Category: Stories

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Right Out Of The Blocks

I rolled out of bed at 4:30 AM this bee-you-tee-full Sabbath morn to finish the prep for our impending flight to Tucson. Skitter rolled out of her bed already pouty cuz she saw suitcases getting filled last night– and not one of them was hers.

Right before we boarded the plane for AZ this morning, CacTie Bolo o’ the Day was an awe-struck witness to an amazing development at the SLC airport. I stopped in an airport gift shop to buy a $6, 20-ounce bottle of Diet Coke, and something cataclysmic happened that has never happened to me before in all of my lengthy adult life. And it’s so unheard-of it can’t possibly happen to me again.

But occur this once, it did. I spied an object in the aforementioned airport gift shop, out of the corner of one of my blue eyes: a PURSE. Not simply a purse, but the only purse I have ever actually wanted to own for myself. I want it. I wanted it immediately. I want this “saddle” purse, if only for the mini saddle bag towards the back and the stirrup on the side. Oh, and the horn looks groovetastic too! Must. Have. Purse!

I don’t know what flash came over me when I gazed in the purse’s direction. It was such an odd feeling– I couldn’t bring myself to buy the artsy creation. But for the hours since that moment, I haven’t been able to stop daydreaming about it. And I have a feeling I’ll end up with that flashy leather bag o’ my dreams.

What is wrong with me, people? I’m too old and set and happy in my neckwear ways to start collecting other things. I don’t have the space or the bucks or the energy for another kind of collection anyway. But a purse? A purse! A purse, I ask you again? Of all things! A purse is so unlike me. I wear pants with bigly pockets, just so I don’t have to drag a bag with me wherever I go. Anyway, I’m more of a backpack/briefcase/messenger bag sort of girl. Golly gee, I don’t hang a purse strap over my shoulder. That doesn’t translate.

But when we return to SLC International, when our vacay is done, I’ll most likely be walking out of the airport to our car with the freshly purchased turquoise saddle purse. And Suzanne will likely walk out with the red one. (I should have known not to show her a picture of me with a snazzy purse. Of course, she’ll have to have a purse too.) Suzanne with a purse makes sense. A purse and I makes me a stranger in the land of my own clash fashion. Would Skitter even recognize me while I’m disguised by a purse? Would I recognize myself? The pigs will be flying again over me and my new purse, that’s for damn sure.

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My Suitcase Isn’t Bigly Enough

Bow Ties o’ the Day are each vying for me to select them for our Tucson/Vegas trip tomorrow. It’s a cacophony of bow tie voices around here today as each one is begging, “Me, me! Take me!”

I’m sure those of you who have had kids remember the times you were leaving them home with a sitter and they clung to your neck or your legs with every ounce of their strength, pleading with you to either not go at all or to take them with you. That’s how every piece of neckwear in The Tie Room is acting this morning while I pack. I feel like Meryl Streep in SOPHIE’S CHOICE. I’m stuck deciding something that will injure tie/bow tie feelings, no matter what I choose. The weeping and wailing The Skit will hear emanating from The Tie Room for a week will be tough on her.

I pack mostly bow ties to accompany me on travel adventures. Neckies tend to easily get in the way when you are sightseeing or otherwise exploring. Think about it: hiking, walking, tramming can be dangerous with a tie blowing around or possibly getting caught in machinery or roller coaster cars.

Flying with bow ties, however, has a downside too. Although you don’t have to worry about a bow tie getting in the way while you wear it, you have to pack them in individual boxes, so they don’t get smashed in your suitcase. That means they take up a lot of space. For example, I will be gone 7 days, which means I need to take at least 14 pieces of neckwear, since I usually post twice per day. That leaves a shortage of space for clothing in my carry-on bag. And I only travel with a carry-on– and my laptop bag. I refuse to pay $30 to check a suitcase. Heck, you might see photos of me wearing the same clothes every time I post a pic this week. But I won’t be wearing the same neckwear in each post. That’s not how I roll. Or fly, or see the sights.

