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Recently a friend posted a photo to Facebook that shook me a little bit. My mind was racing all over the place with memories of my own life. Of comments made in the past by strangers and friends. Then I let my mind go silent.
 In the spring of 2008, my last grandparent passed away – My Dad’s mom. I hold firmly to my belief that I am a better person having had grandparents who loved me and were alive well into my 30′s and 40′s. Mostly, I am a better person for having had a hand in caring directly for my grandma during her last year.
When her health dictated that it was time for her to leave her Mid-Missouri home and move to Kansas City to be nearer to her family, she embraced it whole-heartedly. Her statement was, “I’ve always wanted to live in the big city!” The day she spoke those words to me, I wrote them down so that I wouldn’t forget that adventure comes at every age.
My father found a place for her to live in south Kansas City that was very near her primary care doctor, but I think he knew that the best medicine for her was to be super close to her grandchildren and great grandchildren. Finally, after all the years of driving to Mid-Missouri to see any of my grandparents, I had one living less that 4 miles from my home. I was a little bit excited.
I tried to visit her two times a week, but some weeks found me there only once. Those weeks were hard for me, because I have inherited from both of my grandmothers a need to not be “cooped up” and to “get out for a little while,” to paraphrase them both. I was always afraid that, when I was unable to visit, she would suffer from this virus we all shared. I called her every day, and we spoke of much. She let loose with a few thoughts she’d been harboring for years, and those utterances left me speechless several times. Deep issues regarding her life with my grandfather and, therefore, my father. I was glad she released them, and, two times in particular when I didn’t respond quickly, she asked if I was OK and I told her I just needed a little time to think about what she said. She replied, “I’ve got time.”
What was amazing to me about my grandma’s last year was that many of my friends and aquaintances were stunned that I would take my son with me to care for his great grandmother. I found no shame in having him help me with her hair, putting away her small amount of groceries, cleaning her bathroom, lotioning her legs, and, on one occasion, trimming her toenails. One person admonished me with this line: “He doesn’t need to see all that.”
Yes, he did. We all do. The lessons that are learned at the end of life are as great as the lessons I learned at the beginning of my son’s life.
He never saw her naked. He never cleaned up the truly messy parts of her bathroom. He sat on the edge of her chair and charmed her with stories of basketball and art class and his younger cousin. He told her about the trials and tribulations of the 4th and then 5th grades. He read her mail to her and described every detail of the art on the greeting cards, because the finer parts were lost to her macular degeneration. He helped her decorate her door and bedside table for the passing seasons and always was a guiding force on how the magnets and photos were displayed on her tiny under-the-cabinet refrigerator.
I was not prepared for the fact that so many people spoke to me about not understanding why I did all this. It was more people than those who could easily see why this was so important to me. And why it was important to have my son see the glory of living past 85.
A series of strokes dictated when the time came for her to enter the hospital and never leave. My son only visited her in the hospital once. It was early in the episodes, and she was cognitive and aware, smiling and laughing. She was still his “Gramma Ginny”. He got right up into the bed with her, and her eyes just blazed. I remember thinking he was so comfortable in a place that makes most people ultra-nervous and stiff.
I am amazed at how much he remembers from this year we had with her in The Big City. We showed her a good time, given all the limitations. We made a little magic.
p.s. I want to thank my friend Shelly DeMotte Kramer for letting me share her photo of her daughter with her father-in-law. You can see the second pair of hands to the left in the photo. Shelly has twin girls, and the human caring they share in this photo is amazing. Shelly and her family laid him to rest today.
p.p.s Casey wrote an amazing blog in 2008 about my grandmother. Find it here.
For 17 years, we lived with one dog. He was amazing, and he was cherished. This past August, we let him go into his good night. His name was Einstein, and I still miss him terribly. However, a month or so ago, I felt the grieving end. I was able to look at photos and say his name without a catch in my voice or a quick blink.
Einstein was our baby when we brought our bouncing baby boy home. They took to each other instantly, and it had everything to do with the full-face lick our son received when he was 16 hours old and the carrier was set in front of Einstein soon after our arrival home. They were thick as thieves, and Einstein never betrayed his love for our young man.
He stayed true to our son through the perils of toddlerhood. My theory? Because Einstein had spent our son’s babyhood under the high chair and it had been glorious for him. The new parent in each of us knew to be grateful for Einstein’s help in making sure the floor was always spic and span.
He stayed true to my husband and me when daily walks weren’t always achieved in a coordinated and timely fashion. We think this patience with us was direct compensation for spending every night for 17 years in our bed with us.
