Dear J Crew

We go together, you and I, like peanut butter and jelly.

You fit me. I like your style and quality. You’ve spoiled me with not one, but two retail locations in my town plus a crewcuts store. Divine.

That’s why I regret to inform you I will be moving to a new town soon. A town that has no J Crew stores. A Cowtown.

Oh, I know I can order online. But it won’t be the same.

I’ll miss your quirky, cool salespeople, the convenience of trying on things before buying, your super in-store markdowns.

Today I appeal to your president and creative director Jenna Lyons. Please open a store in Wichita, Ms. Lyons. Do it for fashion. Do it for me.

Wichita is the largest city in Kansas with nearly 400,000 people. It’s the Air Capitol of the World. Home to the jet setters—Bombardier Learjet, Cessna and Hawker Beechcraft.

And it’s a seat of American success and entrepreneurship. Take a look at Forbes list of the largest privately held companies in the United States.

Numero uno, Cargill, headquarters its beef operations there. Koch Industries, second on the list, is headquartered in Wichita too.

I’ve taken the liberty of scouting a location for you. Bradley Fair appears to be where all the happening cats hang. There’s only one vacant storefront left, so you better get cracking.

And Ms. Lyons, while you’re making plans for your store, will you ask Apple, DSW and Trader Joe’s to open stores in Wichita? It would be of great help to me.

Also please see about installing a direct line to my new residence. You know, a red phone like the ones in the stores. With free shipping.

In the meantime, I’ll plan buying trips to your stores in Kansas City, Tulsa, and Oklahoma City. I’ll reach out to the delivery man in my new neighborhood. I’ll chat with your minions of personal shoppers online.

It may seem like I’m asking a lot. But surely you can understand. J Crew is my go-to store. The one that I want. The one I need.

For the sake of the well-dressed, the hip and the square on the prairie, I implore you to act. Open a store in Wichita, Jenna. It will be worth it.

And why worry about your clothing? Look at the lilies of the field and how they grow. They don’t work or make their clothing, yet Solomon in all his glory was not dressed as beautifully as they are. Matthew 6:28-29 NLT

How do I live without you?

Posted on December 9, 2011October 22, 2012 by Aimee 9

Gray

“There are no salons where you’re moving,” said my hair stylist of 10 years.

“No salons?”

“No salons that carry our line of coloring,” she said.

“Oh, Lord, have mercy,” I said with all reverence.

Women spend more time finding a new hair stylist than they do finding a new gynecologist.

“Our line is pretty exclusive, but I couldn’t believe it,” she said. “There are no salons with our products anywhere near Wichita. None.”

“I think I’m going to be sick,” I said.

“There are other lines I can recommend,” she said and rattled off the secondary choices. Then she scurried away to pick my poison.

Ten years of successful haircuts and six years of spot-on color. All about to be sacrificed on the altar of corporate relocation.

She returned with my color in one hand and a small piece of paper in the other.

“This,” she said handing me the paper, “This is your recipe.”

“My recipe.” Cue Indiana Jones.

“And here’s my card,” she said. “Any good colorist should be able to translate your recipe. Have them call me if they have any questions.”

Whimper. What have I done?

“This is the last time I see you before you move, right?” she said.

“No!” I said. “I mean, no. I think I have another appointment in December. If I don’t, I’m making one. I must see you again before we move!”

“I’m sure we can work something out,” she said and slathered on the magic.

My mom colored her hair over the bathtub. She had her cosmetology license and her nursing license. All the bases were covered from peroxide to triage. She could bleach your hair, splint your sprain, curl, crimp, suture or stitch.

01_62_25---Black-Sheep_web — image from freefoto.com under creative commons license

The thought of me coloring my hair myself terrifies me more than going gray.

There would be no one to blame if I turned my brunette sherbet orange like an apricot poodle. Or platinum blonde like a towheaded surfer. Or jet black like a black, black sheep. Baa.

“Look younger, longer,” reads a Clinique tagline.

Look younger, longer? So at what point after longer am I to concede it’s a lost cause? When do I give up and go gentle into that good night?

salonchair — what happens at the salon stays at the salon, unless you blog about it

One of my friends is a decade older than I am. She’s in better shape and runs faster now than she did when she was my age.

Her hair color? Vibrant, luxurious auburn.

There’s hope for me yet.

