The Skit and I have lounged around the house in our Ties o’ the Day, looking out the tall windows at the falling snow. And occasionally, Skitter has ventured out to color the snow yellow. She’s a vibrant abstract artist. And then the falling snow puts down another layer of canvas for her, and out she goes again to show off more of her artistic genius. I have never seen an artist work so brilliantly with only one color. You, go, Skitter van Dogh!
I love today’s photos, especially the one in which my eyes are closed. It doesn’t matter that it’s blurry. There is no misinterpretation of these pix. Despite Skitter’s skittishness about everything and everybody in the universe, she is no longer hesitant to put aside her fear, and love me enough to give me a stinky smooch. And the ties and I kinda like her, too.
Bow Tie o’ the Day is one of my bow ties you have to see up close, in order to fully appreciate it. If you scrutinize these tasty chicken drumsticks, you’ll see a few of them have already had a bite taken out of them. Clever little details like that make an already fine bow tie extraordinary.
Although chicken is not an exotic meat, the exquisite Bow Tie does remind me of menus I encountered in frou-frou restaurants when I lived in the Baltimore/Washington, D.C. area. I lived there eight years, so I ate at a few of the finer establishments on occasion.
I was always surprised to see the most outrageously priced entrees on the menu were things like venison, pheasant, trout, rabbit, duck, elk, etc. I did not know, until I moved to back east, that I had spent most of my life eating exotic meats.(Asparagus was considered an exotic side dish.) And, of course, all those meats were free for us. Apparently, even when we had no money, we ate as if we were rich. We were obviously too stoopid to know it. We were redneck hicks, and I’m still proud to be the white trash I was taught to be.
Did I ever sell my soul to pay for one of these fancy meals? Yes. One time. I was curious, and I ordered duck. It did not compare to the duck Mom prepared. In fact, its taste did not resemble duck at all. Duck fail! The worst part of it was that after I paid for it, I was too broke to eat out for another six months.
Once, when I was a kid, Dad headed to California to hang with his bee family, and he was going to be there longer than usual. It was winter– the time of year when we were usually tight on money. He gave a guy a can of honey in trade for the guy to bring Mom a few rabbits for us to eat while he was gone.
A few days after Dad left for California to babysit his precious bees, the dude brought Mom the skinned rabbits in a bucket. She thanked him, and off he went. But when Mom started to put them in a big Tupperware container to put them in the fridge, something about them just didn’t seem right to her. When Dad called to check in, Mom told him there was something hinky about the critters. Dad told her not to use them and he’d deal with it when he got home. Somehow, Mom managed to feed us while he was gone. Hell, we probably ate honey for every meal.
When Dad got home, he opened up the Tupperware container. He said a word or two that I won’t write here. Those skinned “rabbits” were cats. Dad left the house for a couple of hours, and when he came back he had the can of honey he had bartered for the rabbits. And a couple of hours after that, the rabbit guy showed up with a dozen real rabbits, a sheepish apology to Mom, and looking a bit roughed-up. And I remember he brought authentic rabbits to us every now and then throughout the winter. Dad was a very persuasive guy. It wasn’t about the deal. It was about hurting cats, and feeding his family, and messing with Mom.
Skitter and I put on our big girl Bow Ties o’ the Day for an afternoon of unspeakable work outside. Skitter stood on the patio being foxy-looking while I put on my rubber gloves and grabbed a plastic grocery bag, for the sole purpose of de-pooping the back yard. Skitter happily watched me work, and then added a couple of poops to my chore. And look at how tired it made her to supervise my efforts on her behalf. I’m certain you don’t want me to describe any more about it, and I’m certain I don’t want to tell you any more about it. Some things are better left unsaid. But it’s no accident paw print Bow Tie is brown.
Here Bow Tie o’ the Day and I are in my over-stacked, over-messy writing loft. Two desks, a few crates, and two cabinets do not provide enough space for my files. My piles overfloweth.
But at least I’m wearing a flowery bow tie, which I wore to Suzanne’s office to watch her eat lunch. I wanted to take her flowers, but she has allergies. My bloomin’ bow ties solve the problem. If I’m wearing one, Suzanne knows it means I’m metaphorically giving her a bouquet. Bow Tie’s flowers are also more cost-effective than real flowers. That’s an added bonus. No matter the price though, I’d still give her fresh flowers if she wouldn’t sneeze the petals onto the floor.
Dad had horrible allergies, which is beyond inconvenient if you’re a beekeeper. Alfalfa fields and orchards were his offices. One summer evening, after a long day in the bee yards, Dad was reading the newspaper in his chair, which sat just inside the front door by our house’s picture window. The door was open to the screen door, in order to get some air moving through the stuffy house. The house didn’t yet have an air conditioner, so opening the door was absolutely necessary.