Then, last Wednesday, I started to fall in love again, and my voice only caught once that day. We were at the shelter, the final decision had been made, and the money had changed hands. We were merely waiting for someone to unlock the cage. When I said to my husband, “Let’s take him home,” I lost it just a tiny bit.
Here’s why:
  
  
Falling in love again has been easy. Edison is wonderful, and we will all grow a little bit older together. To me, it’s the beginning of another perfect love story,
p.s. Should you want to read more about Einstein, click here.
Photo Credit: These shots were captured just this afternoon by Joy Albright. I owe her one.
I fell in love tonight with a naked man in a museum.
With my 14 year old son standing by. I was not embarassed by my behavior.
I love Friday nights at the Nelson-Atkins Museum of Art because there are never crowds of people and it always has a hint of a festive mood – that “end of the week” buzz. The guards are a wee bit chipper and make more than eye contact. The rooms hum with the feeling that, although the weekend will be busy, this is the real calm before the storm. This is when the “real” stuff happens. This is when the art sings to you in a quiet room and sinks in a little deeper.
That’s exactly what happened between me and “Man Falling” by Auguste Rodin. He sang to me and I fell in love.
 This holiday season, STUFF gave away 45 pounds of Hershey's chocolate kisses. One kiss at a time. Kisses linger.
Kisses warm.
Kisses soothe.
Kisses bless.
Kisses carry silent messages and lasting emotions.
Every kiss we hand out during the holidays carries all of our well wishes and dreams for our customers. You have lingered with us over great stories, and you’ve warmed us when life got too chilly. You have blessed us with your business, and you’ve left the artists we represent soothed by the knowledge that their hard work is well received.
We wish you the happiest holidays and we hope you get everything you wish for.
Hugs and kisses.
Casey & Sloane Simmons
Sisters & Co-owners
My sister, Sloane, posted a blog today titled “Tentacles”. I was struck dumb when I read it, because I had just saved this image to my desktop yesterday. We must be broadcasting that “spooky sister connection” our mother always talks about.
This image was featured in a widget I have on my iGoogle page called Artist A Day. You can find them here. I discover new artists from them all the time. Here is the link to the artist’s website.
The holiday season brings out the best in me. Well, in my ability to handle many, many things. As a self diagnosed ”Type A Control Freak”, I enjoy this time of year. My only regret is that, with so many places to be and things to get done, I feel like I need more arms to hold it all together.
Which brings me to this photo:
I have very little time to read when my day ends, and reading is one of my favorite things in the world. My husband will account for the fact that, right now, there are very few minutes between the shower, me hitting the sheets, and me closing my eyes. Like everyone I know, my days in December are long, multi-faceted and demanding.
Two days ago, I found time to look through one of my favorite monthly treasures – National Geographic – and found this photo. It left me mesmerized and silent. Look at all the subtle colors. Look at the peacefulness.
I hope to feel like this in January. Contained. With all my tentacles in tact.
p.s. This photo must be credited to Jeffrey de Guzman. He captured it on a nightime dive in the Philippines. The octopus has found a place of rest inside a broken bottle. This little bit of magic was not part of an article but merely a favorite of the editors from photos received from readers. Check out December’s National Geographic Magazine here.
I was out last week with a group of friends to celebrate a 40th birthday. The birthday girl’s husband had reserved a private room at a local bar, opened the bar to us, and made sure the snacks were abundant. I didn’t try any of the snacks. I know this because I was happily keeping my custom-printed cup full of cocktails instead. It was gearing up to be a fantastic night.
When the timer on our private room expired, we moved upstairs for the band. At this point the remaining group was a heaping handful of close friends, all married, all spouses accounted for, and me. The single woman. I am used to being the only single person in a group of married people. I show up to most social events alone. I don’t bring a “crutch” date (another single girl friend or a married person that is out without her husband). I just go everywhere alone. I mean let’s face it, folks: I am alone when it comes to couples events.
So…we were – how should I say this politely – loose with drink. And ready for some dance therapy. Cue birthday girl to the stage! Said birthday girl drags “the posse” of girl friends with her. And oh, what fun. I love to dance. Music lifts me right out of the world where we are all firmly planted, and I escape into the rhythm, music and vibe. And that was where I was delightfully lost when a man took my hand and helped me off the stage.
Then I found myself standing face-to-face with my EX-HUSBAND! No shit! I can’t make this kind of tragic crap up. He is saying something. My friends are staring and starting to think…who’s the guy? (Wink, wink, nudge, nudge). I pull my ex away from the speakers to hear what in the world he would want to say to me at the very bar where he spent an outrageous amount of our money drinking while he was cheating on me and tearing our marriage to shreds. But I am hopelessly curious (and stupid).
