the heavy breather

He was a large man prone to leaning up against cube walls as he trudged down the halls and, for reasons we could only speculate about, would set up camp in the corner stall of the third floor men’s bathroom a couple times a day.  

We didn’t know where he came from or who he belonged to…our company or someone else’s.  We weren’t the only tenants in the building, but we were also a company just big enough to not necessarily know everyone.  He may very well have worked for us…but we couldn’t say for sure. But what we did know is that we worked on a floor occupied predominantly by women which is why we assumed he deemed our men’s room a safe haven.  Or safe enough anyways.

We were first introduced to Stinky Toilet User one day around 3:00 as Cookie, one of six third floor workers who are male, came sprinting back to his cube.  

Do NOT, for any reason, go in the men’s room right now…or for the next ½ hour for that matter.  

I looked at him sideways as I am female and had no intentions of ever going in the men’s room.  (Although I did years later at a concert where the women’s line was 30 deep and my husband vouched there were open stalls in the men’s room and escorted me in past surprised, drunk men and a very nervous small boy…but I digress.)  

He glared back at me and assured me he had not meant me.  

Us ladies took his word for it and Earl, male #2, didn’t risk it.

The next day the Stinky Toilet User plot thickened.  I was at my desk, minding my own business (you can choose to believe that or not…those who know me will say I was probably NOT minding my own business) when Cookie came barreling down our cube farm aisle again.  He was red faced and gasping for air as he rounded the corner of my cube. Bent over with his hands on his knees, he proceeded to tell us Stinky Toilet User was back. And this time he had been in the stall for so long that the automatic lights in the bathroom had gone out.  

As Cookie nonchalantly walked into the bathroom, he assumed he was alone as the bathroom was dark.  The lights flickered on as they sensed movement, but just as he went to step up to the closest urinal he heard a scuffle from the back corner. He quickly realized he was not alone in the bathroom and quickly came to two conclusions. One…there was a high probability it was Stinky Toilet User in the back stall and two…there may be a major bathroom event about to happen and he sure as shit better make this trip quick.

As we stood around debating whether Stinky Toilet User was still in the bathroom at this point, we also began to wonder other things.  The most important question was how long exactly does it take for the lights to turn off by themselves. How long had Stinky Toilet User actually been in there?  We could only assume that it would be longer than 5 minutes as it could potentially take someone 5 minutes to take care of their business. So then could it be 10 minutes?  Because again, 10 minutes seems like a reasonable time someone could be in a bathroom. We could only speculate that it had to be at least 15-20 minutes before the light sensor would sense no motion and turn off.  So, if you assume 15 minutes, then you have to think that if you’re in the corner stall working on your situation for 15 minutes, you would figure at that point it was just not going to happen and maybe you should call it and try again later.   

We also decided that even if you DID want to work out your situation for longer than 15 minutes, wouldn’t you try and activate the light sensor when the lights went out so as NOT to be found sitting in the dark?  You could definitely toss rolls of toilet paper over the stall door to try and activate the lights, right? But, even if you did manage to trigger the lights back on, then you risk having someone walk into a bathroom that now looks like someone tried to teepee the place.

In the end, this guy had probably found himself in a no win bathroom situation.

As the story of our third floor bathroom visitor spread, it became our duty (that’s right) to alert the men of floor three when the Stinky Toilet User was in the area.  I happened upon the violator one day as I was getting off the elevator. There he was, waiting for the elevator, breathing heavily…too heavily…with one hand pressed against the wall supporting himself while he waited.  I literally sprinted down the hall to our cube farm knowing fully well if Stinky Toilet User was breathing that hard after just coming out of the bathroom, the men of the third floor were NOT going to want to visit anytime soon. 

In the end, we never discovered who Stinky Toilet User was. I believe he probably had too many run ins with other third floor male bathroom users and decided to take his business elsewhere. Godspeed Stinky Toilet User. Hopefully you found a safer bathroom with no light timers.

our past lives

I wasn’t a skater girl, but I dated skater boys. I was a mall rat who thought the boy who worked at the Wilson’s leather store on the upper level was so dreamy. I listened to Social Distortion before anyone even knew who the hell they were. I bought Doc Martens out of the back of a hardware store called Loma Vista. I rode on the backs of motorcycles and danced to techno in underground dance clubs until dawn. My best friend was in a band and so I also became a band groupie who traveled to shows with them in their beat up van where the seats had been removed in order to fit more people. Some of these shows were played at a downtown dive bar called Davey’s Uptown Rambler’s Club. It was a super seedy spot next to a Ray’s Playpen. I was not allowed to go outside alone. One night at this Davey’s Uptown, a band called The Feds opened for my friend’s band. This band would later leave KC and continue making music for over a decade.

