The STUFF Sisters

Body Lotion, Cling Wrap and Chapstick Walk Into A Bar…

We all turn into our parents and grandparents. I think I’m ready to talk about this.

I think I’m ready to talk about this.

On the premise that we all turn into our parents and grandparents, I have decided that I might most be like my dad’s dad, who saved old, used, no-longer-lightable light bulbs in cardboard boxes in his workshop. Or I might be like my mom’s dad, who used the very last of the Chapstick by digging out the remaining wax magic with a Q-tip and then proceeding with the application process in private.

Yep. That’s who I am most like. Cal Price.

I have used the same body lotion for over 30 years. Vaseline Intensive Care in the jumbo container with the pump. I have very sensitive skin, and I can’t just jump willy-nilly from brand to brand, or I will end up at the dermatologist with the rash to end all rashes. Been there, done that.

I will admit to using specialty lotions on elbows, ankles and kneecaps – Soaplogies shea butter in the lavender scent – but, on the whole, I am a Vaseline girl. I have lived through the scent changes, bottle re-designs, and various other attempts by them to knock me off course. But I’ve stayed true.

Even through this last bottle re-design where there is over TWO INCHES of lotion left in the bottom of the plastic bottle when the last squirt has been eased from the pump. It seems like the well is dry when in fact it is not!

So I have taken to using our serrated bread knife to saw through the plastic bottle – tossing the top in the recycle bin and the pump in the trash bin – and going after the lotion with my fingertips. There is usually several weeks of lotion remaining for use, and I just have to removed the very fancy – designed by me for easy access! – Cling Wrap topper for daily use.

I was too embarrassed to show the fancy plastic wrap lid in the photo above. I do have my principles.

Just like my grandfather who kept the Q-tips and old Chapstick tube in his bathroom drawer while the new Chapstick tube rode in his pocket with his change.

Voices In My Head

I clearly heard my grandfather in my head this morning. When I reached over my desk and turned the switch and the click wasn’t the same, I heard him say, “They just don’t make things like they used to.”

Now, honestly, they don’t. My office desk lamp was the current casualty in a line of things that are not made to last as long as I think they should.* It had been a gift to me for high school graduation from one of my mother’s friends. A person nameless to me now. The lamp went with me to a year at Mizzou and did even greater duty providing the decorative impetus for me to outfit my first cubicle with red accents – stapler, incoming and outgoing metal baskets, metal pencil cup, desk lamp. Maybe even a trash can, the underneath of my first desk eluding me from this distance of time.

It was still doing duty at my current desk when the tragedy occurred. This is a great lamp. One hundred watt limit allowing for serious illumination then – when graphic design was key to my employment – and now – when my reading-glass-swaddled eyes need the boost of decent light. A weighted bottom so it can be contorted into any shape or direction. Metal-on-metal tension screws for fixing the direction of the arms and the shade.

My corded friend just recently had an appointment with my husband due to a small popping noise where the bulb met metal. It never smoked or sparked, and he was able to find and fix the problem very soon after begging me to unplug in before it “fried”. His words; pure drama.

Today it didn’t even make the right clicking sound as I turned it on, but I still went looking for another bulb, and, when that wasn’t the problem, I checked that it was plugged in. Little troubleshooting things that are in my electrical skill set.

I did not tear up when unplugging it from the wall, although I was tested by the voice and my sporadic attachment to inanimate objects. Instead, I took a deep breath and walked toward the dumpster. Where I instead gently placed it in the back seat of my parked car on a soft, folded sheet.

Home to my husband, where I promptly received “the look” when my intentions were made apparent. It was placed on the kitchen table – by me – because things in that location have a tendency to be dealt with over the coming weekend.

“Is it too much to ask that things are built to last?” I remember another grandfather saying, most likely over something greater than an inexpensive desk lamp. I can’t really say.

I am praying for a positive outcome from the impending surgery. Thirty years isn’t really so much to ask for from a desk lamp, is it?

My grandfathers wouldn’t think so, I just know it.

