Having so many pieces o’ neckwear in my bigly collection comes in handy. I can find something helpful to wear around my neck for practically any occasion. This afternoon’s Bow Tie o’ the Day is a shopping list: I’m making salsa for when Lent is over. Peppers are required, and if I’m wearing this “hot” Bow Tie o’ the Day, there’s no way I’ll forget to pick up the peppers. Salsa itself is healthy enough, but there’s no such thing as eating only salsa and nothing else. Ya gotta have unhealthy chips! Nobody ever says, “Come over and watch the BYU football game with us. We’re having salsa-and-salsa.” It’s true that I am already stockpiling non-nutritious “fake food” of all manner in the pantry: sweets, chips, crackers—for when Lent is finally over, and I can once again forage the junky food to my heart’s content. Of course, a tub (or four) of ice cream is patiently waiting for me in the freezer. I touch it for strength every day. From Day 1 of Lent, I’ve felt the sincere need to celebrate my junky food habits at the very first post-Lent chance I get. 🍦 🍪 🍿 🍫
While I was stocking up on the household staples of hearing aid batteries and tuna and fancy waters, I struck gold with this treasure: a bigly Peeps-bedecked head bow tie. Although I have more bow than existent hairs, this Bow Tie o’ the Day gem comes in handy for me today. This is the kind of day where I pretend to be a gifted handygal around the house. On my honey-do list for the day are tasks like climb a warped wooden ladder to change light bulbs; stand on furniture to put clean filters in the house vents; go through storage bins in the garage, to see what I can sneak to D.I. without Suzanne noticing; etc. I will also be putting together a new book organizer—known to commoners as a bookshelf. For jobs like these, a necktie will surely get in the way, to the point of becoming dangerous. There’s no need to worry about strangling myself as my tie gets caught on household machinery I might have to reach around to make adjustments. And a bow tie can poke me or fall off into dark crevices as I contort myself into the handygal poses I’ll have to make to successfully complete my current list o’ tasks. These headband Peeps are lifesavers. (LifeSavers. Sounds sweet. I officially hate Lent.)
I went sorta matchy with Bow Tie o’ the Day and Vest o’ the Day this afternoon. Matchy, blendy clothes make me seasick, so I try not to look at myself when I’m being matchy and/or blendy. Aside from trying to keep the seasickness at bay, I’m feeling both excited and apprehensive about something wondrous I get to do tomorrow: I get to spend some time with a Weber State University pal I’ve had no communication with for nearly 40 years. Our conversations were some of the highlights of my college days. Oh, I can’t wait for our meet-‘n’-gab, but we’ve probably changed bigly since the early 80’s. For one thing, we’re both 40 years older, and 40 years of living can change a broad. What if we don’t like the person each other has become? What if we find each other boring or politically haywire? What if a profane word falls out of my mouth and it’s not appreciated? (I didn’t swear back in my college days, but now I’m old enough to know that the goings-on of this world occasionally require an appropriate swear word.) What if we find we have absolutely nothing to say to each other about books, which were a bigly topic for us back then?
And what precisely is the right thing for me to wear to visit someone I haven’t seen or talked to in almost 4 decades anyway? I know you won’t believe it, but my attire can be a bit shocking to the system of someone who isn’t used to seeing me regularly in-person. Maybe I should consider toning down my clothing choices a notch for the visit. I wouldn’t want to end up having to find a defibrillator for my pal just seconds after she opens the door to let me in. “Hi, nice to see you again. Let me call an ambulance to jump-start your heart!” I know I’m getting ahead of myself here, but that’s kind of what I do—thank you, Bigly Bipolar Head o’ Mine. But I shall ponder important choices. To cape, or not to cape?