The term I use for stories like these are my past lives. And I’ve been talking about my past lives lately with a fellow co-worker who just happens to have been the lead singer from that band that I crossed paths with so many past lives ago. I usually don’t think much about my past lives. Especially those from so far back. The stories I often share are usually those from my past work lives…not from lives before I even had actual jobs. But recently, my said co-worker and I have been taking walks back through shared memories we have of the same places we haunted all those years ago.

And it’s weird.

You don’t realize that at some point in your life, you will move SO far away in time from certain events that they cease to be solid memories and become very real past lives. The trick for me is making sure I always hold on to pieces of these lives.

Today, I’m a marketing professional who has worked in the industry for almost 20 years. But I love that some of my past lives allow me to maintain a secret alter ego that helps make sure I don’t completely sell my soul to adulthood. I sport a handful of tattoos but keep them pretty well hidden. I still frequent Social Distortion concerts, but now wear sensible shoes when I attend. I don’t wear Doc Martens any more but do still have my first pair tucked away in the back of my closet. I’ve moved into the ‘old people’s back issues’ club, so I definitely don’t do much dancing any more. Nor could I stay up until dawn. I don’t keep up much with that ‘friend in the band’ from long ago. But I do think of him at every damn concert I go to. And I may now buy fancy coffees and drink fancy craft cocktails, but I do so in my leather biker jacket with a slightly anti-establishment attitude.

thankful for


20170118_182019-1Do more, achieve more, do better, be a better you. This has been the mind set for a while now. If you spend any time on Facebook, you know your feed is filled with articles about “5 ways to be more organized” or the “4 things you need to do for a better nights sleep.” But this causes us to be in this constant state of be better, get happier, do more.

But why do we find the need to live in this constant state of bettering ourselves?

I understand the need to stay healthy and fit and happy. But what if we instead start to try and figure out how to be happy with ourselves as we already are? So how do we figure out how to avoid this constant thought of “if I could just do this one thing, things would be better”?

I have decided to set myself a challenge of reporting each day on something that makes me happy or thankful. I think it’s even more interesting if I can express these things through imagery, so I will be posting these moments of my daily happy on Instagram.

So many times all we need is right where we are. As we push into a 4 year period of uncertainty and negativity, now, more than ever, we need to figure out how to be content with what we already have.

So today I start with the included photo. I am super thankful that I live in a community with such a great library. I got this sweet swag for reading 3 book in December and January.


I attended my first spin class this morning. You know the classes in the movies that look like this?


I couldn’t convince myself that the classes weren’t really like that and was terrified to try one out. But my sister recently started taking classes, and I decided to tag along this morning all the while convincing myself things would be fine.

I’m a runner. I can hang through 90 minutes of yoga. I’ll be fine.

Come to find out though, the classes are EXACTLY like you see in movies.

My first mistake is that the class is on a Sunday morning. At 8:00 AM. 30 minutes away from my house. This puts a major cramp in my Saturday night drinking. It proceeds to cramp my weekend when my alarm goes off at 6:30, and I realize I don’t get to HANG around in bed all morning. But I committed by paying in advance, so spin class here I come.

We are 15 minutes early to class…I’m new and obviously need the instructor to help me with bike adjustments. As we head into class there are girls there already, on bikes, spinning away. It is similar to the runners who arrive early to 5Ks and runs circles in the streets before the run starts. You know because running 3 miles just isn’t quite enough. I mutter “overachievers” as I drag my tired ass past them to find a bike.

My next obstacle is getting on the damn bike. There are straps that you have to shove your feet in to hold them in place. But you have to figure out how to swing your leg over the bike while your other foot is still on the floor then get your foot in the harness while pushing off the floor from the other side. You are momentarily in mid air, suspended over the bike and literally have just seconds to get a good foot hold before slamming down on the seat.

