Sloane, Author at The STUFF Sisters

Friendships That Bloom

There has not really been one part of growing older that has been bad for me. What I have liked the most is building friendships with people older than me. These friendships bloom after time has passed, if you’re lucky.

There has not really been one part of growing older that has been bad for me. I am still waiting for the grey hair because I’ve dreamed of it for years. I firmly believe that my monthly facials will soften the deep skin lines, all of which I have earned with a life well lived.

What I have liked the most is building friendships with people older than me. People I first knew because they were parents of high school friends. Teachers I had throughout school who now school me on the really important things. These friendships bloom after time has passed, if you’re lucky.

One such woman recently regaled me with her knowledge of plants – she owned a landscaping company for years – when she caught me day dreaming at the potted cyclamen in the grocery store. After the long New Years hugs we exchanged, she asked if I was considering the plant.

Geranium in my kitchen, not a cyclamen at the store.

She is a reader of my blogs and knows that I am not particularly good with indoor plants. She has a faith in my green thumb that I do not harbor. I told her I really was mostly intrigued and in love with the color of the blooms. I think I might have mentioned that I would only kill it. “No you won’t. These plants can take a lot.”

I then took a moment to tell her about the orchid I recently received from my husband who was assured that “orchids are easy and you can’t really harm them” by the florist. Within two weeks, it was holding brown, crunchy blooms and now lives at my mother’s house.

My friend listened with her ears and then smiled with her eyes before saying, “Orchids are hard.”

Totally made my day, and she garnered another hug with that comment.

Sentimental me took her comment to mean a bit more. Later that day, I moved kitchen furniture around to allow the geraniums more southern light. They are the only plants that I bring inside…and only because of the color of their blooms. Well, that and their willingness to not give up on me and my green thumb. Sounds like a friend of mine.

p.s. I wrote previously about these amazing geraniums. Right here. I’ve also spent time thinking about plants and possible interventions. Here’s more.

Plastic Redux

This time of year, I drink a huge amount of water through a straw. Water is what wards off the evil spirits, in my view.

This time of year, I drink a huge amount of water through a straw. I seem to consume more that way. This collection on my dressing room table this morning reminded me that life is long, fun and wonderful, but not particularly tidy. We work monstrous hours at work that are thrilling and full of joy. Water is what wards off the evil spirits, in my view.

And today it was evident that life has been full of water in re-usable cups, with a side of Lysol from the big can!

p.s. One of these cups may very well be from this past summer. Read more here.

Body Lotion, Cling Wrap and Chapstick Walk Into A Bar…

We all turn into our parents and grandparents. I think I’m ready to talk about this.

I think I’m ready to talk about this.

On the premise that we all turn into our parents and grandparents, I have decided that I might most be like my dad’s dad, who saved old, used, no-longer-lightable light bulbs in cardboard boxes in his workshop. Or I might be like my mom’s dad, who used the very last of the Chapstick by digging out the remaining wax magic with a Q-tip and then proceeding with the application process in private.

Yep. That’s who I am most like. Cal Price.

I have used the same body lotion for over 30 years. Vaseline Intensive Care in the jumbo container with the pump. I have very sensitive skin, and I can’t just jump willy-nilly from brand to brand, or I will end up at the dermatologist with the rash to end all rashes. Been there, done that.

I will admit to using specialty lotions on elbows, ankles and kneecaps – Soaplogies shea butter in the lavender scent – but, on the whole, I am a Vaseline girl. I have lived through the scent changes, bottle re-designs, and various other attempts by them to knock me off course. But I’ve stayed true.

Even through this last bottle re-design where there is over TWO INCHES of lotion left in the bottom of the plastic bottle when the last squirt has been eased from the pump. It seems like the well is dry when in fact it is not!

So I have taken to using our serrated bread knife to saw through the plastic bottle – tossing the top in the recycle bin and the pump in the trash bin – and going after the lotion with my fingertips. There is usually several weeks of lotion remaining for use, and I just have to removed the very fancy – designed by me for easy access! – Cling Wrap topper for daily use.

