Just when I had given up on the 2022 Maverick I ordered back in November, it appears I’m actually going to get the truck I’ve been pining for and whining about to y’all since the minute I ordered it. Ford emailed me a few minutes ago, saying the Maverick is finally scheduled to be built during the first week of August! Ford even sent me the truck’s Vehicle Identification Number (VIN), which makes me super confident my truck is officially about to be born! Yahoo! Please excuse me now while I tell Alexa to play disco music so I can dance my celebratory jigs around the living room for the rest of the afternoon, gliding and gushing with apocalyptic vehicular joy! 🎉 💃 🕺 ⛽️
The Tie Room was buzzing this morning. In case you don’t already know, ties and bow ties have a sense of smell that rivals the power of canine noses: they can smell a neighborhood newcomer long before I know exactly what’s going on. The bigly news on the block this week is the grand opening of Banbury Cross Donuts’ second location, on our very own city block here in Centerville. Decades ago, when Banbury Cross opened its first store in SLC, it was my go-to for morning meeting bribery. If I wanted my fellow writing teachers at the University of Utah to begin their day feeling appreciated and maybe a tad bit spoiled—like the education warriors they were—I made a trip to Banbury Cross for a dozen scrumptious donuts before heading to my office on campus. The donut box was empty almost before I set it down on my desk.
The same would have been true if I had walked in with three boxes. The word of the new store is already out. I arrived at the new Banbury Cross Donuts store at 6:00 AM, it’s scheduled time to open. There were already eight customers in line ahead of me, and by the time I had paid for my dozen donuts and was walking out the door, there were at least twenty customers waiting in line. This location is a nook-and-cranny spot, difficult to see and get to, but the Banbury Cross Donuts name clearly has the reputation to draw out the Davis County donut lovers.
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.
[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.
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.
I fell in love with my used 1998 Isuzu Hombre the moment I saw it in Delta on the lot at Sahara Motors in early 2001. [I had recently moved back to Delta after living in Maryland for nearly a decade. I had no income yet and no real plan, but I needed a vehicle. Russ Greathouse, out at Sahara, shook my hand and basically said to me, “I know who you are. Take the truck. You’ll make the payments. I’m not worried about it.” It was a vote of confidence I needed at the time.] I still adore my Hombre now that it is a jalopy of a truck, a shadow of its former badass self. It’s growing patches of rust here and there. My needle butt has worn a full-fledged hole in the driver’s seat, so that I have to sit directly on the metal seat frame when I drive it. The weather stripping on the doors has given up its stick-to-it, as you can see in this photo. The Hombre is on its second emergency brake. When the first one died a few years back, it took over a year for my mechanic to locate a new one in some salvage yard, because nobody manufactured that particular emergency brake anymore. At some recent juncture, the wiper fluid gadget lost its ability to spray, so it’s best I don’t drive the truck if any snow or rain is going to hit the windshield. The fabric covering the interior ceiling is literally crumbling, and chunks of foam fall on my head whenever I hit a pothole or drive on a gravel road, or sometimes when I simply stop. The Hombre’s latest feat of disintegration is that about half the time the stereo doesn’t turn on when I turn the key. The stereo was my fave feature in the truck, I admit it. Now, I could put some money into repairing the Hombre’s ills, but it would cost far more than the truck is worth to do that—if the necessary parts are even available anymore. And the truck isn’t getting any younger. An old truck in Delta is one thing: if your vehicle breaks down, you’re always somewhere among friends or sworn enemies who will gladly help you do what you’ve gotta do to get the automobile going again. Somebody in a truck will just get out the tow chain they always carry to tow you to the mechanic of your choice. But up here in the city, and on the freeway, I need a truck that’s a bit more reliable. I need a truck that’s got all of the grit and fervor of a young whippersnapper.
As you know, after much contemplation, I put down a deposit and pre-ordered a 2022 Maverick way back in November. My Maverick, of course, has not yet been able to be built due to a shortage of certain parts. Last week, Ford emailed me with a couple of options for using my deposit to build me a truck, one of which is to completely forget about the 2022 and order the 2023 model instead. I decided that option made the most sense. I will have to submit a whole new order for the truck o’ my dreams in mid-August, but because I’ve been on Ford’s waiting list for the 2022 model, my order for the 2023 will get priority (along with any other 2022 customers whose orders weren’t fulfilled) when Ford starts assembling the 2023 Maverick model in October. I might actually get my truck by Christmas. I’m fine with the wait because I have to be: I have no choice if I want a Maverick. On average, in the USA, gas prices have consistently gone down for each of the past 27 days, so by the time my personal Maverick shows up in my driveway in a few months, gas prices might feel reasonable again.
