I donned my hairscuttin’ shears wood Bow Tie o’ the Day, and Suzanne and I zoomed off to our hairs appointments with Miss Tiffany—the craftswoman who is in charge of our manes. Suzanne just needed a quick trim, but you can clearly see I was in the mood for a bigly change. Miss Tiffany is always happy to oblige my hair ideas. Suzanne is not a bigly fan of my rare adventures in baldness. She prefers my asymmetrical styles o’ longer hair. Before we went to visit Miss Tiffany, I was thoughtful enough to warn Suzanne of the drastic hairstyle change I intended to make, and she said she would kindly endure my head hairs being shaved as long as it’s a strictly temporary hairdo. Suzanne has to look the other way—both literally and figuratively—somewhat regularly when it comes to my hairs and fashion style choices. She’s a very good sport, if you ask me.
I decided my Big Willie’s Plumbing Repair t-shirt was appropriate to wear to my appointment with my innard doctor at Huntsman today. I threw in a nautical-themed wood Bow Tie o’ the Day to encourage the “smooth sailing ahead” vibe. My doctor appreciated my choices.
Suzanne had to work, so I took the Saddle Purse with me as my official hospital escort. As you can see, Saddle Purse doesn’t always obey the rules we mere mortals do. As I sat in the waiting area to be called to the exam room, Saddle Purse just had to strike up a protest against the tyranny of scientific facts by flagrantly sitting in the restricted chair beside me. I felt kinda bad for my rebel pal, the Saddle Purse, because no one took offense at its blatant civil disobedience. There ensued neither yelling nor scuffling at the Saddle Purse’s public defiance. A few passers-by pointed directly at the Saddle Purse and told me it was “so cute.” It’s mighty difficult to create a newsworthy brouhaha when we, the people, are slinging compliments at a full-fledged protester. There’s a lesson in that for us all if we will pay attention, I am sure. Just sayin’.
The actual appointment with my Cranky Hanky Panky surgeon went pretty much as I had imagined it would. My doctor read the organs in my abdomen like they were written in Braille. He did not particularly like what he read when he poked the area of my pancreas. He especially didn’t like that I nearly jumped off the exam table in a shot of pain when he poked my Cranky Hanky Panky point-blank. Still, my doctor and I agreed to not worry about my teensy, wayward organ until we know anything specific about its current state of being. I told him we might as well assign all the worrying to Suzanne, since nobody’s gonna be able to stop her from from doing it anyway. But there’s certainly no need for the rest of us to suffer needlessly.
After my chat with the doctor, I gave what felt like a fishing pond full of my blood for lab tests today. The first available CT scan I could schedule is in mid-March, so I have plenty of time to study for that test. And then the first available appointment I could schedule with my doctor to discuss my various test results is in April. That’s gonna make for a long month of uncertainty. I resolve to be patient and hopeful, while still allowing myself occasional fits of childish impatience and mortal fear. Fun times ahead, boys and girls! And, as always, y’all are free to join me for the entire tour.
Everyone needs a cow-covered Face Mask o’ the Day and a crossword puzzle Bow Tie o’ the Day—as well as a pair of Bernie-Sanders-at-the-Inauguration socks. Okay, maybe not absolutely everyone needs these things, but I do. They keep me somewhat grounded in my authentic style during my times of roller coaster brain chemistry. The spirit o’ Bernie has warmed my feet on some of these days. Yes, the spirit o’ Bernie’s mittens has been punching right along with me through my most recent boxing match with my own complicated, manic-depressive head.
As my head finally started to find its balance a week or so ago, I was finally able to jot down some tblog ideas for updating y’all about my shenanigans you missed out on while I was not up to the demands of writing TIE-O-THE- DAY content. I went to bed that night, fully intending to get up at the crack of dawn and write a bigly original post the next morning, when—WHAM!—the ghost of my bum pancreas (my Hanky Panky) woke me up at 3AM with lightning strikes o’ pain. Two-and-a half years ago, I had successful Hanky Panky surgery, which left me with only one-third of my pancreas. Despite my Panky’s smaller size, I have been in relative Pancreas Heaven ever since the operation—until that night last week. Just my luck: I was thrown out of the bipolar frying pan, and into the pancreatic fire!
