Author: wetleatherdog@gmail.com

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Skitter Is Less Skittish After 4 Years With Us

It doesn’t bother me that Bow Tie o’ the Day and Skitter and I are all blurred up in this photo. I like looking at it. Skitter is always learning to love and be loved, but it’s not an easy thing for her. Giving me a huge kiss like this is just another big progression in Skitter’s life as a dog. When we rescued her, she was almost a year old, but she hadn’t yet learned how to be a dog. She had been so abused by her previous “people”– if you can call them that– that all she knew how to do was shake, shiver, and crouch in fear. She was a long-legged, curled up, cowering ball. She wouldn’t make eye contact with us. She tried to be invisible, afraid someone would notice her and cause her pain.

The late, great Roxy– fattest mini dachshund ever– was still with us when we got Skitter, and Roxy taught her how to be a real dog. Skitter didn’t make a sound for the first six months she lived with us, but Roxy taught her to bark. Skitter didn’t know how to eat if anyone could possibly see her, but Roxy taught her to take the food out of her dish and drop it right in the middle of the living room floor, to eat for all to see. And Roxy taught Skitter to beg for people food. You know– dog stuff like that.

And then Roxy left us last December, so now it’s all up to me to teach Skitter the dog life. And the bow tie life. She’s getting better at both, a little bit at a time.

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Still Back. Fall’s Coming. And A Bigger TV.

After I felt like I was pretty much back to my fashion self yesterday, I worried it would be a one-day thing and then I’d wake up today feeling plain again. But no. I’m a happy clam, clash-fashion wise. In fact, I wish I had a clam bow tie to wear as a metaphor for my happiness. But I don’t. I did find this bubbly Bow Tie o’ the Day, and it’s a happy-looking one. Plus, I’m wearing yet another shirt as a cape. I think I’ve got my groove back. For luck, I’m crossing what’s left of my pancreas.

I don’t know how chilly it was outside your house this morning, but it was a bit frigid outside mine. Right now I’m wearing jeans, which I try not to do until at least October. Love me my shorts. But it’ll toast up later today, so I can change into a pair of shorts, and maybe take a dip in the pool.

Fall is my fave season, so I’m not dreading it. I’m just not ready for it to be knocking at my deck’s sliding doors just yet. There’s no stopping the jeans and long-sleeve shirts from worming their way onto my Fall/Winter clothing carousel. And you are well aware what my wearing long-sleeve button-down shirts means: Cufflinks o’ the Day! They’ll soon be crawling out of their storage cases.  More clever/glitzy ‘links have been acquired for your viewing pleasure.

Speaking of viewing pleasure, it is finally necessary for us to adopt a larger TV into our family. Honestly, it’s our eyes that have turned wanting a new TV into needing a new TV . I guess our 54-year-old eyes made the decision for us. We can no longer read written words that show up on the screen as part of the programs. Not on our current picture boxes.

Although the TV will benefit Suzanne and I both. It’ll benefit me more. Turning on a television is a prescription I write and fill for myself. I have the TV on all day, whether I’m seriously watching it or not. When you’re bipolar, it helps for you to find “tricks”– in combination with medications and therapy– that work for you. I’ve had to find my own particular strategies to keep me level and centered. I have a slew of other “trick” arrows in my coping skills quiver, but having the TV on during all my awake hours is one of the most effective tricks for my head.

For me, television is like a soundtrack playing in the background. It helps the manic thinking in my bipolar head get just distracted enough to keep me from thinking my way into a dark abyss. When I am manic, I listen to the “soundtrack” while I’m doing housewife work. Focusing only on the audio– following the program’s narrative–keeps my head busy, while still being able to accomplish something around the house.

Listening to TV shows when I’m manic works better for me than listening to music. Songs are short– both musically and lyrically– and their rapid movement from one song  to the next to the next, etc., can push me further into mania. When I’m on the depressive side, I lower the tv volume and the soundtrack becomes “white noise.” I can hear the TV, but it kinda isn’t there. The low background noise can keep me settled enough to write. Whenever my mood finds its middle level, the music can begin. And I can crank it up!

BTW  JUDGE JUDY and HOMICIDE HUNTER are definitely a different TV matter: Rain or shine, manic or depressive –for those shows, I sit at attention, watching and listening to every moment. Don’t call or text me when these programs are on. Don’t even knock on my door. I might love you, but I will not answer the the phone, a text, or the door when I’m with Judy or Joe. 📺

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My Clash Muscle Is Getting Back In Shape

I think National Bow Tie Day kicked me in my clash this afternoon, prompting me to clash up mightily with Bow Tie o’ The Day, a green-black-and-gray tank, a pink monkey bandana, and a plaid orange-blue-and-lighter-blue  button-down shirt– which I wore as my cape. Oh, it felt fantabulous to be back in my normal fashion! Ah, the exuberance I’m experiencing! I’ve missed my wild attire.

