For my grocery shopping venture over to Dick’s Market to pay way too much for the same ol’ food items this afternoon, I switched out my flower-power bow tie for an Art Deco Tie o’ the Day. I, of course, like this look more than this morning’s offering. This more closely resembles me: not so matchy, and a few watts brighter to the eye. The look gives off an entirely different vibe than today’s earlier bow tie, and this feel is more hip than hippie.
My denim jacket kind of dulls the bright look, rather than enhances it. I don’t have a coat collection, and I’m not gonna start one. But I should probably keep an eye out for a couple of coats/jackets that are more on my desired level of bigly eye-poppity. I need outerwear that adds to my fashion aesthetic, not diminishes it. Oh, wait—I have all my Suzanne-made capes, and they’re giving me ideas even as I type this!
As you can see from the picture, I had a run-in with the cereal aisle. It was a mistake to turn up that aisle, and it was a daunting struggle for yours truly. (Next to ice cream, unhealthy cereal is my fave junky food to eat.) Lent is really starting to bug me. How in the world can I be expected to keep from eating anything remotely in the neighborhood of junk food for a few more weeks, especially when there is a new sugarfest product I haven’t yet tried: Froot Loops with MARSHMALLOWS? Somehow, I finally found it in me to successfully keep all the boxes of Froot Loops with marshmallows out of my shopping cart, but I know I’ll find myself standing in front of them again on my next trip to Dick’s. Can I manage to do without this sugary product until Lent has been Lented out? I’m not sure. 🍇🍋🍊🍓🍒
I can tell you right now that the Froot Loops with marshmallows are going to be either extremely yummy or extremely gacky. There will be no middle ground as far as this combo of taste will go. That’s usually what happens when an already-perfect product exists, and its makers decide to tweak it: response to the new changeling edible goes off the charts as a bigly thumbs-up, or it crashes with a bigly, splatty thumbs-down 👍👎🕳. It’s gonna be either a mic drop or a hard pass. 🎤🏈 I can’t wait to taste-test the colorful, nutritionless rings and their accompanying marshmallow sidekicks. After Lent, of course. I hope I survive the remainder of these sugarless, saltless, ridiculously healthier days. No matter what, for Lent next year, I’m definitely giving up Lent.
Ukraine blue-and-yellow Tie o’ the Day and I spent some time squinting outside in the chilly sun this afternoon, as I de-pooped the backyard—cleaning up after the little poop factory we call Skitter. It is my firm belief that one should treat every activity like a bigly event and dress up for it. 👔🎩👛 Trust me, you’ll enjoy whatever you’re doing just a tad bit more.
I thought of posting a picture of the now-full, clear bread bag I used for the Great De-pooping Reset o’ the yard—as evidence of what I really did this afternoon. Fortunately, I like y’all a whole bunch, so I didn’t. I saved you from seeing that particular visual aid. Emojis will have to do. 🗑💩
Thank you to all of you fine folks who took the time to send me birthday greetings yesterday. I will have you know that I wore my birthday suit under my showy clothes all day—as I have done every day for the last 58 years. My birthday suit gets a bit wrinklier each year, but it’s still in pretty good shape.
Every year—as I grow more ancient—my birthday feels more like Thanksgiving to me than Thanksgiving itself does. My birthday is a day I feel beyond appreciative of the people I have come across in my life: people who have nurtured me, taught me, laughed at my jokes, tolerated me, encouraged my personal eccentricities, and just plain loved li’l ol’ me—some of whom I have never even met in person. I live a fantastic and rich life, and I have worked hard for it. But I am well aware I did not get what I have—or get where I am—all by myself. Nobody makes a wonderful life on their own. Although some people don’t want to admit it, we are all connected. We make ourselves better when we look out for each other. If you think you are alone in this adventure called life, please correct your thinking. You are not, nor have you ever been, alone. I am honored to be here on this planet with you. I carry you with me in the pockets of my heart, and you help to make me stronger. So thanks again to you all, my pals. 🏋️♀️
Have a groovy weekend, boys and girls! I’ll post again Monday morning. Be there, or be square. 🔲
I don’t know what you’d wear to your birthday dinner, but I wore my own birthday balloons Bow Tie o’ the Day. I also wore my birthday cake Cufflinks o’ the Day and my 3-D glasses Lapel Pin o’ the Day. Suzanne took me to dinner at STANZA in downtown SLC, which we have not been to since the pandemic began. It’s one of my fave places to dine. Suzanne had the spinach artichoke cannelloni and I had the pan-seared halibut. We also had dessert: Suzanne had cheesecake and I had a butterscotch concoction of some sort. It was a complete yumfest. The last photo herein is what I found on my chair when I got up to leave. It is that little end of paper they leave on your straw to keep it sanitary. Somehow it made it’s way to my chair, and my butt appears to have twisted it into the shape of a bow tie as I sat and ate. And now I am back on the Lent wagon, until beyond bitter end.
