Category: Stories

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In Trouble

I’m wearing my in-the-doghouse Tie o’ the Day, which faithful readers of TIE O’ THE DAY will know means I’m in trouble with Suzanne. I should probably wear this tie a lot more often than I do, but I save it for when I’m so far in the doghouse that I’m digging said doghouse a new basement.

It happened like this: Yesterday morning, I came downstairs where Suzanne was sitting at the kitchen table. I proudly and forcefully announced to her, “I’m preparing to die!” I knew the minute the words fell out of my mouth that I had made a bigly miscalculation. Suzanne, the family’s official worrier, was in no mood for me to be ironic and otherwise jokey about my demise.

All I meant by my announcement was that I have a month to get my house in order before surgery—in case. I’m not worried about the “in case,” but I do think it’s always wise to keep the “in case” of a situation in consideration. It would be irresponsible not to.

I’ve “prepared to die” plenty of times before in my life, and Suzanne has always laughed along with me when I mentioned it. When you’re going to move into a different abode, for example, an efficient way to prepare for the move is to think like you’re getting ready to die. You prioritize. You assess all the crap you have, then you get rid of what you know you don’t need anymore. You throw junk away. You donate stuff. You decide to give certain things to people you know might love them like you used to. You get your important papers organized and filed in such a way that someone else can find them if they need to. You make sure the bills are paid early. You thoroughly clean the house. That’s all I meant about preparing to die.

Heck, I even used this prepare-to-die thinking before my prior surgery, and I don’t recall Suzanne having a problem with my terminology or behavior back then. For whatever reason, she’s a bit more touchy about my operation this time around. So I’m in the doghouse. I can respect that. I can also make sure I don’t make any further dramatic, facetious death announcements or let her see me getting rid of clutter that once mattered to me, but no longer does. I will have to prepare to die in secret this time. In case.

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Just Relax

The ocean relaxes me. So do lakes and rivers and creeks and lawn sprinklers. If it’s moving water which I can sit and look at, it’ll do. Sailboats-and-lighthouses Bow Tie o’ the Day symbolizes what I miss most about living on the east coast: the easy access I had to the Atlantic Ocean. (No, this is not another post about the nudist beach in Delaware where I spent some time.) The skies and sunsets of Millard County are my spirit’s home, but the beaches of DelMarVa (Delaware, Maryland, and Virginia) somehow haunt my thoughts — in a deeply cosmic way I am still unable to articulate. I’m working on understanding and explaining it more accurately, so I’ll get back to you on that.

And speaking of relaxation — On our little foray to R. C. Willey a few days ago, I found the absolute perfect chair for Suzanne. She works long days in the salt mines of Education, and that translates into a number of aches and pains in her body. And, unlike me, she’s getting older. 🤡 Our bodies were born programmed to die, you know. The massage chair pictured here works you over from head to literal toes. When I showed it to her, she jumped right in and tried out every one of its functions. I couldn’t get her to get out of it. At some point, I had flashbacks to when my wee ones wanted to stay on the electric horse ride on the sidewalk in front of the grocery store, and they would cry and cling to the reins until you could wrangle the reins out of their sticky kid hands. I was sure Suzanne was going to have a similar tantrum if I had to drag her out of the chair. I was getting myself ready to promise her a candy bar if she’d go quietly with me to the car. I was getting ready to promise Suzanne a new toy, if she would leave the chair without me having to peel her out of it.

I so wanted to buy the massage chair for her. I checked my wallet and my pockets. I told her I left my change at home, so I didn’t happen to have the $6,499.99 on me right then. In the end, Suzanne exited the chair with her recently chair-massaged dignity, trying to act like the adult she is. I told her I’m saving for the chair in the Bee-Pig Piggy Bank. I’m sure I’ll have the necessary amount of spare change to buy it sometime around the middle of Eternity.

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A Trip To Layton

Disco ball Tie o’ the Day was my choice for an outing we took Saturday to R. C. Willey. For Suzanne’s birthday a few week’s ago, I told her to pick out a rug — any rug she wants — for the living room and that would be my birthday gift to her. She knows I am not a rug person, and I know she is very much a rug person. In fact, rugs might be the bigliest topic on which we are divided. I think I can coexist with rugs more easily than Suzanne can live without them, so I will bend on this matter.

