Category: Stories

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Right Place, Right Time?

All through our thinking lives– especially during the tough moments– we sleuth around to find meaning in what we do, and in how we’ve decided to live. Pink Panther Tie o’ the Day (it’s just a squirt gun he’s packing) sometimes assists me in my sleuthing to figure out how it all fits together. I’m a puzzle piece, and so are you.

When I parked my car at the TMS clinic this morning, there was one parking place left– just for me. As I swung open my car door, I realized the cow Sloggers shoes I was wearing matched the car right next to mine. It’s not a paint color you commonly see on vehicles. In fact, I believe this is the only time I’ve seen this sea foam color on a car. [Trust me: the color is not light blue, it is sea foam.]

Anyhoo… You could call it a mere coincidence, and that’s probably all it was. It was just a car and a pair of garden shoes, sharing pigment. But what if this minuscule meeting of the colors was something more than coincidence?

That would actually help me out. You see, I’ve been feeling like my TMS treatments haven’t been accomplishing their purpose of jump starting the mood section of my brain, so I can level out my depression. I haven’t felt the change I expected to notice by this point in the series of treatments. I’ve been doubting. But what if the simple meeting of these off-beat colors is the universe trying to tell me I’m doing the right thing? Maybe it’s a sign I’m right where I’m supposed to be, doing exactly the right thing for my stoopid bipolarity. That might be stretching the idea of “signs,” but maybe it’s not. Maybe we should look less for bigly signs and answers, and look more at the small things we come across in our everyday existence. How is believing in the “messages” of small things a sacrilege?

In the final analysis, it doesn’t really matter if the universe is speaking to me, or if I’m speaking to myself– about the TMS treatments or the meaning of my life or whatever. If thinking I’ve experienced a profound encounter– whether I have or haven’t– gets me through a day, that’s a good thing. If it’s just made-up meaning but it makes me a better person, what’s wrong with that? What’s the problem if we all do that?

And do you know what? After today’s treatment ended its pounding– after I’d completely forgotten about the car/shoe thing– I felt the first twinge of peace and hope. I hadn’t even left my treatment chair yet. It was only a tiny blip of peace and hope, but it was there. I’m not making it up just to make this a better story. It happened.

Once I left the clinic building, I saw that the sea foam-colored car was gone. But I remembered it had been there. Its earlier presence meant something, if only to me. I carried my little ray of peace and hope home with me, and I’m thinking I’m one step closer to fitting myself–the puzzle piece I am– into the cosmic puzzle. How is your puzzle piece doing?

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Sealed With A Lipstick Kiss (S.W.A.L.K.)

As opposed to regular ol’ S.W.A.K.

Here’s the same bigly, jumbo-ly Bow Tie o’ the Day as this morning’s post photo offered up. In this snapshot, my hairs and I were getting ready for today’s TMS treatment. In fact, it was my TMS technician, Tenzin, who finally mentioned the lip print I had on my cheek. Doh!

When Suzanne told me goodbye as she headed out to work this morning, she told me to NOT forget to wash the goodbye lipstick off my face before I went out into the world of neuropsychiatric treatments. And what was the first thing I promptly forgot to do right before I, myself, left the house for my appointment? Yup. Off I went, feeling just slightly more loved on my left cheek than on my right cheek– but unable to come up with the reason for the strange imbalance I felt.

Vonnegut Grace Vibe was gas-less, so I gassed her up before hitting the freeway. The woman I chit-chatted with at the 7-11 gas pumps didn’t point out my cheek’s lip print . Jack, the dude who seems to work at the Centerville 7-11 24/7, didn’t clue me in about it either– even as I stood at his register gabbing with him and buying a bottle of Diet Coke. The two office assistants I spoke with in the reception area at my TMS clinic spoke nary a word about it either. Finally, Tenzin commented on it.

Looking back, none of these folks seemed fazed by what was on my face. Clearly, you don’t have to know me well to figure I must have meant to do whatever I did, fashion-wise. To know me even a little is to expect to view an odd style. I decided to wear the lip print for the rest of the day, and the people who assisted me as I got a new phone at the Apple Store didn’t bring it up once.

