The STUFF Sisters

Thankful for the Dream

Two little girls, many years ago, decided to play office. They set up shop right there in the warmth and security of their grandparents’ basement. They had everything they needed: phones, paper, pencils and support staff.

Casey (left) and Sloane (right) at work in the office, circa 1971.

Our grandmother played along with our every fantasy and grand scheme. Some days our office was just for “plain business” and sometimes it was the back room of a very busy restaurant or store. Whatever it was, it was awesome.

But it wasn’t real.

What we have now is real, but it’s still two girls – women if you must – having the times of their lives. We’re looking back, as we always do at Thanksgiving, and we are counting our lucky stars in an economy that hasn’t been kind to all of our friends in small business. We haven’t laid a single person off – in fact, we’ve hired and trained new people. We haven’t reduced salaries – in fact, we’ve invested in training our employees for more responsilbilities. And we’ve added more local artists to our mix – which only strengthens our local economy.

We like to think all of these goals and dreams started years ago in a basement in Mid-Missouri. They may have, but we’ve handed over the outcome of that dream to our customers.

We hope you can come and shop at the most amazing store that’s just chock full of treasures. We need you like we always do, and we can never thank you enough for believing in the dream of two little girls.

Have a happy Thanksgiving and glorious holidays.

casey & sloane simmons
sisters & co-owners

Leaving Mid-Missouri

The tethers that held me to the middle part of Missouri, my home state, totally broke last Friday. They’ve been straining as the family has contracted with each funeral, home sale, downsizing and move. Starting five years ago, I have no longer had reasons to visit Boonville or Jefferson City. And, as of last week, Sunrise Beach joined their ranks.

With frequent visits to these towns came knowledge of places like Jamestown, Pilot Grove, Stover, Bay, Bahner and Sandy Hook. And back roads in which memorization of every twist and turn began when I was very, very young and my parents were driving. Then, when I finally took control of the wheel, I began to believe I could drive certain patches of that blacktop with my eyes closed. I had travelled them so many times, and they were such a part of me. I knew when to speed up, when a curve really called for you to slow down, and where the “flat sections” were so that you could pass the combine or trailered boat in front of you.

Roads like 87 and 179. M and 135. 65 and V. These were what I took when I left the infernal interstate and began to really see Missouri. These were the roads that took me to my family.

On Friday, I cleaned out my belongings from my father’s lake house. After 20-plus years, he’s pulling up stakes and heading to southern pastures and a little less maintenance. I can’t say I blame him – houses are a lot of work. And what do I really know? I only own one.

My friend Patricia recently moved from her home here in Kansas City. From her dream home, actually. She mentioned in her blog that, in the end, she wasn’t as sad as she thought she’d be because she was taking the best things about the house with her – her family. I clung to that concept as I drove through the all-day rainstorm to collect my things. I needed it to be true. I didn’t want to walk in with my to do list and my short timeline and be sideswiped by the memories of my sister Lindsay, my dad’s parents, and my sister Casey’s dog, Buttercup. I needed them all to leave me alone so that I could clean under the sink and at the back of the closet, then load the car and skeedaddle.

I almost made it.

I was dry-eyed for a majority of the time there. My father and stepmom had been down two times before me and had already packed up the memories housed in picture frames, the keepsakes from every nook and cranny, and the “must-haves” that had been placed in the garage. I was fine until I came across, on a high shelf in our communal closet, a birthday card from my grandparents to my husband. There is not a date on it, but it was clearly ready to have been mailed because it is completely addressed – with a return address as well. It was a card that had no pre-printed message of birthday wishes. My grandmother had written the entire sentiment on the inside and signed both names. We must have decided, all those years ago, to get together at the lake for Harl’s birthday at the last minute, and the card was delivered by hand. It was a glory to behold, and I held it very tightly until I released it into the packing box.

My friend was right. The best parts of any house are lodged in your mind and you carry them with you. They don’t require cardboard boxes, packing tape or moving vans. They only ask that you visit them occasionally.