And did I mention my shirt-cape? I know I did, but I wanted to emphasize its snazziness by typing CAPE again. And there I did it again. Suzanne keeps promising to make me a real cape, but so far it ain’t happened. I think the homemade cape is like the skirt made out of ties which she said she was gonna make for herself, back in 1986. She finishes almost all her projects, except for a handful that never quite seem to even get started. I know she did find a pattern for a cape for me about a decade ago. I’m sure it’s somewhere. Maybe she’ll find it when she starts putting stuff in her Ultimate SewingBox– which will be assembled as soon as we return from vacation. (Neckwear and I will photo that process for y’all.)

As much as I enjoy clashing, I’m surprised that surgery could make me feel so-so about it. Usually, I leap out of bed when I awake, and I immediately get myself outrageously garbed up. Even before I brush my dentures. But since surgery, I’ve been kinda blah about it. I knew I would feel like that for the first couple of weeks, but the dull-osity kept hanging on. I know it was just exhaustion from my body healing that was keeping me from dressing like myself, but I’m surprised it has dragged on for two months. Oh, I’ve had days here and there that I’ve dressed in my loud fashion. But mostly, I’ve worn lazy fashion– with only tiny bits o’ clash involved.

I don’t think it’s a coincidence that I began to feel this clash energy really surge on the exact same day as National Bow Tie Day. I don’t believe in coincidences for the most part. Nope, I think that my personal fashion muscle has flexed itself because of my eternal and mysterious connection with my bow ties– and, therefore, with my bow ties’ annual day o’ honor.

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O, Special Night

Bow Tie o’ Last Evening brought it’s steampunk gears along to Vertical Diner in SLC for a triple celebration of sorts. First, it was Monday, which is Homely Family Evening– as I call it. Second, we honored Rowan for his 21st birthday. He’s officially a Toddler Man. (When he turned 18, he became a Baby Man.) And third, we celebrated National Bow Tie Day Eve. What an exciting time for us all!

We have to choose eating establishments carefully when we take Rowan out for eats, because he is a vegan. He became a vegetarian a few years ago, and that turned into his becoming a vegan. Not all restaurants serve vegan food. Vertical Diner is a perfect choice for Rowan’s food proclivity because every item on the menu is vegan. Of course, that also means there are no items for me, since I am a confirmed meat-eater. Oh well. It was a sacrifice I gladly made for Rowan’s birthday dinner. Suzanne and I had meatless taco salads, and Rowan ate a Philly cheesesteak sandwich. I don’t know what the “steak” was made of, nor do I know what the  vegan “cheese” really was. I find it’s better for me if I don’t ask questions about it. (Vertical Diner does not offer Diet Coke/Diet Pepsi– or even the non-diet versions. What animal do they come from that makes them not vegan?”)

I’m sure you’re asking, “What’s the difference between ‘vegetarian’ and ‘vegan’?” The short, simple answer is this: Vegetarians don’t eat animals, but may eat products that come from animals– like dairy and eggs. Vegans, on the other hand, do not eat animals AND they do not eat products that come from animals.

I’m fine about people eating whatever type of diet they feel good about. I don’t mock it. But I am clearly an omnivore. And personally, I think if you want to eat a piece of bacon, eat a piece of bacon. I don’t understand the eating of “fake” bacon– plant bacon. That’s just me. However, I’m extremely proud of Rowan for being committed to his principles.

As I mentioned earlier, it was also National Bow Tie Day Eve. I was so excited about today being National Bow Tie Day that I couldn’t get to sleep at all last night. The anticipation was filling my head. To celebrate this fine day, I’m loading all the bow ties into the bed of my Hombre, and taking them to Lagoon to play– on their very own speshul day. Wish me luck keeping track of the herd. 🤡

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It Might Sound Trivial, But It’s Still Sadder Than Sad

I picked up Suzanne for her lunch break today, and I chose houndstooth floppy Bow Tie o’ the Day for the occasion. She was pleased because I kind of matched, with the coupling of Bow Tie and my black, square-collared tank. I apologize that the tank’s gray stripes aren’t visible in this photo. Suzanne likes the clashy fashion I concoct. She also likes that sometimes I match, although we both know that if I’m matchy, it was most likely by accident. I admit my authentic fashion sense was lazy today as far as clash goes. In fact, since my surgery at the end of June, I have matched too often for my taste. I’ve been too exhausted to dress the way I like. But I’m getting my stamina back, so I’m getting my clash back– slowly but surely.

