Tag Archives: stocksdale

I Am Famous AND Special

So, I’m officially famous. As you may already know, my dog became a local celebrity several months back. Yes, I was a little envious, but now that I’m experiencing my own rise to stardom, I’m finding it easier to deal with with those previous thoughts of jealousy and resentment that I had developed towards my pet.

Last week I was hired (without pay) to be a swimsuit model. How exciting, right?!? Not so much. I was given less than 24 hours notice to drop 15 lbs., hit the tanning bed 4-5 times, visit my girls at In The Pink and round up my swim suit from God knows where I had stashed it post-swim season.

*Sidenote: I was not actually asked to do any of these things – but I’m an avid fan of Top Model (don’t judge me), so I knew what was up. I wasn’t about to kick off my modeling career without proper preparation.

Come Thursday morning, I arrived to my photo shoot with a Starbucks Green Tea Frappucino in hand, a ghostly-pale tone to my skin, a five-o-clock shadow on my legs and a super-hot swimsuit in my bag. Hey, one out of four ain’t bad, right?

I got my hair and makeup done and I put my cute swimsuit on. I was ready to roll.

We started the big picture-taking process and I felt like a superstar. Okay, actually I felt like a complete dork, but it was fun and the photographer was nice, so I was excited. Technical malfunctions (i.e. genetics) spurred a sudden scrambling for various props – life jackets, towels, coats – anything that could be thrown around my neck and used to cover up my…genetics.

The photographer explained that my photos would be used in a Special Olympics campaign and that my genetics would not be so appropriate for such a thing. At this point, two thoughts occurred to me:

  1. Once again, my genetics were causing problems for myself and others. Damned genetics.
  2. I had been asked to assist in a photo campaign for the Special Olympics. Really?


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Rock Paper Scissors is Stupid

There are so many things in life that we are asked to accept just because everybody else does.  By nature, we resist change, and we squirm at the idea of discomfort. I’m lucky enough to work in an industry that authorizes creativity, fosters evolution and forces change.

I caught the end of a super-inspiring movie the other night, Notorious, the life story of Biggie Smalls. I had hoped that the ending would turn out differently than it did, but what can you do? Anyhow, the movie was an overall mess, in my opinion. But it did a good job of reinforcing an overall theme that was upheld by the late and great B.I.G.: “You can’t change the world if you can’t change yourself.”

Statistically, it takes 21 days to form a habit – good or bad. Implementing long-term change will take more than just “a go at it.” It will demand dedication, repetition and enthusiasm. (And in my opinion, that last element trumps all others).

I have no idea where the piece below came from. It’s followed me to three different jobs – it hangs next to my computer. It’s my unorthodox reminder that when it comes to change, anything is fair game – including the timeless game of R.P.S.

It also reminds me that we can easily find ourselves doing illogical things when we stop asking questions. There’s almost always another route. And as the case may be, the alternate route is probably painful, distressing and vulgar – But it’s also probably well worth it in the end.



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Stripper Shoe Sunday

While in Wichita this past weekend, we ate breakfast at the local Home Town Buffet. I like that place for a variety of reasons. The food is never-ending, the English muffins are grilled and the milk supply is limitless.

The typical Sunday HTB crowd is elderly and/or disabled (not exactly sure what that says about us, but whatever). This mix of people, coupled with the 50’s pop elevator music that plays over the audio system, makes for a fairly calm and uneventful dining experience. Every once in awhile, however, a primo people watching opportunity will walk through the door.

For example, I dubbed this past Sunday “Stripper Shoe Sunday” at HTB.  I saw my first stripper-shoe patron upon seating myself with my first plate of food. She was wearing black patent leather stiletto stripper shoes, with hot-pink heels. She wore skin-tight jeans (at least two sizes too small) and a see-through baby-doll  T-shirt that showed off her brassiere. She sat at a table with 5 small children and a man. Although she did look like she could have been a stripper, she didn’t much walk like a stripper. Maybe I’m being presumptuous, but it seems to me that a stripper (of all people) would know how to walk in stripper shoes. This gal did not. She stomped around the restaurant, filling wee glasses of OJ for the kiddos, and piling up plates of waffles for herself. She was a sight to see.

But then, about ten minutes later, another lady walked in wearing a pair of brown and tan stripper shoes. This lady carried herself in a much more professional manner. I thought to myself, “This chicky may not be a stripper at all – she may indeed be a professional.” Without asking – something I was not willing to do – I just couldn’t be for sure. But I was pretty positive this lady was not on her way to church.

