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Triple-A Baseball, Hot Dogs, And Fireworks

But first there was a rain delay at the Salt Lake Bees game last night. Like the good Boy Scout she is, Suzanne is always prepared. Here we are under her frog umbrella, during the rain delay before the bigly game. Baseball Bow Tie o’ the 4th was also glad we took a blanket to the ballpark.

I think pro baseball games run too long, unless you’re playing in one. And I never have. Of course, I can’t say that to anyone I’m related to because baseball has been good to a boatload of people in my family. Baseball has put a bunch of my family members through college, and one of my nephews spent a decade playing pro baseball. And yet… half-way through a pro baseball game, it is downright painful to me to watch the field. Crickets, I tell ya. Painful crickets!

I like the experience of the stadium. I like watching the spectators. I don’t mind paying $5 for a naked hot dog. I like watching the game’s dozen plays where something actually happens on the field. I can appreciate baseball’s complexities, skills, and strategies: they just don’t speak to me. Well, I guess they do speak to me. They say things like, “Only seven more OUT’s and we can go home!” Inevitably, I end up cheering for even my own team to accrue 3 OUT’s ASAP, so the game will pass more quickly.

Here’s how last night went: We played the game of finding a safe parking space by the stadium. The baseball game’s starting time was delayed almost an hour, cuz of rain. The game started, and then played and played and played and played and played. Between innings, people who were dressed up as produce ran a race (the ear of corn won); two women batted water balloons (they tied); kids stood on the bases as some kind of reward for something; a kid ran a race against himself; and other such things of interest occurred. The Bees won. We watched the stupendous fireworks from our stadium seats. (They weren’t as exciting as Delta’s fireworks, but nothing can be.) Then we made our way through alleys and vacant lots to find Suzanne’s car, which had made it safely through its sketchy parking space evening. And then it took us home to rescue Skitter from her crate. She seemed unfazed by any fireworks she might have heard in our absence.

Over all, we had a rip-roarin’ good time. We can have a blast anywhere. Why did I attend an event which doesn’t thrill me? First, Suzanne asked if I wanted to go. I do not say NO to Suzanne. And second, I sometimes like to re-try things I’ve decided aren’t for me, so I can know if I’ve changed my mind about not liking them. Last night I learned that although baseball changes (WTHeck is an OPS?), and although I change, neither of us has yet changed in ways that make us enjoy each other. Maybe next year.

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Neckwear Never Takes A Holiday

Skitter tolerates the neckwear stick props, but she does not like them. When she sees me pick one up, she stiffens. She probably thinks it’s my flyswatter. And where there’s a flyswatter, there is the potential for sudden noise. And where there is noise, there is the potential for all kinds of things that might not end well for Skitter. That’s what her pre-rescue life taught her about noise. She knows she’s safe with us, but it’s difficult for her to forget bigly bad stuff when you’ve had Skitter’s early life. Needless to say, I use stick props sparingly, and now that we don’t have a residence in Delta, I rarely have to use the flyswatter.

What I have no control over, however, is The Lightin’ O’ The Fireworks on the 4th of July, by organizations and municipalities, as well as by the rank-and-file U.S. citizenry. Skitter’s expression in her photo here sorta reflects what she told me as I held her stick prop Tie o’ the Day to her chest: “I’m proud to be ‘Merican, but I don’t like the fireworks.” And then she asked me to help her settle her nerves by shaking her a martini or six. She prefers an olive with hers, not a cocktail onion.

I decided I wanted to show y’all an icon three-fer in my July 4th selfie. I believe that, along with the obvious Bow Tie o’ the Day, nothing says ‘Merica like a bejeweled vinyl mustache and a Bat Sign. Freedom, my pals, isn’t just some stuffy ideal. It isn’t just about the freedom to do serious things. We have the freedom to have mindless fun. We can still love our country even as we laugh so hard we and our friends snort our Diet Coke through our noses. Been there, done that.

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This Post Has No Title

Honestly, sometimes I’m idea-less. For example, I can’t think of anything to write about right now. But I always like to show off the neckwear, even if my head is empty of stories or wit or what I call my sermons o’ wisdom. So here’s Tie o’ the Day, with its red, white, and blue peace signs. It can serve as a reminder of the possibilities for peace– especially for those of us who live in our U.S. of A.