I remember when I was 5—before I was even a student at the long-gone Delta Elementary School on Main Street—I fell in love with a single word. Mom had been doing some painting around the house, and I overheard her say to somebody, “Blah, blah, blah, TURPENTINE, blah, blah, blah.” And then I overheard her say to someone on the phone, “Yadda, yadda, yadda, TURPENTINE, yadda, yadda, yadda.” I remember saying TURPENTINE myself, over and over until I could pronounce it like a pro. What was this word that skipped so jauntily through my lips? It was downright fun to say. When I asked Mom about the word, she explained what it was and what she used it for. I saw the cupboard where she kept the can of turpentine (and other paint-related stuff), and I would occasionally open the cupboard door and stand there staring at the magic can o’ turpentine. I’d look at the word and try to memorize how it was spelled. Mostly, I repeated the word to myself—well…repeatedly for days and probably weeks. Much to the annoyance of my family and pals. The word itself sounded like a catchy song lyric to me. It felt like singing to say it out loud. To me, TURPENTINE is the first word I have memory of collecting for future use. It was, in a sense, the moment I became a writer. I was hopelessly in love with this word, and I knew I always would be.
Writing is what I do every day. Sometimes slinging words together even keeps me up all night. Words are my most valuable tools. A writer is what I am. Specifically, I am a poet (mostly). I can tell you this: poets are odd. A real poet will gleefully give up eating dinner for a week to save up enough money just to buy a newer, thicker thesaurus. Yes, back in my struggling college/grad school student days, I somewhat regularly skipped meals in order to have the necessary funds to acquire books. And I would not be surprised if I find my literary self skipping meals again—just to prove I still can. The darnedest things tickle a poet’s fancy.
With that in mind, don’t tell anyone about these photos I’m letting you see. The photos show me looking at the literary equivalent of a naughty magazine. Not the content, just the form. This is poetry porn. I bought this book of poetry by C.D. Williams, and when I saw it had a centerfold, I fell in love yet again. Poetry centerfolds are my new obsession. Now that you’ve seen the centerfold, I must hide this poetry porn somewhere Suzanne will not be able to find it. I told you poets were odd, right? 😮🤣😂📓🗒✒️✏️🖍
BTW Tie o’ the Day is covered in fancy bound notebooks and various writing instruments. This tie says, “The writer is in!”
I survived my “crazy head” doctor appointment intact. It was a productive appointment, which means I probably won’t be jumping off a bridge or a tall building in the near future. By now, I’m sure you know: I joke about my bipolar brain. Poking fun at it helps me live with it. I have another appointment with the same doctor next week. I better hurry and make up some problems to bring up during our therapy session, since my life is all perfection and more perfection. (You do know I’m being sarcastic, right?)I took this selfie in the grocery store this afternoon. I am organic myself. I was raised free-range. I was raised cage-free. I am meat! But I am also a genetically modified organism (GMO) at the same time, because I have eaten all kinds of things that aren’t organic—like tasty, edible foods. And I’m not apologizing. 🍿🍪🥓🍟🌮
Tie-dyed Tie o’ the Day and I are having a Zoom doctor appointment right now. Yes, it is time once again for me to check in with my “crazy head” doctor—to see if I still have a crazy head. Hint to y’all: I know I’ll have my bipolar head always. These sorts of brain tilts don’t go away. In short, I have to learn to get along with my own mind. I can only work at getting better at managing my bipolar noggin. Collecting neckties and bow ties is one of the many tactics I use to cope with my brain situation. So far, so good. 🐝
This is my non-paisley new shirt. It came folded and boxed to my front porch, with an added bonus: a cardboard Tie o’ the Day stuck in its collar. A loud shirt and a flimsy tie! All in one package! Wahoo! (There were also free pins in the folded shirt, but I refuse to wear those. I gifted them to Suzanne’s pin cushion, so she can share in the fruits of my bigly bonus, too.) I am certainly a passionate and complicated gal, but—as you can tell—I am a very, very, very easy gal to please. Indeed, sometimes I am positive that The Secret o’ Life is for each one of us to simply regard the unexpected, silly things that cross our paths as if they are full-blown prizes—meant for each of us to find and share widely with those around us.📍👔📍🙌 👏🏻👌😲😃 Hey, it beats poisoning your soul thinking life’s nothing more than a dumpster fire at the site of a train wreck. 🗑🔥🚃
TIE O’ THE DAY presents an important quote to ponder upon:
Our world is not divided by race, color, gender, or religion. Our world is divided into wise people and fools. And fools divide themselves by race, color, gender, or religion.
