Bow Tie o’ the Day and I are struggling with the fact that tonight we’ll be watching the last new episode ever of HOMICIDE HUNTER: LT. JOE KENDA, on the ID channel. We’ve been wearing black all day, and we consider ourselves to be in minor mourning. It is just a tv show, but it matters to me. Suzanne likes it too. And both of my sisters are bigly fans. Heck, even Mom got a kick out of Joe’s “my, my, my”-ing whenever she watched it with us over the years. The last time she watched an episode with us, she said of Joe Kenda, “How long has this old fossil been on tv? He’s been solving murders for a hundred years. He plays his part so well.” Yup, cuz he is playing himself. But not anymore.
I have no doubt I’ll shed a few tears after tonight’s finale. C’mon, you know you have “your” shows which you must not miss. The tv shows we’re partial to can be a regularly scheduled respite to us, in the midst of an unpredictable and serious world. I know Lt. Joe Kenda has sometimes been the exact kind of pal I’ve needed at the time: a weekly dose of a smart, compassionate storyteller who asks absolutely nothing from me. Unfortunately, the Joe Years of my life will be over at 8 PM tonight. But I still have my Joe Kenda t-shirt to wear and two HOMICIDE HUNTER notebooks to fill.
I’m full to the brim with the whole Christmas PEACE-LOVE-JOY spirit. In fact, about two seconds after I snapped this photo, I was hit with a jolt of goodwill to all which was so intense that my celebratory emotions physically overcame me— causing the seams of my clothing to burst apart and the fabric to rip. Meanwhile, my body turned an effervescent hue of X-mas green. To compose myself, I had to escape the clamoring Dick’s Market crowd, and so I ran home, red-faced, in my green body, tattered clothes, and massive spirit of love for all humanity— proudly waving my NIGHTMARE BEFORE CHRISTMAS Tie o’ the Day behind me.
What makes the splash of this look is the complete clash of forms. The shirt’s organic forms couple fabulously with Tie o’ the Day’s geometric forms. Here’s the design equation: organic shapes + geometric shapes = DANDY CLASH SPECTACLE! See, fashion math pays off once again for anyone who is gawking at it. The impulse toward true clash fashion should result in equal parts pop-up book pages, and basic eyesore. Take your pick. Just enjoy the choice.
I so want to show you my new t-shirt, with its Bolo Tie o’ the Day, so here it is. I do not, however, have time to tell a story about it this morning. The photo must speak for itself.
Camo Bow Tie o’ the Day is one of my faves. Its size is referred to by Beau Ties Ltd. of Vermont as “butterfly jumbo.” Here, I am waiting in line at DICK’S Pharmacy. Of course, as a fashion maven, I know my cactus-print shirt needs to be ironed, especially down the front. Suzanne is as picky about ironing as Mom and Peggy always were. That’s one of the Top 10 reasons they’ve always liked her. Those three gals were born Wrinkle Whisperers. All Suzanne will see when she looks at this photo is the bigly wrinkle by the buttons. I didn’t iron my shirt, but on purpose. Why?
Okay, so I’m in a minor snit at Suzanne today. Knowing how she feels about pressed shirts and ironing, I know this wrinkle biz will get under her skin mightily. It will bug her. This is how I’m being passive-aggressive in a way that is tiny, but irritating enough to get her attention. She’ll know exactly what I’m up to when she sees this photo’s shirt wrinkles, then she’ll think about what she could have done which might possibly be upsetting me. She’s smart, so she’ll figure it out and fix the wrong. I will then notice she fixed the problem, and I’ll say, “Hey, will you please iron a couple of shirts for me?” That will signal to her that she’s forgiven, and all’s right with us. The whole routine saves us a squabble over some crumb of an issue that amounts to nothing, without either of us ever having to bring up the topic.
Weird? Yes. It’s a kind of shorthand that let’s us both save face. If you’ve been attached to someone for a long period of time, you know darn well you do similar dances with each other about certain things. The dance’s strange footwork is part of what helps you stay with your person long-term. You have to choreograph your own “happy family” groove. Sometimes you both have to just shut up and dance a jig no one else in the galaxy could possibly understand.
I need to rant. I’m having a USANA Ampitheatre hangover. Last night was my first time attending a concert at the West Valley City venue, and Suzanne and I both declare it will be our last visit to the place. I was so disappointed in the venue that I went on strike while there, refusing to click any photographs for TIE O’ THE DAY posts. That’s right, I put my phone in my Saddle Purse for the duration of the concert. But here’s a photo of what I wore, in case you want to know. And I know you do.
