Woman in the gold dress

Jason and I tried a restaurant that’s been on our bucket list Saturday night. As luck would have it, I sat facing the entryway of a private room towards the back of the restaurant. The place didn’t seem appropriate for kids, but I’ve discovered there are some parents who see no place as off limits and my dining experience will be rerouted to fit their needs. (That’s all the time I plan to spend on my soapbox about that particular topic). As we perused the cocktail and food menu, I noticed the private room all set for an impending party. What caught my eye most was a little girl all dressed up in a twirly dress and her hair done just-so. She was arranged like a perfect little doll. The back of the room was covered in mirrors. I related to her young girly spirit as she frequently prissed and preened in front of the mirror. She would pose, study her appearance, and occasionally spin. I could see her enjoyment as her skirt caught a little air. I was a bit of a tomboy growing up, but I always enjoyed a good twirly dress and my femininity, so I faulted her for none of it.

I gasped the moment I saw the little girl bring her glass to the server assigned to the party and told her she needed a refill. Now, I have STRONG feelings about this. I was a waiter for years. I’ve been a mother longer. Having someone’s child order me around was ALWAYS the lowest part of the job. As a parent and as a respectful person, who recognizes ANOTHER ADULT, my children are to tell me what they need when dining out. I will decide if they actually need it and I will be the one to speak with the waiter. They are to say ‘please’ and ‘thank you’ only. The girl spoke to the waiter as if she, herself, were a grown woman; as if they were on equal footing. It just took me aback. I’d guess this girl 11 years old. I felt bad for that server. I’ve been her.

I began to have mixed emotions about this little girl. Jason, by this point, had noticed I had the attention span of a gnat for the conversation going on at our own table. At this point, he was starting to look over his shoulder and get invested, too. Eventually, the little girl tired of the private room, even with all its mirrored charms. There was a path from the room that lead right by our table, through the main dining room, and into the bar area. She decided now is the time to run that path back and forth to go talk to dad and then back to the room. Dad’s exactly what I expected. Tall, silver fox, sports jacket, clutching fine bourbon. He was aloof, went where he was told, and paid the bill. The little girl made several trips along this path. We enjoyed private laughs as we noticed the elder couples out for a quiet dinner clutching their pearls and giving one another obvious annoyed eye contact as she whizzed by again and again. They would lean in to one another and whisper. We didn’t need to guess what was being said. It was obvious, “That little girl’s parents need to tell her to sit down”. These people have raised their kids, done their time. No one thought this little routine was cute. This was an upscale place so we’re not talking about an Applebee’s, here. You're paying more so you expect a certain QUIET experience. 

It was on her 5^th trip back through the restaurant, Jason and I both said, “Where’s her mother?” As if by magic, mom appeared. Oh, and she didn’t disappoint. Mom had been tucked somewhere in the back room all along. No way she’d made an appearance before then; I would have noticed her, believe me! Mom was stunning. She was very blonde, very tan, very toned, wearing a gold lame halter dress, with a tight grip on a glass of pinot grigio. (Think: Ramona Singer.) She emerged from the room with an air about her like she was sufficiently ready to grace the world with her presence. She stood tall, proud, ready to be seen. She made her way through the restaurant to greet the guests gathering at the bar. As more guests arrived, the little girl would pass by with other girls around her age into the private room. As the moms and dads sipped highballs, I watched the little girls begin a lengthy photoshoot. They went to the mirrors and carefully constructed pose after pose. They would take the photo, assess, redesign, and go again. Their poses weren’t seductive, but they weren’t childlike, either. No shots of silly candid grins caught in the middle of a giggle. Just girls perfectly posed, some not even smiling. They knew their angles and everything. Just, perfect. Painstakingly perfect.

As the guests began to make their way into the private dining room, I sat in awe at the fashion. Apparently gold lame is in for this crowd, as it passed by in many forms. My favorite, of which, being a jumpsuit. It was Louboutins, extensions of all kinds, and Chanel clutches galore! I was in heaven! I watched as they mingled, and mom greeted each new guest. I’ll be honest, I couldn’t take my eyes off her but not for the reasons you might think. I couldn’t help but notice how stiff she was. How completely she was focused on her appearance at every single turn. As she stood talking to people, she was constantly readjusting her hair and trying to find a more attractive resting pose. It wasn’t obvious she wasn’t engaged in any of the interaction. It was like she was hyper-conscious that a photo could be snapped at any time from any angle and she needed to be ready for it. By all outward appearances, this woman appeared to be living the life and having a great time. To me, she looked kind of miserable. She looked beautiful but also stiff and anxious. I secretly wondered how many hair, nail, and lash girls felt the pressure for her to be on point tonight.

The womenfolk decided picture time would commence. Just as the young girls had done, they went to the mirrors. They constructed pose after pose. They would take the photo, assess, redesign, and go again. Their poses were somewhat seductive, but they didn’t look happy, either. No shots of silly candid grins caught in the middle of a giggle. Just girls perfectly posed, some not even smiling. They knew their angles and everything. Just, perfect. Painstakingly perfect.

