August 10, 2010

Taking a Walk on the Wild Side

For the past two years, we have vacationed at my father's lake house. When he first purchased the place 20+ years ago, we came all the time - in the winter, every summer weekend, every summer holiday weekend, whenever we could.

But life changed and so did taking journeys three hours from home. I ceased to be a consultant and opened a retail store with my sister. My husband decided to become self-employed. We brought a bouncing baby boy into the world, and he grew to have weekend plans - sports, etc - that kept us from these short getaways.

And then life changed again. Last year, August yawned in front of us, and we filled it with a fantastic vacation at the lake. And then, this year, we did it again.

Many years ago, I was captured by a quote in a book I was reading about the suburbs. The author's message was that most places are named after the things that were demolished to make the human environs. Her case in point was a subdivision in Baltimore named "Babbling Brook Estates", where there wasn't a water source in sight.

The little road that my father's lake house sits on is named "Red Fox Run", and I've never seen a red fox near it. I've seen deer, squirrels, rabbits, chipmunks, turtles, ducks, heron, fish and horseflies. And, just a few nights ago, we saw a bobcat not a mile from here on a back road. (Click here to witness our other bobcat sighting even closer to home.)

The lower side of Red Fox Run is filled with the things humans seem to need - houses, driveways, garages, docks, grills, boats - while the upper side is full of all that is green. I can barely walk the dog every day without seeing something totally new that I missed on all the previous walks. The place hums with activity and makes you feel like you can breathe a little deeper even on 90 degree days that are pushing 80% humidity.

The past two years have seen our small family of three visiting here a bit more; we're increasing our yearly average like all good teams. We're not here as much as in the distant past, but just enough for me to yearn for more. Not the way it was, just more. And more often.

July 30, 2010

Pool Party

This photo captures perfectly why a 45-year-old woman has her birthday party at a pool. And she does so every year.

I am that 45-year-old woman. Nothing makes me happier than children at a pool. These are my children. I was in hospital rooms holding their parents when they were born. I was at their first birthday parties. I was the friend who was called when their parents were at their wits' end. To them, I am Lala and Sloanie and Aunt Sloane. I love them all deeply.

Birthdays are awesome, but pool parties with children are out of this world. I find that I have infinite patience when I am soaking in chlorinated water in bright sunshine. I will play "monkey in the middle" and throw gutter balls for hours. I will stand with my feet at the distance of my shoulders and be a "bridge" that can be swum through. I will throw diving sticks in random formation for "lung capacity competitions". I will be an "island" in deep water for kids to cling to, and I will always hoot and holler for dives and impressive jumps from a diving board - the low one or the high one. I will do all these things, and not just on my birthday.

And, on non-party days when I'm at the pool for R&R, I can easily fall asleep on a lounger to the sounds of children splashing. General pool noise can lull me into a welcome nap.

My friend Andy said it perfectly this year when he stated, "Weren't we just here?" And I shared his pain with how fast the years are rolling around for all of us. I cherish my day at the pool with my family, and I soak up every minute of it.

July 17, 2010

Lucky Update

Last weekend, I wasn't able to attend what I just knew was going to be a fantastic fundraising event. The Coterie Theatre holds their annual fundraiser every year in early July, and it always seems to collide with my husband's family reunion. I have never been able to go. Ever.

Photo courtesy of Jeff's dad

I was there in spirit. stuff trumped me, though: stuff was there in the form of two foot tall fully-lit carnival letters. I've written about them before, but the back story on how these letters became a part of the Lucky Lounge at the Coterie event is one of my favorites to tell.

My friend Jeff Church is the Producing Artistic Director at Coterie Theatre, and I met him for the first time 13 years ago in the T-shirt sales tent at AIDS Walk. Here was this happy, smiling man who had sparkling eyes, and he was very spirited and passionate about the cause. I immediately liked him. I've learned, as the years have gone by, that the tent he has worked in every year at the Walk is know for its "early in the day" cocktails. The tent I work in features Lamar's donuts and Jell-o shots; his serves mimosas, bloody Mary’s, etc. Maybe that explains a bit of his "spirit", but probably not.

So...early in 2009 I was out in front of the store setting up a new window with Casey. Jeff walked by and stopped in his tracks - and not just to talk. He was mesmerized by the letters Casey was hanging on the other side of the glass. He mentioned right then that the Coterie was doing a show in summer 2010 called "Lucky Duck". He wondered out loud what the possibility was of borrowing these letters for their fundraiser in 2010. Now, here is where retailers and theatre producers are a bit different. Retailers see 12 months ahead, and theatre directors go even farther, planning whole seasons of shows 18 months in advance. He sees seats full of people at great shows taking away great memories, and we see everything we bring in walking out the door in the hands of happy customers.

I said, "No problem." I knew it was highly likely that we would sell the letters long before then, but I was certain we could order in what we needed to fulfill his wish.

One month later, I was sitting in one of the Coterie's sold out shows and knew a call to Jeff was in my future. I wasn't looking to talk to the top dog because I was having a bad experience - not at all. I was just right then needing to know if stuff could borrow some of the set pieces and backdrops from "The Breakfast Club" when the set was struck.

The very next day on the phone, he said, "No problem."

Our back to school window last fall was amazing, and his event last weekend was successful. I adore Jeff. Our friendship suffers from no problems.

July 14, 2010

Ellen G

A few days ago, I posted a blog about the weird connections my brain makes when I see something curious. (Poisonous Snakes = My Love Life). It made me giggle. But, in case you think I don't also make happy connections upon random discoveries at rest stops, here is another quick connect from my travels this summer.

Vases of Flowers at a Rest Stop in Paducah, Kentucky = Ellen G.

Ellen is one of our amazing stuff team members. Her life plans include working for us until we (she, Sloane and I) are in need of false teeth and walkers. And our life plans include her keeping that promise.

Ellen is an avid gardener. She finds limitless joy in her garden, and she has the gardener hands to prove it. She is also a kind, warm, thoughtful and sharing woman with limitless generosity, so, if you work at stuff, on your birthday you will always find a small vase of flowers from her garden waiting for you.

I have no doubt that a person with a soul as good as Ellen's is spending time at the Whitehaven Welcome Center, Historic Site and Rest Stop.

