Category: Stories

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Still Takin’ It Easy

I declared Pajama Day for just me, and wood Bow Tie o’ the Day’s cat glasses are keeping me and Skitter company. Look, I’m so exhausted today that I fell asleep while taking this selfie. And my face says I must have been having a weird dream.

I usually declare a PJ Day on a weekend day, mostly so Suzanne can enjoy it too. She busts her butt all week, and she needs to get her sleep-in sleep to catch up with the z’s she requires. She is a champion sleeper. And she can nap more and longer than any newborn I have ever known. Her record for sleeping in was set in Delta a dozen years ago, where one Saturday she slept until after 5 pm. She hadn’t gone to bed late the night before or anything. She’s just that excellent at sleep. She’s pretty much the tops at whatever task she takes on. She’s persnickety about getting things just right. IT DRIVES ME NUTS! Sometimes. I am laid-back and non-linear and loosey-goosey. She keeps me grounded to the practical world, and I remind her to inhabit her imagination. She provides order, and I provide craziness. We balance each other.

Now that the flooring is finished, moving The Ultimate SewingBox into the house and onto the new flooring is next on Suzanne’s list. It has to be assembled, so we’re looking for an assembler or two. It’s a bigly job, and we can’t do it ourselves. We can read instructions. We can understand instructions. But we also understand what is and what isn’t possible in our relationship.

For example: We can agree on pizza toppings. And that’s a must if you’re going to stay together. But one of the things we cannot do is work together to assemble anything– small or huge, simple or complicated. When we have tried to do it, the scene has not been pretty. Trying to work together on building anything that requires instructions has been known to result in us blurting out bad words we didn’t even know we knew. Wisely, we’ve decided to never attempt it again. When it comes to assembling The Ultimate SewingBox, we decided it would be much cheaper to hire someone to put it together than for us to hire divorce attorneys. You gotta know the limits of your couple-dom if you want your relationship to last.

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Gettin’ Purty Is Weird. Plus Another Topic.

It appears I opened up a can of beauty worms when I let Suzanne put makeup on me a few days ago. She somehow suckered me and Bow Tie o’ the Day into letting her slather this facial mask gunk on my face last night. (The bow in my hair is actually my own touch. It’s how I keep my head hairs out of my eyes.) I can attest to the fact that it was fun peeling off the mask after it had dried. I managed to peel it off in one piece, which I am extremely proud of. Was this mask enough to calm Suzanne’s current cosmetology bug? I think not, because she then polished my fingernails with a breathtaking emerald color– except for the nail on my ring finger which is always painted purple, whether my other fingernails are painted or not.

There’s a national anti-domestic violence campaign called Put The Nail In It, meaning to end something once and for all.  Its signature symbol is the purple ring-finger nail. When anyone asks about my nail, it gives me an opportunity to talk to them about the importance of the issue. See, I can be serious. In fact, I’m serious about anything that affects the dignity and safety of human beings. And dogs, cats, etc., as well. I think it’s why we’re here on the planet.

I’ve never understood the question a lot of people have about why God allows suffering. To me, people are the ones who cause suffering, and so the right question is, “Why do WE allow suffering?” We created all the problems on the planet (except natural disasters), so it seems to me that our purpose is to learn how to clean up the messes we’ve made, and then create extraordinary solutions. Love your neighbor. Pray. Vote. Hope. Feed the hungry. Teach literacy. There are infinite ways to solve the chaos. Do whatever positive action you do. You can’t do everything, but you can do some things. It’s our responsibility to do what we can. To do any less than what we can should be unacceptable to us. Doing any less than what we can is what makes and allows suffering.

That’s my sermon, and I’m stickin’ to it.

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Irreconcilable Differences Happen

Ah, Bow Tie o’ the Day is up early to say its sarcastic goodbye to the living room carpet. Out it goes this morning, and Suzanne and I– and the neckwear– shed only crocodile tears. We’ve hated it from the second we saw it. Even the ties lobbied to have it die– preferably a painful, gruesome death. That’s how much we all hate it.

