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The First Of Two Things

Check it out: I believe my shirt collar is a bigly bit too large, since my face fits in it. Tie o’ the Day is a lovely purple, silver, and gray kids’ tie. The sun was bright as could be outside this morning when I snapped the washed-out photo. I got to my appointment early and just hung around listening to tunes in the car– and taking washed-out TIE O’ THE DAY pictures. You can at least see the short length of Tie. Its colors pop out at ya in the photo of me and the TMS equipment. You know– if I flipped the electromagnetic gadget on its side, it would look like Mickey Mouse ears. I’ll try to capture a pic of that.

Behold! Sloggers o’ the Day are not my faves. I doubt My Saddle Purse is fond of them either. The shoes’ print design is not even close to my style. The design and colors remind me of Momo (my grandma Wright), whose style was always elegant and impeccable. But her style is not mine. I think I decided on these Sloggers simply because they make me think of her. That’s reason enough to wear them.

First today, I have a gripe. Our dryer died over the weekend. It was at least twenty years old when we inherited it, and it’s been one of the family for the past twenty years. Its efficient longevity is amazing, so it deserves to rest now in Dryer Heaven. I do not begrudge the dryer for giving up the ghost.

Suzanne did her consumer research and decided on the best new dryer for us. It is now bought and paid for, as they say. Unfortunately, it can’t be delivered and installed until next Friday. By that time, we will have lived without a dryer for TWO WHOLE WEEKS! That ain’t right. We are growing the dirty clothes piles to prove it. I can dry clothing on the deck if we get desperate, but that would result in a costly fine from the Homeowners Association. Perhaps we could use this unfortunate event as an excuse to buy more clothing, cuz you can already tell I don’t have enough to wear.

And second, …… I will save the second topic for my next post. Meanwhile, I assure you that my TMS treatments are safe. Worry not, friends! I will ‘splain to you why this is a good thing for me to try. 7down, 29 to go.


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Visiting Mom In Deltassippi A Couple Of Weeks Ago

M & M’s Bow Tie o’ the Day knows as well as anyone that a trip to see Mom at Millard Care and Rehab is a trip for Suzanne to see the other Mom also, as in MOM’S CRAFTS. Yup, Deltatucky is a two-mom town for Suzanne. I hang with Mom. Suzanne hangs with Mom AND the Mother of All Fabric Stores.

M & M’s Bow Tie also reminded me to deliver a very important gift for Mom. You see, every Easter season, when all the malted milk ball eggs show up in the stores, and the Peeps take their place alongside them in the Easter candy aisle, I buy Mom a bag of spiced jelly bean eggs. This year, when I thought about getting them for her, I figured I should skip it– since her blood sugar has been fiendishly high. I hoped she wouldn’t think about them this year. When I went to visit Mom a month ago, all she could talk about was the bag of spiced jelly beans I didn’t show up with. I wasn’t going to let that happen again, so on my last visit– a couple of weeks ago– I made triple-sure I delivered a bag o’ spiced jelly beans to her bedside.

Should I have given her such a sugary treat? Not really. But Mom is 88. She knows all about her high blood sugar. If she wants to risk eating a bag of Brach’s Spiced Jelly Beans so badly, she’s going to get ’em from me. I might be 55, but I am still Mom’s baby– and I do not say NO to my mother. Never have. Never will. My job is to spoil Mom. And I’m telling you right now: If Mom wants a six-pack of Budweiser to drink, a pipe to smoke, and a tin of Copenhagen to chew ‘n’ spit, I will get them for her. I will even barricade her door at MCR while she partakes of her vices, so she won’t get caught by her “guards” while she’s being bad.

BTW   When I was at MCR last time, I left Skitter with Mom in her room while I talked with a couple of family members in the hall near the facility’s entrance. Well, out of nowhere, here comes my pal, Katie, who takes such good care of Mom at MCR. Katie took one look at me and immediately said, “Oh, didn’t Skitter come down with you today?” I told her Skitter was in with Mom. And, without one more word to me, off Katie went to check it out I guess. Apparently, Katie was done with me. So I went back to the conversation I had been having with my people. Later, I looked for Katie throughout the day, but I couldn’t find her again before Suzanne and Skitter and I had to head back to the bigly city. I have always joked that it’s Skitter who MCR really likes to see show up, not me at all. Now– thanks to Katie– I know it’s not a joke. It’s true. Skitter is my ticket in. As long as I have her, I’ll be welcome at MCR. I hope.

[Note to Katie: I’m exaggerating that tiny story bigly, for the purpose of increasing chuckles. But I really did try to find you, and couldn’t.]

FYI   Yes, that’s Suzanne in one of the photos, showing Mom my purse. My purse gets around. I wonder if it “sleeps around,” as well.

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It’s Downright Shocking

Bow Tie o’ the Day “enjoyed” a round of electromagnetically attacking my Brain o’ the Day. 6 Down, 30 to go. I will make it. My skull might not, but I will.