July 11, 2010

Glue Gun Gary & The Vickster

Yesterday, I was hanging out at Starfish Co. in Cortez, Florida, having one of my all-time favorite meals - the Shrimp Box with extra hushpuppies, an order of clams to start, and a cold Corona Light with lime. I was half-heartedly reading a Country Living magazine (damp and wrinkled from being shoved in the bottom of the beach bag all morning) when I happened upon a feature about rope decorative items. And I was struck with a great memory of my dad and his sidekick in life, "The Vickster" (my stepmom).

Yup, my dad has a knack for interiors, and he loves to use adhesives. And my stepmom is addicted to home magazines.

It was many, many years ago when my dad purchased a lake home at the Lake of the Ozarks in Missouri for our family to enjoy. And I learned at that time that it is pretty common to buy vacation homes furnished.

Now, how do I put this nicely? This home was not furnished with the "Simmons Aesthetic". There was a whole lot of brown - and not the "good" brown. But who in the world is going to march out and buy all new furnishings for a weekend lake home for use by a family of adult children, their kids, your friends, and a small kennel of dogs? Not this handy dude.

My dad took it upon himself to whip that place into shape. With family labor, he managed to paint everything he could in white, off-white and cream. He broke down and re-carpeted the joint (again off-white - not a popular choice with the family, but it did brighten the place up). After he gave a bunch of junk away (designers call this "editing"), he was ready for some decorative character.

So he went out and bought a huge amount of raw rope and his favorite adhesive for the job, and he meticulously (he does everything meticulously) wrapped and glued the rope around a large vase-like lamp that was pretty darned awful looking. No doubt with plenty of "guidance" from his trusty pardner. And I'll be damned if it didn't turn out great. Who knew it could have been featured in Country Living magazine?

If memory serves, I did hear him admit that it would have been cheaper to buy a new lamp, since it took a lot more rope than he initially thought. And I think I heard him mumble, "I will never do that again." But what's the fun in that?

I promise to get a photo of the rope lamp for y'all soon. But, in the meantime, I'm on island time.

July 10, 2010

Beware of Poisonous Snakes

I love to travel. The sheer randomness of where my mind wanders fascinates me. I saw this sign at a rest stop and thought it was funny.

I went back to the car to get my camera. And, as I was taking the shot, all I could think about was my love life.

July 2, 2010

And Vice Versa

It's an age-old dilemma...does art mimic nature, or does nature mimic art?

Today, while reading my July National Geographic magazine, I was unable to get past the article about the bower birds of Australia. It was mesmerizing and amazing at the same time. It struck me that these birds must share studio space with Andy Goldsworthy. My sister Casey has been on an Andy Goldsworthy binge lately, so he's been in the forefront of my mind by professional and general sisterly osmosis.

My age-old dilemma, however, has been this: How am I going to afford to visit all the places in the world and see all the places and things that must be seen with the human eye - like bower birds in their habitat?

Wow. Thank God for magazines.

June 30, 2010

It's All In The Details

Casey and I would never knowingly put someone on a pedestal. The view can skew your perception; the fall can be perilous, and it can make you a target. That said...

Last week we held a private party at stuff after hours. It was an event that had been bid on at a charity auction, and it included a catered, sit-down dinner within the walls of the store. The evening was beyond fun, and the participants left very happy. Casey and I were the only staff on hand, and we had personally set the table for the magic that was to arrive an hour before the event.

And arrive it did. Jo Marie Scaglia, owner of The Mixx restaurants, had partnered with us for this donation, and she delivered the multiple courses herself. You can kick us now, because we got too busy to take pictures of the actual food at table. (But don't hit the bruises we have from kicking ourselves, because we are starting to heal!)

It was so gorgeous, you didn't want to lift a spoon or fork to disturb it. It was fresh, crunchy, savory, healthy and delicious. It was seasonal, and all dishes were served at room temperature because the day had been so hot. Jo Marie told us about how she took all of that into consideration when she planned the menu the morning of the event. She not only cares deeply about the properties of the food you eat, but she thinks presentation matters. And it does.

The lucky people who spent that evening dining and shopping couldn't stop raving. It was the kind of food you didn't want to stop eating; they were nibbling until they left - four hours after their arrival.

We placed Jo Marie and her restaurant on the Plaza on our all-time favorites list the first time we ate there the week she opened a few years ago. The talented team under her leadership has never let us down, and we crave it constantly.

We are delighted she's our friend and even happier that she keeps us well fed. We'll never place her on a pedestal, but we will sing her praises.

Dang, her food is good.

PS...We've had a few things to say about The Mixx in past blogs. Check this one out.

June 29, 2010

Collecting

These images from Veranda Magazine this month got me thinking. Not just that I love the Zulu wire work, which I do. It got me thinking about collecting and about the fact that I collected items when I was younger with wild abandon. As I've gotten older, I've edited those collections by either ridding myself of the collection entirely or by purchasing in a more calculated fashion. My husband and I jokingly blame it on “the kid” - braces, team sports, food, piano lessons, and all of his varied expenses. If I'm honest, I think we've just slowed a bit and are more educated.

I'm still wild for blue and white transferware "state plates" and always have my eye open. I'm still crazy for hand-embroidered pillowcases. And, hands down, I will never have enough handpainted dishware from the Deruta region of Italy. Ever. And glazed blue pots. And split oak baskets from the Ozarks. And....

I check up on a few blogs daily. If you are a collector, check out collectionaday2010.blogspot.com. The way each daily selection is presented is visually very stimulating, but what overwhelms me is when the description says "part of a larger collection".

That's when the minimalist in me overrules the collector.

June 8, 2010

Happy Handbag

We recently held our first ever essay contest at stuff. We thought it would be a great way to have some fun and hear stories from our customers. I believe our store is a special place. I hear about people's lives every day. Their triumphs, sorrows and joys are entrusted to us. It has always been this way.

Many years ago, a woman started visiting the store often. At first she kept to herself. She was suffering inside - you could see and feel it - but she was always pleasant, kind and thoughtful toward us and our other customers. As time went on she shared that her daughter was in a coma. And she was buying gifts for her to open when she woke.

During each visit, we learned more about her, her daughter and her fears. But she was never negative, pitiful or selfish. She gave me a priceless gift. She reminded me that everyone has pain. That everyone is tired. That everyone has a story to share, and many of those stories are filled with fear, loss and pain.

One of our Happy Handbag essay contest winners.

