Witty & Wise Ties, Trivia & Lies
Bigly Bow Tie o’ the Day has found a sure fashion home here with us recently. I knew it would look outstanding with this particular pair of golf pants and my dotty shirt. Don’t ever let anyone tell you that there’s no such thing as polka dot perfection, because you are looking at it right this very minute. That’s my dotted theme, and I’m stickin’ to it—for today, at least. And I ain’t clownin’ around about it one bit. 🤡
I seem to have been feeling a lumberjack-y vibe when I put on my clothes today. Tie o’ the Day is replete with split wood ready for stacking, on top of my red-and-gray plaid shirt. The paisley mask is just because I try to rock some paisley no matter what I wear, as y’all well know. I can’t explain the reason for wearing the cow-spots flat cap, except to say it seemed like a silly way to finish the look. Perhaps the hat is just my way of saying “howdy” to my friend, Myrt, who is a faithful TIE O’ THE DAY reader and is always up for any cow-themed attire I have to show off. Consider yourself “howdy-“ed, Myrt. 🐄 Moo!
Today is Groundhog’s Day Eve and I’ve caught my first glimpse of Easter candy!
My slim, diamond-point Bow Tie o’ the Day looks very sequin-y. And my mask affirms I’m sarcastically just rollin’ with the conspiracy theories again. In reality, I am an Occam’s Razor gal, through-and-through. That means I hold with the idea that the simplest explanation for something is most likely to be the one that’s correct. My nearly six decades of experience on the planet has taught me that this is so. There are exceptions to this principle, which fall neatly under this phrase: “the exception that proves the rule.” Complexities and implausibilities might make a story seem more dramatic or otherwise interesting, but complexities and implausibilities don’t make a story true—whether we’re talking about literature, conspiracy theories, or real life. The sustaining meat of any truth is its simplicity and efficiency. 💡
This post photo highlights my belief in what I call The 4 Patterns o’ Groovy Fashion. At least for me, these are the 4 staples of sartorial style: paisley, houndstooth, polka dots, and plaid. I try to wear as many of these patterns together as possible. Each individual pattern works against and/or with the other patterns to create a kind of eye-popping symmetry. Often, TIE O’ THE DAY fans (all 2 of them) ask me to explain what it is I’m trying to create with my fashion stylings. What is my personal fashion aesthetic? In a nutshell, I guess I can say that my goal when getting dressed is to end up wearing a get-up that looks as if it might make more sense if those seeing me are wearing those clunky, cardboard, 3-D glasses from the 70’s. Yeah, that wonky look! That’s what I’m going for. Please forgive me.
I tied on a neon-hued Tie o’ the Day to change the furnace filters this afternoon. And after that was done, I sat my butt down at my desk in the loft. My intent was to make my regular call to check on Mom. I am always excited to talk to Mom, especially if I find her to be having an especially clear-ish mind. No matter her state of mind, she remains ever playful and interested in whatever, whatever.
I initially intended to call Mom yesterday, but I found myself unable to go ahead and make the call. And today, the call didn’t happen either. I was paralyzed. You see, I do not exaggerate when I say that almost every time I call Mom, I have to deliver the news of another death of someone significant in her life. At 91, she is outliving so many of her people—friends, family, and close acquaintances. It’s her own fault this is constantly occurring: she made it her life’s mission to know and care about so many people. They, in turn, have cared for her. When I finally call her this time, I must relay the news of two more people passing from her life. She will be the first to tell you that her life has been rich with good folks—so it’s sad when they pass on.
I could choose to not tell Mom about dreadful things at this point in her life, but I wouldn’t want to risk her overhearing snippets of sad news and have it not make sense to her. I’d rather be able to explain the information and answer her questions, sometimes over and over again—even if she will likely forget the news and then need help being reminded about it at a later date. Her best friend, Peggy, passed away around 4 years ago, and Mom will still ask me sometimes about what happened to her “Pegetha.”
