It’s Fat Tuesday! Bow Tie o’ the Day sports its Mardi Gras masks, beads, and colors. The thing encircling my breasticles is my new Mardi Gras Cummerbund o’ the Day. I ordered the smallest waist size they had, but it was still too bigly for my waist. As you can see, I can make it fit my chest. I could probably make the XL size fit my chest. Or maybe I should wear my cummerbund as a sash– covered with layers of scout badges, or with words like “Miss America” emblazoned upon it.
Not today though. I’m frenetically busy with the seein’ o’ the sights, so much so that I can’t settle down to compose a proper post. Don’t worry. I’ll update y’all as soon as my physical steam runs out. Suffice it to say that today I’m un-drunkenly celebrating Mardi Gras. I didn’t know it was possible to get your Mardi Gras on without drinking– until I got sober. (I still hate when that happens. But a girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do.) Fun is a state of mind, not a state of intoxication.
In between being captivated by various Tucson-area tourist spots, I’m trying to decide what I’m giving up for Lent tomorrow. Ash Wednesday is nigh! I’m not even Catholic, but observing Lent is the kind of exercise all of us could benefit from. Unless you’re perfect. Giving up something for Lent is always a tough decision for me. What’s something I need to NOT do for at least the next forty days? Can’t decide. Luckily, I provide myself with plenty of imperfections to choose from.
I’ve donned my spades wood Bow Tie o’ the Day, and aside from Bow Tie and Skitter, I’m on my own for a couple of days. This morning, Suzanne hit the road to Cedar City and St. George for a work assignment. What will I do, now that no one is here to keep me in line?
I’m an independent gal, but I can’t think of any bigly fun trouble I’m itching to get into. And I’m trying hard to come up with something to do, something edgy which I wouldn’t do with Suzanne around– something wild, but legal. I do not want Suzanne to have to bail me out of jail the minute she gets home. And Skitter doesn’t have enough money in her piggy bank to bail me out. Besides, Skitter’s money is for her Mission Fund.
I suppose I should be sensible and realize that if my plan requires me to do something I wouldn’t do if Suzanne were around, I probably shouldn’t do it at all. It wouldn’t be something that keeps me pointed in the direction I want my life to go. It’s almost like Suzanne is my Liahona (Mormon reference.). Really though, I’m my own Liahona. Over half a century, I’d like to think I have honed my Liahona skills. You really shouldn’t depend on another human being to be your main Liahona anyway. Others’ compasses can help you, to a certain degree, but you ultimately have to use your own. You are the only one who is ALWAYS with you. You are the only one who can aim you towards the exact place you want/need to be, at every moment of your existence. And that’s a lot of moments.
So I most likely won’t get myself sent to jail while Suzanne’s gone. Or ever. I don’t need laws to tell me what’s right or wrong, or which road to travel. I’ll be good, even if that means I’ll sometimes be boring.
But I am determined to rebel in some way today, so I will NOT do my chores. Deal with the dishes? Nope. Do the pile of laundry in the basket? Nope. Swiffer the floors? No way. Dust the baseboards? Nah. Pay bills? I should do that, but that’s the only bit of “housework” I’m gonna tackle today. Tomorrow, I will work my sore ribs off around the house before Suzanne returns late in the evening, and she’ll never know I declared today to be a Slug Day without her.
FYI Not to worry. Even though Suzanne is out of town, tomorrow is still Hairs Thursday. Suzanne did my hair last night, so it’s been photographed already.
Bow Tie o’ the Day told me I better wake up and smell the coffee beans. Bow Tie told me to quit worrying and wondering about it, and just go to the urgent care clinic and have ’em take a gander at my sore ribs. And so I did
Got some x-rays. Got some advice about the proper speed with which to walk down flights of stairs. Got to repeat the details of my fall and my resulting pain symptoms– to the receptionist, the Physician’s Assistant, the nurse, and the x-ray technician. I like to tell stories, but I don’t like to repeat them four times in one hour. I try to add new and exaggerated details with each telling, so I don’t get bored with my own stories.