Our essay contest invited people to write an essay explaining "Why I Deserve a Happy Handbag". The responses were breathtaking. I read every essay more than once. I struggled with how to make my picks. I shared some of the stories (anonymously) with friends. I witnessed bravery in each story and a willingness to reach out to others and share some of the most difficult times of their lives. I was overwhelmed. I searched for inspiration on how to pick only two from this stack of very personal and revealing stories.

It was then that I remembered the woman whose daughter had been in a coma. I remembered her extraordinary ability to smile, laugh and be joyful while faced with such an impossible situation. She would radiate with hope. Her hope and faith was so limitless, she would leave a wave of hope and faith behind each time she left the store to return to her daughter's side.

I looked again at the invitation and re-read the essays to find the type of triumph, happiness, courage, laughter, belief, hope, faith and humor that I watched drag a young woman from a coma so many years ago. And that is how I cast my vote.

I have always been humbled by the willingness of people to share their stories. I have found more inspiration from them than they will ever get from me. I thank everyone who took the time to write to us and I wish for all of them to find happiness. And I believe, if they each dig deep enough, they will find it at the bottom of their very own handbag.

To the winners: I was inspired by your positivity. It was quite contagious.

And, finally, am forever thankful to have been at work the day our store friend brought her daughter to our store to meet us. The memory of that day will always bring me happiness.

June 6, 2010

Escapism

I swam on Monday in a deep blue pool and realized, like I do every summer, that I was home. It was my first time in deep blue this year, and I was in heaven. I splashed with my niece and tossed a ball with my son in waist deep water. Then I dried off on a lounger next to my best man. I could tell that my husband had to have gotten a wee bit tired of me mentioning all the ways that I was happy - a happiness I hold deep all winter long.

I have been escaping to pools since I was a pre-teen. I'm sure I dove into our pool at home thinking I was under great stress at 14. Whatever. Our family, like most, has had our fair share of challenges, troubles and loss since those easy summer days. The summer after my youngest sister died, my son was only a year old. It's little wonder he's such a greater swimmer now, because I gave him no choices as we loaded into the car almost every day that summer and made the trek to our public pool. Some days we were there for only an hour, and some days we were there for much longer while he napped for several hours. I spent those hours healing myself with quick dips in the water when the heat of my memories and the sun became too intense. I watched him sleep in the stroller, and I got lost in the din of other people's children and their splashes.

This was all during the first several years of stuff. Casey was working her butt off every day of the week, except Sunday, when I was in charge. In addition, I worked during the week when my son was sleeping - or when he was peaceful enough to work "with" me in a retail environment, which wasn't much. And I was in charge of all errands and chores that could be accomplished at 30 miles an hour with the little dear strapped into a car seat.

Casey and I had decided at that point to continue the corporate consulting that we had brought with us to stuff from our previous careers. Over the first six summers of stuff's life, the trade-off, in my book, for Casey working 6 days a week at stuff was me working the four summer months with the United Autoworkers and the Ford Motor Company. I was the lead developer and implementer for their joint special events and projects at the Claycomo Auto Plant here in Kansas City. It was exciting, fun and exhausting. We were building our dream business, I was building a family, and we were continuing to hone our consulting skills.

This painting by Lori Buntin is a prominent part of the new window we
installed at STUFF this week. There is one detail of the window that will
make you smile after you read this blog. Come and see it.

Most days were a blur during those summer months with my baby/toddler/little man - those months were crucial to our new business, but I nevertheless escaped to the pool and cooled off mentally and physically. It was then that I realized for the first time that stress can't swim. It runs screaming from the hot concrete and waits in the nether regions. Upon further research, I found out stress can't even float. This form of dedicated scientific research involved me floating on my back with my ears under the water and my eyes looking skyward. It is a divine was to spend a few minutes, and is something I do every summer when the sky is truly blue enough. I can swim by myself for hours and be happy, but put my teenage son in the mix and I'm beyond contented.

As our son's love of the water has increased, so has mine. I thought it would be impossible for me to love it more. But I guess there is a kernel of truth in those old sayings about how much the human heart can hold.

Mine can hold the Pacific Ocean. And maybe the Atlantic, too.

June 2, 2010

To Covet, Not To Envy

I gave up on envying hair and hair styles when I stopped paying for very smelly perms that I thought would make me look like Andi McDowell. Twenty years have passed since I tried curly hair, and I've managed without the help of a therapist.

But coveting is something I have not grown beyond.

I don't have to look too far up either side of my family tree to see grey hair. One grandmother had what some have called a "skunk stripe" when grey hair came along, and the other grandmother I never knew as any way but natural silver grey. Both, at the end of their lives, were true silver, and it was lovely when cancer didn't leave it patchy. My grandfathers were silver, but mostly bald - or closely shaved - and my father has been slowly introducing more salt to the pepper for quite a while. My mother has dabbled with hair color for many years, I believe, and she does it very well. But it's my sister, Casey, that has carried grey hair to what I see as a pinnacle.

Her hair is amazing and totally natural. Part silver and part brown with remnants of blonde. She stopped all chemicals when she was pregnant and has never looked back. I think she looks like a super model of the Ralph Lauren and Sundance variety, but I'm one of her greatest fans and am possibly a tiny bit biased.

This past Friday, I joined the ranks. My friend, John, said over the sink before cutting my hair, "Oh my gosh, you have grey hair, and quite a bit of it." I took him by surprise when I said, "Awesome," and I know the surprise continued around the room as I looked at the faces of those in the other chairs. I'm not so naive as to think that my wanting grey hair has put a stop to the multi-million dollar hair coloring industry. It was the next comment he made that was the icing on the cake for me: "You know, grey hair is thicker than all the others." Imagine my luck! I got my wish for grey hair and thick hair in one trip to the beauty salon! Can you imagine what I'll be like if the grey hair comes in curly, too?

Nope. Not my hair.


Nope. Not my sister.

Yes. I can admit it right here in "group": I have coveted my sister's hair for going on five years. I have even coveted strangers' hair as I have moved through my daily life. I even walked up to a total stranger at the convention center in New York, told this woman I really like her hair, and asked if she colored it. The answer was No, but I think I already knew that because it looked authentic. (And, yes, you can just tell.) Our conversation continued for a few minutes, with me finally asking the question my sister had prodded me to ask before setting me free: "Did you live as a brunette or a blonde before grey set in?"

