blunder on that socially-enormous, over-blown, bloated-ego stage. Nope. I must get my look right on the Red Carpet. So I’m working on it.
[This is the last hippie hairs re-post I will be presenting, I think. I’ve been trying to finish editing a serious writing project I’ve worked on for months, and I didn’t have time to create new TIE O’ THE DAY posts for much of this past week. Thanks for letting me get by with repeating a few hirsute offerings from 2019.]
It took Suzanne and three Bow Ties o’ the Day to make my hairdo. Orange paisley Bow Tie helped Suzanne put in the curlers. Blue, polka dot Bow Tie was present for the two curlers-out photos. And black/ivory/gold Bow Tie showed up for the unveiling of the finished product.
This was the first time Suzanne experienced working on my hair, which she now says is the straightest hair she’s ever known. It is stubbornly straight. I had a few perms in my youth and not one “took.” I’ve always known the near-impossibility of styling my hair. Suzanne learned it first-hand last night.Remember: I haven’t had my hairs cut since May, and it was an asymmetrical cut. I think Suzanne performed magic with what she had to work with. When I told her she has to build a hairdo for me once a week until the end of May—for Thursday posts—she got absolutely gleeful. She sees my hairs as an exciting challenge. She’s getting ideas for hairdo after hairdo. And we had a blast last night while she tried to perform a hairs miracle on my noggin. She chuckled at my locks the entire time, although once her chuckle sounded like it came out of nervous fear. Yeah, my hairs do scary things. (I refer to my hair as “hairs” because each strand has its own straight plans.)
Mom’s Thursday Hair Day appointment always gave her hair what she called “a little oomph.” I told Suzanne I wanted her to give my hair some oomph too. She proceeded to rat and rat and rat and rat and rat.This ‘do is a never-do-again.
[In yet another repeat TIE O’ THE DAY post from March 2019, my scary hairs are again the star o’ the show. I need my hairs cut and I’m trying to decide whether I’m shaving it again or growing it out.]
Colonel Sanders Tie o’ the Day helped me re-think my baseball caps. Do I really need them, or can I get by with this glued-up visor hairdo? I dunno. My hairs visor seems to be keeping the sun out of my eyes so far today. If I got rid of my hats, I could free up their space in the Tie Room, so I could house more bow ties. But alas! I love my hat collection too, so that’s not gonna happen. There’s somehow room in the Tie Room Resort for all things that wander in.
Small towns are like that, even though we tend to think of them as narrow-minded. A small town will generally set a place for you at its table. Trust me, you will find narrow-minded people anywhere you go. You will find jerks everywhere you go, as well. And if you act like a jerk in a small town, be prepared to lose that place at the table you were so kindly given—as you would deserve to. But most people realize nobody’s perfect, and they’ve got plenty of their own issues to work on. A lot of “mind your own biscuits” combined with even more of “love your neighbor” goes a long way toward allowing you to live like a mature human being among other grown-ups.
[Here’s another hairy repeat post from March of 2019. I hope it makes you laugh.]
As I considered what to make my hairdo do today, I started to think about how snazzy mustaches can be. I decided I’d try to create one on my forehead with my head hairs. Here’s my stab at a Fu Manchu. You can see my mustache-styling skills are quite limited. I can’t even do a Fu Manchu that looks right. The important thing is that I tried. Just for y’all, I tried.
My ‘stache makes as much sense as my Prince-Albert-in-a-Can Bow Tie o’ the Day. I mean, these young whippersnappers nowadays have no clue about the old routine of prank-calling a store that sold tobacco and asking: “Do you have Prince Albert in a can?” And when told YES, saying “Well, you better let him out.” I have to do a lot of explaining when I wear this piece. And the young wonderers still don’t find it amusing. And that gets me to thinking about how much more isolated Delta was when I was a kid. Oh, it was the same 140 miles from SLC, but without cell phones, texting, and the internet, your mind was near-completely soaked in the confines of Delta and its offshoots. A phone prank and toilet-papering a house was about the funniest crap you could pull without causing a town civil war.
Don’t think for a minute that Delta was boring back in the day. There was plenty to do: for example, sliding down the flumes easily morphed into cliff jumping; tubing down the Sevier River could end up planting you at the reservoir for a swim and a bonfire; throwing a couch in the back of a truck (Yes, we rode in the back of trucks.) often ended at an Oak City canyon party—complete with a campfire and s’mores.
Like most kids, I was allowed to ride my bike everywhere from the age of zero. (Slight exaggeration.) I was allowed to play on the railroad tracks. The tracks were pretty much my front yard, and we lived on the wrong side of them, too. I was taught the rules, and then set free to explore. Of course, being bored in Delta was your choice. Some people were, and I felt sorry for them.
