Category: Hats

Posted on

But Will I Really Do It This Time?

Instead of a bow tie around my neck or attached to my shirt this afternoon, I wore the word “bowtie” (I prefer the 2-word spelling of “bow tie”) and the Chevy bow tie symbol which are both printed on my t-shirt. As such, I’m wearing a rare two-fer Bow Tie o’ the Day. They each qualify.

The bigly task I assigned myself today was to deal with my notebook o’ passwords. For the last dozen years, I have filled its pages with hurriedly scribbled passwords, in no particular order, for all of my accounts on all of my devices. But honestly, I have also filled the notebook with things like Post-It notes, pieces of torn bill envelopes, and even a square of toilet paper—all covered with hastily written usernames and passwords when my Official Password Notebook wasn’t handy. As I’ve put each password-y scrap of paper into the notebook, I have always done it with the sincere intention of soon copying the passwords into the notebook when I had time. Well, whether or not I have the time, the time is ripe for me to organize and consolidate these passwords that are so necessary to the business of the current culture.

My password situation is more than a tad out of hand at this point. I dread it when Suzanne asks what the password is for something. I want to say, “How the heck should I know?” But I’m supposed to know, because I’m the one in charge of the Official Password Notebook, which is teeming with over a decade of unorganized information, including old usernames and passwords I simply haven’t gotten around to disposing of yet. Besides, I might need them eventually. Not! I’m sure Suzanne dreads having to ask me for a password, too, because I immediately get a consternated look on my face as I ferret through the notebook in my attempt to decipher what’s written on the million scraps of various sorts of paper. Successfully locating and translating whatever Holy Grail password Suzanne’s seeking at any given time is a process which takes me longer than it should. It’s also not a pretty event in which to participate.

Anyhoo… My goal is to consolidate every bit of information contained within the Official Password Notebook into the much-smaller-but-has-plenty-of-room notebook you can see in the last photo. The smaller notebook cover reminds me of Mom. And Relief Society. I like that. I’ll let you know how this project goes.

BTW The answer to this morning’s riddle is the word EMPTY.

Posted on

It Feels Like The Day Before Christmas Eve

My nautical-themed wood Bow Tie o’ the Day is slightly symbolic of where my head is at today: I am hyper-focused on traveling somewhere. Why? Because my Maverick is currently being built. Finally. You can see from my screen shot when I officially ordered it back in November. I am almost ashamed to admit how many times I have picked up my phone to check on the truck’s progress since I got word yesterday morning about its impending birth. I am being serious: I have not been this giddy with excitement since I was able to marry my soulmate almost nine years ago. I can’t wait for Ford to put the little check marks in the “In Production” and “Built” circles. My brother-in-law, Kent, is skeptical about the truck actually being built after these many months of waiting. He says he’ll believe there’s a truck when he sees it. Through my sister, Mercedes/BT, Kent has asked me about the status of the alleged Maverick nearly weekly since I ordered it. His concern for me getting my truck order filled has earned him the first ride in the I-can’t-believe-it’s-still-unnamed vehicle. I, on the other hand, have no doubt the truck will be built soon and successfully, because last night Ford emailed me a copy of the truck’s sticker—complete with price. If it’s down to the money part of the vehicle-buying process, there will have to be a tangible product before I get out the crowbar to pry open my frugality-trained wallet. 💸

Posted on

If I Truly Wanted A Motorcycle

Floppy-looking wood Bow Tie o’ the Day isn’t the most comfortable bow tie critter I own. In fact, it’s downright heavy. Consequently, I wear it only if I’m going to be out of the house for an extremely short period of time. My new Hat o’ the Day is welcome to go anywhere with me for however long I’m tasking out in the world: ketchup goes with pretty much everything, at least according to what I observed of my dad’s eating habits. Ketchup is now newly memorable to me for its political significance as well.

As far as the topic of motorcycles goes, the truth is this: if it was important to me to own a motorcycle, I’d get a motorcycle. Suzanne couldn’t stop me, no matter how much she’d worry about my safety. I don’t need her permission to buy one, but I do factor in her feelings about the prospect of my riding around in civilization on a motorcycle. Suzanne is my ride-or-die, and I take it seriously that she’d prefer I ride inside a vehicle as opposed to on top of one. Besides, when we met in the early 80’s, I already had a motorcycle. She had no problem with my riding my red Kawasaki all over Utah back then. And I do not recall her ever saying NO to me when I said, “Hop on back and let’s go!” I guess I could say I’ve been there, and I’ve done that.

Of course, I owned a motorcycle at a time in our lives when we had no significant responsibilities on the planet. We had no pets. We didn’t own a house. Our careers had barely begun. There was no Rowan yet either. We could easily take risks because we didn’t really see them as risks. We were so young that we still felt naively invincible. Danger was theoretical: it didn’t seem like a realistic possibility. At this stage of our lives, we both have people, critters, and careers that depend on us. We also have this improbable “we” we’ve made with each other.

