We seem to be binge-puzzling around here these days. Tie o’ the Day keeps getting in the way of my work and pushing pieces off the table, but its design caught my eye today. Note to self: Wear a bow tie, not a necktie, when putting together jigsaw puzzles.
We recovered from the difficult PENCILS puzzle. Yes, Suzanne still thinks she put in the final piece. Let’s keep it that way as long as we can. I set out the pieces for a new puzzle, which is currently providing both of us with some always-welcome levity. The puzzle’s title is simply, POOPING DOGS. See it for yourself. So far, the pooping dogs we’ve assembled are doing what they’re doing quite tastefully.
I did assure Suzanne that I have no intention of buying the other puzzles in the same series, like POOPING CHIHUAHUA or HUMPING CHIHUAHUAS. I have at least a little class. She was very excited to know prime won’t be delivering them to our house.
Folks, the very fact that I ordered this puzzle is evidence enough that Suzanne deserves a medal or a trophy, or both. How she puts up with me, I will never know.
[This is a much requested re-post of an earlier tale. I hope you enjoy it— again, or for the first time.]
Hey! Look what I rescued. It’s my ties-themed 100 oz. mini-keg, which was my go-to sip cup for a couple of years after I bought it. Although it cracked inside last year, I never had the heart to throw it out. Its flex straw had a slight crack in it too, and the lid doesn’t fit tightly either, but its tie graphics are too perfect for me. 7-11 doesn’t sell the tie design anymore, so I can’t go buy another one. What’s a girl to do with a cracked 100 oz. ties mini-keg? For the last year it’s been mocking me by sitting in the garage whining out its jealousy of my new, differently designed. I was about to finally toss the battered, cracked mini-keg over the weekend. And then I had a genius idea I can’t believe I didn’t think of last year: DUCT TAPE. I’ll tape the inside cracks and let you know how it works out.
As I searched for the duct tape, Tie o’ the Day and I were contemplating the weirdities of my life. I don’t care who you are or how straight-laced and “normal” your life has been, you’ve found yourself in surreal situations here and there, when you wonder how you got in the predicament, and how you’ll ever get out of it. You didn’t set out to be in the situation. The scenario is so outlandish you couldn’t have purposely concocted it if you had wanted to. And you’re positive no one will believe you when you tell them the story.
Because I am I, I have a zillion of ’em. Because I am I, everyone knows my improbable tales really occurred. I call these odd goings-on My Greatest Hits. One of My Greatest Hits is courtesy of the 7-11 in Takoma Park, MD, in the mid-90’s. It doesn’t star a 7-11 mini keg, just a 7-11 Super Big Gulp cup.
Interstate 95 is the main N-S route on the East Coast. The traffic usually runs at a pretty good clip. I used to drive it every school day morning from Washington, D.C. to Baltimore’s inner city where I taught middle school. My drive to work usually took about 35 minutes.
But one morning, when I was just about to exit the freeway and head into West Baltimore, all lanes of the I-95 traffic going my way came to a halt. That was rare for that particular area of the freeway. Rarer still, an hour later no vehicle had moved a centimeter. Something bigly was surely shutting down the road. (It ended up being a many-car accident.) By that time, I had been sitting in the car for more than an hour. For me, that’s venturing into MUST PEE NOW territory. I had finished my Super Big Gulp of Diet Coke, and I needed to get rid of it. I don’t mean I needed to throw away the cup. A half-hour later, all drivers were still sitting in the precise same place we first were stopped. I was beyond desperation. I had no choice except to do what I had to do.
As a middle school teacher at the time, I learned to always have back-up clean clothing in the car. Out of nowhere, middle schoolers can create unheard of messes, and it’s not uncommon for those messes to end up on the teacher— whether you were anywhere near ground zero or not. It’s nice to have clean clothes to step into. Anyhoo… In an attempt to make myself invisible in my car for a minute, I used my spare clothes to cover my front, side windows. I pulled down the visors. With my empty Super Big Gulp cup, I strategically did what had to be done. The contortionist skills I learned as a teenage mooner came in quite handy. Mission accomplished. Almost.
