Suzanne and I (and Bow Tie o’ the Day) will be eatin’ hoity-toity tonight. Sometimes you wanna go bigly formal with your eatin’-out attire. I always go bigly, but even I need to further stretch my fashion choices in heretofore foreign directions. This designer outfit is right up the experimental alley of my style territory. I think it resembles a 50’s swimming cap. Let me quote from VOGUE’s description of this set of out-on-the-town duds: “…a red-tipped globe of lilac feathers and satin slippers in shocking pink…redefines ‘belle of the ball.'” Sounds like little ol’ girly me, doesn’t it? However, I am still wondering if my arms are supposed to be inside or outside the puffball– or if I’m supposed to simply leave them at home.
Hugh Jackman should wear Bow Tie o’ the Day. He is an entertainer with oodles of class, and a bow tie would top off any look he sports– clashy or matchy. As I was brushing out my hairs this morning to prepare a hairdo for Hairs Thursday, I noticed how my locks had magically fallen into a Hugh Jackman as Wolverine ‘do. I had to keep it. My “sideburns” are nearly lamb chops. Oh, happy day! I even feel like a superhero.
True art transcends language. Bow Tie o’ the Day will be the first to tell you that when you’ve created an outfit that ranks on the highest artistic level of clash fashion, words are not enough to describe it. Just wear it. Let people gaze at your get-up until their eyes hurt, which probably won’t be long if you’ve clashed your threads in a superior way. Talk about shock and awe! I can’t really see the mismatch-mix while I’m wearing this set o’ duds, but my eyes are in pain at what I can catch of it in my peripheral vision. Skitter naps all amazed at the look I’ve put together.
I love clashion days like today! It’s a mismatch score of 10. I win!
Skitter and I– and Bow Tie o’ the Day– jumped out of our beds this morning and said to each other, “Hey! Let’s get ourselves into the car and go visit Helen, Sr.!” And so we did.
I always enjoy my visits to Millard Care And Rehabilitation. I get to see my former bishops, school teachers, church teachers, bosses, neighbors, coaches, etc. It is somewhat strange to see them “old.” They resemble their young selves enough that I know who they are. In fact, I know most of the MCR residents. That’s an effect of being from a town small enough that you know everybody. I knew these folks as I grew up, and I know them now as we all grow older. MCR is like a rickety, hard-of-hearing, cane-and-walker version of the “real” Millard County.
I’m always amazed by how much laughter I hear wherever I go in MCR. Staff and residents share a genuinely playful banter with each other. I know it sounds cliche, but it really does feel like family there. The staff is always trying to feed me like I’m family, too.
Like in any family, there are a few “problem children” who live at MCR. In fact, I have seen a sourpuss or two among the residents. Oh, well. I remember those fuddy-duddies when they were a heckuva lot younger, and they were sourpusses even way back then. People gonna be who people gonna be, I guess.
I met someone today at MCR who Mom has raved about since she was in MCR with her broken hip almost two years ago– Tess Greathouse. I have always known Tess’ family, but I had never actually met her before, since she is decades younger than me. As Skitter and I were walking to Mom’s room, Tess stopped me and asked if I was Mom’s daughter, and almost before I could answer, Tess’s hand shot out to shake mine. I don’t think I have ever visited Mom at MCR without her telling me how much she enjoys Tess reading stories to her. She loves Tess. Tess is one of Mom’s blessings, that’s for sure.
Jeez, Mom has more blessings than anyone else I know. I might need to borrow some one day.
Bow Tie o’ Yesterday Afternoon had a baby shower to attend with us. Of course, I chose to wear one of my infant-size bow ties.
Suzanne’s nephew, Robby, his wife Jorie, and their daughter, Brooklynn are expecting a baby boy in a few weeks. Thus, a baby shower had to be organized. Robby’s sister, Rachel, and their mom, Marjorie, created the bash at Rachel’s residence. (Remember, Marjorie is Skitter’s sleepover pal, who takes up residence at our house when Suzanne and I go out of town. Skitter loves Marjorie. As do we.)