As time passes, Mom needs more and more reminding about her own life. With a little help, she can often at least temporarily reconnect with the gist of whatever she’s trying to access in her brain. Still, occasionally—like yesterday and today—I can’t rustle up the soul-strength to make a call to her to deliver not-good news. I can’t rise to the task sometimes. I do always feel incredibly guilty about postponing any phone call to Mom, however. But all I can do about it right now is hope I’m stronger than I was yesterday and today, when I attempt to place the call to Mom again tomorrow. ☎️ 📞 📱
I can’t wait until my copper Bow Tie o’ the Day begins to get its green patina from being exposed to the elements. When I’m not wearing it, I should probably store it somewhere humid—like in the bathroom by the shower. Or perhaps I should attach it to one of Suzanne’s outside flower pots by the sprinklers, through Spring and Summer. Or both. It’ll take years for the green patina to grow and refine its full-blown protective layer, but a snappy copper bow tie deserves to reach its full artistic potential. It deserves to turn green and evolve into its own historically fashionable greatness over time. Bow ties are people too, you know.
High-tops Bow Tie o’ the Day knows it’s true. If it’s Saturday, household chores will get done. It’s a habit I don’t see myself changing at this point in my life. I’ve mentioned before how that Primary song about Saturday being a special day gets stuck in my head every Saturday. It always has, and it always will. I was brainwashed into doing housework with that song. Oh, it’s okay. I have no illusions about the inner-soundtrack of my Saturday mornings ever being anything different. I used to fight it, but I don’t anymore. However, I’m always at the ready to add to the Saturday playlist in my noggin. Along with the heavily rotated Primary song of my youth, “Saturday,” there are songs like “Saturday Night” by The Bay City Rollers, and “Saturday Night’s Alright For Fighting” by Elton John. One of my fave songs to have stuck in my head on a Saturday is Tom Waits’ “The Heart of Saturday Night.” And there are plenty more Saturday-reference songs to add. If you’re a better Utah Mormon than I am, your Saturday playlist can include every song on the SATURDAY’S WARRIOR soundtrack—randomly shuffled, or in order! Whatever music is stuck in your head while you’re checking off tasks on your Saturday to-do list, it is imperative that you sing out each song with exuberance and pride. The quality of your voice isn’t what’s important. What’s important is to sing loud enough to let the next-door neighbors know you’re choring and you’re happy about it. Above all, remember where you came from: Primary.
Bow Tie o’ the Day and I have been ruminating on the ideas of purpose and passion today. Naturally, for me, that meant I dug up one of my haggard copies of Annie Dillard’s book of essays called TEACHING A STONE TO TALK. The first essay in the collection is called “Living Like Weasels,” and it references the story of a man who once shot an eagle out of the sky. (Bad man!) Upon examining the freshly dead eagle, the man discovered the dry skull of a weasel with its jaws attached to the eagle’s throat. It seemed a reasonable assumption that the eagle had at one time pounced on the weasel, and the weasel had swiftly and instinctively swiveled and bit the eagle’s throat. The weasel lost its life to the eagle, but its dead jaws remained clenched on the eagle’s throat for who-knows-how-long until the eagle itself fell prey to its executioner, and all that remained of the weasel was its skull’s clenched jaw. The weasel latched on, with all of its instinctive weasel purpose and passion, most of its body falling away piece by piece over time. The weasel flew high, even to its own end. But imagine what unbelievable things that dying weasel got to see—if only for a few moments—of the world from up in the sky, where it had never before been in its tiny weasel life!
The essay ends with this call to find our own purpose and passion:
“We could, you know. We can live any way we want. People take vows of poverty, chastity, and obedience—even of silence—by choice. The thing is to stalk your calling in a certain skilled and supple way, to locate the most tender and live spot and plug into that pulse. This is yielding, not fighting….