After managing to get on the bike without smashing my face into it, the instructor starts up the music and dims the lights and I suddenly realize that yes, yes the class is going to be EXACTLY like in the movies.

My next hour looks something like this:

I rock the first 10 minutes and am super proud of myself until the instructor says “good warm up,” and I realize I may be in trouble.

I try to keep up with various speeds and resistance levels but decide after 15 minutes that my new goal needs to be to just figure out how to keep my legs moving for an hour.

After 20 minutes I suddenly think I might pass out.

Then we do jumps. This involves standing while pedaling for 5 seconds, then sitting for 5 seconds. This went on forever.

At some point I just had to stop standing and pedaling.

But then my ass goes numb.

At the 30 minute mark I thought to myself “you are 42 years old…how did you think this was a good idea?”

The instructor asks why we aren’t you pedaling harder, and I want to tell her it’s because I can no longer feel my legs.

Somewhere between 30 minutes and 40 minutes I may have blacked out.

At the 40 minute mark I get a second wind.

At the 42 minute mark I lose said second wind.

45 minutes in I think I may just die, and I look over at the girl two bikes down. While I am just trying to keep my legs rotating, she is STANDING while pedaling. And not even sweating. And smiling. Meh….look at me all cute and pedaling in rhythm.

At the 50 minute mark when I think we are almost done, we instead do arm work. This is when I realize I now have to do weight work while not falling off the bike. Some of the riders can actually stand and pedal while holding the handles with one hand and lifting a weight with the other. I would literally have fallen off the bike if I had even considered this.

At some point 60 minutes eventually pass and we are told we can stop pedaling. I may or may not have stopped before then. I’m not sure how I get off the bike. I do know I have to hold the wall as I climb the stairs down out of the place. And I’m pretty sure I tell the girl at the coffee place next door my order twice because I can’t remember if I told her everything.

It’s now 8 hours after the class and I am having to use my arms to get up off the toilet, but hey, I made it through a spin class, right?



her name was debbie


My good friend, Leann, lost her mom this week. I had followed the journey for months through the Facebook page set up to keep friends and family updated on prognosis, treatments, surgeries, up, downs and the everythings in between. And then last Sunday, I was scrolling through my Facebook feed and saw the news.

I stood in my hallway and sobbed.

I don’t know how to process the news or console a friend that is now missing a parent. I have not yet been through the loss of a parental unit, and so I can’t even imagine what it feels like to suddenly just NOT have a person in your life who has been there since day one.

Everything seems contrite and trivial. It puts things in perspective.

Debbie was a super cool lady.

She was a woman of faith who cared about and accepted everyone. Regardless of religious beliefs, race or sexuality she treated you like family.

She lived simply in the same house she had raised her kids in. I ate dinner one night in the kitchen where the family had managed nightly dinners. The kitchen wasn’t made to hold a table. They told me how, if there were enough people sitting around the table, the easiest way to get through to the living room was to actually go out the back door and come back in the front. Just think of how close families would still be if we all lived that closely with each other!

She always gave back to the community. She was involved with community food banks and church groups making sure those in need had food and other needed resources.

She was always up for the weird and absurd even it was beyond her comfort zone. My friend was relentless in dragging her mom to local performances and concerts and city trips. She saw burlesque shows and weird circus freak shows and visited creepy puppet stores. And while she sat out the puppet store, she really loved it all!

She was a strong woman who subsequently raised strong girls. My friend is one of the most fearless women I know. There are times in my life when I literally remind myself that Leann wouldn’t hesitate to do something or Leann would figure out what to do…and I forge ahead. Thank you Debbie for raising that kind of woman!

Maybe in the end, it’s okay that these moments always make things seem contrite and trivial. Maybe as we figure out how to live with a loss of this magnitude, a loss that will always stay with us, it will always make the “big deals” and “end of the world” events seem less important.

Maybe in the end, we always need a little bit of perspective.

hatred and fear in america


It’s been a rough week in America. After the first death, I accidentally landed on a CNN page where the video just autoplayed and before I could stop it I was watching Alton Sterling on the ground dying. So I stopped going to the CNN site. After the second killing in Minnesota, I even had to stop browsing Facebook. I couldn’t read anything without sitting at my computer and sobbing.

