This photo of me and Rowan was taken when we were still living in Ogden, about 15 years ago. We were both growing out our hair, which we eventually chopped off and donated to Locks of Love—to be made into wigs for kids with cancer who’ve lost their hair because of chemo treatments. I re-post the pictures because I have always referred to them as “my Bruce pics with Rowan” since they’re vaguely reminiscent of the cover of Bruce Springsteen’s album, BORN IN THE USA.In less than a week, Suzanne and I will be belted in our seats on a plane headed to Portland, OR. We are going there so I can finally see my longtime songwriter-throb, Bruce Springsteen, in concert. His band, The E Street Band, will be backing him, too, minus The Big Man, the late Clarence Clemons—whose masterfully played saxophone made the 14-year-old me hold my breath more than once when I first listened to the BORN TO RUN cassette tape I found abandoned in the kitchen junk drawer of my kidhood. As far as concerts go, I have seen them all. At least, all the bands I’ve wanted to see—except Bruce. When we are in Portland, that will finally change. In terms of music, my unofficial Concert Bucket List will be completed. Oh, I certainly won’t be done attending concerts. There just won’t be any more music artists I’ve gotta see in concert so I can die in peace—with my life’s spectacular soundtrack stuck in my head.💿
I found the perfect Valentine’s Day Tie o’ the Day for me: a Nicole Miller necktie full of paisley hearts. We left Skitter home while we went to dinner last night. The poor thing sat around the house all by herself, wearing her very own lipstick-and-lips Tie o’ the Day for the occasion. Meanwhile, Suzanne and I went to dinner at the Oasis Cafe in downtown SLC. We had a groove-tastic conversation—as we always do. (The food rated only a “meh” review from me, so I doubt we’ll revisit the place.) I, of course, wore my heart-covered, Suzanne-made cape on our evening outing. I did manage to see someone else sporting a different type of eye-catching cape at the restaurant, as well. I had to be low-key to take this photo of the other cape, and I apologize for not being able to get close enough to it to find out what it was made of. But believe me, its feather-like, petal-like look was stunning. However, I still prefer my own cape, to be sure. It flies me around the sky oh-so very well.
This is kissy-face Tie o’ the Day’s first venture out of the Tie Room and into the public eye. It’s a proper piece o’ neckwear for Valentine’s Day Eve. It is also a reminder to me of all the times I have walked around with similar kiss evidence on my face—having forgotten it was there before I left the house. Fortunately, that kind of social faux pas is the kind of thing strangers find amusing even as they gently let me know I’ve got lipstick on my cheek. People who know me don’t give me a heads-up about a set of lipstick lips on my face because they assume I left it there on purpose. They assume it’s just another fashion and/or political statement from yours truly. Nah, I just get busy thinking or working on something and I forget the lip-marks are there for all to see. Needless to say, I know I am loved and wanted every day.
Also, after many years of enjoying wearing my collection of Sloggers garden shoes almost every day and in every situation, I woke up one morning a month ago and wanted new shoes. I haven’t bought new shoes for years and years, but my Sloggers weren’t striking my style bell any longer. They had a good run, but wanted to retire. I’m turning over a new shoe leaf. Doc Martens to the rescue. I’ve had some before—in my younger days—and I have always thought fondly of them. So I hopped onto the Dr. Martens website and I found a pair or two (or five) of shoes which fit my style vibe. They pair well with neckwear of any type. The Doc Martens shoes I’m wearing in this selfie are dang dandy. When I’m in them, I’m wearing art on my feet. This design is based on a section of Georges Seurat’s painting, BATHERS AT ASNIERES. My only regret about these fab shoes is that the shoemaker did not use the section of Seurat’s painting with the red dog in it. Putting that dog on the shoes is the only thing which could have improved on this pair.👞🐕
[I don’t remember writing this. When I read this old TIE O’ THE DAY post which showed up on my Facebook Memories this morning, it was as if I were reading something written by someone else. After reading it, I am pleased to say that I do concur with its message. I agree with everything this author has to say.👍😍]
That is one bigly Post-it Note heart! I thought it best to wear it only for the selfie. Driving while wearing it would probably result in mayhem and tragedy. Let’s see… I’d be pulled over and cited for DWP. Driving While Post-it-ed.