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Are We Packed Yet?

Ploppy, streamy, drippy wet paint Bow Tie o’ the Day spent time with me at my regular physician’s office this morning. Despite going to the urgent care clinic earlier in the week, where I got x-rays and the a-okay about my ribs, I went to my Dr. Blaze for a second opinion. Really, his opinion was the third opinion since I always give myself the first medical opinion.

Dr. Blaze also gave me a third opinion about the dangers of running down stairs and breaking the resulting fall with one’s ribs. I, urgent care, and Dr. Blaze are in agreement about the ideal way to descend stairs, which is to pay attention while you walk, and hold on to the bannister if at all possible. We also all three agree that tripping over one’s own shoes while speeding recklessly down the stairs is especially ill-advised. (No, I wasn’t wearing clown shoes when I tripped. But having a pair of those sounds fun.) I still believe if I had been cloaked in my cape when I tripped, I would have flown gently to the floor, feet first.

Why all this medical opinion fuss? Since my summer surgery, I’ve been overly overprotective of my innards, and I want to be extra sure I don’t have riblit shards impaling my lungs, heart, or what’s left of my pancreas– because Sunday morning Suzanne and I fly away for a week. And ain’t nobody wants to do their vacation sight-seeing from a hospital bed. As of now, I have been officially declared fit for jet-setting on commercial flights and for the conducting of unbridled antics in other states.

I’ve already packed my speshul, old timey swimming suit, which was such a hit with y’all when I posted about our Dauphin Island ocean vacay in September. We’re flying to Tucson and then to Las Vegas, so we aren’t gonna be hanging at a beach. But swimming pools grow everywhere in those cities, and I’m darn sure gonna find one where I can show off my swimmin’ duds, even if I don’t actually do any swimming. Up next? The packin’ o’ the bow ties! Choices galore!

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Hairs Thursday #2

I suppose these hair clips qualify as Bow Ties o’ the Day. They present my hairdo. And in other pix you can see the cockatiels Tie o’ the Day I wore when getting my hairs done. In this first photo, you can also gander at my Hearing Aid o’ the Day.

I handed Suzanne my baby bow hair clips and said, “Do what you can with these.” She did. I’d actually wear this ‘do out ‘n’ about– like at the beach or on a walk. But Suzanne and I discovered that whenever I moved, they slipped out of my hair. Yes, my hair is a tiny bit fine. It is extra fine. Not one hair of my hairs has known a thick day in its life. Thinnest. Hairs. Ever. Almost. Suzanne’s are thinner.

I have had some skilled hair cutters throughout my earthly existence, and I thank them for dealing with my uncooperative locks. Dot Atkinson cut my hairs all through my kidhood, then Jim Robson opened up his shop by Curley’s and I sat in his hair chair for a year or so. I ended up having my hairs regularly hacked by Sandy Ferrell– for years before I moved to Maryland and then for years after I returned to Delta. Here in Centerville, my hairs hacker is Tiffany at Great Clips. She has hip tattoos and she appreciates mine. Since I haven’t had my hairs sheared since May, Miss Tiffany might or might not still work there. I hope she still cuts there, cuz I trust her.

Back in the day when I was a wee sprite, every church Ward went to Sunday School on Sunday morning at the same time (and Sacrament Meeting was in the evening). On church mornings our house was aflutter with kids being dragged out of bed to eat breakfast and get bathed and gussied up in church duds. (We had only one bathroom at the time.) I even remember Mom often drying my brother, Ron’s dress socks in the oven, and once she was so harried she forgot about them and they caught fire. Sabbath circus.

What does this have to do with hair? Well, I’ll tell you. I don’t know whether Mom or Dad asked, or if my grandma, Zola Wright (Momo), suggested it, but on Sunday mornings, I was sent next door to my grandparents’ house in my pj’s before putting on my dress for church. Momo or Popo lifted me onto a towel on the kitchen counter, where I laid on my back, with my head over the edge of the kitchen sink. Momo used the sink sprayer to wash my hair. Our house was one fewer person of chaos for Mom and Dad for a few minutes, and I felt loved by the inhabitants of two houses. It was as if my grandparents’ home was just another bunch of rooms in our own house.