To my great giddiness, I was this close to buying an already built 2022 Maverick over the weekend. My cousin, Judy, messaged me and told me she saw a new red Maverick at a dealership in Santaquin. Could it be true? Was a lone Maverick just sitting there patiently waiting for me to rescue it ASAP? How fortunate, I thought I was. I had never been so happy to have Judy as a cousin in all my life! I nearly ripped off the top of my laptop as I hurriedly opened it to get online and somehow nab this alleged Maverick before anybody else could get it. There it was, on the dealer’s website—available! Oh, it was spiffy-looking! I ordered a blue truck, but I can certainly handle driving a plush red truck if it means I can get it NOW. I looked at all the pictures of it. It was decked out with splash guards, smokin’ rims, and leather seats. The bed was beautifully lined. The Maverick had secret compartments for storing valuables, and it was all wired up for any devices I might need to plug in. It even had the hybrid engine I wanted. Oh, happy day!!!
I was looking up the phone number for the dealership so I could call and give them my credit card, to ensure they would hold it for me for a couple of hours until I got there. In my excitement, I felt like I was forgetting about something, and then it dawned on me: I should probably look at the price of this particular Maverick. When I saw it, my mood and my jaw dropped lower than my old woman breasticles. The price was nearly twice the cost of the decked-out Maverick I will be re-ordering next month. Wah-wah! I do not know what extras the Santaquin Maverick could possibly have that would jack the cost up to double what I will be paying for my Maverick. I can afford to pay the high price, but I’m not going to pay double when I know I can get everything I really want for so much less—and I can get it in the exact color I want, which Ford currently calls Velocity Blue. Perhaps the red Maverick in Santaquin has a hidden bathroom installed in it, or maybe a small swimming pool—or it comes with pink diamonds embedded in the dashboard. I hope whoever ends up buying the expensive truck spoils and babies it like I would. So that’s my 2022 Maverick catch-and-release story. My cousin’s alert message launched me into a suddenly over-the-moon exuberance—until my online information-gathering just as abruptly sent me into a state of sore and utter disappointment. Ah, the vicissitudes o’ life! They’re some kinda fun, eh?
Isn’t Suzanne so cute you can’t even stand it?!Yup. We ate it all.Glamour ruled the evening.The fabulosity was evident.My naked guava sorbet.
STANZA, one of our fave restaurants in SLC, put on a elaborate Pride dinner last Wednesday. Of course, I had to don the gay apparel rainbow Bow Tie o’ the Evening for the event. We had a savory 7-course meal, designed by “our” chef. His name is Paul, and we always call him “our” chef although we have never actually met him—because I know somebody who knows him, and that counts as sort of a personal relationship, as far knowing local stars is concerned. We eat at STANZA often, and I’m sure I’ll meet him one day soon.
