Author: wetleatherdog@gmail.com

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And Then The School Year Started

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Bow Tie o’ the Day and I got approved and educated in Farmington today. At my doc appointment, I got the okey-dokey to take my torso with me on vacation in a couple of weeks. It’s allowed to fly with me on an airplane. The little piece of my pancreas that’s left in me was so excited about being able to go that it clapped. Really, it did. I heard it and felt it. And I know what my Hanky Panky’s capable of, better than anyone else does. (I’ve gotta change Panky’s name since what’s left of it seems to be working sufficiently. Hmmm.)

I learned a new word while the doc was pushing and poking at my belly with his hands: “crepitus.” Doc said he was checking to see if he could feel or hear any of this crepitus thing. And then I said, “That word sounds captivating. What is it?” I so much wanted him to tell me I have crepitus, so I could tell everybody I have crepitus, so I could have an excuse to say crepitus over and over. Crepitus, crepitus, crepitus. And even after the doc defined “crepitus” and told me it isn’t something anyone wants to have, I still wished I had some of it.

Doc told me the short version. Crepitus is air bubbles under your skin or in subcutaneous tissues. It’s a sign of air leaking from/to somewhere it shouldn’t. (After surgery, it can occur on rare occasions.) What he said next is what made me want it. Apparently, the crepitus bubbles feel like Rice Krispies when you’re feeling around, and they sound like Rice Crispies doing their snap, crackle, pop. Sometimes the sound can be heard with the naked ear– or in my case, the naked hearing aid. No stethoscope necessary. Who in their daring, right mind wouldn’t want to be full of crepitation? Alas, I have no Rice Krispies traveling in my innards. Looking at and listening to a bowl of the cereal can’t be the same as having the things move around under your skin. Dang.

After being educated about this new word, I felt compelled to honor public education. To do it, I drove past Farmington High School on my way home. It is FHS’s inaugural year. Brand spanking new. Bow Tie and I stopped to snap a photo of the place, and I’m sure you can guess the reason. A pop-out, grab-ya color. Yellow-orange. Now that’s a building that says HERE I AM! COME IN AND LEARN!

I also drove past Canyon Creek Elementary, which is about a mile from FHS. Its colors are not pop-y in the least. The earthy colors are fine, but match-y. I almost didn’t include this second photo on the post because it didn’t look very interesting. But then I saw IT. And I knew you had to see IT too: my hair in the wind. I’m wearing Trump hair!

It’s your fault though. It’s because of your votes that I’m growing out my head hairs, and clearly my head hairs are now in their Trump phase of growth.

HERE’S A P.S. FROM THIS MORNING’S POST: The “allergy bee” stung me in my hand. My entire hand and forearm swelled up like Popeye’s. To ease the throbbing pain of the swelling, I had to keep my fingers pointed to the ceiling. The incident occurred on a Saturday, and I was scheduled to give a talk in Sacrament Meeting the next day. I couldn’t stand to let my arm hang down for even the few minutes of my talk. So there I stood pontificating at the podium, forearm pointed up. It appeared as if I was sustaining myself for ten minutes. Ward members didn’t act like anything weird was going on. I’m sure they thought I was just going through another one of my eccentricities.

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Bees Gotta Be Who They Be

Before Bow Tie o’ the Day and I can wreak havoc on Davis County today, we’re jumping in the car to go visit my regular doctor. You see– I am in dire need of re-upping my EpiPen supply. In all the hub-bub of selling the Delta house last year, I didn’t take time to get my yearly EpiPen prescription. My current injectors expired months ago.

The irony of why I need to carry epipens is that I am allergic to bee stings, which is not the best allergy to have when your father is a beekeeper and the bee warehouse is basically in your backyard. Bees around your house make for some tense times. Oddly, my allergy didn’t kick in until I was 16. Getting stung was a somewhat regular occurrence in my childhood, with bees as my siblings. It was really no big deal. I even worked in the warehouse sometimes and hung around with Dad in bee yards.

