Author: wetleatherdog@gmail.com

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A Visit To The Dermatologist

Here’s a bit o’ wisdom I have gathered over the years: When going to a new doctor for the first time, it is best to tone down the loudness of my idiosyncratic fashion. To display my clashion in its most eye-opening forms at a first doctor appointment risks scaring the new doctor. And you know dang well it is not wise to scare a doctor who is in charge of treating your body. I don’t know about you, but I want my doctor to be focused on my ailment, not on trying to decipher the meaning of my attire—at least not until they get to know me, and realize that my normal is not like anybody else’s normal. For this reason, when I had a first appointment with a dermatologist yesterday, I chose a plain-ish blue shirt, a solid-color hat, a doctor-friendly face mask, and a perfectly mellow-but-gorgeous Bow Tie o’ the Day. Yes, I was wearing a pair of golf pants, which my doctor immediately noticed and swooned over. It seemed I had chosen my get-up well.

Anyhoo… For the past three years, I have had a patchy rash on some areas of my torso. The rash is not hideous, and it doesn’t ooze, hurt, or itch. It hasn’t spread anywhere else. It just hasn’t gone away. For the first year, I tried to treat it with various creams, lotions, and gels—convinced it was just something to do with my notoriously dry skin. I figured it would eventually go away. After almost a year of the recalcitrant rash, I knew it was time to make an appointment with a dermatologist. But that’s when the pandemic showed up, and making an appointment with a doctor to deal with a problem that was stubborn and vaguely annoying but otherwise not causing me any discomfort—well, that wasn’t gonna happen. At about the time it was getting easier to get a doc appointment again, my Cranky Hanky Panky flipped out and I had to deal with doctors about that for almost another year. It’s been three months since my pancreas surgery, so I decided it was time to finally make an appointment with a dermatologist. Which I did.

Yesterday was my initial appointment. I have been supremely curious to get to the bottom of what these seemingly innocuous rashy patches on my front and back are all about. The doctor walked into the exam room and—after complimenting me on my golf pants—her eyes lit up at the sight of my rash. She circled my torso with glee. I kid you not: she was grinning and her eyes got bigly. I asked her if she knew what it was, and a bunch of Latin words came out of her mouth. I had never heard of anything she said. I asked her to tell me in English, and she said: “You have a skin fungus. It’s one of four different types. We’ll have to do a biopsy to find out exactly which one it is, then we’ll know how to treat it.” Well, okay then. I was glad to have something close to an answer. Then she took chunks out of my torso in three different spots and sent them off for biopsy. (The doctor will call me with the results in a few days.) My doctor grinned throughout the whole office visit. She was downright giddy. Apparently, what I have is not something she has seen often. The doctor asked if I would let her colleague come in to view my rash, and I was fine with that. So my doc left and the other dermatologist came in—also grinning as she circled me, again and again, with a special light. She was giddy, too. I was a spectacle, and not for my clothing choices. My doc’s colleague said she had never seen this particular skin problem in real life. She spent more time perusing my rash than my own doctor. And then when she was done examining me, she thanked me profusely for letting her look at my stubborn patches. My skin malady is something exotic! Of course, that makes me feel like I’m cool right down to my literal skin. I felt kind of like the Elephant Man. I should have charged admission.

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A Colorful Winter’s Day

Not only did my new golf pants arrive, but so did my pink-and-orange argyle vest! My crossword Bow Tie o’ the Day tops the geometrics of my attire. And a paisley shirt lifts the clashion to superb-ity on yet an even higher level of style. I love an outfit like this. There is simply no way anything can discourage me or sadden me as I be-bop through the world when I am dressed like this. I highly recommend it to y’all. If I had to describe what my preferred fashion is to someone in 4 words, I would say it is “dressing loud and happy.” Of course, if anybody asks me to describe my fashion aesthetic tomorrow, I will likely describe the look in 4 entirely different words—because I’ll be wearing something completely different then. I’m fickle like that, but only concerning my wardrobe.

