Never Wear Strappy Green Stilettos on a Drug Bust

I've often said it, but it's not something I am conscious of everyday...I often can recall a day's events, conversations and names -- IF I can remember what I was wearing. Tragic but true -- my memories are attached to a final outcome of a decision making process, that is far less important to the bigger scheme of things.


First -- dresses, slacks, then skirts -- white, cream, pink, then purple...next, blue and two levels deep of blazers, black tops and then mocha chocolate brown --


Standing in front of my closet door -- my foggy mind puzzles: Why must THIS always be so difficult? you would think there would never be the sort of decision that takes so much deliberation, the time that consumes contemplating in my morning's inner-monologue.


At this moment, finalizing my decision of "what to wear" seems much more complex than anything else I'm facing in my day.


Rarely do I think about it the night before. I've learned (and tried) advance selections never fit my mood day of.


Retreating from the shadows cast by the fickle closet light -- I grab my running shoes, head downstairs to the refrigerator --- noting bottled water always finds its way inside the cool temperatured box -- even though I prefer it room temperature. I take one, press start on the treadmill and grab the remote. It is my own little cockpit of entertainment in the mornings and some evenings. On it, I keep the water, remote, hand held weights, a pen and at least one sheet of paper for a last minute list. This is how I start my day. This is how I gather my thoughts. THIS is where I make many, many decisions.


Here I continue to think..."what to wear, what to wear?" Dismissing the thought to begin itemizing the hours of my day, checking the weather...after all -- IT ALL HELPS! Grabbing the pen, I scrawl my first list -- no need to be neat as I'll be rewriting it by priority later.


Next, shower and back to the original task -- THINK! DECIDE? Geez!? While I am certain this is a task and process I am not alone in -- this cycle of what some would call petty decision making, my comfort in satisfaction is in the final product and knowing that it can potentially affect just how well my day plays out!


This is important! Well, maybe NOT that important. My mother always told me: "it's not what you wear but how you wear it," and "it doesn't matter what you wear as long as you're clean and neat". I know, I know and I think her finger waving in the air and her saying this all the time. I have no excuse. I am just indecisive and have a hesitation to commit that quickly in my day.


Not long ago, an old friend posted a picture of me on Facebook. In it, I'm alone, holding a news mic, on the lawn of some seemingly unknown location. Oddly enough, the first think I noticed is the outfit: A blue blazer and a very apple green sweater. It is an ensemble graciously given to me by a generous retailer -- one that provided my wardrobe back (at least three years preceding when the picture was taken) when I was a face only seen behind the news desk on a local.


It comes to me: St. Patrick's Day 2004, the lawn of the Rhea County, Tennessee Courthouse; double live shot. I remember the photographer I was paired with that day, who was operating the satellite truck and the other reporter/photographer team -- and even the story --(Rhea County Commissioners had voted to ban gays) -- AND it is all because of WHAT I was wearing.


There are just as many days the final selection runs a muck and sometimes I write it or rather a simple thought down -- yup -- so I don't make THAT mistake again...segue -- and you guessed it: I have another STORY that goes with this!


Somewhere in my personal effects is an old day planner with a handwritten note -- "never wear strappy green stilettos on a drug bust".

This premise was settled upon after an exhilarating lead sent my former newsie self to a massive round up of pot (a.k.a. weed, marijuana etc). Of course, if a story is THAT fantastic -- good fashion MUST be sacrificed! Unfortunately, riding on a ATV in open toe, "strappy" stilettos -- through an OH SO overgrown field of briers and illegal plants, left the front of my feet and legs in a very not so presentable condition. The story was very interesting. Somewhere out there is a picture of me standing in the shade of a plant! I'd never seen anything like it in my life! But back to my point -- I remember the entire order of that day's events because of the shoes I had chosen to wear. While they were not sensible for the cause -- they really DO bring a list of memories from that day's events. Thus, "never wear strappy green stilettos on a drug bust"!

Finally, back in front of that ominous doorway. I'm not one to try on multiples. The decision just comes when you least expect it -- Today, I'll start with shoes. Here we go -- inspiration AT LAST!