Thirty years later, I bought my grandparents’ house, which Suzanne and I had for seventeen years– until we sold it two years ago. That kitchen sink and kitchen counter where Momo washed my kid hair were still there when it became mine. They were in atrocious shape, and I should have replaced them.

But I never did. Not even when I remodeled the kitchen. I couldn’t. They were daily reminders of how much I belonged to Momo and Popo–especially with my dirty hair on Sunday mornings. As a growing kid, I was devastated when I grew too big for their kitchen counter. Even my stubborn, thin hairs were sad. And after I sold the house and walked through its rooms one last time before driving away in my red truck forever, it was that decrepit sink that broke my heart.

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Just Do It

Bow Tie o’ the Day told me I better wake up and smell the coffee beans. Bow Tie told me to quit worrying and wondering about it, and just go to the urgent care clinic and have ’em take a gander at my sore ribs. And so I did

Got some x-rays. Got some advice about the proper speed with which to walk down flights of stairs. Got to repeat the details of my fall and my resulting pain symptoms– to the receptionist, the Physician’s Assistant, the nurse, and the x-ray technician. I like to tell stories, but I don’t like to repeat them four times in one hour. I try to add new and exaggerated details with each telling, so I don’t get bored with my own stories.

My medical examination revealed I did not puncture a lung when I fell. And despite the swelling and the doorknob-sized knot on my ribs, I did not actually break any ribs. In fact, the whole time I was gawking at my x-rays with the PA, all I could think about was how I haven’t eaten ribs in about two forevers– or at least since we were at Dauphin Island, Alabama in September. Mmmmmm… ribs. When I’m on vacation next week, I will be sure to rectify my rib-starved eatin’ situation. I’m hankerin’ for cole slaw on the side, as well.

BTW Completely unrelated topic. I feel the need to exhort y’all, here and now: BE NICE! That’s it– simply be nice to the people around you. It won’t cost you any money to do it. There’s no trick to it. Being nice does not require a college degree. And there are no acceptable excuses to treat people otherwise. Being nice to people is so obviously the right way to treat them. Do not forget to strive always to be a nice person in both your attitude and your actions. It won’t always come back to you, but so what?Nice is about how you want to be when you grow up. Nice matters.

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Say What?

Diamond point Bow Tie o’ the Day reminded me I had an early morning appointment with my ear doctor today. I’m an early riser. But on days when I HAVE TO get up for some appointment or other, I have the hardest time waking up and getting out of bed. I doubt I’m the only person with that problem. Maybe it’s something about sort of being “told” you have to do it. It’s as if someone else is bossing you– even though you’re the one who made the appointment in the first place. We do not like to be told what to do, even if we’re the ones telling us to hop to it.

Anyhoo… My ear doc appointment was just for a regular tune-up on my hearing aid, which means I sit in an exam room googling important trivia or watching YouTube on my phone while the doc goes to his office and tweaks my hearing aid. When I talk to him about the gadget, he reminds me to call it a hearing “device.” Hearing “device” is apparently the politically correct way to refer to hearing aids. I humor him. But it’s still a hearing aid to me.

While I was alone in the exam room, I noticed these pictures behind me. They are actual hearing “devices” which were used at one time. I don’t know which invention would be the most difficult to use, but I do know they are all quite creative. I googled them and I can’t find any information about how effective they might have been, but I’m positive you couldn’t wear them on a date.

BTW I’ve included a bonus photo of Skitter in this post for no other reason than the fact that she’s cute. Enjoy.

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Someone Call The Golf Carts

If I’m wearing my band-aid Ties o’ the Day, I must have caused some damage to my mortal coil. And I did. Golf carts Cufflinks o’ the Day had to rescue me though, cuz I don’t have ambulance cufflinks.