Jumbo Bow Tie o’ the Day is one of my favorites. Actually, I’m fond of jumbo-size bow ties, period. They give off such happy vibes. And we are here to be happy. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise. I’m not saying happiness isn’t work. No, it’s something you have work toward. The happiness a bow tie can give is a fleeting feeling. But if you want real happiness, you have to mostly create it. It’s not going to knock on your door, fully-formed, and say, “I’m happiness, and I’m here to serve you!”
I think we get distracted by looking to/at others to find happiness. We think: “They seem happy. What do they have that I don’t? I need to get what they have, and then I’ll be happy.” It doesn’t work that way. Your happiness is singular to you. It won’t look like anyone else’s. It is authentic to you, and you only. It is your job to figure out what your happiness will look like. Ignore other people’s ideas of happiness. Mind your own happiness business.
If you find somebody (a spouse, partner, etc.) whose happiness pieces fit with your happiness pieces, you have found a powerful and rare thing. Your happiness inventory will not be exactly the same as the person’s you mesh with. But what would be the fun of that? Do you really want to be married to a clone of yourself? Another person isn’t your happiness. Your chosen person can share in your happiness, just as you can share in theirs. You are a part of each other’s happiness, not the whole of it. Let me make this clear: NEITHER A MATERIAL OBJECT NOR A PERSON “MAKES” YOU HAPPY. You decide to be happy. You make a plan and work to achieve it. It’s an attitude.
Living with another person gives you daily opportunities to express your happiness. You can care for and spoil them with whatever happiness you decide to share. Take the risk to spread your joy around the metaphorical house. You’ll get hurt sometimes, even in the best of relationships. But so what? Remember, you’ll hurt your beloved too. You won’t mean to, but you will. Unless you’re perfect. Be kind. Be brave.
To be happy in a relationship doesn’t mean you feel jolly every minute. You can be happy, yet experience sorrow, anger, frustration, and every other emotion. Real happiness is not an emotion. Happiness is a state of your soul, not a mood.
If you make a habit of working to achieve true happiness, you can weather the relationship storms you will encounter—more easily and more courageously. This doesn’t sound like it makes sense, but I promise it does: When you are in the storm of yourself—when you are aching—muster your courage and every power in your heart to choose your happiness. Open up your happy heart just a bit wider. Share just a little more. Give. And then rain your happiness down on you and your beloved. Take the risk to love your beloved—again and again, day after day, second upon second. Your relationship will grow stronger. Your soul will thank you.
And one more bigly note: Selfishness does not grow happiness. Trying to get everything you want, and always trying to get your way, is as far from happiness as you can get.
This has been yet another bossy sermon. Just sayin.’
[This post is a repeat from four years ago. Another round of birthday hugs, cakes, hopes, and realities to two of my fave-rave relatives!]
Bow Ties o’ the Day say MERRY BIRTHDAY! to my nephew, Kyle. And to my niece, Angie. They share a birth date, but not birth years. At least, I’m pretty close to certain I remember they were both born on February 10th.
I’m at the age when facts which I absolutely know to be true somehow feel a bit iffy. I woke up this morning, looked at the calendar, and thought, “Hey, it’s Kyle’s and Angie’s birthday! I better do a celebratory birthday post!” And ever since that moment, I have questioned if my memory is recollecting correctly. Could I text ’em and ask? Yeah. Could I call my sisters to verify their kids’ birthdays? Yeah. But that would be admitting I don’t know everything I’ve always known. That would be defeat. I will not do it. I would rather take a chance on being wrong than out-and-out admit I’m hazy on facts I’ve known for decades.