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They’re Here

Snazzy red Tie o’ the Day is here to announce that my new dotty Golf Pants o’ the Day finally showed up in the mail. I am so excited to go grocery shopping this morning and show them off! When I first put this pair o’ pants on, I immediately sensed that they will likely be my new favorite pants. Prepare to see them often. Where have golf pants been all my life? Clearly, I have been looking for pants in all the wrong places. 👖

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My Calls To Mom About Mortality

I tied on a neon-hued Tie o’ the Day to change the furnace filters this afternoon. And after that was done, I sat my butt down at my desk in the loft. My intent was to make my regular call to check on Mom. I am always excited to talk to Mom, especially if I find her to be having an especially clear-ish mind. No matter her state of mind, she remains ever playful and interested in whatever, whatever.

I initially intended to call Mom yesterday, but I found myself unable to go ahead and make the call. And today, the call didn’t happen either. I was paralyzed. You see, I do not exaggerate when I say that almost every time I call Mom, I have to deliver the news of another death of someone significant in her life. At 91, she is outliving so many of her people—friends, family, and close acquaintances. It’s her own fault this is constantly occurring: she made it her life’s mission to know and care about so many people. They, in turn, have cared for her. When I finally call her this time, I must relay the news of two more people passing from her life. She will be the first to tell you that her life has been rich with good folks—so it’s sad when they pass on.

I could choose to not tell Mom about dreadful things at this point in her life, but I wouldn’t want to risk her overhearing snippets of sad news and have it not make sense to her. I’d rather be able to explain the information and answer her questions, sometimes over and over again—even if she will likely forget the news and then need help being reminded about it at a later date. Her best friend, Peggy, passed away around 4 years ago, and Mom will still ask me sometimes about what happened to her “Pegetha.”

As time passes, Mom needs more and more reminding about her own life. With a little help, she can often at least temporarily reconnect with the gist of whatever she’s trying to access in her brain. Still, occasionally—like yesterday and today—I can’t rustle up the soul-strength to make a call to her to deliver not-good news. I can’t rise to the task sometimes. I do always feel incredibly guilty about postponing any phone call to Mom, however. But all I can do about it right now is hope I’m stronger than I was yesterday and today, when I attempt to place the call to Mom again tomorrow. ☎️ 📞 📱

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Well, Here’s An Idea

How ’bout these bigly hair Bow Ties o’ the Day! This is simultaneously my kind o’ thing and NOT my kind o’ thing. The Australian singer-songwriter, Sia, can clearly pull this off. It is definitely and completely her kind of thing, and I’m going to pay it proper homage by not even attempting it for myself. When someone else has created a singular style, don’t let yourself become a knock-off imitation. Simply appreciate it. Relax and enjoy the specific points of someone else’s self-expression. I admire the audacity, flair, and panache of Sia’s bigly hair bow ties. No matter how you feel about this look, one thing is for sure: you cannot look away. And it’s about bow ties. No bow tie has ever taken life too seriously. What’s not to adore about that vibe?

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What Mountains?

Argyle Tie o’ the Day and I usually have a nice view of the mountains, from morn until night. Unfortunately, we haven’t seen hide nor hair of a mountain in the mornings for days. It’s the ever-dreaded inversion time of year up in these parts. Even after the worst of the haze burns off mid-day, the skies are generally grayer than their usual winter-gray or blue. I take all this air muck as a personal insult. You see, I was born of the sky. The sky is my spirit animal, so to speak. And not just any sky. I was born of the Utah, west desert sky that makes you feel like you’re living in a snow globe. There, the sky begins at your feet and doesn’t really end anywhere. I get sky-withdrawal when the inversion comes to town.

When I lived in Virginia and Maryland, I knew it would be a temporary relocation. I knew I could not live long without bigly sky. For all the beauty and sights and things to do in the D.C.-area, there was just not enough blue sky for my taste. Too many trees, too. The most at home I felt back there was, oddly, at the beach in Delaware or New Jersey—where water and sky met, and together created the illusion of the never-ending bigly sky of my kidhood and young adulthood.

