Suzanne and I (and Bow Tie o’ the Day) will be eatin’ hoity-toity tonight. Sometimes you wanna go bigly formal with your eatin’-out attire. I always go bigly, but even I need to further stretch my fashion choices in heretofore foreign directions. This designer outfit is right up the experimental alley of my style territory. I think it resembles a 50’s swimming cap. Let me quote from VOGUE’s description of this set of out-on-the-town duds: “…a red-tipped globe of lilac feathers and satin slippers in shocking pink…redefines ‘belle of the ball.'” Sounds like little ol’ girly me, doesn’t it? However, I am still wondering if my arms are supposed to be inside or outside the puffball– or if I’m supposed to simply leave them at home.
Hugh Jackman should wear Bow Tie o’ the Day. He is an entertainer with oodles of class, and a bow tie would top off any look he sports– clashy or matchy. As I was brushing out my hairs this morning to prepare a hairdo for Hairs Thursday, I noticed how my locks had magically fallen into a Hugh Jackman as Wolverine ‘do. I had to keep it. My “sideburns” are nearly lamb chops. Oh, happy day! I even feel like a superhero.
I have always liked to vacuum. There’s something inherently satisfying about pushing around a noisy machine and watching dog fur, crumbs, and dry mud disappear– VOILA!– from the carpet. In fact, when I was earning bucks during school breaks– while working on my Master’s at the U of U– I often worked with Mom’s custodial crew in the IPP Administration Building, on the swing-shift. My job was to conquer the floors. I vacuumed. I swept. I mopped. I buffed. Buffing was my favorite. (If I ever take up a new hobby, it will be buffing floors.) My IPSC floors and stairs were pristine when I left that building at midnight. With my Walkman blaring Bruce Springsteen and Cyndi Lauper into my headphones, I had a fabulous and clean time.
But today, for some reason, I couldn’t get myself in the mood to do the vacuum dance with the Shop-Vac on the stairs, which my the Honey-Do List I made for myself said I better accomplish. I have found that when I have to do housework I’m not in the mood to do, it helps me to gussy-up in a swell outfit– in which I then parade around the house doing my duties like I’m on a fashion show catwalk. So that’s what I did. And yes, argyle Tie o’ the Day and I sang a duet of the 1991 song by RIGHT SAID FRED as I did it. Sing with me, people: “I’m too sexy for my shirt/ Too sexy for my shirt/ So sexy it hurts/…. ‘Cause I’m a model, you know what I mean/ And I do my little turn on the catwalk/…On the catwalk, yeah/ I shake my little tush on the catwalk.” And so on.
I cannot believe I even remember that song. I disliked it decades ago when I first heard it, and I still don’t like it. There are so many other songs– and a zillion other things– I would like my brain cells to remember. But no– I’m stuck remembering this piece of trite crapola song. Why do our brains remember hideous stuff that we wish we had never crossed paths with in the first place, while our brains forget important information like our blood type? It kind of makes you wonder how smart our brains can really be, if that’s how they insist on functioning.
To be fair, my mind remembers plenty of info I want to keep. For example, I always remember my fave scripture and where to find it (Mosiah 2:17). I’m surprised by how often that clump of scripture has come in handy throughout my life. My mind also holds on to plenty of vital trivia. I’m surprised how trivia comes in almost as handy as the scripture does. Who wouldn’t want to know President Franklin Delano Roosevelt’s dog’s name was Fala? Now that’s a keeper piece of trivia!
Come to think of it, my memory’s “working-properly section” is most likely full of only scriptures, trivia, visions of neckwear, and dogs’ names. And that suits me just fine.
BTW Yes, I did get our stairs vacuumed this afternoon. I can at least cross one task off today’s Honey-do List.
