I don’t think Suzanne and I have been out on a Friday night adventure since the pandemic began, so when the soonest appointment I could get for my CT scan was an evening appointment last Friday, I took it. My CT scan at 8:30 PM was the perfect chance to finally go out on the town. And since it was an evening affair, I chose to treat it as a formal “black tie” soiree. (Note my black sequined Face Mask o’ the Evening.) Unfortunately, we didn’t go to dinner. I had to fast before my scan, and we had to get right back home after the scan because Skitter had been colicky and spitting up all day. Indeed, after I fasted, then drank two bottles of the CT scan goop, then had the CT, my reward when I returned home was to clean up the urp in Skitter’s crate. It was still a Friday night and I was dressed up, so I cleaned up after poor Skitter while still wearing my formal Bow Tie o’ the Day.
Remember way back 3 weeks ago when I had an appointment with my Hanky Panky surgeon to determine why what’s left of my pancreas is misbehaving? My doc arranged for me to have a CT scan ASAP, and the ASAP appointment I could get is scheduled for today @ 8:30 PM. Finally.
Anyhoo…First thing this morning, I drove to the Farmington Health Center to pick up the two bottles of CT contrast I have to drink before my scan. It was early, and although my eyelids might have been open, my brain was still blank—as you can see by my completely blank wood Bow Tie o’ the Day.
So yesterday morning, before Skitter and I got in the car to make our pilgrimage to Millard Care And Rehab to visit Mom, Suzanne told me she liked my shirt but she said it kinda hurt her eyes, too. I considered changing into a less busy shirt, because I didn’t want my attire to cause injury to Mom’s old, old eyes. Ultimately, I didn’t change it, and one of the first things Mom said to me when she saw me was, “I like your shirt.” I told her what Suzanne had said about it earlier, and Mom said, “Well, if it bothers my eyes to look at your shirt, I’ll just quit looking at it.” Mom is a very sensible gal.
As Skitter and I made our way through the halls of MCR to get to Mom’s room, the staff was quick to welcome us back to the facility. And I was quick to give them our family’s thanks for their quality care of Mom during the pandemic. They kept her safe and engaged, and we never doubted they would. Indeed, when I walked into Mom’s room, she was alert and chatty. When I first hugged her, she seemed smaller and more fragile than when I hugged her last. It was like hugging a bird—but I’m sure that was mostly because it had been so long between hugs.
The window in Mom’s room gives her a clear view of people going into, or out of, the care center. She can also see the ambulance pull up to the ER at the hospital across the way. She especially enjoys watching the medical helicopter come and go. Mom and I sat on Mom’s bed talking and watching the world doing its thing outside her window. Mom was captivated by the construction guys working on the hospital roof. We laughed as they took turns coming down the ladder to use the port-a-potty in the parking lot. For a moment, it felt like she and I were sitting on The Porch again—Mom holding court and scattering her spunkiness and opinions everywhere within ear-reach.
As an added bonus for Mom yesterday, her friends, Dot and Roberta, drove past her window, as if on cue, and I managed to flag them down. They were gracious enough to stop and come over to Mom’s window so she could see them up-close. The three of them yelled greetings to each other through the window glass. (Oh, and Mom made me lift Skitter up to the window, so she could introduce The Skit to her good friends.) Dot and Roberta were cackling when they left, and so were we. Mom beamed at her almost-back-to-normal day as a resident of MCR. She can’t wait to go on MCR drives again, and she mentioned wanting to get back to playing BINGO with the other residents, too. I reminded her she will probably have to be patient a little longer, and she reminded me how much neither of us Helen’s likes to be patient.
