The STUFF Sisters
S. Sloane Simmons and Casey Simmons
Sisters and business partners sharing life's stuff....
It is cold in Kansas City. It is hump day. My daughter starts another four day weekend tomorrow because of conferences. I have walked to the fridge 10+ times….
It is cold in Kansas City. It is hump day. My daughter starts another four day weekend tomorrow because of conferences. I have walked to the fridge 10+ times thinking I will be inspired. Truth be told, this is what I am craving.
You can find Ed’s Lobster Bar in New York City here. Sadly, there isn’t a subway from midtown Kansas City that will take me there. But I will be there again in May.
Now, what should we have for dinner tonight?
SHARE THIS: 
I couldn’t find my happiness this past Sunday. I tried.
I couldn’t find my happiness this past Sunday. I tried.
I wasn’t slated to work that day, but I had gone in early for a problem and then, later, learned that a customer had reduced a staff member to tears with bullying. The day ended with phone line trouble, a saddened and frustrated staff member walking me through it over her cell phone, and another trip from home to work.
Sundays aren’t a day that’s dictated. I don’t have a set schedule on that day of my week. It’s always a little bit loosey goosey. Usually.
But there must have been a subconscious plan in my head for that day that just wouldn’t come true, and by the end of the day I was blue. Sad. Pissed.
But today – another snow day – I found my delight in not wearing my watch, making breakfast for a teen, playing and losing four games of Scrabble, watching two movies, and taking one nap.
I had no set schedule in mind when I went to sleep last night and none when I woke up. It seemed to help.
Pure happiness.
SHARE THIS: 
I was packing the last two boxes of holiday decorations. I save the packing of the ornaments for last. They usually come off the trees on a Sunday, migrate to the dining room table for removal of the hooks, and, a few days later, I start putting them back into the tissue paper they hailed from just a month and a half before.
I was packing the last two boxes of holiday decorations. I save the packing of the ornaments for last. They usually come off the trees on a Sunday, migrate to the dining room table for removal of the hooks, and, a few days later, I start putting them back into the tissue paper they hailed from just a month and a half before.
I was putting the finishing layers – three per box – into both boxes at once and said to my husband and son, “If I dropped dead tomorrow, you guys would never open these again, would you?” They were only one room away, clicking busily on their computers, when the dove-tailed answers hit. “No.” Maybe one of them mumbled, “Probably not.”
These boxes hold memories. When I unpack them right after Thanksgiving, they rest on the dining room table – out of their protective wraps – while I stare at them and repair unglued joints. I remember tiny hands that made some, and this year I revisited memories of a long gone sister and the two things I have that she made as a child. I walk leisurely down memory lane during the busiest month of my year.
A few days later, when the three of us go to hang them all, I take a few minutes to point out several to my son that have real significance – my grandmother’s stitches, my great-aunt’s crochet work, his grandfather’s paint strokes, and his aunt’s ability with clay. I try not to overwhelm and have learned that four shout outs one night a year is the maximum for possible retention.
I don’t really know if the boxes would ever be opened by the two men I live with. A woman would open them if left in her care. She would wait a year. Or more. Then, one cold morning, she would brace herself with a box of tissues and her courage and rip those suckers open. She would visit each piece like a tongue lingers on tooth pain. Delicately, so as not to wince, moan or cry out.
I packed it all away. Again. The entire process is cathartic to me. I have many people to visit with at my dining table all year long at a myriad of events, celebrations and holidays. But the places and the people I can’t have back come delicately to me in December in the form of pinecones, angels, dogs, and snowmen. I touch them all. Hang them up to breathe. Live with them. Then, I let them go.
p.s. Full disclosure: This is not our tree featured with my son and me in the photo. This tree graces the lobby at The Rep every year during the seasonal run of “A Christmas Carol”. We visit it.
SHARE THIS: 
Earlier this month, an artist we represent visited the store. He shared with us a bit more of his personal history. The pain was apparent in his words and in his eyes as he told stories….
December 24, 2012
Earlier this month, an artist we represent visited the store. He shared with us a bit more of his personal history. The pain was apparent in his words and in his eyes as he told stories of his parents – who have passed – and his brother who has no time for him.
What causes our friend the deepest pain is not knowing his brother’s children. As a man who educates children for a living and who carries a deep love of art into his personal and professional life, he is at a loss. The love of family is missing. But the love of the family he has built with his adoring friends is what holds his heart intact. He has built a home for himself – a place where he lives a happy, joyful life – with just a few bricks missing. He told us that he follows our family history as it evolves in our blog, and he admitted to being a wee bit jealous.
We are an open and affirming family. To us, that encompasses our lifestyles and our “mode of being”. Our house has no room for hate. The windows and doors are shut to those who judge people based on their sexual orientation, skin color, or choice of faith. We reminded our friend that the greatest loss is the one his brother is experiencing – which is not knowing true brotherhood.
It is our dream, in this joyful season of wishes, that our children continue the fight we are waging to ensure civil rights for all of Earth’s people. We are handing this dream to our children because we believe they are finally the generation that may see beyond all the silliness to look deep within the human before them before making a judgement.
Our children continue to be our hope for a free and just world.
Happy Holidays to you.
Casey & Sloane SImmons
Sisters & Co-owners
SHARE THIS: 
Yesterday my day was filled with laughter. It was all I could do to survive the comedy of errors my day was destined to offer.
