Category: Stories

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A Prime Time To Shop?

I took this snazzy Bow Tie o’ the Day for a walk at Walmart last Sunday, which was the day before Labor Day. Suzanne was off with the shopping cart, most likely being mesmerized by office supplies or fabric quarters. Aside from me and Suzanne and this seemingly harmless family, there was almost nobody shopping. I have often been a middle-of-the-night shopper when I can’t sleep, but I don’t think I have ever seen so few consumers consuming there in the afternoon.

Initially, I was gleeful at the thought of having a subdued, barely inhabited shopping outing. Imagine doing your Walmart shopping, without the People of Walmart! But no. Lucky me– I don’t get to enjoy a nice, simple outing of unbridled consumerism. Nope. Why? It’s that nondescript family you see in the otherwise barren aisles of my snapshot. They look pleasant enough, but one of those kids will forever be known as The Centerville Walmart Master o’ Screaming Tantrums.

I know, I know. We’ve all heard the loud tantrums of kids in public. We’ve all felt for the parent whose offspring is having an uncontrollable cow, despite their every attempt to get the child to turn it down a notch. And sometimes we’ve even wanted to spank the parent for not spanking the kid after the first or second or twenty-sixth howl.

But I must declare I have never in my 55 years encountered one of these fits with decibel levels of these olympic heights. Nor have I heard such a regular, near-constant, turmoil. The kid didn’t skip a beat. The kid was a pro. The fact that there were few other shoppers seemed to make his yelping echo vigorously through the building. The sound kept making my hearing aid screech. The kid’s shrieks were literally blood-curdling. I felt like I needed a transfusion by the time we left the store. Even Bow Tie o’ the Day couldn’t get out of there fast enough. So much for a quiet Sabbath.

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A Lazy Sunday

In fact, it’s such a lazy Sunday I’m only seeing in black-and-white. Or I’m just watching PERRY MASON, who happens to be showing off our Bow Tie o’ the Day. Perry is normally a tie guy, but he’s at a fancy art gallery party in this episode. Raymond Burr can wear a tux and bow tie to my house any time he’s able. Of course, he’s dead, so I don’t have to worry about what to feed him if he drops in.

I’ve been a huge PERRY MASON fan from about the minute I was born. The black-and-white presentation is part of its charm to me. And the characters! I’d go out with Hamilton Burger just to call him Ham Burger. Paul Drake is the suave-est wearer o’ sport coats I’ve seen on the small screen. And Perry and Della have wocka wocka chemistry going on. I could rave on about the show forever.

I’ve told Suzanne that if I’m ever in a coma she’s supposed to make sure the television is on 24/7 in my hospital room, just in case I can hear it. And the television is to play my fave tv shows constantly until I wake up from my coma or I die. PERRY MASON is first on the list of my approved coma-watching-worthy shows.

I’d round out my coma-TV list with COLUMBO, HILL STREET BLUES, THE CLOSER, MAJOR CRIMES, THE WIRE, HOMICIDE, IN PLAIN SIGHT, MOTIVE, and all the LAW & ORDER’s. And I’m sure I’ll waste plenty more time coming up with more shows for the coma-TV list.

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In 4th Grade, We Were Dorky

1974. I doubt any Bow Tie o’ the Day could redeem me from my own personal 4th Grade dorkiness. I mean, check out my developing unibrow. I’ve also got my first crop of zits beginning to pop out on my chin. Bad hair, bad teeth. Yup, ’tis I. I think Mom had made my shirt, so that wasn’t dorky.

The class photo shows that even my eyes are dorky at this age. Are my eyes mostly closed? Mostly open? Let’s split the difference and call my eyes “clospen” in the class pic. Have fun trying to name each of these souls in Mrs. Knight’s class. List ’em in the comments. Correct each other’s wrong guesses. This identification can be tricky because, although this is a Class of ’82, 4th Grade photo, we housed a number of Class of ’83, 3rd Graders in our class all year. Good luck recognizing our dorky selves.

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Grace Anne Is A Cougar. I Am Not.

I’m sporting UTE Bow Tie o’ the Day for the second time this week. BYU Tie o’ the Day is all for Gracie. It’s not her fault she’s a Cougar. Bishop Travis and Bishopette Collette are responsible for her Cougar-osity, as it should be. GO, UTES!

I am a Delta Rabbit. I’m also a Weber State Wildcat. I am even a University of Maryland (BC) Labrador. But I actually consider myself to be, first and foremost, a UTE. Back in the olden days, I studied and taught at the University of Utah for a few years while I was in Graduate School.

