My melty Bow Tie o’ the Day is my witness. Skitter does this thing sometimes, which still weirds me out after the almost nine years since she rescued us: Skitter perches herself somewhere and stares at me for extended periods of time. I don’t have to be doing any particular activity to get her attention. She will simply and suddenly decide to motionlessly watch me for as long as an hour. It’s a rather cool trick on her part, albeit a tad creepy. She’s never threatening when she does this, and she doesn’t move or make a sound. But it does appear to me she is under something like a spell. It’s as if she’s my own private gargoyle. I suppose I have my moments when I can be downright mesmerizing to whoever is in my vicinity, but whatever doggie thing Skitter is feeling when she gets the need to stare at me, I am sure my human brain will never know for sure.
Today, however, I am proud to announce I have created a word that I think properly describes how Skitter’s gargoyle-esque gazing strikes me. It is a combo of Skitter’s name and the word “disturbing.” When Skitter stares at me without making a sound or moving a muscle for an hour, it is “skitturbing” to me. In fact, much of Skitter’s normally eccentric behavior can be accurately described as skitturbing. If, despite all my decades of writing, I have contributed nothing more to the betterment of the English language, I feel certain I have at least made my singular lasting mark by conjuring up the remarkable word, SKITTURBING. I have not lived in vain! 🤓 🤡 🐶 🗿
My Maverick is still “in production,” but I’m making lists of names for it. I have made a tradition of naming all the vehicles I’ve owned, right down to mopeds, bikes, and a skateboard. The name of my first car is so long that I will have to tell it to y’all in a post of its own sometime. I’m sure I named my trike when I was wee mite, too. You might be wondering how I go about coming up with the name of a vehicle, especially when I haven’t actually seen it in person. Well, I begin with bigliest o’ names. Of course, the first names any right-thinking ‘Merican has to consider when naming a vehicle are “Elvis” and/or “Marilyn.” I doubt I have to explain this to my fellow ‘Mericans. Neither of these names seems right for the vehicle to me, so I can cross those names off my list—although I must admit “Marilyn Maverick” sounds as voluptuous and spunky as she was. However, I’ll leave that name for some other Maverick owner to use.
I then wrote down some relatively obvious names, like “Dallas.” “Dallas Maverick.” That name might be okay if I were a Dallas Maverick’s fan, but I am not one, nor have I ever been one. I considered some names using horse-related words, like “Colt.” “Colt Maverick.” Nah. Then I thought about naming the truck “Maverik”—like the convenience store spells it, without the “c.” Its name would then be “Maverik Maverick.” I told Suzanne that the name would be memorable and clever, but it would also be—and these are my exact words—”think-y and spell-y.” And since few people like to think or spell, I will nix this name from my list. Maybe I should name it “Bret,” after Jame’s Garner’s character from the television show, MAVERICK: “Bret Maverick.” Nope. “Bret” doesn’t vibe like a fitting name for any vehicle I can think of. Also, in sticking with a Western theme, I wrote down “Festus” from GUNSMOKE as a possibility. “Festus Ford Maverick.” See how choosing the name “Festus” begged for adding “Ford” as a middle name? It almost sounds regal. It does give the name a groovy, near-universal cultural reference, but it strikes me as yet another not-quite-right name.
I then thought of naming the truck “Motley” (“Motley Maverick”), but people would think of Motley Crue, and I do not dig that band a jot or a tittle. I thought of naming it something like “Tie” or “Bow Tie”, but as much as those words are dear to me, neither of those names shines as a truck moniker. As I pondered the truck name and how long it might be for the truck to get here, I started to think my bro-in-law, Kent, is right: the truck doesn’t exist and never has. Its existence is a myth. Hey! I’ve always liked the word “myth.” Let’s see: “Myth Maverick.” Try saying that, three times quickly. It sounds like a beauty pageant announcer with a lisp, introducing a contestant. No, to that as a name.
