This summer has been busy. Heavy. Beautiful. Difficult. Filled with many opportunities for growth. Filled with many happy, truly joyful moments. A bit of Disney sprinkled in. All in all, it’s been a good summer, but it has not by any means, facilitated my need and desire to create. Or rather, to properly create something from what I have been able to do, because let’s be real — I’m never not creating. The ideas are endless. The writing never stops. The photos are never not taken. I finished more books in the last two months than I did all spring. I even had one of those a-ha moments for a project I’ve been working on for quite some time now… and it was a big one.

I just haven’t had a bulk of time to finish anything, or get any of the new, going.

My social media has even suffered. I’m editing and curating albums, but nothing is ‘ready’ in my mind. I’m almost done with a few articles, but again, they aren’t ‘ready.’

But this morning, I had a breakthrough.

I was sitting on the patio about to start my morning pages when I remembered I’d committed to posting every day on social media this week.

Problem was, I didn’t have anything ‘ready.’

I was just batch editing some content that I’d taken throughout the week while I was watching Gilmore Girls last night, so I took a deep breath and told myself, post anything. Even just two photos. One photo. Whatever, just make it relevant.

I opened my photos and saw a photo I’d taken just moments before coming outside. My workspace. I uploaded it quickly in the Tezza app and right there next to it was my last upload — a photo (not great, but fine) of the bottom half of a dress I wore a few weekends ago with a pair of studded clogs. Something I would have worn to Sunday mass if we’d gone.

Sunday morning.

It wasn’t much, but I liked the way it looked. Even more so, it was important for my process to have pushed through the block — pulling something out of nothing and just getting it done. That’s arguably the hardest thing in life for me to do.

Now I sit here on Sunday evening about to hit publish. One more win before another busy week begins.

occasionally,
Heather

If you’re reading this without knowledge of the prequel, that’s perfectly fine, too. You do in fact not need a historical overview of my path to finding discarded treasures to forming curated collections of clothing that I can more easily afford given my preferences. There’s also PLENTY to read in this article, but if you are intrigued to explore, you can check it out here —

The previous post was initially intended to be a part of this one, but to no surprise, I had to divide it into two separate articles. I apparently needed eight minutes worth of reading to show you my subsequent haul. So now that I’ve publicly proclaimed that I am back at the thrift stores, LET ME SHOW YOU WHAT I GOT!!

As I mentioned previously in ‘a woman of goodwill,’ I am conservative now in my pursuits. I’m focused. I’m intentional. I’m calm. I have a direction (or at least I find one along the way). Let’s review the checklist that keeps me in line —

You need a value system! A personal ethos before you walk into a thrift store!

You must have a why. A vision to ground you back into reality, back into yourself. Otherwise, it’s pure chaos at the thrift. Decision paralysis will kick in and you will either abandon ship OR buy it all. You must take control of your experience or the experience will take control of you!! (I’m talking to myself, aren’t I?)

I’m serious, though. It’s jam-packed in there — with things and people. Paired with the high-ceilings, florescent lights, all sorts of smells, and disorganized merchandise every where you turn — left, right, up, down — it’s a challenge sometimes to keep my faculties operating in a sensical way.

The ideas will come as you shop, but you have to have some boundaries.

Do not lose yourself at the Goodwill!

I had no expectations for what I would find this week, I was merely stopping in. Restarting the engine, if you will.

Apparently having zero expectations leads to high reward, for this little quick trip delivered favorable outcomes (don’t mind me, I’m learning a new language on LinkedIn).

Maybe it was beginners luck or maybe my trained eye gets better with age, but this first week back on the hunt accurately illustrated my fixation on quality textiles, textures, beadwork, and fringe — the same details I admire in Bode’s works were the unintended results of my finds, and the week my post about the brand went live, no less.

Coincidence, I think not.

This does happen to be a common occurrence whenever I thrift — a theme emerges from what I pull and end up purchasing. I’m always so pleased with the cohesive clusters that I’m able to put together, found independently of each other, scattered throughout a store overflowing with quite literally, everything. It’s an art form to me.

Now, let’s set the stage.

I had 20 minutes to spare after my manicure on Tuesday morning.

Given my time constraints, the objective was housewares, maybe art if I had some time. If the pickings were slim, I’d scoot over to the handbags.

Despite my dialed in strategy, I beelined towards the clothes.

In all my years thrifting, I’ve purchased minimal clothing at this particular store I was in. I’ve bought furniture, bags, shoes, endless tchotchkes, a full set of Christmas dishes, a Michael Jackson wood carving — you name it, I’ve probably bought it at this store.

So, given the purchase log of items I’d brought home prior to this day, it was absurd to me why I was headed in the direction of clothing, almost against my will, but the soul always knows where we are supposed to go.

I looked through the ‘designer’ items rack first and started pulling things instantly. I looked through my size first and when I got through that, I still had 15 minutes to spare, so all sizes were game.

My left arm assuming its lead role as my designated shopping arm for the layers of clothing I was piling on, I headed to the dressing room to try everything on as quickly as possible. I’d only given myself 20 minutes, remember?