My medical examination revealed I did not puncture a lung when I fell. And despite the swelling and the doorknob-sized knot on my ribs, I did not actually break any ribs. In fact, the whole time I was gawking at my x-rays with the PA, all I could think about was how I haven’t eaten ribs in about two forevers– or at least since we were at Dauphin Island, Alabama in September. Mmmmmm… ribs. When I’m on vacation next week, I will be sure to rectify my rib-starved eatin’ situation. I’m hankerin’ for cole slaw on the side, as well.
BTW Completely unrelated topic. I feel the need to exhort y’all, here and now: BE NICE! That’s it– simply be nice to the people around you. It won’t cost you any money to do it. There’s no trick to it. Being nice does not require a college degree. And there are no acceptable excuses to treat people otherwise. Being nice to people is so obviously the right way to treat them. Do not forget to strive always to be a nice person in both your attitude and your actions. It won’t always come back to you, but so what?Nice is about how you want to be when you grow up. Nice matters.
Look at what Art Deco-style Bow Tie o’ the Day and I found at Dick’s Market when we were crossing items off our grocery list this afternoon! It’s the 2019 pre-Spring season’s first bag of Whopper’s Mini Robin Eggs– to be selfishly hidden in my Tie Room goodie stash. That’s worth celebrating in and of itself. The annual appearance of these candy eggs is a hint that Spring is just a bunny-hop away, which means Summer’s on the not-too-far-out-there horizon.
We also got an added bonus when we were pleasantly shocked to spy a long shelf of a new snack product made and named just for us: Pasta Bow Ties. (Not bow tie pasta, which we already know all about.) How groovy is that? Pasta Bow Ties are described on the package as a “baked puffed snack.” Bow Tie and I threw a bag of each of the three flavors we could find into the shopping cart. I haven’t yet tasted the goodies, but I’ll give you my tastebuds’ verdict after I do. Out of Meatball Parm, Smooth Cheddar, and Honey Butter flavors, I am bound to find at least one flavor of baked, puffed pasta to my liking. We’ll see.
Oh, and I noticed a witty detail about the snack’s packaging: bow tie-shaped bar codes on each bag’s butt. The cleverness of that little bow tie bar code will make me smile for at least a week. Joy is in the details, folks. Your joy depends on your noticing the tiniest of wonderful things around you. Those zillions of tiny things will be there to save your sanity when the bigly things turn to shit.
Did I type that word out loud? Well, I must have meant it.
That is one bigly Post-it Note heart! I thought it best to wear it only for the selfie. Driving while wearing it would probably result in mayhem and tragedy. Let’s see… I’d be pulled over and cited for DWP. Driving While Post-it-ed.
Jumbo Bow Tie o’ the Day is one of my favorites. Actually, I’m fond of jumbo-size bow ties, period. They give off such happy vibes. And we are here to be happy. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise. I’m not saying happiness isn’t work. No, it’s something you have to achieve. The happiness a bow tie can give is a fleeting feeling. But if you want real happiness, you have to mostly create it. It’s not going to knock on your door, fully-formed, and say, “I’m here to serve you!”
I think we get distracted by looking to/at others to find happiness. We think: “They seem happy. What do they have that I don’t? I need to get what they have, and then I’ll be happy.” It doesn’t work that way. Your happiness is singular to you. It won’t look like anyone else’s. It is authentic to you, and you only. It is your job to figure out what your happiness will look like. Ignore other people’s ideas of happiness. Mind your own happiness business.
If you find somebody (a spouse, partner, etc.) whose happiness pieces fit with your happiness pieces, you have found a powerful and rare thing. Your happiness inventory will not be exactly the same as the person’s you mesh with. But what would be the fun of that? Do you really want to be married to a clone of yourself? Another person isn’t your happiness. Your chosen person can share in your happiness, just as you can share in theirs. You are a part of each other’s happiness, not the whole of it. Let me make this clear: NEITHER A MATERIAL OBJECT NOR A PERSON “MAKES” YOU HAPPY. You decide to be happy. You make a plan and work to achieve it. It’s an attitude.