When I consulted the Periodic Table of the Chemical Elements to discover a good name, I turned up the metal element molybdenum (Mo). “Molybdenum.” “Molybdenum Maverick.” I’m all for some good alliteration, and I’m also certain that no other truck in the country—probably on the planet—will ever have the same name. For some inchoate reason, I’m keeping this name in contention. But as of now, I am not as excited about it as I should be when I find THE perfect name. My list of names is almost as long as Santa Claus’ X-mas list, so I’m not worried about finding one. As always, I will keep you posted about the Maverick and its forever name, as well as its christening.
FYI I attached my goldfish earrings to my t-shirt magnet to wear as a fishy Bow Tie o’ the Day. My ears were hurting and I was out of the house, and the magnet was handy. This is very practical, which is so unlike me.
Instead of a bow tie around my neck or attached to my shirt this afternoon, I wore the word “bowtie” (I prefer the 2-word spelling of “bow tie”) and the Chevy bow tie symbol which are both printed on my t-shirt. As such, I’m wearing a rare two-fer Bow Tie o’ the Day. They each qualify.
The bigly task I assigned myself today was to deal with my notebook o’ passwords. For the last dozen years, I have filled its pages with hurriedly scribbled passwords, in no particular order, for all of my accounts on all of my devices. But honestly, I have also filled the notebook with things like Post-It notes, pieces of torn bill envelopes, and even a square of toilet paper—all covered with hastily written usernames and passwords when my Official Password Notebook wasn’t handy. As I’ve put each password-y scrap of paper into the notebook, I have always done it with the sincere intention of soon copying the passwords into the notebook when I had time. Well, whether or not I have the time, the time is ripe for me to organize and consolidate these passwords that are so necessary to the business of the current culture.
My password situation is more than a tad out of hand at this point. I dread it when Suzanne asks what the password is for something. I want to say, “How the heck should I know?” But I’m supposed to know, because I’m the one in charge of the Official Password Notebook, which is teeming with over a decade of unorganized information, including old usernames and passwords I simply haven’t gotten around to disposing of yet. Besides, I might need them eventually. Not! I’m sure Suzanne dreads having to ask me for a password, too, because I immediately get a consternated look on my face as I ferret through the notebook in my attempt to decipher what’s written on the million scraps of various sorts of paper. Successfully locating and translating whatever Holy Grail password Suzanne’s seeking at any given time is a process which takes me longer than it should. It’s also not a pretty event in which to participate.
Anyhoo… My goal is to consolidate every bit of information contained within the Official Password Notebook into the much-smaller-but-has-plenty-of-room notebook you can see in the last photo. The smaller notebook cover reminds me of Mom. And Relief Society. I like that. I’ll let you know how this project goes.
BTW The answer to this morning’s riddle is the word EMPTY.
My crosswordy Bow Tie o’ the Day was with me a couple of hours ago as I was innocently minding my own beeswax, figuring out my morning Wordle. For those of you who don’t know, Wordle is a web-based New York Times daily word puzzle which requires you to come up with the designated 5-letter word of the day, with no hints as to what the word is. You have only 6 tries. (If you like to do word puzzles and want more info, I suggest you Google it and then give Wordle a whirl.) Anyhoo… While I was Wordle-ing earlier, I remembered a word riddle from my childhood that has always stuck with me. TIE O’ THE DAY thought it might be groovy to see if y’all want to take a stab at solving it. If you absolutely already know the answer, please allow others some time to cogitate and posit their answers. Post as many guesses as you want, and I’ll reveal the answer in this afternoon’s post. Without further adieu, here’s the riddle from my kidhood: This word has 5 letters and contains nothing. If you take away the first letter, you know what it is. If you take away the last letter, you still know what the word is.