I was too embarrassed to show the fancy plastic wrap lid in the photo above. I do have my principles.

Just like my grandfather who kept the Q-tips and old Chapstick tube in his bathroom drawer while the new Chapstick tube rode in his pocket with his change.

Detroit and Me

In March, I fell in love with Detroit. It has not dampened my deep commitment to my city, but I am now sharing the love. It is a great American city. Truly. But today I felt like I had been socked in the gut.

In March, I fell in love with Detroit. It has not dampened my deep commitment to my city, but I am now sharing the love. It is a great American city. Truly.

I have followed Detroit’s bankruptcy proceedings through many media sources. All reliable and non-biased. I live in facts and details in most of what I do, so this affair has been no different.

Today on National Public Radio they ran the next installment in what has been a long and continuing story on the Motor City from multiple angles and points-of-view. This was about the Detroit Institute of Art possibly selling its multiple-billion-dollar collection – which is owned by the “people of the City of Detroit” – to help honor the debts of the city.

I cried. I pulled the car over, finished my tears, and pulled myself together. I felt like I had been socked in the gut. I had just been in that museum at spring break. I had just talked about that collection and its curatorial staff at a meeting this week at The Nelson. I had just….

I could not get over the fact that the soul of the city – its art collection – was currently being appraised by Christie’s and was being considered for auction and/or sale.

Why can’t the Detroit Lions or the Red Wings or the Pistons be considered for auction and possible sale? Why is art, yet again, being called upon to set its people free?

Because that’s what it did when its people made Detroit its home in the first place.

The people of the City of Detroit slowly purchased the art for the people. Wealthy people spearheaded some selections. However, a curator told me during my trip that “everyday” people started and finished fundraising campaigns for many of the pieces in the collection. Groups of people. Committees. People who saw that art would bring so much to the people who were busy most days in big, loud industries building with their hands big mechanical things. They knew that people who worked hard with their hands and their bodies would be very receptive to art and her redemptive powers.

I’m still not at peace with this issue. I don’t know if I ever will be. I will continue to listen and learn. I am going to try and visit Detroit again very soon and eat in her locally owned restaurants, sleep in her locally owned boutique hotels, talk with her smitten residents, and visit her amazing museums and public spaces.

I don’t know what I will do when I enter an art museum that is devoid of its center of gravity. I guess I will figure that out when I get there.

Here is a photo that I didn’t post earlier this year when I returned from Detroit. If you want to see more of my photos and hear about that trip, click here.

Suffocation

Winter is hard for me. Not because it is the opposite of summer, but because I am not a fan of socks. To me, all were made in the devil’s workshop.

Winter is hard for me. Not because it is the opposite of summer, but because I am not a fan of socks. Ankle socks, knee socks, thigh-highs or tights. To me, all were made in the devil’s workshop.

For years I have tried to get around my trouble with socks by purchasing brightly-colored and patterned specimens. The thought was that they would make me happy and I would see beyond my issues. Several were made in Paris and made me feel a wee bit cosmopolitan, until I began to feel like I was heating up like a house afire. My all time favorites were made in Vermont and are bright, cotton, mismatched fantasies.

My toes need to move. I need to feel cool air on my lower extremities. Things that bind feel like they are holding me back – never my favorite emotion. Suffocation starts to set in the minute fabric is pulled past my arch. The list goes on and on.

I have discussed this condition with my primary care doctor, and, after confirming nothing truly physical – internal or external – was causing this, I was again met with “the stare.” The look isn’t one where he is accusing me of mental health issues. The sight he rested on me pretty much said, “Just don’t wear socks.” Duh.

However, snow is the real problem, and it was easily mastered when I purchased my Frye boots with shearling lining last year. The boots tromp with me through the snow, and my bare feet are free to roam in cushy protection.

Now, don’t get me started on how lipstick makes me feel….