Living with another person gives you daily opportunities to express your happiness. You can care for and spoil them with whatever happiness you decide to share. Take the risk to spread your joy around the metaphorical house. You’ll get hurt sometimes, even in the best of relationships. But so what? Remember, you’ll hurt your beloved too. You won’t mean to, but you will. Unless you’re perfect. Be kind. Be brave.
To be happy in a relationship doesn’t mean you feel jolly every minute. You can be happy, yet experience sorrow, anger, frustration, and every other emotion. Real happiness is not an emotion. Happiness is a state of your soul, not a mood.
If you make a habit of working to achieve true happiness, you can weather the relationship storms you will encounter, more easily and more courageously. This doesn’t sound like it makes sense, but I promise it does: When you are in the storm of yourself– when you are aching– muster your courage and every power in your heart to choose your happiness. Open up your happy heart just a bit wider. Share just a little more. Give. And then rain your happiness down on you and your beloved. Take the risk to love your beloved– again and again, day after day, second upon second. Your relationship will grow stronger. Your soul will thank you.
And one more bigly note: Selfishness does not grow happiness. Trying to get everything you want, and always trying to get your way, is as far from happiness as you can get.
This has been yet another bossy sermon. Just sayin’.
The company I buy most of my bow ties from (Beau Ties LTD) names each design of its bows. Bow Tie o’ the Day’s name is KISS GOLD, because it is based on Gustav Klimt’s painting called THE KISS, a photo of which I’ve provided here. (And look, there’s a cape involved in the painting’s smooch.) Cufflinks o’ the Day provide mini lips, for added thematic detail. After I got dressed, I made one of the lips links give Skitter a kiss, and it was about the right size for her lips. Note: I don’t usually make my cufflinks kiss Skitter on the lips.
Because it’s almost Valentine’s Day, I should say something about kisses. But I’m at a loss as to how to begin or end writing about a kiss. There is so much to say, and yet no pile o’ words comes close to approximating how it feels to experience kisses. Like the kiss from your soulmate. Or how it feels to kiss your baby for the first time. Or how it feels to give your crying teenager an it’ll-get-better kiss, after they experienced an unfairness at school. Or how it feels to kiss a beloved parent’s forehead for the last time, before the casket lid is closed. I could go on. There are infinite kinds of kisses, and they can mean infinite things. Sometimes a single, solitary kiss can express a multitude of meanings, layer upon layer.
But about kissing or about being kissed, or about what a kiss even is exactly– I dunno. I am a writer, and all this “kiss” stuff is one topic I know I don’t have the skills to write about in a way that could possibly say what I want to say, and say it in the way I want to say it. Kisses leave me speechless, which is probably the most accurate, graceful thing I can say about kissing.
Having praised all kisses, I will now present the exception that proves the rule (at least for me). Here goes: Slobbery kisses on the cheek from aunts are yucky! The horror! The horror! (Not all my aunts, but most.) When we’d go visit an aunt or an aunt would come to our place, the first moment that aunt would see me, I could see it coming. I’d hide, I’d duck, I’d bob-and-weave but I couldn’t dodge the slobbery aunt kisses.
“Aunt Kiss Slobber” never dried. You were always somewhere a paper towel or tissue wasn’t handy, and you didn’t want that kiss goop anywhere on your sleeve. But you didn’t want to wipe it off with your hand because you knew you could never wash your hand completely clean of it– no matter how long and roughly you scrubbed. It would forever feel like it was there, sticky and ewwwww. Forget about your cheek. It’s toast. There’s no saving it. It’s just plain invisibly scarred for time and all eternity.