Well, I’m having a delightful day so far, even though I have mostly busied myself with doing laundry and tidying up the Tie Room. I decided to forego the maple doughnut I was going to buy to celebrate myself this morning. I’m saving my Lent-breaking taste-buds for birthday dessert tonight at dinner with Suzanne. So it’s just been me and Skitter and this polka dot Tie o’ the Day.
Before Suzanne went to work this morning, she sang me a very high-pitched and wobbly version of “Happy Birthday.” It was faux operatic and just the kind of thing which brings me maximum joy. After Suzanne warbled the first couple of lines, Skitter did something she has never done since she’s been living in our home: she howled right along with Suzanne’s singing until the warbling finally ended. It was as if they’d been practicing together for weeks. I so wish I had been recording the hilarious duet. Now, I can heretofore refer to Suzanne’s singing of “Happy Birthday” as howl-inducing. Indeed, before the ditty was over, I was howling along with the song too. I can already see the howl-along becoming a new family birthday tradition.
I called Mom for my birthday, too. I do it every time I officially grow a year older. Today, I thanked her for giving birth to me at 4:10 A.M. on this date, 58 years ago. She was a bit stunned to think her baby is that close to being 60—as am I. I still feel like her baby, no matter how old I get. She told me she was 88. I gently reminded her she’s 91, to which she said, “Helfry! I guess I am old enough to have a baby as old as you.” (This is where I remind y’all that the word “helfry”—pronounced like the word “belfry,” as in “bats in the belfry”—is one of Mom’s cleaned-up, made-up swear words. I had the word tattooed on my back over a decade ago, in her honor.) Mom and I had a lengthy, laughter-filled phone chat, and she seemed to have a lot of pep today. I hope she remembers my call. But if she doesn’t, I’ll remember it for her. I love my tiny Big Helen. She was my first blessing. I’m her old baby, and I’m forever proud to belong to her.❣️
As y’all know, TIE O’ THE DAY—which is I— is a bigly believer in being kind whenever possible. It is my belief that most people don’t hear they are loved and precious nearly as often as they ought to hear it, as they move through this wild world of good-hearted, but fallible, human beings.
In many situations, the way you dress can aid in expressing to a person you spend time with that you care. Consider the Tie o’ the Day and Hat o’ the Day I wore this morning. I am a proud University of Utah supporter, but I drove to Provo this morning to spend some time with my nephew, Travis. If you know Travis, you know he bleeds BYU Cougar blue—and I suspect BYU blue blood is likely a literal condition where he’s concerned. So I donned my blue-and-white argyle tie and threw on a blue-and-white flat cap for the occasion.
You see, Travis might think I’m eccentric. He might think I’m obnoxious with my ties and bow ties. He might think I’m that nutty aunt who defies all explanation to anyone outside the family. But when I flaunt my BYU colors in his presence, there are a few things of which Travis can always be assured with me: 1. I know who he is at his deepest core, and I know what he values. 2. I love him and want him to see the evidence. That’s how much he means to me. When I showed up at his door in my blue-and-white accessories, he had to know immediately I had thought about him with purpose before I even left my house to meet up with him. We had a fine chat, even if it was in BYU territory.
Well, it is the second day o’ Lent 2022, during which I am sacrificing junk food—particularly sweets— for the 40* days Lent lasts. I have not cheated—except for absentmindedly taking two Tums last night before I remembered they have sugar in them. I don’t think that counts as officially cheating since Tums is a medicine, and I didn’t mean to consume that little bit o’ sugar. I can also report that I am still very much alive so far, although I’m feeling kind of forlorn. I’ve got 38* days to go.