Because we are free, we are free to take it upon ourselves to solve problems. We are free to try to bring peace and calm to chaos, wherever we find ourselves– in our homes or outside of them. When I say “free”, I mean we can choose to take on the challenges. We are free to do more than grumble and gripe about discord that exists in our homes, neighborhoods, states, country, and world. Griping can be a fine pastime, but it doesn’t accomplish anything. It doesn’t change what isn’t working. Start with changing your imperfect self. Transform yourself in ways you know you want to be better. Transform yourself in ways you know you NEED to be better, as well. You’ll grow increasingly at peace with who you are. Becoming more at peace with your transforming self brings a little more peace to the bigly picture that includes us all.

Did you see that? I just started describing my tie– and suddenly, a topic fell out of my head.

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Ya Gotta Be There

Tie o’ the Day flashes the country’s flag and the outline of the contiguous states of the United States o’ America. For the last few years I had the Delta house, we got ourselves all set up to watch the parade in our very own driveway gravel at the side of the road. The minute folks began to stake out their spots with their lawn chairs up on Main Street, I dragged ours out by the road in front of my house– as a gesture of solidarity with the rest of the town, while also gently razzing the tradition of staking off every inch of public parking on the mile-long Delta streets for the few days leading up to the 4th. Nevermind that the road in front of my house and Mom’s house is not, nor has it ever been, on the parade route. It was just fun to sit by the road with Mom and whoever else each day, drinking our sodas, and watching people try to figure out what the heck we were doing as they drove by.

The 4th of July in Delta is basically Christmas in shorts. It’s a bigly deal everywhere in the country, but nothing like in Delta. I have seen a lot of 4th’s in a lot of other places, and I am telling you Delta is the July 4th-iest place to be. It’s not that it has events and things to do which you can’t find at other 4th’s. It offers about the same stuff to do as any other Independence Day celebration I’ve attended, but it offers a key difference: The Spirit o’ the 4th of July. Everybody’s into it. It just plain matters.

There are really only two annual holidays in Delta: Christmas and the 4th of July. If you’ve moved away from Delta, you might come home for Christmas. But you WILL come home for the 4th of July. It’s what you do. I have never met people who feel such an intense desire to go back to their hometowns for the town’s July 4th celebration. Natives and Delta-natives-who-live-elsewhere plan their summer trips around Delta’s 4th of July. I kid you not. If you’re a Delta Rabbit, when you put away the Christmas ornaments each year, you start dragging out the 4th of July decor.

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Is It “Bow Tie” or “Bowtie?”

I am loved. My cheek is loved. The residents of The Tie Room and I sincerely hope your cheeks are loved too.

‘Tis the season for stars and stripes. Bigly jumbo butterfly-style Bow Tie o’ the Day shows off its patriotic print. It’s paired with my new black t-shirt, which I must say is traveling the bow tie road o’ life. I have no feelings either way about car brands, but Chevrolet’s got the bow tie emblem, so you know I must don Chevy-wear from time to time.

As you can see, the folks at Chevrolet’s advertising firm spell “bowtie” as one word. I do not. In terms of proper spelling/grammar, “bowtie” and “bow tie” are equally acceptable. For whatever reason, I have always gone with the two-word form of the term. [Regarding the term “necktie, my research shows that it is more acceptable to spell it as one word.]

In the scheme of things, probably nobody except me cares about the bow tie/bowtie question. In fact, I know I care about a lot of things which mean absolutely nothing to most other people. We’re all like that, but about varied things. I’ve got my interests. You’ve got yours. The interests that save me on a boring or bad day might not be the interests that save you. And vice versa. My neckwear fan club is smaller than your Utah Jazz fan club. But when it comes to what makes us excited about our days, the size of the club doesn’t matter. It’s the passion for the thing itself which moves our souls.

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I Wonder As I Wander

Saturday, I wandered aimlessly around LOWE’S in my Sloggers and Bow Tie o’ the Day, while Suzanne was on the search for, as she tried to tell me, “Blah blah blah… crown molding… blah blah blah… a wood shelf… blah blah blah… above the kitchen sink… blah blah blah… to display the salt-and-pepper shakers collection.” Suzanne had a purpose. I did not. Quite happily for both of us, I might add.

I am not a household project kind of gal. I’ve fixed my share of toilet tank hardware, and I’ve cleaned the snow off the DIRECTV dish. Other than those two things, pretty much anything else around the house that goes wrong really doesn’t matter to me. I can merrily live in ruins, as long as I can pee and watch tv. Besides, Suzanne can fix it. I don’t know why I’m not handy, but I’m not. I didn’t get the handy gene. Suzanne is handy though. I’m not even handy enough to be a helper.

