Month: May 2019

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Hairs Thursday #13

Sorry, I’m late posting on a Hairs Thursday, but I’ve been working on tweaking the color of my hair. Bow Tie o’ the Day and I decided to step it up with a popping purple hair color called VIOLET VIXEN. The results didn’t result in the result we were promised on the package. We should have known better, but we took advantage of our right to believe in an advertisement. I even did something I never do: I followed the directions, to the last detail. This is further proof of what I always tell you about my hair: It is the stoopidest, most useless hair on any planet. It won’t curl. It won’t take color. It just plain doesn’t cooperate.

The hair color isn’t the color I sought, but it is what I got. I’ll resolve to be pleased with it. Why choose to go around with a grumpy face and make myself and others miserable about it? It’s just hair that didn’t turn purple. No bigly deal. I admit I’m disappointed though.

We have to learn to be okay with the facts of our lives all the time. Sometimes we are conscious of doing it. Most times, we just do it. For example, I’d like peace on earth. The fact: It’s never gonna happen as long as human beings are involved. They are imperfect. Thus, I have learned to not lose sleep over the sickening fact there will always be a war somewhere or other.

I’d also like to sell a poem for a million dollars. Fact: Never gonna happen, cuz nobody gives a dang about serious, philosophical poetry. Oh, well. I’d like to have one whole, working pancreas. Fact: I’ve got 1/3 of a mostly healthy pancreas, which keeps me alive and thriving just fine. And on and on, I could regale you with examples of dealing with the “it is what it is.”

We decide to be happy. It really is a choice. It’s an attitude we sometimes have to work hard to attain. We have to choose to make the choice to be happy with who, what, and where we are. No matter how you look at it, where you are in your life is mostly where you put yourself. Good decisions, bad decisions– they were your choices.

We can can follow the directions we were taught about how to build a fulfilling life, but things over which we have no control happen to all of us. In reality, what’s out of your control accounts for only a small percentage of what put you where you are. Of course, the things beyond our control can be bigly things. People you love might leave you, or die. You might lose a job through no fault of your own. Your house might burn down. The list is endless.

But we all have the ability to adjust. Are you in a joyous place in your life? A bad place? You might as well be okay with it because you put you right where you are. And if you cannot possibly be okay with where you are, you are the only person who has the ability to change your circumstances.

You are the one who can choose to learn from tragedies and changes you don’t control. And you are the one who can choose to learn from your own mistakes. You are the one who chooses to roll with whatever it is–with a positive attitude OR focus on the negative and bring balloons to your own pity party. You are the only person who can control where you go next, and can control how you will face it. I suggest we all face what we’ve built of our lives as mature adults, not as petulant, spoiled children who blame everyone but themselves.

Also, if you want purple hair, don’t buy this product.

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Coconut Bra For Rent

My vest– which I have nicknamed The Pimp Vest– creates a suave clash with Shirt o’ the Day. The cherry on top of this get-up is my luau, yellow lab Bow Tie o’ the Day. The cleverest detail on Bow Tie is the use of coconut shells to create dog bacheechies. Dogs worship us, and they will do anything to please us. Even dogs printed on bow tie fabric are eager to do outlandish things to make us happy.

I’m sure at some point in your life, probably when you were watching GILLIGAN’S ISLAND in your kidhood, you and your pals mused about the old “lost on a deserted island” what-if. What five things would you want with you? Who would you like to be lost with? What would you most be glad to have left behind? And the conversation game questions go on.

Bow Tie’s coconut shells got me cogitating, and I’ll tell you right now that what I’d like to leave behind in the busy world is exactly what I’d need if I were building a new civilization on my own on a desert island. What thing of utmost importance would I need, but not want? I would need the dreaded, wretched, torture contraption known as a bra! Eeeeeeeek!!!!

You ladies know exactly what I’m talking about. Bras are not comfortable. I was once expertly fitted for a tailored bra. I was willing to pay a bigly fortune to wear a comfy bra. It did cost a bigly fortune, and it was quite becoming. It was not, however, anywhere near comfortable. I might as well have spent $12.95 on a too-stiff bra from Sears. Discomfort is discomfort.

Even on a deserted island though, it would be unspeakably dangerous of me to build a hut or cast a makeshift fishing pole while not wearing a bra. A person could get hurt. I could injure myself by moving too quickly. The phrase, “You’ll poke your eye out!” comes to mind.