Are not five sparrows sold for two pennies? Yet not one of them is forgotten by God. Indeed, the very hairs of your head are all numbered. Don’t be afraid; you are worth more than many sparrows. Luke 12:6-7 NIV

You gotta keep your head up, and you can let your hair down.

Posted on November 30, 2011February 11, 2013 by Aimee 18

Not a Moo Moo

Needed pajamas for a girls’ weekend away. My comfortable, old nightgown was threadbare. The loungewear department was calling.

As I swept across the sales floor at Dillard’s pulling things to try, I spotted it. A rack of baby terry cloth by Miss Elaine. Bright colors, soft fabric. I circled back for a closer look.

There I found a slightly A-line dress. No waistline, v neck, side seam pockets, tea length hem. Modern, close fit at the top. Loose on down.

The dressing room verified my suspicions. It was comfortable. Extremely comfortable.

So I bought it along with a couple more items for my trip. It was too warm to wear the baby terry dress at the time, and it was still full price. But I couldn’t leave that caliber of comfort in the store.

I bought it dreaming of a cool fall Sunday after church, pulling on the baby terry dress and lounging around the house. Making hot chocolate or popcorn. Watching movies. All cozy and warm.

Then it occurred to me. I’m only 40. Had I just purchased my first moo moo?

To me, Miss Elaine seems like an upper end line for mature women. And baby terry cloth? No pretty young thing I know would be caught dead in tea length baby terry cloth. No PYT even knows what tea length is these days.

It’s not a moo moo, I reasoned. It’s fitted at the top for goodness sake. And it’s got a mini patch pocket.

Besides who cares if it is categorically a moo moo? It’s one of the most comfortable garments I’ve ever owned.

I heard a Bible teacher once chastise us women for seeking our own comfort. Who did we think we were to put ourselves first and care foremost about our own well-being? To choose comfort instead of sacrifice?

Rather than a call to asceticism, I think she meant for us to see our own selfishness—as if we needed to be bashed over the head with the obvious and have the sacrifices we do make heartily invalidated. We wallowed in guilt while comfort was called on the carpet.

It’s fall now. A chill nips the edges of our daytime temps. I’m sitting at my computer, wearing my baby terry dress that’s not a moo moo.

The world is spinning into chaos outside the door of my little house. The economy is stalled indefinitely. There are protesters occupying Wall Street.

Decisions are not being made. Conflicts are left unresolved. People I know are divorced or alone, hurting, sick or dead. Winter will be here soon.

God comforts us. He wouldn’t do it if we didn’t need it. Over indulgence, selfishness, and hedonism are vices for sure. But comfort? Comfort is a necessity.

All praise to God, the Father of our Lord Jesus Christ. God is our merciful Father and the source of all comfort. He comforts us in all our troubles so that we can comfort others. When they are troubled, we will be able to give them the same comfort God has given us. 2 Corinthians 1:3-4 NLT

Going classical with Comfort Ye My People from The Messiah by George Frederic Handel. Sacred prelude to the holiday season.

trio of terry

Epilogue

Recently I hit Dillard’s clearance. Picked up two more Miss Elaine baby terry dresses that are not moo moos. Only $6.20 each. All rise for the Bargainista.

Pin It

Posted on November 8, 2011July 14, 2012 by Aimee 18

Lipstick, Interrupted

In admiration of Ilene Beckerman’s book Love, Loss, and What I Wore, I give you my life in lipstick.

L’oreal Mica. Love at first sight. Faithfully wore it under Bonnie Bell rollerball lip gloss until the 80s crumbled with the Berlin wall.

Neutrals flooded the early 90s. I fell for Clinique’s Honey Ginger in a free gift with purchase. Head over heels, I broke up with Mica and never looked back.

But Honey Ginger was too orange for me. I began seeing Think Bronze on the side.

Then in 1995, I got married in real life. A Clinique free makeover introduced me to the soft, creamy neutrality of Tenderheart. It would be my steady companion for 10 years, with interludes of Bronze Leaf.

In 2005, I emerged from a postpartum haze looking a little worse for wear. Time for another Clinique free makeover. The gentlewoman in the white lab coat coddled me.

“You’re a Winter,” she said. “I’d hate for you to miss out on color. Let’s try some berries.”

She spoke my language. I was a Winter. I am a Winter. I needed berries. I needed Berrylicious.

Berrylicious sang on my lips. A soul mate in a tube. We spent four beautiful years together. Until that fateful day in Macy’s.