Lately, we’ve spent Suzanne’s lunch time at a park where there is a municipal outdoor swimming pool– complete with water slides. It’s full and loud all summer. At the pool– and everywhere we go really– Suzanne and I have made people-watching almost a sport. We enjoy it immensely. Sometimes we’ll see people who look/act so interesting that we make up stories about their lives, explaining how they became their “interesting” selves. Storytelling at its best.

Anyhoo… There are definitely a host of sad things all around us. An outdoor swimming pool that’s closed for the season is one of those sad things. Hundreds of kids laughing and yelling and splashing and getting along is a wonderful, optimistic thing to see and hear. That much play and joy in one place is a remarkable and uplifting sight. I hope they do winter things that allow them to lose themselves in communal joy.

I have this theory that if we could all take a swim together in a pool, the world’s populations would be less combative. It’s difficult to plan destruction and cruelty when you’re playing in a swimming pool. Just try it.

When you find yourself getting short-tempered about something– or towards someone– take your kid, or grandkid, or any kid you know– to take a dip in the pool with you. I defy you to stay ticked off and impatient. I defy you to not smile for the entire time you are there.

Unless you’re swimming laps. There’s a good chance that swimming laps won’t cause you to smile, no matter how much you enjoy it. I don’t know why, but it’s what I’ve observed. I like to swim laps, and I know I don’t smile while I do it, although I feel uplifted.

Pick one person, any person. Now, for thirty seconds, picture that person in a swimming pool, wearing goggles and arm floaties and swim fins and a nose clip– and floating with a swim noodle. Now doesn’t that make you feel better? Doesn’t that put a goofy smile on your mug? When you’re angry at someone, picture that person in that scenario. That’ll put everything into proper perspective.

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I’m The Decider

Beach Bow Tie o’ the Day is helping me write my list of things to pack for our upcoming vacation. It’s over a week away, but I usually get out my suitcase early and put things in it as I think of them. Doing it that way guarantees that I don’t forget anything, cuz if I don’t have to pack at the last minute, I don’t have to worry about remembering everything at one time. Yes, I’m writing my list, but y’all know you don’t remember everything as you’re jotting down the list. And every time you do remember something to add to it, you can’t find the list. I’m sure I’m not the only one who does this.

I always carry a notebook, even on vacation. Okay. I admit it. I usually carry two or 3. I must have a teeny one that fits in my back pocket, for making quick notes. I have a regular-size legal pad somewhere near me at all times at home or in whatever vehicle I’m driving– or in my suitcase if I’m on vacation. I also carry a mid-size notebook that fits in a small purse-size leather bag I carry.  I call that one my “in-case” notebook– for in case something happens to the other two. And I usually pack around a half-dozen pens– all the same kind. Bic Velocity Bold. [If I were to write my packing list in a notebook, I’d still lose it. I wouldn’t remember which notebook I wrote it in.]

My notebooks are really what most people refer to as “journals,” but for some reason, I’ve never liked that name. “Journal” makes it sound like a stuffy, arrogant notebook that thinks it’s better than other types of notebooks. I do not participate in snootiness if I can help it.

Suzanne always drags along a slew of her notebooks and office products too. Beginning with this vacation, I am starting a tradition. I have designated myself The Chooser o’ Vacation Notebooks. This trip deserves a fresh notebook.

I chose these to be our main notebooks. Mine’s the one with the Emerson quote. Suzanne gets the one with the stitched suitcase. Yes, the suitcase lines truly are stitched. To me, it’s just Suzanne-y. I think she’ll like it when she sees it. If she does like it, that pretty much guarantees the tradition of vacation notebooks will continue. And then I will remain The Chooser o’ Vacation Notebooks– a job I will savor and will take damn seriously. Plus, its title sounds so important.

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If You Have To Freeze, Freeze With Tie Pals

Ties o’ the Day want you to hear the tale of last night’s frozen woe. Here’s the background: The day before I went into the hospital, a vital part in the AC died a sudden death. The house toasted up oh-so quickly.  I immediately worried that Skitter would melt in the heat o’ the house unless the situation could be fixed immediately. Did I call the AC company and schedule a repair ASAP? No. I was having surgery early the next morning, and I had no idea when the heck I would be getting out of the hospital, so making an appointment for the repair folks to show up at a specific time wasn’t possible.

Suzanne was on a flight from Florida when the AC part gave up the ghost, so she was no help at that moment. When she got home late that night, we didn’t spend time worrying about how hot the house was– cuz we had only a few hours left to convince me to show up for my surgery. Apparently, when I scheduled the surgery I wasn’t clear about the fact that the doctor couldn’t operate on me if I wasn’t actually in the operating room to be sliced open. There isn’t an app for that.

