I’m sure you’ve noticed I have been bigly on wearing neckties recently. I consider myself—first and foremost—a woman with bow ties running through my veins, but neckties are a close second choice with me. I adore them both, but bow ties are my preference every day of the week. So what’s with all the ties lately? Well, I discovered a couple of new-to-me tie places online a few weeks ago, and so I splurged on some fantastic pieces. I ordered a whole bunch o’ new neckties to add to my collection. I am so giddy about my recent acquisitions that I just have to show them off to y’all ASAP. So this Tie o’ the Day I’m wearing gives me one more opportunity to flaunt one of my treasured finds. As you’ve probably also been noticing, I’ve gone bigly with Art Deco designs on the majority of the new ties. I enjoy the Art Deco style so much that I would buy the Art Deco-designed Chrysler Building in NYC right this minute, if I had enough money to do it. And the truth is this: I might likely have enough money to buy the Chrysler Building today—if I hadn’t spent my entire life’s fortune buying thousands and thousands of bow ties and neckties for my ridiculously extensive neckwear collection.
Hmmmm. 🤔 I gotta ponder this particular irony for a while. 🤔
It’s not that I forget about my Suzanne-made cape collection. Indeed, I think about it all the time. I’d wear a cape everywhere, all the time—except I continue to have a problem I’ve had my entire life. When I have some extraordinary piece of haberdashery, I tend to decide not to wear it, for fear I will do something to destroy its majesty. When it comes to one of my capes, I get overwhelmed with the possibilities of how I could damage it while I’m out and about. I could spill on it, get it caught in the car door, get it caught in an elevator door, get it caught in a revolving door, and on so on. So I wear a cape sparingly and only at the very special-est of special events. But guess what! Every day is a special event.
This problem of mine must change. I must have more confidence in my abilities to keep my capes safe from harm. And so what if I spill on a cape? That’s what dry cleaners are there for. I am nearly an official old person, and it’s high time I wear my capes (and other clothes I “save” for only the mightiest of occasions) as much as I want to. Remember when you were a kid and for some strange, but logical-to-you reason you wanted to wear your swimsuit or cowboy boots—or both—to bed at night? There was no crime in that. And there’s no crime in my wearing my capes to bed or to the 7-11 or wherever. I must conquer this stoopid fear of ruining my most precious duds. By the time I die, I want all my cool clothes worn thin. And I think you should, too.
For my grocery shopping venture over to Dick’s Market to pay way too much for the same ol’ food items this afternoon, I switched out my flower-power bow tie for an Art Deco Tie o’ the Day. I, of course, like this look more than this morning’s offering. This more closely resembles me: not so matchy, and a few watts brighter to the eye. The look gives off an entirely different vibe than today’s earlier bow tie, and this feel is more hip than hippie.
My denim jacket kind of dulls the bright look, rather than enhances it. I don’t have a coat collection, and I’m not gonna start one. But I should probably keep an eye out for a couple of coats/jackets that are more on my desired level of bigly eye-poppity. I need outerwear that adds to my fashion aesthetic, not diminishes it. Oh, wait—I have all my Suzanne-made capes, and they’re giving me ideas even as I type this!
As you can see from the picture, I had a run-in with the cereal aisle. It was a mistake to turn up that aisle, and it was a daunting struggle for yours truly. (Next to ice cream, unhealthy cereal is my fave junky food to eat.) Lent is really starting to bug me. How in the world can I be expected to keep from eating anything remotely in the neighborhood of junk food for a few more weeks, especially when there is a new sugarfest product I haven’t yet tried: Froot Loops with MARSHMALLOWS? Somehow, I finally found it in me to successfully keep all the boxes of Froot Loops with marshmallows out of my shopping cart, but I know I’ll find myself standing in front of them again on my next trip to Dick’s. Can I manage to do without this sugary product until Lent has been Lented out? I’m not sure. 🍇🍋🍊🍓🍒
I can tell you right now that the Froot Loops with marshmallows are going to be either extremely yummy or extremely gacky. There will be no middle ground as far as this combo of taste will go. That’s usually what happens when an already-perfect product exists, and its makers decide to tweak it: response to the new changeling edible goes off the charts as a bigly thumbs-up, or it crashes with a bigly, splatty thumbs-down 👍👎🕳. It’s gonna be either a mic drop or a hard pass. 🎤🏈 I can’t wait to taste-test the colorful, nutritionless rings and their accompanying marshmallow sidekicks. After Lent, of course. I hope I survive the remainder of these sugarless, saltless, ridiculously healthier days. No matter what, for Lent next year, I’m definitely giving up Lent.