The daughter watched her mother take the perfect photos she had taken with her friends a moment ago. I watched the little girl admiring her mother as she worked the room and posed for photographs. Mom didn’t notice the little girl at all. Dad and mom never interacted. Mom was ON. I got the impression mom would only decide if she enjoyed the night if the photos turned out okay. Once upon a time, I would’ve thought this woman was living the dream; maybe even been jealous. Today, I’m glad I’m not her. The price is too high.  I sure hope the pictures turned out ok, as there didn’t seem to be much else on the agenda. I’m sure the function looked fabulous on camera. I think that’s all that matters anyway.

Missed Opportunity

Since my alone day spent poolside was rained out, I decided to sit down in a quiet, (err…. other than the resonant snore of my dog), house and see if the blog that’s been in my heart for a while will come to fruition. I’ve blogged about something similar before, but this has a twist.

I have seen The Vagina Monologues performed locally twice. Once at the McKinney Performing Arts Center and once at The Guitar Sanctuary. I read the book MANY years ago in one sitting. I just couldn’t put it down. I’ve noticed this book/play always evokes a strong response among women. Typically, men don’t even know what it is and are scared to ask. My husband went with me to see it performed once. I’m sure he would’ve rather been somewhere else but he went for me. I don’t think he saw it as man-hating, or at least he never gave me that impression.  Most women have at least some sort of idea what it is. I always think it’s sad if they’re very “anti” and have never read or seen it performed. I’ve gathered that it is considered feminist by some. I don’t see it that way at all. I think it’s ignites unity and is a celebration of women – mind, soul, and body. As the show progresses, you can feel the energy in the room shift. You can begin to see what can happen when we band together. I believe in lifting other women up. I believe in supporting other women. I have never had to dull another woman’s sparkle for mine to be brighter. I wouldn’t want to. I believe if you think a woman is beautiful mentally, spiritually, or physically -- you should tell her. At the risk of sounding super crunchy, I do believe in the power of sisterhood.

Full discloser, the play’s audience is mostly women with a few men sprinkled throughout. You always assume they’re faithful husbands dragged there by the women in their lives. I see women of all ages relating to the same stories. I see women of all walks of life laugh and cry at the gut-wrenching monologues. I see women nodding in agreement that their own bodies are a mystery to them, too. So yeah, I just see unity. Oh, and it’s racy as all get-out so don’t act like I didn’t either acknowledge it or warn you about it. Yes, every euphemism for ‘vagina’ will be heard. If you blush easily, this ain’t for you. It’s not for everybody – that I get. Believe it or not though, that’s not what this is about. Bear with me.

A few weeks ago, Jason and I enjoyed a date night at a little wine bistro. As I sat enjoying our overpriced brie platter, I saw one of the cast members from The Vagina Monologues. She has a very distinctive look so she’s super recognizable. She is very tall, has short super-blonde spiky hair, and is thin -- very modelesque. I remembered reading in her bio that she is originally from California, she has kids, and once lived in Thailand. I read that while sipping a vodka tonic waiting for the show to start. I remember thinking how cool it must’ve been to live in Thailand and wondering what in the world took her there. Her monologues were fantastic. She was excellent in the show and clearly memorable.

While dining at the bistro, I saw her exit the back door and she walked right by us. I recognized her immediately. I looked at Jason and reminded him who she was. I told him how badly I’d love to walk over and say hello. He strongly encouraged me to do so. I wanted to tell her how awesome I thought she was in the show. It’s funny when we stop ourselves from approaching a stranger to say something nice. We can create a list of reasons why it’s the dumbest idea we’ve ever had. “Naaaaaah. They’ll think I’m weird. Some kind of stalker.” She stood for a moment in the archway of the final exit. I sat and debated walking over to her. I would physically almost rise and then talk myself out of it and sit back down. I noticed she had on teeny jean shorts. Her legs were tan and went on for days. Time was lapsing. As this internal struggle went on, my focus temporarily shifted to a table of three ladies to my left. I saw them see her. I dialed down the volume of the surrounding conversations and turned up theirs. I could tell by their physical behavior they were not as taken with her as I was. They noticed her shorts. They each took turns with their snarky comments and judgmental glances as they sipped their sparkling wine. Their snarled noses and shifty eyes made their high-end pastel summer ensembles look so much less appealing. Coordinate with all the Damier Azur Louis Viuttons you like, ladies; you can’t mask that level of bitter. All she had done was walk by and they already had her sized up. I secretly began hoping one would choke on her prosciutto flatbread.

The point is, the woman being scrutinized is the antithesis of everything those women did. Of all the women to be judged so harshly, it’s a woman that is all about acceptance and love for other women. Then again, maybe that’s why she fights so avidly against it. Maybe that’s why she promotes it on a grander scale than most. Maybe she gets this a lot. Maybe it’s because she’s tall and thin. Maybe it’s because women are really hard on one another. I’m guessing she knows that. I know that, too.

I never got up to tell her I thought she was magnificent. I got distracted by cattiness and lost my opportunity. I looked up and the archway was empty. In that moment, it came full-circle WHY I should’ve gotten up. This is a clear-cut case of irony. I should’ve gotten up for the same reason the play exists. Build each other up because those eager to tear down come in much higher numbers.

