The STUFF Sisters

The Whole World Nicer

He was silent as he continued to stare at me. Deeply and for almost a full minute. He was taking me all in. I never broke his gaze.

Several days before we left to meet our son in New Orleans for his spring break, I was ribbed a little for wearing my AIDS Walk wind breaker. My partner that night informed someone we ran into that “…she always wears that jacket. I don’t think she owns another coat.” I saw no reason to defend myself, and I smiled.

I love this jacket. For many reasons. One: It was a gift over ten years ago for meeting a goal in fundraising. Two: It is lightweight and perfect for travel. Three: I can wear it in the winter easily. Four: It reminds me every time I look down at the logo that AIDS Walk knows no season for me. HIV/AIDS doesn’t quit. It is a 24/7 disease.

So you can imagine my terror when I found a hole on the seam under my left arm. I was crossing my arms on the bus back from a plantation home. I was trying to get my right shoulder in a comfortable position so that my son could fall asleep on it. He might have moved out of the house almost two years ago, but a mother NEVER forgets the pain of a limb arranged stupidly for a child’s nap!

Continue reading “The Whole World Nicer”

Wearing It

This past week has been crazy busy. And crazy.

I looked down in my closet today and saw the whole week – and every event I attended and every hour I worked – in one pile. Shoes right where I had left them the minute I took them off.

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Grown *ss Man

Lately my son has been telling me, “Woman, I am a grown ass man, and I don’t need you tellin’ me what to do!” He even kicks in with a little bit of a drawl delivering it.

Him, as he walks into my room: “Mom, it’s time to play your favorite game.”

Me: “Which one is that?”

Him: “Help Dakota find socks that match all of this,” as he points to his outfit for the dance.

Of course I played.

I posted that snapshot of life with my son to my Facebook page a few days ago. It accompanied this picture:

That is my son. With his date to the WPA (Women Pay All) Dance. No matter the age, when they are kids they look grown up the minute they put on a sport coat. Or, in the case of her parents, I’m guessing it’s the high heels.

Lately he’s been telling me, “Woman, I am a grown ass man, and I don’t need you tellin’ me what to do!” He even kicks in with a little bit of a drawl delivering it.

This kid lays me out with his solid, quiet humor. So much bluffing about being grown up and blustering about being able to do it himself. I’ve been hearing this since he was three – what he doesn’t need from me and what he can do himself.

Until it comes down to socks.

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….

Singularly Lovely

I read Vogue magazine every month. I like to get my fashion mixed with a bit of substance.

I read Vogue magazine every month. I like to get my fashion mixed with a bit of substance. Yes, I am the dork that reads their well-written articles. (W Magazine is also on my bedside table.)

I came across this short piece about crystal necklaces in the recent issue. They were featured in a runway show this season. I got a bit of a rush to find something we sell at our store featured in Vogue.

STUFF sells Swarovski crystal necklaces, earrings and bracelets. We work with a designer in Berlin, Germany. They have been a STUFF staple for many years. The single strand – like you see in this image – is one of our most popular.

I added one to my personal collection a few years back, and find that I wear it more often than I believed I would. One of my favorite ways is to throw it on with casual T-shirts and skirts. It takes my weekend run-about wardrobe to a new level. And, if I find myself invited to last minute afternoon drinks, I am dressed.

I loved seeing them featured in Vogue. I felt so fashionable and current.

Natural State

Yesterday I re-entered my natural state. I woke up, left my pajamas on the hook, and took off into a world I love. The one where my swimsuit is the main mode of clothing.

Several weeks ago, my best friend texted and briefly stated that she had just encountered the smell of Coppertone and was transported back to our summers as pre-teens, teens, co-eds, working women, young mothers and working mothers. I have never known a summer without the brown bottle. And anything banana-flavored has never touched my skin. I don’t even like banana candy, although I like bananas.

My dermatologist and I look at my largest organ in depth every year. My addiction to the sun has lessened as my age has increased. However, my yearning to live full days in Lycra and spandex fully coated in Coppertone has not abated. Good thing we’re supposed to wear sunscreen in the shade.

I live my dream every summer vacation by waking much as I did yesterday: shedding my PJs for my swimsuit and then spending the day moving through activities lightly clothed. A worn-in Oxford cloth dress shirt with the arms rolled way up is my ultimate cover-up. In our little corner of Florida, this passes as more than acceptable for restaurant dining. I shower long after the sun has gone down and move swiftly back into my cotton sleepwear. Never a bra or panties in sight. Never a long sleeve, hem or button to fence me in. Although, I do admit to window shopping on my favorite 7 best websites to buy sheer and see through lingerie but only at night when I couldn’t sleep, in bed, waiting for sleep.

She took me to the pool yesterday, my best friend, for the first time this year. This may well be a record. So late in “the season” for my inaugural walk into cool water. I am grateful and happy for her invitation, and the lingering aroma of our amazing friendship was with us the whole time. In my pool bag. Just waiting for me to un-cap it and let the memories overwhelm me.

Every boat dock, sun deck, beach chair, over-sized towel and speedboat returned to me. Every sun hat, pair of sunglasses, T-shirt, flip-flop and tote roared at me. My newborn son seeing pool water three months after his birth. My Dad skiing behind our boat. My Mom judging our dives from the edge of our pool. My sister holding her breath and my hands while we attempted “butt bumpers” for the one millionth time.

All this in one little bottle.

p.s. I mean no disrespect to anyone who wears Banana Boat lotions or eats those delightful banana flavored Laffy Taffy.

coppertone girl — This is the little girl I grew up with.

I am a fat girl

Will I always be a fat girl? It will never matter what size I am on the outside, I fear will forever be a fat girl inside.

Will I always be a fat girl?