When I left Maryland for the last time, there was no question where I would move to begin to figure out a new life. When I came back home, it wasn’t to Delta itself that I was headed. It wasn’t necessarily to my mostly-Delta family I decided to return. The fact that my hometown and my family were there was added blessing. No, I was broken, so I went to the sky I knew. I bought a truck and I drove and thought, and drove and thought under that bigly sky. I did my best thinking under that sky, as I always had, while traveling on washboard gravel roads between farms.

When I was a child, I had driven those same roads on my bicycle and composed my first poems as I pumped—getting off my bike when necessary, to sit alongside ditch banks covered in asparagus, where I could write down every kid-profound word I’d strung together into whatever I thought was surely poetry and my fate. After I was done writing a kidhood masterpiece in my tiny notebook, I’d fill the pockets of my overalls with as much fresh-picked asparagus for Mom as I could carry—careful to not crush it as I peddled home to supper.

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You Ain’t Nothin’ But A Houndstooth

As I was staring out the tall windows at the stoopid inversion haze this morning, a bunch of new Ties o’ the Day came knocking at my front door to brighten my day. I had heard a UPS-type knock at the door, and was excited to find a package addressed to me on the welcome mat. Behold! Here are two of the six new additions that have come to live in my collection today. The Tie Room runneth over! As does my necktie joy.

Like paisley, houndstooth is always a funky pattern to wear. Let me tell you, it is impossible for a houndstooth pattern to be boring or bland to the eye. It’s been quite a while since I’ve invested in new ties, but I found these on a clearance sale on a golf clothing website as I searched for wacky golf pants that look like me. I wasn’t impressed with the pants I found on the site, but I just had to have these neckties. I’ll be showing off more of my new, “golfy” neckwear finds tomorrow.

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A Copper Bow Tie Is My Two Cents

I can’t wait until my copper Bow Tie o’ the Day begins to get its green patina from being exposed to the elements. When I’m not wearing it, I should probably store it somewhere humid—like in the bathroom by the shower. Or perhaps I should attach it to one of Suzanne’s outside flower pots by the sprinklers, through Spring and Summer. Or both. It’ll take years for the green patina to grow and refine its full-blown protective layer, but a snappy copper bow tie deserves to reach its full artistic potential. It deserves to turn green and evolve into its own historically fashionable greatness over time. Bow ties are people too, you know.

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A Stick For All Time

I’m sure I have felt just about every human way there is to feel in life, many times over. One thing I don’t remember often feeling is bored. I can find something interesting to occupy my mind in anything and everything. As evidence of this fact, I present this photo—in which I am wearing my Stan Laurel face and a bejeweled, fancy Bow Tie o’ the Day, while happily reading Henry Petroski’s history of the toothpick. Yes, I really do find even the evolution of the modern toothpick captivating. Based on the length of Petroski’s THE TOOTHPICK, toothpicks have had at least 353-pages of stick adventures throughout their existence. Go, toothpicks!

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The Tie’s The Thing

I was stumped today about what to post on TIE O’ THE DAY, and suddenly my phone beeped. It was this picture of my first brother-in-law, Kent, gussied up in his church clothes. I had recently gifted him this teed-up-golf-balls Tie o’ the Day, because golf is his passion. In recent years, when Mom would come up north and stay with Kent and BT for a couple of days, he and Mom would watch golf on tv together for hours and days—while BT was off doing her own thing, which usually involved books and/or genealogy. And then, Kent and Mom would go grocery shopping together. Kent is the originator of our family saying: “How the Hell-en are you?” It’s what he’d say whenever he’d call Mom to check on her, beginning way back in the 70’s.

Anyhoo… BT/Mercedes says Kent received several comments about his tie today—I’m assuming at church. That makes me so happy! I want you to know that I love my neckwear collection so much that if I think a particular tie would have a better life around someone else’s neck, I wistfully—but gladly—give it away. A tie might not live under my roof anymore, but I still have the memories of the time we shared together. I love a tie enough to let it move on to a more fitting destiny. The tie’s welfare is the most important consideration.