When it comes to neckwear, you know I can’t get enough. More is more. And I often get an itch to wear both Ties o’ the Day and Bow Ties o’ the Day simultaneously. Fortunately, I have enough “bow tie ties” and “tie bow ties” in my collection to be able to indulge myself in whims such as this.
TIE O’ THE DAY has been up and running for nearly 5 years (plus another two years before the website was established), and in that time very few ties/bow ties have shown up in a post more than once. That excludes holiday pieces, which I think of nostalgically as I repeat them during each passing holiday season. It is true, though, that as I have naturally slowed down my acquisition of new neckwear, I now occasionally repeat a tie or bow tie. I suspect I’m choosing my favorites. Don’t get me wrong—I love all the critters upstairs in The Tie Room, but I freely admit that I do prefer the company of some of them more than others. And all the ties/bow ties probably feel a similar way about me. I know dang well I am not everybody’s cup o’ tea. I doubt there’s anything wrong with that. I know that as I get older, I find I have less and less patience for spending my ever-diminishing amount of life left dealing with folks who are not in my tribe. To belong to my tribe, nobody has to believe or act like me. That would be uninteresting and unenlightening. However, to be in my tribe, a person does have to value thinking and live in empathy—and have a good time while doing so. I’m not making a judgment of anybody’s worth: there’s a tribe for everybody. It’s just that I, personally, don’t want to waste any more of my fleeting time not feeling at home and content with the people I encounter. I’m done with contention and egos and pettiness. I just wanna be.
Hump Day—or any day of the week, for that matter—can always be made better by the wearin’ o’ the sequins. Yellow sequin Bow Tie o’ the Day proves it. A cowboy hat improves one’s fashion panache, as well. No day of the week should be dreary. Express your gratitude for the fact that you’re alive by choosing accessories that show your joy at being here on the planet. To wear sequins is to give a memorable wink to all the folks you encounter in your day. Stand out. There’s nothing wrong with letting people notice you exist. Let them see you are not afraid to show up as the star in your own life. You aren’t trying to hog all the attention. You’re simply saying, “I am here—and I’m grateful for the chance to be a part of it all.” 🤠
Disco ball Tie o’ the Day was my choice for an outing we took Saturday to R. C. Willey. For Suzanne’s birthday a few week’s ago, I told her to pick out a rug — any rug she wants — for the living room and that would be my birthday gift to her. She knows I am not a rug person, and I know she is very much a rug person. In fact, rugs might be the bigliest topic on which we are divided. I think I can coexist with rugs more easily than Suzanne can live without them, so I will bend on this matter.
Anyhoo… So, knowing that she would want to haul off to the new R. C. Willey in Layton, I went to their website. I scrolled through their whole selection: 304 different rugs (not including shag rugs). I put three rug possibilities in my virtual “shopping cart” for later reference. I thought each of them would “work” with our flooring. One of them was red and had Suzanne written all over it. If I had gone to pick out a rug for her myself, it’s the one I would have brought home. But, hey, it’s her gift, so it’s hers to choose.
At R. C. Willey, we were each going through every hung rug they had. I finished going through them before Suzanne was done, so I was getting ready to wander off while she made her choice. I went to her to tell her I was off to check out other sections of the store, and she said, “I found this rug I want to show you. It’s red.” “Show me,” I said. Oh, you know where this is heading. I looked at the rug, pulled out my phone with its virtual shopping cart, and said, “See. It’s the first one I picked out for you.” Yes, we know each other that well. It’s true that I could have saved a lot of time by ordering the rug and having it delivered when I first saw it, but saving time is not always the point. Spending time is sometimes the point. That’s how you get to know someone so well in the first place.
BTW I will post a pic of the red rug after it’s delivered in a couple of weeks.
Flip flop Bow Tie o’ the Day hitched a ride with me and Suzanne to the appointment with my Cranky Hanky Panky surgeon at Huntsman today. The radiologist’s report about my CT scan said my pancreatic stone had been crushed and the resulting rubble was making its way out of my body. I was hoping it was true, but there was no explanation for why I felt continued pain, if my problem really was solved. And then, my surgeon showed us my scans. She said, “Hey! The stone’s still there! It wasn’t blown to smithereens at all.” Even I could see the dang stone. The thing is, I don’t think the radiologist was a dope for misreading my scans. What’s left of my re-built pancreas is weird, and I’m sure it’s not easy to figure out. I’m just glad my pancreas doc wanted to look at the scans with us. The fact that she caught the radiologist’s error makes me doubly confident in her as my surgeon.
So, what does this mean? It means that all of the tests and procedures I’ve been having since February have not been able to deal with the pain in my Cranky Hanky Panky which is apparently a calcified-tissue factory. The next step is, unfortunately, surgery. There are a couple of hoops to jump through before surgery’s a 100% go, but as it stands now, I’m scheduled for surgery to extricate my pancreatic stone in early September. My Panky surgeon told us this surgery is done so rarely that there isn’t even an official name for it yet. It will be similar to the Whipple surgery I had three years ago on my pancreas. It will not be as extensive as the Whipple, but it will be more complicated, in the sense that because of my previous surgery, there is less of my Panky for my surgeon to work with, and my Panky now has scar tissue from the last operation.