If my memory turns out to be correct about today’s birthdays, I’m a fabulous aunt with a terrific memory. If my recall-er has failed me, Kyle and Angie will at least appreciate my effort. But they’ll know my noggin is slippin’. I’ll be found out.
FYI The dearly-departed deer you see posing with me and Kyle is my first and last venison kill. One was enough for me. Yes, Kyle is larger than this Bambi. Dad mounted the antlers for me and I still have them. I should probably make them into a key chain. And I do love that Kyle is wearing suspenders.
Bow Tie o’ the Day—which I have named “Bobcat”—is the final feathery one in my collection. So far. You’ve seen them all. So far. I say I am done acquiring more neckwear, but I know I am probably not finished at all. If I see a cool one I don’t already own, I must bring it home to live in the Tie Room. Nevertheless, I am necessarily slowing down the buying of more neckwear, simply because it’s more and more difficult to find cool ties I don’t already have.
Along with Bobcat the Bow Tie o’ the Day, I have donned my new glasses, which you will see often. My eyesight actually improved since my last eye exam, which I didn’t know was possible—but YAY! New glasses were a must. Unfortunately, my eye guy explained how my eyesight improved because my cataracts got worse. Apparently, it happens all the time. It has to do with light and floaters and a bunch of other eye science I researched when I got home from my eye exam. That’s how I roll.
And my T-shirt o’ the Day is just plain funny and true.
Bow Tie o’ the Day remarked about this first outfit: “Well, it’s super sparkly!” I do believe I would stand out well on the Red Carpet if I wore this, for reasons far beyond the sparkles. The attire’s hardware appears to be prickly also, so that makes it a safe dress to wear in a bigly crowd full of famous gropers. Still, it’s not quite my style o’ dress. I’ll keep looking through whatever gownage I can find. 🎬
There was a minor scuffle in the Tie Room today. When I went up to calm things down amongst the neckwear, I found the entire group of my made-from-feathers Bow Ties o’ the Day gathered in protest. They were there with their tiny microphones and signs—their cell phones pointed and filming in every direction in case something juicy happened. It seems they were upset because I haven’t worn them often enough for their liking. I realized they were right. They haven’t been in the TIE O’ THE DAY rotation regularly. I haven’t paid much attention to them for a very long time. During our public negotiations, I promised them I would change: I need to re-examine how often I wear them. I also promised them reparations in the form of agreeing to wear each of them during the next week. Peace now fills the Tie Room again. I was wrong. I admit it. And now we can all get back to business. I wish more people would admit when they are wrong, then move on.
An Emily Dickinson poem declares to us that “Hope is the thing with feathers—/That perches in the soul—.” It’s that invincible slice of fire in us that makes us go forth when we would really rather be stagnant—whether out of fear of what’s next, doubt about how to continue, or an apparent lack of energy to sally forth. The smallest hope in each of us can kick our metaphorical and literal butts off the couch and out into the world of living a life—if we let it. Hope keeps us ticking when our situation is looking dire. Sadly, some of us are currently in such a state that we have nary a spark of hope left inside at all. In all reality, it’s more than likely every one of us has run out of hope at least once in their lives. Personally, in those times of a hope-drought in my life, that’s when I was fed by other people’s hope. Sometimes people shared their hope with me, and I tried with all my heart to take it in. I fed off seeing those people moving—with their kind hope—through tough times and into their more hopeful futures. Sometimes I flat-out stole the hope I saw and heard in others. I stole their tidy inspirational quotes and attitudes. I stole acts of service I had watched them perform for others, and then I performed those same acts of service for others when I could see the need. I want to repeat this and make it clear: I didn’t just borrow a cup of hope—I stole all the hope I could. Me—I’m the Hope Burglar. I had to trust what I stole and use it to kindle my own feathery hope into being again. It is because of needing to replenish my own hope that I learned an important lesson about it. Stealing hope is not against any law of the universes. Nobody loses anything in the transaction. Everybody gains. True hope, in fact, encourages a kind of promiscuity. It likes to get around. True hope wants to abide within every one of us. Hope, by its very nature, wants to invite everyone to its party.