* STUFF vacuums. Don’t get me started.

p.s. Tell me you can’t see and feel its jaunty personality from these photos! Pixar Studios has nothing on my sweet little lamp. Heck, it’s older than their first films!

A Hug That Changed My Life

Yesterday I hugged a customer at the store. I am a hugger. I have always been a hugger, and I plan to stay that way. I believe hugs could save the world.

Yesterday I hugged a customer at the store. I am a hugger. I have always been a hugger, and I plan to stay that way. I believe hugs could save the world. I hug people, trees, dogs, cats, and the occasional lilac bush. I often end my notes with, “hugs….” A hug will set you free.

But yesterday this particular hug deeply changed my life forever.

A woman came to the store to shop in support of a local school. We were hosting a charity shopping day at the store. She bought a pile of gifts. She was generous with her shopping, both in what she chose for others and in splurging a bit to help the school. At one point, she handed me two handmade artist plaques and said she wasn’t sure who she would share them with, but she just knew they would love them.

When we were finishing her sale, I found myself in a conversation with her about her battle with cancer. She has stage 4 colon cancer. She has been in treatment for over two and half years. She is beautiful. If she didn’t have the tell-tale regrowth hair that often screams CANCER to the world, I would have never known she has cancer.

She spoke frankly with me. She never looked away. She was honest, direct, kind, and flawlessly open. She didn’t feel sorry for herself. She did not hide her pain or dramatize it. She was heroic.

I came around the counter and asked if I could hug her. She graciously said yes. We embraced for longer than you would normally hug a person you just met. Her hug was warm, kind, and open, just like her words.

I had to take a handful of deep breaths when she left. My life was forever changed. I believe I will remember our exchange for the rest of my life. My wish is that the memory will come to me often. I deeply hope I can grow to be as honest, giving, calm, and willing to be fully alive as this remarkable woman.

What happens next is unknown for her and for me, but isn’t that reality for all of us?

Hugs…

Here is a handful of hug-moments. Note the joy, love, and happiness being shared.

My daughter and father sneak in a hug. — My daughter and my father sneak in a hug.

Proof hugs and kisses make people happy.

My pup and daughter stop for a hug. — My pup and my daughter stop for a hug.

This is my nephew "holding hug" my giant pup on the sofa. This is one of the best hugs you kind enjoy. — This is my nephew “hug holding” my giant pup on the sofa. Another great hugging variation!

Peace In The Noise

Yesterday I pretty much lost it at the intersection of 47th and Main Street. Yes, it was rush hour. Yes, it’s a busy intersection. Yes. Yes. Yes. Whatever.

Yesterday I pretty much lost it at the intersection of 47th and Main Street. A gaggle of geese decided to cross the busy intersection. And they were doing a darned fine job of staying within the cross walk, if the painter of said lines had been into jaywalking. They were lovely and in lockstep with their mission.

Some jerk – several, in fact – decided they didn’t have time to wait for them to finish crossing and proceeded with the lights to curve tightly around the birds. The birds just stood still until they had passed and started walking again. No squawking. No flight. No bird hurt.

Just me in my car fighting back tears that could not be contained. Yes, it was rush hour. Yes, it’s a busy intersection. Yes. Yes. Yes. Whatever. This was a chance for everyone within eyesight to take a moment, watch nature overcoming engineering, and wait for the magic to end.

Yes. I know this is an owl in a geese story. Casey and I spotted it less than an hour after I sat in peace with the geese. Look at how peaceful.

I have stated before, in older blogs, that I do not condone driving and crying. It’s dangerous. So I kind of stopped crying when it was time to press on the pedal, but several tears wouldn’t stay lidded up. They needed to finish, and it gave me time to process where these emotions in me were coursing from.

I work hard. Most people do. I work – and play – at a speed that thrills me. Most people do. However, I am embracing more and more the peace that can be found in the noise. When a funeral procession is moving toward me, I pull over and live in the peace of a few minutes remembering those in my life who have been escorted in darkened and cooled hearses. When an ambulance is roaring behind me, I pull over and remember a sister whose last ride was in a brightly lit boxy vehicle manned by professionals.