Now there are Dallas officers dead, hundreds arrested at protests, and U.S. travel advisories issued by other countries warning travelers to stay safe and cooperate with law enforcement as they travel to the states.

I don’t know how to process all the hatred that sits behind all these violent acts. I also don’t understand how we live in a time where anyone online can watch while these men lie on the ground dying.

While I grew up in one of the whitest cities in America, in the bible belt no less, somewhere along the way, I became part of a family that is now bi-racial, have good friends with bi-racial families and have fostered two African American boys who continue to live in one of the poorest areas in the city. So I know the struggles that come along with the color of your skin being dark. The stares, the way people walk farther out as a black man walks by them, the way women hold their purses as they see black men walking toward them.

What I don’t (and will never) understand is why the color of anyone’s skin dictates what people think about them or act around them. Why on earth does the color of someone’s skin mean that they are different or more violent or less worthy than those with lighter skin? There are ivy league, WHITE boys acting more violently than these two men who were just killed and they aren’t being shot by the cops. Shit, they aren’t even going to jail for what they did.

I know it’s hard (or probably impossible) to know whether this is all police brutality against blacks or just police brutality in general. But I do know that we see a lot more of these incidents involving black men. And maybe it’s just because what we see on the news and social media is skewed. But maybe it’s not. How about maybe we just agree that its violent and it’s violence based on hatred and it’s violence that just needs to stop.

Be good to each other.

the boys club



In 1985, I was 11. Sometime during that year a movie came out called ‘Just One of the Guys.’  It was about this girl who lost a summer internship at the local paper to a couple of guys. She was convinced her submission article was passed over due to sexism. To prove her point and get her article accepted, she decided to resubmit the article while posing as a guy.

I don’t know why I loved this movie so much, but it became one of those movies I would watch over and over. Looking back, I think it probably spoke to me on levels I didn’t understand at the time. I’m sure I already inherently knew that simply being a boy meant something entirely different than being a girl. It inadvertently got you different things, built you a separate path and opened additional doors that might not exist for girls. Simply put, there was, and always has been, a boys club.

As I got older, I realized that this boys club had more of what interested me than what all the girls had going on. I developed more male than female friends, my personal interests became more ‘boy like’ as I became interested in sci-fi and sports and outdoorsy type things.

But the older I got, the more I realized my challenge would be that the boys club didn’t always admit girls.

This realization became even more of a truth as I graduated college and started my career. Going into it, I didn’t necessarily think advertising was a male dominated world. It was a new age, and most jobs I landed were actually in departments that skewed heavily female. Most of the departments or companies were often even headed by females. But interestingly enough, the few men who did exist within these same walls were the ones running the shows.

From the start, I always knew the boys club was where I wanted to be. I think I had known that ever since high school when I dumped most of my female friends due to the drama. The boys had their hands in the pieces of business I wanted to be in. They had the positions I wanted. And they were the ones I wanted to hang out with. Unfortunately for me, I wasn’t a boy. So the challenge for me quickly became about infiltrating this elusive boys club.

I think early in my career, I thought it might become easier as I went. I held strong in the fact that times were changing, and women were winning in more areas than we used to. But I’ve been at this for 16 years, and I find I’m still fighting the good fight. But here’s the thing…I don’t think the boys club always knows it exits. We all simply run in packs that we know and boys run with boys. So even when like minded, strong women who can do the same things as these boys come along, they don’t always recognize us.

What I have found is if you can figure out a way to break down the boys club tunnel vision, they often let you right in. And appreciate your smarts and drive and visions. Hell, many of these boys are married or in relationships with strong, smart, strong willed women. But for some reason, when it comes to doing business, they often forget we exist. The hardest part is just getting them to look up for a second.

At this point in my life, I know it’s one of the biggest challenges I face in any new position. I can’t even tell you how many boys clubs my husband has watched me maneuver. I have to be content in the fact that at least I know they exist. And I have to be thankful I am the type of person who has the drive and knows how to stand up to the tunnel vision that exists. I’m also happy that many of these boys eventually recognize the skills and strengths that may exist in someone who is NOT a boy.