Let me say this: everything is Skitter’s fault. My recovery from my late-June surgery at Huntsman was extraordinary for the first seven months, and then February happened. In the last three weeks I seem to be sabotaging my recovery– all for Skitter. First, I was nearly skewered through my scar by the end of a roll of wrapping paper I ran into, as I left the pantry where I had gone to get a treat for Skitter.

Second, Skitter got chased by a bared-teeth dog, and I ran to save The Skit from a potential lightweight boxing and biting bout with a bully of a strange dog. I should not have run, ladies and gentlemen, but I had to save Skitter. My well-healing innards got jostled in all kinds of wrong ways while I ran. No permanent damage was done, but my guts feel weird in a bunch of new ways.

And third, I mentioned a couple of weeks ago that Skitter has had some weird kidney things going on, resulting in occasional incontinence. She seems to be okay now, but we didn’t want to leave her roaming free in the house to possibly make puddles Saturday night when we went to Park City. We put her in her beddy-bye crate she loves, turned on “her” tv and a light, and gave her a chew. We have never left her alone in the house in her crate before. Ever. She has always had the whole house to party in when we’ve gone out. Skitter was fine, I’m sure. I, however, was a nervous wreck.

Anyhoo… When Suzanne and I entered the garage, I bolted into the house and up the stairs to Skitter’s crate to get her outside to potty ASAP. I unlatched her crate door and out she flew as if she hadn’t had access to potty grass in months. She zipped down the stairs, as did I. I never zip down the stairs, especially since surgery. But zip, I did, for Skitter’s bladder’s sake.

Until I got to the third step from the bottom. I tripped over one of the shoes I was wearing. (I’ve actually called the shoes “my funeral shoes” since I bought them fifteen years ago. I’ll explain why in another post.) I was briefly airborne, and then I landed on a storage bin I’m glad I hadn’t managed to put away yet. I landed on the top edge of the bin with my left ribs, directly opposite my scar. My left knee hit the floor at the same time. I broke the fall completely with my right palm on the floor– which didn’t hurt my hand but jammed my rotator cuff I had recently made usable again after two months of putting it through physical therapy.

I appear to be fine. But I think I might have broken or bruised a rib or two. It hurts like hell, and I can’t sleep on that side. I can breathe, so I doubt I punctured a lung. Fortunately, my surgery innards don’t feel newer and different-er pain than before I fell– just their usual tugs and pulls o’ healing. I’ve scheduled a doctor appointment for Friday, and I’m also not afraid of emergency rooms, if I should need to visit one. (Next week I’ll be a traveler, so I gotta be fine for that.)

Skitter eventually got pottied, and she had not made a puddle in her crate while we were off living it up in Park City. Score!

Earlier this week I showed you a photo of Suzanne’s scuffed face, and explained about her klutzosity. She is still the klutz in the family, by far. I have no idea why I’ve started joining in the klutz games with her though. I admire so many of Suzanne’s finer qualities, and I try to emulate them. I am not happy about emulating her klutz quality.

All I know for sure is that if I hadn’t taken off my wintry cape in the garage the minute I got home from Park City Saturday night, my attached cape would have thrown me into superhero mode as I tripped, and I would have been able to fly downstairs instead of fall splat. Perhaps I should wear a cape 24/7 from now on, to thwart any possible klutzing activities I might find myself getting into. Oh, you know how I’d hate always wearing a cape.

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Dinner And A Show

If I’m wearing guitar Bow Tie o’ the Day, I’m headed to a concert. I don’t wear it to all concerts I attend, but I don’t wear it to any other kind of event. Saturday evening we hied away to Park City in a twinkling of an eye for dinner at GRAPPA, and then AN ACOUSTIC EVENING WITH SHAWN COLVIN, at The Egyptian Theater.