When Suzanne and I were together in the 80’s, we barely knew each other yet, and it is difficult to know the value someone holds for you when you aren’t even aware of your own intrinsic value. But now, after all these decades, we both know exactly what we will lose when one of us is the first to go. I’m not being morbid. I’m being practical. I will never play it so safe that I can’t continue to have amazing adventures, but I’m quite content to be more cautious now with what’s important to me. I know Suzanne and I have constructed something rare with each other, and I want it to endure on this plane—and on the plane that follows—as long as it possibly can, which I hope is forever. I am proudly and passionately protective of Suzanne, and I am also more careful with myself than I used to be. Old things, like bones and long relationships, can sometimes be more brittle than they appear. Rapt attention and continual care are where the lasting strength of weathered things resides. Tenderness is the forgiving muscle that will hold it all together.

Posted on

Pretending To Be Miffed

Tie-dye Bow Tie o’ the Day is one of my most prized jumbo pieces in my bigly bow tie collection. It reminds me I was born a hippie—all peace, love, and understanding. However, today I am being a bit perturbed. After years of Suzanne slapping my hands from buying myself a motorcycle (or “donor-cycle” as she refers to them), Suzanne went on an hours-long motorcycle ride yesterday. It was for work, she told me—and it was, in fact, a work activity. But that’s not the point. The point is this: Suzanne got to play on a motorcycle for the day, and all I got was her official event do-rag, which you see here on my head. I admit it’s mostly a fake perturbed-ness I’m harboring against Suzanne’s motorcycle hypocrisy, but I’m going to nurse it for all I can. If I play my wronged cards right, I might be able to leverage permission for a new toy out of Suzanne’s hypocritical motorcycle ride. I do not pretend I see getting Suzanne’s OK for a full-blown motorcycle in my future, but I am now seeing the possibility of a scooter or an electric bike. Or at least a tricycle. 🏍 🚲 🛵 Fair is fair.

Posted on

Skitter Survived Her Teefs Appointment

Tropical Bow Tie o’ the Day is a diamond-point piece. My new Hat o’ the Day is an homage to the late Supreme Court Justice Ruth Bader Ginsburg, whose wit, drive, grace, and intellect I find myself missing more and more with every passing minute. Yes, we are Ruth-less, and it shows. Skitter, on the other hand, is merely toothless—at least by by one more gnarly tooth the vet had to pull because it was no longer capable of gnawing on dog chews. At Skitter’s dental appointments, I always tell the vet to yank all of Skitter’s teeth and fit her for dentures. I could easily teach her the denture ropes. It would be a lot easier and a lot less expensive to go the doggie denture route. In my experience, the best thing about dentures is that, except for the rarest of occasions, toothaches are almost completely eliminated. And if, for some reason, your dentures cause your mouth some kind of ache, you can take them out and let them go hurt somewhere in a bowl on their own. Despite my requests, the vet never does extract all of Skitter’s teeth. Some people just don’t take me seriously, I guess. And that’s probably a very good thing sometimes. Anyhoo… Skitter is now resting at home and raises her canine head every few minutes to pout in my direction—and to make me feel guilty about forcing her to get her fangs cleaned on a regular basis.

Posted on

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.

Posted on

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.

Posted on

Oh, Just Playing With My Face

My wood ‘Merican flag Bow Tie o’ the Day and I gathered up a bunch o’ stuff I don’t need anymore, boxed it up, and put it in the pile I’m going to drop off at Deseret Industries later this week. I had four televisions turned-on throughout our house, so I could watch the January 6 hearing without having to miss a minute of it—while I slaved away at a miscellany of tedious-but-necessary household chores. Up and down the stairs, I trod all day. Poor Skitter followed me up and down religiously at first, but she soon figured out I wasn’t going to light in any single place for an extended period of time, for a while anyway. She split the difference and finally stretched out on the bottom stair, so she was on my mind no matter where I was, because I had to work very hard not to step on her as I made my ascents and descents on the stairs. She looked comfy there, so I didn’t want to bother her by shooing her somewhere else. Yes, Skitter is spoiled. And yes, I’m responsible for it. But it didn’t hurt me one bit to simply step over her doggie body on the stair. Stepping over her even seemed to work out a leg muscle or three that I don’t normally use, so that’s a plus.

I mention the 1/6 hearings only to say that they have reminded me of how weird I have always been. I was a political junkie long before I studied political science. One of my first memories of anything political has to do with the Watergate hearings in 1973, beginning near the end of my 3rd Grade school year. I begged to stay home from school to watch the hearings. But my 10-year-old self wasn’t allowed to do that. I had to settle for watching the missed hearings’ highlights on the evening news, from the mouth of Walter Cronkite himself. (That was kinda cool too, actually, now that I think of it.)

