My Stitch Fix Boxes

For Christmas this year, my wonderful husband gave me the Best. Gift. Ever... a subscription to Stitch Fix on his credit card! This may sound shallow to some, but I cried when he told me what he had done and instructed me to go online to complete my style profile. He was well-aware of the fact that I now dedicate my energy and money on my two daughters instead of myself. When it comes to making purchases for myself, I usually just provide myself with the most affordable bare necessities and dedicate what money I have to spend on clothes on my teenager and toddler. I'm sure most mothers are like me in that sense. So, as a year-long gift that keeps on giving, he purchased for me a subscription to a personal stylist and monthly deliveries of high-quality fashion that I would have never bought for myself. Though I have only experienced one shipment so far, I can say that I am completely pleased with this process of buying clothes! I love not having to go to a store and be disappointed with everything I slide my body into. I love being able to try on clothes in the privacy of my own home and scrutinize each item in my own mirror. Not to mention, having five items shipped forces me to try on everything in front of me--even some things I would have passed up in the store, thinking I would never wear anything like that. And when forced to try on everything in my first box, I found that the thing I would have been least likely to pick up off a rack in a store was the thing I loved most of all the pieces picked for me! Honestly, I love Stitch Fix, and I recommend subscribing to it, especially if you're a busy mom with little time or love for shopping for yourself.

Some Key Points about Stitch Fix:
1. You get to select and adjust your style/size preferences whenever you want through the website and app.
2. You get to select your price range and shipment preferences (how and when you'd like to receive a fix).
3. You can turn off your shipments and skip shipments if you want.
4. You have the opportunity to comment on and review each item whether you love or hate it.
5. You can make requests prior to a shipment through the app or website.
6. You can easily send back the items you don't want in the included prepaid envelope.
7. You get a style card for each piece with two suggestions on how to wear each item.
8. You earn a $25.00 credit every time someone subscribes under your referral link.

My First Box - December 2015
Box #2 - January 2016
Box #3 - February 2016


YOU CAN SUBSCRIBE TO STITCH FIX THROUGH MY REFERRAL HERE.

Breaking Fate: A Personal Essay

I am aware that I am not, by far, the first to express my opinion on the fairness of life. I have never written a classic tragedy, nor have I stirred souls with a sermon, professing the calamities suffered everyday by millions. I am no genius. I am not telepathic. I possess no qualities that rank me above the common man. I am just myself, a single person without extraordinary power. I must, however, due to circumstances beyond my physical control, tempt Fate to lay her worst before me if she chooses. If, by my words, I offend her, then let her will be done. I have already suffered enough, by my standards, to be an expert on her ways. So let it be said by me—and I accept full responsibility for my words—that Fate is a sullen and fickle woman. She plays cruel games with human emotions simply for her entertainment, then throws her head back and laughs at the aftermath.

Before continuing, I must put to rest a couple of misconceptions. First, Fate is not God. God is kind and merciful. God is understanding and forgiving. He has created a celestial resting place for human souls following the torture they must endure by the hand of that bewitching temptress. God has created us, we are His children, and like all well-meaning fathers, He watches over us and protects us. But, in order for children to become productive and independent, parents must allow them to exercise their free will. It is during this transition and growth that Fate creeps in and weaves her wicked spell. We humans, of course, are weak and easily fall prey to her vices. It is God who breathes life into us, it is by free will that we exercise our feelings and emotions, yet it is Fate that creates the circumstances in which we fall.

A second misconception is that Fate and Luck are one in the same. I have often heard people wrongly proclaim the greatness of Fate following an illuminating experience. One would gladly “kiss the hand of Fate” after scratching a lottery ticket or greedily raking in the winnings from a hand of poker. It is at times like these, though, that a person should be bowing down in thanks to Luck. Giving misdirected credit will not keep circumstances flowing in one’s favor. The next time someone finds a fifty dollar bill laying ownerless on the floor at the grocery store, he should pick it up, smile, and send praises to his lucky stars. It was not Fate’s hand afoot in this matter; he just happened to fall, for the moment, into Luck’s good graces.

Fate is not God, nor is she Luck. She is the venomous snake that wraps herself around the human heart and squeezes, forcing swells of tissue to stretch between her scaly rings, finally bursting into a torrent. She turns what was once innocent and trusting into a scornful and bitter heap. She turns indecision into regret, admiration into jealousy, and intimacy into a passionless craving for lust. She is the hand that dangles your dreams before you then wrenches them away after allowing you to come within reach. She is the voice that whispers softly behind you, never quite letting you fully understand her words. She is the oasis in the distance that, upon your arrival, turns out to have been merely a mirage. She is determined to fool us all. She promises to make us stronger, and never to destroy us. Her word "never", however, is in itself a promise, and my heart can no longer afford her lies.