Anyhoo… So, knowing that she would want to haul off to the new R. C. Willey in Layton, I went to their website. I scrolled through their whole selection: 304 different rugs (not including shag rugs). I put three rug possibilities in my virtual “shopping cart” for later reference. I thought each of them would “work” with our flooring. One of them was red and had Suzanne written all over it. If I had gone to pick out a rug for her myself, it’s the one I would have brought home. But, hey, it’s her gift, so it’s hers to choose.

At R. C. Willey, we were each going through every hung rug they had. I finished going through them before Suzanne was done, so I was getting ready to wander off while she made her choice. I went to her to tell her I was off to check out other sections of the store, and she said, “I found this rug I want to show you. It’s red.” “Show me,” I said. Oh, you know where this is heading. I looked at the rug, pulled out my phone with its virtual shopping cart, and said, “See. It’s the first one I picked out for you.” Yes, we know each other that well. It’s true that I could have saved a lot of time by ordering the rug and having it delivered when I first saw it, but saving time is not always the point. Spending time is sometimes the point. That’s how you get to know someone so well in the first place.

BTW I will post a pic of the red rug after it’s delivered in a couple of weeks.

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My Heaven

I usually tool around northern Utah in my red jalopy truck, on which Mom’s old HELEN W license plates now live. My excursion for today, however, called for me to motor in my Vibe, which wears my BOWETRY (bow tie + poetry) license plates. My destination? Bow Tie Creamery in South Ogden. Ice cream run! If you’re a long-time reader of these posts, you know all about me and my somewhat obsessive relationship with fine ice cream.

I had first heard about Bow Tie Creamery right before everything closed down for the pandemic. I had never made a pilgrimage there before it shut down, and I hoped it would survive the pandemic in tact. Well, it survived and it’s open, and I had to sample its ice cream offerings. And you should, too, if you are a fan of ice cream and find yourself in its vicinity. In fact, if your’e trying to get someone who even sort of enjoys ice cream to fall in love with you, take ’em there for a scoop or two. It’ll work better than any love potion.

Bow Tie Creamery uses superior ingredients and makes only small batches of ice cream and gelato. They have some swell flavors, like Strawberry & Waffles, Double Butter, Lemon Blueberry Cake, S’mores, and Salted Butter Caramel. The folks at Bow Tie Creamery told me the customers’ favorite flavor is Raspberry Sour Cream, so I said, “Pack up a pint of that for me.” They were out of pint tubs, so I made an executive decision to buy a quart tub. I’m so glad I did, because I ate the equivalent of a pint of it long before I got back home to Centerville. I also got a quart of Vanilla Custard flavor, too. I should have bought more flavors. Oh, dear, I guess I’ll just have to drive up there again—with a bigly fat smile on my ice cream dribble face.

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Hangin’ At Huntsman Again

Flip flop Bow Tie o’ the Day hitched a ride with me and Suzanne to the appointment with my Cranky Hanky Panky surgeon at Huntsman today. The radiologist’s report about my CT scan said my pancreatic stone had been crushed and the resulting rubble was making its way out of my body. I was hoping it was true, but there was no explanation for why I felt continued pain, if my problem really was solved. And then, my surgeon showed us my scans. She said, “Hey! The stone’s still there! It wasn’t blown to smithereens at all.” Even I could see the dang stone. The thing is, I don’t think the radiologist was a dope for misreading my scans. What’s left of my re-built pancreas is weird, and I’m sure it’s not easy to figure out. I’m just glad my pancreas doc wanted to look at the scans with us. The fact that she caught the radiologist’s error makes me doubly confident in her as my surgeon.

So, what does this mean? It means that all of the tests and procedures I’ve been having since February have not been able to deal with the pain in my Cranky Hanky Panky which is apparently a calcified-tissue factory. The next step is, unfortunately, surgery. There are a couple of hoops to jump through before surgery’s a 100% go, but as it stands now, I’m scheduled for surgery to extricate my pancreatic stone in early September. My Panky surgeon told us this surgery is done so rarely that there isn’t even an official name for it yet. It will be similar to the Whipple surgery I had three years ago on my pancreas. It will not be as extensive as the Whipple, but it will be more complicated, in the sense that because of my previous surgery, there is less of my Panky for my surgeon to work with, and my Panky now has scar tissue from the last operation.

