Category: Family

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The Things We Do For Tunes

The reason Bow Ties o’ the Day and Suzanne and I went to Las Vegas last week was because I just had to see the BAND OF HORSES concert, and Vegas was the closest place they were performing on their tour. Of course, as weird luck would have it, a few days before we flew to Vegas, BAND OF HORSES announced a gig in SLC in July. I immediately bought tickets for the SLC concert too. Seeing them twice will make me doubly gleeful in a BAND OF HORSES way. You will not hear me complaining. I love the band. Suzanne is learning to like the band. The concert pleased her immensely. Of course, her enjoyment of the music might have had something to do with the three margaritas she drank.

The concert was top-notch: excellent musicianship and superb energy. It was held in a venue called The Brooklyn Bowl, which we happened to be able to see from our hotel window. The Brooklyn Bowl is basically a 32-lane bowling alley– with a “pub food” restaurant, and a concert area. The place is funky. I was kinda hoping we could bowl while watching the concert, but that wasn’t allowed. It would have made a tremendous story.

I did a bad thing when we got to the concert space. I still feel guilty about it. And I knew I would feel guilty about it, but I did it anyway. You’ve heard of people “playing the race card.” You’ve heard of people “playing the woman card.” And playing other cards, as well. Right before the BAND OF HORSES concert began, I played what I will forever call THE SCAR CARD.

The music space was built for dancing. No chairs. The audience would be standing or dancing or whatever else you can do while on your feet, for the duration of the concert. I’ve been to plenty of concerts like this, and I kinda figured it was probably a standing-only show when I bought the tickets months ago. I also knew I would have a difficult time being on my feet for three hours. But I love BAND OF HORSES, so it was worth it to me to have to gut through it. If that’s how it had to be, that’s how it would have to be. I refused to miss out.

And then we got to concert venue floor. The reality of the situation hit me. My surgery spot still does weird tugs and pulls, and I still get tired easily, and I took that fall down the stairs a couple of weeks ago. Suzanne said, “You can’t do this.” We both knew it would be better for me to sit. I headed for some roped-off seating in the bar area, near the stage.

The seating was reserved for VIP’s and handicapped folks, and I am neither of those. There were a bunch of empty chairs. I decided to do something I have never done– even when I was first recovering from my operation, and sometimes should have. I played THE SCAR CARD. I explained to the security dude who guarded that section that I had recently had surgery, and I asked if it would be okay if I watched the concert from a chair. I even offered to show him my scar, which he said I didn’t need to do. (He is probably the only person on earth who has never seen my scar. You know how I like to show it.) He obligingly got me seated, and he happily let Suzanne sit there too. We had the best vantage point in the place for seeing the entire stage. I felt like a VIP.

I felt guilty when I first thought of the idea. I felt guilty before I gathered the nerve to actually ask. I felt guilty as I did it. I felt guilty throughout the concert. I felt guilty after the concert. And I still feel it. Nobody who needed to sit in the chair section was denied a seat cuz I was in a chair, but I still feel guilty. But even with all this guilt about merely sitting in a chair consuming me, I have said to Suzanne a couple of times since that night, “I can’t believe I could have been playing THE SCAR CARD for the last eight months. I should use it more often, for as long as I can.” And then I feel guilty about saying things like that. To be absolutely honest, I’m beginning to feel guilty about feeling guilty.

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Worth a Thousand Words, At Least

Here’s my fave-rave photo from last week’s two-state vacay. Suzanne selfied this picture as we rode the High Roller ferris wheel in Las Vegas. Under my jacket, I’m wearing my old timey swimming suit and gold-thread embellishments Bow Tie o’ the Day. Suzanne’s wearing her new BAND OF HORSES hoodie. Vegas was a bit on the chilly side. You can see how much it didn’t matter to us.

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Vacation Posts Ahead For Days

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.

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Hairs Thursday #3

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.

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I’m A Clothing Chain

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.

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Right Out Of The Blocks

I rolled out of bed at 4:30 AM this bee-you-tee-full Sabbath morn to finish the prep for our impending flight to Tucson. Skitter rolled out of her bed already pouty cuz she saw suitcases getting filled last night– and not one of them was hers.