It will never matter what size I am on the outside, I fear I will forever be a fat girl inside. Surprised? You shouldn’t be. I love myself. I am confident. I see my beauty. I didn’t state that I believe I am ugly. I just see myself as fat.

Does this have anything to do with reality? Since beauty is relative to culture and geography. I guess it depends on where I am standing.

In my late teens and early twenties, I became very obese. I can go into a long story about genetics, depression and identity. But take it from me: I gained an outrageous amount of weight.

Then, I met an amazingly kind and level-headed doctor, who showed me the way to a healthier and much thinner me. I lost over 120 pounds during my first lifestyle evolution.

I went on to lose more, but after that 120 mark I learned to watch the numbers you get from blood tests – not a scale.

I look nothing like the Casey from those years. The photos I have stashed away deep in a closet look like a stranger to me.

After my weight loss, I suffered through two surgeries to correct some of the damage my body had suffered. And I still hope to complete that surgical journey one day. It has been scary, painful and exhilarating.

One day, many years after my weight loss and surgeries, I made myself a promise to never again judge myself by my size and to let go of the “fat girl” forever.

So why is she still here?

Because this week the Disney empire carved the soul out of little girl named Merida to fit her into a smaller dress.

Everywhere I look, the message is skinny is beautiful, skinny is healthy, skinny means you have self control, skinny is sexy, skinny is better than fat.

My pain is real. I have been unable to write this blog without taking breaks to cry heavily into my hands. I deeply hope this open letter to the world will help me take another painful and cathartic step in the right direction.

There are days I feel strong and up to the fight – days where I am grounded, I feel empowered and beautiful.

And, there are days when I want to scream.

Here is the article where I found this image.

The First Cold Day

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.

Home Alone

God save me from my memories.

Tonight was a gift that has come along so seldom in the last 15 years that I was giddy with the possibilities. The husband at work for a client. The kid off at a dance and after parties.

God save me from my memories.

Tonight was a gift that has come along so seldom in the last 15 years that I was giddy with the possibilities. The husband at work for a client. The kid off at a dance and after parties. I didn’t know when the man would be home, but the boy’s pickup wasn’t until 1am. A day of work and volunteering behind me, and an evening to myself. Alone. In my home alone. Nirvana.

Maybe catching up on my reading. Maybe writing a bit from the notes I gathered at my writing group on Friday. Maybe learning to use the remote and watching an old movie. Maybe remembering the huge dust monster found in my closet/dressing room/office earlier this morning while digging the boots out.

Guess which one won?

Here I am at 10pm on a Saturday night. Battling the vacuum attachments was work enough, but the flood of memories from the handbags, totes and clutches almost took me down.

What in the hell is wrong with me? I can clean out a child’s room quickly. I can make happy work of an over-packed junk drawer. I can sort through the “dump pile” of weekly mail swiftly. I can make tough decisions about what goes and what stays in every room in the house except the one that is solely mine. My dressing room and office.

This pile of incredibly dusty and seldom used bags turned into a hike through Mizzou (early ’80s), a trip to a national political convention (mid ’80s), a trip with my toddler to the zoo in St. Louis (late ’90s), a first-time handbag purchase from a street vendor in New York (early ’90s), and a talk with my grandmother (seemingly yesterday). I stood there vacuuming them all – with the brush attachment and working up a marginal sweat – telling myself that this was it. This was finally the day to rid myself of cotton duck cloth and/or leather that hadn’t held a school book, diaper, notebook, badge or swimsuit in over 10 years.

Then I folded them neatly into a dust-resistant plastic bin and put them away on the highest shelf of my closet.

For another day.

p.s. Of course it turned into a larger project that encompassed the entire closet. Silly girl. What was I thinking?

Vacation Epiphany

It has taken entirely too long to pinpoint why I love vacations near the ocean. I am 47 years old and have loved the water my whole life. I have reverence for the power of large bodies of water but no fear of them. I love swimming and can find great solace floating on water or diving under and holding my breath. Oceans. Pools. Lakes. Streams. Waterhoses. Doesn’t matter. Water makes me happy and makes me want to be a part of it. (Except bathtubs. I’ve never enjoyed them in the least, and it’s probably just about the temperature. But I digress.)

goodbye beach — Yep. The requisite sunset photo.

I love water-based vacations because, if I plan my day well, I can wake up and go directly to my swim suit from my pajamas, and then, at the end of a water logged day, I can move gracefully back to my pajamas or another form of lounge wear that doesn’t involve any form of undergarments. Right there. The pinpoint. After 47 years.

I have never had to suffer under the daily strain of panty hose. I have never lived in an era where girdles were de rigueur. But I am fed up and done with bras and most forms of underpants. Unfortunately, they are a necessity at my age, and I do miss my “commando” days. I am, however, tired of being confined, and, for two weeks a year, I make sure “foundations” have no part of my life.

grasses & sky — Dramatic sky before sunset.

I am the queen of fashioning a cover-up for trips to the grocery store and casual restaurants. That’s what scarves, old cotton skirts, and T-shirts are for. This last vacation was on a beach, and trips away from the house had me sporting my favorite oxford cloth button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled way up over my strapless swimsuit with its attached skirt. That’s the whole outfit. (OK. The suit has one detachable strap, but I despise tan lines, so I save the strap for special occations. Like boutique shopping, because that demands a level of stylishness, for heaven’s sake.)

almost evening — The view from my towel on day one. Possibly my favorite shot this year.

By the time I get to vacation each year, I have tired of feeling cooped up and locked down. And vacations, if done right, are about feeling exactly opposite. And, for two weeks, I am free as a bird and loving every minute of it.

p.s. These photos were taken on Anna Maria Island over the past two weeks. A trip off island to the fishing village of Cortez warranted the oxford cloth coverup and swimsuit strap you see here.