Real Pain

NOTE: These next few paragraphs will be chock-full of strong words and graphic images. They are not for the faint of heart….

I am in real pain. I know this to be true, because I gave birth vaginally 16+ years ago and this is worse. Every year I enter into this zone of pain, a place that was made for me genetically.

I have fingertips that split the minute the temperature drops, the swimming pools close, and my work load increases. One minute, all is well. Computer keystrokes and ink pen holding is painless. Minute two: there is blood on the keypad, and the pen unable to be lifted.

A serious case of “then it cracked when it was almost healed over”. Previous pain center clearly visible just north and west of new crack.

My grandmother – my mother’s mother – suffered from this horrible syndrome, and I paid little or no attention to her concerns or yearly warnings. She was the queen of lotions and personal nail & hand care. She had a file, a clipper, a buffer and cream for everything that ailed her hands. Still the splits came on with the drier weather. She was strong, but I saw her wince more than once when her hands entered warm soapy water with the dinner dishes.

I have never broken a bone – knock on wood. I have never been admitted to a hospital – OK, one night with the young man’s arrival. I take only two pills a day – one aspirin and one vitamin. I have only well-person visits to my retinue of doctors every year. I volunteer at a health clinic, but I only meet, plan and joke with the staff and board of directors.

This is real pain. It never stops throbbing. Band-Aids and Neosporin at night are no match for Nu-Skin during the day. Nu-Skin is my savior and drug of choice. However, my pain is so powerful that it only takes a few hours for me to break through the Nu-Skin crust and run gasping for the little bottle and miniscule brush when the oxygen reaches the nerve endings. Second and third coats are my nirvana. My increased fourth-quarter work load with packing tape, box cutters, labels and cardboard only adds to the workplace stressors.

The crack in the Nu-Skin crust is visible on this specimen, sighted earlier today in my car.

At the end of a meeting the other day at the health clinic, I mentioned to the lead physician that I lived in fear of lymphoma entering my open wounds with my addiction to Nu-Skin. He looked at me like the crazy person I am and said, “Well, you could do what doctors do and use Super Glue.” This from a trusted professional and friend.

I suffer. I do.

If I’m not at work, here’s why: I’ll be out scouting new pain medication – maybe at the liquor store or possibly trying to score meth.

Sharing Behaviors

It seems to be vastly believed that Casey and I share a brain. We do not. We’ve actually had a customer ask if we live together. We do not. We do not share clothes. I don’t share one particular Chinese dish very well, and she never shares her last shrimp on a salad. We have been known to borrow jewelry from each other, but that is becoming rarer.

However, there are some things we do share, and they are eerily funny. Last Thursday – Halloween – our stepmom stopped by the store for a quick meeting with me. She lovingly heads up the tagging of all the holiday ornaments, and she finished a few days ahead of schedule. We were able to meet on a few details, and then she was free for another year!

As she was turning to park the car, she saw a woman in a witch’s hat trip while looking down at the curb. If not trip, then falter. When the woman stood up, it was Casey.

Casey was walking back from the coffee shop and her eye had caught the most amazing water deposits on a fallen leaf. She had stopped, with her arms and hands full, to catch a photo on her phone. She admits to tripping a bit on the sidewalk as she positioned herself for the perfect shot.

Not an hour before Casey’s clumsiness, I was on my back deck, heading to work with my arms full of bags and boxes and my hands clutching my daily iced tea, when I saw photos I just had to take. Leaves plastered to the wood and still wet from two days of rain. Lichen brought to life by cooler temperatures and no sun.

The effort of getting my camera out of my purse while not putting a single item down on the wet surfaces was a balancing act worthy of a circus. I perched my drink inside my tote and I fleetingly wondered what my excuse would be if it spilled into my computer. Sure, it was lidded, but did that matter when you were bent over with a camera and the tote was sideways on your back?

Four clicks later, I was in the car – tea perfectly safe – headed toward a meeting I didn’t want to miss with yet another amazing family volunteer.

