The Bow Tie o’ the Day I’m wearing is almost in hiding. I am doing a rare thing by being blendy, and it has turned out to be a highly successful attempt—especially from a distance. Fortunately, Bow Tie has green highlights on its red background and blue paisley fabric, so it distinguishes itself from my shirt the closer you get to it.
This faux tree sits atop Skitter’s living room crate. And this is what happens when Suzanne puts up a X-mas tree and leaves me alone at home with the un-ornamented thing. The ornament-free Christmas tree looked so lonely as it stood across the room from me. The tree’s loneliness vibes caused me to start reading all kinds of bereft Robert Frost poems—one of which is actually called “Bereft.” So I felt I must dress the faux tree with a few jolly ornaments. The Christmas-colors bow tie at the top was a no-brainer, as was the mostly-green elf-ish necktie with all its crafty bling and sparkle. The Rosie the Riveter ornament is close to the top, displaying the saying that often accompanies images of her: “We can do it!” Down, and to the side of the tie, the red sewing machine ornament is in honor of Suzanne’s cape-making skills. Under the necktie, the ornament is a bag o’ potato chips—also for Suzanne. And finally, the last ornament I hung was in the guise of a box o’ crayons. I am convinced world peace could finally cover the entire planet, if every person on earth had a crayon in their hands at the very same moment. Drawing with crayons has a universal calming effect. As for the overall look of the tree, I have a suspicion the tree will look very different, soon after Suzanne gets home from work and gazes at it in all its faux magnificence. 🎄
Skitter is as tortured by her elf bandana as Ralphie is by his pink bunny pajamas. Check out how Skitter’s tail is clinging as tightly as is possible to her tummy in mortified embarrassment. I, on the other hand, am jolly and completely smitten by my Santa-going-down-the-chimney hat. 🎩 🎅 (This A CHRISTMAS STORY holiday Tie o’ the Day is a longtime fave for me.)
Allow me to share with you a few more of Skitter’s eccentric behaviors. First, you must know Skitter sleeps shut in her crate at night, at the foot of the bed. If she hears me stirring in the bedroom in the morning, but I don’t immediately open her crate door, she does this odd thing: she daintily fake-coughs. The message she sends me is clear: “Helen, I don’t want to be a bother, but have you forgotten me? [yet more fake coughing] I’m still in my crate. [some even more dramatic fake coughing] Would you kindly open my crate door, so I can go potty and begin my day?” I’m telling you, she can really act: her “coughs” gradually escalate to ever-increasing levels of dramatic intensity. They are pity-worthy fake coughs of the highest quality. I have been known sometimes to stir around doing nothing for a long time when I crawl out of bed, just to provoke many rounds of Skitter’s fake coughing. It is so cute and polite. And pathetic.
Next, on Skitter’s non-fake coughing days, which is most days, she follows her own set schedule. Here’s Skitter’s usual morning routine: She wakes up promptly at 6:00 AM each morning, at which time I let her out of her crate and then out back, where she goes potty at 6:01. She wants back in the house by 6:02. By 6:03, she has curled up in her bed on the couch—right beside me—and she snoozes, while I write. At 10:00 AM, Skitter wakes and leaps out of her bed to visit her food bowl. She’s not hungry. Nope. She is inspecting her the contents of the bowl to make sure her always-full-of-dry-food bowl is topped off with a few dollops of fresh wet food. Does she have a bite to eat while she’s conducting her inspection? No. She rarely eats any of her food before late afternoon or evening. She simply likes seeing the wet food is there where it’s supposed to be. The wet food sits in the bowl, just drying out all day long. Yes, she wakes up at 10:00 AM for the sole purpose of making sure her wet food has been put in its proper place. She wakes up in order to inspect my work. If I have not put the wet food where it should be in her bowl, she panics. She prances back and forth in front of me, until she gets my attention, then she turns her face in the direction of her bowls. I occasionally—and purposely—don’t put wet food in her bowl, so I can watch her freak out when she sees it’s not where it should be. After I successfully pass Skitter’s rigorous inspection of my doggie cafeteria duty, she hops back up in her bed for her post-inspection nap.