Mom taught me well that a bra’s proper place is hanging from the doorknob on the back of the front door. A bra doesn’t belong on its owner, unless someone knocks on the door. Practice slipping it on without removing your shirt. Practice slipping it off the same way. When the bra is off you, and on the doorknob, keep an ear out for cars pulling up in the driveway. You especially have to watch out for that one pair of Home Teachers we had, who sometimes knocked an hour earlier than they were scheduled. Sometimes, you gotta be lickety-split swift puttin’ on that brassiere.

Mom taught me that the last place a bra belongs is around a woman’s chest. Make exceptions only when necessary, like when going to work, church, the grocery store, or when working out. Other than that, a good bra does nothing but hang silkily on the living room doorknob– causing discomfort to no one.

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My Saddle Purse Is Not Bipolar

Bow Tie o’ the Day and I stole Suzanne’s lunch hour by invading her office to do our usual off-the-wall routine. Just because we’re there, it doesn’t always mean Suzanne ceases working. On this day, not even The Saddle Purse could make her look away from the three computers sitting on her desk. She thinks she’s so important that the entire Utah public education system will fall apart if she stops to eat some yogurt and string cheese for ten minutes. She might be right.

I decided I should add something I didn’t include in yesterday’s post about depression and the depression side of bipolarity. It’s important for people to understand that a devastating depression does not generally correlate to the quality of a clinically depressed person’s life. [There is something called “situational depression,” which can occur when someone’s life is in tatters. But it tends to be not very deep and it goes away when the situation improves.]

Real depression doesn’t care about the quality of your life. It just shows up, like any illness. Take me, for example. I’ve experienced bouts of depression since I was a kid, and yet I’ve had a relatively tragedy-free, love-filled, opportunity-filled life. My life has been rich, and peopled with decent characters wherever I’ve been. All of that didn’t keep me from being bipolar though.

At this point in my life, I have the freedom to write all day. I live in a swell house. I’ve got a few bucks in The Saddle Purse. I get to travel quite a bit. I have a fine family, fine in-laws, and Suzanne. Skitter’s sleeping head is snoring on my lap even as I write this post. The evil parts of my pancreas got hacked out, and the pain they caused has mostly disappeared. I’m even satisfied that Mom is in the absolute best place for her to be for the last chapter of her life. As far as I’m concerned, I have everything. Not only does my cup runneth over, I’ve got more cups than I can count and they all runneth over.

But none of the gifts my life contains has kept me from being bipolar. None of it has kept this swamp of depression away. Mental illness does what it wants. All I can do is try to manage it. Meds help. Talk therapy helps. Practicing mindfulness helps. Writing about it helps. I hope TMS will help. Each of these things helps a little bit. At least, they help ME. I know they do not help everyone who is bipolar or depressed. See, my life is lucky even where that’s concerned: There are things that help me manage my bipolar head– and still this deep depression shows up whenever it wants.

I don’t get cocky about how well I have been able to manage my bipolarity throughout my life. I don’t get complacent that I have access to things that help me. All I can say is that I’ve managed to make it to this day. I can’t afford to act like I will still be able to manage it tomorrow. So far, so good.

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An Electromagnetic Headbangin’ Update

I got to sleep-in past 5AM on this weekday morning. No TMS treatment today. Yay!!! But Suzanne began to snore promptly at 5:01 AM, so I didn’t get to sleep in as much as I got to lie there and “curse-in” about being awakened when I didn’t need to be up early.

I’m not quite finished with the TMS regimen. I had treatment #30 yesterday morning. I’ve got 6 to go, but I am now in the tapering-off phase of the treatments, so I will have treatments only twice per week from now on. I want my TMS-every-weekday schedule back! I will follow the rules, but it really ticks me off that it will take 3 weeks for me to complete the last 6 treatments.

People who have never experienced a major depression cannot fully comprehend its complexity. My experience has been that most of the lucky people who have been blessed to skip the depression quagmire have the idea that to be depressed is only to feel down and hopeless. They don’t have a clue that major depression can manifest itself, not just in negative feelings, but in the total absence of feelings. When I began TMS treatment, I had experienced an extended period of time feeling nothing. Nada. Zip.

When this “not-feeling” happens, I still KNOW what I feel, but I don’t really FEEL it. For example, I know I love Skitter, but right now I don’t feel it in the marrow of my bones. I take care of her out of loving habit, knowing that the love still lives in me somewhere– and hoping I will surely feel it again. It helps me that I was raised to be a nice person, whether I’m feeling like it or not. “Nice” is my default mode of being.