Yesterday my day was filled with laughter. It was all I could do to survive the comedy of errors my day was destined to offer.
Here is a quick snap shot.
Yep, I live a life of grace and luxury. My friend said it best in a late night text: “Ahhh, parenthood, the gift that keeps on giving.”
I hope your holidays are filled with as much laughter as I shared with loving people yesterday. It really was a great day. Now, Friday…bring it!
hApPy HoLiDaYs!
SHARE THIS: 
It’s the time of year when people ask, “Do you leave the store?” We do. We go home at night, and we come back the next day. However, leaving for lunch is hard after Thanksgiving.
It’s the time of year when people ask, “Do you leave the store?” We do. We go home at night, and we come back the next day. However, leaving for lunch is hard after Thanksgiving. Today I snuck away and had lunch with my sister, my Dad, my niece and my stepmom after they had been to see Santa. This may be the last day we can do this until January, and that’s OK. We love seeing our customers over their lunch breaks during the holidays. That’s when all the sneaky purchases take place.
Classic Cookie is one of our favorite places for chicken salad. And cookies. But mostly chicken salad. Well, Casey had a roast beef sandwich today, but I think it is because their horseradish sauce and bread are so amazing. Ask her. I really don’t know.
Leslia Stockard owns this great small business, and just this Sunday – yesterday – she was in STUFF when we were making plans for today’s lunch. Casey asked what the soups were going to be on Monday. Leslie admitted that she didn’t know – but what sounded good? Casey said that she didn’t like beans and left it at that.
The soups today were Mushroom Potato and Beef Barley. Not a bean in sight. You can’t tell me small business doesn’t listen to their customers.
SHARE THIS: 
They start by just sleeping in their car carriers. Under the desk. Behind the counter. In the office. They come to work and they do little.
They start by just sleeping in their car carriers. Under the desk. Behind the counter. In the office. They come to work and they do little.
Then, they play. They play with their own toys, they play with the office supplies, and maybe, just maybe, they play shop with us. They nap, they nosh.
Then, around five years old, they want something “real” to do. Labeling, stickering, sorting. Doesn’t matter, just as long as it’s what we’re doing. It’s for short periods of time so that the playing can continue.
At seven, they want a timesheet. It not about the money – there are child labor laws! – it’s about being like the other employees and doing “real work”. Not like the stuff they did at five. This time the labeling needs to be on product, the stickering needs to be on real file folders, and the sorting becomes filing into the file cabinets. Real numbers, Labor Law Compliance Center labor posters, the full alphabet, and goals.
This week my niece filled out a timesheet that brought tears to me eyes. They grow up too fast. But it was the little parts of this one that got me. Her nickname, my nickname, the day of the week, and the fact that she got it approved by her mother. Their childhood goes by so fast, and I can’t speak for my sister but having the children at work with you alleviates huge piles of mother guilt when you feel pulled in multiple directions. It’s not all bad and more than a little bit of fun. You laugh more, you walk up the street for ice cream and popcorn, and you remember – and feel deeply – what a family business really is.
The law be damned. They just want to be like their mothers.
SHARE THIS: 
With all our love, Happy Thanksgiving.
Every time a stranger applauds us for bringing them a smile during the public radio fund drive, we are thankful.
Every time our Dad reaches another lymphoma milestone, we are thankful.
Every time a customer thanks us for donating to their school auction, we are thankful.
Every time an employee verbally appreciates payday, we are thankful.
Every time our Mom says another year of being cancer-free is behind her, we are thankful.
Every time a new artist joins the mix in the store, we are thankful.
Every time you say our name lovingly in a group of friends, we are thankful.
Every time our children remind us what unconditional love is, we are thankful.
Every time the store fills with customers, we are thankful.
And every year we thank our lucky stars for getting the chance to try and make a difference for local artists, for American hand craft, for community charities, and for small business.
With all our love, Happy Thanksgiving.
SHARE THIS: 
The children were turning blue in front of our eyes. The same parents that had previously over-dressed them for every snow day were just standing there watching them smile and freeze.
The children were turning blue in front of our eyes. The same parents that had previously over-dressed them for every snow day were just standing there watching them smile and freeze. The same parents that despised making them put coats on over their tiny costumes on brisk Halloween nights in years past. These same parents held cameras aloft and captured all the smiles on film.
I was one of those parents. It seemed like just yesterday I had begged him to get out of the pool because his lips were blue and he was causing ripples just standing still. “No Mom. I’m fffine,” as the sun nestled in tighter behind the clouds. Yet here I was bearing witness to his male friends holding back the shivers while the females of the bunch pulled their uncovered legs a little closer together under short skirts. It was my son’s second Homecoming Dance. Who was I to be the voice of reason and therefore the party-pooper. The “Weird Mom”.
Their lips were almost to chattering, and the cameras clicked along. Yet they ran to the rented bus and its awating warmth when it pulled up.
Then they left us on the lawn of the art museum to find our own way.
p.s. That’s mine. Third from the right.
SHARE THIS: 
I wrote recently that I am pretty smitten with Instagram. Here is my second Instagram photo blog. These images are from our summer vacation to the beach in Florida. Sorry it took a while. My life kind of ran amok recently.
I wrote recently that I am pretty smitten with Instagram. Here is my second Instagram photo blog. These images are from our summer vacation to the beach in Florida. Sorry it took a while. My life kind of ran amok recently.
SHARE THIS: 