I extremely carefully got my pants back where they belonged. I opened my door and emptied the cup, which I didn’t want to keep in the car, but I don’t litter. I “baby wiped” my hands. (It was the pre- hand sanitizer era.) Although we drivers had all been stuck going nowhere on I-95 for almost two hours, I felt much better.
As I took my back-up clothes down from the windows, I heard a knock. I was sure it was a cop who would soon give me a ticket for Public Urination or Public Indecency or some such charge that would put me on the Sex Offender Registry. But it wasn’t a cop. It was a soccer mom from the van behind me. She asked, “Can I borrow that cup? I gotta go too.” I said, “No, you may not borrow it. You must keep it. Please, for the love of all that’s holy, keep it. Take these Wet Wipes too.”
I kid you not. Soccer Mom was not the last person to use my cup. I watched my Super Big Gulp cup and the wipes travel up, down, and across a handful of the halted lanes as we sat parked on I-95 whittling away our time in the pre- affordable cell phone era. The cup that almost ranneth over had a somewhat bonding effect on those who were there that day. That cup was the founder of a different kind of Relief Society. Those of us who got relief became friends for life, even though we didn’t talk to each other and we would never see each other again. We shared a moment.
I do not know who ended up with the Super Big Gulp cup and baby wipes.
BTW Speaking of my Delta, teenage mooning career, I once mooned a worker at the Taco Time drive-up window while driving and wearing overalls. Now that is a true and rare skill set. (Yes, young-un’s, Delta once had a Taco Time. And an A & W and an Arctic Circle.)
Tie o’ the Day is practical, as well as stylish. Whether I’m Swiffering the floors, dusting our books, or I’m outside walking Skitter, I do a much better job if the Spirit of Caffeine is always with me. My hands are usually busy being useful or creative, so Tie is a helpful solution to my need for an occasional swig as I go about my day. And I never have to wonder where I last set down my drink. I just wish my 100 oz., 7-11 mini keg could fit in Tie’s drink holder.
Tie o’ the Day is one of my bigly, fat ties. It is as wide as the Missouri River. Well, it’s 5 inches at its widest point. As bigly as Tie is, my hat is too small for my noggin. It is one of the hats Suzanne crocheted for wee kid heads. I’ll be good and not stretch it out of its usefulness just to fit my head for a TIE O’ THE DAY snapshot.
Despite my asparagus adventure which found me biking home from Sugarville after dark— and despite my two falls from the same tree when I was a kid, I was not a reckless sprite. And I was not left to run all over creation, completely unsupervised. I was simply an imaginative kid in Delta, UT in the 60’s and the 70’s. That period of time was my “back in the day.”
Many of you were there, as well. It was a time of no seat belts; no car seats; no bike helmets; and no flashing lights and automatic arms at railroad crossings.
We did have lawn darts; full gun racks in trucks; and cigarette vending machines at Top’s and the Rancher. We played dodge ball. Our water park was the flumes.
It might have been a less safe time in some ways, but I’m glad I didn’t miss it. However, when I look back at my kidhood exploits, I am amazed at the shenanigans we all survived. Think about it: What “dangerous” kidhood/teenhood adventures did you manage to survive? What do you wish your kids or grandkids could do, but is no longer possible?
Tie o’ the Day is just plain gorgeous as it clashes sublimely with one of my paisley shirts. They both clash with my Suzanne-crocheted Hat o’ the Day. She’s been on a binge with crocheting hats lately. I counted over a dozen she created over the X-mas holidays. I can’t decide which I like the most, so I’m wearing them all once, then we’ll donate them.
But back to asparagus… Most of you know my hometown— Delta, UT. Many readers are not familiar with it at all. Delta was kind of a truer-to-life version of Mayberry. For the most part, we all knew each other. I lived in a terrific neighborhood, on the wrong side of the tracks, just inside the city limits. My dad’s parents lived next door to us, and Dad’s bee warehouse was behind their house. Farm country started literally across the street to the west of our home. That meant a canal full of irrigation water was also literally across that same street. And a dirt ditch canal meant loads of asparagus.
