Category: Stories

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I Ain’t Complainin’

When I tell y’all about my aches and pains—whether mental or physical, I am not in search of a pity party. I am not saying, “woe is me.” I just tell you what’s up with me and the residents of the Tie Room. And what’s up is that yesterday I woke up feeling like I’d been run over by a golf cart. My head ached, and I never get headaches. My whole body ached. It felt like a belt was tightening around my ribs. Even my Spock ear hurt. The bottoms of my feet kept cramping. I am the whitest person on the planet, but yesterday I was whiter than that. I made a bed on the couch, which I haven’t done since right after I was recovering from my Hanky Panky decapitation surgery. That’s been two years now.

I had my flu shot a few weeks ago, so I figured it wasn’t the flu. I could tell Suzanne was worried about me because she called me from work, via FaceTime, to ask me all kinds of questions about which of the COVID-19 symptoms I might be feeling. You have to understand that when Suzanne is at work, Suzanne is at work. She doesn’t know home exists. That is not a criticism, it is just a slight exaggeration. I am simply making the point that Suzanne was worried about me. She doesn’t text, call, or Face Time me from work unless there is a bigly problem. Yesterday morning, I guess she considered my health a bigly problem. She even ordered me not to die.

Anyhoo… I answered Suzanne’s questions about any possible COVID-19 symptoms I might be having. Suzanne said the questionnaire she was reading from said, based on my answers, I should go to urgent care. I don’t know everything, but I sort of know my body, and I highly doubt COVID-19 is the culprit. Nevertheless, I promised Suzanne if I didn’t feel better the next morning (today), I would hop, skip, and jump to the urgent care clinic to be tested.

Well, I woke up this morning feeling just enough better that I doubt I’ll be going for a COVID-19 test in the immediate future. My head still hurts, but not as much. My feet are still cramping up weirdly, but not as much. My chest is feeling bear-hugged too tightly, but not as tightly as it felt yesterday. I am still whiter than my usual whitest-person-on-the-planet pallor, but I’m not as white as I was yesterday.

I’m starting to think there is such a thing as “aging pains.” I remember having growing pains in my legs when I was about 10, and Mom rubbed them down with alcohol so I could fall asleep at night. Those kinds of pains mysteriously came and went for a couple of years. Just as mysteriously, I think I’m starting to have the opposite kind of pains: those growing old pains. Some days an arbitrary pain, ache, or twitch shows up and sticks around for a few hours or a few days, then it’s just as mysteriously gone. I will always be fish-belly white, but my aging pains will surely come and go. No worries here.

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It Just Happens Sometimes

Skitter and I click. From the first time we met at the dog rescue in December of 2013, Skitter and I felt a kinship with each other’s peculiarities. I think we must have recognized each other’s raggedy edges. Her previous mistreatment and my constant bipolar rapids somehow recognized each other, and we formed a connection that has functioned to the betterment of both of us. Suzanne and Rowan recognized it happen that day too. That’s a sweet and sappy story, but it’s also true. Today, however, actual mind-reading was involved going on between The Skit and I.

While I was filling up the recycling can, I got a song stuck in my head. I could not shut it off. And it was completely out of nowhere. Worse, it was a smarmy tune from the 70’s! It was Debby Boone’s “You Light Up My Life.” I haven’t heard or thought of the song in decades. I stood staring into the recycling can, trying to figure out what was in there that could have possibly set off that song in my mind. There was nothing I could see. I left the garage and went upstairs to wash a load of face masks for the week, and that song kept playing in my head. I turned on other music to drown it out, but no—my life was still getting lit up by Debby Boone’s voice between my ears, over and over. Aaaaaaaarrrrrrggggghhhhhh! It was becoming painful to my brain. I thought: How can the repetition of such a syrupy sweet song cause an amount of irritation which makes me want to wretch and say swear words at the same time?