Suddenly that evening, Dad got into a prize-winning, allergy-induced sneezing fit. He said nothing. He folded his newspaper closed, got up, and walked out the back door. A few minutes later, he was outside the picture window with a shovel, digging up every marigold in Mom’s flower bed, which was right below the big window. When he was done, he came in through the front door, sat back down in his chair, and opened up his Salt Lake Tribune. He didn’t say a word. And neither did Mom when she saw her marigolds turned over in clumps of dirt. She just shoveled them into the wheelbarrow, hauled them out back, and torched them. That was the end of Mom growing flowers anywhere in our yard. Home should be a place where your allergies can calm down a bit.
This story demonstrates how Mom and Dad understood each other so well that sometimes they didn’t even need to discuss a problem. They simply cut to the result they would have ended up with if they’d had the argument in the first place. It saved them time and energy, and possible hurt feelings. Do not think for one millisecond that their un-argued arguments always went in Dad’s favor. Mom gave as good as she got.
All paisley, all the time. See, you can have a common thread to your outfit, while still creating the proper clashion. Hat o’ the Day, Cufflinks o’ the Day, Shirt o’ the Day, Vest o’ the Day (which I named the Pimp Vest), and– most importantly– Bow Tie o’ the Day combine to create a clash extraordinaire. I think this is some of my top work. I’m a proud momma of my fashion creation. Paisles are my fave “shape” with which to work my unmatchiness. I suppose my goal to clash makes me a non-matchmaker.
Perhaps I am overdressed for my day’s tasks. First they are all tasks I need to do at home. Cleaning, laundry, etc.. I will probably leave the house only for Skitter’s walkie. But what I’ll be spending most of my task-time doing is going through the storage bins and boxes in the garage, looking for ONE thing: a shoebox-sized box which holds half-a-dozen cassette tapes I recorded with my Grandma, Martha Anderson in 2000.
Grandma had fallen and broken her hip and shoulder. She was in the Delta hospital for a week or so before she could return to her apartment in The Sands. I stayed at the hospital with her each night. Well, Grandma must have gotten all of the sleep she would ever need in the preceding decades because she did not sleep. So we talked. At some point I started to record her stories. When I showed up at the hospital each night, I turned on the recorder and let it go. I haven’t listened to them for years. Life gets busy and you forget to do important things like that. Shame on us.
I know I still have the tapes somewhere, because I remember packing them up in Delta when we moved the contents of the Delta house up here. But I have no clue in which bin I so safely stored them. My biggest concern is that the tapes might not still be in playing condition after nearly two decades. I’ve kept them safe, but I can’t keep them safe from the passing of time. I no longer own a cassette player, but Betty/BT/Mercedes (whatever name you call my oldest sister) still has the one she got as a prize on WHEEL OF FORTUNE in the 80’s. She’s the family genealogist, so these tapes belong with her anyway.
I remember one startling moment during a night with Grandma, which I so wish had been recorded. After Grandma went back to The Sands from the hospital, I still stayed with her most nights. She stayed in a hospital bed in her living room, and I took over the couch.
One night, Grandma finally fell asleep for a few minutes. I started to nod off, when suddenly Grandma loudly said, in her sleep, “Isn’t it funny about horses? How they have sex, you know.” She stayed asleep and never uttered another word until she woke up a little later and asked me to get her some of her “cheesies.” Cheetos. Of course, I happily got her a bowl of cheesies. I did not ask her about the dream she had just had. But I really, really, really wanted to.
So then… I got to thinking that even though this morning my neckwear and I nixed the idea of wearing the current trendy clothing which VOGUE says is “in,” maybe I should start wearing make-up– specifically make-up styles that are “hot” as of this month’s issue of the magazine.
Here’s a mascara scare I found on one page of VOGUE. It appealed to me, as far as its gaudy, outllandishness. I couldn’t look away for the longest time. But I wondered if maybe it could be beautiful for Bow Ties o’ the Day to become huge, mascara-like eyelashes. It works, right? Hey, it’s innovative. My bow TIELASHES will soon be the envy of everyone whose eyelashes wear make-up. Model agencies will clamor for my newly created designs. The world-wide trend begins right here. Y’all can say you saw it here first.