So far, nothing unpleasant has happened to me or my cheek. In fact, the whole lipstick faux pas is generating ideas about what else I can get away with putting on my face– causing people to notice, but not tell me about. I see it as a new challenge. And I think Suzanne needs to invest in a bunch of much brighter lipstick than she already has. Like she says, “If you’re going to wear lipstick, make sure people see it.” Amen to that.

I’m positive anyone who saw me noticed my smooch print, but I think they were jealous. I was lucky enough to have a kiss on my cheek, while their cheeks were kiss-less. I think the red remnants of the kiss I received actually made some people feel unloved. Sorry. But not.

Hey, humans, kiss your people goodbye each day as they go out to conquer the world. They are going out there for YOU, you know.

BTW   Yes, I do have another pair of paw print Sloggers just like this at home.

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I Am Innocent

Tie o’ Last Friday Evening is the word itself: NECKTIE. I was sitting on the loveseat with all four remotes, watching LIVE PD on A & E– which is what Friday and Saturday evenings look like around here. Now, I’m the kind of girl who refuses to stay on the channel I’m watching when it goes to commercials. I channel surf my fave channels during my show’s commercial breaks. I flipped to the ID channel, and look what I found. After I first read the title of the program, I was afraid someone was murdering neckties. But then I figured out human beings were the victims of a person who used neckties as deadly weapons.

For the record, I have been to Atlanta a total of two times in my life. I never left the airport, so I could not possibly be the Atlanta Necktie Killer– although I guess I share “a curious penchant for neckties” with the killer.

No true lover of ties o’ any ilk would cause harm to anyone.

FYI   11 TMS treatments down, 25 to go.

 

 

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The First Of Two Things

Check it out: I believe my shirt collar is a bigly bit too large, since my face fits in it. Tie o’ the Day is a lovely purple, silver, and gray kids’ tie. The sun was bright as could be outside this morning when I snapped the washed-out photo. I got to my appointment early and just hung around listening to tunes in the car– and taking washed-out TIE O’ THE DAY pictures. You can at least see the short length of Tie. Its colors pop out at ya in the photo of me and the TMS equipment. You know– if I flipped the electromagnetic gadget on its side, it would look like Mickey Mouse ears. I’ll try to capture a pic of that.

Behold! Sloggers o’ the Day are not my faves. I doubt My Saddle Purse is fond of them either. The shoes’ print design is not even close to my style. The design and colors remind me of Momo (my grandma Wright), whose style was always elegant and impeccable. But her style is not mine. I think I decided on these Sloggers simply because they make me think of her. That’s reason enough to wear them.

First today, I have a gripe. Our dryer died over the weekend. It was at least twenty years old when we inherited it, and it’s been one of the family for the past twenty years. Its efficient longevity is amazing, so it deserves to rest now in Dryer Heaven. I do not begrudge the dryer for giving up the ghost.

Suzanne did her consumer research and decided on the best new dryer for us. It is now bought and paid for, as they say. Unfortunately, it can’t be delivered and installed until next Friday. By that time, we will have lived without a dryer for TWO WHOLE WEEKS! That ain’t right. We are growing the dirty clothes piles to prove it. I can dry clothing on the deck if we get desperate, but that would result in a costly fine from the Homeowners Association. Perhaps we could use this unfortunate event as an excuse to buy more clothing, cuz you can already tell I don’t have enough to wear.

And second, …… I will save the second topic for my next post. Meanwhile, I assure you that my TMS treatments are safe. Worry not, friends! I will ‘splain to you why this is a good thing for me to try. 7down, 29 to go.


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Visiting Mom In Deltassippi A Couple Of Weeks Ago

M & M’s Bow Tie o’ the Day knows as well as anyone that a trip to see Mom at Millard Care and Rehab is a trip for Suzanne to see the other Mom also, as in MOM’S CRAFTS. Yup, Deltatucky is a two-mom town for Suzanne. I hang with Mom. Suzanne hangs with Mom AND the Mother of All Fabric Stores.