Yep, you guessed it. I got the “I really, really miss you. I always loved you” drunken-goo-goo-eyed pick-up line. I was speechless. If you know me, “speechless” is very, very, very rare. I stuttered. My knees felt weak. I shouted over the band, “Where is your wife?” He didn’t answer. He just repeated the line about missing me and loving me. I took a breath, regrouped my courage, and resorted to a one-liner to cover up my devastation. “Of course you miss me, I am fabulous.” I walked off.
Don’t be impressed. I immediately marched outside, where it took me 20 minutes, two friends, a strong drink, 2 cigarettes, and a face full of streaming tears to get my ass ready to return to the dance floor. When I returned to the dance floor, I closed my eyes and let the music carry me away.
What is remarkable about this story is that it is not remarkable at all. This happens to people all the time.
The week before, my ex-lover showed up at STUFF during our Wings of Hope event to say “hello”. He had been driving by and thought it would be a good idea to stop and catch me in front of my store (where I can’t walk away). And then he came back a second time to bring me food he had been cooking all day with his wife, kids and close family friends.
And, if that wasn’t enough, two years ago at the holidays I was dating a man (who chose to compare me to “new car smell” and classify me as “one of his obsessions” on Facebook after I asked for a break). This man has called, emailed and come to the store multiple times over the last few weeks looking for me. At least he offered help and shopped.
 going forward...never straight...at the wheel. These men that I shared my heart, my mind, my body, and a small part of my soul with never once stopped to think about me. Not once. They just marched all over my personal space, my feelings, and my life. They showed no respect for me, my family, or my business. I don’t seek them out. I haven’t played games. I haven’t posted veiled (or direct) references on Facebook about them. I have left them alone.
“The holidays” make men and women want to couple. I get it. I feel its powerful pull every day in November and December, too. After the first week of January it fades, and I fall back into my natural state. I too want to fall in love again. I want a husband and a big crazy combined mess of a family. But, in the meantime, I want to avoid stomping on the very people that I cared for deeply…and I want to avoid them stomping all over me.
These ridiculous happenings have left me sad, frustrated, exposed, raw and lonely. But, they have also left me proud that I have the courage to stand alone, even when I don’t want too.
I started wearing reading glasses about a year ago. And I have noticed I have been wearing more and more jewelry at one time lately. Do you think when I grow up I can be as bold and beautiful as Iris Apfel?
 Bold Beauty, Iris Apfel
I scanned this photo from the October 2009 issue of American Style Magazine.
Iris Apfel is an amazing woman that you can read more about in the New York Times here.
I have loved saris for years. I’ve even wanted to own one and wear it. And for more than costume parties. I think this may be my true style. The authentic Sloane.
Tonight I went trolling on Google and Pinterest for images and was befuddled. All the women shown looked like hoochie mamas.
The woman to your left has not spent day one in India, I’m pretty sure. She’d be laughed off the continent.
Where’s the woman who was at Costco a few days ago that I followed down the main aisle totally mesmerized by her grace?
She walked at a full stride – on shorter legs than mine, which made my gait a bit crumpled as I walked behind her - and never once fussed with her clothes. She was older than me, darker skinned than me, sporting the most amazingly mixed shades of watermelon and salmon, and wearing not very attractive sandals, but I was in the throws of a full-on girl crush. I was a stalker, if only for a few minutes.
And then, tonight I found her again as she lives in my mind’s eye. Right here on my screen:
Isn’t she incredible? What’s not to love?
p.s. “Hoochie mama” is a coined phrase I lifted from my sister Casey. Make of it what you will, but know that she cracks me up. Here are a few more hoochie mamas.
   
Today I stooped to a new low, even for myself. I answered – and sent on! – a chain letter via the Internet. But only to eight people, who I’m sure now think seriously less of me. In my defense, it came from a reliable and trusted source, and the message was sincere and did not involve a scheme of any flavor.
I had not sent one of these since I folded six letters in the 7th grade and sent them on with quarters taped to them. I was going to be rich. The letter said so.
 I told my 12-year-old self – when the money failed to roll in – that I would never do that again. I asked myself, “How could you be so stupid?”
My 46-year-old self answers, “because you followed your heart and threw caution to the wind.” This wiser me remembers recently thinking, “I’ll never do Facebook. Who has time for that? Pinterest? There’s not enough hours in the day for crazy, frivolous things.”
Now, at the end of a busy day before a very busy weekend, I have logged out of Facebook, finished pinning in Pinterest, and received two – count them two! – responses from the recipients of my first chain letter in 34 years.
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