GRAPPA had a cozy ski lodge vibe. The bigly windows provided a stupendous view of the snowy mountains. I ordered the horseradish encrusted salmon, just to see what the heck that would turn out to look like and taste like. (Suzanne had thought about ordering it too.) It was a delicious choice. Suzanne had the scallops puttanesca, which was my second choice to order. We spent the whole meal oohing and awing over our own meals, then wishing we had ordered what each other was having. Could we have shared each other’s entrees? Yes. But we were too selfish with our own dinners for that.

Our dinner began with calamari, and ended with a dessert I chose just because I couldn’t pronounce the name: zabaglione. It was bruleed custard with fruit, topped with slivered candied almonds. Suzanne had citrus polenta cake, also with custard and berries. We used to split one dessert. Now that we are old and there’s no possible way we could ever get back our girlish figures again, we each get our own dessert.

I wore my wintry cape for the happenings, and at least three people at GRAPPA drooled and told me how wonderful it was. Well heck, I knew that. But it was a sorta snooty Park City restaurant, so it surprised me that my cape was thoroughly appreciated. It is one of a kind, and I know the cape maker personally. Lucky me.

At the end of our meal, I was overtaken with tired, droopy eyes. I needed to nap, and we had an hour before the concert started. I told Suzanne I needed to sack-out in the car for a few minutes. I fully expected her to go off to DOLLY’S bookstore while I rested my weary eyelids, but she stayed with me in the car. She passed my snooze time by playing games on her phone, as is evidenced in one of these photos. (Another photo here also shows Suzanne playing games on her phone in the theater while we waited for the concert to begin.)

And then finally, inside The Egyptian Theater, Shawn Colvin came onto the stage with her guitar. Just Shawn Colvin and her guitar for the entire show– except for Shawn Colvin and her keyboard for the encore. I have been enamored with her music for thirty years. She’s an exceptional songwriter, and she plucks the guitar strings masterfully. In fact, I swear I could feel Bow Tie’s guitar strings vibrating right along with Shawn Colvin’s.

Suzanne suffered mostly happily through the concert, since she is not a Shawn Colvin fan. She doesn’t dislike the music, but she doesn’t “like” it either. She is indifferent about it. She probably went because she likes me. But I have no doubt she had a ball in Park City all evening, if only because she got to spend some of it playing games on her phone.

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It’s Tax Season Out There, Folks

It was time to do the Donnin’ o’ the Cash Bow Tie o’ the Day, for our yearly trip to H & R BLOCK. I do not mind paying my taxes. In fact, I’m glad to do it. But I’ll wait until April 15th to give my annual sermon about my belief that we get more for our tax dollars than we get for any other dollars we spend. I don’t feel quite up to making that point right at this moment, cuz I’m still having aftershocks from this afternoon’s filin’ o’ the tax forms.

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The Oscar Ceremony Looms

A few weeks ago, I began the hunt for my Academy Awards attire, but I still haven’t made my choice o’ outfit yet. The more I browse through the fashion magazines, the more eye-assaulting clothing I find. And you know I must live up to others’ fashion expectations for me. I’m totally feeling the pressure to finally make the right choice, not just because the ceremony is in a few days, but because I have to nail it. I have a fashion reputation to uphold. My neckwear and I must entertainingly strut our slapstick slap-dashery stuff on the Red Carpet.

This afternoon, Bow Ties o’ the Day have been helping me picture myself in two possible attire choices. I have nice legs, so either of these outfits works as far as that goes. The black get-up looks a bit boring for me– color-wise, I mean. 😉 And its design doesn’t include a hat. I’m always up for sporting a hat. On the plus side, it appears– based on the model’s presentation– you’re not supposed to wear a bra with this outfit. We ladies know it’s always a bonus to not have to wear a bra. But is the bra-less aspect worth choosing this look for the bigly night o’ awards? I dunno.

On the whole, the scarf-y, kickin’ clothing is closer to being in alignment with my soul. But still… I’m not feelin’ it. My get-up choice must strike me with just the right lightning bolt. I guess there’s no lightning in my skies over these two choices, so I’ll keep hunting for the perfect-est. Oscar. duds. ever.