Skitter also strolls over to check out her water dish a number of times each day. She usually just keeps an eye on it, and rarely drinks anything until late in the day. She alerts me when her water is “gone.” Skitter panics, and paces, and sometimes performs a leap in order to get my attention. I know what her various leaps mean, and she has one which means she is distressed about her water bowl situation. I initially thought her Water Leap o’ Worry meant she is askeered her water bowl is empty, and she feared she would soon dehydrate into a furry dust-puddle. It sounds like her behavior makes sense. Who doesn’t want to have water in their water bowl? I know I do. But the weirdness of Skitter’s I’m-out-of-water frenzy lies in the fact that she gets antsy about it way before she is out of water. It took me a long time to figure it out, but I eventually caught on to why Skitter worries over a not-yet-empty bowl of water. You see, I discovered it has nothing to do with her panicking over the somewhat low water itself. Her panic is about how she dislikes it when her tongue touches the bottom of the bowl as she gets a drink when the water level is approaching low. She hates when that happens. She’s just finicky. So I make sure there is always a more than sufficient amount of water in her bowl to prevent her precious tongue from touching the bottom of the bowl when she laps it up. She’s just weird. After 9 years with us, Skitter is still a puzzle of idiosyncrasies. And you know how I like putting puzzles together. 🐶 🚰
Banned Book’s o’ the Day: I’m re-reading Jack London’s CALL OF THE WILD, and Jean Craighead George’s JULIE OF THE WOLVES. They are evil books. NOT.
This is the third year in a row I have posted the same pix of me wearing this onesie/thong holiday-wear which some reader sent me in 2020. So far, the first photo is perfect for showing off this revealing oddity o’ clothing someone so graciously gifted me, so I don’t yet feel the need to take new selfies. Note that I’m also wearing a Rudolph Bow Tie o’ the Day, as well as a Rudolph Necktie o’ the Day. The blue-and-gold paisley Face Mask o’ the Day is a crowning touch to my get-up. It looks lush, if I do say so myself. 🦌
Banned Books o’ the Day: Today, I’m re-reading a couple of once-banned books published in the early 70’s. The first, THE CONTEMPORARY AMERICAN POETS: AMERICAN POETRY SINCE 1940 (edited by Mark Strand), was once the target of banning by a group of really feeble university poetry professors who thought it would poison the minds of poetry readers, because most of the poems in the book don’t rhyme and don’t follow traditional poetic forms. I have a feeling those old goats all passed on long ago—so modern poetry is safe from further judgment by those ol’ relics of the Snooty Rhymes-and-Forms Poetry Club .
The second banned book is THE WORLD SPLIT OPEN: FOUR CENTURIES OF WOMEN POETS IN ENGLAND AND AMERICA, 1552-1950 (edited by Louise Bernikow). And what was the reason for trying to ban this collection? Some goober male wanna-be poet was offended that there were no male poets represented in the book. Hello! The title tells you way, way, way up front that the book’s purpose is to be a collection of poetry written by women. Oy, vey! I cannot make up this asinine reasoning.
Oddly enough, I bought both of these banned books at Deseret Book in the University Mall, in Orem, around 1978. At that time, that particular Deseret Book store’s poetry section—as far as I can recall—had only these two poetry anthologies; every Rod McKuen book known to the Library of Congress; a Carol Lynn Pearson book or two (but not her books with the poems about life sometimes being a messy business); and one very dusty copy of a book of Elizabeth Barrett Browning poems—in which Browning counts the ways. That was it—out of all the poetry written since recorded time, that was the entirety of Deseret Book’s poetry section back then. So I bought these two purportedly scandalous anthologies, and the Rod McKuen and Carol Lynn Pearson books. I already had Elizabeth Barrett Browning’s poetry tucked away at home, in my bedroom library. In those days, I bought whatever poetry I could find, wherever I could find it. I guess it’s kinda like what I still do, eh?