I am not a happy camper, folks. If only a bow tie could solve my Cranky Hanky Panky pain, but it can’t. So often in life, we are left somewhere with no real choices. Stuff happens, or stuff doesn’t. We are called upon to endure stoopid stuff that, in itself, has no meaning for us. Stoopid stuff is not a judgment. It just is. How we endure it is where the meaning is made, and we get to make it mean whatever we choose. Will we build joy in what happens, or will we wallow and complain? We’re in charge of the meaning of our days. Choose wisely. Hey, I’m a happier camper already.
I tried to play my cards right. I figured a king card Bow Tie o’ the Day might be enough to win the Battle o’ My Pancreas. I spent yesterday having a follow-up ERCP procedure to see if the lithotripsy had pulverized the pancreatic boulder currently blocking my pancreatic duct. It was clear that the lithotripsy had failed to break the calcified thing. The ERCP doc attempted once again to remove it with the scope-claw gadget, but couldn’t even get close to it. What’s left of my Hanky Panky after my Whipple surgery three years ago is highly unusual, to say the least. Its duct is apparently impossible to navigate with even an endoscope.
Surgery is likely the only option I have left. I predicted at the outset—way back in February—that it would most likely turn out this way, but we had to try the least disruptive options first. Well, here we are. And I ain’t happy about it. Not one bit.
My Hanky Panky surgeon retired last week, so I have to set up an appointment to meet the surgeon he handed me over to. Perhaps she will have other options for me. I hope so, but I doubt it. I’ve seen enough doctors in my day to be able to read between the lines of what they actually say with their words, and through this whole process, what they’ve been saying is “You’re probably gonna need surgery.”
What can I say? I’m a rather healthy 57, other than having a Cranky Hanky Panky. I really can’t complain. I’m getting older. It’s just life. Stuff happens, and then you deal with it the best way you can. Might as well make people smile by wearing a novelty Bow Tie o’ the Day to your ERCP—and everywhere else you go. It works for me.
I wasn’t the only thing being worked on in Endoscopy.My trusty sidekick took the day off work to chauffeur me, so I didn’t drive after anesthesia.Surgery is probably the only option left. I ain’t happy about it.I wish we were leaving the Hospitals On The Hill for the last time.
My shaman Bow Tie o’ the Day is a nod to my spiritual bent. I am neither superstitious, nor a casualty of blind faith. I do, however, feel vibes of deeper threads always at work in the world around me. I play around with kismet, coincidences, connections, lucky streaks, and signs—fully aware that I am playing with, and creating, the very meaning that I crave. It’s an attitude that works for me. I can vouch for it for you, too.
This is one of my fave-rave Mask o’ the Day offerings of the pandemic year. Bow Tie o’ the Day is no style slouch either. I, on the other hand, am a mass of a mess today. For some reason I’m experiencing a convergence of all the characteristics I can’t stand myself to be, if only temporarily: grouchy, prickly, manic, depressed, impatient, agitated, pessimistic, defeated, and trapped. I hate when I feel any of these things—let alone when I feel the whole gamut all at once. Oh heck, I know this little storm o’ negativity will pass. It always does. At the very least, this mix reminds me I’m human, because I know we have all experienced the abyss. I’ve found the best cure is to reach out to help somebody who happens to be worse off—despite our own discomfort. And we all have to cut ourselves a whole lot of slack, too.
My “banned books” Face Mask o’ the Day reminds me that so many of these books address themes of various and sundry injustices. In 1853, The American Unitarian preacher, Theodore Parker, published a sermon called “Justice and the Conscience.” From its pages, I offer up this quote to chew on: “I do not pretend to understand the moral universe; the arc is a long one, my eye reaches but little ways; I cannot calculate the curve and complete the figure by experience of sight; I can divine it by conscience. And from what I see I am sure it bends toward justice.” I’d like to think my personal little moral arc bends toward justice. I know I want it to. I guess I better check myself on that a bit more often than I do—just to be sure. I recommend we all check ourselves about that.
I had to take a blood test for my crazy-head doctor, and a COVID-19 test before I’m allowed to go inside the hospital to have my ERCP procedure Friday. We have a U of U clinic about four blocks away, so I figured I’d head over there as soon as the clinic lab opened, and I’d be back home to do a morning TIE O’ THE DAY post before the day really got going. I left the house at 8AM. And then, suddenly, it was almost noon. That’s right. An annoying, but necessary, errand which should have taken 30 minutes to conquer, magically took 4 hours. Hey, we’ve all been there. Some days are like that, and you might as well smile through every minute of those days. There’s nothing more ridiculous to see/be than the poor fool who’s having an clumsy, luckless day and tries to fight it, but is unsuccessful. Sometimes it is best to accept your circumstances and press on as best you can. I was an illustration for the ages of this principle this morning.
