Category: Hats

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It’s A Girl!

Although my truck finally got to me during the first week in October, Oakley’s death made it impossible to celebrate its arrival—which I had eagerly awaited since I ordered it in November of 2021. After almost a year of gestation at the Ford plant, the truck I adored from afar just didn’t seem all that important. I knew that deep inside I was happy about it becoming officially mine, but I couldn’t muster up the happiness at the time. Losing Oakley was the only thing on my mind for weeks. I am only now beginning to feel the glee of getting a material thing I have wanted for the last couple of years. I have only two stickers on the truck so far. One is political. One honors Oakley, so her spirit rides with me wherever I drive.

What name did I decide on for the truck? I named her ABRA, as in abracadabra. It took a lot of magic to get her here. Abra is also the name of a minor character in one of my fave novels: John Steinbeck’s East of Eden. The name has stuck with me since I was 11 and I first read the book. I liked the name so much I thought if I ever had a daughter, I would probably name her Abra. The book’s larger theme is about good and evil, and how we always have the agency to choose which way we will live. We are the sum of our choices.

I wanted to order Abra vanity plates that said ABRA, but my experiences with ordering vanity plates in Utah told me there was no way “they” would approve it, because it has the potential to be read as A BRA, and that’s a scissor hop, skip, and a jump away from almost inducing bad thoughts in other driver’s minds. Seriously, to the DMV, ABRA would be considered almost pornographic and, therefore, dirty because naughty-minded people might read something into it. And we can’t have ABRA being mistaken for A BRA by innocent children, you know. So I didn’t even apply for a plate that said ABRA on it: it would have been a waste of time and effort. Instead, I legally transferred my BOWETRY plate from the Vibe we are selling. When I ordered BOWETRY a few years back, I had to explain to the DMV what it meant. I explained that it is a combination of my two obsessions: bow ties and poetry. Those folks at the DMV who are in charge of approving orders for vanity plates had no problems with my BOWETRY after my explanation. Abra seems pleased to be wearing the BOWETRY plate, too.

Without further ado, I introduce to you the gorgeous Blue Beauty of 2022 Mavericks—my Abra. Skitter and I decided our cowboy hats were a must for pix of us in the cow-named Maverick. Skitter is also wearing what she refers to as her official sheriff ‘s badge Tie o’ the Day. She has called it that since our good pal, Herschel Walker, once told Skitter that the stars on her tie looked like the honorary token sheriff’s badge he carries. My cowboy hat has a silver star right smack-dab in the middle of my hatband, so I’m a sheriff too. I chose my bolo-design Tie o’ the Day. Skitter and I are cowgirls in our bones. Or, at least, dang true rednecks. 🤠 🐶 🏇 🚙 🍩

TIE O’ THE DAY’s next post will cover Suzanne’s recent revelation about how I drive. She’s close to accurate, but not quite.

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Mr. Nuk’s Wild Ride

Finally! Nuk got his ride in my new truck. He’s a groovy bro-in-law. Of course BT/Mercedes—my oldest sister—and Suzanne rode with us as we snaked through the roads of Pleasant View and North Ogden. We even made a pilgrimage past the original Floyd’s house. (In case you don’t remember, Floyd was the most uninteresting professor I had during my time as a student at Weber State.) Before our ride, we had a lively chat and laugh fest. Nuk and BT/Mercedes are two of the best and funniest people I have ever known. I lived with them a couple of times when I was going to WSU, and I consider the time I spent in their house as absolute fun. I always felt safe and loved there, at a time in my life when I didn’t even know I most needed to feel safe and loved. You know—like anyone who is 17, I was young enough to know all the answers. I didn’t need anything or anybody: I was invincible. Nuk and BT/Mercedes loved me anyway. Now that I’m old enough to know none of the answers, they still love me. I am a lucky littlest sister.

Please note that the Bow Tie o’ the Day I chose to wear for our Maverick ride was one I rarely wear for hours at a time—because it’s very heavy. Bow Tie was crafted out of a bike tire inner tube. I especially like that it shows off its patch and its air stem.

Tune in later today for an official introduction to my new truck. You will even learn its name, and you’ll learn the story of why I couldn’t order a license plate with its name on it.

