While at McCarren International Airport, prepping to leave Las Vegas, I fetched Suzanne and me a couple of Diet Cokes to keep us awake on our flight home. (Fantastic vacations are exhausting.) Let me translate for you, in case you can’t see the price for a 20-ounce soda in this photo: $4.09, before airport tax– which puts the price darn close to five whole buckaroos. And one soda is not nearly enough for me, no matter how many hours I’m going to be flying. It’s a lucky thing I had won $20 at a penny slot machine in one of the casinos we visited on our Vegas jaunt, or I’d have been Diet Coke-parched for the remainder of the trip. Flashy silver Bow Tie o’ the Day offered to sell its glitzy self for me if I ran out of soda money before we got home. However, thanks to my superior penny slot gambling skills, Bow Tie’s sacrifice was not necessary. My neckwear is so charitable regarding my quaffing needs.
Bigly gratitude for the birthday greetings y’all took the time to send my way yesterday. You make a girl o’ many ties and bow ties feel important. Y’all da bomb! I’m blessed to have big-hearted friends and readers. And I’m blessed to be fifty-damn-five.
For my Sabbath birthday, I donned balloons Bow Tie o’ the Day; sugar skeletons Cape o’ the Day; paw prints Sloggers Garden Shoes o’ the Day; and “Best. Life. Ever” Cufflinks o’ the Day. What a Day o’ the Day! And, no, your eyes are not playing tricks on you: I gave in and bought my airport saddle purse, which I call the Purse o’ My Life. I call it that because I’ve never had a purse before, and I will probably never buy another one. Once I saw the saddle purse, I could not move forward in my life without it. (I will write a post about the saddle purse saga, which I have already titled in my mind: A Tale O’ Two Purses.)
Suzanne took me to birthday brunch at BISTRO, in the SLC Avenues. I was pleased trout was on their menu. There’s nothing better than trout and eggs. Later, Suzanne made me a German chocolate birthday cake. We fully intended to invite Suzanne’s parents over to have a piece, but somehow the cake went mostly missing as soon as it got frosted. Oops! Doh!
I debated between actually going to brunch, or just sleeping in. We got home from our travels Saturday, and we were still beat. Sleeping in was only a brief thought for me though. Suzanne had made birthday brunch reservations, and I decided I better take advantage of that– since one year she completely forgot my birthday even existed. Poor Suzanne. Her sin of forgetfulness happened nearly two decades ago, and I still harass her about it every year. And for the past five years, I’ve done it in this public forum. It’s obvious I forgave her, and we can guffaw about her little faux pas. I razz her annually about it with gratitude and adoration for each and every OTHER day we’ve been together.
Bow Tie o’ the Day helped me take this back-up hair shot last week, in case Suzanne wouldn’t have time to do my ‘do for today– cuz of her workload in Tucson. Snapping it ended up being a good idea. Otherwise, you wouldn’t be looking at this gem. All I did to style my mop this way was to get out of bed and onto my feet, lean over frontward, and then flip my head right back up. Doing all of that, made all of this. Isn’t that speshul?
Suzanne finished her Tucson assignment yesterday, and the plan was to immediately fly from there to SLC, where we would have an expensive, so-so airport meal. We’d kill an hour at the boarding gate, and then hop on our evening flight to Las Vegas, aka, Lost Wages. Lo and behold, a four-hour departure delay at the Tucson airport foiled our plan to fly away to Vegas last night, since our Vegas flight left SLC before we even boarded the flight from Tucson to SLC. Anyhoo… We got to SLC late last night, slept for four hours, confused the heck out of Skitter by showing up for a minute before leaving the house again first thing this morning. And then we hopped a plane to Vegas, where I’m typing this post from THE LINQ hotel.
Suzanne and I have a way of handling thinks like rescheduling flights at the last minute: Suzanne makes the call, using her calm bureaucrat voice, and she works out the details of the arrangements. Problem gets taken care of. I, on the other hand, have a low-boil tantrum. Bad words come out of my mouth. I can be downright childish. And then Suzanne tries to wind me down to a normal pout, whereupon I say things to her like, “Just let me have my tantrum, and then I’ll get over it.” I’m feeling much less prickly now.