So remember that new Ford Maverick truck I ordered on November 30? It still isn’t here. I did get an email from Ford over the weekend, in which they said they’re sorry for the delay and they haven’t forgotten my order. They said they’re still waiting for some parts they need in order to configure the truck precisely to my specifications. And again, Ford apologized for the delay. Blah, blah, blah.
Listen: I believe a vehicle is for getting people from one place to another. I’d rather spend my money for things other than automobiles. I don’t usually have a specific brand or model of vehicle in mind when I’m shopping for a new ride. My Isuzu Hombre is 24 years old, and my Pontiac Vibe will be 15 in a few months. They both still get me where I need to go. But when I saw the Ford Maverick—a true compact truck, built on a car platform for a smoother ride—I fell in love with it. I could buy a different automobile that’s available immediately, but I want a Maverick. I baby my vehicles, so they last forever. It’s entirely possible that my Maverick will last me long enough to be the last vehicle I ever buy—so I want what I want.
It’s been nearly four months since I custom-ordered my truck, and I find myself getting annoyed it’s not here yet. When I get riled up about it, I try to remind myself that in the scheme of things, this “problem” is not much of a problem at all. And then I feel foolish for getting upset about such a minor inconvenience. My old jalopy vehicles still get the job done. I’m no worse off than I was on the morning of November 30th.
It makes me consider the current gas prices. I don’t want to be paying over $4 for a gallon of gas, but gas prices go up, and down, and back again all the time, for all kinds of stupid reasons that only end up making the rich richer. Everything uses fuel, so then the price of everything goes up, too. G-r-r-r-r-! But think about wonders in the world: the pandemic is getting under control; I’ve got somebody who adores me; my feisty mother is still alive; my kids are making their ways successfully through life; and—most importantly—I’m not pregnant or in jail 🤣. Why should I be a Grumpy Bear?
My life is not perfect, it is blessed from all directions. I have always worked hard, and that has further generated blessings for me. Waiting a long time for a new truck and for criminally high gas prices to fall—heck, those aren’t real problems of eternal consequence. They are annoying irritations that come with standing upright on the planet. I recommend we all check our priorities before we spend our days griping around and blowing hot air at every turn. I certainly want my Maverick, and I want to be able to afford to fill it with gas without selling one of my inner organs on the black market. But what I most want—and I bet you do, too—is to not let things which are out of our control fester inside of us to the point of stealing our very real, very important joy in all things fantastic. 🎢 🎡 🏖 Dude, we’re alive!
Howdy! My Bow Tie o’ the Day is the one Collette gave me at brunch on Saturday. It adds a perfectly suave effect here. I call this fashion style “suave rodeo” style. If you ever happen to run across a shirt this incredibly cool, buy it. That’s an order. You won’t regret it. It doesn’t matter that the shirt sellers didn’t have one in my size—I still knew I had to buy it. Perhaps one day I’ll grow into it. It doesn’t really matter to me, though: I am going to wear this shirt way too often, just to see others be jealous of me that I own it and they don’t. I am going to have scads of fun wearing it, no matter how it fits me. This shirt specimen is inexplicably enchanting, in a vintage sort of way. It is Roy Rogers-esque in its aura.
I think I had a lunchbox (w/thermos) in the early 70’s which looked similar to this shirt. I remember carrying it around on my banana-seat, one-speed Schwinn— as I rode in and out of dirt ditches, between alfalfa farms and bee yards, and across the dangerously bustling city streets of Delta, UT in the hippie 70’s. I wish I had saved that lunchbox. It’s a good thing I bought the shirt, so it can remind me of my hokey lunchbox whenever I wear it. I do have my Saddle Purse and cowboy boots that can go with my cowboy-covered shirt. Now, I think I’m goin’ on the hunt for a new cap-gun and holster to wear with it. I’ll also need a new cowboy hat, some spurs, chaps, a stick horse, a wad of chewin’ tabacky, and a sidekick to do all the real work for me. Oh, and I must not forget: I need a leather, string-tied bag, to hold all the gold nuggets I find waiting for me in the closest creek. Yup, I think that’s pretty much everything it takes to be an authentic cowboy. 🤠