But the summer I was 16, I was wrangling some hollyhocks growing up against our house, and I got stung by a bee who was enjoying the ‘hocks. A couple of minutes later, I couldn’t stop sneezing. I decided to settle my sneezing by lying down on the couch with a cold rag on my forehead. I had a hard time catching my breath, and when Mom saw me she asked why I was turning blue. That’s when I connected how I was feeling to the bee sting. I hadn’t even considered a sting being the cause of how I felt, because I’d been stung a thousand times before without any problems.

So off we went to the old Delta Hospital. I was not breathing well at all. My appendages were swelling up. My eyelids swelled up to the point I couldn’t open them. It was all EpiPens, all the time from that point on. But I did get four shoes– sort of– out of my bee sting hospital visit. Apparently, when I got into the ER, the nurses needed to take off my shoes. When they couldn’t get my Nike’s off my swollen feet, they cut them off me. Thus, two shoes became four partial shoes.

But at least I was excused from helping Dad in the warehouse or in bee yards ever again.

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I’ve Wondered About It Myself

A couple of days ago, I wrote about how important asking questions is in our lives. Wendy Lowry promptly asked me a few. I will answer them all, but only one in this post.

Wendy made a query about how I got into the tie/bow tie thing. She wondered what big life experience got me hooked. Ties o’ the Day also wonder how this all came to be. What’s the origin of The Tie Room and its inhabitants?

The honest answer to the totality of Wendy’s question is that I don’t know exactly how I got here. I know that as a kid, I was fascinated by ties. I looked forward to Sunday every week because church meetings offered up what seemed like an infinite number of ties for me to behold. (An occasional bow tie showed up in the pews, but only rarely.) The tie designs were varied. The fabrics felt richly soft. They absolutely looked hip. And then at some point in my kidhood, I created a Halloween costume that required a bow tie. I don’t remember what the costume was, but I remember I liked wearing the bow tie. It felt like me. It felt like home. And I am serious about that.

Over the decades, I picked up a swell tie/bow tie here or there in my travels, if I felt like I could not live a fulfilled and clever life without it. About four years ago, I looked at my neckwear as it was doing absolutely nothing in the closet, and I thought, “Why the heck am I not wearing these grooverrific pieces all the time?” I had only twenty or so, but I began wearing them. They completed something in my soul, so I wanted others to see and appreciate their characteristics. People who saw me wearing them seemed to appreciate how they popped out from the norm. Bow ties, especially, really do make people smile. That’s when neckwear became my regular uniform– my trademark.

Of course, I had to expand my collection if I was going to wear neckwear each day. And then after I created the website/tblog/Facebook posts, a few folks requested I wear two per day. (BTW I call you faithful readers “tbloglodytes”  since this is a “t”ie “blog”.) Gee, I was in Heaven when I realized I had to acquire even more neckwear to properly post twice per day. Although I yammer on and on about my adventures, the tblog really is all about sharing the ties.

As far as an actual count of my neckwear bodies goes, I refuse to count them. If I did, I would feel compelled to tell Suzanne the exact number. Even though she probably owns as many yards of fabric as I own ties/bow ties, I have determined it’s best for me to remain in the dark about the actual total, so I can keep her in the dark about it.

Since Suzanne’s currently where there is no internet/phone service and can’t see this post, I will tell you– if you promise to not tell her– that I estimate the tie count to be around 200. And the bow tie count is somewhere in the range of 900. I have an old wood library card catalog, where the bow ties sleep in the drawers, dreaming mighty dreams of starring in the tblog. Each morning, I hear them yell out,”ME! PICK ME!” as I enter The Tie Room to select my attire.

Some people fish. Some people craft. Some people restore classic cars. I show off ties of all ilks. In my opinion, it should be an Olympic sport. I win.

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Realistically, How Much Trouble Can I Cause?

Suzanne is leaving this morning to go cabin-camping with her Champagne Garden Club for four days, which means Bow Tie o’ the Day and I are free to do some scampin’. Of course, exactly how much scampin’ we accomplish depends on my energy level. But we’re ready, and I’m attempting to consolidate all the oomph I can gather. Clearly, Bow Tie and my Shirt o’ the Day have energetic clash going on. Perhaps I can feed off that.

