Now You See My Bow Tie, Now You Don’t
This selfie shows me wearing a painted wood Bow Tie o’ the Day while venturing to my evaluation appointment at the U of U’s University Neuropsychiatric Institute (UNI) a month ago. I felt like I was due for a tune-up. And I certainly was.
I apologize for not showing up as scheduled to entertain here on TIE O’ THE DAY over the last few days. I’ve disappeared like this before, and I hate it. And I’ll probably disappear like this again, and I’ll hate it again. Occasionally, my neckwear and I go off-grid. We don’t try to scram, but we scram anyway. The posts simply stop. And then our presence eventually pops-up online again, as if we’d never been absent.
I seriously try to be a person who can be counted on. If I say I’m going to post about neckwear twice per day, I feel obligated to do it– whether anyone reads the posts or not. I think most people who know me will tell you I am a gal of my word. But sometimes, I find I have disappeared.
I don’t run off to have a “lost weekend” in Boozeville. I’m not in-hiding from the Feds because I once robbed an armored car and the G-men are now hot on my bow tie trail. Nope. I don’t go under the radar to secretly catch more than my legal limit of fish. I don’t pole dance on dark stages in my birthday suit– for the tip money I “forget” to pay taxes on. Nah. My “bad” is my bipolar paralysis. I get frozen– but not out of fear or indecision. The best way I can describe the “feeling” is this: It’s a frozen agony of nothing and everything, combined.
In TIE O’ THE DAY posts, I have always been open with y’all about my adventures in being bipolar. Most of the time, I’m a pro at wrangling both the mania and the depression into beasts I can live with– to the point that I can often re-make them into charming characteristics. My bipolarity makes my brain feel like a metaphorical pendulum. I know the arc and rhythms of its movement so well that its changes are somewhat routine to me. I know the extreme bungee-cord swings and bounces will eventually give way to more of a porch-glider back-and-forth feel. They always have.
But these days, I find myself at a place on my pendulum’s arc where I’ve never been stationed quite like this before. The damn pendulum itself seems stuck, defying the laws of its own physics. My old tricks to keep my ship upright need some sharpening up as well, so tomorrow I begin an out-patient treatment at UNI. (I’ll explain the treatment in another post.) I’ll drive myself to and from UNI for treatment every weekday, for the next six weeks. Ah, the joys of city traffic! And suddenly, my calendar is full. Unfortunately, it’s full of a bunch of stuff I’d rather not do. Oh, well.
Of course, I’ll write about the treatment escapades whenever I can. Maybe I’ll just post a photo sometimes. I’ll do whatever I can make happen. I will try my best to not simply disappear, cuz I know how much y’all miss the neckwear when I don’t post. And don’t think for one minute that you’ll ever miss out on HAIRS THURSDAY. Suzanne will make sure I get those pics posted for you, even if she has to post them herself.
Anyhoo… I’ll write about my bipolarity developments for the same reasons I write about anything I write here: maybe you’ll find it interesting, or funny, or enlightening, or all of the above. Maybe it can help somebody else out. I can only write about my life. Who else’s life do I know as much about? But I hope to connect somehow.
Let me be clear: I am ok, and I will be ok. I’m hoping this new treatment protocol will make me even okay-er. I’m viewing my impending course of treatments as just more life experience– from which to learn; by which to be amused; and throughout which to wear bow ties. But I’m pretty sure it won’t be as fantastic as my hot air balloon ride in Albuquerque. I am realistic about things like that.
Hairs Thursday #7
We didn’t forget today is Hairs Thursday. We’ve simply had a P!NK hangover from last night’s concert (no alcohol involved). We slept in this morning and have been singing badly and dancing even more badly all day. I shall post about our P!NK adventures tomorrow. And yes! My saddle purse made it through Vivint Arena security and was able to see the show with us.