I’ve written about this before, but it’s worth repeating: It’s good that Suzanne can do house projects on her own. Every few years, we try to do a house project together, which is why every few years we both end up calling divorce attorneys. OK, we don’t really make the phone calls, we just think about it. OK, we don’t really think about calling– we just joke about thinking about calling. We work well together on most things, but we can’t “build” together. We can’t “assemble.” Suzanne can only work in “boss” mode, and she thinks I should be able to read her mind about what she wants me to do next. I have no clue if there even is a next. It doesn’t mean we have a problem. It means we are wise enough to know our limitations. Now that I think about it though… I’m probably all the limitations. Suzanne can do anything.

At LOWE’S, I followed Suzanne to the crown molding section, and after a while I ambled off as I usually do. When I’m in a home improvement store, I somehow find myself in the DEWALT tools section for a while. DEWALT ‘s labeling and design uses black and yellow colors. Those colors remind me of Dad, aka, St. Ron of the Bees. And then I eventually end up by the orange cones o’ danger, thinking about the Coneheads on SNL back in the olden days– as well as how it would probably be wise for me to buy a few cones o’ danger to surround myself with if I get angry. How else will people know to keep their distance when I’ve got a ‘tude? Here’s a clue how you readers can tell if I’m angry: My first name will be spelled with two L’s, as in HELLen. If you see my name spelled with two L’s, do not make eye contact. Back away slowly from your screen.

I’m always amazed that when you go to LOWE’S for a particular item, you will likely walk out of the store with something completely different, for a completely different project. So what did we walk out of LOWE’S with? We walked out, not with crown molding, but with a bigly bag o’ paver sand and a full-coverage set of TYVEK safety coveralls. It was probably a successful home improvement store shopping trip, but I’m not even handy enough to know if it was, or not.

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Gracie Gets A Blessing, But Not A Photo

The divine Miss Grace Anne Blackwelder received her name-and-a-blessing in church yesterday. It was a momentous occasion, so I knew I needed extra eyes to take it all in. My wood, eyewear Bow Tie o’ the Day volunteered to give me two extra lenses for the event. Suzanne even accompanied me to Provo for Gracie’s bigly day. It was Suzanne’s first time attending church with me at Bishop Travis’ and Bishopette Collette’s ward. It was also Suzanne’s first meeting with Gracie.

Of course, my SWWTRN was there. My oldest sister, Mercedes Rae, and her husband, Nuk, attended the bigly event as well. Bishopette Collette’s entire Family Tree seemed to be in attendance too. They are a gregarious and welcoming bunch of folks. As far as I could tell, not one of ’em was afraid of Bow Tie o’ the Day.

Bishop Travis’ blessing on Gracie was a marvel. He does not give cookie cutter, fill-in-the-blanks blessings. When Bishop Travis offers a prayer of any kind, you have to pay attention. You have to think. For example, his blessing upon Gracie included a brief acknowledgement and appreciation for the birth mother who made the difficult decision to give up a baby, which made it possible for Travis and Collette to receive the miracle of Gracie. And it also made it possible for Gracie to receive the miracle of Travis and Collette. Sometimes others pay a big part of the price, for something which enriches us.

Gracie’s fans lined the pews of the chapel. We covered at least three of the long, center rows. All through Sacrament Meeting, Gracie was lifted over heads and over pews, from one person who already loves her, to the next, and to the next. She was body-surfing the crowd. Gracie slept through almost all of the holding, rocking, kisses, and love. But I’m sure her soul drank it in.

Gracie was so busy receiving loves and smooches from the multitudes, I couldn’t get one snapshot of her.

FYI Suzanne made the quilt you see here especially for Gracie to share with Mom and Dad. Bishop Travis was never a child: he was a caped superhero throughout his kidhood. Mostly, he was Batman. Now, Travis and Collette work for BYU as important Cougar superheroes of some kind. The quilt had to combine superheroes and BYU. Gracie really is a Wonder Woman already, so that fabric was a must. The BYU fabric was a perfect clash-match choice. Suzanne nailed the themes beautifully.

Another FYI I like bragging about what Suzanne creates.

