Write a Letter to Your Heart

Hey-

It still comes as a surprise to me when I remember your true shape. All through elementary school I attempted to draw you perfectly, to cut you precisely. I never thought for a second you weren't that exact same shape fluttering inside the cavity of my chest.

I suppose this very well should be a letter of apology. Over the last 24 years I have put you under a lot of weight, put you under a lot of pressure. I've made you succumb to being audience to unconvincing soliloquies in front of bathroom mirrors, and made you a contender in matches of much more brutal and bloody battle fields.

I have overlooked how you may react in certain situations, I am also guilty of trying to let my brain crush you in a fencing match of who is wrong and who is right. In the end, you always proved your worth.

I lay flat on my back and watch my abdomen pulsate with your entity. . . You have always sped up at the right times, never allowing me to think something was right when we both were acutely aware of its inaccurate nature. Alas, that did not stop the cracks in your once seamless surface.

You are no longer whole. And that is where my fault lies. I have led us on long and tiring journeys. . . I have allowed you to be bruised more often than I should. I have always thought I was the leader in this co-operation, but I believe I have been wrong all this time.

You are the center of my existence, you are the internal melody of my instrument, you are the soul, the life of what makes me who I am.

I have harmed you and yet you stay true. I keep going back for more long after you make it infinitely clear you cannot possibly endure another second. I give you away too easily and always end up with far less of you than when I began. I am fearful I will not ever be able to make this up to you.

Please just know that after all this time, I realize it was only you and me from the start. . . Just you and me baby.



If you were to write a letter to your heart, what would you say?

-Stephi D.

A Laugh a Day Keeps the Doctor Away

Laughter: not just cheap medicine, but also known to be the best kind of medicine. Do you laugh a lot? Not just smirk, but full out belly laugh? With your mouth wide open, eyes scrunched up, head flung back in pure, un-embarrass-able joy? I try to. . . it's not always easy, sometimes I have to tell myself to quit with the tears and laugh out loud. . . but I really do try to. A lot.

And what does laughter look like to you? I know this seems like an odd question, but let me try to show you what laughter looks like to me. . . Laughter looks like my brother after a few brewskies, dancing to "Booty Work" in his well worn, bill bent into severe submission, camouflage, baseball hat. Laughter looks like my mom watching those creepy Target commercials with the crazy, blonde lady exercising with her present-filled, red shopping baskets and having tears pool and run down her face in glee. Laughter is chasing my curly-haired, perfectly complected, baby cousins around Gran's house while they squeal in delightful protest. Laughter looks like pictures from high school football games, impromptu photo shoots in a bedroom, and that look. . . ya know. . . where you appear as if you are attempting to sniff your upper lip, but you are actually thinking you look sexy and mysterious. . . yeah- laughter looks like three huge stacks of snapshots of my best friends and I doing that over, and over, and over, again.

And what does laughter sound like to you? Not sound as in, how does your actual laugh sound, but what are the sounds that provoke your laughter? To me. . . laughter sounds like a brilliantly sarcastic story being regaled by a particular family member I am told I resemble. Laughter sounds like Braden "beat boxing" in my back seat along to a Jay-Z song, Belle "teaching" a class in her "classroom," and the two of them scheming to convince me they fully deserve an ice cream treat from Holly's for snack. Laughter sounds like Lindsey and I talking in "that voice" that TJ is convinced I made up ( I did not), Emily and I planning how we will flirt with that hottie Steve at Red Robin, my deep, serious conversations with my mother in which I firmly tell her she knows nothing about my life, and locked and saved text messages with my brother in which I quote a lyric from a song and he returns with the next line. Laughter sounds like pig snorts, knee slaps, and smoker's coughs.

And how does laughter feel to you? Laughter feels like stomach cramps because I'm doubled over in pure, giddy pleasure. Laughter feels like little hands grabbing at my wrists to put a stop to the tickling they asked for in the first place. Laughter feels like bass pumping through my veins and a cold beer in my hand. Laughter feels like a warm room, anywhere my family is, sunshine on the crown of my head.

