Category: wisdom

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The One About The Senior Key

It’s amazing what a gal can find when she throws on a wood Bow Tie o’ the Day to clean out a drawer of miscellany. Yup, this is my Senior Key necklace, and I present it here during Pandemic High School Graduation season. The “key” is now 40 years ancient, although it’s still in presentable shape. I didn’t consciously try to save it all this time. It just hasn’t gotten itself lost during my many moves. Here’s a brief history of where it has lived with me, in order: Delta, Ogden (3 different compartments), SLC (5 different apartments), Arlington, VA, Takoma Park, MD (1 apartment, 1 house), Delta again, Ogden again, Centerville. I know people who have moved plenty more miles than I have, but my moves still add up to a significant number of miles—across which this necklace has traveled in one piece. It has had only one owner. It has never been in a lost-and-found box.

If you’re anything like me, you have lots more stuff than you have room for, or need of. It would save time and space to not have to look after the props of our lives, yet we find it hard to let stuff go. Why do we keep things? They’re just things. They have no spirit in them. Are we afraid we’ll forget what’s happened in our lives if we get rid of them?

The memories in our brains are where the time lives. When we tell our stories, our experiences are alive again for ourselves and for whoever we’re sharing them with. We aren’t going to forget snippets of our lives if we don’t keep the props picked up along the way. But still, it so difficult to let material things go. And when we decide what stays and what goes, we each use a logic of our own—which would make no sense to someone who hasn’t lived your life, although it makes perfect sense to you. C’mon. You know you own some items whose significance you can’t begin to explain to people who don’t know you really, really, really well.

Some folks keep everything. They’re the ones who relate better to objects than to people. And sometimes we take better care of our trinkets than we do of the people we love. It shouldn’t be that way.

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‘Merica

The patriotic Ties/Bow Ties o’ the Day got together this afternoon to give a good ol’ salute to those on the front lines of healthcare, law enforcement, and our food supply—and to other essential workers. A specific shout-out to educators and students who are doing their best to figure out how to do something that hasn’t been done before. Kudos to the technology that allows the nation to keep teaching and learning, without school buildings being open to students. Appreciation, as well, to the rest of us who are doing our best to find toilet paper and follow the sometimes-confusing, recommended guidelines for defeating this pandemic. It is my firm opinion that as masked, social-distancing, trying-to-stay-at-home ‘Mericans, we are all essential workers. As always, if your actions are for the benefit of your fellow beings, you can’t go wrong.

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I Don’t Talk About It Much

Suzanne and I spent the late 80’s and the whole 90’s many states away from each other, taking a time-out. Suffice it to say, the split was all my fault. But the longer we were apart, the clearer it became to both of us that we were meant to be together.

That time apart also brought kids into our separate lives. Suzanne had Rowan late in our time-out, but I had walked immediately into a life with a two-year-old named Devon (and his bio mom). For the next dozen years, I was Devon’s MomHelen. For most of those years I was his primary parent, because my graduate school and teaching schedules were flexible. I loved that boy, and the three of us had a mostly successful run as a family unit.

But I was falling apart. I had been running from the fact that I was bipolar, so I wasn’t getting help in that regard. My job teaching middle school in Baltimore had left me literally bruised almost daily, and bloody all too often—resulting in me developing an unpleasant case of PTSD which kept me from sleeping for years. I was beginning to over-like my beer too.

I was an outward success, but I was a mess at taking care of me. My collapse was coming. When Devon was 15, I had a bigly decision to make, and it would be the most difficult decision of my entire life. What could I do to be the parent he needed me to be, before I completely imploded? The answer was easy to figure out. The answer was also nearly impossible for me to actually do. I had to go. I had to leave him in his mother’s capable hands. He didn’t need me crashing into smithereens in the house, or even anywhere in the same zip code.

Such a tough thing. The beginning of reclaiming my sanity required me to walk away from everything I had and everything I was. I had to let go of ego and pride, and simply do the right thing for Devon. The best parenting move I could make for Devon at that time was to leave him in a situation that improved the second my bipolarity and I walked out of it. I did the right, hard thing for him, and It broke my heart.

I left Maryland and came back to Utah in 2000, where the endless sky helped heal me. I found the right bipolar medications. I re-found Suzanne. I quit drinking. I learned how to manage my PTSD. And today, April 16, 2020, the No Tie o’ the Day Devon turns 35. (Merry birthday, my man!) He graduated from Texas A&M. He’s a high-end landscape architect. As an adult, he has lived and worked in Texas, Italy, and Iowa. He shares his life with someone he loves. I’m so sweetly proud of him from afar.

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I Love DICK’S MARKET

When I’m out in the world doing a now-rare errand like buying groceries, I usually wear a Bow Tie o’ the Day from my wood bow ties collection. The wood creatures are much easier to disinfect when I get home than fabric bow ties.