Yesterday, I de-sweeted the house by dumping the remainder of my Honey Smacks cereal. I also threw out my stash of chocolate licorice (blasphemy) and licorice licorice. Getting rid of chocolate licorice was a horrid blow to my innards. It also almost killed me to jettison my annual Whoppers malted milk Easter eggs candy. The freezer is now barren of all ice cream. If I am not an ice cream fiend, who am I? I am so lost and discombobulated. The sweet-less me is like a fish out of water: I can hardly breathe. I fear I will start to flop around on the ground any day now. Just who the Hell-en am I supposed to be for the next 38* days?
Ultimately, I suppose I will survive this junk food self-ban by clinging to my neckwear even more obsessively than I already do—if that’s even possible. I will have to fill my junky-food-less time by scribbling more poetry and fiction than I already routinely do. And I will certainly amp up my reading habit accordingly. I will keep up with posting my TIE O’ THE DAY whatever-it-is tblog. And I will, of course, continue to romp outside and inside with Skitter. So, in effect, I will be in my usual Heaven, but without snacks of any kind. It’s a good thing “one day at a time” is a key mantra I believe in. 😇😏
Maybe you missed the fact, but please know that I have a soul-deep attachment to paisley. This photo is evidence of my truth. The paisley Tie o’ the Day, Shirt o’ the Day, Face Mask o’ the Day, and Hat o’ the Day are my kind o’ snazzy. For the most part, I have ceased wearing face masks. However, I think this mask adds to the point I’m making in this post: it’s all about the paisley. Do not be askeered, however. I have no intention of posting pix of my paisley Underwear o’ the Day. I do have some scruples, you know.😜
FYI Stay tuned for this afternoon’s post about how I’m handling a treat-free Lent. Hint: So far, it hasn’t been pretty.
Lent has begun, and I’ve decided to give up sweets and junk food in general. For the next 40* days, I am giving up ice cream, licorice, cereal, birthday cake-flavored Hershey’s kisses, peach gummies, crackers, potato chips, pretzels, and all other junk edibles of this ilk. I am even giving up my Freedent gum, which contains sugar. It is the one and only chewing gum that does not stick to my dentures, and it makes me particularly sad to ignore it. (If I get lonesome for doing some chewing during Lent, I suppose I will have to take up chewing tobacco.🤢)
I am taking this Lenten sacrifice seriously. It will be a true challenge for me because I am more of a snacker or grazer, not a 3-meals-a-day eater. During Lent, my whole food routine must change. If I discover I like the eating change, I suppose I will make it my new normal way of eating. That is something I cannot imagine, but I am big on being reasonable: if the result of my not eating junky food is that I feel better, I will likely follow the logic of it and decide to eat differently for the duration of my life. Right now, the idea that it is best to drop the junky food is only theoretical. I “know” the way I eat could be healthier, but experiencing a more healthy diet firsthand will make it personally clear and logical.
I do not look forward to these 40* days of Lent. It will be tough. I will need distractions. And I’m sure I will ask myself at some point in every day why I’m giving up anything for Lent at all, especially since I am not Catholic. But I like a challenge, and I like the idea of sacrificing something in order to grow as a person—even to treat my own body with more discipline and more respect.
So that’s the plan. But I know it’s possible I might fold tomorrow and eat a bowl of ice cream. The result of that would be a feeling of abject failure, and I do not need to feel like a failure. Ain’t nobody got time for that. I am indeed in charge of my success or failure in this matter. If I don’t succeed in sticking to the challenge for 40* days, it will be completely my fault.
And here’s a secret: I must admit that I am fully aware success in this endeavor will be possible for me to achieve only because Mom doesn’t cook her magnificent treats anymore. If Mom were still creating her yummy confections, I would not have even tried to give up sweets. Such a sacrifice would not have even occurred to me to attempt. I would have been setting myself up for sure failure. But I can do this now that Big Helen has retired from cooking. I think I can. I think I can. 🍧🍨🍦🍰🍭🍬🍫🍿🍩🍪
BTW If you don’t understand why 40 is followed by an asterisk, be sure to read yesterday’s TIE O’ THE DAY post for the explanation.
[As a favor to a pal who requested it, I am re-posting this post from 2019. Enjoy it again, or for the first time in case you missed it when it originally showed up here.]
