Sloane, Author at The STUFF Sisters

Pursuing Good Stuff

Yep. It’s what I do. I truly pursue good stuff every day. On our recent trip to Colorado, I used one of our little buttons to remind me of what is fun and makes my life a bit more exciting.

And I also use these opportunities to brush up on my skills in the photographic arts with my Canon PowerShot SD1300 IS. I’m all over that sweet action.

This thistle and aster combination was lovely at breakfast. And tiny.

The rest stops in Kansas leave much to be desired. However, when you gotta go….

Right outside our room the day after the region’s first rain in a long time. This was one of many mushrooms that popped up and wilted by day’s end.

My son helped with the art direction on this shot. He was in charge of placement.

I loved the button against the texture of the bedspread in our room. Yes, we actually needed a bespread at night in Colorado!

I love to drive, and my husband caught this shot. I love how the turquoise in the necklace makes the pin seem bluer.

I’m a driving machine. The steering wheel was my friend for 11 hours over and 11 hours back.

Pursuing good stuff can take it out of me. But these three put it right back!

p.s. If you want to see last year’s Pursue Good Stuff pin on the road – once with Casey and once with me – click here and here.

In the deeply gathering dusk a few nights ago, I stood in a small group of women and discussed the concepts of leaving. Of children leaving home for college. Of friends and their families leaving for different cities.

Three years ago I began publicly letting slip that I do not use the word goodbye. Remarkably, a woman in this little group admitted that she greatly disliked the word goodbye. We ran around and around the ways she doesn’t use it and in the end we were all laughing quite brightly.

I still don’t use the word. I wrote about this deeply held issue in a blog in July of 2009. It still stands today. Click here to read more.

They Should Have Six Signs For That

My sister Casey and I spent some time this morning at work writing the fine print for an upcoming giveaway. We tried to write it using as few words as possible, but it is never few enough for me.

My sister Casey and I spent some time this morning at work writing the fine print for an upcoming giveaway. We tried to write it using as few words as possible, but it is never few enough for me. “Lawyer speak” steps in and before you know it, you’ve written 100 words to give one great thing away.

In my previous post, I shared a few signs that made me happy or smile. These signs – spotted after lunch today – just cracked me up. I guess whoever placed them there thought six signs could tell the story so much better than just one concise one.

It’s a struggle. I know.

They Should Have a Sign for That

I am beginning to almost embarrass my family with the camera I carry in my purse. I whip it out for the semi-serious family shots, but mostly I’m trying to capture things to not forget. The color of something. The mood of a moment. Whatever catches my eye.

In the past two weeks, I have had to take shots of signage I think is so ridiculously obvious. But it does make me pause to wonder what the impetus was to have the sign made in the first place. Something had to have gone horribly wrong to warrant a specialty sign.

Like this one at on the wall at the parking lot at the orthodontist:

Duh.

Or this one that just plain cracked me up:

With so many non-working buttons to chose from, it would be hard to choose without the written help.

Pure silliness.

Writing Lessons

Last night I started a journey towards improving my writing. I recently joined a small band of women who will meet weekly and work on each other’s projects of the pen.

This morning, my son – who knew I left the family circle last night to retreat to my office to start my 5 pages that are due this Friday – asked how it went. I told him I was pleased with the piece I had started but that, so far, I was falling one page short of the the 5 page minimum. I am too old to play the “adjust the margins” game or to pretend I didn’t hear the “please use 1.5 spacing” and resort to double spacing. Clearly, I have more to do before deadline.

Upon hearing this news – being short a few hundred words – this was my son’s advice, and I quote: “Mom, just go back and start adding in the descriptive words. Like the ‘deep brown walls’, not just ‘walls’. That will help.”

After all these years of letting loose with this blog and scribbling in many journals the ideas for my “Great American Novel”, I was finally taking the jump towards opening myself up to the power of other women writers from my own community. This was going to be challenging and thrilling and difficult. I was ready.

I obviously could have just turned to the 15 year old and my thesaurus. And saved myself the extra work.

Silly me.

Turning Blue

Today I exhaled. It took a trip to Houston – and good news – to realize that I had been holding my breath for a year. And I had been turning blue.

Today I exhaled.

