The STUFF Sisters
S. Sloane Simmons and Casey Simmons
Sisters and business partners sharing life's stuff....
I have never been lucky in love. I have written a collection of tragic love stories. They are heartbreaking because I love without limits. I throw myself into love wholly and completely. The crashes are devastating.
I have never been lucky in love. I have written a collection of tragic love stories. They are heartbreaking because I love without limits. I throw myself into love wholly and completely. The crashes are devastating.
I have grown hesitant and protective since my last failed attempt. But, I still dream of love stories to be written by me. It takes a certain kind of bravery to keep trying and I like to think I have that type of courage.
Continue reading “Unlucky in Love”
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When the new parameters for my behavior with shopping carts was agreed to by both parties, I instituted them on the very next visit, which was last Friday.
I am easing back into wanting to go the grocery store. As in, on one of my days off, when there isn’t a time crunch or a huge list to be purchased, I will enter the store. Alone or with my husband, I am easing back into what was a huge part of my life for so many years.
I have written before about myself and grocery stores. My last two trips to the store have been with my husband and almost a month apart. Both very different experiences. One got me a “talking to,” and the other, after following preset parameters from the “talking to,” got me a good dose of the stink eye.
Continue reading “Easing Back”
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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.
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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.
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I have a weakness for Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. I know I am not alone in this. We are almost at the 50 year mark of his death, but his words still make me want to be a better person. To do more. To make change. To be part of the solution. To speak out. To act.
I have a weakness for Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. I know I am not alone in this. We are almost at the 50 year mark of his death, but his words still make me want to be a better person. To do more. To make change. To be part of the solution. To speak out. To act.
This morning, I attended a breakfast at the University of Missouri – Kansas City. It is named “The Freedom Breakfast”, and for the last 23 years it has not only celebrated the achievements of Dr. King but it has fully recognized the African-American leaders in our city who have made a difference in the quality of life – not only at the university but in the city as a whole. Today, however, it was the words of Chancellor Leo Morton that riveted me to my chair. He alluded to the fact that life is different now than it was in the early ’60’s. Sure, it’s better, he stated, bit it’s more difficult as well. There may no longer be big huge signs that say “Whites Only” or “No Blacks”, but sometimes, sometimes the meaning is still hanging in the air. Elusive. Secretive. Sneaky.
Words are powerful things. I never met Dr. King, but his words still sing through time. He and Abraham Lincoln may be the greatest speech writers of all time. Hands down. I can’t really walk through the Lincoln Memorial without crying. President Lincoln just holds on to the arms of his chair like he’s about to launch out of it to hand me a tissue. I wasn’t too far down the Freedom Trail in Alabama this summer when I had to pull the car over. Some fool had put a portion of a speech of Dr. King’s on a billboard. They should know that driving and crying are dangerous partners.
At the breakfast this morning, we were asked to sing along to the Black National Anthem. I knew the words without reading the program. Honestly, I never really knew this was the Black National Anthem. I knew it as a song you sing at rallies for equal rights, equal pay, fair labor practices and human rights. Today the words struck me as those that could have been sung at the “commitment ceremony” I attended this past weekend for friends who achieved the blessing of their church after 22 years together. These friends are not protected by the laws that secure my husband and me in marriage, nor are they officially allowed to use the word “married” to describe themselves, but the 3-minute ovation they received would and should marry anyone.
I see a great and continuing need for action and change. I will be a part of it. I have to be. And not just because Dr. King said, “We are not makers of history, we are made by history.”
Sing along with me now:
Lift every voice and sing, ’til Earth and Heaven ring, ring with the harmonies of liberty; Let our rejoicing rise, high at the listening skies, let it resound loud as the rolling sea. Sing a song full of the faith that the dark past has taught us, sing a song full of the hope that the present has brought us; Facing the rising sun of our new day begun, let us march on ’til victory is won.
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At dinner the other night, my husband told the group I had sung my way through Costco the day before. He said it wasn’t loud but it could be heard by others. I did not remember doing this.
At dinner the other night, my husband told the group I had sung my way through Costco the day before. He said it wasn’t loud but it could be heard by others. I did not remember doing this. I do, however, remember thinking that I hope I was in tune and, if not, then enjoyable. I sing when I’m happy – but I do not whistle. Humming is in my repertoire but not used often.