Anyhoo… This afternoon, billiard ball Bow Tie o’ the Day and I were thinking of an idea for my hairs, and Suzanne said, “I know what your hairs should do! Here’s what you do when you don’t have curlers.” She then cut the ends off a plastic Diet Coke bottle, grabbed some bobby pins, and gave me a bigly fat curl atop my noggin.’ It felt weightless. It felt like I had a curler of air in my hairs. But my hairs are too thin for even a curler o’ air to stay in its place very long. It was fun while it lasted.
My Last Hairscut
This week, as I’ve been going through past photos I’ve used in TIE O’ THE DAY, I found this gem. I adore this bigly jumbo butterfly Bow Tie o’ the Day. I selfied this picture right after my last haircut, last May. Oh, how I long for a cut like this again. Just seeing it makes me all weepy. In case I haven’t made it clear a bazillion times, I cannot wait to get my hairs back to the way I want them again. The end of May can’t come quickly enough for me. Seriously, wasn’t this a nice style? Doesn’t it look more like my kind o’ hairdo? And you must admit the ‘do is flattering to my old face. The secret to any hairdo which appeals to me is that it be more like a hairs-not-do than a hairdo. I’m a wash-and-go girl. Always have been, always will be.
When I was in high school, some chick decided she had been anointed to bully me about my daily lack of effort to make my hair into an official ‘do, as well as my refusal to wear make-up. She did it every dang day. Well, I was up to my top nerve about her harping, and so I cogitated about what I I could say to shut this girl up. I did some figuring one evening at my desk in my bedroom, and I was ready for the barrage of torment from her which I knew would be coming at me the next day. I let her do her mean routine.
Finally, I said, ” We are 15, and our life expectancy is 70 more years. If it takes you an hour per day to do your hair and make-up, in your lifetime you will spend 25,550 hours doing your hair and make-up. That equals 1061.6 days, which equals 2.9 years– spent solely on hair and a face. I, on the other hand, will be spending that same amount of time doing cartwheels; vacationing on beaches; going to plays and concerts; reading; writing; wearing bow ties; playing quarterback for the Seattle Seahawks; being a rodeo clown; and counting my millions. I choose to use that same amount of time doing whatever the heck I want to– while wearing my own naked face and a simple, wash-and-go haircut.”
She never bothered me about it again, nor did her chorus of friends who had egged her on in bugging me. They became my pals, and still are. The lesson of this post is this: If you just be you, people will respect you. They will know exactly who you are and the principles you stand for. And if you ever find yourself in need of it, they will stand up for you.
I’ll Keep My Lips Chappy, Thank You
I feel obligated to point out stoopid products I run across. Brown-and-tan Bow Tie o’ the Day was afraid to get near this one. I was too, at first. But we put our disgust aside and gathered our bravery so I could acquire it. I bought it for you. I care about you, and I sacrificed to bring it to your attention. Consider yourselves forewarned.
This is chocolate-flavored lip balm, and it is packaged with a bigly poop emoji printed on its cap. Who came up with the idea to market chocolate-flavored lip balm in this manner? Who wants to put pretend poop on their lips? Who wants to encounter the implication that it’s not chocolate in the tiny tin? Not me– even if it’s clearly chocolate-flavored lip balm. I kinda hope I don’t know anyone whose brain would come up with such a rank idea.
If a tin o’ this kind of lip balm is the only cure, I prefer my chapped lips to simply chap until they crumble off my face. Just the thought of slathering this paraffin “poop” anywhere sickens me. Do not buy this item. It will only encourage the lip balm makers to produce more of this crap (no pun intended), and to produce even grosser things nobody needs. We certainly do not need more gross-osity on the planet.
But even as I’m doing my duty to warn you about this item, I know I’m part of the problem. I only bought the product so I could give y’all a heads-up, but I did– in fact– buy it. I guess the lip balm company’s marketing worked, didn’t it? If they keep producing 💩, blame me for keeping them in business.
