Snoopy and Woodstock Easter Tie o’ the Day is pleased to report that I am getting used to the weekday head-thumping I’m getting from the TMS electromagnetic gadgetry. It’s shooting into my noggin with the same intensity as it has been since I began the treatments, but I’m acclimating to it to the point that it feels more like annoying discomfort on my skull, as opposed to weird pain. That’s a good thing.
Every few-second series of zapping makes my eyes and forehead twitch a bit while it’s going on. I am NOT pulling faces in these pix. I tried to snap my face in some mid-twitches, but I didn’t catch the bilgiest spasms, cuz it’s tough to take selfies of your twitching eyes when your eyes are twitching. I’ll keep trying my best to catch my inner spaz.
Sloggers o’ the Day offer flowers and butterflies. And Sasquatch/Bigfoot wears its own Socks– from bigfootsockco.com.
[Yup, I’m still working on the me-and-TMS post I’ve promised to write. For some reason, I’m finding it difficult to talk about my current bipolar speed bumps. Heck, I post about everything on the planet, with no hesitation whatsoever. But wherever my head is at right now, I’m tongue-tied. Don’t worry. I’ll be yapping about every last detail of my mental health history– before you can say LOONY BIN.]
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.
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 Â 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.)
This is how my hairs look when I take off the beanie I have to wear during my current bipolar-management treatments. The short version is this: I am doing a 36-
session treatment regimen of Transcranial Magnetic Stimulation (TMS). It is also known as “shock therapy, lite,” but instead of the seizure-creating electrodes of ECT, I get an electromagnetic coil attached to my beanied noggin. The coil creates a magnetic field that shoots pulses into the “mood control” area of my brain, to hopefully stimulate feelings that are more level than the extremes I experience. But let me tell ya loudly and clearly: “Pulses” is the wrong word. I’ve never before experienced any kind of “pulse” that repeatedly pecked and pounded like a mini jackhammer at a tiny section of my hairs, skull, and brain– resulting in bigly pain. I might as well buy a woodpecker and duct tape it to my left shoulder, so it can attack the side of my head. It would certainly be a lot less expensive than TMS. I receive one treatment per weekday. 3 treatments down, 33 to go.
I wore my superhero lightning bolts Bow Tie o’ the Day to this morning’s TMS appointment. I figured it will keep me safe and aid me and the electromagnet in my fight for a pair of level-colored glasses. I placed my saddle purse (Purse o’ Every Day?) directly in my line of sight, so no one could pilfer it. Plus, I got to stare at the purse’s adorable-osity. Gazing at my purse got me through my pesky, pecky session o’ “pulses.”
It’s not an issue of codependence. It’s not that I can’t handle being in my own company. It is not that I can’t fill up my time with my own whims o’ plenty. But when Suzanne is out of town, I’m not quite totally “home”– even in my own house. Even while wearing Tie o’ the Day, I feel a kind of homesickness when I’m a bachelorette for a day or so. I walk around the entire time checking my pockets, looking through my notes, and generally feeling like I’m forgetting something significant. It happens every damn time Suzanne ventures off. The feeling is slightly irritating. It’s like a ghost pain. But I sort of like it. I know it will go away. I’ll find what I’m missing, as soon as Suzanne flies back to SLC International Airport Wednesday afternoon.
The last two years before Suzanne and I sold the Delta house, I spent most of my time alone there in Delta hanging with Mom. Suzanne spent time there when she could. At times when I was there alone, I felt like I wasn’t even wearing my own skin. I didn’t feel like my authentic self without Suzanne around to participate in my antics, or call me on my whatever-I-need-to-be-called-on. That was in my hometown, on my “home block,” in the midst of my family– next door to my mother. With all that homey-ness, I still wasn’t exactly ME. Not without my superior half.
Oh, I know who I am and how I am. I can more than competently take care of myself. I’m perfectly content with my own thoughts and games. I’m an independent gal. I don’t pout, or weep, or wail, or moan, or gnash my teeth. In fact, I don’t have a clue what it means to gnash one’s teeth. How exactly does one do that? It’s just that my inner GPS is a bit skiwampus when I’m on my own. I don’t really worry about it though. That little off-kilter feeling I feel when I’m on my own is what lets me know I’m creating a life and home with the right person. I’ll feel at home and on-kilter again when I pick up Suzanne and her bags at the airport Wednesday.
And then, that evening we will be feeling at home together at the P!NK concert in SLC. I’ve already packed my earplugs in my saddle purse for the bigly event.