There is one way in which my husband and I are diametrically different. He could go through life not really making a ripple on the surface. The thought of a server in a restaurant singing to him on his birthday would not only mortify him, it would be grounds for our divorce after almost 30 years of bliss!
He does amazing things – behind the scenes. He gives generously of his time and resources – quietly. And he backs me up in every single thing I do and stick my nose into. We are raising a child together, and so far the experiment is going swimmingly.
I don’t believe I make scenes. I don’t think I talk louder than the situtation demands or the microphone can take. I am a good listener and reside in quiet very well. I do occasionally, however, sing in public and like surrounding myself with my own joy. I laugh easily and talk to strangers constantly – inside and outside my work life.
My wish is that, at Costco the other day and every day, my joy envelops my husband and brings happiness and not embarassment. If not, he might want to get another cart and walk a few steps behind.
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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.
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.
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My husband has a unique name: Harl A. Van Deursen. When we married, I did not take his name. I liked my name just the way it was, and, to this day, he will tell you he wishes he had bucked the status quo and taken my name.
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His unique name made for very interesting direct mail, and I started saving mailing labels 20 years ago from credit card companies and those just generally wanting us to commit to a product, sale or promotion. These labels still make me laugh out loud and, occasionally, I add a doozy to the binder clip. A general sampling:
Van Harl
Harl Harl Van
Carl Bandeursen
Harl Vandevresen
H. Van Van
Harz Van Dee
Reich Barl Van Deursen
Van Sloane Deursen
Lately I find myself keeping great spam email because sometimes I can’t stop laughing – not only at the subject line, but at the thought of who actually opens these missives from the ether. (I can assure you I don’t. They are safely locked in my special spam folder and are virtually untouched.) Most of the good ones are sex related, and please stop reading now if you are faint of heart.
My current subject line favorites:
ELECTtrifying bed-action
be her wild banger
Want a King banana down there?
BECOME A MATING CHAMPION!
Some magic for your wand.
Torpedo her ALL night
make your woody outstanding!!
Stress Cooling Lovemaking?
BANG Ladies Like Crazy
(All capitalization and punctuation has been left intact from the originals.)
Casey is a little fed up with my cackling, but she seldom fails to bite and ask, “What’s so funny?” Mass marketing hasn’t really changed that much with the advent of electronic mail. My husband and I knew not to give much heed to a company that not only didn’t know our names but mixed them liberally. And, as a heterosexual female, the spam I receive daily doesn’t warrant a click.
If you want to talk me into something, know a little bit about me. Now, that’s true marketing.
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It’s true: I married they guy I went to prom with in high school. I only went to one prom, and I’ve only had one husband. I like the simplicity of that.
When our son was taking our photo in the neighbor’s yard before we jetted off to DIFFA’s “Dining by Design” last weekend, he smarmily stated, “It’s like Parent Prom.” He has a fantastic dry humor, and this aside had me smiling for several blocks as we headed downtown. And the next day, that same comment had me digging for a high school treasure, finally found in a frame in the guest bedroom.
What struck me the most about the two photos I’ve included in this reminiscence is that the back story for each one is almost the same – something old, something new.
In the photo from 1981, I’m wearing a dress I permanently borrowed from my mother’s closet. It was a stunning Ralph Lauren cotton dress that I couldn’t get enough of but only wore once. I followed a simple aesthetic then and stayed with pearl earrings and ballet flats. I can vividly remember that the boutonnière itched like crazy on my fair skin and left me with a rash. My husband is wearing a tuxedo that was his father’s. He had spent time at the tailor having the original garments trimmed down to a size he didn’t swim in. They were “tails” and I found it amazing.
In the photo from last weekend, I’m wearing a fantastic jacket that had hung in my closet for a long time but needed a renaissance. It found a second life in the hands of my dear friend Jon Fulton Adams and his trusty assistant, Ron Megee. I practically wept when it was delivered. It is piece of true magic. My charming date is sporting a rented tux but the memory of his long gone father is still there in the studs on his shirt and the cufflinks at his wrist.
We hadn’t sported full formal attire for almost 20 years. It was a blast for a great cause, and we were with great friends.
I liked parent prom. Very much.
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