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It’s Lookin’ Good

SCAR UPDATE! Bow Ties o’ the Day present my scar, exactly one year after it was carved into my belly during my pancreaticoduodenectomy. 6 inches o’ scar! It is healing well. It’s gradually whitening up, especially on the left end so far. It will never be invisible, but it will fade. I don’t mind having a scar on my body. It’s like my wrinkles and gray hairs: I earned them all. Deal with them or look away. In a way, they are my body’s evidence of parts of my life’s story. This is my only physical scar. If it were my style to wear bikinis, I’d still wear one. I am not ashamed to show what my belly has been through, inside or out.

RECOVERY UPDATE! My handsome Hanky Panky scar is an adequate symbol for my year o’ post-operation recovery. I can report that every step in the healing process has been textbook, best-case scenario, near-perfection. I’m feeling substantially less Hanky Panky pain. I’ve done everything Dr. Mulvehill told me to do to heal. Suzanne made sure of that. She has taken good care of me and she did all the heavy lifting, as they say. She fussed at me to slow down when I got over-zealous about how much I could do. I learned Suzanne knows how to scold when she sees bad behavior. (It’s kinda funny though. She didn’t seem to know how to use that disciplinary skill when Rowan was a young’un. Alas! I was always the bad cop o’ his kidhood.)

I continue to feel weird tugs and pulls in my torso, but throughout the last year, they have lessened in terms of pain, oddity, and regularity of occurrence. I notice them most now when getting in and out of bed, and when using my bigly strength to push something down– like closing my car’s obnoxiously heavy hatch or pushing down the lid on my mini keg.

I’ve been extra cautious with my recovery. (Except for falling down the stairs while running. Twice. And a few other not cautious things we won’t talk about now.) I rested and rested and rested until my rester was sore. I didn’t lift anything but Popsicles and Diet Cokes for the first two months after the operation. I’ve gotten my stamina back almost completely, because I go for walks.

Also, I take what I call My Pancreas with every meal. My Pancreas is a bigly capsule containing a prescription pancreatic enzyme which helps what’s left of my pancreas do its job. I take My Pancreas very seriously. I am beyond diligent about taking it when I feast. I have, on only a couple of occasions, forgotten to carry it with me when we’ve gone out to eat. At one restaurant, I was so surprised and aghast I didn’t have My Pancreas that– upon discovering it wasn’t in my pocket– I said a little too loudly, “I forgot to bring My Pancreas!” That entire evening, I got the distinct impression nobody at the restaurant noticed my bow tie or my cape. Instead, they were straining to see if there was evidence of a nook, cranny, or cupboard somewhere on the side of my gut where a pancreas could be kept or let out.

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Whew! I’m Glad THAT’S Over

On this date and at this very hour last year, I was being gutted at Huntsman Cancer Institute. (You can see in the photo that Bow Tie o’ the Day jumped on my neck right after I got into my regular hospital room.) After nearly 20 years of chronic idiopathic pancreatitis, I’d had enough. Most of my dastardly pancreas (my Hanky Panky) had to go. With it, went my gall bladder, duodenum, and a bit of my small intestine. And finally, my surgeon had to replumb my innards. Whenever I tell the story of my surgery, I am most excited to tell this detail: While hacking out 2/3 of my pancreas, my surgeon, Dr. Sean Mulvehill, found and removed a bunch of pancreatic stones the size of olives! That’ll clog your pancreatic duct! Olive-sized stones! That’s my fave part of my whole surgery tale to tell.

In today’s later post, I’ll write a very tiny update about my recovery, and I’ll show y’all a Scar Update, so be warned.

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My Eyes Are Getting Sleepy, Sleepy, Sleepy

That kind of day when one of your email accounts locks you out and you’re not sure if you’ve been hacked or if you just hit the wrong button the last time you used it and you’ve run out of options for troubleshooting the problem so you decide to grit your teeth and call CenturyLink to unlock your account and let you make a new password so you can use your CenturyLink email again and after a while the techie on the phone tells you it works now and so you end the call and go to check your account and you’re still locked out so you call CenturyLink a second time and go through the whole Concocting o’ the New Password and the Unlocking o’ the Old Account with a second person and finally your account really works this time but you realize that you have spent almost three hours of your morning on the phone with CenturyLink just to get you back to normal in your email situation and then you realize that being patient with techies on the phone for almost three hours not only blew your entire morning’s work and errands it exhausted your bipolar noggin and now all you want to do is tie on a wienerdog-wearing-a-bow-tie Tie o’ the Day and take a nap in the recliner while curled up in the tv blanket Suzanne made you and then you’ll contemplate how it is that being polite and patient with your email account problems and the phone techies who helped solve them can make you so very very sleepy.

Yeah, that kind of day.