So in the future I’ll probably take 87 to 179, turn left on M and then right on 135. My memories of all of these places will be right where 65 meets V. I’ll know it when I see it. Actually, I’ll feel it way before it comes into view.

Sloane

The Monthlies with a Side of Procrastination

Much has changed in me since Mother Nature visited me with my “monthlies” for the first time in 7th grade. Well, much has changed, and much has remained the same. Cases in point:

	THEN: In 7th grade, I asked my best friend to “check me” for spots on my Levi’s jeans as I walked to the trash can in English class. (Not a spot the whole year – and boy did we look!)		NOW: On my way to my closet, I say to my husband, “Damn it! Check me. Did I ruin this skirt/dress/outfit?” (None technically ruined, but many a load added to the washing machine for an extra-long pre-soak.)

	THEN: I hid the boxes of Tampax in the bottom of the grocery cart until I could sneak them onto the conveyor belt as my Dad paid the clerk.		NOW: I carry the 40-pack of Super Plus in plain sight in my hands while juggling the pound of pork sausage and the tub of chocolate frosting.

	THEN: I knew I’d have my period for a long time, and it didn’t really bother me. I used coupons, and I even bought extras on occasion.		NOW: I refuse to buy more than one month’s worth of tampons because I live in hope of this month being the last. Ever.

I was a well informed teenager – my mother saw to that. I read all the brochures she collected at the doctor’s office about women’s bodies. I read Our Bodies, Our Selves cover to cover. In puberty and in adulthood, I have read the little folded-up, info sheet in 6-point type with which Tampax graces its boxes – many, many times. Life has brought on its share of pregnancy scares and real pregnancies. And most women know that those last two tend to change the whole game and re-define educating yourself on menstruation.

I have been one of the lucky ones. I have never really suffered from cramps. I never really experienced PMS. It seems I have always been on a pretty regular schedule, but I have never really bothered to keep track. On several occasions, I have unexpectedly tuned in to my regularly scheduled programming when I have been focused on my own long running reality show and lost track of things. I have hysterical stories of “crisis moments” in both public and private bathrooms, where the MacGyver side of my mind never fails to step in and fabricate a feminine hygiene contraption from whatever’s available. But that’s a whole nuther blog….

But this past Saturday, I think my luck in avoiding PMS finally ran out, as it visited me for the first time, at 44 years of age, in a dressing room at a boutique. You see, I had waited too long to purchase an outfit for a semi-formal dinner that was to start in less than four hours. I found myself near panic from the lack of clothing options in my closet. So I got in the car and headed to one of my local clothing salvation spots – one that has seen me through most of my adult clothing crises.

Alas, every single thing I took into that tiny, poorly-lit room was ugly, and I suddenly realized that the woman standing there trying them on just didn’t seem very attractive. I looked her dead in the eye, and I picked her apart. She wasn’t tall enough for the one jacket. She was too wide for the one pair of pants. She was too pale for the cream sweater. And overall, as a supermodel, she was left wanting. I told her this silently, of course, and I never pushed so far as to reduce her to tears.

I left the store with one shirt. I paid in full with a smile on my face. The lovely women that had helped me were a wee bit shocked, I think, as I had told them when I walked in the door that I had limited options at home and was at their mercy. They had left me to roam and choose; they are good to me that way, and they know I really don’t like too much help. And to think that, after all that, I arrived at the finish line with just one item.

As I was driving back home, my mind was racing as to what was really clean in the closet, what was really at the dry cleaners, and what should have been taken to the cleaners a week before. I realized – for the first time in my life – that I had been a victim of self-hate in that cathedral of all women’s nightmares: a dressing room.

I blamed it on my period, and I still do.

THEN: Most problems like these were the end of the world and were the catalysts for full-fledged hissy fits in the solitude of my room.

NOW: I skipped the fit, gave myself a talking to about procrastination in the quiet of my car, and got on with my night.

Sloane