And now you’re wondering why we have had such a universally disliked carpet in our home, I’m sure. Here’s the thing: When we bought the townhouse, it was new and almost finished. Another buyer before us had chosen all the paint and flooring and appliances. At the last moment, that buyer fell through. The very next minute, we walked into the picture. We loved the place, minus the cheap-ass carpet. We decided to live with the carpet cuz it was new, and at that point we weren’t sick enough of it to justify replacing it. But now, enough is enough. So that’s how we got here.

This photo is showing you my gangster hair and gangster face. I feel kinda like I’ve put a hit out on the carpet. I don’t have, nor do I need, a stereotypical early/mid-1900’s mob machine gun to dramatically off the carpet. And I’m not killing it myself. I don’t have it in my heart to kill anything, even if it is only hideous, cheap carpet. No, I might be The Godgodess around here, but I keep my hands pure by hiring flooring installers to the dastardly deed.

Bow Tie and I will pay our proper respects. We aren’t heartless. The carpet has served us, and it’s not its fault someone created it to be an inferior product. It has tried to do the best it could do with the meager means it was born with. I hope it enjoyed its time with us. We aren’t slap-happy to toss it like the garbage it is, but it’s time for us all to part ways. We’ll all shake hands and carpet fibers, and then we’ll go down our separate life-paths. We send it off into garbage dump oblivion in pretty good shape, and scarred with only two or three puppy-in-training pee accidents. 🐶

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If It’s Sunday, It Must Be Brunch

Bow Ties o’ the Day had a fantastic time at Cafe Niche for Sunday brunch. As you can see, Suzanne wanted to get in on the bow tie act. We donned our bow tie bibs for the feast because we were famished, and we were afraid we might eat sloppily. The bow ties on each bib did a perfect job of keeping our clothing from being defaced by our lack of delicate eating. And bigly Bow Tie o’ the Day presents its grapes– Mormon grapes for Sunday, I’m sure.

Brunch can have a calming effect. I recommend it when you’re stressed out or tense. Suzanne and I stressed ourselves out by having a little tiff last night– over nothing of any importance. But the tiff happened, and the tiff went on in silence, right on into today.

In the middle of the night when I had to potty, I ended up using the last few squares on the toilet paper roll. There was a new roll on the bathroom vanity, three inches from the tp holder. Normally, of course, I’d change out the rolls– no matter what time of the middle of the night it was. But I was still miffed about the tiff, and there was no way in heck I was gonna politely take the old roll off and put the new one on. Nope. Suzanne was gonna have to do it herself the next time she needed to potty. (That’ll teach her!) And do you know what I thought in my tiff-miffed head as I walked back to bed? I thought with great sarcasm, “Well, she told me I wasn’t allowed to lift anything, and I’m sure that includes a roll of toilet paper.” And I sooo wanted her to say something to me about the tp roll incident this morning, so I could say the same snotty thing right to her precious face. And then we went to brunch, and everything got forgiven and forgotten.

 

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I Feel Really Bad About It

Bow Tie o’ the Day and I are feeling useless this afternoon. Our flooring installation is Monday, and Suzanne forbade me from helping her move furniture and other objects from the area where the installers need to work. I know she’s right that I shouldn’t help, but it makes me uncomfortable to watch her heft and tote and pull and push stuff around. I was a bad girl anyway, and I moved three bottles of lotion and one container of baby powder from the ground floor to the second floor, at the same time–without Suzanne seeing, of course. I was trying to help. At the top of the stairs, I knew I should not have done it. And then I made the mistake of telling Suzanne what I had done and that I should have moved only two bottles at a time. I got THE LOOK, and I am now banished to The Kingdom of Sit-on-your-butt-and-watch-HOMICIDE-HUNTER:-LT.-JOE-KENDA. It’s one of my fave kingdoms, but I hate to be bossed into doing anything– even if it’s exactly what I want to do. It’s a pride thing, I suppose. And I feel like, for Suzanne’s sake, I should act a little put out and hurt about being banished from the moving action. But jeez, according to my hospital discharge papers, I’m allowed to lift 10 pounds by now. It is true that the papers also say every patient recovers at their own speed, and some should wait longer to lift objects more than 2 pounds. That means I’m still not allowed to lift the Mini-Keg yet. Very sad. BTW At this very moment, Suzanne is vacuuming the carpet which will be torn out for the flooring to be laid down. What the heck is the point of doing that? In less than 48 hours, the carpet will be ripped out and disposed of. Is she trying to impress the flooring workers with her perfect vacuum tracks? With her being kinda miffed at me already, I don’t dare ask her if she’s gonna shampoo it too. Hell, it’s crappy carpet anyway, which is why we’re getting rid of it in the first place. Ok. I’ll shut up about it now and watch more HOMICIDE HUNTER.