Little Boxes On The Hillside

I felt compelled to blog this morning because something has just crawled under my skin. I guess I need to have a good, old fashioned venting session. Lately, I feel overwhelmed with the very image-conscience area Jason and I reside in. Some days, I walk through the neighborhood and feel so blessed to be here. It is beautiful, it is safe, it is aesthetically pleasing, and the schools are superior. The truth is, Jason and I have been fighting to get into a community like this since we moved here. We used to leave our little apartment in Dallas, go get ice cream, and drive through the nice neighborhoods. We’d drive up and down the streets, looking at the beautiful houses, dreaming, and planning. We used it as motivation to, hopefully, get there someday. We were just two poor kids from Arkansas, looking for the American dream in the sprawling suburbs of the big city.

We are, by no means, the upper echelon of anything in these parts. There are neighborhoods surrounding us that house real-live millionaires. Homes so grand, you are free to ogle but you must do it from a distance. You can get no closer than the gilded gates surrounding the perimeter of their very own private utopia. What Jason and I consider our brass ring, would be a long descent down for them. Even still, the people in our sector, aren’t exactly living in squalor. We’re just not at the top of the food chain, is my point.

When we moved into this community, I felt like there was some big mystery that would be solved for me. I’d finally get to see how the other half lived. I guess this blog is about, how not pleasantly surprised I am. Don’t get me wrong, if you go for a walk, the neighbors smile and wave. Every lawn is manicured, everyone has a dog, everyone has a golf cart, the birds are singing, and it quite literally feels like something out of a movie. It appears to be everything I ever wanted. But when you get a chance to peer inside the true beliefs and concerns of the people who reside within it, it can be a little unnerving. It’s hard to believe in a place so lovely, those living within it aren’t always so lovely. Most everyone around here is aware of and uses the Nextdoor app. For those unfamiliar, it is an app that was designed for neighbors to connect. It is very convenient for lost or found pets, items for sale, recommendations, and local events. Yes, but that’s not always what it’s used for. It’s really just another social media source to voice complaints, whine, and argue. It’s a lot of first world problems. It is a place to call out your neighbors in a public forum. It is essentially a virtual town hall meeting. The problem with that is, there’s still an element of anonymity. You know it’s a neighbor but not necessarily the guy directly next door. If he’s a few blocks away, you’re safe to resume usual keyboard warrior antics. When not speaking directly to someone’s face, a person will always be more brazen and say things they would almost never say, otherwise. Neighbors will post photos of someone’s car who has parked in their driveway but blocked the sidewalk. They will post photos of neighbor’s who have a dead patch in their lawn. People are put on blast on a regular basis. It is not a feeling of united community; it is divisive. One women once went on a 5-paragraph tirade about leaves on lawns. These things, to me, are not problems. When Jason and I used to drive through these neighborhoods, I wondered what the residents worried about. Here’s the big mystery solved. What they worry about…

Actual collection of titles to post rants:

“Golf carts on the sidewalks!!!”

“To the lady in the white SUV that cut me off and flipped me off!”

“Suspicious looking man walking on Cotton Ridge!!!”

“Rake your leaves, people!”

“Dog not on leash!”

“Drone in the sky!”

“There were pan-handlers at Kroger!”

“Private airport pilots flying below deck!”

Those are just some examples of some of the MAJOR concerns. Doesn’t seem too horrendous, right? These are things are laughable so they’re nothing I can’t simply scoff at and move on. However, it is the elitist posts that I find so disheartening. Last year, there was a brutal hail storm. Pretty much everyone’s roof had to be replaced. A man posted on the 4^th of July that he couldn’t understand why there was hammering and banging going on during a holiday. His neighborhood was listed with the post and it was one of the pricier sectors. He couldn’t understand why they couldn’t just take a day off. He went on to clarify that he wasn’t sure if Mexicans celebrated the 4^th. The list of things incredibly out of touch with that post could go on for days. People immediately noticed the Mexican comment but quickly pretended like it wasn’t said. However, no one noticed he just assumed someone had the luxury of taking the day off. I’m glad he has the privilege to do so. It personally annoys me because I am the person who, if I don’t go to work, I don’t get paid. If I don’t get paid, I can’t afford lawncare, and then he’ll post a photo of my yard. See how that works? It was a complete lack of touch with the real world. He literally couldn’t see beyond his circumstances. Never-you-mind the peasants rowing below deck. Isn’t everyone in a corporate position with a 6-figure salary and paid leave? No sir. No, they’re not. The view from the top is obviously distorted.

This next part could be misconstrued but the “suspicious person” posts get me. Pretty frequently, someone is seen walking that a resident decides doesn’t look like they belong here. What, about a person, that makes them suspicious is usually pretty predictable. I’ve decided if you’re not dressed either business casual or in upscale activewear, you’re a suspect. Make no mistake, I’m always grateful when someone posts video from their Ring Cam that caught legitimate bad activity around their house to alert their neighbors but that’s not what I’m talking about here. I’m talking about someone simply being spotted and seen as too lowly a person to possibly live here like the rest of us. Naturally, they’ve come into our Shangri-La to rape and pillage. Had he had some golf clubs, he might’ve avoided some scrutiny. Because who doesn’t have a Tuesday afternoon free to play a few holes? A guy once posted he saw a suspicious looking guy walking down the street and he doubled back to follow him. He just assumed he didn’t belong. He was commended for keeping us safe. He mentioned some guys playing basketball late at night. It was speculated they were there selling drugs. No real evidence, just not looking up to snuff.