We here at TIE O’ THE DAY believe that you can never have enough leg lamps of any ilk. It’s just plain true that 2 real leg lamps and 1 leg lamp Tie o’ the Day make a jolly trio in the house. When I next drive down to Deltassippi to visit Mom at the care center, I will be wearing this same tie. I wear it for her at least once every Christmas season. In fact, she has one of my A CHRISTMAS STORY leg lamps in her room there. It is tiny and plugs into a regular electrical outlet. It is visible on one of her tables or in her window most of the time. Tie o’ the Day will make Mom laugh throughout the entire visit. Mom’s short-term memory is such that she will see and enjoy the leg lamp tie the minute we walk in her room, then she’ll forget it, then 10 minutes later she will notice it again, and so on—as if every time she notices the tie, it’s the first time she’s seen it that day. (Mom loves A CHRISTMAS STORY. I think it was BT/Mercedes’ family who introduced the movie to Mom.)
For a while now, Mom has had a tendency to repeat her stories, jokes, and questions. But she still knows who we are and remembers enough about us to have conversations about our lives. She has, however, begun to ask me how many kids she had, and which one am I. She seems to remember from the early-30’s up to the mid-80’s pretty well, for the most part. Sometimes now she mixes up who did what and where. But we never correct her. We heard the stories when her memory was great, so we know who did what and where. If you happen to run into her at the care center this holiday season, I suggest you let her know who you are and who your parents are. Chances are, she’ll be able to place you or at least your family, and you can enjoy a fun conversation with her. No matter what she remembers or doesn’t remember, she’s still got her spunk, her compassionate heart, and her humor. She is still a joy to be around.
I didn’t intend to write about Mom today. The words simply fell out of my fingertips. I miss Mom every day. Lately, I can’t think about her without crying, as I’m doing now. I miss her even when I’m with her. I am already in mourning for her, though she’s still here with us. She’s Mom, but she is not wholly Mom. Pieces of her are no longer part of her. I mourn those pieces—her wildly aware and knowing love; her full-of-stories memory; and her astute cognition. Her hugs are not whole anymore either. But they are precious to me beyond any riches or success I might ever have. 💎 💰 🏆
Today’s Banned Books: I’m re-reading OF MICE AND MEN, by John Steinbeck, and Anne Frank’s DIARY OF A YOUNG GIRL. Two literary classics.
Tie o’ the Day displays a colorful gaggle of Santa-hatted hot peppers. I would be generous and give this tie to Gary of the Hot Condiments if I thought he would ever wear a tie, but he won’t. So I won’t. My Shirt o’ the Day is full of Christmas gnomes, although this photo doesn’t display them well. I will wear it again soon in a different pose, so you can see the gnome clan. Wearing gnomes makes me want to come up with a joke whose punchline is punny, like “gnomenclature.” I’ll get right on that assignment.
I’ve topped off today’s attire with my gingerbread people sun hat. My kindness and empathy tats go with every outfit, whether they are visible or not. They are never out of style, if you use them. This time of year, we always talk bigly about kindness, empathy, compassion, and peace. But there are people who are in need of these things every day of the year—not just on holidays. I think we should make it a habit to put these ideas to work every day, whenever we see the need. I know I’m blessed with what these words mean. Are you? I think it’s our responsibility to share our blessings with those who are deprived of the love and security we might have plenty of. We can offer friendship to the lonely and despondent. Just look around, and you will see need. We can make an impact on the suffering of others—one person or one family at a time. I guarantee you there is need in your own neighborhood right now, if you will pay attention.