First, I want to make clear that the band we went to hear, Mumford & Sons, was in fine form. My list o’ complaints has nothing to do with them. Fabulous musicianship. Intelligent lyrics. Point-on showmanship. Yes, Mumford & Sons delivered. USANA? Not so much.
Of course, the standard concert complaint issues were there too. I’m talking about the things that happen at nearly every concert. For example, concerts never begin on time. I wanna tell ’em, “Hey, Performer, this is your job. You chose the time, and I signed up to be here at the designated time. Hold up your end of the performance time commitment.”
Also, to my fellow concertgoers, I wish to say these things about what happens at almost all concerts: “I did not pay 8 billion bucks for a ticket to Mumford & Sons to listen to you sing the wrong lyrics off-key right outside my eardrum.” And “Hey, you in the seat in front of me– thanks for standing up the whole concert, blocking my view of the stage and one of the bigly screens. Why did you pay for a reserved seat, if you were only going to stand in front of it the entire concert?” And to those of you who dance while tipsy, “Stumble over your own feet and your own purse if you really must. Stay away from me and my Saddle Purse.” In summary, I want to yell it out: “I’m no stern sourpuss, but YOU ARE NOT THE BAND I PAID TO SEE. Go ahead, sing ALONG, but don’t sing OVER the band. Stand if you must, but remember there are old folks like me sitting behind you, and we can’t see through you. Do your dance, but not on my toes.”
My specific complaints about USANA begin with the traffic and parking. Let me be brief: At USANA, there is too much traffic, and not enough parking. We thought of offering a WVC resident cash to let us park in their driveway for the evening. By the time we had snaked our way through what seemed like every neighborhood in WVC, and finally got into a USANA parking lot for $20, we had missed the opening band entirely. (Did I say I had paid 8 billion bucks for our tickets?)
And I’m sorry, but the slope of the floor to which USANA’s seats were attached was close-but-no-cigar. It was impossible to see the stage while sitting in the seats, when even a very short person sat properly in their seat directly in front of me in the row ahead. Suzanne and I watched the bigly monitors most of the performance. We also moved to various empty seats twice before finding a “meh” view of the stage.
And then there was the mosquito factor! I’m itching and scratching as I type. No further comment about that topic is needed.
But the worst, most egregious irritant I found on my first and last outing to USANA was the stage design itself. Of course, it’s an outdoor stage. It’s like a cavernous black box, pushed back and up against the night sky. Bigly sky + cavernous black box has the effect of making performers look like HONEY, I SHRUNK THE KIDS characters. The performers appear to be oh-so tiny. I had the sensation of looking through the “wrong” end of the binoculars while trying to spy coyotes from atop the Delta water tower. (Yes, I have been up there. Back in the day.)
Thanks for listening, tbloglodytes. I’m feeling much better now.
Bow Tie o’ the Pioneer Day, combined with Shirt o’ the Day, shares some Utah state flag colors with us, minus the gold. I wish to share a few Pioneer Day tidbits o’ trivia.
Did ya know that Pioneer Day is officially a celebration of more than just the LDS pioneers finding their way to the Salt Lake Valley? It’s dedicated to everyone of any faith and any nationality who emigrated to the Salt Lake Valley during the pioneer era, which ended with the completion of the transcontinental railroad in 1869.
In 1886, the Pioneer Day celebration was more of a mourning than a celebration. The Salt Lake Tabernacle was decorated in black bunting. Latter-day Saints who were in hiding or imprisoned for polygamy offenses were eulogized.
You can now attend Pie and Beer (sounds like “pioneer”) Day parties, held by those who find the official July 24th festivities a bit too confining.
Traffic-wise, according to the Utah Department of Public Safety, Pioneer Day has the state’s second highest holiday traffic fatality rate. (July 4th has the highest.)
My own personal Pioneer Day trivia is that I once ate a chocolate-covered, “Mormon-Cricket”-on-a-stick which I bought for $2 at a food booth at Sugarhouse Park. I ate the crunchy critter while we watched the 24th fireworks there one year in the 80’s. The sticked bug tasted okay, but I didn’t need to consume seconds.
FYI The Mormon Cricket did not taste like chicken.
Yesterday afternoon’s post told you Bow Tie o’ the Day and I were blown away by the number of churches we kept bumping into on our Arkansas travels. I would describe the density of the churches there as follows: I saw more churches per acre than I saw acres per acre. That’s a slew o’ churches.
At a boutique in Pickle’s Gap Village, these two Christian t-shirts caught my attention. Bow Tie o’ the Day and I are pleased to share the message of love, as well as the exasperated cackle of being human.