“What do you mean it’s discontinued?!” I said as the salesgirls cowered. All I have left are the flattened remains in the silver cylinder, tarnished with years.

Tried Water Violet for a spell. Tried Heather Moon. Returned to Tenderheart, with interludes of Chocolate Ice.

tenderheart&chocolateice — tenderheart & chocolate ice

Finally, I could stand it no longer. I took my pitiful, leftover Berrylicious on a mission to color match.

After a few discouraging tries with other brands, I stood staring forlornly at the Macy’s Clinique display. The gentlewoman in the white lab coat approached.

“Have you tried Perfect Plum?” she said, “It’s the Butter Shine formulation.”

The heavens opened. Perfect Plum wasn’t Berrylicious, but it was, well, perfect. We’ve been inseparable.

I go through tubes of it, relentlessly applying and sealing with gloss. Bonnie Bell rollerballs are no more, so I’ve taken up with the seasonal delicacies of Philosophy high-gloss, high-flavor sweet candy lip shine instead. Mmm.

Had a scare earlier this year in the makeup capitol of the mall. Couldn’t find Perfect Plum in the Clinique case at Sephora.

“Do you have any Perfect Plum?” I said breathlessly after a sprint to the Macy’s Clinique counter.

They did and I do. Clinique headquarters assured me it’s not discontinued. Yet.

Berrylicious is gone forever. So is Honey Ginger. My other past Clinique colors are still available. And recently I bumped into Mica at Walmart.

Mica looks good. I was tempted to buy. But I look good too. So I’m dancing with the Perfect Plum who brought me. For the time being anyway.

Jesus Christ is the same yesterday, today, and forever. Hebrews 13:8 NLT

Finally, a link up to The Go-Go’s! Our Lips Are Sealed.

Disclaimer

I’m not being paid to endorse any of the companies mentioned in this post. One company could, however, consider throwing me a bone for all the press I give them here and in The Great Clinique Heist of 2011. We’ll call it even for discontinuing my favorite lipstick.

Title inspiration thanks to Girl, Interrupted.

Posted on October 27, 2011July 14, 2012 by Aimee 40

The Tale of Two Heifers

grassisgreener — the grass is always greener...

A friend and I had a misunderstanding. Actually, we had 15 misunderstandings rolled into one screaming ball o’ hate.

It didn’t help we both have rather strong personalities. As my farm boy husband explained, we were behaving like two heifers in the same pen.

And now for little agricultural background. (You never know what you’re going to get when you visit this blog, do you?) Herd hierarchy develops among cows. Yes, that’s right. Among cows.

There can be only one queen per herd. And if two dominant heifers are in the same herd? Well, all manure breaks loose to determine who the lead bovine will be. Sorta.

“Tell me,” I said to my husband. “How do cows fight?”

“Well, that’s what’s so funny,” he said. “They butt heads. It usually doesn’t hurt them physically. They just run through the field throwing their weight around and butting heads with each other.”

A head game. Literally. Same way my friend and I fought. Same way most women fight. We take it underground.

A few snippy emails, a series of jumping to conclusions, a whole lot of ill feelings later, and we had to be separated. No one was physically hurt, but the damage was done. We retreated to opposite ends of the meadow.

Problem is, we’re not cows. There is no herd. The imaginary pasture we tussled over is as big as the sky. Plenty for everyone to graze to her heart’s content.

More importantly, we worship the same God. She visited the hospital the day my son was born. We’ve spent hours in each other’s homes over the years. Prayed for each other’s kids.

So when in humility she peeked her nose over the fence and said, “I’m sorry,” there was no question what my response would be.

“Me too.”

mygrass — back off, sister. this grass is mine!

I don’t want to imply forgiving or apologizing always comes easy. It doesn’t, at least not for me. I hold out hope though that it can come.

Another’s offense, hurtful as it may be, is slight compared to the avalanche of which I’ve been forgiven. It may take years of struggle, but forgiveness is a high road and being forgiven a cherished state.

In the case of the two heifers in our story, it didn’t take years. Thank God. Reconciliation. Clean start. Moving forward. Into the pasture and beyond.

Make allowance for each other’s faults, and forgive anyone who offends you. Remember, the Lord forgave you, so you must forgive others. Colossians 3:13 NLT

From cows in the field to snakes in the well, Patty Griffin’s Forgiveness.