Too many times I have entrusted my future and well being to Fate, and too many times I have been cast off as the martyr. I have been deceived and misguided, tricked and played for the fool. I have been handed cupfuls of joy only to have them clumsily turned over and spilled to the floor. Through the deepest recesses of my soul I have held tight to great expectations only to have them result in magnanimous failures. Fate has confused me. She has broken my confidence into prickling splinters of frailty and weakness. Her guiding hand has led me down paths of loneliness, paths of heartache and despair.

Fate has often cut me, deeply wounding me. She has left me contemplating the better of life or death. She has abandoned me many times in the deep pit of hell, leaving me gasping and out of breath from tearing away at the hole that trapped me. Fate often forced me to question God’s reasoning and ask why He would allow me to suffer. Why? What sins had I committed that were so disdainful that He would condone such punishment?

There were often times when I felt that there was no escape from this black serpent. So many times I have turned my back on her only to discover her dark shadow, once again, looming and hovering above me. Many nights I have lain sleepless, contemplating the evidence of Fate, and many nights I have been jolted out of nightmares with vivid recollections of her manipulations. I could not run or fly from her. I could not scream or cry the fear away. I had depended on and expected so much from her before that it was more than difficult to extract her from my life.

It was one morning, though, that I decided to take control of myself and my life. I did not run or hide. I did not fight or battle the evil of her. I simply chose, consciously, to be cavalier towards her. I ignored her offers. I pretended not to see the promises she laid at my feet. I no longer let her know of my desires—I kept them as sweet secrets for myself. This task was not easy. As I said before, Fate is truly a most mischievous and tempting wench. She will bait you and use all of her ploys to capture you. She craves your attention and pleads that you entertain her whims. Do not be fooled. Fate plays no favorites. She will look you straight in the eye and not think twice about breaking you, like she attempted to do to me.

I, however, was stronger than she. My dealings with Fate have lifted me to greater heights. I am now above the clamor, the ruckus, and can see things in a different light. I am now, after my flaying, capable of judging for myself, forming my own beliefs, and creating circumstances by my own intentions. Fate no longer plays a part in the day-to-day rituals of my existence. Things happen to me because I allow them. Things do not happen because I avoid them. I left Fate behind me, crawling around somewhere in that confusion that was once my life. From this moment on, the choices are my own, the results—good or bad—are my own, and that is the way it’s supposed to be.

(1999)

Melancholy

Melancholy

Allow me this moment
To be melancholy--
To throw away the niceties,
The compliments
And complements.

Allow me to undress
The corsets of my days,
To untie the corners of my smiles,
And just curl up
Inside my sighs.

Allow me to untangle from
The cordial sure's and fine's,
From the needs and needs and needs
Of everyone
But mine.

An Ice Cold Drink of Water

"An ice cold drink of water!" That's what Ron shouted to us as he walked out of the noontime sunlight and into the shadows of the bar. Jennifer, the daytime bartender, and I were the only two there, deep in discussion about the turmoils of relationships before our first customer came in--that customer being Ron. Ron Lavergn is a fifty-two-year-old divorcee, tall, gangly, and full of charm, never forgetting to tip his cowboy hat as he hands the nearest lady his signature carnation carefully constructed from a bar napkin. He is the epitome of a gentleman, always pulling out chairs, opening doors, and politely bowing after each dance. All of the ladies love Ron.

Before Jennifer could scoop ice into the foam cup she picked up to fill with water for him, he held out his hand to stop her. "I need an ice cold drink of water," he said with a smirk, "but I want a beer."

We three chuckled in unison as she popped the cap off of his Budweiser and set it on the bar before him. After taking a long swig from his bottle, Ron released a huge sigh, pulled the closest stool to me even closer, and finally sunk into the seat.

"Long morning?" I asked, assuming that his day so far couldn't have been too demanding since it was only noon, and he wasn't offshore.

"Long night," Ron replied. "I'm still drunk, and my goddamn ex-wife won't have sex with me!"

