The STUFF Sisters

Brunch-Blocked

I enjoy language. Word play is fun. So, when I recently read the term “brunch-block” in an email, I cracked up.

I enjoy language. Word play is fun. So, when I recently read the term “brunch-block” in an email, I cracked up. The sender was being literal. She was proposing to plan a brunch for a good friend and she discovered that a brunch was already being planned. She then stated that she hadn’t meant to “brunch-block” the host.

I am stealing this term. I will be using it. And, every time I do, it will make me happy.

PS…Since we are talking about brunch, I thought I would share one of my favorite brunch spots.

When Mommies Freak Out

When my darling boy was a little over 2 years old, I drove the wrong way down one way streets and sped through red lights after looking both ways.

When my darling boy was a little over 2 years old, I drove the wrong way down one way streets and sped through red lights after looking both ways. Or maybe my husband did that. Can’t remember exactly who was behind the wheel because I may have been freaking out. We got there and parked in under 8 minutes.

My husband and I escorted our young son into Children’s Mercy Hospital way after midnight all those years ago on feet that never touched the floor. A mere few minutes before that, we had been sleeping in our bed when the sound of troubled breathing from the baby’s room woke us both with a start. We knew something was wrong, and it really sounded like he had swallowed something and it was stuck. Stuck right beyond where we could dig it out with cupped fingers. We know, because we tried.

We had been out earlier that night. The sweet boy had been with his favorite sitter in our home. We had houseguests – my very pregnant best friend and her husband were sleeping over while their floors were being refinished a few blocks away. They were asleep as well.

But not for long. When a wheezing sound from another human hits you that hard, you have trouble breathing yourself. I caught my breath enough to wake our guests, call the babysitter, ask a few questions, and dress us all for quality time in the emergency room.

I can still see my friend Cathy – out to there with baby #1 – in silhouette at the top of my stairs telling me to call her. She had the same look of fear in her eyes that I did.

We flew into the hospital, and everyone could hear that something was wrong. Those geniuses knew what it was from his first exhalation in their presence. They are that good. I believe we heard the word “spasmodic croup” before the next inhalation. We answered 900 questions, filed a gazillion forms, and paid a co-pay with a credit card in the exam room. And then our friend Scott walked in the room.

scott & D — Scott and our son on Valentine's Day this year.

How he knew we were there I will never know. He is a respiratory therapist at Children’s Mercy, and he walked into the room in the heat of it all. He was as cool, calm and collected as the other staff. They all seem to know each other at that particular hospital, and they all seem to love their jobs. It is palpable when you meet any of them – in or out of the hospital.

When it was ascertained that there already was a respiratory therapist in the room for our son and Scott was asked why was he there, he simply stated, in true Scott fashion, “I’m not here for him. I’m here for her,” and he swiftly pointed to me.

He made the whole room smile with that line. He made me laugh hard enough to have oxygen reach the bottom of my lungs – at the exact moment our son ceased to struggle due to the vapors coming at him from a crazy machine. He made the whole room relax.

And then he was gone. Back to the children that needed him. He hugged my husband and me, patted our son on the back, and left.

We spent a few more hours at the hospital, and we never laid eyes on Scott again that night. We went home and slept well. Our son never had another episode in infanthood. Or ever.

Lucky us. For having friends who know exactly when they are needed, and for having a son who knows to just have his croup “spasmodically” and not every day.

Kisses

We wish you the happiest holidays and we hope you get everything you wish for. Hugs and kisses – Casey and Sloane

Kisses linger.

Kisses warm.

Kisses soothe.

Kisses bless.

Kisses carry silent messages and lasting emotions.

Every kiss we hand out during the holidays carries all of our well wishes and dreams for our customers. You have lingered with us over great stories, and you’ve warmed us when life got too chilly. You have blessed us with your business, and you’ve left the artists we represent soothed by the knowledge that their hard work is well received.

We wish you the happiest holidays and we hope you get everything you wish for.

Hugs and kisses.

Casey & Sloane Simmons
Sisters & Co-owners

I Wish All My Ex’s Lived in Texas

I was out last week with a group of friends to celebrate a 40th birthday. The birthday girl’s husband had reserved a private room at a local bar, opened the bar to us, and made sure the snacks were abundant. I didn’t try any of the snacks. I know this because I was happily keeping my custom-printed cup full of cocktails instead. It was gearing up to be a fantastic night.

When the timer on our private room expired, we moved upstairs for the band. At this point the remaining group was a heaping handful of close friends, all married, all spouses accounted for, and me. The single woman. I am used to being the only single person in a group of married people. I show up to most social events alone. I don’t bring a “crutch” date (another single girl friend or a married person that is out without her husband). I just go everywhere alone. I mean let’s face it, folks: I am alone when it comes to couples events.