I went downstairs and poured myself a stiff drink of watermelon-flavored sparkling water, then sat down by Skitter, who had been nowhere around me and my house chores. Skitter—as you can see here—had clearly used her telepathic powers to hear the song that was stuck in my head, and she had tried to rescue me by wrapping herself in the candy corn Halloween lights to send me a message: I light up her life. It, of course, caused me to laugh so hard I forgot all about the stoopid Debby Boone song. Skitter and I have been singing new Bruce Springsteen songs together ever since the dastardly Debby Boone tune flew the proverbial coop of my noggin.

BTW I’m not sure if that was a tall tale or a tall “tail.” I guess it depends on whether I wrote it or Skitter did.

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A Pandemic Morning Walk

During the pandemic, Bow Tie o’ the Day and I have tried to keep fit. But a regular routine can turn boring sometimes. To keep things interesting, I developed this new head-holding, high-stepping walk to burn extra energy. Wearing heavy boots adds weightlifting to the walk. The dress also adds its own challenge to the workout. Here I am, tromping through the growth around Farmington Bay. If you see me out walking, HONK, if you like bow ties!

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Paisley Boo

There’s nothing better than a paisley Tie o’ the Day, unless you can find one with a skull-and-crossbones inside each paisle. I’m on my way to the grocery store this morning, with my shopping list which once again says I need to get Halloween candy. I’m not ashamed to say that this happens to me every October. It doesn’t matter how often I go grocery shopping in October, my shopping list always says, “Halloween candy.” I’m always buying it, and I’m always out of it long before the holiday comes around. I just sample a couple of pieces of whatever treats I hide in the pantry, and suddenly, it’s all gone. At some point in each Halloween season, I break down and buy the “bad” candy that even the kids sneer at: the fake Smarties, the no-name chocolate coins. But I end up sampling those specimens, only to find I have the uncanny ability to acquire a taste for the cheap stuff.

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Yes, There Is A Coloring Book For Everything

Skitter’s showing off her ghost-and-owl Halloween Tie o’ the Day, while I am pleased to wrap a Day of the Dead-themed Bow Tie o’ the Day around my neck. I’m most proud to wear my “SPREAD EMPATHY” Face Mask o’ the Day. It’s a sentiment I completely believe in. I wholeheartedly recommend it to others.

During the pandemic, we have been good citizens about staying home whenever possible. I putter around in the piles of my poetry manuscripts, and through stacks of half-read books. Suzanne has spent most of her down-time with her coloring books. She hasn’t been as crochet-y or sew-y as in the past. She says nothing’s wrong: she just happens to be in a coloring phase—every pandemic evening after work. She swears coloring relaxes her, and I can tell that it truly does.

I do my best to make sure that she has every Sharpie marker color ever made, and I occasionally go online to hunt for interesting coloring books for her. I ordered QUARANTINE QUEENS for her a couple of months ago. It’s not as funny as it could have been, and a more accurate title would be PANDEMIC QUEENS. However, the coloring book does have a few clever gems, like this Suzanne-completed page showing a fitness tracker which has counted the wearer’s movement through the whole 23 steps traveled in a pandemic day. I realize that I myself probably haven’t taken a total of 23 steps in the entire time since mid-March, and I don’t feel a bit guilty about it. Every inch of my skin feels a little flaccid these days, but not a bit guilty.

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Any Excuse For A Political Party

When we received our ballots in the mail, it was cause for celebration. We love to exercise our citizenship muscle by voting. Suzanne and I donned our patriotic Bow Ties o’ the Day. (Skitter wore her starry, starry Tie o’ the Day.) We placed our party hats atop our heads, and Suzanne went online to find the voter information to help us figure out whether the judges were worth keeping, as well as what all those Utah amendments were about. At one point, Suzanne’s face got a bit overwhelmed with trying to decipher the voter information.

I had promised Suzanne that our ballot-filling-out would be accompanied by only red, white, and blue food. I didn’t want to go grocery shopping yesterday, so I made do with what we had in the house already: RED cherry Twizzler pull ‘n’ peel licorice; BLUEberry muffins; and pork chops—”the other WHITE meat.”

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Merry Birthday, To The Late Don Tucker

The Tucker Boys, R-L: Dale, Don, Tom, Kent, Randy
The Tuckers o’ Pleasant View. Back row: Don, Randy, Kent, Dale. Front row: Jerilyn, Phyllis, George, Tom.