And so...we live

A clear popping noise broke the rhythmic encantation of the cadydids announcing the fall of dusk. The ice shifts, as I watch Uncle Willie's adams apple move -- swigging down Aunt Icy's famous sweet tea. Uncle Willie is a Purple Heart recipient from World War II. I never saw a day he didn't wear his overalls and light colored, collared button down.

From the same perch I'd made mud pies from earlier -- I watch the lightning bugs taking flight and the blooms on that sweet magnolia begin to close each petal as if to sleep for the night.

I listen : If I close my eyes I can see the Cadron Creek swell and flood when it rained. It was terrifying and exhilarating just the same. The murky waters gather foam as thousands of gallons of water would push it's way past wayward brush and debris.

Willie and Elmer-- The name of two boys -- raised in Central Arkansas -- Both born somewhere near 1922. They are the same age -- and beyond their friendship, Willie also was, Elmer's uncle. You would never know it listening to their conversations. Their laughter -- and their wicked rants of those good ol' day days. It would seem the two are brothers in life.

The sweet tea would be gone long before the ice could melt. Their voices would echo the moments of days gone by...mostly, they talked about the Cadron Creek.

Can you imagine running dirt roads, a cool five miles, just to get to a swollen creek? I, then and now, didn't visualize them but more so the adventure...of catching fallen tree's upcreek, and jumping the banks to ride the tumultuous currents until the banks narrowed to close to pass through.

Through their discussions and experiences, I learned, being bitten by a cotton mouth will make you quite sick -- and how Willie and Elmer had a drunk uncle who poured kerosene on Willie's snake bite -- for miraculous results. While, I can hardly imagine using kerosene for medicinal purposes -- both were pleased to share their story--- tall tale? who knows. What an adventure.

You may not know this, but I was adopted by a senior citizen couple. This couple also happened to be my biological father's parents...who were kind enough to re-unite my full blood older brother and I. My adopted father was Elmer. Uncle Willie is well, to this very day, my great uncle.

It was during my time with them, I developed an appreciation for a generation decades away from my own. After my adopted parents passed away, I found solace in seeking out others who knew what it was like to truly LIVE.

Not long after attending my last funeral, I adopted a grandfather at a nursing facility near my campus. I went to visit him every week. He was very tall, very quiet and quite surly when he did speak. Unfortunately, he never told a story or wanted anything beyond a book to be read to him. He had no use for additional friendship or relationships in his life. But on a day when I meant to deliver a plate full of diabetic friendly brownies to him, I met a very lovely older woman.

She was lost. She was looking for her husband and son. I paid a visit to the nurses station to let them know her concerns before I delivered my homemade treats.

After an hour, I passed her in the hallway again. She asked me the same questions and seemed in great distress. I took her hand and walked every hallway with her. We could not find her husband or son. I soon learned she was a retired teacher. In fact, many visitors would stop to chat. They would share stories of her sweet spirit leading a room full of children through lesson after lesson. She, had no memory. She had no sense of time. She was lost. You may or may not guess -- Alzheimer's.

Shifting gears:

This thought process is not meant to bring about controversy, start arguments or create situations of envy...

Today, in a conversation, I merely stated: "she lives".

Could this be my famous last words? Not so much but you would have thought it would be had you heard the conversational response.

When I reflect on my misadventures and debauchery, or even that of my friends -- I always take the time to note: "what a great memory", I or they will have to keep. Someday, our experiences -- our relationships and our friendships will be the treasures that we live for.

This is a fact I am certain of -- having listened and through a childhood of observation: If we do not take the time to LIVE, how will we ever know, feel and for that matter love?

I have many friends whom dive FACE first, with eyes wide open into every flavor, color and smell LIFE can offer. I have other friends living on reserves, whom look at the others and wonder how and why they can sacrifice so much for a little experience.

Looking back to the elders of my life, I see how precious memories are. How -- the older we get, our identities perpetuate around those memories -- and how if those memories are never experienced OR if somehow, stolen by disease -- we are lost.

Too deep? I know, I know. But today, all I can think of is -- what am I doing to LIVE. How am I making a difference and celebrating those who came before me, sacrificed for me and made my life what it is....How do I embrace the everything that is out there -- to truly LIVE?

But then again -- How do you?

I have at least one friend who knows this important thought -- and so...SHE lives! I do not envy her. I simply celebrate her energy and respect for all there is to experience and enjoy!