Every neighborhood has its share of grouchy folk, and mine was no exception. I was on the canal bank picking asparagus one fine summer day, when I heard an ominous voice: “Don’t you steal my asparagus!” It was not God’s voice, although it shook me to the core. It was one of our crabby, old lady neighbors who seemed to think that everything in her not-too-good eyesight was hers just because she lived closest to the ditch. I’ll just call her Mrs. Canal. Off, I ran the whole forty yards to Dad’s bee warehouse, leaving a trail of scared asparagus falling behind me. Yes, even the asparagus was scared.
Through the fog of bees in the honey extracting room, I regaled Dad with my latest exploit. He was sympathetic. He had grown up there, right across the street from Mrs. Canal. I asked him how old Mrs. Canal was. He pondered, then said, “All I can tell you is that she was at least a hundred years old when I was a boy.” That was Dad’s way of saying I’d better just be polite, and leave that area unpicked until Mrs. Canal gives up the ghost, then I could have at it.
I started picking the asparagus where Mrs. Canal couldn’t possibly see me, and it killed me to leave “her” asparagus growing there on the canal bank. Year after year, she never picked it, so it just grew spindly and went to seed. What a waste.
Skitter’s Ties o’ the Day offer up this story for your contemplation. Every day, when we still had the Delta house, and I still had a daily Delta/Mom routine, Skitter would put on a tie and ask to go with me on my daily Diet-Coke-at-The-Pub visit. At first, I told Skitter she couldn’t go to The Pub with me cuz she was a minor. But when she aged out of minor-hood, I then had to break it to her that she would never be legally allowed in The Pub, or other places like it— simply because she is not a people. She had no idea she was “different”, so it came as an enormous shock to her skittish, canine system.
I explained to Skitter about prejudice and discrimination. About its many forms and guises. About bigots and bullies. About how every living thing is “different” in some way (many ways, in fact), depending on what “they” say is the “norm”. I explained that the categories and mechanisms used to commit bigotry are completely arbitrary. They bear no resemblance to the truth, beauty, and goodness of existence. Bigotry is reductive and riddled with the fear of everything except itself.
Skitter pondered seriously about the in’s and out’s, the up’s and down’s, and the sideway’s of what I had told her. She thought and thought, until her tiny thinker was exhausted. And then she said, “But I can still wear the ties, right?”
Now, that’s a nifty perspective: Just go about your life, in wonder and love and ties.
When you have something really groovy, show it off. Show it off often. Thank you again, Georgia Grayson Wadsworth for crocheting me these slippers over a year ago, for my Hanky Panky surgery stay at Huntsman. I never tire of my friend-made slippers, and I never tire of feeling grateful for what others do to help me on my life’s adventure.
It is quite freeing to feel gratitude. Feeling appreciative is one indication somebody has actively loved you. It means someone thought enough about you to offer a kind word; make a needed loan; give a sheltering hug in a time of loss; flash a smile across a room of strangers; etc. The list is infinite. And if you’re not feeling gratitude for anything, you aren’t paying attention. At the very least, you are reading this right now, and who do you think I’m taking the time and effort to write it for? You, of course. Even if you’re bored with this particular post, I wrote it for you. It’s not much, but it’s one way I can show I care about you. We should all be more grateful for whatever parts we play in each other’s lives.
Other good people can find value in stuff that makes you joyous, just like you can find value in theirs. (Stay away from selfish, jealous people who can only appreciate something if they own it.) In a nutshell, that’s what my tblog is all about: I love wearing ties and telling stories, and I want to share them with others. Sometimes I write a lot. Sometimes I write a little. Sometimes a post is sarcastic. Sometimes a post is downright profound. The neckwear is always splendid, at the very least.
I’m sure I’ll show off my bow tie slippers here again and again over the coming years, but I probably won’t climb back up on the dining table to show them off with a Neckties o’ the Day puzzle. That is not a do-over. The standing-on-tables part of my life is now done. I guess I just needed to do it one more time. I’m grateful I did it, and I’m grateful I don’t want to do it anymore. I’m sure I’ll live a longer life by keeping my Bow Tie Slippers o’ the Day on the floor.