She had been both. First blonde, then brunette. With a stranger in my camp, and with my family there as well, I'm on my way to happy times.

I can't wait to see how this turns out.

May 12, 2010

Tribal Instincts

The school my son attends had a policy, when he was starting out there, that no seats could be held at musical programs. "Come and claim a seat for yourself early, but don't save any for others" was the open invitation. At the time, the school was still sharing a stage in the building of its neighbor church, and these rules served a purpose. I guess. I really wouldn't know, because for years I surreptitiously laid my scarf / jacket / briefcase across six or seven chairs to attempt to hold seats for our son's supportive and extended family. Divorce may divide families, but it acts as a multiplication factor when it's time to sit and listen. Yet, six or seven was never enough; some of us still stood. I took major ribbing from many factions, but I never received a citation, and the school never threw my kid out of school. (Questioning authority runs deep in me. I push most boundaries gently.)

You see, our son has been raised by a village. A village that loves him deeply and supports everything he has set his mind and body to, and that village shows up in force to his performances, games and recitals.

Just this past Tuesday, he performed his semi-annual piano recital at semester's end, and 13 people from his village showed up to quietly cheer him on. His tribe, his people. It's remarkable, really. My parents have been divorced for over 25 years; they show up at all their grandkids' events when possible, sit next to each other, and speak rather easily between themselves. I know this behavior is exceptional when I mention it to friends whose parents are divorced and I learn how they have to "divvy up" the school event calendar as to which parents will attend which event. That way, the grandchildren can't see or feel the simmering emotions. I can't imagine what that's like, and I'm reminded that I live in grace in this category of my family life.

Last week, we attended my niece's vocal music show at school - the school she shares with my son. With the new stage in our new building, the rules for saving seats seems to have weakened and isn't spoken as vociferously. I did notice that my sister was ultimately unable to "save a seat" for my husband's and my late arrivals that day. And I can guess why: the ribbing got too intense, and she gave up what she'd laid claim to. I've been there. I know all about it.

People have jokingly said - and still say - to me, "Well, you can't say he's not loved," or, “Is there anyone you didn't invite?” or, “Wow. For an only child, he packs 'em in!” Each time, I just smile, say little, never apologize, and know in my soul that our tribe runs in a pack and invests everything in its young.

I wouldn't have it any other way.

May 8, 2010

Motherhood

I am blessed with a beautiful daughter.

During my first month of motherhood, I had the realization that I had missed my calling. Motherhood came naturally for me. It just felt right the minute she was laid on my swollen belly. I looked at her and whispered, "It's you and me kid."

I was very, very, very lucky to take to motherhood so easily. Don't get me wrong - I was sleep-deprived, questioning, reading and learning like every new mom. But for me it just felt comfortable...deep in my core. I had never felt that way before. Every other challenge in my life had always come with sweaty hands, sleepless nights and anxiety. Motherhood for me did not.

Less than a year later, my marriage incinerated and I became a single mother. And, even though I was grieving deeply at the loss of my marriage, I never missed a beat with mothering. How to parent alone was never a worry. How to live, finance our life and plan alone was a different story.

But mothering brought me peace. I almost resented my other responsibilities if they took me away from my daughter. I had to learn to find balance. You see...when you find your calling and at the same time realize you missed the boat by about ten years, all you have left is to find balance. That peace came with time and the loving support of my amazing family and friends.

As Mother's Day quickly approaches, I find myself laughing at the idea that my child is supposed to do something for me. She is the gift. She is one that has given my life purpose, clarity, peace and wisdom.

Every time I used to toss a penny in a wishing well I would wish for "true love". I didn't know then that it would come in such a lovely little package.

Happy Mother's Day.

May 7, 2010

Prom Night

Spring 1981.

It's true: I married they guy I went to prom with in high school. I only went to one prom, and I've only had one husband. I like the simplicity of that.

When our son was taking our photo in the neighbor's yard before we jetted off to DIFFA's "Dining by Design" last weekend, he smarmily stated, "It's like Parent Prom." He has a fantastic dry humor, and this aside had me smiling for several blocks as we headed downtown. And the next day, that same comment had me digging for a high school treasure, finally found in a frame in the guest bedroom.

What struck me the most about the two photos I've included in this reminiscence is that the back story for each one is almost the same - something old, something new.

Spring 2010.

In the photo from 1981, I'm wearing a dress I permanently borrowed from my mother's closet. It was a stunning Ralph Lauren cotton dress that I couldn't get enough of but only wore once. I followed a simple aesthetic then and stayed with pearl earrings and ballet flats. I can vividly remember that the boutonnière itched like crazy on my fair skin and left me with a rash. My husband is wearing a tuxedo that was his father's. He had spent time at the tailor having the original garments trimmed down to a size he didn't swim in. They were "tails" and I found it amazing.

In the photo from last weekend, I'm wearing a fantastic jacket that had hung in my closet for a long time but needed a renaissance. It found a second life in the hands of my dear friend Jon Fulton Adams and his trusty assistant, Ron Megee. I practically wept when it was delivered. It is piece of true magic. My charming date is sporting a rented tux but the memory of his long gone father is still there in the studs on his shirt and the cufflinks at his wrist.

We hadn't sported full formal attire for almost 20 years. It was a blast for a great cause, and we were with great friends.

I liked parent prom. Very much.

Apr. 23, 2010

Blue Sofa

I have been fantasizing about blue sofas lately. After this admission, you may want to tell me to "get a life". But let's push on....

I have this overwhelming desire to donate my sofa and replace it with a blue sofa. I feed this desire occasionally by "Googling" the words "blue sofa" to look at all my choices.

This afternoon I am trying really hard to sit still - which is not easy for me (actually damned near impossible) - because I have a pesky and pretty debilitating head cold. And everyone has said, "You need to rest." So...I grabbed my laptop and headed to the sofa. Meanwhile, my amazingly wonderful daughter is covering every surface in our house with Playmobil (thanks to my nephew's recent hand-me-downs) and running around in her new blue striped dress from Boden (tags still on).

And this is how my mind works: blue dress running by + my butt on the sofa = blue sofa. I hit Google with my "blue sofa" request, and I have been window shopping ever since. Here are today's picks.

Mar. 29, 2010

Tried and Failed

Duh! LL Bean bags are the best.