Decades ago when I was a wee one, up Oak City Canyon for a family gathering, I received an aunt kiss so wet I knew I would surely die of gross. I ran to the creek, grabbed the first leaves I could find, and used them to wipe, wipe, wipe that goo off my face till it hurt. I dunked my head in the water, holding it under as long as I could stand it. My cheek stung like the dickens and I was sure the aunt kiss had eaten clean through my cheek to my teeth. But nope. The leaves I’d grabbed to wipe it off were stinging nettle. I was too young to know my canyon foliage yet. [Do not misunderstand me: I loved my aunts, just not their over-the-top cheek kisses. Even now, I’d choose stinging nettle over an aunt slobber.]
When you become an aunt, you understand the impulse to cover your nieces and nephews in kisses and hugs. When you become an aunt, you automatically receive The Calling: you are endowed with the aunt power that makes it impossible for nieces or nephews to dodge your hugs and kisses. Despite the Aunt Calling, the memory of slobbery aunt kisses has always haunted me. As a result, I have never given a slobbery aunt kiss. I get a gold star for that.
As far as slobbery aunt kisses go, my recommendation to young nieces and nephews all across the planet is this: Since you’re never going to escape your aunts’ kisses, position yourself strategically in front of them, such that they end up kissing the same cheek every time. That cheek will be tainted, but you’ll still have one pure, uncontaminated cheek left for your soulmate.
BTW I know many a grandma gives slobbery kisses too. But that’s different. That is Grandma Slobber, and that’s the best.
Tie o’ the Day is one of my fave Valentine’s ties. I like the lips and hearts covering the teddy bears’ scant clothing, and of course I am enamored with the bow ties.
My dad was a burly bear of a guy. In fact, he seemed larger than he actually was. Ronald Edmond Wright had a gigantic presence. He had “it.” But he was one of the most gentle men I’ve encountered in my life. If it had been possible, he would’ve hugged every one of his millions of bees to show them they were loved.
But he stuck to hugging Mom and us and our pets. Dad was protective of Mom in ways large and small. They were in a restaurant once, and some dudes at the next table were swearing while they talked. Dad gave them “the look.” They continued on, as if to show they’d speak any way they wanted. Dad said as nicely as he could, while giving them “the look” again, “This is my wife, and I won’t make her to listen to that kind of language.” They continued spewing their profanity. Dad stood up. They immediately cleaned up their language. Chivalry was alive and kicking when Dad was with Mom.
I’m sure you don’t believe it, but I wasn’t a rebellious kid. I don’t think I ever had a real “fight” with Dad when I was a teenager, but I remember loudly arguing with Mom a couple of times. The arguments were about my hair, believe it or not. Mom was never happy with my hair. Well heck, I wasn’t happy with my hair either. But it’s her fault I inherited her lifeless, style-resistant locks.
Anyhoo… One day after school, Mom and I were having one of these yelling matches, and I finally hauled off to my bedroom in tears. Dad got home from work and heard the tail-end of the yelling, as well as Mom’s version of my whole, overly-dramatic teenage outburst. After a while, he came into my room to see how I was doing. I launched into my side of things– about how Mom was always on my back, and she was always unfair, and she was always wrong, blah, blah, blah. The usual teenage crapola.
Dad listened to my tirade and let me get it all out of my system, then he said, “I love you. But no matter who is right or who is wrong, I am always on your mother’s side. I will always stand with your mother.”
At the time, what Dad said to me made me even more angry. How could “right” and “wrong” not be what matters? And then I grew up, and found myself working to forge a lasting relationship like my parents had. I now understand exactly what Dad meant about the importance of standing by your spouse (or partner, significant other, etc.), against all conflict.
With its random bandaids, Tie o’ the Day represents love and the pain love inevitably causes us. We’ve all needed to heal our hearts when they have been broken. If we allow ourselves to love, our hearts will break many times while we live. Family members and friends pass away. Our pets meet death. Maybe someone we fell in love with fell out of love with us. Maybe we lose hope, and our dreams die.
If we choose to, we can empathize with each other’s broken hearts, because most kinds of losses happen to everyone. If they haven’t happened to you yet, they will. We’re part of the human race, and our lives follow similar trajectories. Birth. Relationships. Work. Aspirations. Death.