To my young political wonk delight, the hearings were still going on after school let out that year. I don’t remember how often they were held, or when exactly they ended. It felt like they proceeded through the whole summer. When the Watergate hearings were being broadcast, they were on the 3 major tv channels we all received. Yup, only 3. If the hearings were being televised, I was in front of the tv watching and taking notes on the living room floor. It did no good for anyone to make me turn the channel, cuz the hearings were on all of them. (I never counted PBS and BYU as real channels, because I don’t remember us watching anything on either one, except BYU football and BYU basketball.)

Every day, Mom would say to me, “It’s summer. It’s a beautiful day. Why aren’t you out on your bike?” I had no answer except to tell her that I was having fun doing what I was doing. And I really was enjoying myself. Kids continually came to the door, asking if I wanted to play. My answer, if a Watergate hearing was on the tube, was always NOPE. What kid watches the Watergate hearings when she could be riding her bike out to the reservoir to bum boat rides? See what a weird child I was? See why my parents could never quite figure me out? Or figure out quite what to do with me? All I knew about my politics habit was that I was fascinated by the dramatics, rituals, and legalities of this thing called politics.

Posted on

The Steve Miller Band Was Right: Time Keeps On Slippin,’ Slippin,’ Slippin’ Into The Future

You know how sometimes you get so wrapped up in whatever you’re doing that you completely lose track of time? Even hat Bow Tie o’ the Day knows about how time can slip away. Well, that’s what was going on with me last week, for the whole week. I kid you not. On Sunday night, I got caught up in watching the Deuel Creek fire break out in the hills just above us. I couldn’t look away: it was hypnotic and treacherous and gorgeous all at the same time. And then, suddenly, it was the 4th of July—with a family gathering and more fireworks in the neighborhood than Skitter could handle, so I spent a significant amount of time calming and comforting the mutt by burying her in her Suzanne-made blankets, and reminding her that she, too, lives in a country where she is free to experience life, liberty, and the pursuit of canine happiness, albeit at the odd cost of enduring eardrum-torturing, foothill-igniting celebratory fireworks a couple of times a year. And SNAP, it was suddenly Suzanne’s birthday on the 7th, which meant I had to be all gift-y and entertain-y—doling out cards and treats and miscellaneous varieties of potato chips to the birthday girl. She wanted to go to El Matador in Bountiful for lunch, so we did. I tried to get Suzanne to pick out a new phone for her birthday, but she was too mesmerized by the potato chips at home, so she hasn’t collected on the phone gift yet.

Now it’s this morning and time for this post. TIE O’ THE DAY is back on track—until the next time I get distracted by something shiny or otherwise interesting. I promised myself when I began TIE O’ THE DAY that actually living my life would always be a priority over posting about it. I apologize—but only sort of—that the sometimes irregularity of my posting can be annoying to regular readers. I do value you. I appreciate that you tune in. However, like you, I am in the midst of living a life that occasionally doesn’t leave me time and head-space to do everything I want to do. As much as I am enamored with creating TIE O’ THE DAY, it is not a have-to-do, top priority kind of venture. But even as I just wrote that sentence— even as I am thinking about it just now, I must admit that I honestly feel more balanced and connected on the days I post. Perhaps, after all these years of writing it, it has become more of a priority than I have heretofore been willing to admit. TIE O’ THE DAY is, in fact, an integral part of the life I’m living. I gotta ponder this and its various implications. 🤔

In this afternoon’s post, I will regale you with my Maverick order final answer, including the part about the Maverick in Santaquin that I played catch-and-release with a few days ago. 🎣

Posted on

This Is A TIE O’ THE DAY Piece O’ Wisdom

Years ago, Suzanne handed me a copy of a meme she’d printed out. It said, “You can’t please everyone. You are not a taco.” I still have it somewhere in my piles of files. I like running onto it occasionally, because it’s a smart reminder. When I saw this t-shirt, it made me muse about the meme yet again. My own life’s experience has taught me, over and over again, that pretending to be what you are not might seem to work for a while. But it will inevitably end up hurting all who are involved when the truth finally seeps through the facade and shows itself. And—trust me on this—the truth will ALWAYS show itself in the end, despite any meticulous planning you might do. Remember: you are not a taco.

I don’t know why other people’s opinions of us often carry so much weight. Why do we so often feel the need to be what other people want us to be, instead of being content to be the mysterious and fabulous person we really are? It makes no bloody sense. I don’t know how it works with you, but I have found that I am the only one who has to live with me every minute of every day and night—which means I’m ultimately the main human whose opinion of me matters. Think about it: you are the main character in your autobiography. Your life is your story, and your story is about you. Your opinion of yourself as you live your unique life matters, so you probably ought to get comfortable with being the real you. Make your authentic self someone you can stand to live with. If you do that, you’ll likely find that you naturally make the people who matter to you oh-so very, very happy—without even trying. 😃 🌮