This morning’s post rant was a doozy. A man wrote a long diatribe on how to prevent rental properties from happening in your neighborhood. It was a detailed list on how to make the landlord’s and renter’s life a living hell. It was a bullet point “how-to” on how to spend every minute of your waking hours focusing on the downfall of someone you don’t even know. Someone we can assume is here to mar the perfection. Someone automatically assumed to be inferior. Someone clearly, beneath them. The commenters were very eager to join the ranks. They had their pitchforks and torches at the ready. The mob has been summoned. The renter peasants will not prosper. They will learn their rightful place in the slums on the east side. They do not belong here and nor do apartments. Apartment dwellers are referred to as low-income families. There is no place for them here.

In the end, it feels like no one is interested in obliging a single mother, who can only afford to live in apartment, but wants her kid to attend the same schools we want our kids to attend. She somehow got confused and thought she had the right to be here. How do you improve your standing when people who’ve already achieved their goals do everything to keep you from getting there, too? That post today was a mission. It was a mission to shut people out. It was a conscious effort to keep someone down; to make sure they know their place. Their place isn’t in our pristine community, that was clear.

Lately, it’s not a club I’m so sure I’m enjoying. I get no pleasure from watching anyone being made to feel inferior. I’ve been made to feel that many times in my life. Inside, I will always be a poor kid from Arkansas just fighting for a better life. Do I belong here? Perhaps not but I made my way here. I’m not so sure I’d pass muster if my neighbors got to judge if I’m up to par. I don’t begrudge anyone else their right to be here beside me. If you can afford the rent or mortgage or the HOA dues in this zip code, you belong here as much as anyone else. It deeply bothers me to know someone is just trying to get a leg up and others are working diligently to make sure they fail. Who am I to deem someone unworthy? I don’t want that for anyone. I hope we all make it. A lot of my looming questions from my little Dallas apartment days have been answered. What do they worry about? Very little. That’s the problem.

"The Experience"

Last night I attended Theresa Caputo "The Experience". Since Ryan passed, I have researched mediums many times. I found a guy in Waxahachie that has had a few guest appearances on ghost hunting shows on the sci-fi channel. I came very close to booking some one on one time with him a time or two. For whatever reason, I never followed through. Maybe I didn’t want to go and have it be a total failure. Maybe I didn’t want further proof that we’ll never speak again when I sensed a hoax. If I haven’t put it to the test, it’s still a possibility. The power of both hope and denial are far more intense than we give them credit for. I also rationalized that maybe Ryan needed time to adjust to his new spiritual plane before he’d have any interest in coming back to this realm to comfort me. I’m full of theories and excuses to keep things the way I want them. I guess that makes me just the type of person a medium loves. Hence, the tickets I purchased and the blog you’re reading now.

This event fell into my lap. I’d been told about it by more than 2 people that day and I took it as a sign. It was like I was being pulled there. I thought since it was a large event, if she passed me over, it didn’t have to mean the same as a botched reading with someone one on one. I can reduce it to supply/demand and maintain hope. A larger event mean it was casual and I could keep myself from getting too invested. Though I told myself I was going to keep it lighthearted and not expect a miracle, the truth is, my heart was begging for a connection. Ryan was such a strong personality, I knew he’d come through. I just knew she’d pause and come straight to me. I wanted her to say something only he would say. I wanted her to tell me how strong his presence was. I wanted her to answer my biggest question -- Why?

Theresa certainly has a demographic. Attendees were predominately white women whose ages ranged from 30 and up. I ran into multiple clients. Every man there had the unmistakable look of having been unwillingly dragged there by the ladies in his life. Most men don’t buy into this particular brand of spirituality. Rightly so, in my opinion. My date and I were happy to have encountered a bar. We waited in line, got some stiff drinks, and took a seat just as the show was beginning. Spotlights up and there she was in all her splendor; complete with her trademark huge platinum blonde hair, dark tan, and 6 inch glittery Christian Louboutin heels. She’s selling a brand and we eat it up. We want those sparkly shoes. We want that enormously coiffed hair. We want a character. And she lets you have it. The image is genius. Why would the quirky Long Island lady with big hair be selling me a heap of bullshit? She’s nuts so she’s gotta be legit, right!?!

The show began with a lot of explanations, disclaimers, pandering, and she was unexpectedly fowl-mouthed. I wish I could explain why that put me more at ease, but it did. She was actually pretty funny. Her thick accent and squeaky Teresa Giudice-style laugh kept it upbeat. She had signature go-to “laugh cues” when she needed to rally the troops. Her personality seemed to get stronger when the readings were lacking. She filled in the empty spaces and lack of associations with run-of-the-mill vamping. She explained that she doesn’t systematically go through the crowd. She goes where the spirits direct her. Basically saying, “A lot of you are going to leave here unhappy”.

My friend, who accompanied me, pointed something out immediately. She was on the very first reading of the night and almost all the women around us, (myself included), were already wiping away tears and sniffling. There’s no way the details of the reading the woman was receiving applied to the majority around us. They were connecting with their own pain. It was a massive room full of people who’ve experienced loss. It was a room where people hoped for a moment of resolution; a miracle. It was a room where both sorrow and hopefulness hovered in the air like a dense fog. Everyone looked really, really vulnerable. The tears were instant but got more intense as we watched a mother’s image splashed onto the jumbotron as she hunched forward and sobbed into her daughter’s snuggie she’d brought with her. She wept into the blanket as Theresa told her all the things she wanted to hear; that her daughter is not suffering and wants her to release any guilt she feels.