The sudden, old Panky pain felt entirely too familiar to me. Since then, I’ve been trying to ignore the discomfort, which has ebbed and flowed but hasn’t completely gone away. I luckily managed to wrangle an in-person appointment with my Hanky Panky surgeon at the Huntsman Cancer Institute tomorrow. I have bigly confidence that my doc can figure out what the Hell-en is going on with my Cranky Hanky Panky innard. A battery of tests and scans will follow over the next few weeks, I have no doubt. I am not askeered. Suzanne is askeered for me, but she shouldn’t be. She made me promise a long time ago that I won’t die before she does, and I consider it my main job to always keep my promises to Suzanne.
After much contemplation, I have decided I will gladly take painful flak from my teeny Hanky Panky any day of the week, over being lost in the dangerous labyrinth of my bipolar brain. Physical pain only hurts. Bipolar anguish, on the other hand, can trick you into thinking you can instantly make the world a better place by simply jumping off the nearest craggy cliff into your own annihilation. Hey, folks, how ’bout let’s none of us buy into that slick trick o’ the mind.
Anyhoo… I’m crossing my Cranky Hanky Panky that TIE-O-THE-DAY is back for a while, whether you’re ready for it, or not.🤠👔
[A love-themed re-post that finishes this story I began this morning.]
Caught in the crosshairs o’ love, Bow Tie o’ the Day waited patiently to read Part 2 of our little tale. When we left our saga o’ love in the previous post, this is where we were: Suzanne and I had decided to quit being we/us. And, as I have admitted, it was all because I was a dope. My bad.
Fast forward to the year 2000, when I moved back to Delta from the Baltimore-Washington, D.C. area. Between my freshly diagnosed bipolarity and my freshly flaming Hanky Panky (pancreas), I was not well. I seriously expected to die soon. I was drained of health and hope. I needed to choose a power of attorney (POA) to handle my finances and medical decisions if I couldn’t deal with them myself. I pondered about who knew me best in the world. I pondered about who I trusted most in the world. And even though I hadn’t seen her or talked to her in over a decade, Suzanne was the answer.
I had no idea where Suzanne even was. I searched. Was she still in Utah? Did she move to England? It was almost Christmas so I decided to try to contact her by sending her a Christmas card, in care of her parents— hoping they still lived where last I knew them. A couple of days later, Suzanne replied to my card by telephoning me from her house in Ogden. I was glad her parents still lived at their same address and that they actually gave her the card. And I was gladder that she still lived in Utah. And I was gladdest of all that our phone conversation wasn’t one bit awkward.
I drove my 1970 Ford Falcon from Delta to Ogden a few days after that phone conversation, to meet Suzanne for dinner and a chat about my need for a Power of Attorney. We went to her fave Italian place on 25th Street, where I ate halibut and explained exactly what I needed her to do and why. That dinner changed the course of our lives. Everything since that dinner has been nothing less than a wondrous second chance. From the moment we sat down in the restaurant, we talked easily, laughed far too loudly, and couldn’t quit smiling at each other. It was as if the years we lived through without each other had never happened at all—like we had never been apart. Love at second sight. The decade-long homesickness for something I could never quite pin down made its exit. We were where we belonged. We were home at last.
Bow Tie is new to our house and doesn’t know much about our history of how Suzanne and I first met. Fortunately, I can still remember that long ago.
‘Twas 1983 when Suzanne and I kind of met. We were both wee pups attending Weber State University (Weber State College, at the time). It was fall quarter, in a class called Poetry Writing. I was minding my own business, just sitting in the desk closest to the door, waiting for the first class to begin. In walked Suzanne at the last moment. She scooted between my desk and the chair in front of me, to find a seat on the other side of the packed classroom. Yes, I noticed her the very first moment I saw her. I noticed her every day of fall quarter. I noticed her cowboy boots. I noticed her jeans and t-shirts. I noticed her brown eyes. I noticed her elegant hands. Did she notice me? Nope. Not at all. And I mean NOT AT ALL. To this day, she still doesn’t remember I was in that class with her.