Right after college, I briefly considered taking a job with a hoity-toity advertising company (whose name I now forget) in Chicago. The salary was sweet, and Chicago would have been mine for the taking. I was sure I was full of brilliant advertising ideas. But, ultimately, I wanted to be a poet, a storyteller—a real writer—so I decided to be poor and go to graduate school at the University of Utah. Which I did. And I am—poor and a writer, I mean. I do, however, still get ideas for creating and/or marketing products. Why am I telling you all this ancient information about a job I turned down? Puzzle pieces Bow Tie o’ the Day is in search of the answer to that same puzzling question. Well, it has to do with a product idea I cannot quit pondering. How has no one made this happen yet? I guarantee it would be a profitable venture. It comes down to this:
The company that makes Head & Shoulders shampoo should market a body wash called Knees & Toes? It’s a no-brainer. You could market it to adults and kids. The logical commercial jingle is already written and in the public domain. It’s sung wherever you find a toddler learning about body parts. The song gets easily stuck in your head, which is exactly what advertising tries to do. Admit it: the song is stuck in your head, even as you read this. Somebody pay me. Just sayin.’ 👤
I got a most unusual phone call early one morning last week, and it was from Suzanne. She had been in her office for about 20 minutes when she called. My phone announced who was calling me, and as I searched the living room for where I had set down my ringing gadget, I figured Suzanne was probably calling me to say she’d left something home that she needed me to bring to her office. Suzanne forgetting something she needs is a rare happening, but it has happened on occasion. No bigly deal. Having found my phone, I answered it. I heard breathing, but no words. After a few moments, I heard mumbling that vaguely sounded like it came from Suzanne. She spoke in slow motion. It sounded like she was drunk—2 or 3 times over. Sloshed Suzanne. But how could that be? It was a tad after 8:00 AM, and she had seemed just fine when she left the house only a half hour before. With tortoise-like slowness and inebriated-sounding slurring, Suzanne said, “Will you go upstairs and check to see if I took my night medication instead of my morning medication?” I checked out her medication organizer and, sure enough, her morning meds for the day were still there. She had, in fact, taken her night meds instead. The PM meds had an obvious soporific effect on Suzanne—which is fitting for bedtime, but not for the start of the work day. I told Suzanne she would not be driving home, but that I would come fetch her from work immediately. By the time I got to her office about 15 minutes later, Suzanne was unable to walk on her own. Two of her colleagues had to help her get downstairs and out of the building. Likewise, it took them both to get her propped upright in my truck. Suzanne seemed every bit the drunkard. She tried to speak as I drove homeward, but I couldn’t understand most of what she slurred on and on about. I did understand her ranting at the creeping UTA bus in front of us as it was going 10 mph below the speed limit for no reason at all. (I was ranting the same rant in my head.) I got her home and up the stairs. I managed to pull off her boots and help her finagle her drowsy bones into the bed—where she slept and snored for the rest of the day. When Suzanne woke up, everything was back to normal—except it was almost bedtime, which meant it was almost time for her to take her night meds again.
If I get my way, Suzanne will alter her meds logistics, so the AM and PM meds are no longer in the same pill organizer or even in the same room. You live, you learn. Suzanne’s meds incident is now firmly in the past—no harm, no foul—and we find it merely an amusing anecdote from the little “book” we’re living, which we like to call THE CHRONICLES O’ HELANNE (“Helanne” is our self-designated “famous couple name,” like Bennifer or Brangelina). Suzanne’s meds faux pas was simply a could-have-been-worse occurrence neither one of us wishes to be part of again. You think I’m a circus to live with? Clearly, living with Suzanne is never boring either. I mean—she made an entertaining not-drunk drunk without even being conscious she was putting on a show. And it was a riot.
FYI When I see a cap such as this, I expect to see a pompom. A hat of this ilk is incomplete without the jaunty flair of a poof ball. A pompom is this hat’s punctuation mark.
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