It took a trip to Houston – and the receipt of good news – to realize that I had been holding my breath for a year. And I had been turning blue.

Today we found out that my Dad finally has his lymphoma on the run. It’s not gone, and he’s not in remission. But it is being shown the door.

group[ shot — Yesterday in Houston. My step-mother Vickie, Casey and my Dad.

This past year I have been breathing, just not deeply. I had been taking shallow breaths and waiting for the good to arrive. I had been hoping that my life wouldn’t experience great loss. I had been holding my breath while moving forward and all the time wondering why I was winded. Why climbing the stairs was such a strain.

from the shuttle — M.D. Anderson Cancer Center, Houston

Because when you are hoping beyond hope and wishing beyond the stars, you really don’t have time to take a deep breath.

But today I did. I reached the bottom of my lungs, held it there to feel the burn, and then let it all out.

Not My First Rodeo

Last week I went to my niece’s art fair at her school. It is for the students in grades K thru 8, and it encompasses all pieces from their year in art class.

Last week I went to my niece’s art fair at her school. It is for the students in grades K thru 8, and it encompasses all pieces from their year in art class. I went to this show for nine years when my son was at the same school, and it is my favorite event. Children pull their parents – tugging really – to their artwork. God help the parent that has more than one child, because they risk bone dislocation.

This year, this piece was my favorite in the entire show:

The colors weren’t captured well in the softly lit gymnasium. It was captivating and is the work of a 4th grader. I don’t know what the process was, but it struck a chord. And what’s not to love when mounted to colored construction paper?

This was my niece’s favorite in the entire show. Clarification: her favorite that wasn’t of her own hand.

Her favorite of her pieces is here:

She called me out on the fact that my favorite wasn’t one that she had labored over. I talked myself deftly out of that by letting her know I had to take her pieces out of the running in able to even be able to vote at all. I didn’t go into the ethical practices of jurying an art show – something I use in my work on occasion.

Not my first rodeo.

In Passing

Years ago I went to a funeral. The gentleman we were celebrating that day was someone I didn’t really know very well, and not too personally.

Years ago I went to a funeral. The gentleman we were celebrating that day was someone I didn’t really know very well, and not too personally. He was the assistant to a charitable organization I was just becoming involved with. His passing took few by surprise, but it was tragic, as most deaths are.

What happened the day of the funeral that I will always remember was that I made a new friend. I knew few people in attendance but decided to sit next to a man who was as new to the same organization as I was. He was – and still is – a very polite, well dressed, caring man. He is able to stand quietly and think about the answer to a question that is posed in a hurried frenzy.

I sat down next to him. We exchanged brief hellos and polite niceties. Within a few minutes, my stomach began to growl. Not the quiet kind that you hear inside your own ear. Nope. The kind that has a crescendo that ends in a little “ping”. I was mortified. Here I was sitting next to a guy I barely knew, and I was making strange noises. I murmured an excuse, and he demurely smiled.

Then the most incredible thing happened. His stomach answered. It was like a mating call of the hungry. We smiled at each other with a bit more vigor, and then we let the funeral take hold of us.

There were tears. Many. I hadn’t thought I would cry quite so much for a person I barely knew, and I hadn’t packed tissues. My empty and tear-soaked hands soon held the pressed cotton handkerchief that he had gently put in my view for use. Our friendship has grown in the days that have passed since then.

This all took place almost 13 years ago. My friend and I have gone on to serve on two charitable boards together. We have had experiences inside those organizations that have left us laughing hilariously. Those same places have found us up against challenges that have changed us. In all the right ways.

Today he called to tell me a close friend had passed. A friend that had suffered long enough. He couldn’t get the words out. Tears and words were catching in my throat, and all I could ask him was if he was driving, because I wanted him to pull over. We were both a little bit over the moon in sadness. He was closer to our friend on a personal level. We had made a promise to each other to keep each other posted on any and all news about our friend.

This day found him making the rounds of the most difficult calls on the planet. He was telling the world that it was going to be a little bit darker for a while. That sadness and grief was going to consume us all, and then we would be better.

I know that, when I attend the remembrance for our mutual friend this week, we will find each other. Should he need it, I’ll have an extra cotton hanky in my handbag. I just hope we both remember to eat.