Fast forward a year, to fall quarter 1984. 20th Century European History. First day of class. Again, I’m sitting in the desk nearest the door. Class begins, and in walks Suzanne. Once again she scoots past me, between my desk and the chair in front of me. Same elegant hands. Classes happen for weeks. One day, the professor asked me a question about my being from Delta, and I answered something silly, but irreverent. (No, I can’t repeat it.) It was funny enough that Suzanne finally noticed me. But we still didn’t talk. We just smiled at each other in class and in the halls.
And then one day soon after the snark incident, we ran into each other in the WSU library. We started to talk, and then we spoke, and then we conversed, yada yada yada. We stood talking for hours, bothering the other library-goers. Why we didn’t find a place to sit down is beyond me, but we were so entranced by our conversation that we didn’t notice whole hours were passing. We don’t remember anything specific that we talked about, but we remember we talked about everything.
And then I graduated from WSU a few weeks later, and moved to SLC for Graduate School at the U of U. Suzanne still had a year left at Weber. She occasionally trekked to SLC to visit me at the Ruth Apartments on 3rd South—a big ancient house, where I lived on the top floor with my rubber Gumby and Pokey figures.
That summer, I mailed Suzanne a letter, finally asking her out. I did not have the courage to do it in person. And then we got an apartment together on 8th East. And the next year, we got another apartment on 9th East. (We called that apartment The Kingdom of Scary Yellow Carpet. We couldn’t walk on the shag carpet with our shoes off because it shot carpet slivers into our feet.) Suzanne was finished with her degree at WSU, but was saving bucks to go back to school to get her teaching credentials. She worked as a lifeguard, and at a camera store. I worked at a magazine, and went to Graduate School in Creative Writing. I also taught at the U of U. Life was good.
And then a thing happened. It was entirely my fault. I take full responsibility for it. I was a full-fledged dope. But it caused us to take a break from each other. For 13 years.
In the next post, Part 2, I will explain how Suzanne and I met for the second time—the time that stuck. Second time was the charm.
[Another re-post. Thanks for your patience, while I try to corral my wild brain.]
That is one bigly Post-it Note heart! I thought it best to wear it only for the selfie. Driving while wearing it would probably result in mayhem and tragedy. Let’s see… I’d be pulled over and cited for DWP. Driving While Post-it-ed.
Jumbo pink Bow Tie o’ the Day is one of my favorites. Actually, I’m fond of jumbo-size bow ties, period. They give off such happy vibes. And we are here to be happy. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise. I’m not saying happiness isn’t work. No, it’s something you have to achieve. The happiness a bow tie can give is a fleeting feeling. If you want real happiness, you have to mostly create it. It’s not going to knock on your door, fully-formed, and say, “I’m here to serve you!”
I think we get distracted by looking to/at others to find happiness. We think: “They seem happy. What do they have that I don’t? I need to get what they have, and then I’ll be happy.” It doesn’t work that way. Your happiness is singular to you. It won’t look like anyone else’s. It is authentic to you, and you only. It is your job to figure out what your happiness will look like. Ignore other people’s ideas of happiness. Mind your own happiness business.
If you find somebody (a spouse, partner, etc.) whose happiness pieces fit with your happiness pieces, you have found a powerful and rare thing. Your happiness inventory will not be exactly the same as the person’s you mesh with. But what would be the fun of that? Do you really want to be married to a clone of yourself? Another person isn’t your happiness. Your chosen person can share in your happiness, just as you can share in theirs. You are a part of each other’s happiness, not the whole of it. Let me make this clear: NEITHER A MATERIAL OBJECT NOR A PERSON “MAKES” YOU HAPPY. You decide to be happy. You make a plan and work to achieve it. It’s an attitude.
Living with another person gives you daily opportunities to express your happiness. You can care for and spoil them with whatever happiness you decide to share. Take the risk to spread your joy around the metaphorical and literal house. You’ll get hurt sometimes, even in the best of relationships. But so what? Remember, you’ll hurt your beloved too. You won’t mean to, but you will. Unless you’re perfect. Be kind. Be brave.