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Suzanne Performs Miracles

OMGolly! Last evening, Bow Tie o’ the Day pinned me down, and Suzanne opened up every makeup bag she owns. I mean– I was simply reclining away in the loveseat, watching LIVE PD. Suddenly, a foundation brush was headed my way. And then eyeliner went everywhere except where it was supposed to go, cuz I couldn’t quit blinking when Suzanne was applying it. I kid you not: she had to wipe it off and apply it a second time. And then it felt like the mascara applicator was gonna poke my eyes out every time it got near my eyeballs. Suzanne asked me when I last applied mascara to my lashes. The answer is 7th Grade and once was enough. I must admit that last night I did enjoy the application o’ the eye shadow. The lipstick is so me, the way its color pops out. You know how I like a dash of bright color. Suzanne told me her philosophy about wearing lipstick has changed. She used to wear calm, blendy colors, but now she thinks if you’re gonna wear lipstick, people ought to really, really, really see it. See what happened there? My loud Clash Fashion style has rubbed off on her face a little. BTW Do you know what most weirded me out about this whole affair? Lipstick on the rims of my Diet Coke cans. I wondered who had been drinking out of my cans.

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Should I Stay, Or Should I Run?

Tie o’ Yesterday saw I was in a panic, and suggested I put my running shoes on to make a quick escape from the house, because Suzanne had told me that after she got home from work she was gonna put makeup on my old face for the TIE O’ THE DAY post. I had promised y’all I would do it, and I will. Well, I was not quite psyched up for that to happen yet. I’m working on it. But it turns out I didn’t need to run. I got out of the whole deal another way yesterday: my entire torso took a step back in my recovery. I’ve been touting how well my recovery is going, and I suppose I should have knocked on wood or thrown salt over my shoulder, or whatever else you do to ward off bad mojo when you brag about how lucky you are. Yesterday was the worst day I’ve had in over a month. I hurt. I’m uncomfortable. I’m miserable. (And I’m worried I’m not gonna be healthy enough to go on vacation as scheduled in three weeks.) Today, my body feels only slightly better. I don’t think I did anything to cause this whatever-it-is. The day before, I did a bit of lifting, but nothing more than a couple of pounds: a stack of five books; a bag of two packs of Popsicles; a few bottles of water in a bag; a fluffy new dog bed for Skitter. And nothing hurt at the end of that day, despite me doing all that not-bigly lifting. But I’m sitting here wondering if what’s going on in my innards is just a normal part of healing, or should I call 911. Nah, it’s not 911-worthy. Anyhoo… That’s why I didn’t write a second post yesterday. I know y’all missed seeing the second piece of neckwear o’ the day. I can assure you that my makeup pic is coming up as soon as I quit groaning long enough for Suzanne to slather makeup on my happy face. Last week when I told her it would make a hilarious post photo, she immediately ran up the stairs and came back down with a dozen cosmetic bags. There’s no stopping her now. I just hope I don’t end up looking like I’ve been to the mortician.