Posted on September 8, 2011July 14, 2012 by Aimee 19

A Word to the Menfolk

Some of you may be relieved to know tomorrow’s post is gender-neutral.

Apologies to male readers if yesterday’s post made you feel uncomfortable or left out. Always pushing the limit around here.

I’m a girl after all, but the moral still applies I think. And although I love being a girl, I love my guys too! Remember Club MOB?

Hope you’ll come back. Thanks for reading. And thank you for your support.

(Oops, there goes another undergarment pun. Forgive me. I couldn’t resist).

In Christ’s family there can be no division into Jew and non-Jew, slave and free, male and female. Among us you are all equal. That is, we are all in a common relationship with Jesus Christ. Also, since you are Christ’s family, then you are Abraham’s famous “descendant,” heirs according to the covenant promises. Galations 3:28-29 The Message

No Doubt, Just a Girl. Taken with a grain of salt and a giggle, please.

Posted on August 19, 2011July 14, 2012 by Aimee 4

A Firm Foundation

Recently one morning, I was upstairs getting dressed. Something wasn’t right. Couldn’t place it at first. Just felt different. Off-kilter.

Didn’t take long to realize it was my bra. Looked like it had a flat on one side. Upon closer inspection, it was apparent the underwire was missing from the deflated half.

How did the underwire get out? And where was it now?

peachesfromkim — image used with permission from Kim Powell

I must interrupt this saga to tell you this was no ordinary bra. No, sir. I had tired of ordinary bras months ago.

It couldn’t have been that my old bras had simply worn out. No, that couldn’t have been it. Surely I’d been wearing the wrong size and the wrong bras. I needed a professional fitting by an expert.

Two of my BFFs talked up a lingerie shop in the ritzy part of town.

“Oh, they’re good,” said Peaches ‘n Cream. “They’ll fit you perfectly!”

“And their stuff is beautiful,” said Strawberry Blonde.

“They’re expensive,” said Peaches.

pickmestrawberrysm — image from my kitchen sink

“But totally worth it,” said Strawberry.

“At least go in and get the fitting,” said Peaches, “and buy one there.”

“Then go to TJ Maxx to buy more,” said Strawberry.

Eureka! No more wimpy straps, pinching hooks and eyes, or dull, lifeless cups. I was going bra shopping uptown.

Peaches and Strawberry were right. The shop was delicious. Beautiful, tasteful undergarments. A perfect fitting. Expensive bras. And so convenient.

My husband had been trying to convince me of the worth of my time. How much was it worth for me to drive all over the city searching for cheaper options when I could be done in one easy, albeit expensive, trip?

So I bought a bra. And I bought another. And one more for good measure. I’d never spent so much on undergarments before. I walked out confident I’d gotten it right this time. I had what I needed and was finished in less than an hour. Could I ever lead The Glamorous Life!

You can understand my brief state of shock the morning the bra blew out.

“Honey,” I said. “Can you come upstairs for a minute?”

pickmecaptainunderwiresm — captain underwire

“Yes?” he said.

“Did you see a thin wire thingy floating around in the laundry?” I said.

Silence.

“The underwire has escaped from this bra,” I said.

Silence. Poor man. Grew up with all brothers.

“What does it look like?” he finally said.

He retrieved the underwire from the laundry. It had mischievously punctured its encasement and slipped out. I repaired the bra best I could.

It doesn’t matter where you get it, how it comes to you, or even how much it costs you. What matters is how it holds up. How it does its job. How true it is to its purpose. The moral of the story? You’re sunk without a firm foundation.

“These words I speak to you are not incidental additions to your life, homeowner improvements to your standard of living. They are foundational words, words to build a life on. If you work these words into your life, you are like a smart carpenter who built his house on solid rock. Rain poured down, the river flooded, a tornado hit—but nothing moved that house. It was fixed to the rock.” Matthew 7:24-25 The Message, from a parable of Jesus

Michael Card sings the timeless hymn How Firm a Foundation with a Celtic twist. Someone called Beanscot set the song to pictures with an American twist. Melodramatic, but let yourself watch. You may end up teary-eyed like I did.

Posted on August 18, 2011July 14, 2012 by Aimee 16

High-Rise Jeans

Presenting another rare and short Saturday post.

Yes, I know if I keep posting on Saturday it will no longer be rare. I’ll commit to keep it short though.

THE big news today is an item of clothing. I discovered the most comfortable jeans at J Crew yesterday. And they’re high-waisted.

