Easter weekend is finally upon us. HINT: If you don’t have an Easter bonnet to wear, you can wear your Easter basket. I have my trusty Snoopy and Woodstock Tie o’ the Day to wear, too. Also, please note that the only Peeps invited to our house for the festive Spring weekend are these which wear Bow Ties o’ the Day. I bought these Peeps a few years ago, and they are now as hard as my noggin. (You might not yet know this almost-fact, but I firmly believe Peeps can and will physically outlast Twinkies, in terms of decomposition time.)
Please, oh, please, oh, please, my friends, enjoy your party weekend responsibly! Worship responsibly, as well. Call me if you need a designated driver. 👮🏻♀️
Popcorn Tie o’ the Day is here to signal that Lent is over. Trust me—there’s already ice cream in the freezer. I managed to stick to my Lent goal most days, but not all. I chose sugar over my goal on a few occasions. I give myself a failing grade on my Lent behavior this year.
In general, I can do anything I set my mind to do. I make a decision, and I have follow-through. I do whatever it takes to endure. I stick. Except, apparently, when it comes to giving up sugary, salty, junky food for Lent. Oh, I was perfect about it for the first week. Not eating non-nutritional food was no bigly deal for me. But then it was my birthday, so I gave myself a day off to eat birthday desert when Suzanne took me out to dinner. I know myself well, and I could have told you from the outset that would be disastrous for my Lent sacrifice success.
Seriously, if I can rationalize one acceptable reason to excuse myself from my stated goal—like “it’s ok, it’s just for my birthday”—I can find a million other reasons to alter my course. The “rules” of Lent don’t help either. Yup, I blame Lent for my weak-ass failure. Why? Because during Lent, according to Lent’s own rules, all Sundays are free days. You heard me: during the six weeks of Lent, on Sundays you are free to give up giving up. The Sabbath is always a day of celebration, whether it’s Lent or not. Who am I to argue with a day off doing something I don’t want to do anyway?
But that’s a cop-out. The truth is I messed up and rationalized my way into failure, knowing exactly what I was doing all along the way. I allowed myself to become a walking rationalization. I put myself before the idea of sacrifice. We sacrifice because sometimes it’s the thing we’re asked to do, regardless of how convenient or inconvenient it is to do so. I was content to be a happy asterisk during Lent 2022. I hope I will utilize a different, more positive, approach to Lent next year. I am a person who is striving to be better than an asterisk.
We all have to look at ourselves. We have to be self-reflective and turn a critical eye to who and what we are. Indeed, we have to judge ourselves at times. I don’t know about you, but my worst enemy has always shown up in whatever mirror I look into. The trick for each of us is to figure out how to live in such a way that we can reconcile the soul we are with the image we cast in the mirrors we pass. Oh, it sounds so simple.
Topic #1: Lent. Lent ends today. I failed in my efforts to abstain from junky food—particularly sweets. More than once, I failed. In an effort to be transparent, I’ll repent and write about my indiscretions later.
Topic #2: Mom. My bees-and-honeycomb Tie o’ the Day is pleased to inform y’all that Mom—the Mistress of Dad’s Bee yards for decades—can breathe more easily again, and she’s back safely in her pad at Millard Care and Rehab. She’s glad to be home finally, and hopes she won’t be making a return to the hospital, ever. She says it’s a nice hospital, but she also says NO THANKS to being a patient there again. She prefers her own room at the care center. I vote for that, too.
So Mom is once again where she belongs, and we siblings can again contend with Mom’s stealthy and regular routine of accidentally touching buttons on her phone that shut it off, and then we can’t get in touch with her. That causes us to get on our group text to ask who talked to Mom last and how was she, and which one of us is gonna call the care center to ask some kindly employee to hunt down Mom and turn on her phone, so we can all try to call her at once to make sure she’s in good shape and good spirits, and then we’ll jump back on the group text to update each other about how she is and what she said. We’ll report to each other that Mom’s hanging in there. (It’s 10 o’ clock, do you know where your mother is?)
Mercedes/BT and Ron and I occasionally report and compare the length of our phone conversations with Mom. If she chats with one of us for less than 2 minutes, that means she’s on her way to BINGO or crafts or a musical program some community group has brought into the care center. We’re always happy she’s got new things to see and outside townspeople to converse with. I don’t call Mom as often as Mercedes/BT and Ron check-in with her, because my conversations with Mom tend to be lengthy, no matter what time of the day or night I dial her number. Our conversations go on and on, and on some more. I think Mercedes/BT holds the top ten records for shortest calls with Mom, with some clocking in at around 30 seconds. It’s just one example of how we siblings have our individual styles when we’re each doing the very same thing: calling Mom to check on her. 📞
Tiny Bow Tie o’ the Day believes, like I do, that one of the fantastic things about having a bigly extended family and a gaggle of friends is that there is almost always a baby soon to be born. We’ve got infants on the way from all directions right now.