I am thankful for those who know my earnest effort to LIVE and I want those who don't to understand....I am not motivated by anything more than my desire and hunger to simply: know, love and feel....

What motivates you? how do you move forward and celebrate life? those who envy...I wonder WHY? where are you coming from...AND WHY are YOU not living?

My mind falls back to Willie and Elmer. In their 70's...sitting on a porch in overalls. Their bodies far too gone for manual labor or extreme sports...reminiscing on their experiences in life. They've loved with all their hearts, worked with every bone and muscles in their bodies and LIVED with every ounce of energy, God offered them.

I fervently miss them both. I'm thankful for this being one of may lesson's I've learned.

Making a List: Checking it once, twice....and once more

Let’s see, I have flour, bread crumbs, pecans crumbled….My checklist runs through my head over and over again.

Did I miss anything? Pork tenderloin, sliced in two centimeter slices. I need red wine vinegar, seedless black berry jam – where is that sauce pan?

Bread – what kind of bread? What kind of bread do you serve with pecan crusted pork tenderloin over baby spinach drizzled with a berry/wine reduction? Could I fry up some cornbread? Should it be toasted ciabatta bread? Should it be warm or cold? Definitely plain…Ciabatta it is. Hmmm…do I need to go to the store? I wonder if we’ll have guests. Should I call someone? Aaugh – WINE?!!

Welcome to five seconds inside my head. It’s the run of the mill moment of my obsessive compulsive disorder. If you add anything to my list, I have to start over. I have to reorder my list; check it once more and then restart execution mode.

There is something else you should know – as I feel compelled to share too much information into the inner-workings of my simple mind.

You see, as much as I think of my friends and family – as much as I love them – they never know it during the holidays. You see, part of my disorder is my inability to put something in the mail.

The CHECKING and the LISTS: It happens when I’m awake. It happens while I sleep. It’s not as exhausting as it may sound. I’ve been like this all my life. While much of my methodical mental state is something I’ve grown to accept, there is a weak little side of me trying to defeat the cumbersome load of lists.

SHE is the one seeking normalcy. SHE is the one who steps up to face fear: stepping on stage to sing, to the podium to speak and in the center of the room dancing like only SHE knows how.

SHE only accepts defeat when the shy beast overtakes all heart and lung functions leveling her with some sort of the massive anxiety attack -- and always at the most inopportune and embarrassing time.

This year, like the last 7 years, SHE is the one who purchased a massive quantity of Christmas cards, writing personal messages to the ones she loves. SHE addresses and stamps them with the intent of mailing them. That is when the “checker” comes out and seals them, unseals them – double checks the right people are receiving their own personal message, updates the messages, reseals them, checks the addresses on the outside, reseals them…sets them aside in case something is forgotten…(DRAW DEEP BREATH) Recycle and repeat.

Fast forward and check the calendar – It’s Valentine’s Day and the cards with their full addresses, stamps and envelopes make the eventful move to a box, sealed and stored in the attic.

This happens every year SHE attempts to overcome the inevitable. There exists the full intent of wishing you a happy holiday. It just never makes it to you via the postman.

This year, SHE showed up AGAIN. SHE purchased a bundle of gifts for an adoring nephew. The unwrapped beautiful shiny new things are sitting -- unaddressed, unposted and not even going to make it with the rest of Santa's gifts!

SHE even started on the special written communications before Trick or Treater’s came knocking on all hallow’s eve.

Resigned to the perpetual reality I can do the one thing that comes easy to me --
And so, I cook – dredging the tenderloin – dipping in egg and then pecan crumbs. The oil is just the right temperature….but I can only flip these once. I must remember to time this right. The best part of cooking with wine is the recipe gets a little and my glass – well, who wants to reseal this bottle? Let’s pour what’s left into an ona to breathe!

The blackberry and wine reduction is now on low as I prepare the spinach. If only everything came as easily as cooking dinner.

In the next room, the warm light of a lamp glows over a cascading stack of envelopes spilling to the floor below. Across the most visible address, a spectral shadow of light glimmers from a blinking string of Christmas lights – a baptism of cheer as though it’s part of an intentional décor.