Jennifer and I threw each other a couple of curious glances as Ron lowered his head onto the bar's edge. With my hand I rubbed small, sympathetic circles on his back, and when he looked up at me pitifully, I flashed him a soft smile that faked concern. He sighed a second time as he lowered his furrowed brow onto the bar again.

"Okay, Ron. I'll bite," I started through a stifled giggle. "Why the hell do you want to have sex with your ex-wife?"

"Because we love each other," he stated matter-of-factly. He then sat up straight and turned to face me in order to continue the conversation. Before I could comment, he began again. "Have you ever been so close to someone that you knew what the other person was thinking or feeling by just looking into their eyes?"

I nodded to signify that I understood and had experienced such a thing, but my mind began backtracking over past relationships, searching through memories for instances to use as examples. Nothing stuck out to me.

Ron continued, "My wife and I used to go out or be at parties, in places full of people, and we could be on opposite sides of the room, but we'd catch each other's eyes, and in that short instance, we knew exactly what the other was thinking. It's a connection that you don't have with just anybody."

Jennifer pressed her elbows into the bar directly across from Ron and rested her chin on her folded hands, staring intently, waiting for him to finish his thought. I sat silently beside him, also waiting, but no longer maintaining the soft smile I held before.

"When you have a connection like that with someone," he almost whispered, "every touch, every kiss is electrified. The passion is so intense. That kind of passion is like an ice cold drink of water. When you're parched, and your throat is dry as hell from working out in the hot sun all day, every part of your body is crying out for that revitalizing glass of water, and that thirst, that dehydration forces you to kick that glass back and gulp at it like you're never gonna taste water again. It's an amazing thing, that ice cold water, when you need it so bad. You remember that damn drink of water for a long time."

My false concern melted into a sincere understanding, and the only thing I could do was look away from him and focus my attention on the bar's inventory list I had set in front of me only moments before Ron had stepped into the bar, silencing my venting session to which Jennifer was so graciously attending when just she and I were seated in the darkness. With an understanding of her own, Jennifer winked at me, and presented that same grin I had given to Ron earlier.

"There are other women, you know," Ron said with more animation. "Y'all have seen me here with my lady friends."

I nodded again to let him know I was still paying attention even though I was no longer looking at him.

"And each one of those ladies can say that I treat them well. They each have one hundred percent of my attention when I'm with them, and I like each one. I really do." He lowered his voice a little and continued, "but not one of them has a connection with me like my wife does, and damn her for not having sex with me. The two of us, when we have sex, we're great. We're on fire. That passion is there, that connection is there, and after all this time in this hot sun, I just needed that drink to tide me over, you know?"

This time I was too distracted by the stinging behind my eyes to nod in agreement. Noticing my momentary inability to communicate, Jennifer seized the oportunity to practice one of the attentive bartender skills I'd suggested to her during her training and placed her hand on Ron's arm and sympathetically tilted her head to show that at least she was still interested in listening to him wax poetic about the unmatchable relationship he shared with his ex-wife.

"Get me another beer, please, Hon," he said in response to her concern, lifting the bottle to examine its emptiness. As she walked over to the cooler in order to fulfill his request, I hurridly grabbed my keys and my inventory list and stood up beside him. Always being the genlteman, Ron rose from his own stool and bowed deeply before me. I smiled weakly and touched his shoulder to suggest to him that hugging me was acceptable, and he conceded.

"I hope your wife gives in," I said half-jokingly.

"Me, too," he agreed, leaning down to kiss my hand.

"I'm off," I shouted to Jennifer who was setting Ron's next beer on a fresh napkin for him since his first napkin was now laying on the bar, newly transformed into the fluffy flower we always find when he's been around. "Call me if you need anything."

"Alright," Jennifer replied. "And you can call me," she shouted as I turned towards the exit, "if you need anything."

I raised a short wave behind my head to let her know that I heard her, but I didn't say anything. The stinging behind my eyes had traveled to my throat, tightening the muscles there, strangling any words that may have tried to escape. I stepped outside into the brightness of the day, cupping my hand above my face to shield my adjusting eyes from the glare reflecting off of the windshields of the three vehicles in the parking lot. I climbed into my car, immediately rolling down all four windows to release the blanket of heat that had collected there throughout the hot and muggy Louisiana morning. Before sliding the key into the ignition, I sat back against the driver's seat, beads of sweat already collecting on my forehead. For several minutes I sat there in the choking sun, staring at the entrance to the bar until fragile streams of perspiration broke, trickling down my nose and the sides of my face--a much-needed distraction from a plaguing feeling that had crept into my chest. I was thirsty.