I do not exclude myself from the description of the captive audience I’ve given you. I was one of them in every conceivable way. My heart raced and I could feel tears well up if it even looked like she might be making her way to my side of the room. She never did. In 2 hours, she did about 6 or 7 readings. She spent a very long time with each group even when it seemed to have gone stale. Chasing elusive ailments and to attach to a group who found the word or phrase they could latch onto. Each reading would begin with a very generalized blanket statement. “Why am I feeling pain in my chest? Who here lost someone to a heart condition?” “Who here lost a father figure?” Well, you’ve honed in on a 60(something) year old woman, so yes, it’s likely her father has passed on. What I noticed most, is once someone was selected and given the spotlight, she had to do very little speaking. She could say anything and they would make the connection for her. They would fill in the blanks and come up with anything to make those connections apply.

Theresa: “What’s up with his foot. He keeps showing me his foot.”

Guest: [Long, confused thought process] “Uhhh…. His mom told me our son drags his foot when he crawls just like he did when he was a baby?”

Then Theresa smiles knowingly, throws up her hands in a triumphant display. She would look pleased that she’s delivered some pivotal message from beyond the grave. He’s come back from the dead to speak to his wife, who had their baby 2 weeks AFTER he died, to point to his foot?!?! If information didn’t fit who she was speaking to but fit for someone a few rows away, then it must just be two people trying to connect too strongly at once. That message is for them, not you, then. If you gather enough people, eventually someone will find a buzz word that connects to their story. They’re desperate and will shout out “Oh that’s us!!!”

The pained faces of everyone she spoke with tell the stories. Mother’s clinging to items of their departed children. Their down-turned faces and crushed demeanor were gut-wrenching as they looked at her like she was their salvation. She doesn’t have to work very hard. She sets ‘em up and we knock ‘em down. I think she’s good at reading people, just not the type of reading she’s making a fortune for. I think this type of smoke and mirrors will always be a cash cow as long as people lose the people they love. And there’s only two things you can count on -- death and taxes. As long as we cannot wrap our hearts and brains around the fact that we simply cannot see and talk to the loved ones we’ve lost, she’s got job security. As long as that goodbye won’t get said and that one more “I love you” won’t be uttered, we will continue to search for answers.

At one point, she began doing a reading and the lights kept dimming. Her overacting to amp up the dimming lights is when I started thinking about whether I was going to switch to hard liquor or just stick with beer at the round of drinks we would be having soon after the show. Even sooner if we just leave now. We were seated behind the switchboard and my friend swears she saw the guy dimming the lights as Theresa acted intensely spooked. Lady, you talk to the dead on a regular basis. They never visit when you’re alone? In the dark? You can handle that but you’re weirded out here? In a crowded event center?

No one got bad news. No one was told anything hurtful. No one’s loved one felt pain when it was their time. Everyone went peacefully. Everyone prefers to go alone. No one took any ailments or resentments away from their physical body. Oh, and that nephew those people lost who was stabbed 46 times? He never felt a thing… He didn’t suffer. He wanted them to know he loves them. When they smell weird smells, it’s him. And he’s present for every monumental occasion.

I’m sorry, y’all. I didn’t witness anything profound. I witnessed a room full of people being told what they wanted to hear. And what they heard they all but designed for themselves. I witnessed broken hearts desperately looking for answers. As odd as this sounds, the only comfort I got was to see that we don’t suffer alone. If you ache for a loved one, you’re not alone. There are other people in just as much pain and desperate enough to buy into this in the hopes of finding peace of mind. In our minds, we think we’re paying for closure. I think we’re really just paying for her next pair of sparkly Louboutins. 

Balance

Stumbling my way through life, I'm doing my best to find balance. There are days when my work schedule gets so grueling and the kids have so many obligations that I get exhausted and discouraged. I feel like I'm working just to pay bills and die. I'm working to afford a life that's slowly passing me by because I'm too busy to be an active participant in it. It's like being an onlooker amid my own existence. It shouldn't feel that way. I recently read a quote that says "You can't pour from an empty cup. Take care of yourself first". I'm trying to do this for both myself and my family.

In my line of work, I meet many ladies. The atmosphere in the way I work with clients is a bit different than hair stylists, nail techs, etc. I first make them lie down -- (reminiscent of a therapy session), take away their phones, and then their eyesight. One of two things will happen; we will talk or they will sleep. More often than not, they open up. The conversations I have had with clients have spanned from casual to deeply personal. They've shared things with me I doubt they've said to their closest confidant and I've temporarily lost myself and said things I should've never divulged to a client. My professionalism is present in the pride in my work and doing what I say I will, (within reason), but I am human and sometimes I blur the lines when clients begin to feel like friends. I can usually assess who can handle the truth that I don't exist only within those walls and sometimes outside of them I occasionally want to strangle my husband or secretly loathe another mother at my kids' school. When I can get that rapport with someone, beautiful things can happen. When it does, it didn't feel like work, I enjoyed an hour of conversation that felt like it should've happened over a glass of wine. Other girls in the industry have mentioned that they have clients who come in and say they come 1/2 for the lashes and 1/2 for the conversation.