My fave-rave moment of yesterday was a classic, comedic Mom moment. I nursed my bottle of Diet Coke and Mom had Pepsi in her cup as she and I chatted. Yup, we were drinkin’ together again. At some point, Skitter—who sat right up against Mom’s leg throughout the entirety of our visit—started sniffing at Mom’s cup. Quick-witted as ever, Mom feigned horror and said, “Skitter! You don’t want to drink that! That’ll get you drunk!” It caught me by surprise, and I admit I snort-laughed at Mom and the idea that she would spike anyone’s drink—let alone her own. I asked her what the Hell-en she spiked her Pepsi with, and where did she hide it, because I wanted some too. We kidded back and forth about that for a while, and at some point I said she should tell me where her booze was so we could get Skitter drunk, and put it on YouTube and get rich. I told her she was being stingy, and that I didn’t know how she was raised, but that my mother sure as Hell-en raised me to always share my liquor with the people I love.
What a bigly splendid day it was, in Mom’s little room! I can’t wait for our next visit.
Thank’s, y’all, for the bounty of birthday wishes you graced me with yesterday! I am humbled to think anyone would take the time to acknowledge the occasion of my birth. I am blessed beyond what I deserve.One of the birthday presents Suzanne gave me yesterday was a pair of these trilobite bumper stickers for my vehicles. I knew that for this TIE O’ THE DAY photo, I simply had to pair the bumper sticker with my arrowhead Bow Tie o’ the Day. The bumper sticker’s trilobite stirred so many childhood memories of hanging out in the west desert with Dad and Popo, where I often searched for trilobites and arrowheads and geodes—and dead animal skulls. I knew there had to be some hidden meaning behind Suzanne’s cool gift, so I asked her why she chose this particular sticker to give me on my 57th birthday. She explained it was her way of declaring to me and to everyone who sees the sticker on my car that I am officially an old fossil. 🤣 ‘Nuff said. Maybe she’ll give me a dinosaur bone on my next birthday.
As regular TIE O’ THE DAY readers probably already know, except for the bee tattoo in honor of my dad, all my tats are words. I’ve been feeling the need for a couple of new permanent words on my skin, and today was the day my plan came to fruition. Thanks to my new tattoo guy, Cameron, at Punctured Piercing and Tattoo, in Bountiful. Now, when we can all freely give real hugs again, I will be wrapping whoever I hug in the literal “kindness” and “empathy” of my arms. Go forth and continue to commit genuine niceness, folks!
So along comes the afternoon, and I realized I hadn’t had breakfast or lunch yet. Bow Tie o’ the Day and I were famished. My tummy had a hankering for a sammich—a BLT sammich, to be precise. I cooked my bacon and rounded up my bread and mayo. Lo and behold, I discovered we were out of both lettuce and tomatoes. I did not want to run to the store to buy just lettuce and a tomatoes. I was left in a hangry quandary. What to do? (I have such bigly problems, eh?) I oh-so grudgingly decided to go ahead with my original eatin’ plan, as best I could. Sometimes we just have to muddle through and make do with what we have, folks. Oh, I struggled to envision a lettuce-free, tomato-free BLT! Would I be able to even gag down a mere B sammich? Well, somehow, I finally did manage to eat my B sammich. I wasn’t completely sure how yummy it was, so I made and ate a second one just to be sure of my own opinion. I think I liked it, but I better make myself a third B sammich for dinner tonight—to settle the matter, once and for all.🥓🍞😉
I had an early appointment and didn’t have time for even a quick shower this morning, so I grabbed my dry shampoo to swiftly clean my hairs before I left the house. 😜
I got my first COVID-19 shot this morning. I had planned to take Skitter with me to keep me company in the car while I endured a reputed long wait in line to receive the first of my two vaccinations. However, as I was gathering my books and music to leave for my appointment, I asked, “Skitter, do you wanna go on an errand with me?” She barely raised an eyelid. She was clearly content to remain in her sleeping-in mode. How could I possibly drag her out of her cozy slumber? So I took this photo of her ignoring me, and I headed out the front door.