So… I thought maybe I should branch out from my clash fashion and consider whatever catwalk fashion is trendy now, so I looked through VOGUE magazine and found these jewel-encrusted undershirts– er, I mean “dresses.” After seeing this 2019 stylish attire, Bow Ties o’ the Day said, “Nope. This is not you. This is not us. We must stay on the truly gorgeous Path o’ Non-matchy Get-ups. Please don’t make us be trendy.” I do have handsome legs, but Bow Ties o’ the Day are wise. I completely agree with them in their assessment of the style situation. Besides, anyone can see that their suave-factor puts these jewel-encrusted undershirts– er, I mean “dresses” to eternal shame. Bow Ties win!
You’ve probably read the online meme that says something to the effect of YOU CAN’T PLEASE EVERYONE. YOU ARE NOT A TACO. Bow Tie o’ the Day wholeheartedly agrees. It’s better to eat a taco than be one anyway, so who cares if you can’t please everyone? Bow Tie is all chips ‘n’ salsa and tacos, and so far it has pleased everyone who has gazed upon its menu. Thank the heavens, no one has taken a bite out of it yet.
Bow Tie o’ the Day and I present one of the hairdo concoctions my current hairs are capable of becoming. I call it “The Reverse Ponytail With Wings.”
I’m sure y’all think living my clashion way o’ life is an easy way to live, but I have limits to my clash and style. I try not to offend anyone with my attire or be disrespectful of where I am. Interesting style is who I am. Enjoy. Period. I feel a responsibility to my neckware/style to be snazzy, dapper, eye-catching, etc., not rude or obnoxious. I especially do not strive for my style to be such that people question my sanity to the point they think they should call the cops. This morning at the Dick’s Market, I saw a reflection of myself in the glass doors to the ice cream. I felt like I should call the cops on myself. “Haul me away, officer! Take me to the loony bin! I know not what I do!”
Here’s the scoop. After I took this post photo, I turned my hat around and then sat down and made a grocery list. I then donned my wintry cape, and then I drove through the snow to the store. I’m shopping and crossing items off my list. I’m saying a howdy to familiar faces. All is well.
I always go to the ice cream aisle last, so I can get my cold tubs home before the ice cream melts. So… I’m approaching the ice cream doors– which I call The Pearly Gates– and suddenly, there is my reflection. There I stand: a 54-year-old woman in a snowflake cape, wearing an un-matchy bow tie, which is all wonderfully me. But then I see I have basically the same hair as in this photo. I had forgotten to brush my hair back into some sorta order before I left the house. Yes, my hat was turned the right way at least, but the hairy wings over my ears were still being wings. And somehow the reverse ponytail had wrapped itself around the hat as I had turned it around.
Unfortunately, I did not take a photo of my accidental-style self in Dick’s. I wanted to snap one cuz I knew it would be entertaining. But there was more OOPS! and DOH! I had left my phone at home, which has happened only three times in twenty years.
But do you know what really kills me? When I first went into the store, I stopped at the pharmacy and chatted with my pharmacist about all kinds of topics. We are Dick’s Market friends. We conversed for at least ten minutes, and she said absolutely nothing about my hairs. Oh, she complimented Bow Tie and my cape, as well she should have. But how could she not know that I didn’t mean to invent this hairs/hat display? That’s scary. Clearly, she and everyone else I knew at Dick’s took it in stride, like they almost expected me to walk in looking like my head should be in a freak show.
Argyle Bow Tie o’ the Day is another of my wood bow ties which attaches to a shirt with a magnet. Bow Tie’s magnet makes it a perfect choice for a collar-less shirt of any ilk. Bow Tie and I spent a couple of hours at physical therapy this morning, and my thumb accompanied us. It photobombed us. My Thumb o’ the Day is now on the website in this photo and is, therefore, a star.
A few of the routines I am assigned to perform at PT require me to use a long stick, resembling a cane. It is wood, and it’s about the same length and diameter as a cane. The staff calls it “the wand.” I have been working out my shoulder with it for about a month now, and none of the million spells I’ve cast with it have come to pass. Even Harry Potter couldn’t make this wand work. Hey, it’s a piece o’ wood! But still, I try. I cast my spells and hope.
Sometimes “the wand” inspires my spirit, prodding me to jump off my therapy table and dance with it as my cane– like Gene Kelly in the old movies. Or I want to tap dance with it as my prop as if I’m on a vaudeville stage. Yes, I’ve cast a spell to make those things occur, but that spell hasn’t worked either. So far, I’ve remained an old dame awkwardly pushing and pulling and pointing a stick in various directions.
I do admit that although my rotator cuff still hurts, it’s not debilitating like it was. Miracle? Hard work? Spell? Maybe a wee bit less pain is the biggest spell I can make the wand perform for me. I’ll gladly take it.