Each client is very different and has a story all her own. Each one is from different walks of life, have different backgrounds, careers, experiences, beliefs, hopes, fears, and dreams. I get a new perspective on just about everything every single day and it's weird what sticks out to me. Lately, I've realized my family and I don't take enough vacations. My clients are frequently leaving and coming back from trips. It's not from a place of judgement but I notice they've been on three vacations this year and I haven't been anywhere since a quickie, single-day, trip to Hot Springs at the beginning of the year. I think they're onto something. I don't think the destinations even need to be somewhere particularly exotic. I think you just have to schedule some time every few months to get out of town and recharge.

I have a client who survived breast cancer. She now travels the world. She has beautifully worded how she sees it differently now. In her words, "If not now, when?". Did I survive breast cancer? No. Do I completely understand her meaning? Yes. She just reiterated what I already know; live today because you aren't guaranteed tomorrow. I told her I wanted to travel like that, she said "Then make it work".

I listen to the tales of amazing trips taken to coveted destinations but also of hidden little treasures tucked away in a nowhere town you'd only know about through word of mouth. I began to ask myself what these woman know that I don't about finding this balance; this intricate dance of work and play.

That's how the Breckenridge Christmas trip came to be. I had several clients taking trips like this and I always just assumed it was something I could only hear about and not experience for myself. But the bigger questions is, why did I think that way? I should've been googling resorts instead of assuming. I decided the way I think had to change. I had to first change how I fear closing down at work for a few days and I had to change thinking certain experiences aren't in the cards for me. Why didn't it dawn on me sooner to plan? Strategize? Or is this just me....growing up? If a trip is crazy expensive, than the plan is that we eat out one or two times less that week and the money goes into savings. If we do that for several months leading up to the trip and then go have an amazing trip we'll remember forever, did we really "miss" those dinners out? One more slightly edited quote, "At your funeral, is anyone going to get up and say 'She had a really expensive couch and great purses"? No.... But they might say, "She traveled. She lived. She was happy".

So there's us, living and waiting till Christmas. Watching videos of the sleigh ride we're going to take the kids on and getting so excited but...... that's still a ways off. I told Jason I don't want to miss the leaves turning in the Ozarks in fall this year. In that moment, a trip I would've considered and quickly vetoed out of dread of doing the work to make it happen became a trip I decided to make happen. I decided we'll go to Eureka Springs to enjoy the beauty of our homeland and make it extra fun by staying at the Crescent Hotel. The kids have been youtubing videos and coming up to me with huge eyes and asking "Mom, is it REALLY haunted?". I just shrug and say "Maybe it is and maybe it isn't". Their faces light up with excitment. Absolutely the best idea ever!
It's amazing how just one little mini-getaway will get me through to a big getaway. My mood is better, I have something to look forward to that's in the near future. I feel really responsbile and in control of my own happiness. I am taking control of my life. There's something to these little time outs!

The little trip to Eureka doesn't have to be extravagant. I just want to see the beauty of the hills, slow the pace down for a couple of days, and watch my kids experience The Crescent. I won't make obligations to meet up with friends or family who really don't care if they see me or my kids or not, so why bother? Why add the headache. Admitting no one gives a crap is the most freeing thing I ever did! I swear! Then, in December, I get to experience something completely foreign and stunning WITH them. I'm guessing it's going to outdo any purse I ever bought.

I'm a planner now. I plan longterm and divide what I could take from today to put into tomorrow. I am so thankful for these lessons I've learned from the women I interact with daily. I love their tales of travel but I don't want to just hear about them anymore. I want to live them for myself. I have taken a cue from them and realized they are taking time out and if they can, I can.

In fact, I see most everything that way now. If anyone can, I can. I can travel and I can expand my career. I just have to slowly and methodically plan. Slow and steady wins the race. I'm storing my nuts, that's all. I owe my family a nice life. I also owe myself breaks so I can continue to give that to them without doing it with underlying bitterness. Don't be mislead, I'm still an angry little troll, stuck in rushhour traffic but in between my profanity-ladened tirades, I take a breath and picture myself looking out onto the beautifully-colored hills of the Ozarks in just a few more weeks. It's then that the tension eases and I might even break and allow a car with their blinker on over into my lane. That's balance. I deserve it. We all do.

Two Years

I can’t tell you the last time I blogged. I guess I either lost a passion for it or I’ve just gotten too busy.  With hell week here and a day off to gather my thoughts, let’s see what falls out, shall we? Hell week is what mom and I refer to as the week we celebrate Ryan’s birthday and then the anniversary of his passing a week later. It is filled with memories, tears, and a time to reflect on the distance we’ve put between ourselves and 2 years ago as we stood in a hospital unable to wrap out brains and hearts around what had just happened. I do weird things like look at the last post or selfie before Ryan died. I look at myself and try to remember who she was. I guess you could say she was naïve. I no longer recognize her. I can’t relate to her at all. She didn’t know what I know now. I guess in a way she died, too. Who stands in her place was born out of necessity. I like to think of her as Misty “A.R.” (After Ryan).