It has come to my attention that even on my saddest days, the hardest trials, the cloudiest horizons, I can find laughter welling up inside my chest, giggles over moments past that will never be forgotten, knee slaps in a chair that a great man used to occupy. Laughter is a memory taking place of a person that's never really gone, sunshine on a day in which there should be a down pour, "freeze frame-d" in rustic picture frames lining walls and crowding tables. Laughter is an epidemic for which there should never be a remedy, an ice cold elixir of magic available to all, even if you aren't 21, a tear-stopper, smile-inducer, acronym filled sentiment posted all over the world in mere seconds on Facebook. Laughter is something that looks good on everyone, sounds perfectly in tune to everyone, and never goes out of style.

Laughter can alter a mood, create an atmosphere, change a life. So on those days you can't seem to muster the energy for a smirk, think about that little guy you used to baby sit and the crazy antics he tried to pull; on the day you have to let someone go forever, remember the reasons they told you they loved your smile; on the days you're so pissed off you can't see straight, remember a car drive with your best friend from high school, that game you used to play with your cousins when you were kids, the night out last weekend that started too late, ended too early in a McDonald's parking lot, and is burnt in your memory for forever.

My laughter is loud, probably obnoxious, but surely unforgettable. . . and much like yours, it's contagious. So go spread it- like wildfire.

-Stephi D.

The House That Built Me

I'm reading this amazing book right now by Amy Stolls called The Ninth Wife. I will not go into any form of synopsis as it will deter from my blog point, but if you enjoy reading, go get it. Now, to lasso my focus, I was reading last night and came across this quote: "Over the years a house becomes a vault for the most intimate thoughts and acts. . ." and it made me start to consider the idea of a home having something to say about the people that reside within it. . . and then it occurred to me that, even more than that, people have something to say about the home they reside in. I truly wonder what my walls would have to say. . . if they could talk.

If the walls of my gold, papier mache-ed living room could talk they would sing a cacophony of snores and sniffles from eleven PM snoozes, they would emit the aroma of wood burning stoves and tobacco being packed beside gums, they would reflect smiling faces captured in split second flashes and black and white memories of smiles I've never known.

If the cabinets in my aromatic kitchen could talk they would telephone style repeat dinner conversations about long work days and longer school lessons, they would permeate the smells of crock potted chuck roasts, home-made chocolate chip cookies, and Colombian coffee  brewing every morning, they would sing an opera of stove top sizzling, wall mounted, clock ticking, belly pleasing yummmms of a family well fed.

If the mirrors of my sunshine yellow bathroom could talk they would fog up with steamy, shower residue, they would reflect the aging face of a little girl finding her way, they would karaoke along with the drunken raspiness of Janis Joplin, the haunting beats of Florence and the Machine, the hypnotic crooning of Dave Matthews from a squat, sea foam green IPod.

If the cool, soft clothing of my bed-time pillow could talk it would reminisce of thick smelling cologne from a curly haired boy whom I enjoyed kissing, it would have creamy residue from night time rituals of Carmax or other various lip protectors, it would carefully, beautifully illustrate my inescapable demons and glorified accomplishments that weave the fabric of my dreams.

If the walls of my home could talk they would inform you that in the case of a family of four being together, there still remain divisions; they would bring you to your knees with solo performances of tears, laughter, screaming, and praises; they would reflect memories of two people who fell in love, created life, and held on tight to their little ones; they would reflect memories of a young girl thinking she knew more than her mother, a little boy fiercely pushing every boundary and limit in existence, two siblings fighting tooth and nail against loving each other, but ending up there anyway, and two adults, living with their parents, and not feeling a burning desire to flee. If the walls of my home could talk. . . they'd sing you a love song.

Many kids grow up, count down the days until they are 18, and get the hell out of dodge, but Z and I just don't fit that profile. Sure, I'm excited about having my own place, being able to decorate and paint the walls how I choose, feeling even more grown and independent, but the love and support I am wrapped up in every morning I wake up, every night when I return from work, every second that I make a joke, a goal, a mistake. . . that is something that stained the four walls of every room that make my house a home long before I was even a thought.