To be happy in a relationship doesn’t mean you feel jolly every minute. You can be happy, yet experience sorrow, anger, frustration, and every other emotion. Real happiness is not an emotion. Happiness is a state of your soul, not a mood.
If you make a habit of working to achieve true happiness, you can weather the relationship storms you will encounter, more easily and more courageously. This doesn’t sound like it makes sense, but I promise it does: When you are in the storm of yourself—when you are aching—muster your courage and every power in your heart to choose your happiness. Open up your happy heart just a bit wider. Share just a little more. Give. And then rain your happiness down on you and your beloved. Take the risk to love your beloved—again and again, day after day, second upon second. Your relationship will grow stronger. Your soul will thank you.
And one more bigly note: Selfishness does not grow happiness. Trying to get everything you want, and always trying to get your way, is as far from happiness as you can get.
This has been yet another bossy sermon. Just sayin’.
[Another Mom and Dad Valentine re-post. I think I’m coming out of my bipolar fog. Cross your fingers.]
Tie o’ the Day shares its exuberant field of hearts. It is my fave-rave Valentine’s necktie. If you haven’t finalized your Valentine’s Day plans, I suggest you git ‘er done. You’re running out of time.
If you are attached to someone, let them know they are precious and irreplaceable. Make it absolutely certain they know how you feel about them. If you are single, let yourself know you are precious and irreplaceable—because you are. You are enough, exactly because you’re you. Mr. Rogers says so, too.
And then remind yourself you should treat your beloved and yourself this way every day, not just on Valentine’s Day. It’s the least you can do for someone who is so necessary to the grateful beating of your vast, glad heart.
Mom found a way to let Dad know he was her one-and-only even when he was out of town working the bees for a few days. She always tucked a lovey-dovey or funny card in his suitcase for him to find when he got to his motel room for the night. And I mean she stuck a card in there EVERY TIME he was off having a sleeping party with his bees.
On one bee trip to California, after Dad got checked in to his motel, he found a humongous ratty, dirty bra that a previous motel guest had left under the bed. He stuck it in his suitcase with his dirty clothes, hoping to shock Mom with it when she opened the suitcase to retrieve his clothes to wash. Sure enough, when Dad returned home, Mom got his soiled clothes out of the suitcase and headed to the washer. Dad sat in the living room, patiently waiting to get yelled at for having a California girlfriend whose bra had found its way into his suitcase. But he heard nothing. No screaming, no yelling. He heard no response at all from Mom for the longest time. Finally, Mom announced to Dad that she’s not worried one bit about the dame whose stray bra he brought home with him—because the bra is so dirty and skanky that she knows there is no way he would sleep with someone that gross. His prank. Her clever response. It turned out to be a great joke, on both their parts.
Dad got a bonus laugh about his Bigly Bra Hijinks when he told his coffee-drinking buddies at Top’s Cafe the next morning. His pals were shocked he had dared put a bra in his suitcase for Mom to find. They said their wives would have massacred them if they’d done that. Dad was clearly still standing.
Mom thought the whole thing was so funny that she’s been telling the story to anyone who’ll listen since it happened, way back in the 70’s.
[I think my noggin is on the mend. Nevertheless, I’m not back in writing shape yet. Enjoy another Valentine season re-post.]
The wall-hanging in this photo has shown up in the background of a lot of my post pix. It dominates our living room, on purpose. Mom chose a similar saying for the back of her and Dad’s headstone. The gist of its message is the over-arching truth with which I was raised. And it still frames the way I try to live my life.
To love and to be loved are not two separate things. Happiness comes from making and keeping them one thing together. (I’m not just talking about romantic love.) We love who we love. And we want their love in return, but we often don’t allow ourselves to accept it. Too often we don’t feel worthy of it, or we push it away because we don’t want to risk the chance we might get hurt. Loving and being loved is definitely going to have its pains, but think of them as growing pains. That’s what most of the hurts are. They are signs a relationship needs some overhauling in order to grow. So work on it. The payoff will happen if both parties are willing to give and take the love the work requires.