I never attended BYU, although when I was in high school, I did take a week-long BYU-sponsored writing workshop somewhere in some mountains near Provo, and it was taught by two BYU professors. Even though I was named Best Poet at the workshop, I did not turn into a Cougar. I generally root for the Cougars if they’re not playing against the U. It doesn’t kill me to switch sides. A rivalry does not mean you have to “hate” the other team, but it helps to do so at times. Fantastic pranks have been born of “rivalry hate.”

Certainly, if you’re betting actual money on any rivalry game, bet with your head. Bet on the best team, even if you’ll be betting against the team you love. You don’t have to tell everybody you bet against your heart’s team, and you can still wear your true team’s fan garb as you cheer your lungs out for them– losers though they might be, some years. With your secret winnings– from betting against your loser team– treat your pals from both sides of the rivalry to post-game ice cream and pizza. Nobody will care how you got the money.

GO, UTES!

FYI If you’re hanging onto your naive notion that Cougar fans don’t commit the sin of betting (money or otherwise), please take the opportunity right now to return to reality. It’ll be so nice to see you again when you get back.

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National Bow Tie Day Eve Strikes Again

Bow Tie o’ the Day and I have been gussying up the house for tomorrow’s bigly holiday: National Bow Tie Day. And we’re simultaneously getting in some much needed exercise. It’s a good thing VOGUE magazine showed up this month to clue me into wearing a fashionable puffy coat and frilly skirt, as well as to illustrate how to vacuum the house and bounce around on the mini- trampoline at the very same time.

It’s serendipitous that we even receive VOGUE and all of its relevant information in our non-vogue lives. It’s one of two magazines we’ve regularly received for years without ever subscribing to them. They are aren’t gift subs from anybody, and I can’t get the subscriptions canceled either. We just seem to have found ourselves on some elite list somewhere with the snooty people who get free things just cuz somebody put them on the snooty list for swag. I’m thinking TIE O’ THE DAY is simply that hip and that famous. It’s my ticket to the bigly time.

I wish VOGUE magazine had some effective trick to help me fall asleep later tonight, on this most exciting night of the year. As it is, I’ll do what I always do on National Bow Tie Day Eve, which is to crawl under my sock monkey blankets and count bow ties– like counting sheep– until my eyes can no longer stay open. It won’t put me to sleep, but it will give me a head-start on tomorrow’s National Bow Tie Day festivities.

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It Once Was Lost, But Now Is Found

I told you about Suzanne crocheting me two neckties, and one was a scary, neon tangle which I presented to you as a Tie o’ the Day yesterday. I didn’t even know where this second crocheted tie was hanging out, and then last night… VOILA! I found it in the urban ghetto area of The Tie Room, while I was looking for Skitter’s French fry hat. Is it a coincidence I found both ugly ties in the same day? Not to me. I have no doubt this Tie o’ the Day got jealous of the other crochet Tie o’ the Day’s new-found fame. Neckties are like that.

And now I’ll make sure none of us ever sees either crocheted tie again. They are officially retired from the active neckwear collection. They’ll spend the remainder of their existence in perpetual emeritus status.

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A Noble Attempt Was A Funky Failure

Tie o’ the Day is not only blinding, it’s found nowhere on the planet but in The Tie Room. This green and lavender tie is an original, one-of-a-kind crochet design by Suzanne. She did not come up with the idea to crochet me some ties: I begged her to do it for me, and she crocheted me two. I told her, however, to be done with the assignment, after she had crocheted the second– equally maladjusted– tie. The final products left everything to be desired, which was not Suzanne’s fault. Ties just should not be crocheted.

Suzanne told me right at the beginning of the endeavor that it wouldn’t really work, and I knew it wouldn’t. But Suzanne is so cute when her craft-for-Helen face comes over her. I make sure to convince her to craft for my purposes whenever I can think of a project I happen to want made. She’s a bigly sport about my whims. And I will love the two ugly, Suzanne-crocheted ties forever. But I don’t think even I could love a third one.

Speaking of my whims, Wednesday, August 28th, is National Bow Tie Day. I didn’t start it, but you can darn well bet I celebrate it. I wonder what Skitter is planning to wear for the occasion. Gather your bow ties, people.

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But They Still Work: PART TWO

Converse-style shoes Bow Tie o’ the Day is here with me as I make my confession. These were Mom’s reading glasses about a decade ago, and they and the CHRONICLE made me into a thief. I literally stole them from Mom. I didn’t steal them because I needed them. I stole them because she needed to NOT own them anymore.