Cactus Bow Tie o’ the Day reminds me I said I would still post twice per day while on vacay in Tucson. I always plan to keep up with my post quota when I’m away exploring places other than Centerville, but I am easily distracted by new landscapes. I say I’ll follow my post routine, and then I don’t. Sorry. I don’t feel all that guilty about it because I will eventually post the stories of every second of my life anyway. Sooner or later, I will tell you way too much about my little ol’ life. It’s what I do. I like to tell stories, and since I am I, I’m usually a character in them. Imagine that.
Anyhoo… I’ve been here in Tucson four days, and I’ve already opened up my first clothing store! I am officially an entrepreneur. I even opened a second location in another section of Tucson. In this photo, you can see my very first customer. I’m in the money!
I also notice I’ve got the rabbit ears photo-bombing my selfie. Don’t know how that happened.
And finally, I know you might be wondering what I decided to give up for Lent. I type it here to make it official for all eyes to see: I am giving up chewing tobacky– at least until Easter. Suzanne is giving up the same thing she gives up every year: smoking. It will be hard for us to deprive ourselves of tobacco leaves, but we will suffer through it.
It’s Fat Tuesday! Bow Tie o’ the Day sports its Mardi Gras masks, beads, and colors. The thing encircling my breasticles is my new Mardi Gras Cummerbund o’ the Day. I ordered the smallest waist size they had, but it was still too bigly for my waist. As you can see, I can make it fit my chest. I could probably make the XL size fit my chest. Or maybe I should wear my cummerbund as a sash– covered with layers of scout badges, or with words like “Miss America” emblazoned upon it.
Not today though. I’m frenetically busy with the seein’ o’ the sights, so much so that I can’t settle down to compose a proper post. Don’t worry. I’ll update y’all as soon as my physical steam runs out. Suffice it to say that today I’m un-drunkenly celebrating Mardi Gras. I didn’t know it was possible to get your Mardi Gras on without drinking– until I got sober. (I still hate when that happens. But a girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do.) Fun is a state of mind, not a state of intoxication.
In between being captivated by various Tucson-area tourist spots, I’m trying to decide what I’m giving up for Lent tomorrow. Ash Wednesday is nigh! I’m not even Catholic, but observing Lent is the kind of exercise all of us could benefit from. Unless you’re perfect. Giving up something for Lent is always a tough decision for me. What’s something I need to NOT do for at least the next forty days? Can’t decide. Luckily, I provide myself with plenty of imperfections to choose from.
Suzanne is here in Tucson to work on a secret public education project, which is so confidential she can’t tell me about it. If I ask about the particulars, I get the standard, “I could tell you, but then I’d have to kill you.” Yup, her job here is that kind of confidential. Apparently, I don’t have a high enough security clearance.
Poor Suzanne is working 12-hour days, and I get to doodle around being a no-schedule, go-where-I-want, solo tourist. I feel kinda guilty about the situation. I try not to brag to Suzanne about the interesting places I’ve been and what fantastic things I did while I was there, but she asks. And I tell. It’s fortunate she likes her work, and it’s a bonus for me that I get to tag along to places I wouldn’t necessarily travel otherwise.
I’m realizing that Suzanne likes that I can travel and enjoy myself. My Hanky Panky (evil pancreas) pestered me bigly for a couple of decades, and I just wanted to hang close to home. Since my operation last summer, I feel freer. I feel better. I’ve still got one-third of a pancreas– which works. The other two-defective-thirds is somewhere in a biohazard waste dump, which is exactly where it belongs. Sometimes, having less of something is a life-enhancing solution. Out with the bad. On with the effective and painless. I’m glad Suzanne pestered me to be gutted. Now I can be a stowaway, wherever she does her super-secret work.
Today, I followed Bow Tie o’ the Day’s arrows to Saguaro National Park. CacTie, cacTie, cacTie. My rental truck is a Chevy Silverado, which looks like it could be my red 1998 Hombre on steroids. My beat-up Hombre can’t last forever, so I’m treating my vacay driving as long test drives for when the day finally comes I’ll be in the market for a fresh jalopy. I have named the cactus sharing the photo with the Silverado “If It Looks Like A Tall Duck, It’s A Cactus.”
