Wood Bow Tie o’ the Day and I are pleased to introduce you to my latest Face Mask o’ the Day, which is covered in models of the specific coronavirus which creates COVID-19. Yup, because I acquired this mask, I can truthfully say I recently got COVID-19—kinda, sorta. Trust me—I’m very well aware that I’m having a much better experience dealing with my fabric virus than those who have gotten the real virus. I get through the stresses and inconveniences of the pandemic by utilizing the same tools I use to get through any predicament: factual information and humor. Those two tools will work for anyone, I promise.
I got my first COVID-19 shot this morning. I had planned to take Skitter with me to keep me company in the car while I endured a reputed long wait in line to receive the first of my two vaccinations. However, as I was gathering my books and music to leave for my appointment, I asked, “Skitter, do you wanna go on an errand with me?” She barely raised an eyelid. She was clearly content to remain in her sleeping-in mode. How could I possibly drag her out of her cozy slumber? So I took this photo of her ignoring me, and I headed out the front door.
I am here to tell you that the Davis County Health Department has really got their “sh*t” together—I mean their “shot.” Following the new vaccination guidelines, I was able to get my shot about a month before they originally anticipated folks in my age-group would even be able to sign up. I emailed them yesterday, and 5 minutes later, I had an appointment for today. I arrived for my appointment about 10 minutes before my scheduled time. I followed the car directly ahead of me through the twisty, busy parking lot, all the way into a stall inside the Legacy Center building. There, I turned off my car and sat for a total of 4 minutes, while I answered a few questions, got a few warnings about possible obscure side effects, and ultimately got stabbed with my shot. I then started my car again, cranked up the Amanda Shires cd I was listening to, and drove out of the building. Before I knew it, I was done with Part 1 of my entire pandemic vaccination adventure—a couple of minutes before my actual scheduled appointment time.
The front-line folks running the vaccination clinic were efficient, willing to answer questions, and even appreciative of my chatty humor. One guy—the nurse who shot my arm—liked my wood Bow Tie o’ the Day so much that I tried to give it to him. He told me that in a different context, he would have gladly received Bow Tie as the simple gift of appreciation I meant it to be, but since he was there as a professional nurse, he could not accept it. I completely understood. Kudos to people with principles, who aren’t shy about living by them.
BTW Since I have a history of instances of severe allergic reactions to a couple of medications and bee stings (requiring me to carry an EpiPen), my shot nurse requested that I wait in my car in the Legacy Center parking lot for at least 30 minutes before I headed home, just in case I were to have an adverse reaction to the vaccine. He suggested I park as near to the ambulance in the parking lot as I could—just in case. In my experience, I have found that no matter what the job is, those people who think of the “just in case” scenarios for others end up becoming the best at whatever they do.
I decided my Big Willie’s Plumbing Repair t-shirt was appropriate to wear to my appointment with my innard doctor at Huntsman today. I threw in a nautical-themed wood Bow Tie o’ the Day to encourage the “smooth sailing ahead” vibe. My doctor appreciated my choices.
Suzanne had to work, so I took the Saddle Purse with me as my official hospital escort. As you can see, Saddle Purse doesn’t always obey the rules we mere mortals do. As I sat in the waiting area to be called to the exam room, Saddle Purse just had to strike up a protest against the tyranny of scientific facts by flagrantly sitting in the restricted chair beside me. I felt kinda bad for my rebel pal, the Saddle Purse, because no one took offense at its blatant civil disobedience. There ensued neither yelling nor scuffling at the Saddle Purse’s public defiance. A few passers-by pointed directly at the Saddle Purse and told me it was “so cute.” It’s mighty difficult to create a newsworthy brouhaha when we, the people, are slinging compliments at a full-fledged protester. There’s a lesson in that for us all if we will pay attention, I am sure. Just sayin’.
