The STUFF Sisters

Surprise

Several weeks ago I attended a charity event. The theme was elusive and when I asked around about what to wear, I was told “something sparkly” and “glittery”.

Easy. Black dress and whatever I owned in the way of rhinestone and crystal jewelry. The more, the merrier.

It was the final touch that I sensed I didn’t own. My clutches can run to bright colors but not sparkle, leather not beads.

As I cursed my way to the bottom of the drawer that holds my handbags lamenting my bad fortune and forgetting just briefly how darn lucky I am to get to attend terrific parties, I happened upon this little number. I didn’t remember inheriting it from my grandmother. It was simply perfect. Fully beaded in subdued black beads – some matte finish and some polished – it was going to be my co-pilot in charge of cell phone, credit card and Chapstick! It even sports a twisted silk strap, which I left curled inside.

Continue reading “Surprise”

Catching Flak

Where the flak is launched from is Harl and Dakota, my husband and my son. They hear me kvetch, and they listen to me rave.

This is my new handbag. I love it. Very much.

Where the flak is launched from is Harl and Dakota, my husband and my son. They hear me kvetch about how much I hate the one I am hoping to replace, and they listen to me rave about the new one.

The last bag I carried was not my favorite. Ever. It was just holding a place for what I was really looking for. I have entered a phase of my life where a bag you just dump everything into is not going to work. As a grown woman, I look crazy when I am up to my elbows in my bag digging for a pen or my phone. I speak solely from experience and do not speak about other women; that would be poor form.

This bag is hand-crafted from reclaimed pieces of Afghani fabrics. A single comfortable leather handle. It hangs perfectly. It’s all wonderful and good. Currently perfect.

What’s the absolute best, however, is that it has two amazing pockets on the outside – one for the blasted phone and one for the lauded reading glasses. If that wasn’t enough to send me into convulsions of excitement, there are two more inside – one for my car keys and one for my Sharpie pens. Right at the top. Right where I need them to be. The rest of my existence can fall to the bottom.

I have caught many comments from the peanut gallery the past few days as I’ve entered into my new love affair. Dakota gives the bag “three months” before it becomes a loathed item. Harl, wisely, has tried to keep his mouth shut – “tried” being the key word.

p.s. The photo of the peanut gallery was taken a few nights ago on an outing. The photo of my new, fantastic bag was taken this morning while it rested easily in air-conditioned comfort in the front seat of my new, used car. To read more about that sweet ride, click here.

One Night Life

I like this one night lifestyle. Magic happens.

Last weekend I attended a fantastic charity party for a local health clinic that I adore. Serving the uninsured and under-insured is the full-on mission of the Kansas City CARE Clinic. What I believe sets this event apart from many other great parties in this town is the intense creativity of the event and that filters from the intense creativity of the volunteer committee that steers it. The name of the event is “Bloom”, and it is themed each year. This year it was “Bloom Fleet Week”, and all of us stalwart sailors and patriotic participants where waiting at port when it docked.

I was thrilled to turn to one of the local artists my store represents with three pewter anchors in hand to ask her to make fleet week magic. She asked a few questions – what the neckline of my shirt was, what color I was wearing, what my preference in beads was – and told me she would call me when it was done.

A few weeks later, this piece of magic blew me away. It was perfect. Red coral, pewter, and pearls make a dynamic friendship. Paired with my navy blue tee, I was ready to set sail.

Hoop Dog Studio, the home of the artist who made this necklace, would accept no payment for this piece of art. She thanked me for my service on the CARE Clinic board. With her generosity, I told her I insisted that the piece come back to her so that she could use the beads again in other jewelry.

So, like me, this necklace will have enjoyed a one night life. As much as I have wanted to this week, I can’t go back to Bloom. The magical experience in a warehouse in the East Bottoms is long gone.

It was a wonderful night. It was packed with my friends and caring people I don’t even know who want to make sure Kansas Citians have access to quality health care, no matter their ability to pay.

I like this one night lifestyle. Magic happens.

Human Geography

I’ve been intrigued by the concept of what I am calling “human geography” – the mapping of my daily life. I don’t think this is really a science, but I am still going to watch for the minute details that show me my way through my rich, full life.

For the past few months, I’ve been intrigued by the concept of what I am calling “human geography” – the mapping of my daily life. Not just how my car steers itself to Starbucks for my iced black tea, but the way I live in my environments. My desk. My kitchen. My bedside table.

I became mesmerized by my dressing table. So at the end of several weeks, I’ve stopped to snap a photo before I clean. I usually tidy up my room on Sundays. That’s when time stands a bit more still for me.

In the wreckage that remains on that surface, I can clearly see my week. Events. Work. Patron parties. Nights out. Charity luncheons. Sometimes I can see the change of season by the weight and scale of the necklaces left in my wake and not put away.

This week ended with AIDS Walk. I wear my red ribbons sporadically all year long, but, in the week butting up to the Walk, I am daily in my pursuit of conversation starters pinned to my lapel. It works. It’s called awareness for a reason. Clerks at the bank asked if I was walking. My server at Starbucks. A customer.

I don’t think this is really a science, human geography. But I am still going to watch for the minute details that show me my way through my rich, full life.

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.

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.

Forever Haunted

I will forever be haunted by this photo of garment factory workers in Bangladesh. I had an early hand in their death.

I will forever be haunted by this photo of garment factory workers in Bangladesh.

I had an early hand in their death. Years ago I shopped for clothes for my young son and was always searching for the “cheap tee”. He ripped through them by using them – painting in them, playing in them, using them to their fullest. I can remember actually saying to a friend of mine while standing in a big box merchant, “How can they afford to sell these shirts for four dollars?”

Now I know they – we – can’t. The cost is too high, and these two people – and upwards of 1,000 others – paid the price I wasn’t willing to pay for expensive clothing.

My friend Missy stated it loud and clear at a charity event a few weeks ago when she was telling us all about the sponsors of the event and how we “vote with our dollars” and should “consider moving our money to the businesses who care about what we care about.”

Done.

Photo credit: Taslima Akhter, Bangladeshi photographer and activist. Retrieved from: lightbox.time.com.

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.

coverup & suit — My son, me, and the stylish swimsuit strap under oxford cloth.

Red Skirt

I want this skirt…

I want this skirt.

Oscar de la Renta is a genius.