I learned something at the store today. I learned that my Face ID on my phone doesn’t work when I’m wearing my pandemic mask. Duh! Luckily, I was able to remember the code to open my phone. I also learned my phone still responds to touch if I’m wearing latex gloves— if they’re properly warmed by my digits.

I am not a germaphobe. I am not frantic about COVID-19. However, I have noticed I handle the whole grocery shopping task differently right now. COVID-19 doesn’t scare me, mostly because I take it seriously. I guess I would say I am cautious. I wear latex gloves and my Suzanne-made mask while I’m in the grocery store. I wear long sleeves and pants. I carry a bigly tarp-fabric shopping bag over my shoulder to hold my items, so I don’t have to use a shopping cart. I make sure my bag doesn’t ever touch the floor. I use the self-checkout, so I’m in control of what touches what. When I leave the store, I keep my bag o’ food slung over my shoulder, and I put my used gloves in the garbage can outside the store. I then lift my vehicle’s hatch and slide the bag—without touching the bag’s handle—off my shoulder and into the car.

After I get home, I leave my shopping bag in the garage. It isn’t allowed in the house for the time being, even though I wipe it down with Clorox wipes. I then wipe down each grocery item individually before finally bringing the goods into the house. I also leave my coat, mask, and shoes in the garage. I have been known to change into clean clothes in the garage. I certainly do more laundry than I’ve done since Rowan was a child and lived at home.

The washing o’ the hands and the use of hand sanitizer occur all throughout this process, whenever possible. My detailed routine makes me feel comfortable in the pandemic. All in all, the new fuss doesn’t add much time to my errand, but it makes me feel just a tad better about this craziness.

If your cupboards are anything like mine, you probably already had enough food in your house to last for a month, long before the pandemic showed up. If I were unreasonably askeered and paranoid about COVID-19, I wouldn’t go grocery shopping at all cuz we could get by. I think my masky, glove-y caution is merely a healthy respect for how devastating COVID-19 has the potential to be—if even a few of us slack in our hand-washing and social-distancing. I’m being extra careful, but I’m not letting a stoopid virus stop me from living my life or from buying fresh bread.

I suppose you could say that donning my mask and latex gloves at DICK’S MARKET means I’m just dressing appropriately and fashionably for the current occasion—which is exactly what I try to do every day of my life. 🎩 🕶👔 👜

BTW Yes, I am wearing my hearing aid as an earring in this photo.

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Teaching Basic Life Skills

In our little home school for quarantined neckwear, Skitter is my aide for all instruction. She is also our school’s mascot. The Skit wears many hats around here—literally and figuratively. Today, we’re learning about the bigly clock on the wall and how to tell time. Telling time is one of Skitter’s finely honed skills. Sort of. She knows 11 AM and 7 PM. She can tell those two times without even looking at the clock, because those are her chewy treat times. She knows those two times deep in her skinny bones, as well as her tummy. However, once when Skitter was helping me teach a lesson, I had to caution her about not flaunting her vast knowledge with our younger ties who do not yet know as many facts— nor as much about the ways of the world— as her mature canine brain does. Intimidating the young neckwear with her intellect would make Skitter a bully, and I will not allow bullies to run rampant on my watch. Skitter wasn’t aware she was being a meanie until I explained the concepts of pride and humility to her. She immediately shaped up, having no desire to be haughty and snotty to her lesser-educated tie pals. Seriously, I cannot abide liars or cheats or thieves, but there is an extra dank and craggy place in Hell for bullies—in my version of Hell, anyway.

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Gussy Up Your Isolation

Getting what I refer to as the STAY THE HELL HOME order from our state and county health departments is our ticket to stay in our bedclothes all day, all night, all week, all whatever. So far, I find myself declaring a Pajama Day most days o’ the pandemic. As a fashion genius—which I certainly am, because a real model once called me such—I still try to push the boundaries of pajama couture, whether or not anyone outside the house sees it. I’ve found that a silk Ascot o’ the Day can class up sleepwear like almost no other style of neckwear. An ascot is elegant, charming, and unforgettable— all the things I want my attire to aspire to be. A frou-frou ascot is a touch of neck adornment which can make your thirteen-year-old, ratty pj’s look like a new million bucks.

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I Mean It In A Good Way

TIE O’ THE DAY recognizes the power of words. Yup, the pen is truly mightier than the sword. Sometimes people use language to attempt to defeat our efforts to create a happy life. You women, especially, know how that “b”-word can get thrown at you at key moments of your triumphs. We mostly hear it when we step out of line to stand up for ourselves. We mostly hear it when we are inconveniencing the status quo— when we say, “Nope, I was not put on earth to always take care of everyone else but me.”