BTW In keeping with the “home” theme of this post, I wanted my selfie to show me wearing a tie or bow tie showcasing a “home.” I discovered I don’t own a piece of “home” neckwear, so I’m wearing a “gnome” tie. At least the words rhyme.
These pix are re-posted from a couple of years ago, but I just had to use them again because of what happened to me early this morning.
This is my version of the “old man in the hat” driver. (At least, here he has a Tie o’ the Day.) You know the guy I’m talking about. He’s the old guy who drives a car larger than a barge. He’s the guy who isn’t quite sure where he’s driving. He’s the guy right in front you, but you can’t pass him cuz he can’t decide which lane he needs to be in, so he’s gliding from one lane to the other. Either his blinker is constantly on, or he doesn’t use a blinker at all. He brakes hard, and often, on the freeway for no apparent reason. At least he drives at a crawl so if he does hit someone his car can’t do too much damage. His creeping driving does not, however, keep wrecks from happening around him when drivers become afraid and disoriented while trying to decipher what he’ll do next.
I was reminded of the guy this morning as I was driving home from the airport after dropping Suzanne off for a flight to Portland. (Nope, I didn’t hitch a ride on the plane this time. Too short a trip.) I was driving home on Legacy Parkway, and I spied the bigly electronic, traffic message signs. Unless there’s a catastrophe on the road ahead, the signs usually display a catchy safe-driving message. This morning’s was timely. It said, APRIL FOOLS’ DAY PRANK: DRIVE THE SPEED LIMIT FOR ONCE.
I’ve done a ton of driving in a ton of places, and I have learned one thing is consistent: If you drive the speed limit, people will flip you off. The speed limit is considered too slow everywhere you go. It never fails. But after I saw the sign this morning, I decided I should try doing it again, just to see if drivers have become kinder and gentler recently. Nope. I got flipped off twice. And I got a dirty look from a cop.
I have always liked to vacuum. There’s something inherently satisfying about pushing around a noisy machine and watching dog fur, crumbs, and dry mud disappear– VOILA!– from the carpet. In fact, when I was earning bucks during school breaks– while working on my Master’s at the U of U– I often worked with Mom’s custodial crew in the IPP Administration Building, on the swing-shift. My job was to conquer the floors. I vacuumed. I swept. I mopped. I buffed. Buffing was my favorite. (If I ever take up a new hobby, it will be buffing floors.) My IPSC floors and stairs were pristine when I left that building at midnight. With my Walkman blaring Bruce Springsteen and Cyndi Lauper into my headphones, I had a fabulous and clean time.
But today, for some reason, I couldn’t get myself in the mood to do the vacuum dance with the Shop-Vac on the stairs, which my the Honey-Do List I made for myself said I better accomplish. I have found that when I have to do housework I’m not in the mood to do, it helps me to gussy-up in a swell outfit– in which I then parade around the house doing my duties like I’m on a fashion show catwalk. So that’s what I did. And yes, argyle Tie o’ the Day and I sang a duet of the 1991 song by RIGHT SAID FRED as I did it. Sing with me, people: “I’m too sexy for my shirt/ Too sexy for my shirt/ So sexy it hurts/…. ‘Cause I’m a model, you know what I mean/ And I do my little turn on the catwalk/…On the catwalk, yeah/ I shake my little tush on the catwalk.” And so on.
I cannot believe I even remember that song. I disliked it decades ago when I first heard it, and I still don’t like it. There are so many other songs– and a zillion other things– I would like my brain cells to remember. But no– I’m stuck remembering this piece of trite crapola song. Why do our brains remember hideous stuff that we wish we had never crossed paths with in the first place, while our brains forget important information like our blood type? It kind of makes you wonder how smart our brains can really be, if that’s how they insist on functioning.
To be fair, my mind remembers plenty of info I want to keep. For example, I always remember my fave scripture and where to find it (Mosiah 2:17). I’m surprised by how often that clump of scripture has come in handy throughout my life. My mind also holds on to plenty of vital trivia. I’m surprised how trivia comes in almost as handy as the scripture does. Who wouldn’t want to know President Franklin Delano Roosevelt’s dog’s name was Fala? Now that’s a keeper piece of trivia!
Come to think of it, my memory’s “working-properly section” is most likely full of only scriptures, trivia, visions of neckwear, and dogs’ names. And that suits me just fine.
BTW Yes, I did get our stairs vacuumed this afternoon. I can at least cross one task off today’s Honey-do List.