Loving is worth any pain that might accompany it. A broken heart is often the cost of a full heart. And broken hearts can be instructive. We have the power to look inside that broken heart at all the mistakes we made which caused the heartbreak in the first place. We can learn from those mistakes, and we can get a little better at the practice of love.
Two months after Mom and Dad graduated from Delta High School, they got married in the Manti Temple. Dad had barely turned 18, and Mom didn’t turn 18 until two months later. They were youngsters. Nobody should get married that young, in my opinion. The odds of a couple that young–and therefore that dumb– staying together are miniscule. Mom and Dad somehow found a way to kick the odds and stick together. They lasted 59 years together before Dad died, in December 2007.
Dad suffered through his pain for two years. He stayed with us for as long as he could– for all of us, and especially for Mom. During the last two weeks of Dad’s life, Mom often told him it was okay for him to let go. She told him she would be okay. She told him we would all take care of her. Dad knew we would. But I believe one of the reasons Dad held on for so long is that he was trying to make it another few months, to be with Mom on their 60th wedding anniversary.
Of course, no matter when Dad died, Mom’s heart was going to break anyway. And when he finally did let go, her heart did break. Eleven years later, it’s still broken. But Mom’s heart is also still full of memories and time and the adoration Dad gave her. It’s impossible for that kind of splendid stuff to ever fall out of even the most broken heart.
Bow Tie o’ the Day is dressed in a field of red and white hearts on black silk. It clashes bigly with my newest cape. My heart-covered hat does some eye-popping clash as well.
As you probably guessed from the hearts on my cape’s pink side, this is my Valentine’s cape. Suzanne cut, assembled, pinned, sewed, and ironed it just for me. Just like she usually does. You know I have an obsessive hankerin’ for Suzanne-made capes. A girl can never have enough capes.
I’ve discovered that although wearing a cape doesn’t make me a superhero, wearing a cape does make me feel like I’m walking around in my blanket wherever I go. To me, that’s every bit as wonderful as being a superhero. (I asked Suzanne to make me a flannel cape for extra warmth, and she’s all for it.)
Especially as children, but also as adults, we have a tendency to mythologize our parents. We make them more than human. We make them bigger, smarter, funnier, braver, etc., than they really are. We think of them almost as superheroes. And that’s okay. I mean, to be fair, our parents think each of their kids is a genius, an all-state athlete, a musical prodigy, an artist, and a mythological character– all wrapped up into one snot-nosed brat.
Now, I know my parents aren’t perfect. You know your parents aren’t perfect. But they’re our parents. When we realize exactly how precious they are, their mistakes seem to recede into the horizon in our minds. Their greatest kindnesses and triumphs come to the forefront of our memories. We learn to forgive their mistakes and embrace their most excellent accomplishments. That’s as it should be.
Of course, we should try to improve on the worst qualities our parents handed down to us. And we should live by the best characteristics that live in them. We should carry their best characteristics with us always. We should tell stories and tall tales about our parents’ lives to our families and friends and whoever else will listen. That’s how we teach the important stuff forward.
Even when I’m wearing a fantabulous cape, I try to carry my parents’ best qualities with me. Perhaps one day, if somebody mythologizes me into a superhero, I’ll be able to fly in it.
Banana Cufflinks o’ the Day are fruitly whimsical, while red-and-gold, elegant Bow Tie o’ the Day begins a week of Valentine-y neckwear.
Valentines can be for everyone you love, but they are primarily for the one you love in the Cupid sort of way. If you haven’t yet made your Valentine’s Day plans for you and your one-and-only, you better hop to it. Time’s running out, and V-Day matters.
Should you treat your flame like every day is Valentine’s Day? Yes, you should. But daily life requires we do other things– like go to work, take care of the kids, do our taxes, get the car aligned, etc.. So it is imperative that you at least grab the one day a year designated for celebrating Cupid love, and make it a superb and unforgettable day for the two of you. If you stay with your soulmate the rest of your life– even if you both live long beyond your life expectancies– when you’re finally taking your leave from this planet, you’ll wish you still had more Valentine’s Days together. Trust me.