For the brand spankin’ new babies and their parents, we always put together pretty much the same gift cornucopia to present to the new bambino. It’s stuff they will need. Suzanne’s special contribution to our diapers-and-wipes-and-bibs-filled offering is a pile of baby blankets she’s created. She does not believe a baby needs only one of her blankets. And she is right. Any baby who receives many Suzanne-made blankets is guaranteed to be a happy baby, and a happy baby translates into happy parents.
My special contribution to the baby’s gift bundle is buying the diaper rash-slaying Boudreaux’s Butt Paste. With a baby product name like that, you know it’s exactly the kind of thing my eccentric self must give a newborn. Diaper rash is not pleasant, and Butt Paste is effective at soothing the pain and solving the problem itself. At least as far as Butt Paste’s name goes, any baby’s diaper-changer gets a minor giggle out of using it.
But I am here to caution you: Do not confuse Boudreaux’s Butt Paste with Rub Some Butt bbq seasoning. Do not mistakenly put the Rub Some Butt in the baby’s room, while also mistakenly putting the Boudreaux’s Butt Paste in the pantry. That would be a tragedy. Look at the labels closely, folks. Like the RIF television ads told us in the 70’s, Reading is Fundamental.
Some days, I don’t know exactly what vibe I’m feeling until I see myself in a selfie. Today was one of those days. I knew I had a striking, teal paisley-on-brown Tie o’ the Day around my neck, but it was only after I shot this photo and glanced at it that I noticed I am experiencing a Dick Tracy vibe today. It’s not just about the hat. The hat adds, but my very own face—with its squinty eyes and deep-set lines—is giving off the Dick Tracy mojo. I like how it feels, very much. Perhaps I’ll go out and catch a villain who has a catchy, comic book name this evening. I’ll certainly take selfies if I do. 🤠 (Pretend the cowboy hat on the emoji is a fedora, and pretend the emoji’s smile isn’t smiling at all.)
I considered my “Pub time” mostly my “SWWTRN time.” Here I am when I drank beer. I was at my drinkin’ weight, of course.I teased the late Lee Jorgensen (far left) by re-naming him “Brokeback.” He was such a cowboy. I’m the one wearing the bow tie. My SWWTRN is always in the middle. And Gary, every woman’s hubby, is always on the far right 😉.Here, Mom and my Sister Who Wishes To Remain Nameless, are watching the news on our private TV at our private table by our private window—which we decorated seasonally throughout the year. This window display includes our mini tank of goldfish and frogs. Clearly, it was summer.Gary, Darrell, and Mike. The Three Wise Men? The Three Stooges? The Unholy Trinity? Take your pick, and you’d be right.
Word has reached TIE O’ THE DAY that the Pub in Delta has closed its beer-and-pool-and-pizza doors. The Pub was my fave Delta place to hang out after I returned to Utah in 2000, until we sold the Delta house in 2017 and I was no longer a Millard County resident. I was a regular at the Pub back when I drank their beer, and I was still a regular when I got sober and drank only their Diet Coke. The bartenders let me keep my own cup in the cupboard, and they let me fill it up myself at the soda machine whenever I was ready for another round of caffeine. I was allowed to be my own soda bartender. Oddly enough, my bar pals were a bigly part of my getting and staying sober. Any one of them would have jumped between me and an incoming beer, in order to save me from it.
When I walked into the Pub in 2000, after I had returned from living away from Delta for nearly 20 years, I found myself somewhat of a stranger in my own hometown—at least with those who were much younger than me. When I entered the Pub for that “first” time, I walked in alone. I sat down at a table that looked like it probably didn’t belong to any of the regulars, which meant it was smack dab in the middle of the room. I was literally the center of attention. Everyone seemed to be holding a bottle of Bud Light, so I ordered a Bud Light. And then I made my move: I opened my messenger bag and pulled out a book and a notebook and a pen. I set up my little desk on the table, opened my notebook, and began writing. A Bud Light arrived at my table. I thanked the bartender, paid up, took a swig, and went right back to writing. Slowly but surely, I could hear the whispers build amidst a table full of cowboys I hadn’t yet made eye contact with. They were Pub regulars, clearly, and I was a newcomer to them. I was certainly an irregular on the scene, as I have always been. Things seemed to be getting a bit tense.