And yes, I was raised in a barn, so now you can all quit asking me if I was.
Checkered-flag Bow Tie o’ the Day is protecting the innocent by hiding the identity of some unfortunate DHS boy who actually went on a date with me in 1980. I don’t remember which dance this was, but the brick wall tells me it was held in the old gym of the old DHS. I seem to remember we went 4-wheeling out by DMAD with another couple before AND after the dance. And then something weird happened, which I can’t seem to remember, and we ended up walking to my house, and then I drove my mystery date to his house.
Don’t think for one minute I’m not wearing a bow tie in this photo. If you look closely, you can see the girl on my sweater is wearing a pink bow tie around her collar. I find bow ties even when I didn’t know I had ’em. They’re just little pieces of the real me, showing up in my history. Some people’s souls throw glitter wherever they go. Apparently, I sprinkle a little trail o’ bow ties on my life’s journey.
The 3-D, pigtail-adorned sweater I’m wearing in this photo is one of my fave pieces of clothing ever. But I ended up wearing it only two or three times. You see, I have this stoopid tendency to “save” my best stuff (clothing, dinnerware, etc.) for speshul, bigly deal occasions. I’m afraid I’ll spill, snag, or otherwise ruin them if I wear them on regular occasions. And then, to compound it, I also worry the next speshul occasion will be speshul-er than this speshul occasion, so I should save the best outfit for the upcoming possibly speshul-er event. And so on.
Before I knew it, my pigtail sweater didn’t fit anymore: I had pubertied into a larger shirt size. My sweater was nearly pristine when I finally had to take it to D.I.. While it fit, I didn’t wear it and enjoy it as much as I could have. That means a gaggle o’ spectators couldn’t enjoy it while I wore it too. My decision to “save” it means I held back a bit o’ joy from others and myself.
We forget that every minute we’re alive is a speshul occasion, and we should wear our best stuff every day if that’s what we want to do. Each of us is important enough to deserve to do speshul stuff just for our own tiny selves. We don’t need to be in front of a grand audience before it’s okay to dazzle and shine while we walk across a room.
We don’t need to feed speshul guests at our table, to use the good plates and cups. We– and the folks around us who love us– are speshul too.
My vest– which I have nicknamed The Pimp Vest– creates a suave clash with Shirt o’ the Day. The cherry on top of this get-up is my luau, yellow lab Bow Tie o’ the Day. The cleverest detail on Bow Tie is the use of coconut shells to create dog bacheechies. Dogs worship us, and they will do anything to please us. Even dogs printed on bow tie fabric are eager to do outlandish things to make us happy.
I’m sure at some point in your life, probably when you were watching GILLIGAN’S ISLAND in your kidhood, you and your pals mused about the old “lost on a deserted island” what-if. What five things would you want with you? Who would you like to be lost with? What would you most be glad to have left behind? And the conversation game questions go on.
Bow Tie’s coconut shells got me cogitating, and I’ll tell you right now that what I’d like to leave behind in the busy world is exactly what I’d need if I were building a new civilization on my own on a desert island. What thing of utmost importance would I need, but not want? I would need the dreaded, wretched, torture contraption known as a bra! Eeeeeeeek!!!!
You ladies know exactly what I’m talking about. Bras are not comfortable. I was once expertly fitted for a tailored bra. I was willing to pay a bigly fortune to wear a comfy bra. It did cost a bigly fortune, and it was quite becoming. It was not, however, anywhere near comfortable. I might as well have spent $12.95 on a too-stiff bra from Sears. Discomfort is discomfort.
Even on a deserted island though, it would be unspeakably dangerous of me to build a hut or cast a makeshift fishing pole while not wearing a bra. A person could get hurt. I could injure myself by moving too quickly. The phrase, “You’ll poke your eye out!” comes to mind.
Mom taught me well that a bra’s proper place is hanging from the doorknob on the back of the front door. A bra doesn’t belong on its owner, unless someone knocks on the door. Practice slipping it on without removing your shirt. Practice slipping it off the same way. When the bra is off you, and on the doorknob, keep an ear out for cars pulling up in the driveway. You especially have to watch out for that one pair of Home Teachers we had, who sometimes knocked an hour earlier than they were scheduled. Sometimes, you gotta be lickety-split swift puttin’ on that brassiere.
Mom taught me that the last place a bra belongs is around a woman’s chest. Make exceptions only when necessary, like when going to work, church, the grocery store, or when working out. Other than that, a good bra does nothing but hang silkily on the living room doorknob– causing discomfort to no one.