Yesterday, TIE O’ THE DAY tipped its cap to my sister BT’s son on his birthday. Today, we pay a brief tribute to BT’s late brother-in-law, Don, who would have been 71 today. Don passed away two years ago—suddenly, and far too soon.

When BT married Kent Tucker in 1967, she gained Don as a brother-in-law. When Don got married a few months later, BT gained Karla. The four of them have always been dear friends. I must add this: From my perspective, it seems like “Don-and-Karla” has always been one word. I can’t remember a time, until Don died, that I ever said one name without the other. To speak of one, was to speak of both. They were a team. A comedy team, at that.

When my ex and I moved from Salt Lake City, sight unseen, to Arlington, VA in the early 90’s, it was Don-and-Karla who picked us up from the airport. (They had been living in the area for a number of years, where Don worked for the IRS and Karla was a pediatric ICU nurse.) It was late in the evening when our plane landed, and Don-and-Karla drove us and our luggage to the apartment we had rented quickly, and without ever seeing. The apartment was a hazard, and it seemed to me that Don-and-Karla tried to hide their instinct to run. We had a lease, and we’d have to make it work until we could figure out our next step. As Don-and-Karla left my ex and I in our new hovel, I’m sure they were more than a bit worried for us. They invited us to spend Thanksgiving with them that year, probably just to see if we were surviving our flea-infested, stinky living quarters.

About two years later, BT was accepted into a Master’s degree program at George Washington University, in Washington, D.C.. Rather than commute from Pleasant View, UT to class in D.C. every day, BT needed to move to the D.C.-area for a year. Don-and-Karla opened up their house, inviting Betty, Kent, and their youngest kid to live with them for the duration of BT’s Master’s program. A more generous couple, I have never met.

Don was a booming presence in a room. I cannot imagine Karla without him. Their house must be so very quiet now. I hope their kids and grandkids keep Karla’s world loud and laughing. Don would want that for her. And I’m sure they do: They were raised that way, by Don-and-Karla.

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50 Is The New 49

My dreamy nephew, Brandon Tucker, turned 50 today. He was born to my oldest sister, Mercedes, and her hubby, Nuk, way back in 1970. You know—way back before time and dirt even existed.

When I was in college at Weber State in the 80’s, I lived with the Tucker’s a couple of times. I saw Brandon and his siblings be kids, up-close and loud. I remember Brandon often going outside to practice sports. He practiced football by practicing spiking the ball and choreographing end zone dances. He practiced running by practicing breaking the ribbon at the finish line. How could I not admire his fervor for winning?! He was dedicated to being triumphant, no matter his chosen sport. Now, he’s a Yankees fan and a Patriots fan, but I have learned to forgive him for that.

Around three years ago, Brandon’s right foot had to be amputated. Since that time, I think of him as my own personal peg-leg pirate. Losing his foot did not stop him from playing golf, as one of these photos shows. Another photo shows his flip-flop foot. And, so importantly, yet another photo shows Brandon with his granddaughter, Jolee, who graces us with her head Bow Tie o’ the Day.

Merry 50th Birthday, old boy!

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Sing Along With FogTie: “Slow Ride…Take It Easy…”

[It’s time for this re-post from October 2017. Enjoy.]It has happened to us all. You and Tie o’ the Day are cruisin’ in the fast lane on the freeway. Suddenly, you’re stuck behind a car traveling at a speed barely resembling motion. As you pass on the right, you see the driver:  Old Man In A Hat! Yep, that guy. He’s also known as Old Man Wearing His Waistband Around His Chest. Tie gets into roady rages at slow-driving geezers. Tie has a potty mouth 🚽 👄, and a bad finger too. 🏎 Bad Tie!

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Dr. Seuss Saw The Future

Split wood Bow Tie o’ the Day and I thought we had read every Dr. Seuss book ever published—many, many, way too many times. Apparently, we missed his book that had this face mask gem of pandemic wisdom in it. Nevertheless, for nearly seven months now, we’ve done our best to live by its prescient COVID-19 advice. 😷 #drseussismyfamilydoctor