M & M’s Bow Tie also reminded me to deliver a very important gift for Mom. You see, every Easter season, when all the malted milk ball eggs show up in the stores, and the Peeps take their place alongside them in the Easter candy aisle, I buy Mom a bag of spiced jelly bean eggs. This year, when I thought about getting them for her, I figured I should skip it– since her blood sugar has been fiendishly high. I hoped she wouldn’t think about them this year. When I went to visit Mom a month ago, all she could talk about was the bag of spiced jelly beans I didn’t show up with. I wasn’t going to let that happen again, so on my last visit– a couple of weeks ago– I made triple-sure I delivered a bag o’ spiced jelly beans to her bedside.

Should I have given her such a sugary treat? Not really. But Mom is 88. She knows all about her high blood sugar. If she wants to risk eating a bag of Brach’s Spiced Jelly Beans so badly, she’s going to get ’em from me. I might be 55, but I am still Mom’s baby– and I do not say NO to my mother. Never have. Never will. My job is to spoil Mom. And I’m telling you right now: If Mom wants a six-pack of Budweiser to drink, a pipe to smoke, and a tin of Copenhagen to chew ‘n’ spit, I will get them for her. I will even barricade her door at MCR while she partakes of her vices, so she won’t get caught by her “guards” while she’s being bad.

BTW   When I was at MCR last time, I left Skitter with Mom in her room while I talked with a couple of family members in the hall near the facility’s entrance. Well, out of nowhere, here comes my pal, Katie, who takes such good care of Mom at MCR. Katie took one look at me and immediately said, “Oh, didn’t Skitter come down with you today?” I told her Skitter was in with Mom. And, without one more word to me, off Katie went to check it out I guess. Apparently, Katie was done with me. So I went back to the conversation I had been having with my people. Later, I looked for Katie throughout the day, but I couldn’t find her again before Suzanne and Skitter and I had to head back to the bigly city. I have always joked that it’s Skitter who MCR really likes to see show up, not me at all. Now– thanks to Katie– I know it’s not a joke. It’s true. Skitter is my ticket in. As long as I have her, I’ll be welcome at MCR. I hope.

[Note to Katie: I’m exaggerating that tiny story bigly, for the purpose of increasing chuckles. But I really did try to find you, and couldn’t.]

FYI   Yes, that’s Suzanne in one of the photos, showing Mom my purse. My purse gets around. I wonder if it “sleeps around,” as well.

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Dog Paws Smell Like Corn Chips

A canine miracle happened on this date, nineteen years ago. My pup, Araby, was born. Tie o’ the Day is sooo Araby. Tennis balls filled her mind. Sleep was also important to her. She liked to sleep almost as much as Suzanne does. In these photos, Araby strikes three of her greatest sleep-pose hits.

Araby was not “planned.” When I moved back to Utah from Maryland, I left my ex there. I brought three suitcases with me on the plane. That’s it. I brought what I could carry. I didn’t want anything else. My ex’s sister picked me up from the SLC airport and took me to her house to visit her kids before I hitched a ride to Delta. The minute I walked into my ex’s sister’s house, the kids pelted me with hugs. And the most extraordinary yellow lab puppy ran to me too. It didn’t belong to the kids. Apparently, my ex had called her sister and  arranged for a puppy to be waiting there for me. I knew exactly why my ex had done it. She knew I was in a dangerous place on my bipolar pendulum. I had walked away from everything I had in Maryland, and I’d had a lot. My ex knew that if I had a puppy who needed me, I would most likely be safe from suicide. It was the most loving thing my ex had ever done for me, and I will bless her forever for that caring act.

I adore every dog who has ever been a pal to me, but Araby was The One. Araby was the Dog o’ My Life. She seemed to understand my bipolar head from the second we met. From the beginning, her forehead even had the same worry furrows I was born with. I don’t think she was bipolar, but she knew things about my moods even I didn’t know. She could see things coming. She had my number, as they say. She pushed my buttons in positive ways. If I was lost in my precarious depths, Araby rescued me: She had a habit of coming to where I sat and putting her paw on my knee, to bring my crazy head back to a better realm. Araby was also a willing audience for my writing. I would read a draft of a poem out loud, and Araby sat up and seemed to listen seriously, as if it was her job to critique my work. She was a terrific editor.

