Soul Thumping

Why I am Qualified to Write About Kate Spade's Suicide

I did not personally know Kate Spade. I never met her so I cannot claim to know her or her personality, but I adored her. She was the designer of newly minted career gals in the mid-90s like myself. Before then, I scoured thrift stores, looking for gently worn pieces that Mary Tyler Moore would approve because I wanted to have that vintage/retro look without the terrible old smell. In my late 20s, I decided I no longer wanted to wear that old musty smell, so that would be the end of my thrift shop excursions. I did not enjoy traditional shopping at malls and I was a little lost, but I quickly discovered the Spiegel catalog. My apparel purchases were more for work than weekends that that point. It was 1995 and I was ahead of the curve in internet shopping because of my technical background. Of course, online retail shopping as we know it today did not quite exist yet, but it would soon enough. In 1996, I had the opportunity to transfer to a great job in 
Philadelphia, so I moved from Raleigh to the City of Brotherly Love on March 1, 1996. There was an epic snowstorm that week, which is still on the books as the most crippling storm in history for the city.  Anyway, at this time, I purchased all my airline tickets and hotel rooms online before most people owned a PC--anyone out there remember the Alta Vista search engine? Though I didn't purchase it online, it was at this time that I purchased my first Kate Spade wristlet because I saw a picture of it on a Nordstrom "ad" on a discount travel page. It was actually a "picture" of a travel page from the New York Times! It was a light blue in color, and at that time, that was not a purse color we saw in stores! If I remember correctly, I found this wristlet in Lord & Taylor in the King of Prussia mall, but it may have been another store in that mall, so I cannot say with 100% certainty that it was Lord & Taylor.

 

Flash forward to Wednesday, June 6, 2018. Just two weeks prior, I had an emergency eye surgery and was out of work through the end of May. I returned to work early that morning, June 6, 2018. I stepped down awkwardly on a step--because I still had no depth perception due to the eye surgery. Anyway, I broke my foot, had to go home, and while in bed like an invalid, I read my email and Isaw the NYT headlines that Kate Spade, Fashion Icon had taken her life. I was stunned! Not quirky, independent Kate Spade! I emailed my husband and I mentioned how sad I was about Kate Spades' suicide. He knew the name but didn't really know much about her. This is what I sent to him, in a nut shell, and what she meant to me:

"Kate Spade was an icon to me in the mid-90s. She was cool, came out of nowhere, and didn’t seem to need to act fake like most designers. She used bold, bright colors when other designers stayed with neutral earth tones. Her purses weren’t cheap, but when designer bags by Hermès or Balenciaga were going for $3000 to $20,000, Kate’s handbags were new and couture for $300 to $600, well made and fun. She attracted a following. The younger population of women who were career oriented but so over the "your purse much match your shoes and belt" b.s. We wanted to shake up the rules a bit. Hell, a light blue purse goes with every color of shoe imaginable, and so what if it really does not? There were enough of us who were young, independent, made a pretty damn good salary, but weren't so into the tacky big labels splashed on our belongings (I'm looking at you YSL...yuck) who were drawn to Kate. Simple and minimal lines but bright as hell."

She was a smart businesswoman who had beautiful quirky ideas, but she also had an "exit plan" in place before starting her own label, which is important. That paid off in 1999 when Nieman Marcus bought the brand. She was still involved in the design and marketing of products, but she was protected under the Neiman Marcus umbrella.

Over the years, I've owned Kate Spade purses, shoes, bathing suits, kitchen items, etc. Though I found nothing much of her brand that spoke to me in the last ten years, I was impressed with her purse collection last year. The designs appeared to circle back to that "minimalist" look I admired in the late 90s even though the colors were very much Lily Pulitzer (puke).

I am sad for many reasons over her death. I had only a short time to grieve before Anthony Bourdain's suicide was announced the next day.

I am overwhelmed, sad, and angry. I will also not tolerate people vilifying these two or anyone else for their decision to end their own lives. That is no one's business. No one has a say or is allowed a say. It might be hard to be left behind, but you don't live in the shoes of those who make the decision to end the madness, so you do not get a say.

It makes my heart sad, especially because she was only 55 but she will most certainly be at peace now because the constant brain chatter has ceased.

The first time I saw a picture of Kate (in the New York Times in 1996), I was so happy because she looked exactly I thought she would and I did not find her to be a poseur in the fashion industry. She did not have to come up with the next big thing to stay relevant. She stayed true to her own style and the style of her consumers.