Hey! Look what I rescued. It’s my ties-themed 100 oz. mini-keg, which was my go-to sip cup for a couple of years after I bought it. Although it cracked inside last year, I never had the heart to throw it out. Its flex straw had a slight crack in it too, and the lid doesn’t fit tightly either, but its tie graphics are too perfect for me. 7-11 doesn’t sell the tie design “cup” anymore, so I can’t go buy another one. What’s a girl to do with a cracked 100 oz. ties mini-keg? For the last year it’s been mocking me by sitting in the garage whining out its jealousy of my new, differently designed mini-keg. I was about to finally toss the battered, cracked mini-keg over the weekend. And then I had a genius idea I can’t believe I didn’t think of last year: DUCT TAPE. I’ll tape the inside cracks and let you know how it works out.
As I searched for the duct tape, Tie o’ the Day and I were contemplating the weirdities of my life. I don’t care who you are or how straight-laced and “normal” your life has been, you’ve likely found yourself in surreal situations here and there—when you wonder how you got into the predicament and how you’ll ever get out of it. You didn’t set out to be in the situation. The scenario is so outlandish you couldn’t have purposely concocted it if you had wanted to. And you’re positive no one will believe you when you tell them the story.
Because I am I, I have a zillion of ’em. Because I am I, everyone knows my improbable tales really occurred. I call these odd goings-on My Greatest Hits. One of My Greatest Hits is courtesy of the 7-11 in Takoma Park, MD, in the mid-90’s. It doesn’t star a 7-11 mini keg, just a 7-11 Super Big Gulp cup.
Interstate 95 is the main N-S route on the East Coast. The traffic usually runs at a pretty good clip. I used to drive it every school day morning from Washington, D.C. to Baltimore’s inner city where I taught middle school. My drive to work usually took about 35 minutes.
But one morning, when I was just about to exit the freeway and head into West Baltimore, all lanes of the I-95 traffic going my way came to a halt. That was rare for that particular area of the freeway. Rarer still, an hour later no vehicle had moved a centimeter. Something bigly was surely shutting down the road. (It ended up being a many-car accident.) By that time, I had been sitting in the car for more than an hour. For me, that’s venturing into MUST PEE NOW territory. I had finished my Super Big Gulp of Diet Coke, and I needed to get rid of it. And I don’t mean I needed to throw away the cup. A half-hour later, all drivers were still sitting in the precise same place we first were stopped. I was beyond desperate. I had no choice except to do what I had to do.
As a middle school teacher at the time, I learned to always have back-up clean clothing in the car. Out of nowhere, middle schoolers can create unheard of messes, and it’s not uncommon for those messes to end up on the teacher—whether you were anywhere near ground zero or not. It’s nice to have clean clothes to step into. Anyhoo… That day, in an attempt to make myself invisible in my car for a minute, I used my spare clothes to cover my front, side windows. I pulled down the visors. With my empty Super Big Gulp cup, I strategically did what had to be done. The contortionist skills I learned as a teenage mooner came in quite handy. Mission accomplished. Almost.
I extremely carefully got my pants back where they belonged. I opened my door and emptied the cup, which I didn’t want to keep in the car, but I don’t litter. I “baby wiped” my hands. (It was the pre- hand sanitizer era.) Although we drivers had all been stuck going nowhere on I-95 for almost two hours, I felt much better.
As I took my back-up clothes down from the windows, I heard a knock. I was sure it was a cop who would soon give me a ticket for Public Urination or Public Indecency or some such charge that would put me on the Sex Offender Registry. But it wasn’t a cop. It was a soccer mom from the van behind me. She asked, “Can I borrow that cup? I gotta go too.” I said, “No, you may not borrow it. You must keep it. Please, for the love of all that’s holy, keep it. Take these Wet Wipes too.”
I kid you not. As time passed and the cars still didn’t move for a small slice of forever, Soccer Mom was not the last person to use my cup. I watched my Super Big Gulp cup and the wipes travel up, down, and across a handful of the halted lanes as we sat parked on I-95 whittling away our time in the pre- affordable cell phone era. The cup that almost ranneth over had a somewhat bonding effect on those who were there that day. That cup was the founder of a different kind of Relief Society. Those of us who got relief became friends for life on that commute, even though we didn’t talk to each other and we would never see each other again. We shared a moment. We shared a cup.
I do not know who finally ended up with the Super Big Gulp cup and baby wipes.
BTW Speaking of my Delta, teenage mooning career, I once mooned a worker at the Taco Time drive-up window while driving and wearing overalls. Now that is a true and rare skill set. (Yes, young-un’s, Delta once had a Taco Time. And an A & W and an Arctic Circle.)