I had no doubt Suzanne would handle the AC repair scheduling as soon as I lived through my procedure. I knew the house would be cooled to our satisfaction by the time I returned home from my medical odyssey. Skitter would be saved from melting! But I also knew the repair would cost more than necessary, because Suzanne would be handling it instead of me.

Suzanne likes gadgets and apps. A gadget that comes with its own app is irresistible to her. The AC dudes came and made the repair on the 4th of July, while I was still walking around the halls of Huntsman in my hospital nightie. Later, that day when Suzanne came to sit with me in the hospital, she immediately pulled out her iPhone to show me the app for remotely controlling the AC thermostat. But, of course, to use the app, she had to get a new “smart” thermostat control put on the wall. (Anybody want a working, not-smart thermostat?) And that’s not all she got us. Of course, she had to get a sensor that knows where we are in the house at all times, so wherever there’s a human being, the room is temperaturally correct.

Anyhoo… We have all accidentally “butt dialed” a phone call or have been butt dialed ourselves. Heck, I’ve even “cleavage dialed” a person or two. Last night, as I snored the night away, I somehow rolled over on my phone and some part of my body “skin dialed” the AC app temperature setting– changing it to somewhere in the vicinity of below zero. In the middle of the night, I woke up in Antarctica. I reset the temperature setting to the right temp, but I was still so cold I had to dress like this to get back to sleep. Count ’em: 8 ties, 3 sweaters, and 3 hats.

No more sleeping with the phone on the bed, which wouldn’t have happened if Suzanne had been in it. The moral of this tale is that if Suzanne gets new gadgets with apps, she shouldn’t leave me all alone while she goes camping for four days with her Champagne Garden Club.

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But Which Selfie Is The Real You?

Wood Bow Tie o’ the Day shows us a throwback. An “old school” type of camera isn’t seen much anymore, although I have started to notice more of them in the last couple of years. However, these cameras are not particularly selfie-friendly on the spur of the moment.

It’s my opinion that some folks take way too many selfies. They spend so much time taking pix of themselves that they never actually experience the experience of which they’re taking selfies. It also seems like some people don’t think they themselves even really exist if they don’t constantly take photos of themselves to prove they’re alive. And then, they have to put their selfies on the internet to prove to everybody else that they’re alive.

I know what you’re thinking: “Well, Helen, you take at least  two selfies per day, and then you make everybody look at each one by posting them.” Am I a hypocrite? Oh, I’m sure I am a hypocrite about some things. Aren’t we all sometimes? But on this issue, I think I’m not. Quite.

First, I have this little website about/with ties and our adventures. A post like that needs a photo, and who wants to gaze at a naked tie? My purpose is to do a little not-so-serious (usually) writing every day, and the ties are my props. But they are also the stars, and somebody’s gotta wear them. I would rather not hire models, since I’m the one wearing them anyway.

Second, I have a bunch of untaken photos to make up for, because I somehow made it through the 80’s and 90’s without ever actually being in a photograph. (There might be a few exceptions, but I don’t have evidence of them.) Does it mean I didn’t exist for two decades, just because I don’t appear in photos? No, it means I was snapping the pictures for everybody else. Of course, the photos I took for others were blurry and out of focus, because I wouldn’t stop experiencing the action I was in while I snapped away.

It was fine by me to not be in photographs. I have always disliked myself in pix. In photos, it seemed like I looked like someone else. The pix of me didn’t fit the image I had of myself. I’m not talking about my physical self/face. No, I always thought I looked like a ghost or zombie of myself. A photo couldn’t hold me. It seemed to always hold the not-me.

Even with all my wrinkles, sags, and gray hairs, I kind of enjoy the selfies I take. I earned my face. And when I’m picking out a selfie to use in a post, I see me. Most of my self is usually there in my selfies. It’s probably just the effect of the ties. Whatever it is, when I see myself in photos now, I no longer see a zombie staring back at me.

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A Serendipitous Meeting, Part 2

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, 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 telephoned me from her house in Ogden. I was glad her parents still lived at their same address and 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 to Ogden a few days after that phone conversation to meet Suzanne for dinner and a chat about doing a POA. We went to her fave Italian place on 25th Street, where I ate halibut and explained 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.

[Here’s a BTW: When you ask a writer a question, expect to get an extra long, extra detailed answer. 😄]

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A Serendipitous Meeting, Part 1

Love-struck Bow Tie o’ the Day eagerly awaits my answer to another of Wendy Lowery’s questions. Bow Tie is new to our house and doesn’t know much about our history yet. Anyhoo… Wendy asked how Suzanne and I 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 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 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 then 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.