Ukraine blue-and-yellow Tie o’ the Day and I spent some time squinting outside in the chilly sun this afternoon, as I de-pooped the backyard—cleaning up after the little poop factory we call Skitter. It is my firm belief that one should treat every activity like a bigly event and dress up for it. 👔🎩👛 Trust me, you’ll enjoy whatever you’re doing just a tad bit more.
I thought of posting a picture of the now-full, clear bread bag I used for the Great De-pooping Reset o’ the yard—as evidence of what I really did this afternoon. Fortunately, I like y’all a whole bunch, so I didn’t. I saved you from seeing that particular visual aid. Emojis will have to do. 🗑💩
I don’t know what you’d wear to your birthday dinner, but I wore my own birthday balloons Bow Tie o’ the Day. I also wore my birthday cake Cufflinks o’ the Day and my 3-D glasses Lapel Pin o’ the Day. Suzanne took me to dinner at STANZA in downtown SLC, which we have not been to since the pandemic began. It’s one of my fave places to dine. Suzanne had the spinach artichoke cannelloni and I had the pan-seared halibut. We also had dessert: Suzanne had cheesecake and I had a butterscotch concoction of some sort. It was a complete yumfest. The last photo herein is what I found on my chair when I got up to leave. It is that little end of paper they leave on your straw to keep it sanitary. Somehow it made it’s way to my chair, and my butt appears to have twisted it into the shape of a bow tie as I sat and ate. And now I am back on the Lent wagon, until beyond bitter end.
I gave myself a pre-birthday present last night. I dragged Suzanne to a concert at the Eccles Theater in SLC. She knew next to nothing about the band we went to see: Jason Isbell and the 400 Unit. Shawn Colvin opened for them, which was great because she played solo—just Shawn and her voice and her guitar. She somehow made her guitar sound like an entire band. Yup, she plays that well. She is one of my all-time fave songwriters and has been for the last 30 years. Jason Isbell, on the other hand, is a recent discovery of mine. He plays a wild guitar, but I am most enamored of his songwriting skills. I have wide and eclectic taste in music, but there is one thing the artists I love to listen to have in common. They are generally superior songwriters. As a working poet, that makes complete sense to me. Words are music, too.
I often wear my wood guitar Bow Tie o’ the Day when I’m headed to a concert, and last night was not an exception. Excuse my uncouth Mask o’ the Evening, but my inner mode is sarcastic. I also wore my cassette tape “GOOD VIBES” lapel pin to the event.
All the usual concert types were there. You know, the group of women who didn’t open their mouths before the show, but as soon as the concert started, they immediately began talking too loudly—especially during the softer tunes. And, of course, there was the couple who just had to stand up and dance right in front of us, while holding their beers—which sloshed around and sprinkled the rest of us as they danced, kissed, and played air guitar. Remember lighters at concerts? Well, that was me last night: I wore my Bic lighter Cufflinks o’ the Evening in homage to concerts-back-in-the-olden-days.
We had a swell night out, despite the fact that Suzanne does not particularly like twang in her music. She told me more than once that she enjoyed the concert. And I almost believe her.
BTW I will be presenting some bigly news regarding TIE O’ THE DAY in tomorrow’s A.M. post. Don’t miss it, y’all.
Well, it is the second day o’ Lent 2022, during which I am sacrificing junk food—particularly sweets— for the 40* days Lent lasts. I have not cheated—except for absentmindedly taking two Tums last night before I remembered they have sugar in them. I don’t think that counts as officially cheating since Tums is a medicine, and I didn’t mean to consume that little bit o’ sugar. I can also report that I am still very much alive so far, although I’m feeling kind of forlorn. I’ve got 38* days to go.