The actual appointment with my Cranky Hanky Panky surgeon went pretty much as I had imagined it would. My doctor read the organs in my abdomen like they were written in Braille. He did not particularly like what he read when he poked the area of my pancreas. He especially didn’t like that I nearly jumped off the exam table in a shot of pain when he poked my Cranky Hanky Panky point-blank. Still, my doctor and I agreed to not worry about my teensy, wayward organ until we know anything specific about its current state of being. I told him we might as well assign all the worrying to Suzanne, since nobody’s gonna be able to stop her from from doing it anyway. But there’s certainly no need for the rest of us to suffer needlessly.
After my chat with the doctor, I gave what felt like a fishing pond full of my blood for lab tests today. The first available CT scan I could schedule is in mid-March, so I have plenty of time to study for that test. And then the first available appointment I could schedule with my doctor to discuss my various test results is in April. That’s gonna make for a long month of uncertainty. I resolve to be patient and hopeful, while still allowing myself occasional fits of childish impatience and mortal fear. Fun times ahead, boys and girls! And, as always, y’all are free to join me for the entire tour.
Everyone needs a cow-covered Face Mask o’ the Day and a crossword puzzle Bow Tie o’ the Day—as well as a pair of Bernie-Sanders-at-the-Inauguration socks. Okay, maybe not absolutely everyone needs these things, but I do. They keep me somewhat grounded in my authentic style during my times of roller coaster brain chemistry. The spirit o’ Bernie has warmed my feet on some of these days. Yes, the spirit o’ Bernie’s mittens has been punching right along with me through my most recent boxing match with my own complicated, manic-depressive head.
As my head finally started to find its balance a week or so ago, I was finally able to jot down some tblog ideas for updating y’all about my shenanigans you missed out on while I was not up to the demands of writing TIE-O-THE- DAY content. I went to bed that night, fully intending to get up at the crack of dawn and write a bigly original post the next morning, when—WHAM!—the ghost of my bum pancreas (my Hanky Panky) woke me up at 3AM with lightning strikes o’ pain. Two-and-a half years ago, I had successful Hanky Panky surgery, which left me with only one-third of my pancreas. Despite my Panky’s smaller size, I have been in relative Pancreas Heaven ever since the operation—until that night last week. Just my luck: I was thrown out of the bipolar frying pan, and into the pancreatic fire!
The sudden, old Panky pain felt entirely too familiar to me. Since then, I’ve been trying to ignore the discomfort, which has ebbed and flowed but hasn’t completely gone away. I luckily managed to wrangle an in-person appointment with my Hanky Panky surgeon at the Huntsman Cancer Institute tomorrow. I have bigly confidence that my doc can figure out what the Hell-en is going on with my Cranky Hanky Panky innard. A battery of tests and scans will follow over the next few weeks, I have no doubt. I am not askeered. Suzanne is askeered for me, but she shouldn’t be. She made me promise a long time ago that I won’t die before she does, and I consider it my main job to always keep my promises to Suzanne.
After much contemplation, I have decided I will gladly take painful flak from my teeny Hanky Panky any day of the week, over being lost in the dangerous labyrinth of my bipolar brain. Physical pain only hurts. Bipolar anguish, on the other hand, can trick you into thinking you can instantly make the world a better place by simply jumping off the nearest craggy cliff into your own annihilation. Hey, folks, how ’bout let’s none of us buy into that slick trick o’ the mind.
Anyhoo… I’m crossing my Cranky Hanky Panky that TIE-O-THE-DAY is back for a while, whether you’re ready for it, or not.🤠👔
[Another re-post. Thanks for your patience, while I try to corral my wild brain.]
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 pink 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. 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 and literal 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’.
[I think my noggin is on the mend. Nevertheless, I’m not back in writing shape yet. Enjoy another Valentine season re-post.]
The wall-hanging in this photo has shown up in the background of a lot of my post pix. It dominates our living room, on purpose. Mom chose a similar saying for the back of her and Dad’s headstone. The gist of its message is the over-arching truth with which I was raised. And it still frames the way I try to live my life.