Skitter and I haven’t gotten out of our pajamas yet, but we have donned our smiley Ties o’ the Day. We are happy clams this morning, and we expect to have a grin on our faces all dang day. That’s our goal. Ties will lead us merrily through our day of vacuuming and writing. Oh, about wearing my John Deere Hat o’ the Day for the second day in a row: It is my go-to hat when I can’t quite decide which of my gaggle of hats best un-matches what I’m wearing. The hat’s green-and-pink plaid generally makes effective clash no matter what duds I sport.
People have asked me if Skitter minds being a neckwear model in my posts– you know, since she’s skittish about everything on and in the earth, as well as in the heavens above it. Let me just say this: Skitter tolerates it. She’s not askeered of modeling neckwear, but she simply doesn’t understand what the neckwear photos and ensuing fuss are all about. I have often heard her mutter under her breath, “What the gobstoppers is up with this?”
Skitter is unaware she’s a star. She also doesn’t know that even our readers wonder what the gobstoppers the posts are all about. The posts just show up on the website, or on Facebook, or in their email. People read them or don’t read them. And still, I write posts and poetry. And still, Skitter watches me while I plunk away on my laptop. And still, even I have no clue what’s up with this venture, or where it will lead me. (Suzanne says there’s a book in it. I will cogitate on that.)
Things don’t have to have a clear purpose. Experiencing them– and deciding to find personal meaning in them– is plenty more than enough reason to engage in pursuits that interest us, no matter how odd those interests might be to others. Or even to ourselves.
True art transcends language. Bow Tie o’ the Day will be the first to tell you that when you’ve created an outfit that ranks on the highest artistic level of clash fashion, words are not enough to describe it. Just wear it. Let people gaze at your get-up until their eyes hurt, which probably won’t be long if you’ve clashed your threads in a superior way. Talk about shock and awe! I can’t really see the mismatch-mix while I’m wearing this set o’ duds, but my eyes are in pain at what I can catch of it in my peripheral vision. Skitter naps all amazed at the look I’ve put together.
I love clashion days like today! It’s a mismatch score of 10. I win!
I have always been The Grocery Shopper. It’s one of my housewifey chores. For the first few weeks after my surgery last summer, Suzanne was the one who had to regularly go to the store. The horror! Because Suzanne doesn’t grocery shop, she is a total comedy of errors when she tries to complete the task. She has no idea where items are located. It takes her an hour to do ten minute’s worth of shopping, and she gets a two-mile walk as she tries to figure out the aisles, while attempting to decipher the unreadable list I give her.
When she’s on the hunt at Dick’s, she sends me a boatload of texts. It’s as if she’s on a treasure hunt for food and she needs clues. In fact, when she’s at Dick’s, we text more than when she’s at work or out of town. And Suzanne is so unenlightened about how to correctly use the self-checkout line that she knows to not even try. It’s a fiasco. Suzanne is brilliant, but not in the self-checkout-line way.
Anyhoo… A few days ago, I didn’t feel like leaving the house, and I needed a grocery or two and some stoopid prescriptions from the pharmacy. I texted Suzanne at her office and said, “Hey, on your way home from an extra-late day at work, will you please add to your overtime by stopping at Dick’s for my Diet Coke and my meds?” I don’t even have to tell her I’m having one of my bipolar days. I don’t have to tell her I couldn’t handle leaving the house and going to Dick’s myself, even though it’s only a block away. If I ask her to go to the grocery store, she knows. And she also knows to not know exactly what I’ll be like when she gets home. The only question in her brain is which side I’ll be on: Will I be manic or depressed? She’s used to both.
While at the store that evening, Suzanne bought me this bouquet of flowers from the we’re-trying-to-get-rid-of-these-almost-dead-flowers section of the floral arrangements. They were discounted. That’s how Suzanne and I both roll. We are not tightwads with our bucks, but we are thrifty. As we know, it’s the thought that counts– with some things, but not all. She knew I would be double happy with this bouquet because it was both a bargain, and– despite its near-deadness– it was still kinda pretty. Blue and tan Tie o’ the Day thought so too.