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Election Day 2022: I’m Glad We’re Almost Done With It

When I was a kid, I used to play board games with some older kids in the neighborhood. As the youngest kid by a few years, I was usually the first one to lose at Monopoly. It was like that for what seemed to me like decades, but it was probably for only one or two summers. For me, the neighborhood board games ended when—for the first time ever—I won at Monopoly. My astonished glee at finally winning the game came to an abrupt end, when a certain little boy who didn’t win started to cry and called me a cheater. Plus, I was a girl cheater, too! And a little girl couldn’t possibly beat all the boys at Monopoly! This new winning stuff was no fun for me at all. I wanted to go back to losing and having an uncontested ball. Heck, I was so young that I didn’t even know how to cheat successfully—especially with a handful of snot-nosed neighbor boys right beside me in the room, playing and watching every move of the game unfold. I think it was my Sister Who Wishes To Remain Nameless who clued me in later that day about the fragile egos of sore losers who think they always deserve to be the winner, especially when you clearly beat them. I remember thinking I better be sure to play and win at board games with whoever I dated when I grew up, so I could make sure I didn’t marry a sore loser. I can testify that what I refer to as The Board-Game-Always-Unmasks-A-Sore-Loser Test really works.

With this childhood anecdote in mind, patriotic Tie o’ the Day and I will make one, two-part prediction before the polls close on this Election Day: A few Republican candidates who lose their races tonight will claim they lost because of voter fraud/stolen election crapola, which will fail to explain how other Republican candidates who did win their races, won fairly. On the other hand, zero Democrats who lose their races will whine about a stolen election. Regarding all candidates and voters in any contested race, I have a thought for us all to gnaw on: If you accept the results of an election only when your chosen “team” wins, you are saying you do not believe in or cherish the democracy our Constitutional Republic makes possible for all of its citizens. Just sayin.’

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Rowan’s Belated Birthday Brunch

Although Rowan’s 25th birthday was weeks ago, in August, everybody’s schedules were such that we couldn’t find a time to get together with him for a celebratory brunch, until two Sundays ago. Suzanne and I finally met up with Rowan and his flame, Cameryn, at Finn’s Cafe in Sugarhouse—where we wore the birthday party hats for a total of maybe 90 seconds, so I could snap TIE O’ THE DAY photos. Suzanne, Rowan, and Cameryn are always good to indulge me in my TO’TD efforts. For the festive occasion, I did not choose to wear my birthday balloons bow tie, as I often do for birthdays. Instead, I went with the wood, puzzle piece TIE O’ THE DAY, which is fun, but it was also more in keeping with my inner mood of that day. I was trying to fit together some big answers to a big puzzle: how could Oakley be gone?

You see, I knew that near the end of this previously scheduled brunch celebration in honor of Rowan, it would be my job to relate to him the news about Oakley’s death. Suzanne and I had been with her in the hospital room as she passed away just the night before. Rowan and Oakley spent a lot of time around each other when they were younger, despite a seven-year age difference. Since it had been a few years since Rowan and Oakley had seen each other, I did not anticipate the news would hit Rowan as hard as it did. As a parent, I hurt for him as he teared up and struggled to process the unbelievably terrible information. As a parent, I was also proud of him that he had grown into the kind of person who still carried a tiny cousin named Oakley in his heart, despite how much time had passed since they hung out together. I am now certain he will carry his love for her—and for all “the kids” in his Delta family—with him throughout his entire life. I could see Rowan is beginning to understand the magnitude of the loss of even one person in a family. He is wrestling with the loss of our incredible Oakley, who will not live an adulthood, as he has the opportunity to do. Rowan was moved enough to feel both honored and obliged to say a few words at her graveside. Our Rowan was a grown man in his grief. As such, he is trying to put together the pieces of the existential puzzle—as are we all.

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Not-me On Errand Day

Yes, I purposely matched my socks so I’d blend in.
Suzanne seriously cogitates over her decision on a new phone.