And when geese cross the road – the road that is leading me to my work and all that my life has in store for me – I stop and wonder at the beauty and power of slow, precise footfalls.

I am beginning to find more peace in the noise and live in it. Yesterday I did so for as long as it took for my feathered friends to get to greener grass. Funny, we were headed for the same thing.

The Mother Lode

Our son returns Monday from a three week trip to China. Since he was small, I have jumped upon his times away from home as perfect chances for me to tidy up his things. A few days ago, I hit the motherlode.

Our son returns today from a three week trip to China. He loves to travel, and this trip, with his aunts, cousins and uncles, has been no different. We have Skyped with him three times, but only two really count due to a rural location for him and a bad Internet during one session. (It was like talking to Neil Armstrong on the moon!) He has sent a few emails from his aunt’s computer, but mostly it has been radio silence from him.

His smiles on the phone screen have been radiant as he shares stories and jokes. Pixelated conversations are hard, and when he tried to show us photographs on his camera through the computer call, it was all blurry.

Time is flying by for this kid, our only child. His last two years of high school start in a month, he got his first “real” job this summer, he now plans his own volunteering, he is learning to drive, and three weeks of travel away from us had him smiling on Skype two days ago.

Since he was small, I have jumped upon his times away from home as perfect chances for me to tidy up his things. He does a pretty good job of keeping his things in order, but the crevices, containers and dump bins need the occasional scrubbing.

A few days ago, I hit the mother lode. In the “Potential To Make The Mom Cry” category, this find was in the Top Five. Squirreled way in the bottom of a drawer were his business cards. The business cards he made for himself when he must have been five years old.

I remember the day he came home from visiting my mother and had the paint samples in his tiny hands. They had been to Home Depot, and he had scored a few freebies in the paint department. I remember remarking about them and asking what he was going to do with them – and why there were so many. I probably sprinkled in a little bit of “waste” and “these things cost money,” and then we moved on. I never saw them again after that discussion.

In my mind’s eye, I can see him in his little denim overalls and bright T-shirt reaching for the ones he liked best. Taking a moment to choose correctly. Possibly being limited by what he could reach. Maybe asking for help. He is still a child that loves all colors, and I can imagine this whole process was magical.

I took pictures of each of the cards today, and, when I loaded them onto the computer, I stopped to look at them all. To mourn the passing of his little script forced from pudgy hands. To grieve the little bit of tongue he stuck out past his lips while accomplishing difficult tasks. What struck me deeply was how, on each card, he played with the graphic design. I noticed how each card is different while the copy is almost the same. Initials vs. full name? Three initials or four? The battle was most likely epic with his tongue taking most of the punishment.

To this mom, the discovery in my own home was perfect. Just what I needed to remind me that, since he was born, he has been moving away from us. He has been moving towards new adventures. New places. New people.

And on this day, with this collection of evidence, I realized he was moving toward a career even at five years old. He even took the time to make business cards.

p.s. A few years ago I cleaned a closet in his room while he was away. Click here to see what happened.

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.

Sweet Liberty

Our family has always been partial to holidays. Birthdays, too. We celebrate, but not over-the-top crazy celebrations. Simple seems to rule the days. Have a Happy 4th.

Our family has always been partial to holidays. Birthdays, too. We celebrate, but not over-the-top crazy celebrations. Simple seems to rule the days.

July 4th is a good case in point. When we were growing up, the 4th was a day to swim and barbeque. When our parents owned a boat, we swam in a lake. When we had a pool in the back yard, we cooled off in chlorine. The meals themselves were from our grill but are forgettable in their simplicity. But the dessert was always something that included whipped cream, blueberries and strawberries. In a pattern – possibly a flag – or jumbled together in a trifle. Cake was part of it. Or home made ice cream. Red, white and blue.