Here’s another example of my being disconnected from my true, feeling self: A few weeks ago, Suzanne said, “Let’s buy you a new truck.” If I’d had my normal feelings working, I would have picked out a new truck and parked it in the garage within an hour of Suzanne’s words. Instead, I shrugged it off and said, “Nah. I don’t need one.” What mentally apt gal says NO when someone tells her to go buy a new truck? What feeling person doesn’t jump off the couch and speed to the auto dealership when someone basically tells you to buy a new truck you know you want? That right there proves I’m off my feeling-rocker.

And thus, I go through the motions of daily life, completely aware of what’s going on, but not really feeling like it has anything to do with me. I don’t even feel my “me-ness.”

I know all this sounds weird. It sounds impossible. But trust me, it’s possible. I’ve gone through the “not-feeling” thing a few other times in my life. My head has always righted itself, so it hasn’t alarmed me when it’s happened. But this time, I have “not-felt” for longer than I am comfortable with. That’s why Suzanne and I decided I should try the TMS treatments.

How’s the TMS working for me? I’m not sure. But I think I see a positive change in my psyche here and there. Suzanne says I don’t stare out the windows into nothingness as much as I did before. I would like to report I’ve felt a bigly, flip-of-the-switch change for the better, but I haven’t. On the other hand, I have not completed all 36 of the TMS sessions, and perhaps the last 6 are the charm. I can report that when I visited baby Grace last week, I felt inklings of joy stirring up in me, fighting to get out. So there’s hope.

BTW Wood Bow Tie o’ the Day says, “Follow your arrow. Or your arrowhead, if you don’t have the whole arrow.” Got the point?

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Art Signs

I made a quick trip to the credit union to open a super-secret savings account Suzanne can’t know about. (Don’t tell her.) The credit union office in which I was filling out the new account paperwork had one painting mounted on the wall, and this is it. When I saw the bow ties on the woman’s shoes, I knew it was a sign this piece of art must be a Bow Tie o’ the Day.

The shoe bows were also a sign reinforcing that I was doing the right thing by opening a super-secret savings account. I have no clue about why I need the super-secret savings. I haven’t had a sign about that yet. But you know me: I’ll find one.

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It’s Impossible To Visit A Newborn Empty-handed

A new baby doesn’t yet have the remotest clue it needs material items. It doesn’t own anything, and it doesn’t care to. A baby doesn’t even know it is bereft of stuff. For some reason though, we can’t stand that babies have nothing. We lather on the gifts– the toys, the clothes, the books, the furniture, etc..

Infants aren’t much aware of material objects, and they certainly don’t yet know the concept of “ownership.” Give ’em a couple of years, and one of the few words they will know– and will use annoyingly often– is “mine.” But right in the beginning of their baby lives, they seek only a few basic body feelings: a full tummy, warm skin, and a dry butt. We provide the objects that aid in the creation of these feelings for them: formula/milk, blankies, and diapers and Butt Paste.

So what absolute material baby-need comes next after Butt Paste? Neckwear o’ the Day, of course. There it is, up there in Grace Anne Blackwelder’s Kardashian-esque closet. Center of closet, top shelf. The box says “Dad & Daughter” and contains a Tie o’ the Day for Dad, and a matching Bow Tie Headband o’ the Day for Grace. I guarantee this initial foray into daddy-daughter neckwear will be life-changing– in the best of ways– for both Bishop Travis and his daughter. Oh, the power o’ neckwear to bring us close!

It is so important to pass along family traditions of all kinds. I’m part of Gracie’s family, and part of my contribution to the positive traditions she’ll benefit from learning about is my bow ties and ties, and all things clash fashion. Over time, I hope Gracie and I will connect by experiencing all kinds of silly and serious family traditions together. Ultimately, connection is the bigly purpose of learning and sharing traditions. Connection is kinda the point of our entire journey. It is its own tradition.

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A Quickie Morning Post

Superb clash fashion. Unforgivable hairs. It’s not Hairs Thursday. I simply gave up on my hairs this morning. Threw on a hat to drive to my TMS treatment. Threw off the hat when I got home. Then snapped this selfie. 11 days until I can gradually chop off my head fur. Can’t wait. Miss Tiffany, my hair stylist, already has my permission to give me a few different hairdos (of her choosing) as she works her way to the short, short hairs cut I want.

Bow Tie o’ the Day is from my wood bow tie collection. It is made of cork, which is sorta wood, sorta not wood. But it is 100 percent the product of a tree. I’m thinking I might use cork Bow Tie as both neckwear AND a bulletin board. For example, tacking a grocery shopping list to cork Bow Tie is one way to not leave the list on the kitchen counter when I go to the store.