When you’re dressing up in clashiness, not only are you making a loud choice of your attire, you are saying to everyone who sees you, “Out of all the clothes in my closet and drawers, this is the ensemble I chose to put together just for you. Today, I chose to show this version of me to the outside world. Please enjoy my outfit being original enough to get in your face, in all its non-matchy color and dapper-osity.”

At the cabin the Champagne Garden Club Girls will inhabit, there is no cell service, which means Suzanne can’t check on me. She won’t be able to get a daily report of my healing and/or not-healing. I told her I will follow the rules for my continued recovery. But when I told her I’d follow those rules, I crossed what’s left of my pancreas, and I didn’t use the word “promise” when I said it. I figure that gives me a bit of leeway in my behavior while she’s gone.

With no communication possible between us, she won’t have a clue in the world as to the things I’ll really be doing. But I tend to feel guilty when I don’t come clean about performing my inadvisable antics– or even advisable antics. So when she gets home, I’ll tell her everything. I’m a dope that way. I’ll take whatever lectures and punishment I deserve.

I’m completely transparent about my doings, to the point of ridiculousness. Out of my mouth comes every teeny and bigly detail of my existence. Suzanne, on the other hand, doesn’t tell me a fragment of what goes on at the annual cabin get-away. You know– what happens at the cabin, stays at the cabin. What occurs there is on a need-to-know basis. That sort of thing. And I’m sure that’s a good policy. At least it’s a good policy for Suzanne. So far, I’m the only one who ever gets in trouble when she’s at the cabin.

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It Was Fun, Then It Was Not Fun

Hey, Bow Tie o’ the Day’s wearing its neon green animal print for our dinkin’-around afternoon. We played around with the mirror and the camera for a few minutes, and we snapped this blurred shot.

Have you ever had a day when you felt a touch blurry? I occasionally feel blurry. And raggedy. And generally out of focus in the details. Those days happen cuz we’re tired, or upset, or confused, or have too many bills to pay– you name it. Blurry days are normal. It’s a human being thing.

Back in the day, when I drank, I felt blurry more often than not. I’d like to be able to say I hated the buzzy beer blur, but I was smitten with the feeling. I liked it waaaay too much though. I finally figured out that my life– like anyone’s life– wasn’t all about me. What I did affected the people around me more than I realized. I had no idea how blurry I was to the people who seemed to care for me. I’m lucky I had enough awareness to do what I needed to do, so I wouldn’t lose Suzanne and other people who gave a damn about me.

Don’t misunderstand me. I enjoyed my time with a near-constant beer in my hand. Pub-hopping all across Ireland. Lots of get-togethers with friends in backyards. Hangin’ at beaches along the Atlantic Ocean. 4th of July fireworks on The Mall in front of the U.S. Capitol.  Sittin’ on porches. Canoeing on the Potomac River. Picnics all over the place. And always a cooler full of brewskis nearby. Even now, you can name a brand of beer and I can remember the taste of that particular brew. And I tell you honestly that I cannot barbecue as skillfully without a beer in my hand. A can of Diet Coke doesn’t have the same heft or magic to it.

At some point in my life, it was clearly time to dissolve my relationship with beer, no matter how much I liked it. (I miss no other version of alcohol.) After I knew I needed to choose a new beverage, it took me a couple of years to get completely sober. But 11 years ago, I finally managed to do it. I don’t regret picking up my first beer, and I don’t regret putting down my last one. I’ve found that it’s impossible to completely regret doing things that taught you bigly lessons– lessons that make you a better person. At least, that’s how it’s always worked for me.

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Through The Valley Of The Shadow Of The Wasatch Front

Bow Tie o’ the Day wore its molecules, and we all went out to Daybreak for an appointment with my crazy-head doctor. Contrary to the picture here, I was not in need of “urgent care.” Nah, me and the doc just had a scheduled talk-talk-talk-and-talk-some-more therapy session. I never leave my sessions with answers to anything, but I think I do figure out the right questions– which allow me to surf the waves of my bipolar life.