Tie o’ the Day couldn’t believe it either. But I tried to tone down my normal clash. I tried very hard to look like everybody else. I’ll explain, but it’ll take me a minute to get to the reason. You see, Suzanne and I had a list of errands we needed to do together on a weekday, so she took the day off yesterday. First, we were off to the credit union to sign some paperwork for our trust and estate planning. That went off without a hitch. Then we were off to the Apple store, so Suzanne could choose a new iPhone. If you’ll remember, in July—on Suzanne’s birthday—I told her I would like to gift her a new phone, but I wanted her to pick out whichever one she wanted. Flash forward to nearly 3 months later, and she was finally ready to make her decision yesterday. She went for the lilac iPhone 14. And then we were off to Verizon to get Suzanne’s new phone hooked up with a line on my account, so I and Suzanne and Rowan and Mom are truly on the same family plan.

Okay. So here’s the part where I finally tell you about why I purposely attempted to blend in yesterday. I knew one of our errands meant we were going to the credit union, and I thought we might have time to start the loan paperwork for my new truck—which really might be here sometime next week. A thing I’ve learned in my life is that what you wear in certain situations makes a bigly difference in how you are treated. If you’re going to the credit union to get a loan to buy your Velocity Blue new Maverick, there’s a better chance the credit union people will give you the money if you don’t look like you just walked in out of a hurricane under the Big Top at a circus—which is probably as good a way as any to describe my normal garb. Yesterday morning when I first got up, I was all set to wear a wood bow tie, my new Lemonhead socks, one of my protest t-shirts, my half-boots, and one of my protest baseball caps. But then I suddenly remembered our errand list. I knew it would not be to my benefit to wear what I had planned to for the day. So I found a pretty, somewhat low-key (for me), long-sleeved shirt. I paired it with a somewhat subdued (for me) Tie o’ the Day. I found a pair of not-loud-colored (for me) Sloggers shoes that didn’t have cows or paw prints, or chickens on them. Most important to my toning my look down a notch, was my decision to wear my pastel orange Bombas socks. It happened: on purpose, I chose to match my socks with my shirt! I knew this would give me the edge at the credit union when it came time for them to approve the truck loan. And I wore the most serious-looking golf cap I own. It does have black in it, after all. Alas! We didn’t even end up dealing with the truck loan yesterday, so I’ll never know if I successfully blended in enough with the other customers at the credit union, in order to achieve my loan approval.

After we got home from our errand-y day, I confessed to Suzanne that I had not been my normal self that day. I had lied with my style. She looked at me quizzically, and I told her about my decision to dress more like normal people and less like my usual clashy kind of normal-for-me attire. When she heard why I dressed down, she squint-eyed, belly-laughed out loud for a good 15 minutes straight. I suppose that meant I didn’t look all that different from how I usually do. I suspected as much. But hey, my confession made Suzanne lose herself in laughter, so my efforts were well worth it.

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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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I’m In Skitter’s Doghouse

I am sad when The Skit is mad at me.

Yup, we had to make another visit to the vet. Remember the black mold that took over Skitter’s left ear last month? Well, it cleared up nicely. But then her left ear must have felt neglected, so the fungus took up residence in her right ear. That meant we had to take another drive to the vet yesterday, where Skitter got both ears treated at once—so the ear fungus will have nowhere to run for shelter. We also got hooked up with some allergy medication for Skitter to try, because the vet thinks seasonal allergies might be at the root of her ears saga. And don’t forget that Skitter had her vet dental appointment just a couple of weeks ago. The result of three trips to the vet for Skitter in the past two months is that the little princess mutt o’ mine is not talking to me right now. She wouldn’t even face in my direction for the camera while I attempted to snap TIE O’ THE DAY pix in the exam room at the vet’s. I’m serious—as I write this, it is almost 24 hours after her vet appointment, and she has still not uttered one word in my direction. Nor has she given me a usual kiss on my nose in that same amount of time. I’m hoping that when the ear fungus finally gets gone for good, Skitter will worship me once again. I miss her annoying me with her constant adoration. 👑