So…we were – how should I say this politely – loose with drink. And ready for some dance therapy. Cue birthday girl to the stage! Said birthday girl drags “the posse” of girl friends with her. And oh, what fun. I love to dance. Music lifts me right out of the world where we are all firmly planted, and I escape into the rhythm, music and vibe. And that was where I was delightfully lost when a man took my hand and helped me off the stage.

Then I found myself standing face-to-face with my EX-HUSBAND! No shit! I can’t make this kind of tragic crap up. He is saying something. My friends are staring and starting to think…who’s the guy? (Wink, wink, nudge, nudge). I pull my ex away from the speakers to hear what in the world he would want to say to me at the very bar where he spent an outrageous amount of our money drinking while he was cheating on me and tearing our marriage to shreds. But I am hopelessly curious (and stupid).

Yep, you guessed it. I got the “I really, really miss you. I always loved you” drunken-goo-goo-eyed pick-up line. I was speechless. If you know me, “speechless” is very, very, very rare. I stuttered. My knees felt weak. I shouted over the band, “Where is your wife?” He didn’t answer. He just repeated the line about missing me and loving me. I took a breath, regrouped my courage, and resorted to a one-liner to cover up my devastation. “Of course you miss me, I am fabulous.” I walked off.

Don’t be impressed. I immediately marched outside, where it took me 20 minutes, two friends, a strong drink, 2 cigarettes, and a face full of streaming tears to get my ass ready to return to the dance floor. When I returned to the dance floor, I closed my eyes and let the music carry me away.

What is remarkable about this story is that it is not remarkable at all. This happens to people all the time.

The week before, my ex-lover showed up at STUFF during our Wings of Hope event to say “hello”. He had been driving by and thought it would be a good idea to stop and catch me in front of my store (where I can’t walk away). And then he came back a second time to bring me food he had been cooking all day with his wife, kids and close family friends.

And, if that wasn’t enough, two years ago at the holidays I was dating a man (who chose to compare me to “new car smell” and classify me as “one of his obsessions” on Facebook after I asked for a break). This man has called, emailed and come to the store multiple times over the last few weeks looking for me. At least he offered help and shopped.

Casey Simmons driving her FJ. — going forward...never straight...at the wheel.

These men that I shared my heart, my mind, my body, and a small part of my soul with never once stopped to think about me. Not once. They just marched all over my personal space, my feelings, and my life. They showed no respect for me, my family, or my business. I don’t seek them out. I haven’t played games. I haven’t posted veiled (or direct) references on Facebook about them. I have left them alone.

“The holidays” make men and women want to couple. I get it. I feel its powerful pull every day in November and December, too. After the first week of January it fades, and I fall back into my natural state. I too want to fall in love again. I want a husband and a big crazy combined mess of a family. But, in the meantime, I want to avoid stomping on the very people that I cared for deeply…and I want to avoid them stomping all over me.

These ridiculous happenings have left me sad, frustrated, exposed, raw and lonely. But, they have also left me proud that I have the courage to stand alone, even when I don’t want too.

Never Say Never

Today I stooped to a new low, even for myself.

Today I stooped to a new low, even for myself. I answered – and sent on! – a chain letter via the Internet. But only to eight people, who I’m sure now think seriously less of me. In my defense, it came from a reliable and trusted source, and the message was sincere and did not involve a scheme of any flavor.

I had not sent one of these since I folded six letters in the 7th grade and sent them on with quarters taped to them. I was going to be rich. The letter said so.

I told my 12-year-old self – when the money failed to roll in – that I would never do that again. I asked myself, “How could you be so stupid?”

My 46-year-old self answers, “because you followed your heart and threw caution to the wind.” This wiser me remembers recently thinking, “I’ll never do Facebook. Who has time for that? Pinterest? There’s not enough hours in the day for crazy, frivolous things.”

Now, at the end of a busy day before a very busy weekend, I have logged out of Facebook, finished pinning in Pinterest, and received two – count them two! – responses from the recipients of my first chain letter in 34 years.

Steve Jobs’ Death Pisses Me Off

Personally I am tired of cancer taking amazing people from me and from our glorious world. Steve Jobs’ passing makes me sad, but it also pisses me off.

Personally I am tired of cancer taking amazing people from me and from our glorious world.

Steve Jobs’ passing makes me sad, but it also pisses me off. And I think this is a good thing. Because it will, once again, renew my passion for being part of finding a cure for all cancers.