Booked-out Tie o’ the Day is hanging out with the computer keyboards. As much as I am smitten by ties and bow ties, I revel in words. One-syllable words, bigly words, odd words, unpronounceable words, and so on. If it’s a word, it’s my buddy. I’ve never bothered to learn a second language, cuz I haven’t yet finished with all the English words and their various combinations. It’s a good thing I’m a writer, or I’d have no idea what to do with the words in my head. They’d probably turn into voices, which would probably make my head implode.
I even find a use for most swear words. Not the bad, bad, bad ones. They make me cringe. But a basic swear word is sometimes the exact right word to use. It makes a point. It adds emphasis. I get tired of profanity if it’s just there to take up space. It’s usually unimaginative. In almost all instances of swear word usage, there is a more descriptive, more precise word to convey whatever message you’re trying to get across to someone else. I admit I use the tamer profanities on occasion, but I would not say that swearing is one of my prominent characteristics. However, I recently benefited bigly-time by letting out a few “hell”‘s and “damn”‘s I didn’t know anyone heard.
My desktop computer sits upstairs in the loft area where I write. The poor machine is a dozen years old, and we all know that in “technology years,” it has outlived itself at least three times over at this point. Its operating system can no longer be updated. It loads whatever it loads at a speed barely resembling motion. I don’t recall complaining to Suzanne much about the ancient machine. I bear the desktop no ill will, and I mostly make it work.
But apparently, when the computer hadn’t followed my orders lately, I began to drop a fairly innocent swear word. Or two. A tiny “hell” or “damn,” spoken in almost a whisper from the loft. The words must have floated down the stairway, where they curled into the living room— where they flew right into Suzanne’s ear while she tried to think of presents to get me for our 6th Anniversary and Christmas. She took hints I didn’t even know I was giving. Of course, she has known me since 1984, so she can read me beyond my words. And so Suzanne gifted me a new iMac, to cover both our 6th Anniversary and X-mas. She says she’s pretty sure iron (traditional 6th Anniversary gift) is used somewhere in the machine’s construction, and I am happy to believe her.
Gee, I hope I can determine which computer keyboard is the new one and which is the old one. I know: I’ll follow the Yellow Key Grime.
Today, I’ve been rounding up the holiday neckwear to store until next year’s Christmas season. The ties and bow ties are now hibernating peacefully in their storage bins, out in the garage. As I’ve mentioned previously, there is no more room in the Tie Room to hold my holiday neckwear year-round. I think of the seasonal neckwear in the garage as living in an elite, festive, planned retirement community. I prefer that to thinking of them as shunned and cast out from the Tie Room. I do check on them every couple of months during their hibernation period. It’s a habit I have.
During the storing o’ the merry neckwear this afternoon, I did find a casualty. It’s my Make Your Own Ugly Christmas Tie o’ the Day pal. A few years ago, I glued X-mas objects to it all by myself, as anyone can see. I even glued google eyes to Tie’s “knot, ” so it could have a face. I don’t know where they googled to. I found and saved two pom-pom balls that fell off at a Christmas party last year. Tie is missing other stuff, as well. It is kind of funny to see the glue spots left behind after objects have made their escape. But Tie expired from natural causes today, after I made the decision it was time to cease all resuscitation efforts. It is now whole, I am sure, in the Great Tie Heaven Beyond.
Note that I had a Ties.com box, which was totally appropriate and tie-sized— to lay to rest my home-made Tie o’ the Day.
We haven’t put together a puzzle in years, but for some unknown reason I got the puzzle bee in my bonnet about 3 weeks ago. Since then, we have assembled 6. We aren’t tired of puzzling thus far.
This was one of those mystery puzzles where you read a fictional story of an unsolved murder, then you put the puzzle together— without knowing what the assembled picture is supposed to look like. The completed puzzle picture contains clues which aid you in your search for the fictional murderer.
Imagine my surprise when an untied Tie o’ the Day came together in the lower left corner of the puzzle. It’s even adorned with a diamond tie pin. It was kismet!
And just for your information, Tie o’ the Day was not the culprit.