So next time you wish your house was bigger, next time you wish you could live on your own, next time you wish your parents didn't threaten to unhinge the door of your bedroom every time you smarted off, rolled your eyes, or didn't put your laundry away- remember the smells of your favorite meal on your birthday, remember how your Christmas tree looks all lit up in a dark room, remember the wrestling matches, the arguments fought and dissolved, the hugs and kisses before bedtime. . . remember where you were raised, what you were taught, how you were shaped and know that that house, that structure, those four walls. . . they hold your memories, your artifacts, your childhood. . . they built you.

So, what would they say. . . if your walls could talk?

-Stephi D.

Eternally Yours

What makes you feel alive? What makes you think life will go on forever? What happens that makes you feel larger than this single moment?

Because life is only millions of moments strung together, and inevitably ends too damn soon, I think we need to allow room for moments that take our breath away, make our heart swell, send butterflies beating through our insides. Because life is only millions of moments strung together, and inevitably ends too damn soon, I think we need to create moments in which we are infinite.

When I go grocery shopping with my mom and she asks what we should have for dinner that night, I am infinitely her daughter; her daughter that will forever look at her as if I am six and no one can ever know as much as she does, her daughter that still gets excited about going to the grocery and McDonals with her, at 24, her daughter that calls her first, no matter what the place, the time, the circumstance.

When I get dressed up and go out with my girlfriends for beer and dancing, I am infinitely a twenty-something girl; a twenty-something girl who will forever laugh loud, without inhibitions, a twenty-something girl that can't imagine my life without my friends, a twenty-something girl who will always be up for 2 AM Taco Bell runs and sleep-overs.

When I sit in my brother's room and talk to him while he gets ready, I am infinitely a 15 year old freshman; a 15 year old freshman who got slapped in the face with reality, a 15 year old freshman who realized the importance of family, a 15 year old freshman who would be lost without this brown eyed boy.

When I think a boy is cute, I am infinitely a self conscious little girl; a self conscious little girl whose palms sweat like a glass of iced tea on a humid day, a self conscious little girl who giggles when she is embarassed that he's caught me looking at him, a self conscious little girl who never quite says the right thing, but always hopes he hears the right thing.

When someone fucks with my family, I am forever my father's daughter; my father's daughter who doesn't think before she opens her mouth, my father's daughter who has the courage of a tiger, my father's daughter who lives loud, loves hard, and has no filter.

Every moment of every day I am all of these things. . . because they are what make me who I am. So, I guess the point to all of this is that my body may never be infinite, it will never live and move forever, my body will not outlast the tests of time. But my soul? It will go on forever. . . in the acts of service I learned from my mother, in the drunken memories of my girlfriends, in the serious conversations with my silly brother, in the nervous laughs heard round the world from girls with crushes, in my father's words spewing out of my mouth. I live thus I make memories. These memories are passed and shared, they may alter, but they do not fade. . . Because in this moment, that conversation last week, those nervous giggles I simply cannot stifle, and the one billion tears I cry, hands I hold, hearts I touch- I live on. I am a memory. I am infinite.

Go make a memory that will last for eternity.

-Stephi D.

It's the Little Things. . .

This is a really amazing concept to me. . . it really made me stop and think: what are the things/people/places I take for granted everyday that I would ache without if they were gone?

Here we go:
*the way my mom giggles at the stupidest commercials. . . giggles until she's crying
*how Moses sits on his hind legs with his front paws up in the air asking me to dance
*the taste of Mt. Dew when it is fresh from the fridge, in a can
*the sound of a book page being turned when I've high-lighted and noted it into submission
*the smile I hear when my brother says my name
*my dad giving me shit for watching another chick flick (that he secretly enjoys. . .)
*my backyard after a fresh snow. . . all glitter-y and spectacular
*Braden's giggle
*Belle's eyes when she's excited
*my gran telling me she loves me
*my journals and all the secrets they hold tight
*the feeling of bass pounding through my veins
*reading something I've written aloud and just knowing I've given someone the goosebumps
*the smell of my favorite perfume
*the stained and worn color of my favorite Chuck Taylors
*the way warm, homemade chocolate chip cookies taste
*the feeling I get when someone calls me princess
*the way my upper lip smells and feels after I've kissed a boy
*the way my stomach feels when a car "stops like a roller coaster"
*the fact that I am still, at 24, the first person, in my home, to wake up on Christmas morning
*the way I feel when all of my family is together, and how no matter where we are, that's home
*the girlfriends I can go months without talking to, but when we get together, no time has really passed
*being understood for all my quirks and faults
*being free
. . .
I could really go on for eternity with this.