Right before we boarded the plane for AZ this morning, CacTie Bolo o’ the Day was an awe-struck witness to an amazing development at the SLC airport. I stopped in an airport gift shop to buy a $6, 20-ounce bottle of Diet Coke, and something cataclysmic happened that has never happened to me before in all of my lengthy adult life. And it’s so unheard-of it can’t possibly happen to me again.

But occur this once, it did. I spied an object in the aforementioned airport gift shop, out of the corner of one of my blue eyes: a PURSE. Not simply a purse, but the only purse I have ever actually wanted to own for myself. I want it. I wanted it immediately. I want this “saddle” purse, if only for the mini saddle bag towards the back and the stirrup on the side. Oh, and the horn looks groovetastic too! Must. Have. Purse!

I don’t know what flash came over me when I gazed in the purse’s direction. It was such an odd feeling– I couldn’t bring myself to buy the artsy creation. But for the hours since that moment, I haven’t been able to stop daydreaming about it. And I have a feeling I’ll end up with that flashy leather bag o’ my dreams.

What is wrong with me, people? I’m too old and set and happy in my neckwear ways to start collecting other things. I don’t have the space or the bucks or the energy for another kind of collection anyway. But a purse? A purse! A purse, I ask you again? Of all things! A purse is so unlike me. I wear pants with bigly pockets, just so I don’t have to drag a bag with me wherever I go. Anyway, I’m more of a backpack/briefcase/messenger bag sort of girl. Golly gee, I don’t hang a purse strap over my shoulder. That doesn’t translate.

But when we return to SLC International, when our vacay is done, I’ll most likely be walking out of the airport to our car with the freshly purchased turquoise saddle purse. And Suzanne will likely walk out with the red one. (I should have known not to show her a picture of me with a snazzy purse. Of course, she’ll have to have a purse too.) Suzanne with a purse makes sense. A purse and I makes me a stranger in the land of my own clash fashion. Would Skitter even recognize me while I’m disguised by a purse? Would I recognize myself? The pigs will be flying again over me and my new purse, that’s for damn sure.

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Another Hairs Thing

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.

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Hairs Thursday #2

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.

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Someone Call The Golf Carts

If I’m wearing my band-aid Ties o’ the Day, I must have caused some damage to my mortal coil. And I did. Golf carts Cufflinks o’ the Day had to rescue me though, cuz I don’t have ambulance cufflinks.

Let me say this: everything is Skitter’s fault. My recovery from my late-June surgery at Huntsman was extraordinary for the first seven months, and then February happened. In the last three weeks I seem to be sabotaging my recovery– all for Skitter. First, I was nearly skewered through my scar by the end of a roll of wrapping paper I ran into, as I left the pantry where I had gone to get a treat for Skitter.

Second, Skitter got chased by a bared-teeth dog, and I ran to save The Skit from a potential lightweight boxing and biting bout with a bully of a strange dog. I should not have run, ladies and gentlemen, but I had to save Skitter. My well-healing innards got jostled in all kinds of wrong ways while I ran. No permanent damage was done, but my guts feel weird in a bunch of new ways.

And third, I mentioned a couple of weeks ago that Skitter has had some weird kidney things going on, resulting in occasional incontinence. She seems to be okay now, but we didn’t want to leave her roaming free in the house to possibly make puddles Saturday night when we went to Park City. We put her in her beddy-bye crate she loves, turned on “her” tv and a light, and gave her a chew. We have never left her alone in the house in her crate before. Ever. She has always had the whole house to party in when we’ve gone out. Skitter was fine, I’m sure. I, however, was a nervous wreck.

Anyhoo… When Suzanne and I entered the garage, I bolted into the house and up the stairs to Skitter’s crate to get her outside to potty ASAP. I unlatched her crate door and out she flew as if she hadn’t had access to potty grass in months. She zipped down the stairs, as did I. I never zip down the stairs, especially since surgery. But zip, I did, for Skitter’s bladder’s sake.

Until I got to the third step from the bottom. I tripped over one of the shoes I was wearing. (I’ve actually called the shoes “my funeral shoes” since I bought them fifteen years ago. I’ll explain why in another post.) I was briefly airborne, and then I landed on a storage bin I’m glad I hadn’t managed to put away yet. I landed on the top edge of the bin with my left ribs, directly opposite my scar. My left knee hit the floor at the same time. I broke the fall completely with my right palm on the floor– which didn’t hurt my hand but jammed my rotator cuff I had recently made usable again after two months of putting it through physical therapy.