When I initially looked up the mountainsides as I traversed the Bajada Loop trail, I thought, “Look at all that asparagus!” I knew I was seeing cactTIE, But they kept resembling asparagus to me– especially the farther away they were. In the desert valley where I was born, I was raised to see asparagus growing on a dirt ditch bank from six acres away. It’s a skill I don’t have much use for, but I still claim to be an expert at spying the stuff.
And finally, I hereby admit to something I do when I travel. You see those two bow ties sitting in a cactus? When I travel, I always bring along a couple of “stunt” bow ties. I no longer perform all the death-defying and/or painful antics for these posts. When I can, I leave that danger to my stunt neckwear. Sit on cactus needles? I’ll pass. I have stunt bow ties for that. They never complain. They can handle the wear-and-tear better than my old bones can. I pay them well, and provide them with health insurance. Plus, they make me feel like I’m with friends. I’m not completely alone on my treks through new landscapes. I and my stunt bow ties have a raucous, wild time.
FYI A bow tie qualifies to be a “stunt” bow tie if it is a duplicate of one I already have, or if it is deformed or falling apart in some way. Just thought you’d like to know.
Bow Ties o’ the Day are each vying for me to select them for our Tucson/Vegas trip tomorrow. It’s a cacophony of bow tie voices around here today as each one is begging, “Me, me! Take me!”
I’m sure those of you who have had kids remember the times you were leaving them home with a sitter and they clung to your neck or your legs with every ounce of their strength, pleading with you to either not go at all or to take them with you. That’s how every piece of neckwear in The Tie Room is acting this morning while I pack. I feel like Meryl Streep in SOPHIE’S CHOICE. I’m stuck deciding something that will injure tie/bow tie feelings, no matter what I choose. The weeping and wailing The Skit will hear emanating from The Tie Room for a week will be tough on her.
I pack mostly bow ties to accompany me on travel adventures. Neckies tend to easily get in the way when you are sightseeing or otherwise exploring. Think about it: hiking, walking, tramming can be dangerous with a tie blowing around or possibly getting caught in machinery or roller coaster cars.
Flying with bow ties, however, has a downside too. Although you don’t have to worry about a bow tie getting in the way while you wear it, you have to pack them in individual boxes, so they don’t get smashed in your suitcase. That means they take up a lot of space. For example, I will be gone 7 days, which means I need to take at least 14 pieces of neckwear, since I usually post twice per day. That leaves a shortage of space for clothing in my carry-on bag. And I only travel with a carry-on– and my laptop bag. I refuse to pay $30 to check a suitcase. Heck, you might see photos of me wearing the same clothes every time I post a pic this week. But I won’t be wearing the same neckwear in each post. That’s not how I roll. Or fly, or see the sights.
Ploppy, streamy, drippy wet paint Bow Tie o’ the Day spent time with me at my regular physician’s office this morning. Despite going to the urgent care clinic earlier in the week, where I got x-rays and the a-okay about my ribs, I went to my Dr. Blaze for a second opinion. Really, his opinion was the third opinion since I always give myself the first medical opinion.
Dr. Blaze also gave me a third opinion about the dangers of running down stairs and breaking the resulting fall with one’s ribs. I, urgent care, and Dr. Blaze are in agreement about the ideal way to descend stairs, which is to pay attention while you walk, and hold on to the bannister if at all possible. We also all three agree that tripping over one’s own shoes while speeding recklessly down the stairs is especially ill-advised. (No, I wasn’t wearing clown shoes when I tripped. But having a pair of those sounds fun.) I still believe if I had been cloaked in my cape when I tripped, I would have flown gently to the floor, feet first.
Why all this medical opinion fuss? Since my summer surgery, I’ve been overly overprotective of my innards, and I want to be extra sure I don’t have riblit shards impaling my lungs, heart, or what’s left of my pancreas– because Sunday morning Suzanne and I fly away for a week. And ain’t nobody wants to do their vacation sight-seeing from a hospital bed. As of now, I have been officially declared fit for jet-setting on commercial flights and for the conducting of unbridled antics in other states.