I thought of this bunch o’ flowers as I think of the Charlie Brown Christmas tree: pathetic and in need of love. It’s cute, in its own way. When she put them in the vase, Suzanne pulled out the really, really dead flowers and threw them in the garbage. I rescued them and stuck them back in. Suzanne wasn’t happy about that, but I was– so she let it go. They were for me, you know.
The second photo was taken fifteen minutes after the first one. The flowers did not suffer long. I can prove that’s exactly what happened. See, I’m wearing the same shirt and same Tie o’ the Day in both pictures. There’s absolutely no way I could fake that. It’s not like I could wear the same attire for a photo a week later. You know it’s against my clash fashion rules to wear the same exact outfit twice– ever! And I am not a rule-breaker. 😉 🤡
Skitter and I– and Bow Tie o’ the Day– jumped out of our beds this morning and said to each other, “Hey! Let’s get ourselves into the car and go visit Helen, Sr.!” And so we did.
I always enjoy my visits to Millard Care And Rehabilitation. I get to see my former bishops, school teachers, church teachers, bosses, neighbors, coaches, etc. It is somewhat strange to see them “old.” They resemble their young selves enough that I know who they are. In fact, I know most of the MCR residents. That’s an effect of being from a town small enough that you know everybody. I knew these folks as I grew up, and I know them now as we all grow older. MCR is like a rickety, hard-of-hearing, cane-and-walker version of the “real” Millard County.
I’m always amazed by how much laughter I hear wherever I go in MCR. Staff and residents share a genuinely playful banter with each other. I know it sounds cliche, but it really does feel like family there. The staff is always trying to feed me like I’m family, too.
Like in any family, there are a few “problem children” who live at MCR. In fact, I have seen a sourpuss or two among the residents. Oh, well. I remember those fuddy-duddies when they were a heckuva lot younger, and they were sourpusses even way back then. People gonna be who people gonna be, I guess.
I met someone today at MCR who Mom has raved about since she was in MCR with her broken hip almost two years ago– Tess Greathouse. I have always known Tess’ family, but I had never actually met her before, since she is decades younger than me. As Skitter and I were walking to Mom’s room, Tess stopped me and asked if I was Mom’s daughter, and almost before I could answer, Tess’s hand shot out to shake mine. I don’t think I have ever visited Mom at MCR without her telling me how much she enjoys Tess reading stories to her. She loves Tess. Tess is one of Mom’s blessings, that’s for sure.
Jeez, Mom has more blessings than anyone else I know. I might need to borrow some one day.
Bow Tie o’ Yesterday Afternoon had a baby shower to attend with us. Of course, I chose to wear one of my infant-size bow ties.
Suzanne’s nephew, Robby, his wife Jorie, and their daughter, Brooklynn are expecting a baby boy in a few weeks. Thus, a baby shower had to be organized. Robby’s sister, Rachel, and their mom, Marjorie, created the bash at Rachel’s residence. (Remember, Marjorie is Skitter’s sleepover pal, who takes up residence at our house when Suzanne and I go out of town. Skitter loves Marjorie. As do we.)
So the baby shower for Jorie got planned and scheduled weeks ago. Even though Robby and Jorie currently live in Tucson, they were planning to be here in Utah to attend the party. Enter the unexpected hitch: Jorie was recently told she wasn’t allowed to travel until after the babe is born. Does the baby shower get canceled? Does the baby shower go on with nary an appearance from Robby, Jorie, or Brooklynn? Does the baby shower get rescheduled until after the bambino is born? Nope. Nope. And nope. The shower must go on, with all the usual suspects in attendance.
Solution: The baby shower was done by Skype– between the Rachel’s living room in Layton and the Tucson living room of the expectant family, in whose honor the occasion was thrown. Everybody could see and hear everybody. Presents for the soon-to-be-here baby boy were opened in both living rooms. Yes, it went swimmingly. In fact, I’m kinda thinking of never going anywhere ever again. I’ll just Skype myself to wherever I’m supposed to be.