Now before you shudder and think mommy jeans, take a look.

Here’s the link: http://www.jcrew.com/womens_category/denim/bootcutandflare/PRDOVR~51329/51329.jsp

They’re comfortable, they don’t fall down around my hips, and they’re smokin’ in jezebel wash.

Granted they’re a bit pricey. J Crew cardholders, use the email promo to save 20 percent. Missouri friends, enjoy tax-free purchases this weekend.

I have my favorite Lucky low-rise jeans too. But they give a little with wear, leaving me with the dreaded muffin top. Will be interesting to see how these beauties perform.

J Crew has been known to fuel a trend or two. Perhaps comfortable, good-looking, high-rise jeans will show up in other favorite stores. We can hope.

She is clothed with strength and dignity; she can laugh at the days to come. Proverbs 31:25 NIV

Before I go, the stuff of fashion lore: The darling salesperson who helped me said when the high-waisted flare jeans were introduced, New York J Crew stores sold out within days. And since New York is the center of the universe, regional stores (like St. Louis) had to ship their stock to the Big Apple. The regional stores have been replenished, but the jeans are selling like hotcakes.

PS: I’m not being paid to promote these jeans or J Crew. I just like you and like them and thought you two should meet.

Posted on August 6, 2011July 9, 2012 by Aimee 9

Club MOB (Mothers of Boys)

This week my son had a little tiff with one of his classmates who happens to be a girl. They’ve been like cousins since preschool and usually get along swimmingly. By the way, she’s drop dead gorgeous. So what’s all the fuss?

“Mom, she says things that aren’t true about Pokémon,” said my son. “And she stuck her tongue out at me four times yesterday!”

“Honey, you’re still friends, and no one knows everything about Pokémon,” I said. “Girls are funny about things. Sometimes they’re moody for no reason.”

The moment those words left my lips, I felt like the cat who swallowed the parakeet. The employee who sold the company secrets for a song. Just call me B for Benedict Arnold.

One of my professor friends shared how she boldly espoused the feminist mantra when she taught women’s studies: there are no natural differences between boys and girls. Whatever differences appear are caused by nurture. By a society oppressive to women.

Then she had kids. A boy and a girl. And she’s softened her stance a bit.

I don’t blame her. She had to. It was either dial it down to preserve the integrity of her real life experience, or risk cracking up in front of her students while trying to tow the hard line with a straight face.

There are inherent differences between boys and girls—between men and women—that go beyond anatomy. Not every generalization applies to every person, but there are differences.

Once while visiting the nail salon, I glanced up to see the unbelievable. A mom having a manicure while holding a baby! Oh, it’s a girl.

Another time, three of us MOBs took our then preschool sons to lunch after soccer lessons. Our table was a raucous, rumbling good time. Were we disturbing other customers? Not our neighboring table. There sat three angelic little girls about the same age as our guys quietly drawing on activity pages with crayons.

And what may be the cruelest difference of all, the 75/25 rule. We MOBs learn quickly: 75 percent of the items in children’s clothing stores will be for girls and 25 percent will be for boys.

Only about half of those items you’d want your son to actually wear. If you see something you like, better buy it or the next MOB will snap it up faster than you can say Bakugan.

I don’t have anything against girls. I am a girl and I love being one. I love my nieces, my friends’ daughters, and my son’s friends who are girls. I hope my son marries a wonderful girl if that’s what God has for him.

But I’m one proud MOB too. I love my little boy through and through. And I wouldn’t trade him for all 849 trillion pink bows in the world.

So God created human beings in His own image, in the image of God He created them; male and female He created them. Genesis 1:27 NLT

My momma loves me. She Loves Me Like a Rock, by Paul Simon.

Nicoleetsy — image by freshartphotography.com

Nicole Diehl is a MOB times three. She’s also a veteran blogger at Here’s the Diehl, and recently she opened an Etsy shop by the same name.

What does she design and sell? Among other things, headbands for little girls of course. They’re the cutest things eva! Go to Here’s the Diehl on Etsy and see for yourself.

PS: Nicole donates 10 percent of her shop’s proceeds to Compassion International’s Child Survival Program.

Posted on July 29, 2011July 14, 2012 by Aimee 23

In Defense of Flip-Flops

Two of my favorite FashionMisters, Tim Gunn and Clinton Kelly, have this thing about flip-flops. Both admit to wearing them, just not out.