Even a slim, wood mustache Bow Tie o’ the Day cannot figure out what’s been occurring in my dreams for the past week. The first night it happened, I thought it was a fluke, but it has happened in my dreams every night since. And just what strange thing is it that’s going on in my dreams? Well, my dream-self seems to be as hard of hearing as I am in real life. If a character in my dream talks to me, I immediately pipe up with, “What?,” “Pardon?,” or, “Will you please repeat what you just said?” If you’re around me in my awake life, you can corroborate that I somewhat regularly ask for whatever is said to be repeated. I can hear, but I don’t always hear the clear edges of words anymore. My hearing aids definitely help with the situation, but they can’t solve the entirety of my hearing dysfunction. So I am now a person who annoyingly has to ask for other people to repeat themselves, sometimes repeatedly, until I figure out what it is they’ve just said to me. I annoy even myself by having to ask it. It’s bad enough that I have to do it in my awake life, but now I am consistently asking for people in my dreams to repeat themselves—which makes my dreams rather nightmarish with real-life tedium. I am wearing myself out in my dreams by simply trying to hear what’s being said by the characters that inhabit my dream-life. Now, that’s odd. Apparently, not only am I an eccentric girl when I’m awake, I even dream in eccentricities.
Today is Skitter’s dental appointment at the vet’s. I took these photos as we waited in the vet’s parking lot for a vet tech to come fetch Skitter. Notice how Skitter won’t make eye-contact with me cuz she’s petrified and feeling like I betrayed her by dragging her to this hellish place for the second time in less than a month. I tell her it’s for her own good, but she’s not buying it. It breaks my heart to leave her there all by her lonesome self, but it will be so nice to no longer have to smell the stinky plaque on her wee choppers when I pick her up and she gives me a kiss.
FYI I have included a photo of my latest long-winded t-shirt, in case you’re interested to read it.
Voting is so fundamental to the health of our representative democracy that it should be easily accessible for all eligible voters. We shouldn’t encourage only certain kinds of citizens to vote, while making voting a hardship for other citizens who are usually already under-represented in public life. The higher the percentage of eligible voters who vote, the more protected every American’s rights will be. 🇺🇸 End of civics lecture.
Bees Tie o’ the Day is a fitting accessory to my new honeycomb Shirt o’ the Day. I grew up playing around bees. The fact that in my late teens I developed an allergy to bee stings did not diminish my admiration for the buzzing insects that paid my family’s bills, nor did my allergy quell my taste for occasionally grabbing a frame of comb from a hive and barehandedly pulling out a chunk of the honey-filled wax to gnaw on. I still maintain that honey-filled comb straight out of the hive is the most succulent honey you can possibly eat. However, I do not recommend that you simply go find a beehive and stick your hand in to get a taste. No, that’s a recipe for a thousand bee stings to the body of any untrained honey thief. If you decide to try it anyway, please let me know the “where” and the “when” you’ll be attempting the daring feat, because I would love to be there to watch when you end up screaming like a toddler as you run crazily from an angry cloud of bees you will not be able to shake. I will, of course, kindly call the ambulance for you as I watch you spasm with each new sting, in your failed honey thievery. 🐝
Almost three years ago, we bought tickets to see The Lumineers in concert at the Maverik Center. The performance was originally scheduled for August of 2020, but then the pandemic hit and the concert was postponed. And then it was postponed a second time. We held onto our tickets until last night, when the show finally happened and we got to experience the Lumineers right here in Utah. (We had previously seen the band in Nashville, on our last trip before the pandemic speed bump.) The Lumineers song that most speaks to me is “In The Light,” which they didn’t play at either of the two concerts we’ve attended. I can forgive that oversight on the band’s part, because both shows were fantastic in every other way. And another reason I can forgive the Lumineers for not singing “In The Light” is because I fully recognize that I am not the center of this universe—or any other—and my every wish doesn’t need to be fulfilled by musical strangers who don’t even have a clue who I am, in order for me to have a good time at a concert.
We did have one unhappy camper in our crowd last night. The Saddle Purse was with me when we left the parking lot to walk to the Maverik Center, but before we had walked very far, Suzanne and I spied the signs telling us NO BAGS ALLOWED IN THE VENUE. I had to walk the Saddle Purse and Suzanne’s purse back to the car and put them to bed early for the night. The Saddle Purse was crushed to have to miss the concert. We had been building up the event for almost three years, after all. I owe my Saddle Purse, big-time. 👜