Araby had been with me about seven years by the time I decided beer was no longer my friend. She was wary of me for the first few days after I quit drinking. She kept her distance. I guess I didn’t smell or act like the me she knew. When that happened, I was afraid I’d lost her love. For the briefest of moments, I thought I would have to start drinking again– to win back her affection. But she warmed up to me all over again, and she decided she loved me sober. Smart dog.

FYI   I came up with Araby’s name immediately when I laid eyes on her. Her face resembled that of an Arabian horse. (Dad just called her Arby.)

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In Praise Of Taxes

I’m wearing my IRS Tie o’ Tax Day, displaying a cartoon icon of the poor guy who is left with only a barrel to wear after he paid his taxes. At some point this afternoon, I’ll switch to my paper money Tie o’ Tax Day. BONUS! Here’s a gander at my chicken Sloggers, as I wore them in my TMS treatment chair this morning (5 treatments down, 31 to go). Who knew garden shoes could be so clever?!

Anyhoo… Yes, it’s that time again. It’s my annual, boring Tax Day post, in which I declare that I get more for my tax dollars than for any other dollars I spend. Don’t get me wrong. I gripe about paying taxes too. But when I remind myself to look at the larger picture I get a grip on my griping. My perspective and attitude always change when I look beyond li’l ol’ me and my personal bank balance. Ultimately, I guess you could say I’m happy to pay my taxes. I even feel sort of blessed to do so. (Don’t faint about that last sentence.)

Blame my dad. He’s the one who prodded me to seriously look around at what my taxes pay for. He’s the one who made it clear to me that there is no way we could have the things we need/want without substantial taxes. He’s the one who showed me we get more than our money’s worth when we pay our taxes. Dad really, really, really, really hated paying taxes, but it didn’t stop him from understanding how much we benefit from what we pay.

We do pay a ton of taxes, but we get a ton of goods and services. Without a complicated combination of city, county, state, and federal taxes, we wouldn’t be able to live our free and secure lives. Think of just some of the “gifts” we get, just for doing nothing more than being born in this country: schools( complete with bus drivers and crossing guards); libraries; parks; sports facilities and programs; roads; bridges; infrastructure (water, sewer, landfills, and more); the military; police officers; EMT’s; firefighters; Medicare/Medicaid; etc. We get services we don’t even know we get– like super secret national security programs that secure us and the communities we have created. I could list more– on and on and on, I could yammer. There is no way I could pay for everything I use. My check helps keep me in neckwear. And it helps keep my family fed and clothed and entertained, but it’s sooooo not bigly enough for me to build an elementary school.

Are some of our tax dollars wasted? Yes. Do some people not pay their fair share of taxes? HELL, YES! We need to work on that stuff. Will I continue to gripe about paying my taxes? Yes, I will. Will I get over it? Yes.

And now I’m off to drive on a road I couldn’t possibly have afforded to build on my own.

End of patriotic preaching.

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Hairs Thursday #7

We didn’t forget today is Hairs Thursday. We’ve simply had a P!NK hangover from last night’s concert (no alcohol involved). We slept in this morning and have been singing badly and dancing even more badly all day. I shall post about our P!NK adventures tomorrow. And yes! My saddle purse made it through Vivint Arena security and was able to see the show with us.

Anyhoo… This afternoon, billiard ball Bow Tie o’ the Day and I were thinking of an idea for my hairs, and Suzanne said, “I know what your hairs should do! Here’s what you do when you don’t have curlers.” She then cut the ends off a plastic Diet Coke bottle, grabbed some bobby pins, and gave me a bigly fat curl atop my noggin.’ It felt weightless. It felt like I had a curler of air in my hairs. But my hairs are too thin for even a curler o’ air to stay in its place very long. It was fun while it lasted.

