Category: Stories

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In Ancient Times

I cleared out more files yesterday and found these two gems. I figured I could combine them for a two-fer: Bow Tie o’ the Day and Tie o’ the Day. I must say I have no clue why I was attempting to climb into DHS through a classroom window. Nor do I have a clue who was there to take a photo of me doing it. But seriously, who breaks IN to high school? And look at the minuscule amount of weight I was lifting in P.E. How in the world could lifting that not-heavy amount of weight make my armpit sweaty? It’s a mystery.

The neckwear thing was merely a sometimes passion during my years at DHS, but that can be explained by the fact that teenagers are, by definition, not so bright. Teenagers’ brains haven’t caught up with their growing bodies. I was too stoopid to know I was in love with neckwear. I remember I usually wore clip-on bow ties on my baseball shirts to play church softball, but other than that, the wearin’ o’ the neckwear at events was sporadic for me. Still, it’s obvious the whim-seed was there and maturing right along with the rest of me.

Most people mature. They grow up. They learn to think beyond the next two hours. Some people do not. I remember there was a time I was young enough to know all the answers. I’m glad I grew out of being confident I was right all the time, before I did irreparable damage to my life. People who know everything haven’t matured, and often their knowing everything causes them to screw up their lives– and sometimes others’ lives. (Add examples from your own life here.) Successful, content human beings can admit to being wrong and making mistakes. They can admit they will always have much to learn from others and from continuing to participate in new experiences.

As I grow older, I can admit I know less and less about everything. And it’s a tremendous blessing. The pressure is off. I can roll with the world as it is, and I can also try to make it a more loving place in ways I believe in– knowing I don’t have to be right. “Right” lives next door to “perfect,” and I am not perfect.

Being intelligent is one thing. But deluding yourself that you, and only you, know all the right answers for every problem and every human being on the planet is a bigly, arrogant burden for a person to bear. Knowing the right questions to ask oneself and others– and to be content to wrestle with those unanswerable questions– is one of the secrets of living in joy.

Of course, I don’t know all the answers, so I could be wrong about everything I just wrote.

End of Sabbath sermon.

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I Accomplished A Feat Without Even Trying

For the last few years, I have subscribed to a bow-tie-of-the-month club. I actually subscribe to two monthly bow tie clubs, from one single company, Bow SelecTie. One of the monthly subscriptions is for a category called “Creative Bow Ties,” which sends clever bow ties like my “Skittles” and “M & M” bow ties you’ve probably seen me wear.

The other category I subscribe to is “Wood Bow Ties.” Bow SelecTie grabs a monthly payment out of my bank account, and then two tiny boxes, each containing one bow tie, get delivered to my mailbox each month. The company chooses what they send, so I am always surprised with what I get. It’s like I get Christmas presents twice per month. In all the years I’ve subscribed, I’ve never received duplicates of what they’ve already sent. Except… maybe.

The third of these three Bow Ties o’ the Day I’m wearing in my selfie showed up in my mailbox yesterday and caused me to say, HALT. I love all three, but I have enough of this breed. Technically, they are not the same bow tie. The different woods are assembled in different combinations into the same design. They all shine with bow tie-ness.

But I think the fact that these have been delivered to me three months in a row is a hint I should cancel my wood bow ties subscription. The third one showing up seemed like a sign, and you know how I like to find signs everywhere.

This really was a sign though. I know it for a fact because I contacted the company, at which time I was informed they are running out of different wood bow ties to send me. If I stay enrolled in the wood bow tie club, all Bow SelecTie will be able to send me are the same wood bow ties I already have, but with minor wood and color differences and arrangements. See, it truly was a sign for me to cancel my subscription. And so I did.

But– and for this accomplishment I believe I deserve to tote my 1980 Miss Liberty First Attendant trophy around the house again for a few days– I am the only subscriber in the history of Bow SelecTie’s wood-bow-tie-of-the-month-club who has exhausted the company’s wood bow tie styles supply. I AM THE CHAMPION! Feel free to clap now.

BTW Have no fear! I have discovered there are a couple of other companies out there in Consumerland which offer wood-bow-tie-o-the-month-club services, so I’ll survive.