So the baby shower for Jorie got planned and scheduled weeks ago. Even though Robby and Jorie currently live in Tucson, they were planning to be here in Utah to attend the party. Enter the unexpected hitch: Jorie was recently told she wasn’t allowed to travel until after the babe is born. Does the baby shower get canceled? Does the baby shower go on with nary an appearance from Robby, Jorie, or Brooklynn? Does the baby shower get rescheduled until after the bambino is born? Nope. Nope. And nope. The shower must go on, with all the usual suspects in attendance.
Solution: The baby shower was done by Skype– between the Rachel’s living room in Layton and the Tucson living room of the expectant family, in whose honor the occasion was thrown. Everybody could see and hear everybody. Presents for the soon-to-be-here baby boy were opened in both living rooms. Yes, it went swimmingly. In fact, I’m kinda thinking of never going anywhere ever again. I’ll just Skype myself to wherever I’m supposed to be.
Rachel and her husband, Walker, are the parents of the two tikes I’m hanging with in these photos. Neither child had any clue what a baby shower is or why it was happening in their house, but they were the Best. Party. Favors. Ever! The bigly boy is Liam. The new one is Lucas. They are happy kids.
At one point yesterday, Liam wanted me to go downstairs with him to watch him do his death-defying trampoline moves. AGAIN. I said I was going to stay upstairs with the adult folks right then, but I’d go downstairs again with him later. My answer sent Liam into a small pout, which teetered on the edge of a tantrum. The only thing I hate worse than a kid throwing a tantrum, is a kid throwing a weak-ass tantrum. Kids, if you’re gonna have a meltdown cuz you didn’t get your way, make it monstrous. Go all out.
“That’s not a tantrum,” I told Liam. “THIS is a tantrum!” And then I threw myself onto the carpet, on my belly– flailing my arms, kicking and pounding the floor, crying, and screaming. And guess what? Liam started to laugh. It works every time. Mission accomplished. Kid’s tantrum transforms into laughter before it can become a Category 5 storm.
And that brings me to the reason I just had to choose bowling pin/bowling ball ‘links to be my Cufflinks o’ the Day for a baby shower. Years ago, I heard a comic– whose name I can’t recall– observe that having kids is like having a bowling alley installed in your head. After you have kids, you’ll never be able to concentrate again. Your head will pound with questions and worry. You will never again be able to relax. I found this to be one of the truer analogies– literally AND figuratively– about having kids around. Kids and bowling alley similarities: lots of alarming noises; unexpected outbursts; balls landing where they shouldn’t; the occasional body going splat on the floor; fisticuffs for no reason; machines mysteriously going kaput; Mountain Dew spilled on the floor; inexplicably dirty bathrooms; volcanic eruptions of bad language; general chaos even when it’s quiet; and stinky shoes.
That reminds me. Here’s a tip: If you’ve got a kid, you will be blessed with the odor of stinky shoes. You will be doubly blessed if you are able to follow the odor and locate the shoes. DO NOT THROW THEM IN THE GARBAGE CAN! If your kid notices the shoes are missing, your kid will follow the scent and retrieve them. No, when you find the smelly culprits YOU MUST BURN THEM! YOU MUST ANNIHILATE THEM! They will find their way back into your house if you do not destroy them completely.
BTW Hey, check out the ribbon bow tie atop the Cake Made o’ Diapers. The bow tie was a special decoration at the baby shower, crafted just for me to see. Suzanne’s family knows me so well. They had a bit of extra ribbon after they finished making the “cake” and they thought of me. I love them.
Today, I found some old TIE O’ THE DAY doggie pix, which Skitter and I culled through. The photos were mostly of our late pal, Roxy Lou, posing in Ties and Bow Ties o’ the Day. Skitter and I have lowered our smiles to half-staff since we looked at the photographs. We teared-up a little. FYI When Skitter cries, she hogs the Kleenex.