Change of Plans

I have never really liked the “when life hands you lemons, make lemonade” saying. It has always bugged me, and it doesn’t sit right.

I have never really liked the “when life hands you lemons, make lemonade” saying. It has always bugged me, and it doesn’t sit right. I like a good motivational saying – my Pinterest board “Sayin’ Something” is full of them. But that one, not so much.

When life, parades, business and commitments stepped in a few weeks ago and blew the plans my family and my sister’s family had made for Spring Break, we didn’t pout; we just changed our plans. Well, the youngest among us cried her eyes out, but the rest of us remained relatively calm. We were to have skied in Steamboat, but, instead, we took a road trip to Dallas. See? Nothing like lemonade.

richard serra — My view from inside the huge Richard Serra piece at the Nasher Sculpture Center.

nasher sculpture park — Great art placement at the Nasher Sculpture Center.

harl — My favorite shot of my husband at the Nasher Sculpture Center.

And it was fantastic! What a great American city. The night before we were to leave, I typed my new favorite combination into Google “boutique hotel in (choose city name)” and happened upon the Belmont Hotel. Just over the Trinity River from downtown Dallas, and the view from most rooms was unstoppable; the view at night from the pool was a picture postcard.

We did our part as tourists – and those who like to spend money with locally owned businesses – and stayed in a locally owned hotel, ate meals in 4 locally owned restaurants, and, visited two tourist destinations located downtown. The Dallas World Aquarium and The Nasher Sculpture Center have found happy homes in urban settings.

Everything about the Hotel Belmont was understated and well appointed. Even the courtyard.

mother & daughter — My sister and her daughter takin' in the views of Dallas from the second floor.

rooftop at belmont — Too good a shot to pass up.

We left much to go back and see, but that has been the way we’ve traveled with our son. You must always leave one thing undone in a destination so that you always have a reason to go back.

sloane & harl — Lookin' pretty good after 8 hours in the car!

The Dallas World Aquarium was nice. The best part was when my husband decided to call it a terrarium after we had walked through the three floors of animals, spiders, and cougars, and finally made it to the lower level…where the aquarium part was. The whole building was packed to the gills with humans – never the best way to view nature – so we paced ourselves and took it all in. However, there really wasn’t enough sea life to put aquarium in the name.

I live with a funny man, and every time I think of the aquarium/terrarium comment I smile.

Extras and details:

me and D — My son turned 15 the day before we left for Dallas. He thought this trip was his birthday gift.

bolsa mercado — Too many breakfast choices at Bolsa Mercado. Decisions, decisions.

bad guys — Sh*t eating grins at the Nasher Sculpture Center.

On The Issue of Blue

A year ago, a close friend said to me, “Yes. I know about the blue and you.” I retorted with a general, “What are you talking about?” or “What do you mean?” She said, “I read the blog.”

Yes. It’s somewhat true about me and “the blue”. But lately I have been struggling with the desire to actually paint our bedoom a deep, rich blue. Not chalky or grey. Blue. Deep blue.

I attended a show at The Nelson-Atkins museum a few months ago, and the rooms were painted a rich, deep blue with hints of green in it. It inspired me so much that I actually called the offices and asked for the number/maker of said hue. I have since misplaced it because I realized it really wasn’t for me.

My husband isn’t crazy about this idea. He’s challenged me with the knowledge that our bedroom isn’t that large. He’s troubled me with the realization that blue walls are one thing, but what about the large amount of trim that is inherent in our 100-year-old home? And, most importantly, he wonders if I have thought about what our art will look like on blue, since it has always resided on white. He isn’t against the idea; he just seems to feel it’s important to needle me with details that clearly need to be considered before diving in.

The last and most imporant decision that must be considered is that we commissioned an outstanding local artist – my sister Casey – to paint our bedroom windows so that we would never need curtains again. These windows are the one detail I have yet to work around. I would never want to take away from their amazing strength by painting the walls a powerful – yet soothing – hue.

These are my issues with blue right now. Previous musings can be found here and here.

p.s. The top three image are from the website of Anthony Barratta. I have mentioned on my blog before that I adore his work and the work of his retired partner, William Diamond. When my ship comes in, his phone will ring.

The bottom photo is of our bedroom windows. They are stunning at night as well.