Here I am with the electromagnetic coil stuck against my head. It looks like an innocent reading lamp, which it is certainly not. Each daily treatment lasts only twenty minutes, which doesn’t seem like a long time– until you understand it’s twenty minutes of painful pulses almost continually bombarding your noggin. I get a few seconds of rapidly repeating shocks, followed by fewer seconds of PAUSE, then back to the pulses, and so on. When the coil sends the shocks through my skull, it sounds exactly like a sewing machine needle going up and down. It feels like it too. See, you learn something from my posts every day.

And here are my Sloggers ankle-boots. I only have one pair. I’m not really an ankle-boot garden shoe kind of girl, I guess. Y’all seem to like my Sloggers, so I’ll show ’em to ya. I don’t know if any of my Sloggers like my treatments, but they’re going with me anyway. They can stare at my purse with me for twenty minutes.

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Dog Paws Smell Like Corn Chips

A canine miracle happened on this date, nineteen years ago. My pup, Araby, was born. Tie o’ the Day is sooo Araby. Tennis balls filled her mind. Sleep was also important to her. She liked to sleep almost as much as Suzanne does. In these photos, Araby strikes three of her greatest sleep-pose hits.

Araby was not “planned.” When I moved back to Utah from Maryland, I left my ex there. I brought three suitcases with me on the plane. That’s it. I brought what I could carry. I didn’t want anything else. My ex’s sister picked me up from the SLC airport and took me to her house to visit her kids before I hitched a ride to Delta. The minute I walked into my ex’s sister’s house, the kids pelted me with hugs. And the most extraordinary yellow lab puppy ran to me too. It didn’t belong to the kids. Apparently, my ex had called her sister and  arranged for a puppy to be waiting there for me. I knew exactly why my ex had done it. She knew I was in a dangerous place on my bipolar pendulum. I had walked away from everything I had in Maryland, and I’d had a lot. My ex knew that if I had a puppy who needed me, I would most likely be safe from suicide. It was the most loving thing my ex had ever done for me, and I will bless her forever for that caring act.

I adore every dog who has ever been a pal to me, but Araby was The One. Araby was the Dog o’ My Life. She seemed to understand my bipolar head from the second we met. From the beginning, her forehead even had the same worry furrows I was born with. I don’t think she was bipolar, but she knew things about my moods even I didn’t know. She could see things coming. She had my number, as they say. She pushed my buttons in positive ways. If I was lost in my precarious depths, Araby rescued me: She had a habit of coming to where I sat and putting her paw on my knee, to bring my crazy head back to a better realm. Araby was also a willing audience for my writing. I would read a draft of a poem out loud, and Araby sat up and seemed to listen seriously, as if it was her job to critique my work. She was a terrific editor.

Araby had been with me about seven years by the time I decided beer was no longer my friend. She was wary of me for the first few days after I quit drinking. She kept her distance. I guess I didn’t smell or act like the me she knew. When that happened, I was afraid I’d lost her love. For the briefest of moments, I thought I would have to start drinking again– to win back her affection. But she warmed up to me all over again, and she decided she loved me sober. Smart dog.

FYI   I came up with Araby’s name immediately when I laid eyes on her. Her face resembled that of an Arabian horse. (Dad just called her Arby.)

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In Praise Of Taxes

I’m wearing my IRS Tie o’ Tax Day, displaying a cartoon icon of the poor guy who is left with only a barrel to wear after he paid his taxes. At some point this afternoon, I’ll switch to my paper money Tie o’ Tax Day. BONUS! Here’s a gander at my chicken Sloggers, as I wore them in my TMS treatment chair this morning (5 treatments down, 31 to go). Who knew garden shoes could be so clever?!

Anyhoo… Yes, it’s that time again. It’s my annual, boring Tax Day post, in which I declare that I get more for my tax dollars than for any other dollars I spend. Don’t get me wrong. I gripe about paying taxes too. But when I remind myself to look at the larger picture I get a grip on my griping. My perspective and attitude always change when I look beyond li’l ol’ me and my personal bank balance. Ultimately, I guess you could say I’m happy to pay my taxes. I even feel sort of blessed to do so. (Don’t faint about that last sentence.)

Blame my dad. He’s the one who prodded me to seriously look around at what my taxes pay for. He’s the one who made it clear to me that there is no way we could have the things we need/want without substantial taxes. He’s the one who showed me we get more than our money’s worth when we pay our taxes. Dad really, really, really, really hated paying taxes, but it didn’t stop him from understanding how much we benefit from what we pay.

We do pay a ton of taxes, but we get a ton of goods and services. Without a complicated combination of city, county, state, and federal taxes, we wouldn’t be able to live our free and secure lives. Think of just some of the “gifts” we get, just for doing nothing more than being born in this country: schools( complete with bus drivers and crossing guards); libraries; parks; sports facilities and programs; roads; bridges; infrastructure (water, sewer, landfills, and more); the military; police officers; EMT’s; firefighters; Medicare/Medicaid; etc. We get services we don’t even know we get– like super secret national security programs that secure us and the communities we have created. I could list more– on and on and on, I could yammer. There is no way I could pay for everything I use. My check helps keep me in neckwear. And it helps keep my family fed and clothed and entertained, but it’s sooooo not bigly enough for me to build an elementary school.

