Witty & Wise Ties, Trivia & Lies
Tie o’ the Day helped me out in my quest to create a few medical mask substitutes which could be used if you have absolutely no access to the real thing. From a cowgirl hot pad, to a running shoe, to a copy of a photo of Mom and Dad, and all the way to Mom’s long-time license plate, which my truck inherited when Mom quit driving her car— they all work, as far as I’m concerned.
If it will make you feel safer to wear a mask during the pandemic but you don’t have access to the real thing, simply use your imagination as you look around the house you’re stuck in.
Within five minutes of searching through my house, Tie o’ the Day and I found a multitude of possible items that could potentially work for me. Here are just a few. First, I tried a paper party hat on my face. I only had to fold-close the hole at the point to make a seal. It was painless to wear. The second item I found and tried to turn into a mask was my blow-up Santa beard. The plastic beard worked only so-so, because it got sweaty with breath way too quickly.
And then I tried on a bunch of Skitter’s hats. The animal-print cowboy hat was probably the overall most efficient mask made out of Skitter’s hats, in terms of both fit and purpose. My favorite pseudo-mask, by far, was Skitter’s sombrero. I didn’t care that I couldn’t see while wearing it, because it looked so very dandilicious on me.
Sometimes it feels like all this time spent hunkering down with each other at home during the pandemic is just one weeks’-long Family Home Evening. All we do is play, and snack, and sing, and talk about life’s teeny and bigly questions. It’s quite nice, for the most part.
Hey! Remember that skimpy, red-nose reindeer body thong somebody sent me last holiday season? I just turned it sorta upside-down, and VOILA!—I have a protective mask to wear when I am out of the house. In times of pandemic, we must make do with what we’ve got. Fat Tie o’ the Day will have to share all the attention with Rudolph for today.
I have always proselytized for the wearing o’ neckwear, and for what I generally refer to as “clash fashion,” a.k.a.”clashion.” Today, I discovered yet another reason to believe in the goodness of “clashion”: Its colliding patterns and colors can be sleep-defying. Tie o’ the Day combined with my Shirt o’ the Day to keep me from falling asleep this afternoon due to a wicked bout of COVID-19 pandemic boredom. I dare you to fall asleep while looking at the busy business of my shirt and Tie together. Go on. Try it. I dare ya.
FYI I recommend wearing clash fashion to church meetings (when they resume), especially if you tend to nod off during services. Your eyelids won’t even be tempted to drop if you clash your clothing appropriately. Likewise, clash your wardrobe correctly and what you see of your attire in your peripheral vision will effortlessly keep you from drowsy driving.
Multi-color splotchy, skinny Tie o’ the Day is getting some much needed home-schooling on the subject of William Wordsworth’s poetry. You can tell Tie is excited about Wordsworth’s lofty work by all the notes Tie’s scribbling for itself in the margins.
Added bonus: Tie o’ the Day can act as its own bookmark when it’s done with today’s lesson.
I am glad to be literate. I could not survive the pandemic if I couldn’t read. To be honest, I couldn’t survive anything If I couldn’t read.
The Ties o’ the Day woke up restless. I could feel their mutiny coming on. But I know a thing or two about the power of words, so I headed ’em off at the pass with the calming question, “Do you neckties want me to read to you?” They were quiet and on my lap immediately. The lure of being read to quashed the tie mutiny before it even began. Trust me, reading calms everybody.
Buckin’ bronco Tie o’ the Day and I managed to dodge the army of quarantined zombie bow ties, to slip undetected into the ladies’ reading room. I knew the hooligans would find me eventually. They always do. Every parent with a house full of children or bow ties knows this feeling: “I just need five minutes to myself. Please—just five uninterrupted minutes. I will sell my soul to the first power which will grant me five quiet minutes.”
But we parents also know we never get the whole five minutes. No, we get about thirty seconds before the first knock at the bathroom door, which is followed by childish attempts to turn the doorknob long after it’s clear the door is locked. We begin to grumble in our heads. We grumble quietly out loud. We wonder who had all these kids. We wonder why they can’t survive for such a short amount of time without us. We wonder a lot of stuff. Briefly, we wonder.
And then we get the teeny fingers under the door—clawing in our direction. That’s the nail in the coffin of our solitude. Our defeat is inevitable. We know there’s no going back now. We must surrender our sanity to the herd. We put down our unread books; we gird up our frazzled loins; and we head back into the loud chaos of those small beasts who love us as much as we love them.
So far, the quarantined neckties, ascots, cravats, and bolos have minded their tie business. The home-stuck bow ties, however, have taken over the house. This afternoon, I went to throw in a load of laundry, and I discovered four Bow Ties o’ the Day had already commandeered the washing machine. The Bow Ties tell me it’s their pretend lake. They say they want a ski boat. Oh, the swimming and diving I’ve seen the little bows doing! They are skinny-dipping as they water-frolic, as well! I can’t blame them. I did the exact same things when I was a kid— just not in anybody’s washing machine.
Being stuck at home during this pandemic makes it easier for me to deal with some potty-training issues Tie o’ the Day is working on. I’ve got over 5,000 pieces of neckwear living in The Tie Room, and—trust me— it gets ugly if even one of them isn’t house-trained.