This photo of our mother shows her on a 4th of July probably 20+ years ago. Our parents had separated, and she decided to take us all down to the deck on the back of her office near 25th and Holmes so we could watch the fireworks that would burst over Union Station. It was a wonderful night, and we all remember it. Not only was she dressed for the occasion with suitable head attire, she was dressed in white with red toenails and blue sandals. Red, white and blue. But the dessert that night, served after take out from Gates Bar-B-Q, was a three layer cake. When you sliced it, it revealed the flag. Not to scale, but to perfection.

Throughout the years she has been known to quote the Constitution while holding a jumbo sparkler in the darkening gloam of night. She has decorated our childhood homes with all forms of US flags. “Don’t Tread on Me” was always a favorite, and a reproduction of an early flag by Betsy Ross was good for feminist conversation.

Mothers give us much. This one, however, gave us never-ending lessons in freedom and justice. She didn’t so much wrap it in the flag as hand it to us gently and tell us to be careful.

Have a Happy 4th, and enjoy your red, white and blue.

Seeing The Past

This past weekend, I traveled with my niece and her friend (and other members of my family) to an art festival in Salina, Kansas. These two young women were a laugh a minute.

This past weekend, I traveled with my niece and her friend (and other members of my family) to an art festival in Salina, Kansas. These two young women were a laugh a minute. Morning and night. Both super sharp and funny. How they can be witty at eight years old is a mystery, but they are. And they were holding their own with four adult women.

When I took this picture, I knew before I clicked the button that I was seeing the past in these two. My past. My past with my best friend. My wish for them was that, even if they weren’t to be each others best friend, they found one who loved them as much as they were loved. A friend that can keep secrets. One that knows when to laugh, when to cry, and when to sit quietly and listen.

I have mine. I met her when we were in 5th grade. We may have met in 4th, but the real fun began in 5th, and hasn’t stopped. There are secrets we will never tell, and there are stories that we do tell. We’ve spent time apart during college years, and we have lived in the same urban neighborhood for the past 20 years.

Fifth grade is more than a few years ago. Heck, it’s more like 38 years ago. Time does fly, but it has real wings when you have a best friend at your side.

Notes: I was at the Smoky Hill River Festival with the girls. Definitely worth the trip. Photo #2 was taken earlier this year at the opening of the Mosaic Project for AIDS Walk Kansas City.

Forever

One of the things I do that I love is volunteer at The Nelson-Atkins Museum of Art. Tonight, my volunteer job had me asking people who were coming to see the new exhibit how long they had been members of the Friends of Art.

One of the things I do that I love is volunteer at The Nelson-Atkins Museum of Art. I have vivid memories of the docents that brought paintings into our classroom in 5th grade at Bryant Elementary. My mind sees – and my nose still remembers – the smell of the school bus during our trips to The Nelson from way out in Waldo when we came “down” to see art with our junior high school art teacher.

Tonight, my volunteer job had me asking people who were coming to see the new exhibit, “Modern Mexico”, how long they had been members of the Friends of Art. I loved seeing the answers on their faces before their mouths issued a word. “I joined tonight,” she said with sparkling eyes. “Forever,” said the older gentleman, “I really don’t know. I was a member for a long time, and then I got sick, and now I am a member again.”

Their prize for answering me was that I christened them with a sticker that shared with the world their membership years. I then told them all what their membership does for the museum by keeping it free for the public and open year round. It helps bring art to the schools and bring the schools to the art. Heck, it even helps make free member events like tonight free.

Recently, a staff member at The Nelson told me my number. My years of membership at my museum stunned me a bit. I couldn’t possibly be as old as that number was big! So, tonight I chose two stickers for myself as I was leaving the museum. One is where I am, and one is where I am headed.

I think a quarter of a century sounds fantastic and the number twenty-five seems youthful. Just like me!

p.s. “Frida Kahlo, Diego Rivera and Masterpieces of Modern Mexico” will be at The Nelson-Atkins until August 18, 2013. Don’t miss it. The colors alone will blown you away. Find out more here.

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.