As a canine-related aside, I must tell y’all about something I dreamed last night. In my dream, I was being interviewed about dogs. The interviewer—a sort of cigarette-smoking, Edward R. Murrow kind of news fellow—asked why I have liked having dogs around me my whole life. In my dream, I didn’t have to think about the answer at all, and I said to the hipster interviewer, “Having a dog at my side at all times makes it seem normal to other people around me when I talk to myself all day long. People think I’m just talking to my dog, and not to myself. They think I’m a perfectly normal human being.” My awake self totally agrees with that answer. I am so smart in my dreams. 🗣 🐶

BTW I was wearing my FEAR THE BOWTIE t-shirt, as well as my argyle wood Bow Tie o’ the Day, to the vet appointment. Whenever there’s a vet tech I haven’t dealt with previously, the vet tech will inquire as to the significance of whatever bow tie or necktie I’m wearing at the time we meet. I give the new vet tech a brief run-down of my love for my decades-long neckwear collecting, and the resulting TIE O’ DAY website. If someone shows interest, I offer up to them a TIE O’ THE DAY wristband I’m wearing, so they can check out my tblog for themselves. Yesterday at the vet, was just such a day. By the time Skitter and I had left the vet office, I had given up both wristbands I was wearing to inquisitive office personnel. And I had to drive back to the office this morning to give out a third wristband to someone who didn’t get one yesterday. I am still amazed that ties and bow ties interest anyone but me. Life is good. 😎

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About My Relationship With Books: Part 3

Cursive is not my strong suit. My printing suffers from sever bouts of illegibility as well.
This is the “lost” book today, as homely as when I originally “lost” it.

I once, accidentally-on-purpose, “lost” a book I had checked out from the Delta City Library because I wanted it for myself—and I wanted it right that minute. I checked it out knowing I had no intention of bringing it back. I know kids do things like that sometimes, but I must confess I was 36 at the time. It was in the year 2000, and I had just moved back to Delta from Maryland. I hadn’t bought my Hombre truck yet, so I couldn’t drive out of Delta to find a bookstore where I could try to get my own copy of the book. I couldn’t order it online because I needed it NOW. And I probably wouldn’t have been able to find a copy anyway since the book was not in print at the time. Two weeks later, I out-and-out lied when I confessed to the librarian I had “lost” the book. I paid the fine for losing it, which meant I paid the cost of the book—something like $26. Thus, I can truthfully say I bought the book, even though we all know I “lost” it with purpose and with glee.

And just what was this extraordinary book which so caused me to confiscate it for my eyes only? What book did I decide Delta library patrons could be deprived of, for my selfish benefit? It was a book about taxidermy—a field I couldn’t care less about. Its title was HOME BOOK OF TAXIDERMY AND TANNING, written by Gerald J. Grantz, published in 1969. I have no idea what specifically caused me to even pick it up and start thumbing through it s pages when I first encountered it on its library shelf. I could see from its check-out card that the book hadn’t been checked out for almost a decade before I borrowed it, so I didn’t feel too guilty for wanting to “lose” it. All I know is that when I opened up the pages of the smelly, misshapen, ugly book about taxidermy, I was inspired by sentences like these: “Spread the scalp out, flesh side up.” and, “Fold the skin once, flesh-to-flesh, roll it up and place it on a sloping surface to drain.” and, “Now fill the shell with chopped excelsior, tamping with a dowel.” I was intrigued by its jargon, and I simply had to have that book right then and there. Its pages immediately sparked in me this brilliant idea to write a book-length series of poems using taxidermy processes and terminology as metaphors for life and love.

Yes, folks, it is creativity like that which keeps me raiding my piggy bank as I approach my 60’s. I am rolling in the coinage. I have distinguished myself as a writer who has ideas about writing the absolutely least marketable books I possibly can. I live for the thrill of finding the perfect words to write the things most people don’t want to read. I’ve got a knack for it, coupled with all the wasted skills. Bearing this in mind, please be assured I’m perfectly content to know that an old book about taxidermy made me a minor thief of public resources, sort of. I got a groovy idea for writing a book of poems out of it—a book which nobody will ever publish or read. And that’s good enough for me. 😆 📄 📝 🖋 📖 🤓

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The Paperwork That Makes It Work