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Oh, What A Relief It Is

I’ve been looking at the statistics from the TIE O’ THE DAY website, which I started over two years ago. I can see how many site subscribers I have, and I can see when and how many folks have visited which post. I can see comments and LIKE’s for each post. And when the posts fly over to Facebook, everybody can see those comments and LIKE’s. Anyhoo… I wanted to see which post photos caught readers’ eyes, and which were almost completely ignored.

Here is a Bow Tie o’ the Day from May 2017. It is a snapshot which was almost completely shunned by readers when I first posted it. So I’m forcing it on you again.

I understand why city folks might not get it, but I can’t believe there are “remote location” travelers who don’t understand. Unless you carry your own port-a-potty with you when you drive through the hinterlands, sometimes you gotta make a “relief” stop. Going with Dad to work bee yards, and accompanying him on hunts, taught me to never go anywhere remote without two items stocked in your vehicle: matches and toilet paper. I admonish y’all to carry the same two things.

Anyhoo… Here’s how I got the idea for this photo: In the summer of ’17, we were selling the Delta house– which we had years before named The Beach House. (If you’re going to have a second home, it should be in the mountains or at the beach.) I was making two and sometimes three trips to and from Delta almost every week, hauling our possessions to the Centerville abode.

One of the unofficial commandments I have given myself is I SHALT NOT DRIVE ON I-15! Unless I absolutely have to. People drive on I-15 as if they are ants and someone just sprayed RAID. I choose to not bring such near-death possibilities into my driving life, therefore, since 2000, I drive to/from Delta “the Tooele way.” I honestly have never paid attention to the road number I’m driving.

On the 103-mile drive between Tooele and Delta, you will find Stockton (1 toilet), Vernon (1 toilet), an open-part-of-the-year rest stop (1 pit toilet), and Lynndyl (no toilet). Somewhere along that 103-mile drive, I always have to “go”, and unfortunately, it is often not when I’m near one of the few potty rooms. You can see why a roll of toilet paper– oh, excuse me while I write in “lady-like”– “bath tissue” is a necessary supply.

Well, on one of these moving trips from Delta, Bow Tie o’ the Day sez, “I gotta pee.” To which, I said, “I told you to go before we left. Can’t you wait until we get to the rest stop?” And Bow Tie o’ the Day started to whine, “Pit toilets scare me. I can’t pee in a pit toilet. I’ll fall in! A monster will grab my butt!” I really just wanted Bow Tie to wait until I needed to pee too, so we’d only have to stop and find a bigly bush once. We ended up stopping twice for “relief” that trip. I did not take a selfie when it was my turn. You’re welcome.

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Better Than TV

School’s out, but Bow Tie o’ the Day and I took a drive out to Syracuse High School this morning. Suzanne was the bigly deal speaker at a professional training day, held at SHS. She got the gig at the last minute, and she’s been working non-stop on her presentation for the last week. I asked her if I could attend her presentation. I’ve never watched her spread her education wisdom to other education professionals, but it has always been on my Bucket List. She let me know my butt was welcome to sit in her audience.

Suzanne is not good at everything, although I can’t really think of anything she can’t do. Her presentation this morning, called “Find Your Passion,” was brilliant, and her speaking performance on the stage was captivating. She is masterful at what she does. I learned plenty. The rest of the audience gained new insights too.

Suzanne moved from being a superb teacher at Clearfield High School to working for the last decade as a district administrator. Part of her job is teaching other educators, but she misses teaching kids. Suzanne makes a huge impact where she is, but I feel kinda bad that high school students are deprived of her teaching. Just sayin’.

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Classical Cuts Follow Us

As I was uploading my hairs pix for this morning’s post, something kept nagging at me. Suddenly, I remembered: My 1st Grade sideburns. They resemble my new ones, although they were probably pretty even with each other in length. Everything old is new again, and I figure I’m just a sideburn gal. Sideburns will find me. (That thing in my hair is some unidentifiable goober that globbed onto the picture decades ago. Not a hairs accessory.) Note: Check out the unibrow I’m working on. That takes skill!