I appear to be fine. But I think I might have broken or bruised a rib or two. It hurts like hell, and I can’t sleep on that side. I can breathe, so I doubt I punctured a lung. Fortunately, my surgery innards don’t feel newer and different-er pain than before I fell– just their usual tugs and pulls o’ healing. I’ve scheduled a doctor appointment for Friday, and I’m also not afraid of emergency rooms, if I should need to visit one. (Next week I’ll be a traveler, so I gotta be fine for that.)

Skitter eventually got pottied, and she had not made a puddle in her crate while we were off living it up in Park City. Score!

Earlier this week I showed you a photo of Suzanne’s scuffed face, and explained about her klutzosity. She is still the klutz in the family, by far. I have no idea why I’ve started joining in the klutz games with her though. I admire so many of Suzanne’s finer qualities, and I try to emulate them. I am not happy about emulating her klutz quality.

All I know for sure is that if I hadn’t taken off my wintry cape in the garage the minute I got home from Park City Saturday night, my attached cape would have thrown me into superhero mode as I tripped, and I would have been able to fly downstairs instead of fall splat. Perhaps I should wear a cape 24/7 from now on, to thwart any possible klutzing activities I might find myself getting into. Oh, you know how I’d hate always wearing a cape.

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Dinner And A Show

If I’m wearing guitar Bow Tie o’ the Day, I’m headed to a concert. I don’t wear it to all concerts I attend, but I don’t wear it to any other kind of event. Saturday evening we hied away to Park City in a twinkling of an eye for dinner at GRAPPA, and then AN ACOUSTIC EVENING WITH SHAWN COLVIN, at The Egyptian Theater.

GRAPPA had a cozy ski lodge vibe. The bigly windows provided a stupendous view of the snowy mountains. I ordered the horseradish encrusted salmon, just to see what the heck that would turn out to look like and taste like. (Suzanne had thought about ordering it too.) It was a delicious choice. Suzanne had the scallops puttanesca, which was my second choice to order. We spent the whole meal oohing and awing over our own meals, then wishing we had ordered what each other was having. Could we have shared each other’s entrees? Yes. But we were too selfish with our own dinners for that.

Our dinner began with calamari, and ended with a dessert I chose just because I couldn’t pronounce the name: zabaglione. It was bruleed custard with fruit, topped with slivered candied almonds. Suzanne had citrus polenta cake, also with custard and berries. We used to split one dessert. Now that we are old and there’s no possible way we could ever get back our girlish figures again, we each get our own dessert.

I wore my wintry cape for the happenings, and at least three people at GRAPPA drooled and told me how wonderful it was. Well heck, I knew that. But it was a sorta snooty Park City restaurant, so it surprised me that my cape was thoroughly appreciated. It is one of a kind, and I know the cape maker personally. Lucky me.

At the end of our meal, I was overtaken with tired, droopy eyes. I needed to nap, and we had an hour before the concert started. I told Suzanne I needed to sack-out in the car for a few minutes. I fully expected her to go off to DOLLY’S bookstore while I rested my weary eyelids, but she stayed with me in the car. She passed my snooze time by playing games on her phone, as is evidenced in one of these photos. (Another photo here also shows Suzanne playing games on her phone in the theater while we waited for the concert to begin.)

And then finally, inside The Egyptian Theater, Shawn Colvin came onto the stage with her guitar. Just Shawn Colvin and her guitar for the entire show– except for Shawn Colvin and her keyboard for the encore. I have been enamored with her music for thirty years. She’s an exceptional songwriter, and she plucks the guitar strings masterfully. In fact, I swear I could feel Bow Tie’s guitar strings vibrating right along with Shawn Colvin’s.

Suzanne suffered mostly happily through the concert, since she is not a Shawn Colvin fan. She doesn’t dislike the music, but she doesn’t “like” it either. She is indifferent about it. She probably went because she likes me. But I have no doubt she had a ball in Park City all evening, if only because she got to spend some of it playing games on her phone.