“I think it would be well, and proper, and obedient, and pure, to grasp your one necessity and not let it go, to dangle from it limp wherever it takes you. Then even death, where you’re going no matter how you live, cannot you part. Seize it and let it seize you up aloft even, till your eyes burn out and drop; let your musky flesh fall off in shreds, and let your very bones unhinge and scatter, loosened over fields, over fields and woods, lightly, thoughtless, from any height at all, from as high as eagles.”
Chew on that. Ponder those images. Then ask yourself if you hold that tightly to anything? Got purposes? Got passions? If you’re lucky, you know exactly who you are and what you’re about. You’re already flying.
Every January, I pay a fee to retain the rights to the domain name for my TIE O’ THE DAY tie blog (the “tblog”). Each year, the process has gone smoothly. This year, however, someone else wanted the rights to tie-o-the-day.com. I don’t know if it was for an individual person or a business or some other type of organization, but somebody—for some likely nefarious purpose—was attempting to kidnap MY domain name. They created a speed bump in my domain name renewal process. For a few days, I was a tad worried that my little neckwear website would be lost in the internet’s junkyard forever, or would belong to someone who is not me. When faced with the possible impending loss of my domain name, I immediately did what I do: I did some research and I made some calls. I spoke with The People In Charge O’ Things. I was ready for a fist fight, if necessary. Ultimately, because I had all my paperwork, receipts, and certificates in order, no interloper was able to steal the domain name from me. My beloved tblog can keep its rightful name. Whew!
We had a theatrical night on the town last week when we went to see HAMILTON again. Before the show, we ate a luscious dinner at Tin Angel, which is located inside the Eccles Theater building. Suzanne ordered wild salmon, while I got the encrusted braised spare ribs. For dessert, we split a slice of spiced pumpkin roll filled with cream cheese frosting, and covered in caramel and chocolate. Yes, it was yummy.
Y’all might recall that we had first seen HAMILTON a couple of years ago, after which I gave my review in a TIE O’ THE DAY post. My review was simply this: “It was a little too sing-y and dance-y for my taste.” The truth is, that’s my review for almost all musicals. I can appreciate a well-done musical production, but I’m partial to plain old words. I prefer the spoken word on the stage. Having said that, I will admit that I enjoyed HAMILTON tremendously this time around. The first time I saw it, my brain was filled with all the excessive hype about it. This time, I knew what I was in for, and I could simply watch without any expectations. HAMILTON was still too sing-y and dance-y for my taste, but as I sat in my seat and let the show just wash over me, I was enthralled. I had a good time.
Because I am who I am, Suzanne must always have her antenna up for any sign of my misbehavior. The Eccles Theater ushers carried little “please, wear your mask” hand-held signs. If an audience member were to remove their mask during the production, an usher was supposed to quietly walk up to the maskless person and politely wave the sign in front of their face. I wanted so badly to take a photo of it happening to someone, but everyone in the audience was good and kept their masks on. As the night wore on, Suzanne could feel me wanting nothing more than to lower my mask, for the sole purpose of having an usher shove a sign in my face, so I could snap a photo of it happening. I don’t know exactly how she knows when I’m plotting to be bad, but she does. She gave me “the look,” and I immediately abandoned any plans I had for misbehaving with my face mask.
Face Mask o’ the Evening was covered in X-mas holiday mutts. I exercised my right to be thematically appropriate by wearing a jumbo Bow Tie o’ the Day depicting The United States Constitution. It was a spot-on choice for HAMILTON. Oddly, not one person who saw me at the theater mentioned my Constitutional bow tie. Nor did they comment on the funeral potatoes 2002 Olympic pin I wore in my lapel. But do you know what part of my attire I was explicitly complimented on by a number of folks throughout the evening? It was my green Nike golf hat! One woman told me the hat looks good on me and that I wear it well—whatever that means. Yeah, my thirty-year-old, seen-in-post-photos-all-the-time hat got more compliments than my incredibly cool and infrequently worn U.S. Constitution Bow Tie got. And while at HAMILTON, to boot! Weird.