I’ve already packed my speshul, old timey swimming suit, which was such a hit with y’all when I posted about our Dauphin Island ocean vacay in September. We’re flying to Tucson and then to Las Vegas, so we aren’t gonna be hanging at a beach. But swimming pools grow everywhere in those cities, and I’m darn sure gonna find one where I can show off my swimmin’ duds, even if I don’t actually do any swimming. Up next? The packin’ o’ the bow ties! Choices galore!
Kids’ Tie o’ the Day isn’t sure about this look, but I’m showing off the results of my scientific hunt for a hair gel/goop/glue that isn’t oily and/or flaky. And, more importantly, it has to be tough enough to hold my irreverent hairs in place, where ever and how ever I want them to be. Success! The winner is LOREAL Studio Line INVISIGEL, Max Hold.
Thank you to my niece-in-law, Caitlin Cottrell, for recommending this outstanding product. I should have known it would be a soldier who would save the day for me. Thank you for your service– to the country and to my warring hairs.
And now I’m off to an appointment with my regular doctor to get a second opinion about my ouch-y ribs.
I suppose these hair clips qualify as Bow Ties o’ the Day. They present my hairdo. And in other pix you can see the cockatiels Tie o’ the Day I wore when getting my hairs done. In this first photo, you can also gander at my Hearing Aid o’ the Day.
I handed Suzanne my baby bow hair clips and said, “Do what you can with these.” She did. I’d actually wear this ‘do out ‘n’ about– like at the beach or on a walk. But Suzanne and I discovered that whenever I moved, they slipped out of my hair. Yes, my hair is a tiny bit fine. It is extra fine. Not one hair of my hairs has known a thick day in its life. Thinnest. Hairs. Ever. Almost. Suzanne’s are thinner.
I have had some skilled hair cutters throughout my earthly existence, and I thank them for dealing with my uncooperative locks. Dot Atkinson cut my hairs all through my kidhood, then Jim Robson opened up his shop by Curley’s and I sat in his hair chair for a year or so. I ended up having my hairs regularly hacked by Sandy Ferrell– for years before I moved to Maryland and then for years after I returned to Delta. Here in Centerville, my hairs hacker is Tiffany at Great Clips. She has hip tattoos and she appreciates mine. Since I haven’t had my hairs sheared since May, Miss Tiffany might or might not still work there. I hope she still cuts there, cuz I trust her.
Back in the day when I was a wee sprite, every church Ward went to Sunday School on Sunday morning at the same time (and Sacrament Meeting was in the evening). On church mornings our house was aflutter with kids being dragged out of bed to eat breakfast and get bathed and gussied up in church duds. (We had only one bathroom at the time.) I even remember Mom often drying my brother, Ron’s dress socks in the oven, and once she was so harried she forgot about them and they caught fire. Sabbath circus.
What does this have to do with hair? Well, I’ll tell you. I don’t know whether Mom or Dad asked, or if my grandma, Zola Wright (Momo), suggested it, but on Sunday mornings, I was sent next door to my grandparents’ house in my pj’s before putting on my dress for church. Momo or Popo lifted me onto a towel on the kitchen counter, where I laid on my back, with my head over the edge of the kitchen sink. Momo used the sink sprayer to wash my hair. Our house was one fewer person of chaos for Mom and Dad for a few minutes, and I felt loved by the inhabitants of two houses. It was as if my grandparents’ home was just another bunch of rooms in our own house.
Thirty years later, I bought my grandparents’ house, which Suzanne and I had for seventeen years– until we sold it two years ago. That kitchen sink and kitchen counter where Momo washed my kid hair were still there when it became mine. They were in atrocious shape, and I should have replaced them.
But I never did. Not even when I remodeled the kitchen. I couldn’t. They were daily reminders of how much I belonged to Momo and Popo–especially with my dirty hair on Sunday mornings. As a growing kid, I was devastated when I grew too big for their kitchen counter. Even my stubborn, thin hairs were sad. And after I sold the house and walked through its rooms one last time before driving away in my red truck forever, it was that decrepit sink that broke my heart.