So I went to the Centerville clinic just a few blocks away to get my two tests done. They could handle the blood test, but they had very recently quit doing COVID-19 tests at their location. I knew then that I would be driving somewhere else to get my COVID test, but I was already at this clinic, so I let them poke me for the blood test my crazy-head doc had ordered. With the blood test done, I drove out to the Farmington Health Center where I was sure they were still doing COVID testing. And they were. Now, I’d had the stick-poking-way-up-in-the-nose COVID test a few months ago. It made me sneeze, and it felt more obnoxious than painful. Today’s test was different. I was in charge of the swab sticks. I got to poke one swab stick in both my nostrils—swab, swab, swab. I then got to poke a second swab stick in my throat—swab, swab, swab. If my test comes back negative, I will be set for my ERCP Friday.
After I left the Farmington Health Center and headed in the direction of home, I spied HARMON’S at Station Park. I didn’t have a Goliath shopping list, but I needed a couple of things. I parked as close as I could to the front doors because the wind was getting serious about blowing, and things were turning cold. I was only in the grocery store for 5 minutes, but the wind was significantly windier when I carried my one bag of groceries out the door and into the parking lot. Out of nowhere, I was attacked by a stray shopping cart—piloted by no one but the gusts. It rolled over my toes and kept right on going. (A roll-and-run?)
I must pause here to tell you a true thing about me: I’m always the odd person who says things like, “Jesus would return his shopping cart.” I mean, if you’re gonna say you’re a Christian, then you better take every opportunity—bigly or small—to act like him. So right away I knew I had to wrangle that aimless shopping cart and put it where it belongs, where it can’t injure someone or someone’s property. Off, I ran across the parking lot. My goal was to snag the cart before it hit a group of cars it seemed to be aimed at. All the while, my bag of groceries is flying whichever way the wind haphazardly whipped it as I ran. Despite my “old broad” style of running, I gained on the shopping cart. Finally, before it ran into anyone or anything, I grabbed it. I stopped it. I pushed the cart against the gusts of wind and into a stall at the cart return. Next stop, my car.
Yup, I was panting up a storm because of the cart chase, and I was now far away from my car. My car was waaaaaaaaay across the parking lot from where I had ended up. I walked through the chilling wind, warmed by the feeling that I had done my tiny part to make the world a better place. I had put a fleeing shopping cart back on the right path.
But the wind was not done with me yet. I turned my head from side to side to keep an eye out for any approaching vehicles—or other stray shopping carts—as I trudged bravely across the parking lot to my Vonnegut Grace Vibe. Suddenly, a gust of wind—probably a tornado, I’m sure—caught one of my hearing aids in exactly the right/wrong spot. It blew my left hearing aid completely out of my ear! (For a moment, I thought I must be back in windy Delta.) Once again today, I was on the trail to catch something running away to who-knows-where. My runaway hearing aid had flown out of my ear, then dropped, then flown and dropped again and again, as I zig-zagged dramatically and desperately to tackle it. I would say that I probably looked to gawkers like I was performing some kind of expressionist dance routine, but I’m sure it didn’t look anything like that at all. And it’s not likely any passersby would have been able to see my minuscule hearing aid scurrying about. Nope, they would have seen only me, chasing the wild air. At least with the cart, an onlooker could see I was chasing after a delinquent shopping cart in the wind. The Hearing Aid Dance was a whole other enchilada.
After I got my still-functioning hearing aid back in my ear and was safely in my car, I realized I had just had some unplanned fine fun. I hadn’t wasted time and energy shaking my fist at the travails of my day. Bow Tie o’ the Day and I had simply danced through the bluster. All is well.
NEWS FLASH! The way we handle things is always a choice of our own making.
Here’s a photo of Mom at my Delta house, about 5 years ago.
I went with a floppy Bow Tie o’ the Day this afternoon, and I donned my “HATE HAS NO HOME HERE” Face Mask o’ the Day for my trip to the store. I was inspired to wear this mask because I keep thinking of my visit with Mom last week. Mom is bigly into kindness and compassion. Mom thinks people should be nice. At large family dinners, Mom took charge and said a few words before the prayer. She always found a way to incorporate the message that we should always be nice to each other and to others. Even with family, being nice is sometimes a difficult way to behave, but it’s still the right thing to do.
As Mom and I were sitting on her bed last week, she brought up kindness yet again. As we were chatting about various kindnesses that had been performed on behalf of our selves, I remembered my new word tattoos—”empathy” and “kindness”—which happened to be covered by my long-sleeved shirt. As I rolled up my shirtsleeves, I said “Mom, I know you don’t like tattoos, but you have to see my new ones. I think you’ll sort of appreciate them.” She said, “I don’t mind your tattoos. You can have whatever you want on you, and people can mind their own business if they don’t like it.” After I rolled up my shirtsleeves, Mom read each of the two words out loud. She was pleased. She even touched the words with her fingertips and told me whoever tattooed me had done a very good job.
Let me be clear: Mom is not a fan of tattoos on anyone, but she is too nice to say so. She’s not about to take a chance of making someone feel ashamed of themselves and their tattoos, just because tats are not her thing. She’s certainly not about to judge someone about something as surface-y as their skin getting inked. In fact, Mom pointed at my “empathy” and “kindness” tats and expressed a familiar sentiment. She said, “We’ll be judged on those words.” I can’t disagree with that.
And on we talked about the niceties of being nice.