Rachel and her husband, Walker, are the parents of the two tikes I’m hanging with in these photos. Neither child had any clue what a baby shower is or why it was happening in their house, but they were the Best. Party. Favors. Ever! The bigly boy is Liam. The new one is Lucas. They are happy kids.
At one point yesterday, Liam wanted me to go downstairs with him to watch him do his death-defying trampoline moves. AGAIN. I said I was going to stay upstairs with the adult folks right then, but I’d go downstairs again with him later. My answer sent Liam into a small pout, which teetered on the edge of a tantrum. The only thing I hate worse than a kid throwing a tantrum, is a kid throwing a weak-ass tantrum. Kids, if you’re gonna have a meltdown cuz you didn’t get your way, make it monstrous. Go all out.
“That’s not a tantrum,” I told Liam. “THIS is a tantrum!” And then I threw myself onto the carpet, on my belly– flailing my arms, kicking and pounding the floor, crying, and screaming. And guess what? Liam started to laugh. It works every time. Mission accomplished. Kid’s tantrum transforms into laughter before it can become a Category 5 storm.
And that brings me to the reason I just had to choose bowling pin/bowling ball ‘links to be my Cufflinks o’ the Day for a baby shower. Years ago, I heard a comic– whose name I can’t recall– observe that having kids is like having a bowling alley installed in your head. After you have kids, you’ll never be able to concentrate again. Your head will pound with questions and worry. You will never again be able to relax. I found this to be one of the truer analogies– literally AND figuratively– about having kids around. Kids and bowling alley similarities: lots of alarming noises; unexpected outbursts; balls landing where they shouldn’t; the occasional body going splat on the floor; fisticuffs for no reason; machines mysteriously going kaput; Mountain Dew spilled on the floor; inexplicably dirty bathrooms; volcanic eruptions of bad language; general chaos even when it’s quiet; and stinky shoes.
That reminds me. Here’s a tip: If you’ve got a kid, you will be blessed with the odor of stinky shoes. You will be doubly blessed if you are able to follow the odor and locate the shoes. DO NOT THROW THEM IN THE GARBAGE CAN! If your kid notices the shoes are missing, your kid will follow the scent and retrieve them. No, when you find the smelly culprits YOU MUST BURN THEM! YOU MUST ANNIHILATE THEM! They will find their way back into your house if you do not destroy them completely.
BTW Hey, check out the ribbon bow tie atop the Cake Made o’ Diapers. The bow tie was a special decoration at the baby shower, crafted just for me to see. Suzanne’s family knows me so well. They had a bit of extra ribbon after they finished making the “cake” and they thought of me. I love them.
I got distracted by the Roxy and Skitter pix I ran onto yesterday. Enjoy a few more photos. The last picture presented here is of the night before we put Roxy Lou to sleep. She was confused and weak, and Skitter did not leave her side. There’s also a photo of Mom asleep on our couch, with Roxy and Skitter sleeping against her legs. Next post will be a “normal” one– complete with neckwear and my yammering on and on about some topic or other.
Today, I found some old TIE O’ THE DAY doggie pix, which Skitter and I culled through. The photos were mostly of our late pal, Roxy Lou, posing in Ties and Bow Ties o’ the Day. Skitter and I have lowered our smiles to half-staff since we looked at the photographs. We teared-up a little. FYI When Skitter cries, she hogs the Kleenex.
Suzanne and Skitter and I had to help Roxy go to sleep just over a year ago, and Skitter has been dog-less since then. While Roxy Lou was here, she took the scared, abused Skitter under her wing and taught her how to be a dog. While Roxy was here, I also never had to turn on the vacuum cleaner: Roxy ate anything that fell to the floor, anywhere in the house. It did not have to be food. (We called her Hoover.) That’s how she became the fattest mini dachsie to ever waddle on the face of the planet.
Enjoy these reposted pix of the late Roxy’s modeling, as she appeared in TIE O’ THE DAY. I included a couple of naked-neck pictures too.