The last 2 years, mom and I have drowned ourselves in busy work. If we stay busy we’re safe. When we slow down, that’s when the pain seeps in. We’ve kept ourselves busy to the point of exhaustion. We started the foundation and I focused on building my business. Mom says when you’re busy giving, you don’t have time to be thinking about what you’re lacking. I wanted to be successful as a distraction but also because I needed to be successful to do things I realized have to be done. Because I know life is fleeting, there are places to go and memories to create before it’s my time to go. I don’t know when my time is up but I know I want to live while I’m here. To play hard you have to work hard.

There are key moments in life that change everything about you. It could be a birth, it could be a death. And sometimes out of death comes a birth. My family has had to change the way we do everything to prevent ourselves from wallowing. In fact, I’ve changed how I do things by changing the way I think about things.

This is what I know now…

My circle is small and I’m okay with that. I know the difference between an acquaintance and a friend. I know the difference between someone who listens and someone who waits to talk.

“Damaged people are dangerous. They know they can survive.” – Josephine Hart

Just because someone is your family doesn’t mean they’ll even send you a condolence via facebook messenger or show up to the funeral.

The loss didn’t turn me into a saint. I’m colder. If you couldn’t bother to send me a kind word, don’t come looking for mine when you experience your tragedy. And you will, eventually. I know it hurts, you don’t have to tell me. My compassion is engineered to meet yours. I’m not above it, make no mistake.

People will take time out for a 5 minute quiz to see which Kardashian they are but won’t type in a code when buying from Amazon to donate a profit to our charity that costs them nothing. You can put blood, sweat, and tears into something to unveil it to those around you all proud-like and go “TA DA!!!!!!!!” only to hear crickets. I will press forward. Strangers will support you before those closest to you.

I take the chances. Hesitation and second-guessing don’t do anything. In life, you’ll only regret the chances you didn’t take. For years I saw people accomplishing things I admired and wondered what they knew that I didn’t. I don’t think they knew any more than I did; they just did the work. A dream, a plan, a strong work ethic, and a leap.

I no longer play the “maybe I’ll do that or go there someday” game. No…. I’ll go this year. I’ll get a new Rubbermaid tub and put a new fund into to make that memory. When I’m gone, those who love me will always have that.

  

I don’t hang around in situations that make me miserable. Whether it’s a person or an experience that’s making me feel that way, I eliminate it. Life’s too short for unnecessary grief. I can spot an unhappy person from a mile away. I have my own demons. I won’t bear the burden of anyone else’s.

I don’t need validation. I don’t need you to think I’m pretty, skinny, smart, or successful. Why? ‘Cause who gives a shit, that’s why.

I can make it through days now without tears. Then again, sometimes I will be doing something as mundane as driving home from work or folding laundry and bust out into tears. There’s no rhyme or reason to the outburst. They come when they come. Some days 2 years feels like 2 years. Some days it feels like yesterday. This is just where I am now. In some ways I’m better, in some ways I’m icier, in some ways I’m more giving, in some ways I’m more selfish. It depends on the day. It’s just how I’ve evolved. I had to find my place in a world without Ryan. I’ve had relationships destroyed and new ones take their place. I wonder how he would’ve dealt with all the things mom and I have had to deal with since he died. Had the shoe been on the other foot and it would’ve been me, how would he have handled it? Would he have been more graceful and diplomatic? Would have grieved as hard? Would he have made scenes and become a completely different person like me? I think he would’ve snapped a little just like we did. Those questions can’t be answered and he’s not here to reassure me or tell me where I made a misstep. I feel like if he could come back for just one day he’d most certainly ask, “Where’s my sister? Did she live through it!?!?”

I try to picture Ryan’s reaction if Jason and I both died and he came to collect my things and people I’d known a few months got there first and he had to badger them to hand over my phone, house keys, wallet, laptop, and had already cleaned out all my personal possessions because they assumed he didn't have a relationship with me. I have a pretty good idea of what would’ve happened. I knew an entire life. They didn’t even know a full year and assumed such a bold role. Experiencing that loss and then seeing posted pictures flipping us off and calling us vermin, there are just no words for. I still see tagged things of them and wonder how anyone could associate with someone who would do that to a grieving family. I guess it doesn’t really matter now, though…. It’s over even though it will haunt me forever. I guess I’m not above that, either.

I have to go on. Misty “A.R.” is still evolving but I wish he could meet her. These two years have been hell; a hell I wouldn’t wish on anyone. I still pass his guitars and strum them with my fingertips. I still agonize that he won’t see my kids grow up.

Yes, 2 years. 2 years since my world came to a halt. 2 years since I realized nothing is certain except one thing; you control nothing. Am I better? No. I’m just different. I can now answer the question “Do you have any brothers or sisters?” without a lump in my throat. He’s still in everything I do. The truest quote I’ve ever read is this: “It’s been said ‘time heals all wounds’. I do not agree. In time, the mind, protecting its sanity covers them with scar tissue and the pain lessens. But it is never gone.” – Rose Fitzgerald Kennedy.

Two Years

I can’t tell you the last time I blogged. I guess I either lost a passion for it or I’ve just gotten too busy.  With hell week here and a day off to gather my thoughts, let’s see what falls out, shall we? Hell week is what mom and I refer to as the week we celebrate Ryan’s birthday and then the anniversary of his passing a week later. It is filled with memories, tears, and a time to reflect on the distance we’ve put between ourselves and 2 years ago as we stood in a hospital unable to wrap out brains and hearts around what had just happened. I do weird things like look at the last post or selfie before Ryan died. I look at myself and try to remember who she was. I guess you could say she was naïve. I no longer recognize her. I can’t relate to her at all. She didn’t know what I know now. I guess in a way she died, too. Who stands in her place was born out of necessity. I like to think of her as Misty “A.R.” (After Ryan).