Questions can give purposeful direction to our travels. They make our lives our own. If we follow the herd for the sole purpose of following the herd, we have no individual selves. We murder our individual souls by allowing the herd to decide and to act for us. Herds don’t like questions. Questions lead to thinking, which is an individual act. Herds aren’t high on personal responsibility either. “I didn’t do it. The herd did it,” let’s us off the hook for what happens– whether it happens in our house, our city, our country, our schools, etc.. The herd mentality makes us believe we’re powerless without the herd. That’s not true. You have all the power. You even have all the superpowers. And I’m telling you about your power as one li’l individual to another li’l individual. Put on your cape, and ask questions.

 

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Still Takin’ It Easy

I declared Pajama Day for just me, and wood Bow Tie o’ the Day’s cat glasses are keeping me and Skitter company. Look, I’m so exhausted today that I fell asleep while taking this selfie. And my face says I must have been having a weird dream.

I usually declare a PJ Day on a weekend day, mostly so Suzanne can enjoy it too. She busts her butt all week, and she needs to get her sleep-in sleep to catch up with the z’s she requires. She is a champion sleeper. And she can nap more and longer than any newborn I have ever known. Her record for sleeping in was set in Delta a dozen years ago, where one Saturday she slept until after 5 pm. She hadn’t gone to bed late the night before or anything. She’s just that excellent at sleep. She’s pretty much the tops at whatever task she takes on. She’s persnickety about getting things just right. IT DRIVES ME NUTS! Sometimes. I am laid-back and non-linear and loosey-goosey. She keeps me grounded to the practical world, and I remind her to inhabit her imagination. She provides order, and I provide craziness. We balance each other.

Now that the flooring is finished, moving The Ultimate SewingBox into the house and onto the new flooring is next on Suzanne’s list. It has to be assembled, so we’re looking for an assembler or two. It’s a bigly job, and we can’t do it ourselves. We can read instructions. We can understand instructions. But we also understand what is and what isn’t possible in our relationship.

For example: We can agree on pizza toppings. And that’s a must if you’re going to stay together. But one of the things we cannot do is work together to assemble anything– small or huge, simple or complicated. When we have tried to do it, the scene has not been pretty. Trying to work together on building anything that requires instructions has been known to result in us blurting out bad words we didn’t even know we knew. Wisely, we’ve decided to never attempt it again. When it comes to assembling The Ultimate SewingBox, we decided it would be much cheaper to hire someone to put it together than for us to hire divorce attorneys. You gotta know the limits of your couple-dom if you want your relationship to last.

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The Flooring Is Down, And Skitter Is Down With It

 

 

Skitter hid upstairs– on the bed, under a blanket– the entire day yesterday while two completely affable and skillful young gentlemen installed our new floor. Except for sleeping at night, Skitter is always downstairs, but she was petrified of the men and the bigly noises they made in the house. Of course, the second the installers were done and gone, she promptly threw on Bow Tie o’ the Day, sat on her throne, and took over the new floor. She lounged smack-dab in the center of it for the duration of the day.

We’re so pleased with the flooring that I’m sure I’ll find reasons it needs to be background in these posts a zillion times. As you can sorta see in the pic of me, we chose a complementary, but contrasting, flooring. And although this pic doesn’t show it well, you may be able to see that the new floor is laid with its lines diagonal to the existing floor.ing’s lines That was my idea and I was quite surprised when Suzanne agreed it would be nifty to have it laid that way. My surprise was due to the fact that Suzanne’s taste runs to the traditional, while I prefer more snappy modern designs– with architecture, clothing, furniture, etc.. Our taste in books tends to go the same way. She’s all for British classics, and I’m all about American modernist fiction and poetry.