Mom made the dress I’m wearing in the pic, but I don’t remember any specifics about it. I can pretty much guarantee the dress has pockets though. Mom had to make dresses for me cuz I had an important reason I wouldn’t wear store-bought dresses: I liked pockets! Most girls’ and women’s store-bought dresses don’t have pockets, and I’m writing about a time when girls couldn’t wear pants to school. It was all dresses, my friends. I was in HELL! Mom deserves an award for sewing me dresses with pockets. Where the heck is a little girl supposed to put the Lemonheads she wants to eat after school in Primary? I had to have a place to carry my Chapstick, pencil, treat money, cereal prizes, gum, that trilobite I found, etc. A girl has important pocket belongings.

Don’t talk to me about how a purse would’ve come in handy. As a 1st Grader, a girl should not have to carry and be in charge of a purse. Don’t talk to me about a mini backpack. They weren’t invented yet.

You certainly didn’t want to play at recess while holding your treasures in your hands. If you were a Delta Elementary school girl back in the day, you had to leave your “pocket” possessions in your desk. This meant there was a bigly possibility that if you had a really groovy treasure, it would be stolen by the time you got back to your desk after lunch or recess. I needed pockets!!!!

All I wanted was to wear my Levi’s everywhere. I do it now and the sky hasn’t fallen. As a kid, I wore them every minute I wasn’t in school for church. What was the harm adults were afraid jeans/pants would cause to girls? Were the adults afraid if we wore pants our knees would be safe from bloody sidewalk rash if we fell while roller skating at recess? Were the adults afraid if we girls wore Levi’s no one would be able to see our underwear while we hung on the monkey bars? Yup, Levi’s could have prevented those things. Levi’s were evil, however. But only for girls somehow.

Somewhere around 4th Grade, girls were finally allowed to wear “nice pants” to school. As I recall, “nice pants” mostly translated into “polyester pants.” Levi’s were still on the Axis of Evil o’ Girl School Clothes, but I was excited to buy nice pants from stores, for school. It was one step closer to legalizing Levi’s for girls. However, it had not occurred to me that girls’ store-bought nice pants didn’t have pockets in them either. Poor me. Poor Mom. My need for pockets in my clothing led her to a decade of sewing me dresses, pant suits, pants, and even a pair of golf knickers with a matching vest– all with pockets, of course. Sewing is a skill Mom has never enjoyed, but she was not about to make me go through life pocketless, if a pocket is what I needed. Who here is spoiled? I am.

I appreciate Mom’s efforts to always help me indulge my various whims. I’ve always loved Mom more than I’ve ever loved my pockets. And I truly love pockets. But Mom wins.

BTW I wish I had owned wood filigree Bow Tie o’ the Day when this photo was snapped in 1st Grade. Bow Tie is a winner with the dress fabric, as well as the sideburns.

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But We’re Not Completely Done With My Hairs Journey

Kids’ Tie o’ the Day drove over to Miss Tiffany’s hairs chair with me last evening, and I’m quite pleased with what Miss Tiffany did. Bikini Bow Tie o’ the Day is hanging with me today as I show off my new cut.

I told Miss Tiffany she could cut my hairs any way she wanted, but she would have to keep in mind two things: 1. When we’re done with my hairs theme, I’m gonna want my drastic asymmetrical style back– complete with half-head shave. That’s where I want my hairs to end up. 2. I want her to give me a couple of different cuts over the next few weeks, BEFORE we get to my usual style. That way, I can try out some new variations on a more symmetrical theme. Who knows?! Maybe I’ll find something I like better than my standard ‘do.

Miss Tiffany followed my requests, and here I am with my temporary, new ‘do. This is me right after I woke up this morning. In these photos, I’m exaggerating my asymmetrical sideburns. My hair will look better in coming photos. I didn’t know asymmetrical sideburns are an actual hairstyle-approved thing, but Miss Tiffany says they are “hot.” I believe her.

I know you’re thinking my left sideburn looks like when I was Hugh Jackman from X-MEN, on a Hairs Thursday. I think that too, but I love them.

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“Cost” And “Worth” Are Two Different Things

Yesterday I went to an appointment to check in with one of my crazy head docs. I see Dr. Day sporadically, for meds maintenance and talk therapy. I see her probably a half-dozen times per year. My last appointment with her was a couple of months ago, before I began the TMS. In fact, she is the one who told me– months ago– about a number of brain therapies for bipolar drepression which I might want to check into, one of which was TMS. She hasn’t been involved in any aspect of the TMS itself.