The last 2 years, mom and I have drowned ourselves in busy work. If we stay busy we’re safe. When we slow down, that’s when the pain seeps in. We’ve kept ourselves busy to the point of exhaustion. We started the foundation and I focused on building my business. Mom says when you’re busy giving, you don’t have time to be thinking about what you’re lacking. I wanted to be successful as a distraction but also because I needed to be successful to do things I realized have to be done. Because I know life is fleeting, there are places to go and memories to create before it’s my time to go. I don’t know when my time is up but I know I want to live while I’m here. To play hard you have to work hard.

There are key moments in life that change everything about you. It could be a birth, it could be a death. And sometimes out of death comes a birth. My family has had to change the way we do everything to prevent ourselves from wallowing. In fact, I’ve changed how I do things by changing the way I think about things.

This is what I know now…

My circle is small and I’m okay with that. I know the difference between an acquaintance and a friend. I know the difference between someone who listens and someone who waits to talk.

“Damaged people are dangerous. They know they can survive.” – Josephine Hart

Just because someone is your family doesn’t mean they’ll even send you a condolence via facebook messenger or show up to the funeral.

The loss didn’t turn me into a saint. I’m colder. If you couldn’t bother to send me a kind word, don’t come looking for mine when you experience your tragedy. And you will, eventually. I know it hurts, you don’t have to tell me. My compassion is engineered to meet yours. I’m not above it, make no mistake.

People will take time out for a 5 minute quiz to see which Kardashian they are but won’t type in a code when buying from Amazon to donate a profit to our charity that costs them nothing. You can put blood, sweat, and tears into something to unveil it to those around you all proud-like and go “TA DA!!!!!!!!” only to hear crickets. I will press forward. Strangers will support you before those closest to you.

I take the chances. Hesitation and second-guessing don’t do anything. In life, you’ll only regret the chances you didn’t take. For years I saw people accomplishing things I admired and wondered what they knew that I didn’t. I don’t think they knew any more than I did; they just did the work. A dream, a plan, a strong work ethic, and a leap.

I no longer play the “maybe I’ll do that or go there someday” game. No…. I’ll go this year. I’ll get a new Rubbermaid tub and put a new fund into to make that memory. When I’m gone, those who love me will always have that.

  

I don’t hang around in situations that make me miserable. Whether it’s a person or an experience that’s making me feel that way, I eliminate it. Life’s too short for unnecessary grief. I can spot an unhappy person from a mile away. I have my own demons. I won’t bear the burden of anyone else’s.

I don’t need validation. I don’t need you to think I’m pretty, skinny, smart, or successful. Why? ‘Cause who gives a shit, that’s why.

I can make it through days now without tears. Then again, sometimes I will be doing something as mundane as driving home from work or folding laundry and bust out into tears. There’s no rhyme or reason to the outburst. They come when they come. Some days 2 years feels like 2 years. Some days it feels like yesterday. This is just where I am now. In some ways I’m better, in some ways I’m icier, in some ways I’m more giving, in some ways I’m more selfish. It depends on the day. It’s just how I’ve evolved. I had to find my place in a world without Ryan. I’ve had relationships destroyed and new ones take their place. I wonder how he would’ve dealt with all the things mom and I have had to deal with since he died. Had the shoe been on the other foot and it would’ve been me, how would he have handled it? Would he have been more graceful and diplomatic? Would have grieved as hard? Would he have made scenes and become a completely different person like me? I think he would’ve snapped a little just like we did. Those questions can’t be answered and he’s not here to reassure me or tell me where I made a misstep. I feel like if he could come back for just one day he’d most certainly ask, “Where’s my sister? Did she live through it!?!?”

I try to picture Ryan’s reaction if Jason and I both died and he came to collect my things and people I’d known a few months got there first and he had to badger them to hand over my phone, house keys, wallet, laptop, and had already cleaned out all my personal possessions because they assumed he didn't have a relationship with me. I have a pretty good idea of what would’ve happened. I knew an entire life. They didn’t even know a full year and assumed such a bold role. Experiencing that loss and then seeing posted pictures flipping us off and calling us vermin, there are just no words for. I still see tagged things of them and wonder how anyone could associate with someone who would do that to a grieving family. I guess it doesn’t really matter now, though…. It’s over even though it will haunt me forever. I guess I’m not above that, either.

I have to go on. Misty “A.R.” is still evolving but I wish he could meet her. These two years have been hell; a hell I wouldn’t wish on anyone. I still pass his guitars and strum them with my fingertips. I still agonize that he won’t see my kids grow up.

Yes, 2 years. 2 years since my world came to a halt. 2 years since I realized nothing is certain except one thing; you control nothing. Am I better? No. I’m just different. I can now answer the question “Do you have any brothers or sisters?” without a lump in my throat. He’s still in everything I do. The truest quote I’ve ever read is this: “It’s been said ‘time heals all wounds’. I do not agree. In time, the mind, protecting its sanity covers them with scar tissue and the pain lessens. But it is never gone.” – Rose Fitzgerald Kennedy.