Today’s Banned Book I’ve been re-reading: John Steinbeck’s EAST OF EDEN. This is what I consider to be the first intensely grown-up novel I had ever read, probably when I was in 6th grade. It was also the longest book I had read up to that point. I had heard of John Steinbeck’s OF MICE AND MEN (which has itself been banned at times from some school districts’ bookshelves) but I hadn’t read it yet. On a trip with Mom, to the University Mall in Orem, this was the only John Steinbeck book I managed to find in a bookstore. EAST OF EDEN is, in essence, a re-telling of the Old Testament stories of the Garden of Eden, and Cain and Abel. (Remember, this Steinbeck book is where I also got the name Abra for my Maverick.) In EAST OF EDEN, I learned a word that I have thought of almost every day of my life since I read the book: timshel. Timshel is a Hebrew word meaning the freedom to chose between good and evil. It loosely translates as “thou mayest choose.” The word has been a kind of North Star for me over the decades. No matter the situation—the problem, the failure, the disappointment, the success, the reward, the triumph, the whatever—it is always up to me to make the choice between acting for good (which I’ll call love) or acting for evil (which I’ll call hate). I alone determine what kind of person I am, what kind of actions and vibrations I add to the world. With each bigly or tiny choice I make, I make myself in my own image. I hope the image turns out to be a noble one.
I am a lover of facts. Even if I don’t like the facts, I like knowing them because they are the truth. I am no denier of a public health crisis, the safety of vaccines, US election results, or of where a certain US president was born. One thing I have found myself to be denying recently is the season of the year in which we all find ourselves: Fall. I have caught myself denying that summer is gone. It doesn’t make it true, but I’ll be stubborn about staying in my denial for as long as I want. If I turn up the heater to its highest temperature, being warm in shorts is not a problem. I can easily spend time denying summer is truly gone—as long as I don’t look outside or go outside. But I am fully aware of the fact that my denial of Fall is my own fake denial. There’s reality, and then there’s the reality of my pretending. Reality and pretending: folks, they are two very different things. I’m still festively attired for Christmas, but my Tie o’ the Day tells you what I’d prefer to be shoveling. Please note my socks are labeled: Sock 1 and Sock 2. 🏖
Banned Books I’m re-reading today: Lorraine Hansberry’s play, A RAISIN IN THE SUN, and Maya Angelou’s novel, I KNOW WHY THE CAGED BIRD SINGS. I give ’em each a thumbs-up, just like I did when I first read them in the DHS library when I was in 7th grade. However, I do want to make one general statement about I KNOW WHY THE CAGED BIRD SINGS. I think we should worry less about banning this book, in which a child is raped—and has to deal with the awful aftermath of the rape. I think our time would be better spent educating our sons about how rape is always wrong, and about how rape not only causes physical damage to a girl’s/woman’s body, it can maim—and even kill—parts of a woman’s soul. We can make it clear to all the men in our lives that rape is unacceptable. Rape is what we should try to ban. If rape were not such a common atrocity for girls/women in real life, it wouldn’t be represented so often in the stories written about women—fact and fiction. And BTW, guys: there is no “joke” about rape that is funny. Personally, I grew tired of those jokes the first time I heard one.
Although my dad died 15 years ago on Dec. 4th, yesterday is also a happily significant date in our family because my grandnephew, Bosten, was born on this date a few years before Dad’s passing—so the two of them got to pal around with each other often. So Merry Birthday, Bos! I will not state Bosten’s age here, because it makes his mom, Kathi, feel too, too old. I will say that Bosten is still in high school, so that gives those of you outside the family a clue about how many trips he’s made around the sun. When Bosten’s sister, Ronni, was born a few months after Dad passed, her parents named her after Dad. When Ronni learned to talk, and the topic of Dad came up, she was adamant that she had spent time with him and knew exactly who he was. I don’t doubt it one bit.