Casey was clumsy on the curb, and I was not quite balanced on my deck. All for the perfect shots. And both at almost the same time. Sharing behaviors.

We freak me out sometimes.

p.s. I’m guessing if we cause a big enough stink, Casey will post her photo to a blog. If only….

Ask and Ye Shall Receive

I married well. Sure, I helped pay for the Big 10 education …

I married well. Sure, I helped pay for the Big 10 education, but it was my husband who repaired the lamp.

Look at her shine.

.p.s. She never left the kitchen table, where she is seen here. She spent the weekend being poked and prodded, but she came through like a champ. If you are wondering what in the world I am talking about, click here.

Voices In My Head

I clearly heard my grandfather in my head this morning. When I reached over my desk and turned the switch and the click wasn’t the same, I heard him say, “They just don’t make things like they used to.”

Now, honestly, they don’t. My office desk lamp was the current casualty in a line of things that are not made to last as long as I think they should.* It had been a gift to me for high school graduation from one of my mother’s friends. A person nameless to me now. The lamp went with me to a year at Mizzou and did even greater duty providing the decorative impetus for me to outfit my first cubicle with red accents – stapler, incoming and outgoing metal baskets, metal pencil cup, desk lamp. Maybe even a trash can, the underneath of my first desk eluding me from this distance of time.

It was still doing duty at my current desk when the tragedy occurred. This is a great lamp. One hundred watt limit allowing for serious illumination then – when graphic design was key to my employment – and now – when my reading-glass-swaddled eyes need the boost of decent light. A weighted bottom so it can be contorted into any shape or direction. Metal-on-metal tension screws for fixing the direction of the arms and the shade.

My corded friend just recently had an appointment with my husband due to a small popping noise where the bulb met metal. It never smoked or sparked, and he was able to find and fix the problem very soon after begging me to unplug in before it “fried”. His words; pure drama.

Today it didn’t even make the right clicking sound as I turned it on, but I still went looking for another bulb, and, when that wasn’t the problem, I checked that it was plugged in. Little troubleshooting things that are in my electrical skill set.

I did not tear up when unplugging it from the wall, although I was tested by the voice and my sporadic attachment to inanimate objects. Instead, I took a deep breath and walked toward the dumpster. Where I instead gently placed it in the back seat of my parked car on a soft, folded sheet.

Home to my husband, where I promptly received “the look” when my intentions were made apparent. It was placed on the kitchen table – by me – because things in that location have a tendency to be dealt with over the coming weekend.

“Is it too much to ask that things are built to last?” I remember another grandfather saying, most likely over something greater than an inexpensive desk lamp. I can’t really say.

I am praying for a positive outcome from the impending surgery. Thirty years isn’t really so much to ask for from a desk lamp, is it?

My grandfathers wouldn’t think so, I just know it.

* STUFF vacuums. Don’t get me started.

p.s. Tell me you can’t see and feel its jaunty personality from these photos! Pixar Studios has nothing on my sweet little lamp. Heck, it’s older than their first films!

This Is It

A little over a week ago, there was a post on my Facebook from friends vacationing on the other side of the world from where I was sitting. The shot was lovely – full of a glorious sunset, tanned legs & feet, and smiles you could not see.

I caught this at end end of my work day before packing up my computer and heading off for the 5:15 carpool run. It stuck with me through the arrival of talkative and sweaty cross country boys. It stayed with me through dropping off my child and picking up my husband. We had plans that night, but first I wanted to see the sunset. Just like my friends half a world away.

So we drove downtown to Quality Hill and caught the last few minutes of a Missouri/Kansas sunset. I was hell-bent to see it. Something in my day beyond the Facebook post was telling me to live now. To see the sunset now.

Something telling me that days are limited and sunsets are not just for vacation. That this is it.

p.s. The park at 8th and Jefferson is one of Kansas City’s best spots for seeing the river, the planes in and out of Municipal Airport, and great sunsets. Just go. Trust me.