Skitter and I haven’t gotten out of our pajamas yet, but we have donned our smiley Ties o’ the Day. We are happy clams this morning, and we expect to have a grin on our faces all dang day. That’s our goal. Ties will lead us merrily through our day of vacuuming and writing. Oh, about wearing my John Deere Hat o’ the Day for the second day in a row: It is my go-to hat when I can’t quite decide which of my gaggle of hats best un-matches what I’m wearing. The hat’s green-and-pink plaid generally makes effective clash no matter what duds I sport.
People have asked me if Skitter minds being a neckwear model in my posts– you know, since she’s skittish about everything on and in the earth, as well as in the heavens above it. Let me just say this: Skitter tolerates it. She’s not askeered of modeling neckwear, but she simply doesn’t understand what the neckwear photos and ensuing fuss are all about. I have often heard her mutter under her breath, “What the gobstoppers is up with this?”
Skitter is unaware she’s a star. She also doesn’t know that even our readers wonder what the gobstoppers the posts are all about. The posts just show up on the website, or on Facebook, or in their email. People read them or don’t read them. And still, I write posts and poetry. And still, Skitter watches me while I plunk away on my laptop. And still, even I have no clue what’s up with this venture, or where it will lead me. (Suzanne says there’s a book in it. I will cogitate on that.)
Things don’t have to have a clear purpose. Experiencing them– and deciding to find personal meaning in them– is plenty more than enough reason to engage in pursuits that interest us, no matter how odd those interests might be to others. Or even to ourselves.
I have always been The Grocery Shopper. It’s one of my housewifey chores. For the first few weeks after my surgery last summer, Suzanne was the one who had to regularly go to the store. The horror! Because Suzanne doesn’t grocery shop, she is a total comedy of errors when she tries to complete the task. She has no idea where items are located. It takes her an hour to do ten minute’s worth of shopping, and she gets a two-mile walk as she tries to figure out the aisles, while attempting to decipher the unreadable list I give her.
When she’s on the hunt at Dick’s, she sends me a boatload of texts. It’s as if she’s on a treasure hunt for food and she needs clues. In fact, when she’s at Dick’s, we text more than when she’s at work or out of town. And Suzanne is so unenlightened about how to correctly use the self-checkout line that she knows to not even try. It’s a fiasco. Suzanne is brilliant, but not in the self-checkout-line way.
Anyhoo… A few days ago, I didn’t feel like leaving the house, and I needed a grocery or two and some stoopid prescriptions from the pharmacy. I texted Suzanne at her office and said, “Hey, on your way home from an extra-late day at work, will you please add to your overtime by stopping at Dick’s for my Diet Coke and my meds?” I don’t even have to tell her I’m having one of my bipolar days. I don’t have to tell her I couldn’t handle leaving the house and going to Dick’s myself, even though it’s only a block away. If I ask her to go to the grocery store, she knows. And she also knows to not know exactly what I’ll be like when she gets home. The only question in her brain is which side I’ll be on: Will I be manic or depressed? She’s used to both.
While at the store that evening, Suzanne bought me this bouquet of flowers from the we’re-trying-to-get-rid-of-these-almost-dead-flowers section of the floral arrangements. They were discounted. That’s how Suzanne and I both roll. We are not tightwads with our bucks, but we are thrifty. As we know, it’s the thought that counts– with some things, but not all. She knew I would be double happy with this bouquet because it was both a bargain, and– despite its near-deadness– it was still kinda pretty. Blue and tan Tie o’ the Day thought so too.
I thought of this bunch o’ flowers as I think of the Charlie Brown Christmas tree: pathetic and in need of love. It’s cute, in its own way. When she put them in the vase, Suzanne pulled out the really, really dead flowers and threw them in the garbage. I rescued them and stuck them back in. Suzanne wasn’t happy about that, but I was– so she let it go. They were for me, you know.
The second photo was taken fifteen minutes after the first one. The flowers did not suffer long. I can prove that’s exactly what happened. See, I’m wearing the same shirt and same Tie o’ the Day in both pictures. There’s absolutely no way I could fake that. It’s not like I could wear the same attire for a photo a week later. You know it’s against my clash fashion rules to wear the same exact outfit twice– ever! And I am not a rule-breaker. 😉 🤡
I got distracted by the Roxy and Skitter pix I ran onto yesterday. Enjoy a few more photos. The last picture presented here is of the night before we put Roxy Lou to sleep. She was confused and weak, and Skitter did not leave her side. There’s also a photo of Mom asleep on our couch, with Roxy and Skitter sleeping against her legs. Next post will be a “normal” one– complete with neckwear and my yammering on and on about some topic or other.
