Day: March 27, 2019

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Argyle Is Almost As Hip As Paisley

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.

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It’s The Hat

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.