Yesterday, I de-sweeted the house by dumping the remainder of my Honey Smacks cereal. I also threw out my stash of chocolate licorice (blasphemy) and licorice licorice. Getting rid of chocolate licorice was a horrid blow to my innards. It also almost killed me to jettison my annual Whoppers malted milk Easter eggs candy. The freezer is now barren of all ice cream. If I am not an ice cream fiend, who am I? I am so lost and discombobulated. The sweet-less me is like a fish out of water: I can hardly breathe. I fear I will start to flop around on the ground any day now. Just who the Hell-en am I supposed to be for the next 38* days?
Ultimately, I suppose I will survive this junk food self-ban by clinging to my neckwear even more obsessively than I already do—if that’s even possible. I will have to fill my junky-food-less time by scribbling more poetry and fiction than I already routinely do. And I will certainly amp up my reading habit accordingly. I will keep up with posting my TIE O’ THE DAY whatever-it-is tblog. And I will, of course, continue to romp outside and inside with Skitter. So, in effect, I will be in my usual Heaven, but without snacks of any kind. It’s a good thing “one day at a time” is a key mantra I believe in. 😇😏
Coffee bean Bow Tie o’ the Day and I mean no disrespect to any of y’all who might be coffee lovers. Nor do we mean any disrespect to those of y’all who might find coffee to be the work of the Devil. Nope. This is just me telling you about my own personal recent relationship with coffee.
I have never been a coffee drinker. I have ordered a cup o’ Joe at various times throughout my life—mainly to see if I can finally taste what the bigly hubbub is all about, and whether I’ve acquired a taste for it yet. It has never seemed tasty to me. People tell me to throw in some cream and sugar, but I think if you have to put a ton of cream and sugar in coffee in order to be able to stand drinking it, it ends up being something other than coffee—so why bother? Fresh peaches can be good with cream and sugar, but peaches are good on their own already. It’s not the same with coffee. So every once in a blue moon, I slurp some coffee, push it aside, and then forget about it for a decade or so—when I decide to give it another try and order myself a cup. My verdict, as always is a resounding, lower case “meh.”
Fast forward to some minor-but-picky issues I’ve been having with my gut since my surgery in October. I did some research and spoke with a couple of my doctors, and the consensus is that I should try drinking a minimal amount of coffee every day to see if that helps my system work out its kinks. So about six weeks ago, I made a morning cup o’ coffee part of my daily routine.
Let me describe to you how coffee smells and tastes to me. When I put a cup of coffee to my lips and take a sniff, I smell what I can only describe as a motel ashtray filled with layers of cigarette ashes and crumpled butts and the tail end of a cheap cigar. And when I take a sip of the coffee, it tastes like I drank the liquified contents of said full ashtray—and then licked the ashtray clean. 😱
Theoretically, it seems like an easy choice for me to simply quit drinking the bean brew—except I’m now “blessed” (stuck?) with a working solution. Yup, coffee seems to be working miracles for me. And I’m a bit miffed that it does. I want my gut problem solved, but I have discovered I really really really really don’t like coffee. Drinking coffee makes me metaphorically sick, but it cures my literal belly woes. Go figure. ☕️ 🚬
[As a favor to a pal who requested it, I am re-posting this post from 2019. Enjoy it again, or for the first time in case you missed it when it originally showed up here.]
Hey! Look what I rescued. It’s my ties-themed 100 oz. mini-keg, which was my go-to sip cup for a couple of years after I bought it. Although it cracked inside last year, I never had the heart to throw it out. Its flex straw had a slight crack in it too, and the lid doesn’t fit tightly either, but its tie graphics are too perfect for me. 7-11 doesn’t sell the tie design “cup” anymore, so I can’t go buy another one. What’s a girl to do with a cracked 100 oz. ties mini-keg? For the last year it’s been mocking me by sitting in the garage whining out its jealousy of my new, differently designed mini-keg. I was about to finally toss the battered, cracked mini-keg over the weekend. And then I had a genius idea I can’t believe I didn’t think of last year: DUCT TAPE. I’ll tape the inside cracks and let you know how it works out.