You can find love all over the place. For example, I’m wearing dog bones Bow Tie o’ the Day in Valentine’s Day honor of all the mutts in my life who have loved me. And in honor of my skittish Skitter who is snoring beside me as I type this post. She loves me even in her sleep. Our dogs simply love us. And they so clearly assume that we will love them back. They trust us. They expect us to befriend them and care for them. They make us better people because we cannot help but melt in their presence, like we give ourselves over to any baby that is near us. We coo at dogs. We talk to dogs in our baby-talk voices. We want to feed dogs and touch them and protect them. We want to cover them in warm blankies. Dogs pull the best parts of our hearts out into the open.
With my bipolar head, sometimes I feel lost and foreign even to myself. Having a dog around when I’m on one of my mental extremes can make me feel like I’m at home in myself, even if the feeling comes and goes. Even Skitter, who was severely abused before she rescued us, makes me feel at home in my bipolar self—just by following me around, or doing her chew dance, or prancing to the mailbox with me. Skitter’s abuser could not destroy Skitter’s capacity for love. That’s how strong love is. I can’t help but exude love for her. She brings out the baby-talk in me. “Skitter, are you ready to go walkie?” The love goes both ways. That’s happiness. Her giving and receiving love is healing The Skit. And it changes me. It strengthens an attitude that stays with me in my dealings with my fellow beings.
Perform love, wherever you go. Let your love rain down like glitter from the heavens.
That’s my sermon for this morning, and I’m sticking to it.
Each robot on Tie o’ the Day has a heart inside its plastic, metal, wired self. Apparently, even robots have the capacity to love when they’re on a tie. Aside from loving hearts, Tie has nothing whatsoever to do with these pix of Mom and Dad. I just think it looks snappy.
These photos were taken when Mom and Dad were being Bonnie and Clyde, playing cops and robbers. For over 60 years, they were partners-in-crime. Dad is currently a fugitive, although Mom reports she feels his presence more and more as time moves on. She would like to take him into custody again soon, but she’s not quite ready to follow him all the way to his current hide-out.
[My wonky brain is still under the bipolar weather, so here’s yet another Valentine-y re-post about my parents. They were smitten with each other, that’s for sure.]
Bow Tie o’ the Day has its Valentine’s Day targets ready for Cupid’s arrows. Be on the look-out for a near-naked, winged baby armed with a bow and arrows.
When I first saw the photo with visible faces, I wondered who the heck Dad was hugging. It didn’t look like Mom to me, so I got my magnifying glass out. I discovered that it really was Mom. The shadows across her face were just weird. Whew! I was worried for a millisecond.
Anyhoo… Something you might not know about Mom is that she is disgusted that people wear un-ironed clothing—particularly to church. She and her best friend, Peggy Crane, spouted off about the general lack of ironing on the planet a bazillion times while I drove them across the county on their daily drinking rides.
Mom and Peggy even threatened to put an ad in THE CHRONICLE, offering to teach people how to iron. FOR FREE! But they decided that wouldn’t do any good since, according to them, no one knows what an iron is. (Oh, my! What a wrinkly world we live in.)
One morning of their Senior year at DHS, Dad didn’t show up at school. Mom had no idea where he was or if he was sick. (Remember: no cell phones in 1948.) Later that afternoon, Dad showed up in a class they had together. Mom quizzed him on his earlier whereabouts and he told her he had been doing an extra job for another beekeeper, to earn some extra cash. And then he handed her the few dollars he had earned that morning. She asked what the money was for, and he said, “Well, if we’re going to get married, we’re going to need an iron.”
Based on all the stories Mom and Dad told me over the years about their courtship, that anecdote is the closest thing to a marriage proposal I ever heard about.
So Mom bought an iron, and 73 years later she still has it. It still works, the last time I checked.
I’m sure I’m reading far too much into this, but I think the sweet “iron proposal” is responsible for Mom’s enduring attachment to the importance of ironing. That would explain Mom’s pet peeve about the lack of ironing going on in the wrinkly world today. I don’t know why ironing mattered so much to Peggy though—unless Grant proposed to her the same way.