Also, yesterday, I “decorated” the pantry for Christmas. It was easy. I simply put the green Folgers (decaffed) coffee right next to the red Folgers (caffed) coffee. Bite Me Tie o’ the Day was a bigly help to me in that never-did-it-before decorating job. 👔
I got bored with figuring out the nonsensical sets of instructions for the bookcase and the end table I needed to put together, so I simply scheduled a visit from a tasker on TaskRabbit. Someone named Leah showed up Sunday afternoon, and in less than an hour, Leah had assembled both pieces of furniture—while Suzanne and I sat on our butts and streamed the latest episode of Dateline. That’s Leah in the background of the photo, assembling my end table on the kitchen island. Notice I didn’t Christmas-up my Bow Tie o’ the Day or any of my other attire for her visit. I have found it is best to not weird-out visitors at our house on their first visit. If Leah comes back to task for us in the future, I will surely pull out all the clash fashion stops. I will dress as myself.
Sunday marked 15 years since my Dad’s death. I woke up thinking of Dad hunting coyotes every morning before showing up at the counter at Top’s Cafe for his morning cup o’ coffee. I quickly made a playlist of songs Dad liked and sent it to my siblings. The playlist was full of only country music, of course.
On a less serious side, Saturday I watched a vet show on Animal Planet. A pig was being treated for something-or-other. It was kinda cute, in a muddy-fat-pig sort of way, but I was dismayed that the poor critter had a forgettable name—which I have forgotten. But it got me to pondering about what name I would come up with as a more interesting name for a pig. I went right to Hamilton or Hamlet. Or Piggy Lee. But I also like Sir Francis Bacon for a pig name. Or maybe I’d go simple and just name my pig Kevin, as in Kevin Bacon.
I chose a pine-cone-and-berry Bow Tie o’ the Day, and coupled it with my dogs-and-cats-in-Santa-hats Shirt o’ the Day. Don’t miss the peppermint stick stripes of the Pocket Square o’ the Day. And note the glittery, gold reindeer antlers head band I was able to set atop my Hat o’ the Day: my beloved fedora I’ve had since 1984, just before I graduated from WSU. That makes the hat 38 years old. The fedora is still in astoundingly dapper shape both for being that old, and for having been dragged across the country to live with me in Virginia, then Maryland, and then back to Utah again—where I and my fedora have lived now for 22 consecutive years.
Time does fly. I feel it fly more quickly now that I can see the end of my mortality coming closer. My death used to be statistically so far ahead of me that I rarely considered it. I think about it a little bit more often these days. In fact, I must admit the topic comes into my mind in some way or another almost daily now—especially since my Cranky Hanky Panky has had to have two major surgeries within 3 years. I don’t obsess over what I hope is my far-in-the-future passing, but there are legal and financial things that need to be put into place, so somebody else doesn’t have to figure out what I would have wanted done. And you know all the material things we spend decades of our lives accumulating? A great deal of that has got to go. I don’t want to leave all that stuff for anybody else to have to deal with when I die, so I am—for the most part—done accumulating. And while I am still walking the earth, I’m now working on passing on things I’ve acquired. It’ll probably take me years to accomplish this feat, but I intend to gift my eclectic and eccentric collections to various people who I think will be most likely to take care of my beloved objects with tenderness, just like I have done while I’ve owned them. I have always tried my best to be mindful of my various and sundry stewardships—stewardships of material stuff, of people and animals in my life, of the rights I have as a citizen of the USA, and of all that I’ve learned and know to be true. I have tried to tend to my beliefs and love my neighbors, always. I’m in a good place in my soul, and death, whenever it comes, is nothing I fear at all. 🎀 🎄
My new candy discovery for Christmas 2022 is the Reese’s Peanut Brittle Big Cup—King Size. I bought one to try, and it was a yummy surprise. I highly recommend it for anyone with a sweet-tooth who likes peanuts and peanut butter flavor. There’s no actual peanut brittle in this candy bar, but the shell is vaguely the flavor of peanut brittle. It doesn’t matter: the total confection is a tasty change o’ pace for Reese’s fans. Remember, it’s a holiday treat, so it won’t be available for long. Try one, and try it ASAP—while you can still find ’em. By far, the most important thing about the King Size version is that after you’ve eaten both cups, you are left with an empty package that makes a kitschy Bow Tie o’ the Day.