As I searched for the duct tape, Tie o’ the Day and I were contemplating the weirdities of my life. I don’t care who you are or how straight-laced and “normal” your life has been, you’ve likely found yourself in surreal situations here and there—when you wonder how you got into the predicament and how you’ll ever get out of it. You didn’t set out to be in the situation. The scenario is so outlandish you couldn’t have purposely concocted it if you had wanted to. And you’re positive no one will believe you when you tell them the story.
Because I am I, I have a zillion of ’em. Because I am I, everyone knows my improbable tales really occurred. I call these odd goings-on My Greatest Hits. One of My Greatest Hits is courtesy of the 7-11 in Takoma Park, MD, in the mid-90’s. It doesn’t star a 7-11 mini keg, just a 7-11 Super Big Gulp cup.
Interstate 95 is the main N-S route on the East Coast. The traffic usually runs at a pretty good clip. I used to drive it every school day morning from Washington, D.C. to Baltimore’s inner city where I taught middle school. My drive to work usually took about 35 minutes.
But one morning, when I was just about to exit the freeway and head into West Baltimore, all lanes of the I-95 traffic going my way came to a halt. That was rare for that particular area of the freeway. Rarer still, an hour later no vehicle had moved a centimeter. Something bigly was surely shutting down the road. (It ended up being a many-car accident.) By that time, I had been sitting in the car for more than an hour. For me, that’s venturing into MUST PEE NOW territory. I had finished my Super Big Gulp of Diet Coke, and I needed to get rid of it. And I don’t mean I needed to throw away the cup. A half-hour later, all drivers were still sitting in the precise same place we first were stopped. I was beyond desperate. I had no choice except to do what I had to do.
As a middle school teacher at the time, I learned to always have back-up clean clothing in the car. Out of nowhere, middle schoolers can create unheard of messes, and it’s not uncommon for those messes to end up on the teacher—whether you were anywhere near ground zero or not. It’s nice to have clean clothes to step into. Anyhoo… That day, in an attempt to make myself invisible in my car for a minute, I used my spare clothes to cover my front, side windows. I pulled down the visors. With my empty Super Big Gulp cup, I strategically did what had to be done. The contortionist skills I learned as a teenage mooner came in quite handy. Mission accomplished. Almost.
I extremely carefully got my pants back where they belonged. I opened my door and emptied the cup, which I didn’t want to keep in the car, but I don’t litter. I “baby wiped” my hands. (It was the pre- hand sanitizer era.) Although we drivers had all been stuck going nowhere on I-95 for almost two hours, I felt much better.
As I took my back-up clothes down from the windows, I heard a knock. I was sure it was a cop who would soon give me a ticket for Public Urination or Public Indecency or some such charge that would put me on the Sex Offender Registry. But it wasn’t a cop. It was a soccer mom from the van behind me. She asked, “Can I borrow that cup? I gotta go too.” I said, “No, you may not borrow it. You must keep it. Please, for the love of all that’s holy, keep it. Take these Wet Wipes too.”
I kid you not. As time passed and the cars still didn’t move for a small slice of forever, Soccer Mom was not the last person to use my cup. I watched my Super Big Gulp cup and the wipes travel up, down, and across a handful of the halted lanes as we sat parked on I-95 whittling away our time in the pre- affordable cell phone era. The cup that almost ranneth over had a somewhat bonding effect on those who were there that day. That cup was the founder of a different kind of Relief Society. Those of us who got relief became friends for life on that commute, even though we didn’t talk to each other and we would never see each other again. We shared a moment. We shared a cup.
I do not know who finally ended up with the Super Big Gulp cup and baby wipes.
BTW Speaking of my Delta, teenage mooning career, I once mooned a worker at the Taco Time drive-up window while driving and wearing overalls. Now that is a true and rare skill set. (Yes, young-un’s, Delta once had a Taco Time. And an A & W and an Arctic Circle.)
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.