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My Excuse For Missing Last “Hairs Thursday”

My nephew, Bishop Travis, and his wife, Bishopette Collette, have been married 23 years. Their union overfloweth with blessings. But one blessing has never come to pass for them until this past week: a child. And then look who showed up, knocking her little BYU Cougar fists on their front door. Not only is she a dreamboat, she came into the world already knowing how to do her first bambino trick: she sneezes almost every time her diaper gets changed. She’s worth keeping just for that show-offy trick. TIE O’ THE DAY is pleased to introduce to our readers Grace Anne Blackwelder. (I adore that middle name.)

This is the only grandbaby for my Sister Who Wishes To Remain Nameless. She hogged Grace during our visit to Grace’s home. I was, however, allowed to hold the tiny darling while the new grandma went to the potty room. I timed it: I was allowed to hold Gracie for 1 minute and 9 seconds. That was longer than I realistically thought I’d get to cuddle her, so I felt lucky. I knew to not ask The Grandma if I could hold her again.

I’ve been alive long enough to know it’s downright hazardous to get between a newborn and a new grandma. Just remain calm; don’t touch the baby; and let grandma do her thing. Coo at the baby from a safe distance. Use binoculars from across the room if you want to examine the munchkin’s perfect toes. If you can remember these tips, your arms will most likely remain intact. Eventually, you’ll get your turn to hold the wee one. Or so they say.

BTW I chose to wear my fish taco Shirt o’ the Day and my popsicle Bow Tie o’ the Day to meet Grace for the first time, because I believe it’s never too early to teach kids about the finer things in life: things like Beethoven, Van Gogh, Meryl Streep, and fish tacos and popsicles. I did not introduce Grace to the captivating elegance of The Saddle Purse on our first visit. I thought that might overwhelm her just a bit much.

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Face The Facts

Here’s a snapshot of me last week, on Mother’s Day, eating alone on the patio at CURRENT. That was the day I won the award for Official Ass Of The World, because I’d had a tiff with Suzanne and then drove off to SLC to our Mother’s Day dinner without her. Yup, that day. Trust me, I was upset and contrite when I selfied this– even though I was also enjoying my halibut.

So this is a photo of just me and my old face and Bow Tie o’ the Mother’s Day. Remember, this whole tblog thing began with– and is centered around– the neckwear. My old, wrinkly face just happens to hover above whatever charming neckwear I sport at any given time. I might show up in almost every picture, but the ties and bow ties are the stars. They are the point of it all.

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A Purse With A Calling

My Socks o’ the Day herald Bow Ties o’ the Day. This is, as you’ll recall, my view from my TMS treatment chair. Bow-tied socks relax me. And The Saddle Purse does, as well.

My purse goes everywhere with me. It sees and does everything I see and do. It’s a saddle, and saddles are meant to travel. It is a true, new companion. I never forget I have it, and I am vigilant about its well-being. It’s like a toddler. I HAVE A TODDLER AGAIN! I let it be independent, but I keep it close, and I constantly keep my eye on it.

Yesterday, at my pain doc appointment, The Saddle Purse sat quietly in the exam room. Of course, Dr. Bow (my nickname for Dr. Bokat) noticed it, and I showed her its finer features. I am especially in purse-love with its tiny saddlebag. As I was leaving my appointment, Dr. Bow asked where I had purchased the purse. I told her I found it at SLC International Airport. I’m guessing she will probably buy the red version because she works at the U of U.

I have been a diligent bow tie/tie missionary for decades. Despite never owning a purse until I turned 55, the one I bought– after it called to me– has converted me to its mission. It is the one and only true purse upon the face of the earth. Apparently, I have now been called to be a saddle purse missionary– without even trying.

NOTE: The highlight of my pain doc appointment was not actually The Saddle Purse’s mesmerizing of Dr. Bow. Nope, the highlight for me was telling Dr. Bow I no longer need the amount of pain medication I’ve been taking. It is clear my pancreas surgery helped my pain situation so very much. It’s been almost a year since the operation, and I feel close to completely healed from the surgery itself.

I’m glad Suzanne made me have the surgery. And she really did FORCE me to be gutted. Seriously, she locked me out of the house and told me she wouldn’t let me back in until after I finally had the surgery I should have had years ago. Okay, maybe that’s a bit of an exaggeration. But not by much.