I am here to tell you that the Davis County Health Department has really got their “sh*t” together—I mean their “shot.” Following the new vaccination guidelines, I was able to get my shot about a month before they originally anticipated folks in my age-group would even be able to sign up. I emailed them yesterday, and 5 minutes later, I had an appointment for today. I arrived for my appointment about 10 minutes before my scheduled time. I followed the car directly ahead of me through the twisty, busy parking lot, all the way into a stall inside the Legacy Center building. There, I turned off my car and sat for a total of 4 minutes, while I answered a few questions, got a few warnings about possible obscure side effects, and ultimately got stabbed with my shot. I then started my car again, cranked up the Amanda Shires cd I was listening to, and drove out of the building. Before I knew it, I was done with Part 1 of my entire pandemic vaccination adventure—a couple of minutes before my actual scheduled appointment time.
The front-line folks running the vaccination clinic were efficient, willing to answer questions, and even appreciative of my chatty humor. One guy—the nurse who shot my arm—liked my wood Bow Tie o’ the Day so much that I tried to give it to him. He told me that in a different context, he would have gladly received Bow Tie as the simple gift of appreciation I meant it to be, but since he was there as a professional nurse, he could not accept it. I completely understood. Kudos to people with principles, who aren’t shy about living by them.
BTW Since I have a history of instances of severe allergic reactions to a couple of medications and bee stings (requiring me to carry an EpiPen), my shot nurse requested that I wait in my car in the Legacy Center parking lot for at least 30 minutes before I headed home, just in case I were to have an adverse reaction to the vaccine. He suggested I park as near to the ambulance in the parking lot as I could—just in case. In my experience, I have found that no matter what the job is, those people who think of the “just in case” scenarios for others end up becoming the best at whatever they do.
Call me Heathcliff. I woke up feeling a bit Wuthering Heights-y today, which means I just had to don a snooty Ascot o’ the Day. It’s odd that I ever find myself in a silky, ascot-y, Wuthering Heights-y mood at all because I never really got into the vibe of the book. I admit I do overly enjoy the 1939 Laurence Olivier/Merle Oberon movie version of the book. And it is also true that the Kate Bush song of the same name gets pleasantly stuck in my head for hours, at least once a year, prompted by who-knows-what. All I can tell you for sure is that when I’m in a Wuthering Heights mood like I am today, the only logical thing for me to do is to head off for a drive in my truck—in search of windy, foggy, muddy moors over which I will aimlessly run while alternately crying out “Heathcliff” and “Cathy” to all ghosts everywhere in my vicinity. The ascot-less Skitter will surely accompany me and wonder what’s up. Or—more likely—I will just sit here in my ascot and re-watch the old movie until I get the moors out of my system.
I’m here to confess that my occasional self-inflicted baldness feels amazing. I would describe the sensation of having all your hairs shaved off as similar to how it feels when you take off ye olde brassiere after getting get home from work. And, ladies, you know darn well how good that feels. I’m not exaggerating. Bald is a free feeling.
A naked head in winter is a tad cold, though. For whatever reason, the handful of times in my life I’ve felt the urge to go mostly fur-less on my noggin, I’ve felt it in winter. I’m not complaining about the frigid air. I do have a bigly hat collection from which my head can draw any warmth it might need, as you well have probably already noticed. It’s weird, though: My baldy head doesn’t usually get cold, but the tops of my ears freeze tremendously. I need Suzanne to crochet me teensy beanies for the tops of my ears. One ear beanie would have to be considerably larger than the the other, however, in order to completely cover the tip of my left ear, which is my Spock ear.
My pop-top drink cans Tie o’ the Day, and my Jack Daniels Cufflinks o’ the Day are an homage to the fact that while I wasn’t up to posting about it last week, I hit a sober milestone of much import to me. I managed to make it 5,000 days (5,008 as of today) without drinking so much as a Munchkin-sized drop of alcohol. That translates into almost 14 years of not-drinking God’s special fermentations. I especially miss beer, which I will always fondly think of as “liquid bread.” Likewise, I content myself with forever thinking of the bread that I eat as nothing less than “solid beer.” I have no regrets. Not about the drinking. And not about the hair.🍺💈