If you don’t receive a card from my address – please know I AM thinking of you – and wish you the very best holiday season! May all your wishes and dreams be fulfilled – that your heart is full of love, your home full of happiness…To my family, I miss you more than you know. To my friends, I wish I could stretch the seconds, minutes and hours on the clock so I could spend more time.

As for now, I’m skipping my cosmos…sipping a decadent residual: making my next list…clean out the attic.

They call me Lucky?

Seat heaters. Seat heaters on a cold day -- make it easier for someone like myself to bear the unmoving traffic.

Fear is the only thing that makes traffic unbearable.
You see, I think the hasty reactions, the mean faces, the waving of fists...are all derived from the emotion of fear. For some reason, something made them scared and not knowing how to relieve themselves of the fear, the knee jerk reaction goes out....in form of a bird, a shout....and so on and so forth.

I catch myself quietly chanting, "please don't pull out in front of me...please don't pull out in front of me...", as I watch car after car zip into the 1/2 length I've left between me and the back bumper of the car ahead.

I've spent one hour watching the blood disappear from my knuckles as I grip the steering wheel ahead of me. I had chosen miles ago to get in the correct lane but really haven't budged much since coming to a stop. The generous people ahead of me are apparently working on their karma points before hitting the mall -- they're letting the cheaters in!

Good for them I say. I'm safer here right? Safe and toasty with my seat warmers...just a creeeping a long.

This I can appreciate. My memory falls to a time 14 years ago. I was a freshman in Fayetteville, driving my Honda Accord. At the time, I felt like my weekend was the most tragic weekend ever! I'd just dumped a guy for being an unscrupulous idiot. I'd found my best friend was moving to Mexico. I couldn't go to sorority formal. My friends thought it was a GREAT idea to put me up for bid on a fundraiser date auction -- only to be bought by my stalker. It was a weekend where I needed to cook.

Cooking is my therapeutic holiday. It always has been! It is my way of letting go stress -- for example -- recipes involving chopping are typically my favorite as I love knives.

I went to the massive chain retailer there in the little college town to pick up the ingredients for a banana bread.

Outside, there was an older Native American man selling wares off of a rug by the front door. No one was stopping by his table. Before I entered the automatic doors, I stopped and looked at each silver peice. Every item was hand made in some fashion. They seemed to all be priced fair. Before I could truly focus in on his merchandise, I found myself being squeezed out by other interested buyers.

I eventually stepped back to watch as he sold item after item. He seemed very happy. Not seeing it slow, I chose to return later to get another look at his beautiful craftsmanship.

I spent more than my share of time inside that store...had loaded my cart down with FAR more than I needed -- Got to the register...and that poor cashier, rang and bagged each item. When she hit total, I began digging into my purse. I checked my jacket, my pockets....my purse again. I had forgotten my wallet. I did not even have a check book. I cancelled my purchase and tearfully walked away. This was a first. Never had I been more embarrassed. It just added to that 'most tragic week ever' my college aged brain had pegged.

I stopped by the vending machine outside, inserting the coins I'd found in the bottom of my purse and purchased a cold carbonated drink. It was nice...as I walked to the car. I was not in a hurry. In fact, I couldn't even remember when I had even arrived. What I did know, is nothing looked the same and I did not know WHERE my car was. I walked aisle by aisle. I finished my cola by aisle two. I kept walking digging for my keys in the meantime. By aisle six, I still had not found my car and had discovered, I'd lost my keys too. By aisle eight, I was resolved to find the keys before continuing my search for the car.

Returning inside the mega store, I spoke with management. An all staff bulletin went out and they combed the store as though they were looking for a kidnapped child.

After about an hour, they gave up. Resigned to the idea that rough patches don't just happen in groups of threes...I went back outside to the old man and his hand made silver. No one was near him again. His face was wrinkled and very tan. He wore a cliche' of leather and denim. His eyes appeared to have no color too them. They flickered haunting and blank. His face didn't seem to break a smile even though the wrinkles allowed me to imagine it. Before I could step forward to look at anything, he again was flooded with potential buyers. This time, he was nearly cleared out.

I sat back on the other side of the entrance and simply watched. After all, what else did I have to do -- I couldn't find my car and I couldn't find the keys to my car -- which makes the car pretty useless. When the people finally lost interest the old man waved me over. He called me "child of spirits" and indicated I had brought him good "luck".