It was Andy Warhol who said, "Art is anything you can get away with." What's your art? My art is writing, loving, laughing, and living. I get away with writing this blog and being totally raw. . . and you still dig what I have to say. I get away with loving with wild abandon. . . sometimes it hurts, but the lessons I learn are always worth it. I get away with laughing like I smoke two packs a day and at unheard decibles. . . people stare, but they won't forget it, either. I get away with living freely, like a child, too seriously, and in a perpetual state of contradiction. . . but somehow I am surrounded by the best people in existence. Perhaps while I'm living freely I will remind myself to stop and collect memories of the "little" things that bring me joy, make me smile,  give me reason to get up everyday and breathe.

So beginning with now I will understand that the little things can't possibly be small if they mean this much to me, that I have an obligation to define, refine, and share my art in order for you to claim yours, and that everyday I wake up, I have at least one reason to let my smile change the world:  so that you don't let the world change your smile.

Be free, be good, be a "little thing" to someone. . . and rewrite their life. . . in a BIG way.

-Stephi D.

For the Love of Hips and Thighs. . . For the Taste of Cheese and Pies

Let's talk about something that most girls do NOT want to talk about: our bodies. How do you feel about your body? Let me give you some background on how I feel about mine:
For as long as I can remember I was never thin enough for my liking, no matter what my size was. I would like to tell you this stems from some deep seeded memory of someone being awful to me about my body, but really, it doesn't. I cannot honestly tell you why I've always been so awful about loving my body. When I was an 8, my thighs were too big. When I was a 12, I had love handles and my arms were fat, when I was a 16, I had too many rolls, when I was an 18, my back fat gave me great distress. For as long as I can remember, I was never thin enough, pretty enough, good enough in comparison to girls I went to school with, girls in movies, just girls, period.
Let me clarify by saying that as I write this, I am not 100% pleased with the way my body looks and feels in and out of clothing. But today is the first day, since puberty reared her bitch ass head, that I really do feel happy.

Beautiful, reading public of mine. . . let me lay it all out for you.. it's gonna be the nitty gritty.. but it's imperative. I am a curvy girl. . . some might say I am a big girl. . . I prefer generously proportioned. I wear a size 18 jean, an XL shirt/sweater/tank top, and am a boner inducing 44 DDD in the chest. And you know what? That's okay. . . actually it's more than okay, it's beautiful. It's beautiful because I've got curves and I know how to decorate them properly, but even more important than that- I've got this ball of fire inside of me. . . it's called my soul.
I'm intelligent, I'm funny, I'm compassionate, and if I come into contact with you, chances are, I'll end up being crazy about you in some way. I can sip wine in a ritzy restaurant or throw back shots in the back yard on a tail gate. I'll maintain that girls don't fart, but burp in a wildly inappropriate place and get scolded by my mother. My point to this rant is that it doesn't matter what you look like, what size your jeans are, or in what department of the store you shop in, all that matters is who you are and how you reach the people around you.

I have friends that are tall and closely resemble the looks and walk of Marisa Miller, I have friends that rock an ass like J.Lo, and I have friends that look radiant in absolutely anything like Queen Latifa. But they are my friends because of the joy they bring me, the laughter they inspire, and the careful advice that they give. If they weren't kind, loving, and generous women, it wouldn't matter if they were the next angel in a Victoria's Secret catalogue. . . because I don't surround myself with mean spirited people.