Purple-striped Bow Tie o’ the Day was on display when we had a second appointment at the attorney’s office, to help us get our when-we-die concerns in order. The process is somewhat lengthy, which seems weird since our “estate” is straightforward except for a couple of things. We don’t have more than one house anymore, and we don’t collect cars or yachts, or stamps or coins. We do not have a fortune in cash locked away in a secret safe hidden behind a picture on the wall—or anywhere else, for that matter. We do have books, but there’s no money in having them. There is value in books, but not money. I doubt anybody we know has the space to adopt the whole bigly herd of slender volumes and bigly tomes we have acquired over the decades. It’s a huge job to look after thousands of books under one roof. We’ll have to do some deep thinking to divvy up the books. We know a ton of readers and I think we have a pretty fair idea of who might be interested in what. Still, it’s sad to think of our books living with other people in the not-too-near future. Yes, it’s the circle of life, but it kind of sucks anyway—to not be alive and reading, in the thick of things on the planet.

And then there is my neckwear circus. Exactly who will inherit the thousands of ties and bow ties I’ve amassed over the decades is an entirely different story. It’ll be challenging to divide them and/or designate them to go anywhere, because I can’t think of anyone who shares my adoration of the critters. Maybe I can get the Guinness Book of World Records people to send somebody to declare my neckwear collection to be the bigliest tie/bow tie menagerie in existence. That could increase the collection’s value, making it worth a tidy bit of pocket change. Rowan could then sell my collection on ebay and make enough money to buy himself a gallon of almond milk and a vegan Slim Jim to eat. Or he could just decide to open up the Tie Room as a museum and charge admission. That ought to be a negligibly lucrative money pit venture. Of course, Suzanne and I will be dead when anything happens to our belongings, so it really won’t be any of our business anymore. And that’s probably a good thing. All we can do is love the stuff we love for as long as we’re here. 📖 👔

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Baby, The Rain Must Fall

I had to zip over to the pharmacy to pick up my meds Saturday afternoon, and it just happened to be at the very same time a Noah’s Ark-style deluge of rain decided to drop from the sky right over my head. By the time I had made my way inside the store from the parking lot, I was soaked. Fortunately, I was wearing one of my water-resistant golf caps, so my gorgeous hairdo was not rained out. And of course I had to make the equally wet trek back to my car after I had purchased my meds. I seriously wanted to snap a selfie of me getting soaked as I dashed back to the safety of my vehicle, but I feared my phone would drown if I took it out of my pocket. As I drove home, I was reminded of Mom’s creativity when it came to devising ways to shield her weekly-done hair from any rain or snow she might encounter as she went through her busy days. Yes, she had rain bonnets, but they easily got left hither and yon—wherever she was when the rain stopped. I’ve lost umbrellas the same way in at least three states and the District of Columbia. So, after I got home Saturday and changed into dry clothes, I made a list of some of Helen Sr.’s bonnet-type choices. I marvel at Mom’s ingenuity.

Mom’s go-to when she had to leave the house in the rain, but couldn’t find a rain bonnet, was to shield her hair with a section of the newspaper. Of course, she thoughtfully selected a section Dad wouldn’t miss, like the classifieds or the Arts. I also saw her shield her hair with any one of his old Field & Stream magazines on occasion. Back in the olden days before cell phones, I once discovered the Delta phone book in Mom’s car. When I asked her why she needed a phone book in the car, she quickly told me she had used it a few days before to protect her freshly done hair from the rain when she had to rush from the house to the car to do an errand in a drizzle. But her efforts to hold a fortress around her hair in rainy times did not stop with reading material. No, I once saw Mom hold a basketball directly above her preciously coiffed hair as she scurried from the front door to her car as the clouds let forth a humble sprinkle. Her most creative and surprising choice of hairdo shield by far, however, has to be the time I saw her walking down the sidewalk in the rain carrying one of Dad’s pistol cases—pistol inside—over her impeccable hair. I’ve got to hand it to the old girl: that is heavy duty hairdo protection. Ain’t nobody dared mess with Mom’s salon-done hair. In her words, “It has to last until Church.”

BTW Bow Tie o’ the Day is one of my duct tape creations. I admit I have the duct tape bin open this morning. No good can come of that. 🤡