I have tried for 44 years not to have a favorite color. I really have. I have, in the past few years, attempted to actually overcome a strong dislike of a certain other color, and, this winter, I may have done just that. Maybe. Okay, not so much. But I'm trying - if buying a $5 pashmina on the streets of New York in stated disliked color counts as overcoming hatred. (I think it does, because I've worn the scarf more than three times.)

Our paternal grandmother assigned us each our favorite color very early in our lives. She actually nailed it when she assigned mine, because it is my celebrated hue to this day. Casey was assigned green, and my other sister Lindsay was handed brown. Neither of those colors had been granted favorite color status by my sisters, and I know that it true still today.

A treasure from a 2007 blog. Check it out here.

When we received presents from this grandmother, we would usually all get the same gift - a toy, accessory, clothing - but in our assigned color. They were always wonderfully thought out gifts, and we loved getting them from this amazing woman.

I can admit now, however, that the 4-piece Samsonite suitcase set I received in a lighter shade of my favorite color was never treasured. It was ugly, truth be told, but so was most luggage that was purchased new in 1976. I know it set them back financially, and I can only allow myself to not feel like a complete schmuck as I bring it up now because they aren't around to see and hear their dear one be a schmuck.

I have to give myself speeches - both silent and spoken - about "breaking out" and "trying different things" in the world of color. And more than 80% of the time I fail because my taste and my eye keep landing back in my dream hues.

When new jewelry arrives at stuff from Katie Town, I quietly peruse the clip earrings and try not to reach for what I know I love from just glimpsing the color of her beads. When I am looking at bed linens, I deftly twist my way around the fabrics that sing out to me initially - due to their hue - and I tell myself that every guest room and bedroom in our house cannot, by God, be decorated in the same color. And, when I go to try on clothes, I inevitably purchase black for its durability in my lifestyle, but only after I try on piles in another, predictable color range.

Hi. My name is Sloane, and I'm addicted to my favorite color. Blue.

PS...E-mail me at SloaneAndCasey@pursuegoodstuff.com if you have a guess as to the color of the pashmina that came home with me from New York. You won't win a fabulous prize if you're right, but you'll get a warm fuzzy for being so smart.

Mar. 26, 2010

Smokin' Good

In my last blog, I alluded to our having eaten great food during our Spring Break and the fact that we did not eat on a schedule. Every spring break week is a prelude what our summer will be like - looser scheduling and eating at odd intervals.

The day that we went to Fort Osage, we drove through Buckner, Missouri. To many people, this would not be a bonus, but I had insider information garnered from a customer I had met at stuff. Right before the holidays, I struck up a conversation in the store with a woman named Tammy. She was oohing and aahing over our fully-lit, reproduction carnival letters. We talked a good long time - she mentioned needing a few of them, and we discussed all the ways Casey and I had used them in the store. Then she told me about her BBQ business in Buckner, Hawg Shed. The woman she was traveling with that day became the "rave squad" for her friend's business and regaled me with its magic. (I've seen this behavior in my own friends about stuff, and it always warms my heart that they love what I do as much as I do.) Tammy stood their quietly smiling, and I stood there with my mouth watering.

Our talking came to an end as the store filled with people. I made a promise to visit in the future, and she, jokingly, mentioned saving her pennies to buy letters to spell HAWG SHED. And then we parted ways.

I have to preface my next comments about the Hawg Shed with the fact that I was basically raised on Kansas City barbeque (and bar-be-que and BAR-B-Q and Bar-b-que and BBQ). My parents - both when they were together and since they've been apart - are barbeque junkies. I truly believe my father could eat it every day, and my mother was once a team contestant in the American Royal BBQ contest and the Lenexa BBQ Contest. Serious red sauce runs through these veins. I won't digress into the quagmire of debates over thin sauce vs. thick sauce, toasted buns vs. soft bread, etc.. I will also not profess to be an expert on barbeque myself.

So, that being said, I will tell you that Tammy's place in Buckner has the finest pulled pork I have ever consumed, and her baked beans are tops. Both were authentically smoky - no trace of smoke flavoring, one of my least favorite things on the planet. No one at our table ate anything but pork, so I can't speak to the other meat offerings. We will be going back sometime this summer when our little group of three is hungrier.

This photo perfectly reflects our lax meal schedule during Spring Break: our son had eaten breakfast and a snack, so he just had a small bowl of baked beans; my husband had only eaten breakfast, and he had the pork sandwich. I had consumed nothing all day, and, when we sat down at 3:30pm, I had the amazing Pork Nachos. My sister would have been delighted with the freshly fried corn chips. Great crunch....

Check out my little men!!

The fountain drinks were perfectly mixed, and we all left happy. The Hawg Shed has four total tables, but it has the cutest drive thru window on Highway 24! It is not much larger than a true shed, but the glimpse of the kitchen area I got showed spotless quarters. And I can tell you, having been there, that Tammy is right: the carnival letters would look "kick butt" on her building.

If you go on a weekend night, I'm told, you'd better be prepared to possibly eat in your car. They sell food by the pound, and we considered that for a few minutes but then decided that returning another time was the best option.

So, as we always do when traveling to a new place, we left a reason hanging wide open for another visit.

Mar. 24, 2010

Heavy Metal

We didn't leave the Greater Kansas City area last week during my son's Spring Break. We stayed put, slept in our own comfy beds every night, journeyed to wonderful places during the day, and ate great food at all the wrong times of the day. It was awesome.

A month or so ago, we started making a list of all the places I had, though the years, been telling our son we would see "sometime". I had been making this "sometime list" since he was old enough to read - maps, road signs, magazines, etc. Over the years, he has been known to say, "Hey, Mom, can we go to the Thomas Hart Benton Home this weekend?" or, "Mom, have I ever been to The John Wornall Home?" or, "Mom, when are we going Fort Osage?" To all of these, over many years, I have responded that yes we would go to these places but just not "right now/this weekend/soon".

So Spring Break 2010 was a journey to of all these accumulated places we've never been to as a family. A listing of it all would be boring - although none of the destinations were dull - but a real highlight was the day we traveled to Sibley, Missouri, to see Fort Osage. Find out more for yourself here. It's worth a trip. We had a ball.

And, just when I was least expecting it, one of my favorite art forms appeared - forged metal. This door lock had me transfixed, and I love the way the worn gray wood is the perfect backdrop for the metal. I was instantly reminded of all the blacksmith shops I've stood in with our son, over many vacations and just as many years, while he planted himself stock still as metal was bent with flame. (He still keeps by his bed the nail that was made right before his eyes at Monticello.)