Suzanne and Skitter and I had to help Roxy go to sleep just over a year ago, and Skitter has been dog-less since then. While Roxy Lou was here, she took the scared, abused Skitter under her wing and taught her how to be a dog. While Roxy was here, I also never had to turn on the vacuum cleaner: Roxy ate anything that fell to the floor, anywhere in the house. It did not have to be food. (We called her Hoover.) That’s how she became the fattest mini dachsie to ever waddle on the face of the planet.
Enjoy these reposted pix of the late Roxy’s modeling, as she appeared in TIE O’ THE DAY. I included a couple of naked-neck pictures too.
My hairs went through so much terror yesterday, and at bedtime some of them were still going through it. I thought I should prove to you how strong my hair goop is. Seven hours after I did my visor hairdo, a few brave strands were still hanging tough– trying to visor through, as long as possible. I chose a simple wood Bow Tie o’ the Pajamas to wear while snapping this selfie. I thought it was a fitting choice, since my hairs kind of resemble dead tree branches.
As I considered what to make my hairdo do today, I started to think about how snazzy mustaches can be. I decided I’d try to create a couple with my hairs. Here’s my stab at a Fu Manchu. You can see my mustache-styling skills are quite limited. I can’t even do a Fu Manchu that looks right. The important thing is that I tried. Just for y’all, I tried.
My ‘stache makes as much sense as my Prince-Albert-in-a-Can Bow Tie o’ the Day. I mean, these young whippersnappers nowadays have no clue about the old routine of prank-calling a store that sold tobacco and asking: “Do you have Prince Albert in a can?” And when told YES, saying “Well, you better let him out.” I have to do a lot of explaining when I wear this piece. And the young wonderers still don’t find it amusing. And that gets me to thinking about how much more isolated Delta was when I was a kid. Oh, it was still 140 miles from SLC, but without cell phones, texting, and the internet, your mind was near-completely soaked in the confines of Delta and its offshoots. A phone prank and toilet-papering a house was about the funniest crap you could pull, without causing a town civil war.
Don’t think for a minute that Delta was boring back in the day. There was plenty to do: for example, sliding down the flumes easily morphed into cliff jumping; tubing down the Sevier could end up planting you at the reservoir for a swim and a bonfire; throwing a couch in the back of a truck (Yes, we rode in the back of trucks.) often ended at an Oak City canyon party– complete with a campfire and s’mores.
Like most kids, I was allowed to ride my bike everywhere from the age of zero. (Slight exaggeration.) I was allowed to play on the railroad tracks. They were pretty much our front yard. I was taught the rules, and then set free to explore. Of course, being bored in Delta was your choice. Some people were, and I felt sorry for them.
Delta was also packed with characters who had made their individual lives a little iconic by their bigly actions. For example, there were Bernell and Blanche Ferry (son and mother) whose accidental antics included Blanche falling out of their old truck’s passenger door as Bernell rounded the corner to turn onto Main Street. She rolled like a roly-poly into the gutter, stood up, and waited for Bernell to go around the block and come pick her up again. That’s right: he did not stop for her. He went around the whole block. When he came back around and finally stopped by Blanche, she hopped in the truck, and off they went on their merry way. The scene looked like they were following a script– like they had done this a million times before. I felt privileged to observe the entire event. I’m still I awe of that old woman’s un-breaking bones.
Bow Tie o’ the Day is helping me procrastinate. I should put the dirty dishes in the dishwasher and push the button to start it. Nah, I’ll do it later. But why? What is so darn hard about putting dishes in the dishwasher racks, and then forgetting about them as they have a shower? Nothing.