I wax nostalgic about the bookshelves upon bookshelves of books I got rid of when we sold the Delta house. Oh, heck– I get downright misty-eyed about it. However, it was time, and moving made culling my library a sensible decision. I ended up keeping about 500 books I can’t live without. But I estimate I let about 2000 find new homes. I sorta decorated with them in various stacks and formations throughout the house. And I had ideas for a bunch of book sculptures. But I finally knew I would never get to it, cuz I’m at point in my life where I mostly want to spend my energy writing and reading. In fact, I’d rather spend more of my time writing than reading. In reality, I guess I’m actually doing more editing and completing of pieces than writing new pieces. I mean– I have decades worth of drafts that need sprucing up for publication. I’ve got to hurry. I’ve got more decades behind me than I have in front of me.

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Gettin’ Purty Is Weird. Plus Another Topic.

It appears I opened up a can of beauty worms when I let Suzanne put makeup on me a few days ago. She somehow suckered me and Bow Tie o’ the Day into letting her slather this facial mask gunk on my face last night. (The bow in my hair is actually my own touch. It’s how I keep my head hairs out of my eyes.) I can attest to the fact that it was fun peeling off the mask after it had dried. I managed to peel it off in one piece, which I am extremely proud of. Was this mask enough to calm Suzanne’s current cosmetology bug? I think not, because she then polished my fingernails with a breathtaking emerald color– except for the nail on my ring finger which is always painted purple, whether my other fingernails are painted or not.

There’s a national anti-domestic violence campaign called Put The Nail In It, meaning to end something once and for all.  Its signature symbol is the purple ring-finger nail. When anyone asks about my nail, it gives me an opportunity to talk to them about the importance of the issue. See, I can be serious. In fact, I’m serious about anything that affects the dignity and safety of human beings. And dogs, cats, etc., as well. I think it’s why we’re here on the planet.

I’ve never understood the question a lot of people have about why God allows suffering. To me, people are the ones who cause suffering, and so the right question is, “Why do WE allow suffering?” We created all the problems on the planet (except natural disasters), so it seems to me that our purpose is to learn how to clean up the messes we’ve made, and then create extraordinary solutions. Love your neighbor. Pray. Vote. Hope. Feed the hungry. Teach literacy. There are infinite ways to solve the chaos. Do whatever positive action you do. You can’t do everything, but you can do some things. It’s our responsibility to do what we can. To do any less than what we can should be unacceptable to us. Doing any less than what we can is what makes and allows suffering.

That’s my sermon, and I’m stickin’ to it.

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Irreconcilable Differences Happen

Ah, Bow Tie o’ the Day is up early to say its sarcastic goodbye to the living room carpet. Out it goes this morning, and Suzanne and I– and the neckwear– shed only crocodile tears. We’ve hated it from the second we saw it. Even the ties lobbied to have it die– preferably a painful, gruesome death. That’s how much we all hate it.

And now you’re wondering why we have had such a universally disliked carpet in our home, I’m sure. Here’s the thing: When we bought the townhouse, it was new and almost finished. Another buyer before us had chosen all the paint and flooring and appliances. At the last moment, that buyer fell through. The very next minute, we walked into the picture. We loved the place, minus the cheap-ass carpet. We decided to live with the carpet cuz it was new, and at that point we weren’t sick enough of it to justify replacing it. But now, enough is enough. So that’s how we got here.

This photo is showing you my gangster hair and gangster face. I feel kinda like I’ve put a hit out on the carpet. I don’t have, nor do I need, a stereotypical early/mid-1900’s mob machine gun to dramatically off the carpet. And I’m not killing it myself. I don’t have it in my heart to kill anything, even if it is only hideous, cheap carpet. No, I might be The Godgodess around here, but I keep my hands pure by hiring flooring installers to the dastardly deed.

Bow Tie and I will pay our proper respects. We aren’t heartless. The carpet has served us, and it’s not its fault someone created it to be an inferior product. It has tried to do the best it could do with the meager means it was born with. I hope it enjoyed its time with us. We aren’t slap-happy to toss it like the garbage it is, but it’s time for us all to part ways. We’ll all shake hands and carpet fibers, and then we’ll go down our separate life-paths. We send it off into garbage dump oblivion in pretty good shape, and scarred with only two or three puppy-in-training pee accidents. 🐶