Are some of our tax dollars wasted? Yes. Do some people not pay their fair share of taxes? HELL, YES! We need to work on that stuff. Will I continue to gripe about paying my taxes? Yes, I will. Will I get over it? Yes.

And now I’m off to drive on a road I couldn’t possibly have afforded to build on my own.

End of patriotic preaching.

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Warning! Read Product Labels Carefully!

Tiny Bow Tie o’ the Day believes, like I do, that one of the fantastic things about having a bigly extended family and a gaggle of friends is that there is almost always a baby soon to be born. We’ve got infants on the way from all directions right now.

For the brand, spankin’ new babies and their parents, we always put together pretty much the same gift cornucopia to present to the new bambino. It’s stuff they will need. Suzanne’s special contribution to our diapers-and-wipes-and-bibs-filled offering is a pile of baby blankets she creates. She does not believe a baby needs only one of her blankets. And she is right. Any baby who receives many Suzanne-made blankets is guaranteed to be a happy baby.

My special contribution to the baby’s gift bundle is buying the diaper rash-slaying Boudreaux’s Butt Paste. With a baby product name like that, you know it’s exactly the kind of thing my eccentric self must give a newborn. Diaper rash is not pleasant. At least as far as Butt Paste is concerned, somebody can get a minor giggle out of using it.

But I am here to caution you: Do not confuse Boudreaux’s Butt Paste with Rub Some Butt bbq seasoning. Do not mistakenly put the Rub Some Butt in the baby’s room, while also mistakenly putting the Butt Paste in the pantry. That would be a tragedy. Look at the labels closely, folks. Like the television ads told us in the 70’s, reading is fundamental.

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Catching Up On Posts

These Bow Tie o’ the Day photos have been waiting to have their debut for a couple of weeks now. I refuse to keep them from their public any longer.

The P!NK concert in SLC was incredible, as any P!NK show will be. In the photo of the stage, she’s wearing black, up in the chandelier. And look! My purse had its own seat, as well as its own Diet Coke for the performance– at least when Suzanne went off to the potty room. The purse boogied and sang with us all evening. You know what’s really sad about that? My purse can carry a tune better than I can.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Hairs Thursday #8

This is how my hairs look when I take off the beanie I have to wear during my current bipolar-management treatments. The short version is this: I am doing a 36-
session treatment regimen of Transcranial Magnetic Stimulation (TMS). It is also known as “shock therapy, lite,” but instead of the seizure-creating electrodes of ECT, I get an electromagnetic coil attached to my beanied noggin. The coil creates a magnetic field that shoots pulses into the “mood control” area of my brain, to hopefully stimulate feelings that are more level than the extremes I experience. But let me tell ya loudly and clearly: “Pulses” is the wrong word. I’ve never before experienced any kind of “pulse” that repeatedly pecked and pounded like a mini jackhammer at a tiny section of my hairs, skull, and brain– resulting in bigly pain. I might as well buy a woodpecker and duct tape it to my left shoulder, so it can attack the side of my head. It would certainly be a lot less expensive than TMS. I receive one treatment per weekday. 3 treatments down, 33 to go.

I wore my superhero lightning bolts Bow Tie o’ the Day to this morning’s TMS appointment. I figured it will keep me safe and aid me and the electromagnet in my fight for a pair of level-colored glasses. I placed my saddle purse (Purse o’ Every Day?) directly in my line of sight, so no one could pilfer it. Plus, I got to stare at the purse’s adorable-osity. Gazing at my purse got me through my pesky, pecky session o’ “pulses.”

 

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I’m A Tourist Attraction– To Suzanne

I gussied up in a gold-flecked, diamond-point Bow Tie o’ the Day for this morning’s TMS treatment. Suzanne accompanied me this time. Not only was she curious about what the sessions are actually like, she needed to see for herself that the medical professionals at UNI aren’t torturing me. She came away from the experience reassured and feeling I’m well cared for there– especially by my TMS nurse, who routinely declares she digs my bow ties, my fashion, AND my purse. 4 treatments down, 32 to go.

During today’s TMS, Suzanne sat where my saddle purse usually sits when I’m reclined for treatment. It’s the chair that gives me the best view of the purse while I’m being electromagnetically zapped in the head. I made Suzanne hold it on her lap, so I could keep an eye on them both. It was comforting to see them there being my audience watching me twitch and wince while I wore my beanie and earplugs. But mostly, it was comforting to know they were protecting each other from being pilfered by any possible evil clinic passers-by. I absolutely must not lose either one of them. As far as I know there is no Lost and Found for saddle purses and Suzanne’s.