I’ve never been really big on shoes. I know some ladies collect shoes like I collect free pens, but I’m more the type to find a couple pairs I like (usually a black pair and a brown pair), and stick with them until the very end. Loved ones end up having to pry my old, worn out shoes from my hands – or take them from me when I’m not looking and throw them in the trash.

But this HTB Stripper Shoe Sunday event really made me feel like I was missing out on something. These ladies had such fun, sexy shoes. Does that mean that they have fun, sexy lives, too? I’ve never owned a pair of stripper shoes. But if I had a pair, would I be a fun, sexy person? If I had a pair, would I strap them on, head out to the grocery store, and strut around like a proud peacock? Would I get all dolled up on Sunday morning, in my Sunday best, to hit up the local HTB?

This lady wore her stripper shoes to the last trade show I attended. She was working the booth. I saluted this lady for wearing these shoes all day long at a trade show. You go girl.

Trade Show Pumps

(Ever get to the bottom of your blog, and then realize that there’s a good chance it makes next to no sense to anybody but yourself? I’m afraid that just might happen here.)


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My Little Science Project

Seeing as how my arch nemesis has struck again, and seeing as how I apparently do no know what the heck it looks like int he first place, I thought I might post a few photos that I took while I was at the lake last weekend.

At this point in life, I plan to avoid all plantlife of all kinds at all costs.  But perhaps somebody will be able to take a glance at these photos and tell me for sure which of these (if any) are examples of Poison Ivy, Oak or Sumac.  Then, I will be able to work up the courage to venture outdoors again, someday.  Because I do loves me some outdoors!




















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It Gets No Better Than This, Folks – Wichita At Its Finest

When I was a little girl, I looked forward to the Wichita Riverfestival every year!  This event–an annual outdoor 2 week party in Wichita, KS–pulls out all the stops with carnivals, street merchants, food vendors,  music, parades…The whole nine!  Out here in ‘the Big City,’ you guys have something very similar–I believe you call it “First Fridays,” but back home in ‘ol Wichita, we get down once a year and we get down for 24 days straight!  (Top that big, Chief fans!)

My mom was so great to me and my sisters when we were little.  She would load us up in our little, red wagon and throw her big, blue canvas bag over her shoulder–loaded with trail mix, goldfish crackers and cheesy poofs.  She would pack a cooler full of drinks and then she’d haul us down to the festivities.

I’ve got a bad-ass mom and a couple of pretty great sisters.  Those factors combined with funnel cakes, cotton candy and sun–It just didn’t get any better…

I have tried to re-attend the festival in recent years past–attempting to chase down those nostalgic feelings of my childhood.

I owe a major shout out to my mother who did all that she did to creatively mask the harsh realities of the true ‘face’ of Wichita and it’s big, bad festival.  It’s not as pretty through my adult eyes…definitely a whole lot weirder.

Cheesy poofs, funnel cakes, concerts and bathtub races are a thing of the past!  Here are my new favorite parts of the annual Wichita Riverfestival:

  • The fella in the dirty clothes that sleeps on the bench in front of the Wichita Public Library and asks for “Aeaa one dollear, ma’ammm?” each time you walk by
  • The woman with the little SmartCar (that she identifies as a baby stroller) which she uses as a plow-tool to mow down the people who do not jump out of her path quickly enough
  • That little, 17 year old girl, who wears the extremely short denim cutoffs and low-cut spaghetti strap tank top–Lots of mascara and the Hannah Montana scrunchy around her wrist (oh wait, she’s only 12…)
  • The young boys who walk in packs, 7 or 8 abroad, who despite their lack of manners (insofar as to actually step aside to allow others to pass the opposite way) must be given props for their coordination efforts.  Many of them are able to balance a baseball cap atop their head, hold a straw to their mouth with their left hand, and maintain just enough pants-coverage over their crotch with their right hand to pass as “legal.”
  • The group of crack fiends who may or may not have just met that day (the longevity of the relationship doesn’t really matter all that much when dope is involved), but appear to be having a blast!  Shampoo, teeth, laundered apparel–all optional.  (These guys aren’t so bad–But I just can’t help but cringe when they rub up against me in the hot, sweaty crowd).
  • This fella:



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Churro Boy Saves the Day

The scrolling marquee said, “Stuffed Churros,” and that was that!  I headed up to that coutner at the Fun Foods in Towne East Mall, Wichita, and ordered me a 2 for 1 pack!  Screw the diet!

“Wait about 3 minutes,” the Churro Boy told me.  I sat down and waited.  Three minutes came around and the boy was taking other orders and filling sodas.  Six minutes rolled around and I thought, “Hmmm…I sure do wish I had a churro right about now.”  After about 10 minutes, the Churro Boy ran (literally) to the back.  I figured that was my que.  He came back with my prize!