And then it happened. One of the guys stood up and walked straight over to me at my table. I looked up at the man’s face, prepared for whatever remark—friendly or foe-ly—was coming. I immediately recognized what Delta family his face belonged to, but I couldn’t place him exactly. In my peripheral vision, I could see every eye in the place was on us, and nobody was making a sound. I swear, even the jukebox shut off so everyone could hear what was to come. The young man said to me, “Hey, aren’t you related to Travis and Kyle? They lived across the street from me and we played basketball all the time when we were kids.” I said, “Yup. Their mom is my sister. And you are a Roper.” Tension gone. Those burly cowboys had sent Ricky Roper to investigate me. Ricky Roper bought me my next beer, and I was a stranger at the Pub no more. My book and notebook and pen were not a threat, nor were the burly cowboys.
Hey! I got my first issue of GARDEN & GUN magazine. I saw a subscription for it somewhere and I just had to have it. I’m curious about everything, and I wondered what a magazine with this title could possibly be about—besides gardens and guns, of course. After thumbing through its pages, I discovered it’s about Southern living: cuisine, hunting, entertainment, homes, etc. And gardens and guns. I’m almost hooked enough on what I’ve seen in the magazine to contemplate retiring to the region. It was an impulse buy, and I’m glad I subscribed.
Toothy Tie o’ the Day was an impulse buy as well, that’s for sure. I am not a dentist or related to a dentist. I am not particularly dental in any way, except that I am an adult human and have a set o’ choppers so I can gnaw on meat and crush goodies (after Lent, which ends later this week). A colorful necktie whose print is decorated with molars is something I didn’t need for any reason I could think of or make up—except I hadn’t owned such a tie before. The tie makes me smile, so I’m pleased I bought it. People seem to enjoy chewing my ear off about the tie (pun intended).
The impulse buy is an awesome sales notion. I give a thumbs-up to occasionally buying something swell for no real purpose. I do, however, recommend that one keep one’s impulse buys to items that are relatively inexpensive. Don’t impulsively contract to buy a ruby-encrusted yacht. You probably won’t find that buy to be prudent. Real caviar scratch-n-sniff stickers? That would be a pricey DON’T. A 99-cent pack o’ chocolates shaped like poop emojis? YES! A good chocolate prank among pals is always worth a measly 99-cents. Just because a product is odd, it doesn’t mean you need it. Unless you do. If a strange object moves you, place it in your shopping cart. You’re the decider. 🛒
Mom is as fragile as she is tough. She’s needed a little extra care the past few days, so she’s been getting some rest at the hospital, next door from Millard Care and Rehab. We kids have all been doing our best to bother her in small doses by spending time with her there, which is just as she seems to like it. She got shrimp with her salad at lunch on this day, and you’d have thought it was Christmas at Rockefeller Center. That’s another bigly lesson Mom has consistently taught us: it doesn’t take much to be happy—if you wanna be happy.
BTW For this visit with Mom, I wore some of my animal-print accessories: pink Bow Tie o’ the Day, brown Sloggers, and orange print face mask (not shown), so Mom would be inspired to reach down into her deep animal instincts to get well and get back to her digs at the care center soon. I threw on my Bernie socks just cuz he’s old and still thriving. Bernie’s always good for a laugh.
Just a heads-up, folks: I won’t be posting tomorrow. I’ve got some family stuff which needs my immediate attention. I’ll get you caught up on my adventures when I get the chance. Work, play, and be safe, my chums. See you in a few days. 👋
I had a rough night. More specifically, I couldn’t sleep. I was in a wee bit o’ annoying pancreas pain, and I was re-writing a poem in my head, and I was worrying about Mom. That’s pretty much what I do every night when I go to bed. But for some reason, last night I also had a bigly bout of insomnia. Fortunately, Bow Tie o’ the Night accompanied me through the dark hours of sleeplessness. I did manage to do some much-needed binge-rewatching of the USA series, IN PLAIN SIGHT, which is a badass, snarky, and wise series that I highly recommend to those of you who wanna be badass, snarky, and wise.
This photo is evidence of the fact that my sleep-free night was a 16-water night. That’s right: I consumed 16 cans of water while I wasn’t sleeping. I didn’t keep count of the trips, but I estimate that drinking that much water resulted in probably 7 or 8 trips to the little girls’ room throughout the night—which likely added to my not being able to sleep. Now that it is day, my insomnia is dissipating. I see a nap in my immediate future. 🛌 😴