To love and to be loved are not two separate things. Happiness comes from making and keeping them one thing together. (I’m not just talking about romantic love.) We love who we love. And we want their love in return, but we often don’t allow ourselves to accept it. Too often we don’t feel worthy of it, or we push it away because we don’t want to risk the chance we might get hurt. Loving and being loved is definitely going to have its pains, but think of them as growing pains. That’s what most of the hurts are. They are signs a relationship needs some overhauling in order to grow. So work on it. The payoff will happen if both parties are willing to give and take the love the work requires.
You can find love all over the place. For example, I’m wearing dog bones Bow Tie o’ the Day in Valentine’s Day honor of all the mutts in my life who have loved me. And in honor of my skittish Skitter who is snoring beside me as I type this post. She loves me even in her sleep. Our dogs simply love us. And they so clearly assume that we will love them back. They trust us. They expect us to befriend them and care for them. They make us better people because we cannot help but melt in their presence, like we give ourselves over to any baby that is near us. We coo at dogs. We talk to dogs in our baby-talk voices. We want to feed dogs and touch them and protect them. We want to cover them in warm blankies. Dogs pull the best parts of our hearts out into the open.
With my bipolar head, sometimes I feel lost and foreign even to myself. Having a dog around when I’m on one of my mental extremes can make me feel like I’m at home in myself, even if the feeling comes and goes. Even Skitter, who was severely abused before she rescued us, makes me feel at home in my bipolar self—just by following me around, or doing her chew dance, or prancing to the mailbox with me. Skitter’s abuser could not destroy Skitter’s capacity for love. That’s how strong love is. I can’t help but exude love for her. She brings out the baby-talk in me. “Skitter, are you ready to go walkie?” The love goes both ways. That’s happiness. Her giving and receiving love is healing The Skit. And it changes me. It strengthens an attitude that stays with me in my dealings with my fellow beings.
Perform love, wherever you go. Let your love rain down like glitter from the heavens.
That’s my sermon for this morning, and I’m sticking to it.
Our Bow Tie o’ the Day is on a pair of boxer briefs some anonymous TIE O’ THE DAY sent me. I decided the showy, formal boxer briefs would best be presented here if I wore them over my jeans. Aren’t they groovetastic? I could not wait until next Christmas season to show y’all my new treasure.When I receive the occasional tie-related gift in the mail, I am always reminded how blessed I am to be able to write these posts and have actual people pay attention to them. I am blessed to be able to connect in this way with folks I have somehow encountered along my life’s adventurous, meandering course. The list o’ blessings that have graced my life—and continue to do so—is too long to recount. Suffice it to say this: I usually feel as if I live in a kind of existential snow globe, in which, instead of the falling “snow,” blessings fall onto me every time my little world gets tipped over. I choose to see it that way. I suggest you view your world with a pair of blessing-colored glasses on occasion. It does wonders for your spirit.
Floppy Bow Tie o’ the Day gets kinda lost in my shirt, but “lost” is as fun a look as anything else. I’ve actually been lost in books today—moving them into organized-by-author stacks. When organizing your library, it doesn’t matter what organizing principle you use, as long as you use it consistently throughout. I’m toying with the idea of some day arranging the books in order of when I first read each tome. The problem with that organizing principle is that it would work only for me, and Suzanne would be up a creek without a bookmark.
I was also going through magazines so I can toss them. In one of the magazines, I read a simple and yet profound quote in an interview with the Tony-winning, Emmy-winning, Oscar-winning actor, Viola Davis. Speaking about how some people struggle to feel valuable even in their own lives, she said the following: “There are all these tickets into worth. In this culture you’re always showing someone your worth. But the only real ticket into worth is that you were born. That’s it. Over and out.” You are just as valuable as anyone else. You are neither more valuable, nor are you less valuable. To deliberately injure someone in any way is to believe that you are more valuable than they are. I’m here to kindly tell you that you are not.
[This is a repeat of a photo and its accompanying post from 2018.]
Bow Tie o’ the Day and I are practicing our scary faces for Halloween, even though it’s still January. Clearly, we need to work on more looks o’ horror. We woke up this morning and simply decided we wanted to give in to our whim to wear our orange and black today.