The last thing I want to say about this woman that I did not know. No one, even her husband nor daughter, will ever know what was happening inside her head. It is impossible. I love my husband dearly and he loves me dearly, but we can never spend 1 second in each other's shoe, so we just trust each other when we express our emotions. We are not here on this earth to fix each other--that isn't just me and my husband, that means everyone. As a matter of fact, no one can fix anyone else, not even a therapist. We don't have the right to try to fix anyone. We are here to love each other without pretense; without winning the social justice warrior of the year sash. I remember when Robin Williams took his life a few years ago and so many people called him a coward for taking his own life. "He was so happy, how could he possibly want to harm himself? So selfish." That made me so angry at those people who had no idea what they were even talking about. I want for everyone on the planet to be filled with total, blind happiness, but that isn't possible because we don't all have the same start in life. My one wish for this planet is that everyone would be filled with total blind happiness. That will not happen because we are not the same

Kate, I truly wish I had been your friend. Your decision to use bold, bright colors when everyone else was afraid to expand beyond traditional earth tones. Though I do not still have the very first KS wristlet I purchased, I do have a KS bathing suit and lunch bag that will hold onto to. Tightly.

Requiescat in pace, Katherine Noel Brosnahan

Saying Goodbye Two Years After the Fact

My early adult years were spent without pets mostly because I lived in apartments that did not allow pets. During the first three years I lived in Philadelphia, I bought Fred (in 1997), my pet albino rat, and though I was quite attached to him, no one every considered him a "pet" including my landlord. Fred had a stroke one weekend while I was visiting my boyfriend in New Jersey. I never forgave myself for leaving him alone. I had to have Fred euthanized by a vet the following weekend. I will not even reveal the price I had to pay. The vet gave me some time to share an Enteman's eclair with him, our favorite Sunday ritual while I read the NY Times.

Fast forward 2001. I was dating Chip* and I told him I would love to have a Siamese cat as a Christmas present. He introduced me to a pet store in Princeton, NJ, a store that was known for taking good care of their pets.  They had a kennel with Siamese cats, sleeping. I walked over to that kennel, and  before I even touched the cage, one of the brothers lept from the cage into my arms, and began to purr and i knew this was my kitten.

For weeks I could not decide on a name. I kept calling to him as "Kitty with no name" so one of my coworkers said OK use "KWNN" (Kitty With No Name) and throw a vowel in there. That is exactly what I did. I chose "I." Kwinn.

This cat was my shadow. He demanded--and if you've ever owned a Siamese cat, you know exactly what I am talking about--that I pay attention to him and love him and feed him. He was my baby. A year later I got Kat, my Russian Blue as a companion.

They lived together in mutual discord, hating each other while depending on each other. It was a strange relationship. We made the difficult choice to put our beloved Kat down in May of 2015. Kwinn was lonely. He may have been happy to be the only cat on board, but he was also lonely. We decided to get two new kittens, This way, he wouldn't be alone, but the kittens would leave him be and play with each other. It worked mostly as we expected, except Opal, our new little female kitten immediately saw Kwinn as a father figure and followed him EVERYWHERE! He was not amused until he was. I would catch him growling at her one minute, then grooming her the next.

This lasted for a y ear until Kwinn, almost 16, began to lose weight, which for a Siamese, is a huge deal. He was so frail and tiny but he would not 'give up the ghost." One morning, as I was getting ready for work, Pat and I looked at him and with tears in our eyes, we knew we had to take him to the vet. Dr. Hunt told us to come right away. We did. She did some blood work and told us his organs were shutting down. We knew we had to say goodbye.

She gave him the first injection to make him sleepy. I couldn't stay through this procedure with Kat, but because Kwinn was my child, my love, my hope, my light, I had no choice. He was combative until the injection, then he began to lick his lips and purr as Pat and I touched his frail body. It was the first time I'd seen him relaxed in such a long time. I kissed him and snuggled my face into his. He was my world and I still dream of him often. Pat and I both saw him that night, independently. I know I spoke so sweetly of Kat in her eulogy post, but I could not bring myself to speak of Kwinn, until now. I found his mahogany box of ashes in my closet last week. I picked up the box and kissed it, then held it to my heart. My heart, where he already lives.

When I wrote I about Kat, I chose a John Gorka song to say goodbye to her. I don't have one good song that I sing when I remember my dear Kwinn, so I am linking to the several that make me smile, cry, and laugh when I think of my beautiful little Siamese boy, Kwinn. I see you still in my dreams and you are never far from our hearts. When I think of leaving Philadelphia after living there for 11 years, where I first found Kwinn, I have to throw in a song about Philly.

Goodbye my beautiful little boy. You have been missed and it is my fault I have not been able to say goodbye until now.

 

 

 

 

 

 

And, because Kwinn LOVED listening to Air:

 

 

 

*Not his real name!

Today, I was that Woman. The Woman with her Dress Stuck in her Underwear.

We've all seen at least one viral picture of a woman in public with her dress stuck in her underwear, completely unaware she is being photographed. The online sharing and snickers will continue for hours on social media until the cute seven-year-old is caught on video wiping his booger on a stranger's jacket while the stranger stares at a van Gogh in the Met (true story by the way). I have seen these pictures thinking, "If this ever happens to me, I will be mortified!"

Today, I was that woman. My dress wasn't actually stuck in my underwear; the right side was tucked under my backpack for the full seven minutes it took me to walk from the parking deck to my office. I only noticed six minutes into the commute when a young guy passed me in a hurry, and I felt a slight breeze on the back of my right leg. I reached back, felt skin and whispered, "Shiiiiiiitttttttt" to myself. I pulled my dress down and continued to walk like it didn't even happen.