I am not a happy camper, folks. If only a bow tie could solve my Cranky Hanky Panky pain, but it can’t. So often in life, we are left somewhere with no real choices. Stuff happens, or stuff doesn’t. We are called upon to endure stoopid stuff that, in itself, has no meaning for us. Stoopid stuff is not a judgment. It just is. How we endure it is where the meaning is made, and we get to make it mean whatever we choose. Will we build joy in what happens, or will we wallow and complain? We’re in charge of the meaning of our days. Choose wisely. Hey, I’m a happier camper already.

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Fashion Fact: Cowboy Boots Work With Everything

It’s a rare day when I don’t have a to-do list—or at least a vague idea for what I’m going to do with my waking hours. Today was one such day. If you don’t know what you’re going to be doing, it’s a tad difficult to dress appropriately for your adventures, tasks, or whims for any given day. On the other hand, sometimes what you feel like wearing can help you narrow down what you decide to do with your time. So I wandered around the Tie Room, and peeked in drawers and closets throughout the house. In one closet, I happened upon this dress—with the tag still on it— which Suzanne decided doesn’t work for her. She has recently offered it up to anyone who wants to take it off her hands. Seeing it hanging there in the closet made me ask myself a question: “What is the last thing anyone could imagine I’d do for a TIE O’ THE DAY selfie?” These photos are the answer: I’d wear a dress. And now that I’ve done the last thing anyone could imagine I’d do, I am left to wonder what the next last thing anyone would imagine I’d do is. Hmmm. 🤔 👗 👒 👢

FYI The last memory I have of me wearing a dress was in 1986, when Suzanne and I were pallbearers at a funeral for a friend’s daughter. If I’ve worn a dress since then, I have no memory of it. I have nothing against dresses, except they do not resemble my soul.

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Why I Sometimes Hate Email

For the past week, I have dedicated a bigly chunk of my time to culling through my various email accounts. I keep up with personal email efficiently enough, but the what’s-this-about?/who’s-this-from? junk email and spam sort of pile up on me. A week ago I had 17,000+ unread emails. As of today, martini Bow Tie o’ the Day and I have managed to read and obliterate 12,000 specimens of the unwanted email. I’m still working on dealing with the final 5000 emails, which I estimate I can finish before the weekend. It is a largely tedious project, which I always promise myself to do more regularly, so it never gets this far out of hand again. Promises, promises.

What have I discovered by going through my pile o’ email housekeeping? Two things. First, I need to further tweak the settings on each account to send even more of the questionable email into the spam/junk folder, so I don’t need to be bothered with it. The second thing I’ve discovered is more of a question: Why is it that the single most repeated topic of the unsolicited emails sent to me is about crackpot Erectile Dysfunction cures? I get at least 3-4 ED emails per day, every day, in one of my accounts alone. Do y’all get them in your email, too? Is ED the new pandemic and I just haven’t heard? What words could I have possibly written on TIE O’ THE DAY that put me into the internet ED algorithm? And how do I undo it? I mean—I don’t know everything, but I feel absolutely certain when I declare that ED cures are nothing I will ever be in the market for. Just sayin’.

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A CT Scan At Huntsman

Bow Tie o’ the Day and drove up to Huntsman Cancer Hospital for what I hope will be our last medical test for a while, and we had a blast. I didn’t have to change any of my clothes for the scan, which meant Bow Tie o’ the Day was with me for the duration of the CT. I was even allowed to wear my hearing aid in the machine. (I still only have one hearing aid. My new one is on order.)

Without having to change in to, and out of, a hospital gown, the appointment went by lickety-split. My test was scheduled for 2:30, and my habit is to always be at least 10 minutes early—which I was. I checked in, took a few TIE O’ THE DAY selfies, sat down, and then I was immediately called to go in for my test. When I walked out of the hospital, I was so shocked at what time it was, that I took a screenshot of my phone’s screen to prove it: 2:35 PM. Quickest. Medical. Appointment/test. Ever. I was done almost before my official appointment was set to begin.