STANZA brought in a kickin’ drag show to entertain the crowd as we dined. Suzanne drank a few boozy special occasion cocktails, so I drove us home in her car—which she never lets me drive unless she’s feeling a bit o’ the buzz. To prove to y’all I was sober, I include this photo of my Diet Coke and my meal’s 4th course: guava sorbet, but sans the Grand Marnier liqueur with which it was supposed to be covered. The waiter was happy to oblige me when I asked, “Can you please bring my sorbet without adding the fun ingredient?” The naked sorbet was plenty yummy, but it wasn’t as pretty or booze-riddled as Suzanne’s. 🍹🍸🍷
Tie o’ the Day comes to you from the pages of my 1980 Delta High School yearbook—interestingly enough, called The Triangle. Suzanne went off to see a play without me last night, and I must have been feeling lonely (not) and nostalgic (not) because I found myself leafing through old yearbooks. I’m so glad that’s what I did, because I found bigly treasure. It’s a yearbook message from my English teacher, Bill Ronnow, a non-Deltan who taught at DHS for only my Sophomore year before he gathered up his family and headed off to law school. Although he taught at DHS for only a short time, he made a bigly impression on me. You know how sometimes—and I mean very rarely—you meet someone and you just know that they “get” you? Mr. Ronnow and I simply understood each other from the get-go. He was of the hippie variety—always a plus for me. Our mutual respect for the infinite fun and complexity of sentences and the literature they created was a key element in both of our lives. I lived for words and ideas, as did he. And I liked his clothing choices, the snazziness of which this photo doesn’t really convey. He often wore dapper button-down sweater vests, and I began to follow in his sweater-vest footsteps as soon as I could arrange a trip to the University Mall in Orem. 👔 📖
The yearbook note he jotted to me is a fine example of how we bantered with each other daily. “You’re a gentleman and a scholar.” is a quote right out of the book, Catcher in the Rye, which we must have gabbed about together. The order to “Sling that mud, Ms. Hoddie.” is a reference to the times he had seen me hod-carrying “mud” and bricks on construction projects with my brother, Ron. The note makes me laugh for so many reasons, one of which is that if a current teacher wrote some of what it says to a student, that teacher likely would be canceled. 📚🗒
Trophy buck Tie o’ the Day is draped over the antlers of the 1 deer I kinda killed. I didn’t have the whatever-it-takes to shoot this young Bambi, so I aimed high in order to miss. I believe Dad took a shot at the same time I did—to make sure I brought it down. He never admitted he took a shot, but I’m no fool. And I know where I aimed. Dad never missed a deer—including a deer he killed as he sat back on a ridge to take a shot and unknowingly sat on a cactus. Yup, he nailed it anyway.🌵 Dad personally ‘dermied “my” “California 2-point.” 🦌 I think he knew I wasn’t going to hunt ever again, although we didn’t really talk about it directly. But I also think he wanted to give me something so I would remember that last hunt together, as well as the hunting understanding we came to on that day. Plus, those are basically jackalope antlers! And that’s just funny.🤡
Dad’s photo was taken in the early 70’s, on his bigly hunt in Alaska. His caribou’s antlers fit him perfectly. (Yes, Dad is still on my mind. As always.)
Popcorn Tie o’ the Day is here to signal that Lent is over. Trust me—there’s already ice cream in the freezer. I managed to stick to my Lent goal most days, but not all. I chose sugar over my goal on a few occasions. I give myself a failing grade on my Lent behavior this year.
In general, I can do anything I set my mind to do. I make a decision, and I have follow-through. I do whatever it takes to endure. I stick. Except, apparently, when it comes to giving up sugary, salty, junky food for Lent. Oh, I was perfect about it for the first week. Not eating non-nutritional food was no bigly deal for me. But then it was my birthday, so I gave myself a day off to eat birthday desert when Suzanne took me out to dinner. I know myself well, and I could have told you from the outset that would be disastrous for my Lent sacrifice success.
Seriously, if I can rationalize one acceptable reason to excuse myself from my stated goal—like “it’s ok, it’s just for my birthday”—I can find a million other reasons to alter my course. The “rules” of Lent don’t help either. Yup, I blame Lent for my weak-ass failure. Why? Because during Lent, according to Lent’s own rules, all Sundays are free days. You heard me: during the six weeks of Lent, on Sundays you are free to give up giving up. The Sabbath is always a day of celebration, whether it’s Lent or not. Who am I to argue with a day off doing something I don’t want to do anyway?
But that’s a cop-out. The truth is I messed up and rationalized my way into failure, knowing exactly what I was doing all along the way. I allowed myself to become a walking rationalization. I put myself before the idea of sacrifice. We sacrifice because sometimes it’s the thing we’re asked to do, regardless of how convenient or inconvenient it is to do so. I was content to be a happy asterisk during Lent 2022. I hope I will utilize a different, more positive, approach to Lent next year. I am a person who is striving to be better than an asterisk.
We all have to look at ourselves. We have to be self-reflective and turn a critical eye to who and what we are. Indeed, we have to judge ourselves at times. I don’t know about you, but my worst enemy has always shown up in whatever mirror I look into. The trick for each of us is to figure out how to live in such a way that we can reconcile the soul we are with the image we cast in the mirrors we pass. Oh, it sounds so simple.