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It’s Fun To Think About Stealing, In A Movie Sort Of Way

Robbing a Loomis armored truck as it waits in front of Dick’s Market is not a brilliant idea. Even Tie o’ the Day knows that. It’s especially not a smart idea for me, cuz I kinda stand out. I’d be way too easy for witnesses to identify. I can just hear the witnesses in the parking lot all report the same things about the perpetrator: “I saw a purple tie, and the license plate on the red truck said HELEN W.” Heck, let’s all be honest. Most of us have, at one time or another in our lives, thought about robbing a bank–in a not-serious way, I hope. We talk about it because of the money, but also for the challenge of making a perfect plan that is soooo much better than the plans of stoopid criminals who bungle their schemes. We watch TV crime shows about the hapless thieves, and we are positive we could pull off the robbery without a hitch– whatever they’re attempting to steal. “Pretend robbery” planning also leads into the conversation game we all play on occasion when we talk about what we’d do if we had a filthy, obscene, bigly amount of cash. And, of course, we all know we are never going to earn that kind of money from our jobs, so we’re stuck cogitating about things like winning the lottery or robbing Fort Knox. We say that if we somehow end up with a pile o’ money, we’ll buy our parents a new house, and we’ll give money to charity, and we’ll build a school, and we’ll end world hunger, and so on. But guess what? You know damn well that if we hit it rich, we’d immediately quit our jobs. And the first thing we’d truly do with our new-found fortune is to blow it all on a fancy-shmancy car, an airplane, and a yacht. Oh, and a case of Junior Mints. Anyhoo…Entering Dick’s Market, I walked right past the armored truck, waving cordially to the driver. Inside the store, I spent the tiny fortune in my teeny pocket to buy a maple-frosted apple fritter. I can attest to the fact that the fritter was rich– even if I’m not. 🤣

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I Misplaced My Kite

Bow Tie o’ the Day begged to head outside to experience the concept of wind. I explained to Bow Tie what it is, and why it exists. I also explained that any wind that shows up in Centerville, UT is not “real” wind. Dirt devils in the desert are also not real wind. Tornadoes and hurricanes are not real wind. Those breezes are merely a taste of wind. Even the wind in Chicago, which is known as The Windy City, is not real wind. If you want to experience real wind, you have to be in Delta, UT. It’s not even a contest. Delta wins. I’ve observed the Delta wind blow cats out of trees. On many occasions, I have seen the wind there blow bigly dogs over while they tried to potty. I have regularly seen the Delta wind move sheds, lawnmowers, trampolines, and bags o’ golf clubs. And, I kid you not, I once saw the wind blow a chainsaw off a picnic table. Where it ended up, I can only imagine. I myself was once blown over onto a washboard road while riding my bike in an unexpected wind, and my bike was nowhere to be found when I dusted myself off. I have seen Delta wind blow herds of humongous tumbleweeds against fences, covering the fences so thoroughly– and artfully– that the fences themselves were not visible. In fact, I once saw the wind in Delta blow so ferociously that it threw a bazillion acres of tumbleweeds so high into the air that they actually disappeared. And when gravity was finally able to pull them back down to earth, it appeared as if the heavens had opened wide and were raining tumbleweeds down upon the whole of Millard County. That, my friends, is wind. And trust me, there is no umbrella for tumbleweed rain. 🌪 ☔️ 🤡

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I Go To Such Exotic Places

Suzanne told me she needed sand. I was hoping she was planning to build me a sandbox to play in, in our backyard, but it turned out that she actually needed sand for some wild gardening adventure she thought up. Off we hauled our butts– and Bow Tie o’ the Day– to Home Depot again. Sand weighs a lot, but it doesn’t cost a lot. I like that. Of course, I’m not allowed to do bigly lifting these days, so Suzanne had to do my usual hefting job. When I’m myself physically, I tend to stay in shape by lifting things for her. When we’re out shopping somewhere, Suzanne inevitably gets her arms full of stuff and then asks me to hold her purse. Out of habit, she asked me to hold it a week or so ago, and out of habit I obediently took it. Bad move! I guarantee you her purse weighs more than any bag o’ sand you can buy at Home Depot. I know for a fact it weighs more than Skitter, because I weighed each of them. 🏋️‍♀️ (I do weird things like that when Suzanne’s at work and I’m home alone, procrastinating sitting down to my daily writing routine.) BTW When I was shooting these selfies, the sun was directly in my eyes, which accounts for the expression on my face in the photo with BatSuzanne in it. I appear to be  avoiding a punch I see coming my way in a UFC fight. 🥊 😸