My mind wandered while my husband took photos of the lock for me, and I thought of the new artist we are representing at stuff, George Rousis, and how his metal work has ignited keen interest in our store. We have never carried a metal smith before. Silversmiths? Yes. Steel-, iron-, and copper-smiths? Not so much. Until now. I had a discussion with a customer just before Spring Break about the balusters and balustrade that George was custom forging for their home and how "organic" they were. His eyes were lit from within as he described it to me - and I had that same look a few days later in the crisp sunshine.

Yesterday it was back to the "real world", as my son put it several years ago when vacation was over. He has returned to school. I, however, made sure I checked out George's pieces in the cabinets and on our walls at work this morning. That way, I can pretend Spring Break hasn't ended for me.

Mar. 18, 2010

Shell Art Burial

Shell art ranges from classic to kitsch, from spectacular to horrible. And I love it all.

I am a shell collector. And, though I have always talked about creating shell art, I just can't quite bring myself to give over any of my collection to the permanence of grout. (No hot glue here, folks. I think sand grout is the only way to go.)

I have always said that when I die I want my ashes and my shell collection returned to the ocean, though I can't quite see my friends and family dumping my shell art into the ocean. But wait! It isn't such a bad idea - it would help create a small reef. (Another reason to skip the hot glue.)

That's it! I am going to create my own shell art burial reef. Just take the structure, shove my body inside, haul it out into the ocean, and feed me to the fish.

Mar. 13, 2010

The Writing's on the Wall

I am officially the mother of a teenager. The first day was flawless and full of special breakfast, a "cold" lunch, a special dinner, cards, singing, small gifts from friends, phone calls from family, and an overnight with his cousin in his own bunk beds.

The inside of my sister's home,
as seen in the Kansas City Star.

I know all the days of my living with a teenager won't be like this - for him or me. I won't get cocky and think that the bad days will pass me by. Let's be serious: a working mother like myself cannot be relied upon to make "cold" lunch every day. Why do these kids think hot lunch became a reality in schools? Because, all those years ago, mothers who work inside and outside of the home had vision for a life less hectic. Or, that's my take on the situation.

What I miss the most as my child grows up is that with each passing day it seems the chance of his having one of those amazingly deep belly laughs diminishes. They're not gone; they just don't happen several times a week like they used to. We still laugh together, and he smiles all the time, but now I find myself rating the smiles like I used to rank the belly laughs.

And a few days ago my sister and her band of hooligans gave him a smile that came from so deep inside him I think it even surprised him.

You see, my sister has a concrete retaining wall on her property that faces a park. Yes she has fabulous views and an amazing home, but she also can be the victim of graffiti artists and their "tags". Tags to me are cheap imitations of the true art that graffiti artists are capable of. Where is the art in painting your signature all over midtown? But I digress....

The morning of my son's birthday, Casey was tagged. She found out about it via a phone call and immediately knew how to fix it. She became the graffiti artist she always knew she was and "fixed" what was clearly not art. Late in the afternoon, she formed what I will loosely call an "artist alliance" - her mom, her mom's partner, her daughter, and another 5-year-old - and took her spray paint for a little walk around the block. They painted an amazing and happy masterpiece that celebrated my son's birthday with a "D" and a "13".

If you want to see a teenager be happy for a very long time, graffiti a wall in his honor. Hands down, it's the best gift he's ever received, and you can see it in his smile.

Mar. 5, 2010

The Monthlies with a Side of Procrastination

Much has changed in me since Mother Nature visited me with my "monthlies" for the first time in 7th grade. Well, much has changed, and much has remained the same. Cases in point:

I was a well informed teenager - my mother saw to that. I read all the brochures she collected at the doctor's office about women's bodies. I read Our Bodies, Our Selves cover to cover. In puberty and in adulthood, I have read the little folded-up, info sheet in 6-point type with which Tampax graces its boxes - many, many times. Life has brought on its share of pregnancy scares and real pregnancies. And most women know that those last two tend to change the whole game and re-define educating yourself on menstruation.

I have been one of the lucky ones. I have never really suffered from cramps. I never really experienced PMS. It seems I have always been on a pretty regular schedule, but I have never really bothered to keep track. On several occasions, I have unexpectedly tuned in to my regularly scheduled programming when I have been focused on my own long running reality show and lost track of things. I have hysterical stories of "crisis moments" in both public and private bathrooms, where the MacGyver side of my mind never fails to step in and fabricate a feminine hygiene contraption from whatever's available. But that's a whole nuther blog....

But this past Saturday, I think my luck in avoiding PMS finally ran out, as it visited me for the first time, at 44 years of age, in a dressing room at a boutique. You see, I had waited too long to purchase an outfit for a semi-formal dinner that was to start in less than four hours. I found myself near panic from the lack of clothing options in my closet. So I got in the car and headed to one of my local clothing salvation spots - one that has seen me through most of my adult clothing crises.

Alas, every single thing I took into that tiny, poorly-lit room was ugly, and I suddenly realized that the woman standing there trying them on just didn't seem very attractive. I looked her dead in the eye, and I picked her apart. She wasn't tall enough for the one jacket. She was too wide for the one pair of pants. She was too pale for the cream sweater. And overall, as a supermodel, she was left wanting. I told her this silently, of course, and I never pushed so far as to reduce her to tears.

I left the store with one shirt. I paid in full with a smile on my face. The lovely women that had helped me were a wee bit shocked, I think, as I had told them when I walked in the door that I had limited options at home and was at their mercy. They had left me to roam and choose; they are good to me that way, and they know I really don't like too much help. And to think that, after all that, I arrived at the finish line with just one item.

As I was driving back home, my mind was racing as to what was really clean in the closet, what was really at the dry cleaners, and what should have been taken to the cleaners a week before. I realized - for the first time in my life - that I had been a victim of self-hate in that cathedral of all women's nightmares: a dressing room.

I blamed it on my period, and I still do.

Feb. 15, 2010

Crossword

It's Presidents Day. I am at home with a head cold and a barfing child, trying my best to get some work done from home. It's actually not going too badly, all things considered.

I am also cleaning off my desk. There was this giant pile on top of my printer that was threatening to topple for the last couple of months, and I decided to explore what was actually in that pile that was important enough to keep, but that was not necessary enough to remember it was there.