Since I was in a hurry, went ahead and rushed outside.  Once I got in the car, I opened the box to the sweet smell of fried, sugary grease.  But to my dismay, Churro Boy severely overcooked my fatty little treats.  Crap!

As you can see, that didn’t stop me from taking more than just one bite, but at least I didn’t eat the whole batch.

Thanks Churro Boy for saving my diet that day.  I owe you one.


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Steaks & Flowers & Gay People Galore!

Looking for a great excuse to celebrate during the month of June?  Here is a list 7 outstanding reasons.  If you can’t find something relatable on this list, then I have no freaking clue why you’re reading this blog in the first place…


  • National Iced Tea Month
  • Perennial Gardening Month
  • National Bathroom Reading Month
  • Gay Pride Month
  • National Steakhouse Month
  • National Rose Month
  • National Dairy Month


(This info was located in the June 2009 issue of Fast Company Magazine)


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The Best Part of My Day

Many of you work in “the big city.”  And I’m sure you relish in your ability to walk right over to the hippest coffee stop or the tastiest lunch spot, that happens to be within a few blocks of your place of business.  This is all very fine and good–but I’ve got one thing you most certainly do not have.  I’ve got the Wonder Bread Bakery Outlet.

That’s right.  Every morning on my drive to work, I get to start out my day with warm, sweet aromas of freshly baked breads.  These smells are so pungent–so potent–I can sometimes taste the bread on my tongue.  (Might have something to do with the fact that I severely restrict my carbohydrate intake–but still).

I hop onto HWY 135 and I proceed Southbound.  I fight crazy drivers who treat the concept of merging as though it were a sin against the Almighty.  I hover over my break pedal so that I am able to stop on a dime for the dingbats that think it’s cool to use the 9′ of space in between myself and the car ahead of me to shove right on in.  I breathe deeply when the guy in the massive white van pulls in front of me, blocking my view of all things great and small, preventing me from seeing anything other than his rusted, old paint job.  But then things start to simmer down.

Most of the morons exit by about HWY 69.  Everyone spaces out a little more.  I loosen the death grip from my steering wheel.

And then…It happens.  I drive past the Wonder Bread Bakery Outlet.  EVERY MORNING, without fail, they bake bread.  And I cannot thank them enough.  I get a whiff of that baked wheat and I feel recharged and ready to go.

So yes, you city folks may have a lot of cool stuff over in your parts.  But I’ve got my smell.  Ha!


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WAHM, NARI, MILF…Acronyms Galore!

Evidently we are in the midst of “National Work At Home Moms Week.”  Did you have any idea that such a holiday existed?  Well you do now!

WAHM’s (Work at home moms–VERY different acronym than MILF) spend the majority of both their professional and personal lives at their home.  From a professional standpoint, these women often operate as business owners, freelancers and subcontractors.  And from a personal standpoint, they practice a masterful balance between family and work.  This, ladies and gentleman, is multi-tasking at its finest.

In an effort to help my WAHM’s out just a little, I’d like to provide the web link to the National Association of the Remodeling Industry below.  This link can act as an excellent tool when trying to find assistance with your next home remodel project (You can’t always do it all by yourself, right?).  Using a NARI certified contractor will provide guaranteed Quality, Professional & Accredited Work.

This is a great starting point.

NARI Kansas City


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My Arm Has A Fever

We travelled to the country this weekend.  Rick bought a new man-toy a few weeks back but due to the weather, he hasn’t had a chance to  play with it.  So, we took the little four-wheeled motorcycle out to the country so he could ride around and be manly.  I rode once and that was enough.  Then I wandered around the beautiful property and [evidently] rolled around naked in a field of poison ivy.  Ah, yes.  Every year, it seems, I am able to expect a rampant case of bumpy arm–thanks to Mother Nature.

Today, my left arm is swollen up so hard that it is getting in the way of my typing abilities.  It is hot and sore and I wish I could pop it like a pimple.  That’s right!  I said it!  And my left ear is swollen shut so it’s hard for me to hear normal…and my left eye looks like my husband socked me cold for talking out of line, or something.  I would like to go home and eat a big, fat dose of Benadryl and go to bed.  And I would like to eat some warm cookies, too.  (Because when you don’t feel good then you are allowed to eat whatever you like, right?)  Anyhow–That’s where I’m at for today.

(Oh, and yes of course this is a picture of me with red hair and leafy pasties–My makeup is just a little different).



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