Gunn discusses “the flip-flop phenomenon” in “Tim Gunn: A Guide to Quality, Taste & Style“: “Where is this taking our society and culture other than into a long and winding fashion decline (2007, p. 26)?”

In his book “Oh No She Didn’t,” Kelly shows a pile of flip-flops burning the way books burned in Fahrenheit 451.

When it comes to comfort clothing, Gunn explains, “The key is not being dressy. The key is being appropriate (“Gunn’s Golden Rules,” 2010, p. 116).”

Makes sense. Gunn and Kelly spend a lot of time in New York where flip-flops are not appropriate.

Who knows when you might run into Sarah Jessica Parker or The Donald or a dead rat. Those three are different how, you ask? I jest about the similarities between them, but when we lived in Chicago, the latter nearly happened to me.

As soon as my husband and I arrived, I set forth scouring the Windy City for an apartment to rent. It was freezing. When they say cooler by the lake, they don’t mean Bartles & Jaymes. Had to wear my winter coat. In June.

But Chicago weather is almost as unpredictable as St. Louis weather. Soon the temperature tables turned, the sun came out, and my coat was sidelined.

Warm and happy, I went apartment hunting one morning in a little dress, sunglasses and flip-flops. Adept at walking while reading a map, I was in Streeterville when I became particularly distraught. I’d gone to see an apartment only to get the leasing agent’s cold shoulder. May have been the flip-flops.

I stumbled onto Ohio Street, got my bearings, put my map in front of my face, and by golly, I marched on. Trudge, trudge, trudge in the sunshine. Look ahead, look at the map. Look right, look and the map. Look left…

On the other side of the street, five burly construction workers were lined up on the sidewalk smiling at me. Not in a hound dog way. More in a ready to bust a seam way.

Being Southern, I smiled back and looked down to make sure all was in order. My gaze landed on the pavement just in time.

There on the sidewalk in front of me was the largest, bloodiest, deadest rat I’d ever seen. It had been run over once, and I was about to barrel over it again in my flip-flops.

This may be the real reason why Gunn and Kelly do not wear their flip-flops out. In which case, they should amend their books.

Admit it, guys. There are plenty of places where flip-flops are perfectly appropriate. It’s in places like New York and Chicago that you must closet the flip-flops, keep your chin up, and always, always watch your step.

“…The Lord doesn’t see things the way you see them. People judge by outward appearance, but the Lord looks at the heart.” 1 Samuel 16:7 NLT

Recently discovered The Kinks’ Dedicated Follower of Fashion playing in my favorite store. J Crew, you complete me…

image from www.flippincute.blogspot.com

Flip-flops are my friend Erika’s business.

Her company flippin’ cute! infinitely customizes them with your choice of colors, monograms and teams. Imagine them in school or sorority colors. Or itty bitty for little girls. Brides have even worn them in weddings. (Can you hear Clinton and Tim screaming?)

Priced from $15-$25, they’re an affordable luxury. See more at www.flippincute.blogspot.com.

Posted on June 8, 2011July 9, 2012 by Aimee 15

The Great Clinique Heist of 2011

crime doesn't pay — as seen on a Hallmark card

If you’re just tuning in, we’re trying to sell our house. One evening following our 500th open house event, I went to remove the remains of the day, also known as my makeup.

My routine is simple. Step one, cleanse. Step two, moisturize. That’s it. Every now and then I add exfoliation between steps one and two. We’ll refer to it as step 1.5.

That evening, step one went off without a hitch. I reached for my jumbo size bottle of Dramatically Different Moisturizing Lotion, the linchpin of the Clinique skincare regimen.

It wasn’t in its place on the shelf. In the rush to prepare for the open house, where did I stash it? Hamper? Drawer? Basket?

Checked the other bathroom. Checked the trash. Looked everywhere, but it was nowhere to be found. Then it dawned on me: someone had stolen my Clinique during the open house!

The scoundrel walked into my bathroom, opened my medicine cabinet, plucked out my jumbo bottle, dropped it into her purse, and slipped out the door making a clean getaway. A smooth criminal with a silky complexion.

My real estate agent was devastated. The princess part of me felt like crying too. That bottle—the jumbo size offered only once a year, set me back $35!

All I could do was laugh. You can smile too, people. This is progress.

“How could you take someone else’s moisturizer?” I said to my BFF. “It’s a personal product. That’s just gross.”