I came across some stacks of photos from the last couple of years. (I am embarrassingly behind on the family photo albums.) In the middle of that stack were photos from Thanksgiving 2008. (I told you I was behind.) And in that set of photos were these fabulous photos of my mother trying to work on a crossword puzzle - a hobby she inherited from her father.

I gather that she would have gotten more done without the "help", but she was good sport. I love my family.

Feb. 14, 2010

Beach Girls

I am a beach lover, which would be difficult for you NOT to know if you have ever met me, read my blogs, or passed me on a highway headed south.

I have given birth to a beach girl, too.

We have an artistic sign at our home that states "Gone to the Beach", and I have a sign in my office that says the same thing. I like to put it on my desk when I go on vacation. And my daughter and I like to hang the sign at home when we are beach bumming.

So today I got a big laugh when my daughter told me we needed to get a sign that reads, "Back from the Beach" to hang when we are home. You see, in her mind we are either "Gone to the Beach" or "Back from the Beach". Clearly, the time spent between these trips just fills the days until we are beach bound once again.

I do love that child more every day. She is very much her mother's daughter.

Feb. 5, 2010

It Boggles The Mind

If you are the least bit competitive and a parent, don't teach your kids to read. Don't read to them as babies or toddlers, don't let them read to you when they start putting words together, and don't let them stay up late nestled in their bed reading as pre-teens.

Because they will get smart and learn the English language. And then they will embarrass you.

Two of my son's
first Boggle worksheets.

Case in point: Starting in 1st grade, my son got a hankering for the game Boggle. We played together, and he mastered garnering about six 3-letter words per round. "Round" at that time had an elusive meaning, because he didn't like to get stressed out by the timer, so we skipped that part. Instead, we played until he was "finished". I managed to win every game - imagine that! - and I didn't even try very hard because I am a good Mom. I figured playing this game was not about ruining his self-esteem at six years old.

Fast forward six years, and he's kickin' my butt. Every. Single. Time. He's increasing the number of 4 and 5 letter words, and he rocks the 3 letter sweeties. I'm not kidding; sometimes ten or so per round. And, yes, the timer is now in use, and stress is not present at the table.

I've decided the reason children are better at this type of game is because, when they sit down with adults, their minds are empty and ready for the task at hand. Adults just aren't as freely able to accomplish that goal. Our minds are always a jumble of data, timelines and chores. But believe me, I try to live in the moment and "be one" with the game.

The other day, during a Boggle marathon, when I felt myself getting slightly competitive at tally time - and competitive is not in my base nature - I turned to him in all seriousness and said, "I should never have taught you to read."

He laughed from deep in his tummy, a sound that I love to hear and that melts my heart to this day. Then, without skipping a beat, he rattled the 16 letter-dice and hit the timer. We were off and running again.

Final score for 6 rounds: my son, 53; me, 29.

Ouch.

Jan. 28, 2010

I Love Books

I love books. Opportunities for uninterrupted reading in my life are limited. It seems I have stacks of books, newspapers and magazines everywhere. I even get excited when I travel by airplane - I get on the plane carrying a giant bag and hit the recycle bin on the way off, dropping the 15 to 20 magazines I finished during the flight. It is bliss when I find myself at home, childless for an evening with time to read.

When I read Nathan Turner's response to what was on his nightstand in this quickie interview in LUXE magazine, I smiled a giant smile. It made me think of what makes me feel comfortable in someone's home: comfy chairs at the dining table, eclectic art, big water glasses, pets, and books - lots and lots of books.

It made me think about the many "reading lunches" I have had with one of my good friends. We plan a lunch together and choose to read in each other's company instead of having conversation. It is wonderful.

Jan. 22, 2010

A Few of My Favorite Things . . . Today's List

Here are my favorite things from today.

1. Blushing. Definition: Speaking publicly with my sister at lunchtime and watching both of us become so passionate that different parts of our faces become reddened. (My cheeks, her neck.)

2. Art. Description: Finally making it to the Nelson-Atkins Museum of Art and touring the American Indian Art Collection with my two main men. (Below are my top picks, but nothing in the rooms let me down.)

3. Treasuring. Explanation: Knowing that the hand that occasionally reached out at the gallery to hold my own doesn't know that the young man to whom it belongs will continue to grow up and find the comfort of touch far from his mother. (And that's the way is should be. But it doesn't make it any easier.)

Jan. 18, 2010

Colors of Winter

I have said for years that snow makes the Midwest much prettier in winter. The other three seasons of the year are beyond pretty in and around Kansas City, but winter can be gray, brown, bleak and dismal without the cover of snow.

I found our blizzard two weeks ago delightful in what it left behind for us to look at. It coated every branch, blade and rooftop. Even where the snow blew it from those perches, it took it to where it could form drifts and deep piles. The nights were clear, and the snow shone rather blue and silver in our urban setting. It reminded me of rides I took between Boonville and Jefferson City, Missouri, while a child.

My grandparents lived in each of those towns, and the journey between them at the holidays from my vantage point in the back of my parents' car was amazing. We took a two-lane road that lead us through small farming communities and mile after mile of family farms. The snow whooshed and swirled across fields barren of their row crops and formed the most wonderful castles of snow on the shoulders at the north and west sides of the road as the wind worked its magic through the taller weeds and fences. It could look like icing dripping down the side of a cake or bubble bath left to swirl and foam in a filling tub.

Once, on a rare trip between the two places with my grandfather, he pulled over so that I could see just how tall and deep those castles were. When I stepped down into the ditch that makes the edge of most secondary roads in Missouri, I was engulfed in snow to my midsection. I remember vividly being elated and wishing I could tunnel deeper into it right then. A big, great hand pulled me up and out and back to the waiting car. One word describes that experience to this day: fantastic.

I like snow. I can even, most days, embrace cold temperatures. Both make me happy, but I've mentioned the cold part in earlier blogs.

What I have not liked in the past week is what the slightly warmer temperatures have given us - huge melting piles of snow and, sticking out of it, miscellaneous detritus carried to the pile by snow plows. The piles aren't so much melting as looking like they are experiencing atrophy with a touch of gangrene. The piles are black and gray and ugly. Some have even taken on the appearance of that lovely landscaping folly of the 1970s - lava rock. Not our best look.

And the warmer temperatures this early in the winter game make me worry that the flowers and trees will start a journey to spring that will be cut short by what I am sure will still be a bit of winter.