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My Last Hairscut

This week, as I’ve been going through past photos I’ve used in TIE O’ THE DAY, I found this gem. I adore this bigly jumbo butterfly Bow Tie o’ the Day. I selfied this picture right after my last haircut, last May. Oh, how I long for a cut like this again. Just seeing it makes me all weepy. In case I haven’t made it clear a bazillion times, I cannot wait to get my hairs back to the way I want them again. The end of May can’t come quickly enough for me. Seriously, wasn’t this a nice style? Doesn’t it look more like my kind o’ hairdo? And you must admit the ‘do is flattering to my old face. The secret to any hairdo which appeals to me is that it be more like a hairs-not-do than a hairdo. I’m a wash-and-go girl. Always have been, always will be.

When I was in high school, some chick decided she had been anointed to bully me about my daily lack of effort to make my hair into an official ‘do, as well as my refusal to wear make-up. She did it every dang day. Well, I was up to my top nerve about her harping, and so I cogitated about what I I could say to shut this girl up. I did some figuring one evening at my desk in my bedroom, and I was ready for the barrage of torment from her which I knew would be coming at me the next day. I let her do her mean routine.

Finally, I said, ” We are 15, and our life expectancy is 70 more years. If it takes you an hour per day to do your hair and make-up, in your lifetime you will spend 25,550 hours doing your hair and make-up. That equals 1061.6 days, which equals 2.9 years– spent solely on hair and a face. I, on the other hand, will be spending that same amount of time doing cartwheels; vacationing on beaches; going to plays and concerts; reading; writing; wearing bow ties; playing quarterback for the Seattle Seahawks; being a rodeo clown; and counting my millions. I choose to use that same amount of time doing whatever the heck I want to– while wearing my own naked face and a simple, wash-and-go haircut.”

She never bothered me about it again, nor did her chorus of friends who had egged her on in bugging me. They became my pals, and still are. The lesson of this post is this: If you just be you, people will respect you. They will know exactly who you are and the principles you stand for. And if you ever find yourself in need of it, they will stand up for you.

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I’m Questioning The Purse

I sported a sugar skulls Bow Tie o’ Last Night when we went to CORBIN’S GRILLE to feast. Sugar skull designs should be worn year-round, not just around the Halloween season. They are dandy. When I selfied this picture, Suzanne and I were stuck in traffic on I-15– where we traveled to Layton at zero mph much of the drive. Somehow we still got to dinner on time.

What you can’t see in this photo is my new horse saddle purse– the only purse I’ve ever owned. It’s on the floor. Next time I snap a pic of me in the car, I will make sure my purse is on the back seat, so you can gaze upon it in the photo.

I’m beginning to re-think this whole purse thing though. The saddle purse has made me say words to Suzanne I never thought I would hear coming out of my own mouth, and I don’t know if I feel good about saying such things. For example, if I have to run to the little cowgirls’ room to potty when we’re at a restaurant, I automatically say, “Please watch my purse.” And then when I return to the table, I find the following words leaving my mouth: “Thanks for watching my purse.” It makes me feel so weird to say anything about “my purse.” And it kills me that I don’t even have to think of saying it. It just naturally falls out of my mouth, as if I’ve been using bodyguards for my purses for decades. What has happened to me? What am I turning into? I made it through the world for 55 years, never owning– or wanting to own– a purse. And now, not only did I have to have this one, I constantly worry about its location and safety– like it’s a kid or a pet. How did I turn into a purse lady?

Last night when Suzanne and I left CORBIN’S, we walked out into a waterfall of rain we didn’t know was gonna show up. Gee, I didn’t even have my cape. I always wear a cape when we’re out on the town, but I had left it in the car because I wasn’t cold when we went in. As we leapt through the parking lot to the car through the raindrops, I suddenly became horrified and yelled, “It’s raining on my purse!!!!” I also said a swear word. (Not the really bad one. I don’t say that one.)

Hey, Helen Jr., it’s a purse, for gosh sakes! It’s not alive! 👛

I am pathetic.