My Brain Says Odd Things
Bow Tie o’ the Day is proud to show off its circuitry. Hat o’ the Day reminds me I haven’t yet posted my initial impression of Tucson. When we drove away from the Tucson airport, and we could get a clear view of Tucson for the first time, I told Suzanne it looked almost like Albuquerque– where we had visited a few months before. Except, of course, Tucson has a whole lotta cacTIE. I immediately renamed the city– and will forever refer to it as– CACTUSQUERQUE.
I have never understood how my mind does that. Sometimes my brain moves at a pace I can barely keep up with– even when I’m not manic. I don’t think it has anything to do with my being bipolar. (Stay tuned for interesting, bigly news about a new thing I’ll be trying, in order to tame my rapid-cycling bipolar-ness.) My mind has always functioned like this. It cuts to the validity of what someone says, and/or it cuts to the joke. The perspective that humor can provide often shows a truth we otherwise couldn’t see.
For the past few years, I haven’t been writing many “new” poems. Instead, I have been combing through my notebooks– forming poems out of ideas, snippets, lines, and whatever I can mine from my basically indecipherable handwriting. I have spent the bulk of my time editing. I’m working to form sense and poetry out of what I wrote over the last decade. Sometimes, it isn’t pretty. It requires going back to what was happening when I scribbled these bits and pieces of language. That can be painful. Sometimes it can be exhilarating. One thing is for sure: Going back to those memories, from the perspective of where I am now, is always enlightening.
Looking at things I wrote long ago can also be mystifying. When I sat down at my desk this morning, I picked up a notebook and found some weird tidbits. Here are a handful of examples of the notes I discovered today:
“I ordered a tiara, so I can explore my princess side.” I have never ordered a tiara in my life. What could this sentence possibly mean? It is funny though.
“I never meant for that to NOT happen.” We could all make a list of things we tried to make happen, but couldn’t.
“Be angry when necessary– but always without carrying resentment.” That’s got some wisdom to it.
“My Tobasco heart” I’m thoroughly stumped about what I was thinking when I wrote this phrase.
“It’s a desert thing./ You have to be there/ In a truck,/ To get your clue/ That leads you to/ Your ghost/ Of many colors.” Puzzling, but I like it. I can probably turn it into a decent poem.
“Is there a patron saint of bipolar?” Must have been a particularly bad day.
“Scrabble and scrapple are not cousins.” WTFudge????
See. Strange. I told you so. I have my editing work cut out for me.
I’m A Home Potato
It’s not an issue of codependence. It’s not that I can’t handle being in my own company. It is not that I can’t fill up my time with my own whims o’ plenty. But when Suzanne is out of town, I’m not quite totally “home”– even in my own house. Even while wearing Tie o’ the Day, I feel a kind of homesickness when I’m a bachelorette for a day or so. I walk around the entire time checking my pockets, looking through my notes, and generally feeling like I’m forgetting something significant. It happens every damn time Suzanne ventures off. The feeling is slightly irritating. It’s like a ghost pain. But I sort of like it. I know it will go away. I’ll find what I’m missing, as soon as Suzanne flies back to SLC International Airport Wednesday afternoon.
The last two years before Suzanne and I sold the Delta house, I spent most of my time alone there in Delta hanging with Mom. Suzanne spent time there when she could. At times when I was there alone, I felt like I wasn’t even wearing my own skin. I didn’t feel like my authentic self without Suzanne around to participate in my antics, or call me on my whatever-I-need-to-be-called-on. That was in my hometown, on my “home block,” in the midst of my family– next door to my mother. With all that homey-ness, I still wasn’t exactly ME. Not without my superior half.
Oh, I know who I am and how I am. I can more than competently take care of myself. I’m perfectly content with my own thoughts and games. I’m an independent gal. I don’t pout, or weep, or wail, or moan, or gnash my teeth. In fact, I don’t have a clue what it means to gnash one’s teeth. How exactly does one do that? It’s just that my inner GPS is a bit skiwampus when I’m on my own. I don’t really worry about it though. That little off-kilter feeling I feel when I’m on my own is what lets me know I’m creating a life and home with the right person. I’ll feel at home and on-kilter again when I pick up Suzanne and her bags at the airport Wednesday.