I have always stayed warm and hopeful for spring by surrounding myself with great colorful scarves, socks, and the occasional brightly-colored sweater. I'm still saving my money for a once-in-a-lifetime sweater from the Oslo Sweater Shop. My retail research leads me every year to their website, the Gorsuch catalogue, and, sometimes, L.L.Bean. I am still building in my head the perfect sweater. Is it a cardigan? Is it a pullover? Is it tunic length? I'm getting close...

All I know it that I will be wearing it when my son and my niece and I tunnel our way into a monster snow mound on a cold winter day within the next few years. The snow plows have been building a great one near our public library on the Plaza, but I'm keeping my eye out for one formed by nature that looks like the one I keep near my heart, on a back road in Missouri not too far from home.

Jan. 13, 2010

Angel Mine

At work things get broken. Some break in the store, and others break in transit. A basic fact of retail life.

This angel, which you can't see entirely, had a wing broken on the way to stuff. She holds a bird, and the base she is standing on is simply inscribed with the word "peace". She was cast as one piece - wings and all - in all-weather resin. She stands almost 3 feet tall.

I seldom bring broken things home from stuff. Not because I don't enjoy the things we sell - broken or whole - but because I am not crafty and don't salvage broken things very well. I can re-purpose things beautifully however - pitchers as vases, wind turbines as sculpture, vintage soda boxes as recycling bins - and our house is full of those playful and useful twists.

But when I found this angel in two pieces in the shipping box, I knew she was going home for a little artistic triage. One wing was broken off, and right then I knew exactly what she would look like when I was done. I knew I could take a hacksaw to the other wing and, from there, fill the holes with twigs to make her fly again. The hacksaw part was easy. It was the twig part that took six months to achieve from the date of her second amputation.

My angel and her new wings at peace in the snow.

I wasn't happy with my initial twig findings. I went looking but never found just what I was looking for - pretty much the case when you're hunting for something specific that you have seen only in your mind's eye. Then, on a walk with my dog on a still chilly spring morning, I found the trimmings from pruning in the little arboretum just south of the main shelter house at Loose Park. I knew they were perfect. I was also pretty sure I would not really be able to decide right them what few small pieces I needed, so I took the whole pile. My type A personality was in full bloom while I was wrapping them in a cotton sheet and delicately shoving them into my car. The dog didn't even blink when I made him ride in the front seat with me so as to not hurt the trimmings.

When I got home, I chose well, snipped wisely, bundled the two sides carefully, and secured them in the two holes my angel was harboring with Spanish moss. My husband has lived through a few of my artistic and crafty endeavors, and he knew that chance of this ending well was slim. But what cracked him up was that I kept a small pile of "replacement twigs" for the future.

That was over a year ago. I keep my perfect angel where I can see her in all seasons. She makes me incredibly happy.

In this picture, you can see her in all her winter glory. Enjoy.

Jan. 12, 2010

My Christmas Break

It came to me last Tuesday night - a full week into January - that I was finally on Christmas Break. I was sitting on my sofa reading How the Grinch Stole Christmas with my niece before bedtime, and it hit me: I was on vacation.

Here's how it came to be that I had an unplanned five-day winter vacation last week with my son and my niece: It snowed. A lot.

Our almost-one-story icicle and its friends.

It all started back on Christmas Eve when we had a joyous white Christmas. The snow stopped after dumping a nice amount. New Year's rolled around after a week of "holiday decorations on sale" at stuff and loads of paperwork to finalize for year end. It was very cold, and snow was still on the ground. New Year's Day found Casey and me working at the store while it was closed and quiet.

Then Casey left on a vacation to the tropics and I got my best belated gift - my niece for a week. Casey had it all planned out on paper - where I was to have her and when, who I was to call for emergencies, what I still needed to set in place with her teachers and the school so that her school life fit my work schedule, and when to give her her medicine. I was going to miss a few work hours while she was with us, but I had it all planned out on my own pieces of paper and in my head. Perfectly planned and flawless on paper, I was going to be a mother of two for a week.

Monday, my first full day of mommy-for-two duty, was the last day of the children's winter break, and I had taken the day off from work. We played, ate French toast late in the morning, baked cookies, and colored with crayons. The kitchen table was our playground.

On Tuesday, they both went to school as pre-ordained on the aforementioned papers while I went to work. We had dinner as a family. My son did a "first day back at school" load of homework, we had baths and accomplished all the other various bedtime routines, and we were all put to bed at a decent time.

When the phone rang in the wee hours of Wednesday morning, the message informed us that snow was coming; school was canceled for the day and they would see us on Thursday. And then it started to snow and didn't stop for over 24 hours. A gorgeous snow that caused another snow day, so the children and I were at home again on Thursday. Then phone rang again on Thursday night, and the recorded voice of our dear head-of-school told us to stay home on Friday as well and that, after a nice extended weekend, she would have the school ready for us all on Monday.

We live in a hundred-year-old historic home. All homes can be drafty, but older homes can be gusty. When the temperature drops into the single digits, as it has this past week in Kansas City, you find yourself hunkering down into several rooms. We chose the kitchen, and all magic was made from this room and transported to others. The dining room was our art gallery after we had completed our masterworks in the kitchen studio. The living room, where the TV is, was our movie theater, and we dressed warmly to "go the the movies," covering ourselves with blankets when we got there. The kitchen table held all the daily detritus from killer games of Go Fish and lengthy village building sessions with Lego. The great outdoors is where we ventured when cabin fever hit record highs or when the dog needed walking. We ate grilled cheese sandwiches, baked cookies, shoveled snow occasionally, sang songs, and laughed, and we were always a little sad when the sun started to go down. Several days were so cold that I boiled water in a big stock pot for moist heat, and, on the one day my husband joined us in the kitchen, he turned on the ovens and opened their doors.

The house was cold in places, the snow deeply covered everything outside, our beds were piled high and warm, our hearts were happy, our tummies were full, and Christmas was still with us in the form of new toys and the remaining decorations. I left the Christmas tree up way past New Year's Day and turned its lights on daily.

Dr. Seuss was right. My Christmas wasn't about the actual day and all its trappings at all. Christmas means a little bit more - in my case a very late Christmas break in my own kitchen with two children I love.

Happy New Year. Stay warm.

read more blogs from 2009 or 2008 or 2007