I am sharing this story because I realized something about myself, something important. I did not care. I'm not just saying I didn't care; I honestly did not care. I did not die. I did not hyperventilate. I don't think I even blushed (anywhere). I only continued to walk to work like it didn't even happen. I did not care that at least fifteen strangers saw more of me than I would have liked (though I am glad I have been training for a half marathon) but it was just a thing. One more thing in a whole string of things that happen to us while we breathe. 

Now having said all of that, I will say that Girl Code was broken because there were two women behind me the entire trek down the sidewalk and they said NOTHING to me or assisted in helping me out. I would never let a woman, or man, go through that! I will let that go this time because I am in a cool place with me right now.

A Short Story About a Man and a Train

Our good friend--and best man at our wedding--said, "John is a fascinating guy.  He just told me the story about being hit by a train once."   My eyebrows raised 3 inches off my face because I did not know this story.  Turns out to be true.  The man was hit by a train, pulled out of the crumpled bits of metal that would never again resemble a vehicle.  He didn't remember what happened until the next afternoon, he walked into a bar, and a man bought him a beer.  He asked why, and the man told him he was the one who pulled him out of the car after the train hit him.

John was my stepfather for 22 years.  He and my mother were married nearly as long as she and my father were married.  I was in my 20s when they married, so he was more like a friend at first, but became a second father to me over the years.  He could be opinionated, but if he valued one's opinion, he listened and was able to concede he might be wrong.  That's how I know he respected me.  He listened to me, even if we didn't always see eye-to-eye on an issue.

He passed away three months ago, on January 29th.  We honored his final wishes over the weekend by spreading his ashes in the Gulf of Mexico, off the coast of Cedar Key, FL where he and mother have lived for many years.  Mother Nature must have taken a liking to John because the skies were an amazing blue and the water eerily calm on Saturday.  We took turns spreading his ashes over the side of the boat, and I whispered my goodbyes as I let a handful slip into the water.

On the flight home, I grabbed Joan Didion's The White Album from my backpack.  She wrote an essay in 1975 about an incident that happened on one of her flights to Honolulu in which a man began screaming at a woman.  Didion was bothered by this "because it had the aspect of a short story."  She didn't want to see life broken down into small pieces or vignettes.  She "was going to Honolulu because I wanted to see life expanded to a novel, and I still do."  Reading this made me think of John's "train" story.  Alone, it makes for an intriguing short story in which we see just a snippet of his life, but fortunately, John had many such stories, and his life is more than a novel.

Swim forever, John Parker.  Just stay away from the old Cedar Key railroad trestle.

 

Related articles

By the Way, How is my Heart?

The Anxious Runner Report - The Disastrous Run

It's Just Yarn, After All

What our Cats Think About the New Elizabeth and James Perfumes

I will have to tell you because our cats, Opal and Otto, don't know how (can't be bothered ) to type...yet.  For the record, I don't really like most perfumes, parfums, eau de parfums, eau de toilettes or eau de colognes myself because I don't find them pleasant.  I smell overpriced pumps of chemicals in delicate, architecturally designed bottles that cost more than a week's worth of groceries.  The only exception, in my opinion, is Gwen Stefani's L.A.M.B. fragrance.  It was (I say was, because her company no longer makes the fragrance) a subtle, flowery scent that didn't offend my olfactory organs.

Anyway, I received free sample bottles of Elizabeth and James (a company started by Mary-Kate and Ashley Olsen.  I didn't know this either.) Nirvana Rose Eau de Parfum and Nirvana Bourbon Eau de Parfum from Sephora yesterday.  I spritzed a bit of the Nirvana Rose on my wrist.  Naw thanks.  Too chemical-like for me, and I quickly had to escape the bathroom.

Following me from the bathroom to the living room were Opal and Otto.  They sometimes follow me from one room to another, but after the spritzing in the bathroom, there was purpose in their

Opal and Otto are not sold on the fragrance

stalking, something between confusion and fear.  I sat down, opened my laptop, and the two of them surrounded me, invading my personal space.  Otto sniffed at my wrist, then tried to bite me.  Opal began frantically sniffing my wrist, and because she has a chronic nasal issue, I thought she might actually pass out from all the sniffing.  What the hell?

Sephora describes the fragrance as, "A seductive floral blend embodying the heart of a dark rose with notes of rose de mai, geranium, and vetiver for a sultry, refined scent with intrigue."

My cats say, "If this perfume could conjure the feeling of being allowed to go outside, eat grass until we yack, roll around in the dirt, spar with a mole, then go back inside and suck down catnip smoothies for the rest of the day, we would buy the hell out of that shit.  This does not.  The rose nodes are more woody than rosy and if we could gnaw our mommy's hand off, we would.  Keep trying Olsen twins." 

 

 

Related articles

By the Way, How is my Heart?

That Feeling, When You Check Things Off Your List?