I have a complicated relationship with dirty dishes, and it’s Mom’s fault. I blame her for everything that’s wrong with me. I have threatened to sue her over the years, but she isn’t a Rockefeller or Vanderbilt. Anyhoo… Mom has always been a control freak about her kitchen– especially about anything that went on in the kitchen sink. Her kitchen sink was her private domain. I have no idea why. It was nothing special– just a kitchen sink. But it was a forbidden spot. Just ask anyone who offered to do her dishes after a bigly family feast. Mom’s answer was usually NO. Her exact words would be something like, “I should say not!” Sometimes you’d even hear, “No way, Jose.” To be fair, as she got older and the family got bigger, she’d accept a teeny bit of help. (Mom made it clear she did not want a dishwasher installed in her kitchen–ever.)
My childhood was full of household chores, but doing the dishes wasn’t one of them. I dusted. I vacuumed. I mowed the lawn. I delivered honey. I moved Dad’s stinky work boots out of the living room. Dishes, on the other hand, were never put on my to-do list. Based on the few times I managed to wash the dishes, I hated the task with a vengeance. I think Mom took pity on me. Mom did trust Dad with the task on occasion. When she was out of town, Dad took on the washin’ o’ the dishes. I have a feeling she told him about my “allergy” to doing them.
[FYI Dad and I didn’t generate many dirty dishes when Mom was out of town. When it was my turn to fix dinner for us, I ordered pizza from the Rancher. When it was Dad’s turn, we ate fish-and-chips from A & W.]
Karma hits hard sometimes. When I went to college, my first job was as a dishwasher at Dixon’s Pies, in Ogden. I called Mom after my first shift and said, “Mom, you know all those dishes you didn’t make me do when I was growing up? I did them ALL last night.”
I spread the gospel of neckwear. For example, it is my firm belief that if everyone wore a bow tie every day, the world would be a tiny bit kinder and lighter. It is almost impossible to be rude to bow tie-wearin’ folk. Bow ties are too nifty to inspire hate– whether you’re wearing one or looking at someone who’s wearing one. A bow tie is like a wink. An oversized and/or untraditionally shaped bow tie is especially lovable. Neckties can be as charming as bow ties (especially the ties I collect), but ties have the added connotations of words like “work,” “stuffed shirt,” “boss,” “authority,” “uniform,” “formal” and “serious.” Bow ties tend to escape that sort of baggage.
This afternoon’s Tie o’ the Day is here to tell you that one way to lighten up the baggage of neckties is to wear a hat. A cowboy hat works nicely, but almost any hat will do– except the Pope’s hat. His hat doesn’t really make anyone feel like chillin’ out. In my opinion, baseball caps are the top choice of hat to pair with neckties because they are casual and reminiscent of youth, play, and sunshine. They’re also cheap, which means you can own a billion of them. And I assure you that clashing a tie with your wardrobe get-up crumbles the seriousness of ties too.
In fact, the main point of clash fashion is to remind you that you do not have to dress like everyone else. If you like solid colors, muted colors, matching, or uniforms, etc., that’s ok– if it really is your style. Your solitary fashion job is to look like you. Don’t dress like everybody else just because you think you’re supposed to: express your soul. Flex your soul. Experiment. You just might find that your soul looks like a purple-and-green paisley shirt, camo shorts, and a matador hat. (Ooooh, I’ll have to try that. It sounds like a fun-a-roo get-up!) Be ye not afraid of showing your soul in your attire.
Try it. The more you truly resemble your authentic self, the more you will feel at home in the life you’re living. And that’s exactly where you should feel at home, since it’s exactly where you always are. Seems quite obvious, eh?
Do you really think I always knew I would be dressing like I dress at age fifty-damn-five; that I’d be wearing at least two ties/bow ties per day; that I’d be taking infinite selfies o’ me and my neckwear; and that I’d be writing a blog about whatever my day’s neckwear inspires? I didn’t know this is what my soul looks like until I tried a few dozen different styles and modes of living over the decades. I experimented until I met my soul. Now, my style pretty much reflects my soul, and I can live in accordance with my soul’s values. And look at me now! I’m still not famous. Yet. But I am not homesick for my true soul– which I was for much of my life.