And so we learn to take back the b-word. We begin to wear it with pride. We wear it in the way only tough broads can. We learn to take it as a compliment. It is in this spirit that I fell in love with these socks. I decided to get a pair for each of the crafty bitches in my life, starting with Suzanne—Queen of the Crafty Bitches. She can craft up food, quilts, capes, scarves, etc. But as I tallied up all the crafty women I know, I realized—to my delight—almost all of the women I am related to, or otherwise consider friends, are of the same tough breed. There is no way I could afford to buy that many pairs o’ socks. The store where I found this pair certainly did not have enough to fill my order. So the photo of this pair is for all of you ladies who know what I’m talking about. May the b-word be with you!

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I Wish Mom Could’ve Been With Us

Bow Tie o’ the Day’s fabric shows off pavers, which is why it is named PAVERLY by my go-to bow tie manufacturer—Beau Ties of Vermont. I decided it was a fitting choice for this outing because pavers can be used to create a path that can be traveled more easily, more beautifully, and safer than before the pavers were set down. Suzanne and I were at Utah Valley University last week to attend an event about some of the Utah women who paved—and continue to pave— their own roads, to everybody’s benefit.

The presentation was called CELEBRATING UTAH WOMEN: REMEMBERING THE PAST TO SHAPE THE FUTURE. Mom would have enjoyed the speakers. She has always emphatically said, “We need more women in charge of things!!!!! They see the big picture!!!!!” (Yes, she says it with that many exclamation points.) To which I usually say, “Gee, Mom. Tell us what you really think.” Mom’s opinions are not shy. They just show up and get right in your face, and you have to deal with ’em. I absolutely treasure Mom for that feistiness. That woman has blazed her own bigly trail, and more than a few of us have benefited from spending some time on it with her, when our own path was too much to handle at the time.

We can’t take the same exact path others have taken. We are, each of us, unique. Only your own trail will fit you. Our paths are not One Size Fits All. Your path is One Size Fits One. Of course, we will inevitably use each others’ paths on occasion. We can’t help it, cuz so much paving has already been done for us. And if someone ahead of us has blazed a fruitful and captivating path, we can take it and add our own detours which align with our individual destinations. We don’t have to lay every paver that ends up under our feet. Thank you, ancestors.

For example, I don’t have to fight to win the right to vote—even though I’m JUST a girl. A lot of somebodies already paved that trail for me. They “won” that right just for little ol’ me, so I don’t have to fight for it. Neither do you. I’ve got my right to vote, and with it comes a responsibility. To me, I am disrespectful of those who wrangled me that right if I don’t use it. And so I vote.

I am free to fight other fights that matter to me and the bigly planet. It’s my responsibility to fight those fights I can—most of which can be won by simple human kindness to/from all those involved. I am obligated to fight, and in so doing, change the world even the teensiest bit by setting down my own twisting and turning paver paths. Somebody is gonna need to use my road to make their own.

Whether you are aware of it or not, somebody’s always behind you on the path you pave. Actually, “multitudes” is probably closer to the count of those who look to you. Do you really want them to follow you? Are you comfortable with them seeing the road you’ve built? If you aren’t, you’ve done some evil paving, and you are running out of time to fix it. Get your tools out.

BTW The editor of THE SALT LAKE TRIBUNE, Jennifer Napier-Pierce was a presenter at the event. I realized she had been a student in a writing class I taught at the U of U in the late 80’s. I must have been an incredible teacher, if she’s now the editor of a statewide newspaper.

Another BTW It is “true” that THE TRIB is the “evil” newspaper of the two major papers in Salt Lake City, so only apostates read it.😜 Still, Mom and Dad were forever what I call TRIBBERS, as am I.

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Aaaaaaarrrrrrrggggggghhhhhhh!

Sing with us: “Nobody knows the troubles Bow Tie o’ the Day has seen. Nobody knows but Bow Tie.”

Folks, I’m in a baaaaad mood this morning. I woke up on the grumpy side of the bed, and the grumpy is stuck to me. My frustration is all about some righteous anger I need to feel deeply; work through completely; then let go of for good. We’ve all been through the process before, and we’ll all have to go through it again. Why? Because not one of us is perfect, and nobody we know is perfect. The result of our imperfections is that we damage each other, whether we try to or not. And thus, today I will be bitchy for a bit—while I get my righteous anger straightened out and tossed away. But for right now, I’m feeling my smoldering grump.

Here’s a small quote from Anne Lamott, which so accurately expresses my current feelings:“I thought such awful thoughts that I cannot even say them out loud because they would make Jesus want to drink gin straight out of the cat dish.”

Yup. That about covers my mood.

FYI Yes, I’m still in my pajamas. Yes, I need my head hairs cut. And yes, I’d rather be in Toad Suck, Arkansas.

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A Sad Day Around Here

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.