My grandmother died from cancer, my mother has survived cancer more than once, my father is in Houston right now undergoing chemotherapy for cancer, and this week I have deeply needed one of my business mentors that died a couple of years ago from cancer.

Cancer Crew Cut — Me and my Dad. I shaved his head when the chemo started causing it to fall out.

That’s it. Cancer has got to go. That is why today I am going to make a donation to The Susan Henke Miller Breast Cancer Research Fund (the same charity our annual event Wings of Hope supports) in honor of Steve Jobs.

I don’t want to feel powerless today. I want to feel empowered and inspired by Steve’s legacy. Owning his inventions are not enough for me today. I want to kick back at the loss that cancer has brought us all.

Until there is a cure….

Days of Abstraction

I think it is human nature to believe that you can understand other people. We seek to “know” people. We are constantly making assumptions about others. “She is….” “He is….”

I am a visual person. For me, it is like I begin to paint a portrait of a person, and I add paint strokes to the image as I learn more about them. I hope to define or decode them and bring them into focus.

But I am always looking at my imaginary paintings and feeling like I am missing something. I wish could put my finger on what I missed. It is terribly confusing to discover that my imagination has led me astray – to discover my portraits are not accurate.

Maybe this is why I am drawn to abstract art. It strips the imagery completely away, and only focuses on feeling, emotion, essence, and even the void.

Some days I am more comfortable with abstraction. I am able to be less critical. I am more open. My mind is free. I am able to avoid assumptions.

A day of abstraction often helps me see what is really there.

Texture and Time

Earlier this week, I attended a morning get-together with several women. There was coffee served, but, since I don’t drink coffee, I feel funny saying, “I had coffee” or, “I went to a coffee”. Enough with the digression. Time for the story….

This little get-together was relaxing and low key. There were no raised voices, no preening or positioning. Just a handful of women visiting about their children and the school year ahead. The conversation generally involved the whole group, and we all got to hear the longer versions of each other’s concerns, plans and dreams. I liked that part very much. We gravitated toward the family room after the intial round of beverages were poured. I chose to sit in a chair that proved to be fantastically comfortable, and, after the rain started to fall, I kept to myself the desire to tell our hostess that I would be staying for naptime.

I found myself, as we were all talking, mesmerized by the texture of the upholstery on my chair. It was the same upholstery on every chair and sofa in the room, and I hope my friend doesn’t blame her beloved dogs for the possible “wear and tear” on the corner I covertly fondled. The cotton fabric had a weave to it that didn’t follow the pattern of the bold stripes, and it held me in its sway.

rain on sand — Rain pattern left on sand.

Our hostess has a divine sense of style, and what set the room off for me – beyond the tooth of the upholstery – were the magnificent conch shell resting triumphantly on the low table in front of us all and the small basket of collected shells at my elbow.

Just last month on vacation, I took my camera to the beach every day. Initially, I was on a mission to capture sunsets and to not let details get away from me, as I’m prone to do. As I edited and curated my photos on the computer, what stuck out over the many days were the textures we found on the beach and in the water. Every day, the beach ignites in me the desire to stay even longer than the day before. I never want to miss a thing, and I never want to leave.

I spent almost an hour one evening trying to capture the amazing foam near the shore. In the fading light, it was an effort in futility. However, the texture of the sand under the water ended up being as exciting to me as the foam.

Texture can awaken me visually. However, if touching is the truest form of remembrance, I’ve got memories to last a lifetime.

Sloane

july 30 sunset — The sunset on July 30th. Anna Maria Island.

p.s. All of these pictures were taken on Anna Maria Island this summer. I wrote a blog a while back about sunsets and their strange allure. See it here.

The Past as Present

I have been coming to the beach in Florida on average once a year for 9 years. I’m lucky. I have firsthand knowledge of the healing powers of the surf and the sun. I can feel it on my skin and in my soul.

Hunting for shells is a part of life on the island we visit. It juts out from the southern tip of Tampa Bay and collects some real doozies from the Gulf of Mexico. I have the patience for looking for shells, and I find the work cathartic. But I’m not good at it. I have been laughed at for what I bring back and what I find beautiful, but it rolls off of me and I care little. Shelling is a private endeavor, and others need not really know too much.

I have excelled at acting like Madame Cousteau as my son – once little and now not so much – brings me his bounty from the sea. I ooh and ahh and am truly transfixed by his luck in the shallows and on the sand. (Many years ago, I saw a comic in The New Yorker of a young Jacques at the beach. It showed his mother in a beach chair absolutely surrounded by sea life, shells and rocks. The artist had her saying something sweet and alarmingly funny – I have forgotten it, but the image has stuck with me as my son has aged.) This past week, he has brought me miniature wonders and large treasures.