I couldn't help but imagine the army of guardian angels it takes to follow me around daily and all the events of the last week happened...what on earth could they be fighting off. Me? Lucky?

He gave me a beautiful silver thread dream catcher about the size of a silver dollar. It had one tiny turquoise bead on it and dangling from it's center circle was a very delicate silver carved feather.

I barely was able to thank him when the manager walked out and handed me my keys. I apparently found something fascinating and laid the keys down on a shelf as I picked up whatever merchandise it was up...to look at it. Anyhow, with key in hand, I turned and walked straight to my car. Lucky, I am.

So, here I am...appreciating my seat warmers. The traffic is not so bad. The evil cheaters are racking up good karma points. While all I wanted was a salad for lunch. Eventually, I'll get there. Eventually, I'll get it. AND somewhere along the way, I'll remind myself I'm Lucky.

Get Trunk'd

A lump locks my throat preventing most precious air from passing through to my lungs. My heart races erratically just like every other time I anticipate talking in front of people.

While I hold this in common with millions of people I would venture to say I am the biggest masochist of all. My chosen profession for at least ten years of my life has been in television. So, professionally, I have put myself in front of anyone flipping the channel and decides to stop.

But I adamantly admit I would rather hide under a rock for a week than stand in front of people and talk.

I gaze quietly at the panel in the front of the room as they methodically question the leadership team pitching a small business idea. I itemize the details of my teams plan in my head -- finding no answer to the questions the astute men are pressing on its current victims. I tap my pen...bleeding the ink into an unformulated stain before me. The panel -- CEOs and Executives. Black suits, Blue suites -- power ties and un-scuffed shoes tied with precision. Their faces look worn and their voices unwavering. Their body language is closed and reserved. They are very hard to read.

Chairs screech -- they're dismissed. "Number Three, Group Three!" Can a heartbeat sound like techno on crack? Two of my peers get up and advanced to a forward standing position. Unlike the other presenters and their professional presentations, our unrehearsed skit begins to unfold...

The panel -- is now relaxed -- their faces gleam with laughter. The room is filled with quiet disbelief and an uplifting melody of relief.

The idea of this exercise -- to present a small business idea. Not a full game plan of execution but just an idea. SURELY we can handle that right?

Get Trunk'd -- It is a questionable title but fun just the same. There is a need to Get Trunk'd!!

Are you one of millions of men or women for that matter who are exasperated by the pain it takes to shop for men's swimming trunks?

Men's swimming trunks are the hardest item to shop for.

There I said it -- But I still do not feel any better! This idea stems from an eight year old memory that is painfully held in my brain.

I do not like failure -- even the smallest of smallest ones. I've on occasion tried to redeem myself to no satisfaction. You see, unless you are an average male or shopping for an average male...I would think you share the same dissatisfaction. Men's swimming attire varies for professional swimmers to only minor degrees as most of the form fitting pieces are team spirited by color and design. But who makes swim trunks for say the: short men? heavy men? short waisted? long waisted? Tall skinny? Non-athletic?

Here is the other problem -- You find some swim trunks that suit the need. They are not the fashion statement you hoped for. They don't match the cute bikini that you hoped to wear next to your man...OR (guys) it's a floral print -- and YOU just don't feel quite right about the Hawaiian daisy sprouting from your rear end...and wrapping around your knee....

Or what about that moment you walk up to the man in the Hawaiian daisy butted shorts, order a drink...and begin slathering sun block on him...only to find yourself speechless when your husband walks up...

Thank you -- thank you very much! My point exactly!

So why isn't there a website out there that -- you can type "men's swim trunks" into Google -- pull up an all-around hub and locate the fit, style and brand you are seeking?

WHY don't designers spend MORE time on men's swim trunks?

WHY isn't there any men out there irritated by the lack of selection of swimming attire?

Could someone save me some time and create a custom website allowing measurements and color or fabric interests to be entered for a customized final product?

The presentation goes as well as it can. The true success -- is the laughter and cheer. Though, I was asked at one point WHAT was I "smoking"...The men in suits agreed they would purchase a customized product if it were readily available.

Another day, another unusual idea....there ya go --

So, this is my blog. This is the first posting on Sipping Cosmos. Here you will find musings and questions. You will rarely find proper grammar or anything too profound. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoy writing.