Mom and I were drinkin’ on my Delta porch, and you know how that gets raucous. A little caffeine in our systems, and we are out of control with the laughter. Suddenly, Mom squealed, “It’s CHRONICLE day!” That was my cue to head to Jubilee to retrieve a copy of that weekly treasure. When I got back to the porch, I handed the paper to Mom. She immediately reached into her duster pocket, where– amid the tissues, rollers, and Tums– she found her reading glasses. To be more precise, she found these wounded, glasses-like spectacles. One lens missing, one arm missing. The remaining lens was as smudged as could be. I was upset at the sight of them, and I demanded Mom ride uptown with me to pick out some new readers for her. She very calmly told me to settle down because “These work just fine.” She opened up the CHRONICLE and started to devour her weekly news feast.

Off, I drove in my red jalopy of a truck. When I returned to the porch, I had two pairs of reading glasses for her. She said, “Oh, thank you. I’m almost done.” And on and on she read without taking the time to switch to the new readers. Finally, she folded up the CHRONICLE, after her first of that week’s many perusals through the issue. She was glad to have the new glasses, but she was unwilling to give up this battered pair. I was unwilling to let her keep them, knowing that if she had them anywhere around her, she would certainly use them if they were handy. Mom deserved better.

So I was bad. Later that day, I stealthily stole these broken glasses from my mother’s duster pocket. It was for her own good though. I thought the glasses had the potential to be downright dangerous to Mom. Of course, I still have the pair, as you can see. Holding onto them helps me feel better about having stolen them from her, because if she really, really, really needed/wanted this exact pair, I could and would certainly give them back to her. She never mentioned this pair of readers ever again. And I did give her two new pairs. But I feel guilty about being a thug. I’m still, technically, a thief. And I still blame the CHRONICLE.

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But They Still Work: PART ONE

I have become like Mom in so many ways, the latest of which is what I shall call The Wearin’ o’ the Broken Glasses. I love this broken pair of glasses. The frames might be missing an arm, but the lenses aren’t completely scratched up. I can still see through them, mostly. Purple and gray Tie o’ the Day laughs at me every time I do something like Mom or Dad– something which I previously laughed at and said out loud to myself, “That’s ridiculous! I will never do that.” Famous last words.

I recall wounded and repaired reading glasses strewn all through my childhood house. From these glasses and the various home repairs that extended their usefulness, I learned a rudimentary lesson or two about engineering and mechanics.

The most common source of reading eyeglass disability seems to be the loss of the sliver-width screw for the hinge connecting the frame and the arms. My parents’ repairs for this problem were practical. Safety pins, paper clips, nails, toothpicks, and bobby pins– these were all used to fill in for the lost invisible screws. I have used some of those items to accomplish the same task myself, but I’ve also used twist ties, duct tape, thread, and Super Glue.

It takes a lot of vital creativity to be too lazy to go to the grocery store to buy a new pair of reading glasses for 12 bucks.

TO BE CONTINUED IN NEXT POST

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Seems Crazy, I Know

Camo Bow Tie o’ the Day is one of my faves. Its size is referred to by Beau Ties Ltd. of Vermont as “butterfly jumbo.” Here, I am waiting in line at DICK’S Pharmacy. Of course, as a fashion maven, I know my cactus-print shirt needs to be ironed, especially down the front. Suzanne is as picky about ironing as Mom and Peggy always were. That’s one of the Top 10 reasons they’ve always liked her. Those three gals were born Wrinkle Whisperers. All Suzanne will see when she looks at this photo is the bigly wrinkle by the buttons. I didn’t iron my shirt, but on purpose. Why?

Okay, so I’m in a minor snit at Suzanne today. Knowing how she feels about pressed shirts and ironing, I know this wrinkle biz will get under her skin mightily. It will bug her. This is how I’m being passive-aggressive in a way that is tiny, but irritating enough to get her attention. She’ll know exactly what I’m up to when she sees this photo’s shirt wrinkles, then she’ll think about what she could have done which might possibly be upsetting me. She’s smart, so she’ll figure it out and fix the wrong. I will then notice she fixed the problem, and I’ll say, “Hey, will you please iron a couple of shirts for me?” That will signal to her that she’s forgiven, and all’s right with us. The whole routine saves us a squabble over some crumb of an issue that amounts to nothing, without either of us ever having to bring up the topic.

Weird? Yes. It’s a kind of shorthand that let’s us both save face. If you’ve been attached to someone for a long period of time, you know darn well you do similar dances with each other about certain things. The dance’s strange footwork is part of what helps you stay with your person long-term. You have to choreograph your own “happy family” groove. Sometimes you both have to just shut up and dance a jig no one else in the galaxy could possibly understand.