Delta was also packed with characters who had made their individual lives a little iconic by their bigly, unique actions. For example, there were Bernell and Blanche Ferry (son and mother) whose accidental antics included the time Blanche fell out of their old truck’s passenger door as Bernell rounded the corner to turn onto Main Street. She rolled like a roly-poly into the gutter, stood up, and waited for Bernell to go around the block and come back to pick her up again. That’s right: he did not stop for her immediately when she fell out and tumbled to the road. He went around the whole block, obeying traffic laws. When he finally got back around to where Blanche stood waiting and stopped, she hopped in the truck, and off they went on their merry way—as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened. The scene looked like they were following a script—like they had done this a million times before.Their timing was impeccable. I felt privileged to observe the entire event. I’m still in awe of that old woman’s flexibility and seriously unbreakable bones.
I have posted a bunch of sappy stuff about love recently, in honor of Valentine’s Day. I’m a cheerleader for kindness, forgiveness, empathy, and compassion. I will defend those higher values until the day I drop dead. I really do believe in the ideas I’ve been writing about, but I also believe it’s a sign of a healthy mental state to face and deal with other, less sweet-and-gushy, feelings. As human beings, we all have what I will call moments of feeling darkly—those times when we encounter rudeness, unfairness, betrayal, injustice, etc. We feel more darkly when these negative things we encounter are such that we can’t (or think we can’t) really do anything to change what we see. We struggle with the way things are. We have emotional responses to these situations that are natural but not especially nice. Don’t feel guilty about feeling “not especially nice.” I suggest you acknowledge your feelings, figure out why you feel them, and then move on. If you can do something to fix the situation that upsets you, do. If you can’t, keep on truckin’, as we used to say in the 70’s. Been there, felt that.
There’s a trick I came up with in order to accomplish just this. It might not work for you, but I swear by it. If I’m in the midst of a situation in which someone is promoting contention, I talk to myself in my head. More specifically, I say not-nice things privately to myself. Outwardly, I will be as civil as the situation allows. I will try to talk the contention-maker down to a dull roar. But at some point, if it’s clear this person is hell-bent on being contentious to others, I give myself permission to rant in my head—while remaining polite. If a person is being a jerk, I give myself permission to repeat a mantra like, “You’re being a jerk” over and over again, out loud inside my brain. It is true that sometimes I say—in my head—words that are a bit stronger than “jerk.” I make no apologies for doing this. It makes me feel better without creating more contention by throwing fists or by running my mouth directly at someone else. Generally, if I just acknowledge and respect my not-nice feelings, these not-nice feelings pass. In most instances, there’s no reason to ruin a relationship about it.
Here’s an example of what I’m saying. In the late 80’s, I had a spiky short hairdo with one small tail of neon hair down to my right shoulder. I was in my mid-20’s at the time. I was with a friend (also in her 20’s) at Trolley Square in SLC, when we ran into her mother. It was the first time I had met my friend’s mother, so she introduced me. I said to the mother I was glad to meet her and stuck out my hand to shake hers—you know, I was polite. My friend’s mother kept her hands to her side and immediately asked me, “Do you really think you can meet Jesus with hair like that?” Now I know for a fact that I had never used the spikes in my hair to stab anyone or poke their eyes out or pick a lock to steal stuff. And I know for a fact that my neon yellow or pink or blue hair-tail never strangled anybody. Sadly, I had dealt with people like this before, so it didn’t startle me. I said to my friend’s mother, “The Jesus I am familiar with is busy dealing with real problems like hate and poverty and fear and hopelessness. The Jesus I know isn’t a busybody judging people’s hair.” I don’t remember how the conversation went after that, but I do remember that talking to myself, repeating “You are a jerk,” over and over again in my own noggin, helped me remain relatively civil in the situation. I knew the mother for many years after that and I grew to appreciate her for her other, less judgmental qualities. No matter the style of my hair during the more than decade I knew my friend’s mother, I always knew that in her eyes, my head hairs and I were never worthy of meeting Jesus. Oh well. I’m not worried.
The first three paragraphs of this post set the context for this afternoon’s “coded” Tie o’ the Day. It’s an uber-easy code to break, with only two words to be deciphered. (I realized as I was writing this that I’ve never actually said these two specific words together out loud to a person in my life.) The idea I’m trying to explore in this post is that it is sometimes fitting to feel not-nice about a not-nice situation or a not-nice person. It doesn’t make you a bad person to get fed-up with something. It is, however, usually better to deal with the raggedy feeling yourself, rather than lash out directly at someone in the heat of the moment. Egos get bruised that way. Pride gets injured. Even the most helpful, insightful point gets lost in translation under such circumstances. Saying things only to myself and/or wearing this Tie o’ the Day at strategic times can help me remain composed in life’s mean chaos: I’m subtly registering my dissent by expressing an authentic not-nice emotion, without causing emotional injury to someone else’s fragility. It’s a strategy which works effectively for me. 👁 💜 U’all
I am always grateful to this world for more than I will ever be able to properly express. In that vein, I thank you folks for putting up with me and my TIE O’ THE DAY project.
This photo is one of my school pictures from Delta Junior High. Here, I adorned it with my turkey before-and-after Tie o’ the Day, to make the photo more palatable for your eyeballs. That’s truly asking a lot of one solitary tie to do!