Anyhoo… The last time I visited with Dr. Day, I was flat and affectless as could be. Of course, that’s the reason she brought up TMS in the first place. But yesterday, before I could sit my butt down on the couch in her office, she said, “You have some life in you today! You’re looking alive!” I said, “I only have two TMS sessions left.” And then she said, “Oh my gosh! I forgot you went forward with the TMS. Do you feel like it’s helping?” It must be working if she noticed a difference in me. That was exactly what I needed to hear.

The truth is I haven’t been sure TMS is working. I don’t know how I’m supposed to be feeling while I’m going through the treatments. I do know that whatever’s going on (or isn’t going on) is happening gradually. It’s like that pesky ten pounds that somehow makes its way to your gut: It creeps on. You don’t see every tiny blob of fat as it decides to make its home on you, but one day you go to button your shorts and you finally notice ten pounds somehow showed up under your very eyes.

My potential brain change, however, would be a welcome change. But mostly, I think I’m too close to my situation to really notice TMS effects. I’m with me 24/7. I’m looking so closely at every little thing I do, every thought I have, and every hint of emotion that I don’t know if I’ve improved or not. Is my depression really improving? Am I starting to feel authentic things deeply? Or is it just my wishful thinking that I see some progress?

But Dr. Day’s reaction to my simply walking into her office yesterday eased my worries of TMS failure immensely. Her reaction makes it pretty clear to me that I’m probably doing noticeably better than I was before the TMS.

When Suzanne and I first discussed the possibility of me trying TMS to combat my evil bipolar depression, one of the minuses of going ahead with treatment was the high cost. Insurance covers only a wee bit of it, and that’s after the Treatment Resistant Mood Disorder Clinic @ UNI did much begging with the insurance company on my behalf. I think I’ve been trying to see more bang for my buck, so to speak. If I’m payin’ bigly bucks, I expect to see bigly positive change. But I’ve decided it’s kinda selfish and demanding of me to think that way. The desired outcome would be one enormous emotional change, but I’m thinking the non-flashy, simpler, thousands of tiny changes might add up to a longer-lasting, more thorough mental change.

If you think about it, you’ll see that’s how most change happens. Need a cinderblock fence around your yard? That’ll happen one cinderblock at a time. Teaching your kid how to walk? That’ll be one step at a time. Teaching someone to drive a car? That’ll be one driving skill upon another. Need a doctor to hack out 2/3 of your stoopid pancreas? The hours-long surgery officially begins with one cut. And then the next thing happens, and then the next, next thing happens. And so on.

It’ll probably take some time for me to truly analyze how effective the TMS has been. Patience is better than fretting about it. Since Suzanne is the person I’m around most, she’s the one whose opinion on the treatment’s success or failure is most crucial. She’s not ready to offer up her vote yet.

When we talked about cost and time commitment for the required 36 TMS treatments, I asked Suzanne, “If, after the boatloads of money and eons of time spent, TMS ends up helping my loony head improve only 1 percent, will it be worth it to you that it cost us our emergency fund?”

Suzanne is famous for being silent while she completely thinks through every word of her answers to even the simplest questions before she speaks. (Sometimes it’s annoying.) But she wasn’t silent at all after I asked her that question. Her head cogs didn’t turn. They didn’t even creak. She just immediately said, “Yes. It’ll be worth it.”

See why I agreed to give it a try?

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Another Of My Weird Theories

Hmmm. I blame JFK. “Delta red” Bow Tie o’ the Day and I have been chatting, and I may have figured out why I’m bipolar. I’ve always tried to get to the bottom of this mystery, and I’ve come up with theory after theory– none of which I can prove. The other culprits I have theorized are responsible for my crazy head range from universal fate, to luck, to the birth of a stone baby that was supposed to be me. (Long story.)

But I think I have hit on a probable suspect. And I guess it’s not so much JFK as it is Lee Harvey Oswald who caused my brain chemicals to be wacky. I was still growing my brain in Mom’s womb when JFK was assassinated. That’s where I was when Kennedy was shot.