And then, that evening we will be feeling at home together at the P!NK concert in SLC. I’ve already packed my earplugs in my saddle purse for the bigly event.
BTW In keeping with the “home” theme of this post, I wanted my selfie to show me wearing a tie or bow tie showcasing a “home.” I discovered I don’t own a piece of “home” neckwear, so I’m wearing a “gnome” tie. At least the words rhyme.
Something Somebody Somewhere Wants To See
My Bow Tie o’ the Day is tough to see. Its navy blue is dotted with green army men figures. Skitter’s Bow Tie o’ the Day is going patriotic with me.
On this Sabbath, Skitter and I are delighted to fulfill the wish of a multitude of our readers by showing you what it’s like to see up our noses. Some of you people ask us to do weird poses.
Or could it be that I simply couldn’t think of a post to write today?
What A Wonderful World!
I couldn’t sleep early, early, early this morning, so I got out of bed at 3:30 in the A.M. to watch an hour o’ JUDGE JUDY re-runs on channel 13– which is what I do if I’m not conked-out at 3:30 A.M., Tuesday-Saturday mornings. Well, my desktop computer screen stared at me as I headed downstairs, so I just had to glance at Facebook for a second. And look what Suzanne’s brother, James, had posted to me at some point last night! Thank you, James. Thank you, James. There is no way I couldn’t make this our Bow Tie o’ the Day.
I don’t know where James found the post, but it’s so me. And it’s so anyone-who-reads-these-neckwear-posts, meaning you. The caption under the picture– the author of which, I have no idea– is a swell cherry on top. Here it is: “Some days you just add a bow tie to your chicken hat and get on as best you can.” Story of my life.
Have a brave, bow-tied chicken hat day, folks! I know I will.
I’m Questioning The Purse
I sported a sugar skulls Bow Tie o’ Last Night when we went to CORBIN’S GRILLE to feast. Sugar skull designs should be worn year-round, not just around the Halloween season. They are dandy. When I selfied this picture, Suzanne and I were stuck in traffic on I-15– where we traveled to Layton at zero mph much of the drive. Somehow we still got to dinner on time.
What you can’t see in this photo is my new horse saddle purse– the only purse I’ve ever owned. It’s on the floor. Next time I snap a pic of me in the car, I will make sure my purse is on the back seat, so you can gaze upon it in the photo.
I’m beginning to re-think this whole purse thing though. The saddle purse has made me say words to Suzanne I never thought I would hear coming out of my own mouth, and I don’t know if I feel good about saying such things. For example, if I have to run to the little cowgirls’ room to potty when we’re at a restaurant, I automatically say, “Please watch my purse.” And then when I return to the table, I find the following words leaving my mouth: “Thanks for watching my purse.” It makes me feel so weird to say anything about “my purse.” And it kills me that I don’t even have to think of saying it. It just naturally falls out of my mouth, as if I’ve been using bodyguards for my purses for decades. What has happened to me? What am I turning into? I made it through the world for 55 years, never owning– or wanting to own– a purse. And now, not only did I have to have this one, I constantly worry about its location and safety– like it’s a kid or a pet. How did I turn into a purse lady?
Last night when Suzanne and I left CORBIN’S, we walked out into a waterfall of rain we didn’t know was gonna show up. Gee, I didn’t even have my cape. I always wear a cape when we’re out on the town, but I had left it in the car because I wasn’t cold when we went in. As we leapt through the parking lot to the car through the raindrops, I suddenly became horrified and yelled, “It’s raining on my purse!!!!” I also said a swear word. (Not the really bad one. I don’t say that one.)
Hey, Helen Jr., it’s a purse, for gosh sakes! It’s not alive! 👛
I am pathetic.