You should have seen my smile widen beneath my face mask as I left the hospital. I mean—it was cool that the appointment flew by so quickly, to be sure. And it was groovy I didn’t have to don a hospital gown or remove Bow Tie o’ the Day for the CT scan. But the bonus aspect of my being done by 2:35 was even bilgier. If I drove just a tad over the speed limit the whole way, I could be home in time to watch most of the Judge Judy hour! You know how I am about Judge Judy o’clock each weekday. From 3 to 4, it’s just me and Judge Judy. When I originally took the 2:30 appointment, I secretly cursed that it meant I would have to miss my daily dose of Judge Judy for the sole purpose of getting my squishy innards scanned. I was not a happy camper, but it was the first appointment I could get, so I took it. The way it played out, I figured I might be able to arrive home soon after Judy o’ clock. I made it home at 3:09. Only missed 9 minutes. Score! It was a magical day, all around. (And yes, Suzanne will back me up on this: I really am that easy to please.)

FYI In case you thought only my legs were fish belly-white, the third photo here is proof of the whiter-than-whiteness that is my head skin. You know that flashlight you have on your fancy phone? I have never had to use mine. In any degree of darkness, my flesh lights my way. I’m so pale I’m a human nightlight. 🔦💡🕯

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Another Day, Another Zoom Appointment With A Doctor

Yesterday, I matched—even with my Zoom background. You know I did not plan to do it. I didn’t know it had happened until I saw myself on the screen. Those orchids behind me are birthday gifts I gave Suzanne, and that’s where she put them. I wasn’t even thinking about them when I set up for my Zoom appointment. Matchy, matchy, matchy with my Bow Tie o’ the Day. I survived the matchiness, with no apparent negative side effects.

My appointment was with my crazy-head doctor. It was a regular check-in and check-on for my bipolarity. Fortunately, my brain is chugging along nicely right now. No bigly swings of the pendulum that is my head. I’m as ready as I can be for whatever’s around the corner, though. There is no cure. There’s always something lurking, and all I can do is not be overly surprised when it decides to jump out at me. In other words, it’s always with me. I think my bipolarity is my mental shadow. It ain’t goin’ nowhere.

Not long after my Zoom appointment, Suzanne packed up her car with treats and wine and what was left of her birthday cake, and she drove to the mountains to meet up with her Champagne Garden Club ladies for their annual long weekend getaway. I’ve been to the cabin with them a few times. The weekend there is like Las Vegas, but without phone service. What goes on there, stays there. What I can disclose to y’all is that the Champagne Garden Club gals never garden there at all. And I swear, late last night when I was alone and drifting off to sleep, I was sure I could hear them faintly exploding in fireworks of laughter, a few mountains north, over and over again. Yes, their voices carry. Or maybe—and much more likely—it was just my own tinnitus I was hearing.

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Liquor Stores Can Be Fun

Suzanne has an annual get-together with her Champagne Garden Club gals later this week, so we had to take a jaunt to gather plenty of champagne for their retreat. We had never been to the new state liquor store in Farmington before, so off we flew to see what it was like. The new liquor store is so shiny and pristine that I swear it still has that new car smell to it.

While Suzanne made her potation selections, I amused myself by finding a theme to follow as I wandered the aisles. As a daughter of St. Ron, The Beekeeper, I decided to sniff out honey. After my research, I can attest it is a verifiable fact that current vintners and brewers are using more honey in their new-fangled concoctions than ever before. I was finding honey used as an exotic ingredient in almost every ilk of alcoholic beverage in the liquor store. Honey is trending right now.

Bow Tie o’ the Day and I settled most of our liquor store selfies on various offerings of honey-imbued whiskey. Y’all can see honey whiskeys in the first three pix of this post. But wait! I also found a couple of peanut butter-flavored whiskeys. Y’all can see the PB whiskeys in the last two shots.

If you put those two flavors of whiskey together with a fine red wine (the jelly) and a heavily yeasty brewski (the bread), you’ve got the alcohol version of a PB and J w/ H sandwich. 🥜🍯🍇🍞