Damn the Backpack!

I had to go to the bike shop the other day to pick up a backpack I had ordered a few weeks ago. No telling how long it had sat there, but the saleswoman gave me a call Thursday morning to remind me I had wanted it. I hadn't forgotten about it, I just didn't want it anymore... but I didn't tell her that. I figured that it was already paid for, maybe one of them could just take it home with them or give it to a needy biker or something. I just didn't really feel like driving all that way to pick up a gift I had purchased too hastily. I didn't tell her that either.

So I got in my car and drove there, the whole way cursing myself for all the stupid purchases I made this last month that were totally wasted... the backpack; the corset/garter/thigh-high/high heels ensemble--that crap alone set me back a couple hundred dollars; all the ingredients and the 3 and 5-shaped pans to make that damned chocolate peanut butter cake thing I had to research how to make. And here I was now, wasting at least thirty bucks in gas to pick up a backpack that is no longer wanted. I felt so stupid, but I was too mad to cry about it. So I drove on, made the left onto the highway, and wondered what the chances would be that I might pass him on the road. Then I felt sick. I didn't want to see him... even by accident. Then I wondered what I would do if I happened to run into him at Wal-mart or something. Then I felt really sick. The sun was bright, though, and it was hot. Really hot. So I cranked up the A/C, turned the music up louder, and told myself to stop being so stupid. I was too mad to cry. And I drove on.

I wanted that night to be so special. I could tell him over and over that he meant everything to me, and that I loved him more than I had ever loved anyone before, but I wanted to show him that I did. I wanted to treat him to a beautiful dinner and have the waitress bring out my special cake (I even called to make sure I could drop the damned cake off early so that he wouldn't know about it beforehand), and I searched everywhere for a dress to wear that would cover my new corset with the ruffly panties that looked almost exactly like that crazy outfit from Blades of Glory... he really liked that outfit. I thought about picking up a bouquet of flowers and a box of candy to give him at the door when I went over there. It's kinda cheesy, I know, but I thought it would be cute. Then I remembered the sand on my feet from the beach trip I made that day instead of baking a cake, and how I cried myself to sleep that night instead of dancing around in my pretty pink corset. It was too long a drive for me to be making by myself that day with all of this stuff so fresh in my mind, but I drove on anyway. Still not crying, but not so mad anymore.

Then I thought about Kansas. My daughter would be flying there in a week to visit her father, and I had to drive her to Houston to catch her plane. That's at least a three hour drive. The drive to the bike shop is only an hour. Three hours to Houston and three hours back. By myself in the car. Lots of time for thoughts to roll around in my head. I better bring Kleenex. But I didn't need Kleenex now... I wasn't going to cry over this. At that instance I formulated a plan: burn it. Yeah, burn it. I was going to just march on into that shop, grab the damned thing, throw it in the back of my car so that I didn't have to look at it too long, then set the bitch on fire once I got back to my house. I was mad again.

I finally pulled into the parking lot and jumped out of my car. I think it took me about ten seconds to go from raging scorned woman with an urge for arson to a pathetic waste of skin... by the time I reached the door to the shop I had that uneasy feeling in my gut. Don't cry. Don't cry. Pull yourself together, dammit! I knew she was there--that same girl that helped me when I first walked in there, desperately searching for that bag because the only one on eBay was no longer available. She showed me a blue backpack... "No", I said. "It has to be Suzuki." She showed me a black Suzuki backpack... "No", I said. "It has to be blue. It's the blue one that goes with his bike." "What kind of bike does he have", she asked. I laughed and said, "Suzuki." I knew I was out of my element then. I had no idea what kind of bike we were talking about--a crotch rocket. "It's blue and white with a red R on it." She pulled a blue t-shirt off of the rack and pointed out the emblem screened on the front of it. "Does it look like this," she asked. "Yes! That's it! GSX! That's the one. I need the packpack for that bike!" She said she didn't have one in the store, but she could order one if that's what I needed. I agreed to that and followed her to the counter and watched her as she flipped through the pages of a catalog. As she looked up the item number I told her how happy he was going to be because he loves his bike and he told me that he wanted this for his birthday and I was so worried because I thought I wouldn't be able to get one because the only one like it on eBay had already been bought and the Suzuki site didn't have the exact one I was looking for because all they had was the plain old backpack with no helmet carrying thing on it.... then she stopped and looked up at me from the catalog. She showed me a picture of the backpack and told me that this GSX-R techpack has no helmet harness either. "Then that's not the one," I said. "He wants the one with the thing to hold the helmet. That's the whole point. I can't order this one. That's not what he wants." She turned the catalog around towards me, and I furiously flipped through it, scanning for anything blue that resembled a backpack, pausing for a moment at one picture then another. I couldn't get him something he didn't want. He wanted the damned backpack that could hold his helmet. "This is important," I told her. "He told me exactly what he wanted and I need to find it." She giggled a little at my desperation then pulled out a couple more catalogs. I guess she understood. We finally found it... the blue Hayabusa backpack. Not the same bike, but a blue Suzuki backpack with a helmet thingy. And as she keyed my request into the computer I went back to the rack to pick up that t-shirt she showed me. "Here, ring this up, too. Since the backpack isn't really the same as his bike, I'll get him this shirt. He's got blue eyes, it'll look really good on him." And she took my money. Damn the backpack!