It is said that we should follow our arrows. I agree with that advice, but I also believe in indulging our whims. To me, your arrow is usually a big, abstract, directional kind of concept—like where you want to go in your career; how you want your family to be; your personal goals and values.
Whims, on the other hand, are very specific things that add panache and wonder to your life. They should celebrate your individuality and give you singular joy. It’s usually best if your whims reflect your arrow, but sometimes you need a whim to be so out-there that it knocks your arrow’s arc into a better path than you aimed your arrow in the first place.
Both things matter. I do have to say that, although I’m a dang good see-er o’ the expansive picture o’ The Big Arrow, I’ve become quite wrapped up in committing as many whims as I can at this point in my life. Hey, folks! We’re all running low on years.
The best way I can explain it is that we spend so much of our adulthood making sure we’re following our Big Arrow (family, career, education, etc.), and then at some point we realize our Big Arrow’s traveling just fine without our constant fussing over it. Ain’t really no knockin’ it off its path now. We don’t need to worry quite so much about the trajectory of the Big Arrow we’ve tended so well for years. The aim of our Big Arrow is true. It has become who we are. It is the sum of our lives. We decided its path long ago and adjusted it as needed. We can now use the auto pilot we’ve achieved through decades of living true to our Big Arrow. Our autopilot can do its job to get us to our desired cosmological destination.
Now’s the time for whims. We should “whim around.” We should have whimsical attitudes. We should do things in a “whimmerly” way. We should exercise our “whimmers.” We should expand our “whimmerosity.” We should do “whimmerrific” activities. I could continue to come up with oodles more words o’ whimsy—real and made-up. But you get the idea.
I am my own Whim-meister. You are your own Whim-meister. Let us play on! 🤡 😜
I got out my going-to-Miss-Tiffany’s-to-get-my-hairs-cut Tie o’ the Day this morning. However, when I called to alert Miss Tiffany I’d be showing up if she had time for me and my head hairs today, I was informed that she had the day off. Oh, well. I was okay with having to re-arrange how I had planned my day to play out, but I didn’t want my hairs-cuttin’ scissors tie to feel disappointed it wouldn’t get to be in this afternoon’s post, so I dug through a box to find some old hairs photos for Tie to pose with.
Here are front and back pix of me and Rowan from 2009, inside the front door of our house in Ogden. We happened to both be growing out our hairs at about the same time then. When we finally had our head hairs chopped off later that year, we donated our locks to make wigs for cancer patients.
Rowan’s teacher in 2009, at Hillcrest Elementary, was Mrs. Cameron. Rowan wasn’t much of a school terror that year, so I only met Mrs. Cameron once, in passing, at a school event. She seemed pleasant enough, and she was a tremendous influence on Rowan at the time. We heard plenty of Mrs. Cameron stories from Rowan around the dinner table—none of which I can remember now. Flash forward to last year at about this time. My sister, BT/Mercedes, sent me a heartbroken text about one of her long-time friends dying suddenly of pancreatic cancer. BT said the woman was smart, and kind, and generous right down to her toes. According to BT, her friend was a genuinely good-hearted being. BT said she had been a teacher in Ogden schools, and her name was Jeanne Cameron.
I did some fact-checking with Suzanne and realized Rowan’s incredible 6th Grade teacher and my sister’s incredible friend were one and the same person. You know how I am about connections and coincidences—and what we are supposed to learn from them. This woman was important in my sister’s life for decades, and this woman was a significant player in Rowan’s life for only one key year. It wasn’t until ten years after Rowan was done with 6th Grade—and Mrs. Cameron had just passed away—that BT and I accidentally stumbled upon the coincidence. Does this tiny connection mean something bigly and specific about the universe? Probably not. On the other hand, I think it is—at the very least—a reminder that we are likely the constant beneficiaries of the work of “strangers” who are connected to us in ways we will likely never know. That is yet another reason we should be civil to people, whether we know them or not.