I'm single right now and it is something I deal with everyday. Sometimes I don't mind it and sometimes I hate it, but I know that one day I'm going to meet the guy designed for me and he's going to love me for my wit, my brain, my heart, and my bra size.
So. . . to the guy who told an old boyfriend of mine on that high school baseball field that I was hot until  I got fat, to the guy who bypasses me on the dance floor to be next to a tall skinny friend of mine, to every guy who looked at my un-toned thighs and hips instead of into my eyes and made a decision: I'm a curvy girl, I like food, I make people laugh and you missed out.

Love your bodies ladies. . . and if you don't, work on them until you do love them, but the bottom line is- the size of your ass has absolutely nothing to do with the size of your heart.

Be good to one another, be good to you, and pay yourself a compliment today.

-Stephi D.

Beautiful You

Let's talk about this quote. . . I can sum it up in three words: It. Is. Badass.
So since my boy Oscar encourages us to be ourselves I figured I'd take some time to review what exactly it is that makes me, me.

*Ahem*

Live, from the sounding board of her caffiene drunk, gorgeously eclectic, sometimes (always) neurotic, tune filled mind is (insert best sports announcer voice --->here<--- )Stephiiiii Duuuuuff!

Some zaney facts about yours truly:
*I am addicted to caffiene
*I LOVE children, but do not want them for myself
*I enjoy all variations of pickles, as long as they are not of the sweet/bread&butter family
*I drink at least one LARGE glass of whole, white milk everyday. . . typically in companoinship with Oreos or some assorted sweet treat
*I will go to great lengths to get a chuckle, chortle, or chaGRIN (I was going for a sort of alliteration here. . . fail.) out of anyone. . . including, but not limited to, shamelessly making fun of myself
*I'm not superb at grammar. . . deal with it
*I have a mouth like a sailor. . . some would argue I might make a sailor blush. . . eh- all in a day
*I love dancing. . . and will quite obviously ignore your stares that suggest that I am, as a matter of fact, not Shakira or Beyonce. . . the hell you say- I'm a beast on the flo'
*I am short, not alarmingly so, but short nonetheless, and will rarely, may in fact fight you on, wearing heels. . . I begin to resemble a variation of the goose family when I attempt to wear heels. . . similar to that cartoon one that bellows in an English accent "T double E double R double I. . ." and waddles off down a dirt lane. Is that Charlotte's Web? Am I losing my mind?

Anyway, end that rant. My point? Some of you may be short, some of you may enjoy a pickle from time to time, some of you may be spectacularly sucktacious at grammer, but none of you are all these things at one time. . . wanna know why? Because YOU are not ME! Only I would get ready for a Saturday night out by slurping a Coke, eating a dill pickle, putting on flats, and going to strut my sexy (hah) moves on the dance floor, only to then wake up in the morning for a  large glass of milk while incorrectly grammarizing an embarrassingly humorous tale in which I use the work "fuck" at least 7 times and include various reasons as to why I will never have children, although I already have names picked out.

Those of you who are reading this that do have a dancing gene in your body and move your tail feather like a cyclone, I applaud you. . . I also, more likely than not, adore you because of who you are. . . which is in some part, if not wholly, different than me.

All of you amazing, gorgeous, perfectly imperfect young, growing, and adult women (and men) of the world: Own who you are. Embrace all the ridiculous mannerisms that complete the canvas of your soul. Dance like a baffoon, or like a rock star, sing at the top of your lungs, and wear your hair however the hell you want! Don't pay attention to what's considered "hot" on the runways, T.V., or in magazines because no one can really afford a personal hair stylist, make up team, or air brushing crew.

I know it may seem like you'll never look in the mirror and think "pretty" or "smart" or "funny" or "wonderful" but you are all of those things, in your own extraordinary way. I haven't always embraced myself, but I do now, a little more, every day. Because I am the best person  at being me. So be you and set the world a-light with fireworks by doing it because you were made to be you, and no one looks as beautiful being that person as you do.

So, my people, what are you good at? What are you proud of? How are your moves? Show me whatchya workin with. . . 'cause I bet it's incredible.

-Stephi D.