How did this make me bipolar? The whole event was a cultural shock. It rattled the country in a way that not many events do. My theory of what made me bipolar is that while I was stretching and kicking in Mom, she was so overcome emotionally by the tragedy that it jolted my embryonic brain chemistry into a massive upheaval that was part of me from the moment I emerged into the world. Thus, I was born with the switch that so quickly takes me from deeply manic to deeply depressed.

Of course I’m being facetious about this. Although it’s fun to speculate about it, I seriously doubt my theory is correct. But still…. It makes as much sense as anything else I can theorize. On the other hand, sometimes things just are what they are– for no real reason at all. Honestly, in the end, the cause of my bipolarity doesn’t matter. Finding strategies to deal with it is what matters. I will, however, keep sleuthing for answers as to my bipolarity’s origin– the sillier, the better.

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TMS Is The Happiest Place On Earth. Not. But Sorta.

Be ye not afraid. Askew wood Bow Tie o’ the Day is here to assure you that Hairs Thursday #14 will post this afternoon.

In these photos, you see me and Bow Tie and my TMS technician, Tenzin. Tenzin has made the treatments almost a pleasure to go through. She gets my humor and my fashion. And she is a hoot, herself. I will actually miss her.

One day at treatment, I noticed that if you turn my electromagnetic TMS coil on its side, it resembles Mickey Mouse ears– even more so when placed atop my TMS beanie. Tenzin humored me when I asked if she’d take the apparatus apart, so I could get a TIE O’ THE DAY selfie with the “ears.” She was ecstatic to do so. I handed her a prop bow tie I always carry with me in The Saddle Purse, in case I need it. She loved the whole set-up and was proud I thought enough of her to let her pose with her own borrowed Bow Tie o’ the Day.

Y’all know how I find significance and humor in coincidences. Of course, it’s happened again. I should have known the TMS equipment would have a component which resembles Mickey Mouse ears. My TMS doctor’s name? Dr. Mickey. How did I not notice this connection earlier? Coincidence? I think not.

34 TMS treatments down, 2 to go. Both are next week.

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In Utah-speak, It’s Pronounced “EvINGston”

In the extra weird state of my head over the weekend, I thought a drive might assist me in my effort to get some of the air out of my skull. I said to Suzanne, “Hey, let’s go to Evanston for Sunday brunch.” I could say that to her every weekend and she’d be game for it. In Evanston, we eat only at the Gateway Grille at the Purple Sage Golf Course. Suzanne’s brother, James, is owner and chef at the restaurant, which is in the course’s clubhouse.

James is a swell chap, and he always gives me permission to steal pastries on the way out the door. This time, in fact, James’ son, MacGregor (who works for his dad there), came out of the kitchen with a “doggie box” full of pastries for me to take back home. I didn’t have to steal ’em! And you know what? The pastries I was so freely given were almost as yummy as when I steal them. (Forbidden fruit, forbidden pastries– you know what I’m saying.)

Buckin’ bronco Tie o’ the Day was a fitting choice to wear for a day-trip to Wyoming. And of course, when you’re in Evanston (even on the Sabbath), one really must make a stop at a liquor store to buy a few lottery tickets.

It’s not a problem for me (drunk that I used to be) to saunter into a liquor store. It doesn’t tempt me. To me, liquor stores are just more sights to see. I would not want to miss the treasures that haunt any and every liquor store, anywhere. For example, my life would be less full if I had not seen this amazing bottle of SILVER SPUR JALAPENO BACON FLAVORED VODKA. I’m sure your life is also fuller now that you’ve merely seen the photo of it. I bet you’ll tell at least one person about its hideous flavor, and you’ll both have a chuckle. Everybody’ll be better off, just cuz I walked into a liquor store. This post will have done its job for the day.

The ABSENTE absinthe box decked out with Van Gogh’s likeness is a dandy gem too. Yup, it made my life fuller just to gaze upon it, just like seeing the vodka flavor. I liked the fancy box so much I’ll probably visit it next time I steal pastries from my brother-in law’s dining establishment.

BTW The Saddle Purse was with me all the way to and from Evanston. How could I not take a saddle of any ilk to Wyoming?