I think I hesitated at the door for a moment. I must've been lost in thought or got nervous or something. I thought I might just turn around, but a salesman opened the door for me, so I walked in and straight to the counter. Yep, there she was, the same girl: "What can I help you with?" I opened my mouth to speak, but nothing came out. I choked back the burn in my throat, cleared it with a small cough, and said, "Backpack. You called me this morning about the backpack we ordered." "Oh! I got it! I got it!" She pulled it out from under the counter and held it above her head. "Ta Da! Here it is! It is a nice one. Better than the first one we looked at." Great. She remembered. I felt so foolish. I just wanted to choke her for being so happy about it, but it wasn't her fault. I was so happy about it, too, just a couple of weeks ago. She laid it on the counter in front of me, still in it's clear plastic bag. It smelled new. I opened my mouth again to say something but quickly closed it again. Don't cry. Don't cry. I couldn't look her in the face. Maybe I should just turn around and walk out. Leave it there. She doesn't know me. Wait... she has my number. She called. Dammit! Damn the backpack! I knew I shouldn't have, but I put my hand on it. I touched the plastic bag that covered it. Then I looked at her. I want it. I want it. But I didn't tell her that. I could have easily said thanks and taken it home with me to burn, but I didn't want to burn it anymore. I wanted to take it out of the bag and hold it. I thought I could hold it really close to me for a few minutes, then put it back in the bag. I could just throw it on his doorstep. I knew he wanted it. I wanted to give it to him. It was his birthday present. She held my gaze for a moment, saying nothing. I want it. I want it. Just take it. I opened my mouth to say thank you, but again, nothing. My bottom lip started to tremble. Don't cry. Don't cry. Just take the damned thing! Damn that fucking backpack! Her energetic smile faded and she whispered, "Do you still want it?" I want it. I want it. But I didn't tell her that. "He..." I choked out. He doesn't want me! He doesn't want me! I wanted to scream at her. I wanted to tell her to shove the fucking backpack up her ass and go home to her fucking husband who would hold her fucking hand and kiss her and never make her feel like I felt right then.

But I didn't say any of that to her. Instead, I remembered how I told him I wanted a bicycle for my birthday, and how when I saw it with a balloon tied to it at the party they threw for me at work, for an instant, I thought that he had taken the night off and showed up at my party to surprise me, and I even asked everybody if he was there and I didn't see his car outside. But the bike wasn't from him. "No," I said softly, "I really don't need it anymore."

I took one last look at it: new, flat, no creases from anything being stuffed into it, sealed tightly in its shiny plastic shell. "I'm sorry you went through all the trouble, and I know it was a special order. So keep it. Maybe you can sell it and make double the money on it." I didn't even look at her. I just turned around and walked as fast as I could out of the door. Don't cry. Don't cry. I repeated my mantra as a hot tear streamed down my cheek. Get in the car. Get in the car. Go home. I couldn't think of anything else to do. Another tear. Don't cry. Don't cry. Seven years, I thought. Seven years. I closed the car door and started the engine. It took me seven years to be able to love someone after sperm donor. Seven years to get over a man I spent a year with and only half-way thought I loved. I was young, I was stupid, and I only thought I wanted to be with him. Seven years! This is a man I absolutely adored and wanted to spend the rest of my life with! Seven years! Don't cry. Don't cry. I can't be miserable for seven years. I'm not young anymore. In seven years I'll be forty. Go home. Go home. Damn that fucking backpack! I turned off the engine. I sat there. And I cried.