And yesterday – just yesterday! – I realized why I’m not the greatest shell collector. Well, not the greatest collector of perfect shells…why I am drawn to all the shells that are imperfect and broken and damaged. The realization had me looking up from the “shell dump” my son and I were digging in and looking toward the incredible sinking sun as I caught my breath. It had come catapulting through time to strike me straight in the heart.

When I was in the 4th grade, my parents moved us from Des Moines to Kansas City. It was a wee bit hard to join a class mid-year and fit in. Well, I didn’t actually fit in for several more years. I was not chosen for kickball or dodgeball teams. I was not waved over to join a group at a lunch table. I was not picked first for spelling bees or vocabulary teams. It was tough. I was the new kid.

It was well into my 5th grade year when I met the young woman who has remained my best friend to this day. And even then, when she fell in gym and broke her forearm, I was blamed by others because I was near her and fell at the same time. I felt like I was the odd duck and the 5th wheel. I just knew I was imperfect in my classmates’ eyes – broken in some way I could not see in the mirror – and it left me a bit damaged for several years.

This brings us back to the beach and the bounty I carry away and into my home. I have jars on a high shelf in a guest room that house my treasures. I used to be a bit more anal retentive, putting dates and locations on the inside of the lids, but now I mix and match my catches. I will occasionally bring a jar down and place it on my dresser for a few weeks so I can marvel at the different shapes. I can admit to liking the pristine pieces that look like they were purchased at a gift shop, but I mix them liberally with the majority of what I own – odd shells, barnacled shells, broken shells, cracked shells, tips and fragments.

Today I found the shells you see, in the surf up-island from our beach chairs. I dug them out of the sand and clear water, looked at them briefly, and silently told myself to throw them back. They were still been held together by membrane, and one side was barnacled and off-colored, but the other side was nearly perfect and barnacle free. I held it for over a minute while contemplating how these two halves could still be together in the rough and tumble of the sea. One was perfect and one was not. Then, because I knew tossing would damage them, I laid them back gently on the sand in the shallows and walked away.

Ten minutes later, my son joined me where I sat after I had left the flats, and he showed me his many amazing shells, one of which was the pair I had placed back in the sea.

Oui, Madame était très contente.

Sloane

Special note: a “shell dump” is a phrase my sister Casey coined years ago to distinguish regular beach from a section that had a lot of shells collected in it at the last high tide.

Translation: Yes, Madame was very happy.

Silence

One evening last winter – not the one that ended yesterday when the sun rose in its glory, but the winter of 2009-2010 – I was sitting in my darkened office at STUFF. I like working at night when the store is closed and the lights are off. I turn on just one task light over my desk, and I attack the minutia of retail. To say I was diligently working on the brain-numbing details of inventory would actually be correct. I was so close to finishing that task, and I had come in after the store was closed to have total silence and full reign.

Then the phone rang. The voice on the other end said, “Your husband says you’re working very hard, but I want you to come and have drinks with me at the girl’s night I just threw together.” I hemmed, I hawed, I bandied about the “I’m so close to finishing and I really need to work because I’m a self-employed business woman and this is what we do” speech. It fell on deaf ears, and I was in my car a few minutes later heading to exactly where the beckoning had sprung from.

My friend Missy had pulled together a wonderful group of women that evening. She says she “threw” it together, but it really seemed to have come together as if by magic. The women I met that night were a mixed bunch to me. Some I knew by name and some I met that night for the first time, but one woman was in the nether region between the those two. She was a dear friend to Missy. She and I had been introduced numerous times at Bar Natasha, and I had seen her perform professionally on many stages in Kansas City. But that night, we talked – about kids and husbands and friends and commitments and responsibility. She is someone you don’t forget easily – her eye contact very focused, her laughter extremely contagious, and her singing voice coming from her whole body, not just her lungs.

And today, while I was sitting in my fully lit office, the phone rang. Missy told me that her dear friend Karen had died very early this morning. The cancer that had re-visited her body – and this time aggressively – had won. I was speechless for a minute. Missy and I continued to talk, and we re-confirmed with each other our deep hatred for cancer. Many other things were said, like “I love you” and “Take care”. Then we hung up and went back to doing. Doing things. Tasks. Work.

There was a silencing in my universe today of a voice I will never hear again. I can fill that silence with peace. I can fill that silence with hope. I can fill that silence with friendship.

I will do all of those things after I live in that silence for a bit longer.

Sloane

I grabbed this photo from Missy’s facebook page without her permission. She’ll forgive me.