“I’m sure,” she said, “the person who took it was thinking, ‘Oh, what a lovely house. What a clean bathroom. This moisturizer is so well taken care of. How nice it will be for my skin!'”

This is why she’s one of my BFFs. Extreme optimism with delicate peaches and cream skin to boot.

The thief was probably thinking more like, “This rich lady won’t miss a thing. And who cares if she does?”

First of all, we’re not rich. Did I mention we’re trying to unload our house?

Second, I did miss my Clinique and I do care. But I am no longer a princess. I am now the Queen and I will not die on a hill of department store cosmetics. It’s just a bottle of moisturizer. As my good friend Greg’s mother would say, God rest her soul, it’s not fatal.

Assuming a thief will return to the scene of the crime and our villain is a stylista, friends suggested we offer fragrance samples at our next open house. Do skin consultations at the door. Maybe set up a manicurist in the dining room.

We laughed. I bought more moisturizer. All was well with the world.

Until a few days later. As I progressed through my routine, I realized my Clinique 7-Day Scrub was missing too! Exfoliation step 1.5 down the drain.

I stared at myself in the mirror with my freshly washed, squeaky clean face. People are unbelievable, I thought. Just as depraved as I am.

For all have sinned and fall short of the glory of God. Romans 3:23 NIV

Did you like the link to Michael Jackson’s Smooth Criminal? Then you must see this version by Luka Sulic and Stjepan Hauser. Amazing. And on cellos! Thanks to my friend Jared for the lead to catch these guys.

Posted on May 27, 2011October 22, 2012 by Aimee 9

Nice is the New Mean

Be Nice of Leave pillow from Alexandra Ferguson — image with permission from alexandraferguson.com

My writing makes some people uncomfortable.

I imagine them thinking: There she goes again, writing about bitter pants. Why can’t she write something nice? Just show us some innocuous pictures of your sweet husband, your cute child, and your little dog too, my pretty!

My husband is sweet. My child is cute. My dog is little. There are days I am pretty. I’ll throw in a few pictures, but in case you missed it, I turned 40 this year.

With the fourth decade comes several startling revelations. Among them this: Nice is the new mean.

Clarification: Nice is nice when it’s kind. Nice is mean when it’s superficial.

There are no scientific studies I know of to back this up, but here’s an anecdotal theory. It seems as women age they lose their edit function. No more worrying about what the nice thing to say would be. Not enough time for that nonsense.

In the words of my cousin’s beautiful wife Sue, the can of worms is already open. Might as well let ’em fly.

Some of the flying worms are nice, some are not. The un-nice worms aren’t rude. But they’re not sugar-coated in shallow diplomacy, political correctness or Christianese either. They are direct little boogers because remember, we’re not getting any younger.

I’m not advocating bad manners or speaking the truth without love or sniping at folks with petty, evil comments. However, I spent years going out of my way to keep my opinions and the truth to myself so no one would be offended.

And I wasted a lot of energy in self-reproach because, another fourth decade gem, I can’t please everyone. Neither can you. Surprise!

nice picture of my pretty and her little dog too

With these conclusions, a sad observation. Some people would very much like me to be someone else. It would make them more comfortable.

You may know them too. They sound like this: Keep your emotions to yourself. You need to do God’s work. What’s with you and the truth? Just be content. Write something nice.

Is this the example I want to set for my child? It’s best to go along and get along? We should be nice at all costs even if the greatest cost is to one’s integrity?

No way, José. My life is imperfect, a work in progress. But I hope what’s important to me shines through now and then.

Be honest. Be kind. Address what’s wrong.

Be who God created you to be even if it is different than the people around you. Even if it makes some of them uncomfortable.

And by the way, when you belong to God, it’s all His work.

Godspeed, son. Let ’em fly.

An honest answer is like a kiss of friendship. Proverbs 24:26 NLT

King of Anything by Sara Bareilles makes a fitting song. Perhaps we’re related.

image with permission from alexandraferguson.com

Alexandra Ferguson

Alexandra Ferguson started a “sassy little pillow company” on Etsy in 2009. Her pillows, featured in this post, are “American-made manufacturing from recycled materials that any side of the aisle can be excited about.” Check out more of her fun and gutsy designs at www.alexandraferguson.com, like this one with a super hero’s silhouette. Love it!

Disclaimer: I’m not being compensated to promote Alexandra Ferguson.

Posted on May 18, 2011August 5, 2012 by Aimee 23

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