I was thrilled to have found this Farm Rio midi. I loved how this was similar to this Bode kaftan, not only in the dense pattern and cut, but in the split-neck detail, finished with beaded tassels — 

I also found this Kate Spade denim number with a neck tie(!!), at least, I think it was intended to be a necktie. Although, I did consider that someone just wrapped it that way to keep it from getting lost, but there weren’t any thread hoops on the side seams and it didn’t appear that any had been cut off. The piece was new with tags, but not new in relation to recent, because I couldn’t find a trace of this online. So with no evidence to change my mind, I have decided, it is a necktie.

There weren’t any current examples from Bode resembling this piece, but for me, it fit the bill — the denim, (proposed) neck tie, splash of feminine in the ruffled edges on the collar, the collar, itself.

I also grabbed a 100% silk hand-beaded over-shirt from Caché.

Possibly my most usable find of the day was this overshirt/cardigan piece from Tahari. 100% linen and it has elevated so many of my outfits recently.

With six great pieces in tow, I walked out of there having spent $250, happy as a clam.

Now I will say, that’s a bit of a high-priced haul for me, at least at that number of items. Price per item is typically way less, but finding brands like Farm Rio and Kate Spade in ‘new’ and ‘like-new’ condition, I felt they were priced, perhaps not accordingly, but I could justify, because I really liked them.

When it comes to finding pieces that I will wear regularly and are an absolute yes for me, I’ll likely purchase anyways, but I will always take a peek via Google image search to see what the going resale value is first. If it’s somewhere near that, I will surrender to the otherwise ‘oh! That’s not…!’ price tag. But only if it’s something I’ll really put to use or is special in some way.

And worth a mention — a portion of every sale at this shop in particular goes back to the arts in Sarasota and I’m more than happy to support in that way. Now, if those items were listed at those prices at the Goodwill, I’d be more likely to decline, but for me, The Exchange is different.

This quote on the website perfectly shares my spending sentiments:

Let’s take one last quick detour and chat about this gem of a store for a minute. The Exchange has been a favorite local spot for years — since it started as The Women’s Exchange in 1962 (I still find myself calling it The Women’s Exchange, but I’m slowly adjusting). I’ve noticed the store has been getting a lot of attention on social media lately, being referred to as the best place to thrift on the gulf coast, but I’m also seeing a lot of people hot and bothered in the comment sections, complaining that our local spots are being shared, that they are overcrowded and now people are traveling from around Florida to shop them. Ironically, I notice the people most apt to complain are recently relocated to Sarasota residents, themselves. Let yourself in, but close the door behind you sort of thing! I digress. But I think it’s important to keep in mind that the percentage of clothing in American alone that ends up in landfills is 85%. EIGHTY FIVE PERCENT (according to the U.S. Environmental Protection Agency). The average American throws away around 81 pounds of clothing every year. There’s plenty of thrifting to go around, no need to hide secondhand stores. No need to hoard. Places like The Exchange are as important as they are fun to shop, so we need as many buyers and consigners as we can get to keep places like this up and going in the age of fast fashion and micro-trends, which, this in and of itself begs to ask the question… is thrifting a micro-trend to some of these influencers/chronically online people? It seems to be an easy way to get a lot of views and quickly wedge yourself into a highly viewable corner of the internet. Strong opinions and negativity breed followers. Again, I digress. Keep coming, keep shopping and be proud of what you’re supporting! The arts community in Sarasota thanks you.

Here is their website for more information, how to get involved, and how to consign.

Now my thrifting didn’t end there. Another store, another day, and we were still finding things in the name of grandpa chic.

The Bode way.

I was running some errands a little further out than I typically venture, so I decided, it was fate. I must stop at my most favorite Goodwill. I gave myself 30 minutes.

The selections were so good that I did in fact use the entire 30 minutes looking, but I cut myself off at the 30 minute mark and headed to the dressing room.

The lady was an absolute gem and let me take everything in with me — they are super strict about the six item limit and I totally understand why, but it’s difficult because I have to change and then change again to go back out and switch items and it’s hard to conceptualize what I have going on when I’m in and out and piling and pulling from the cart. Confined behind a door I can breathe, I can think. Out there, with the people and the big lights, I lose all cognition.

Not to mention, sometimes people steal from unattended carts! It’s cut-throat, thrifting.

I was able to dwindle this lot down to *five* items.

I left the Zara coat. It was NWT (new with tags) and originally $120. Goodwill had it priced at $50, but let’s be so real — on a good sale day it could have cost the original buyer $50 directly from Zara and the kicker… it was entirely polyester and stiff as a board. Comparatively, I have an Isabel Marant wool overcoat saved in my favorites on The Real Real that is priced at $117. To me, that’s worth the jump in price if you’re in need of a proper coat.

These are the considerations I find important to weigh when determining if a price is acceptable. Everyone has their own ‘too much’ at the thrift store, but that really is a personal understanding and choice — and even for me, it varies by item.

I found some basics for my wardrobe that still happened to align with the aesthetic that I accumulated on Tuesday— a continuation days later, at a different store. It’s thrift store magic, I’m telling you.

NOW… THE FINAL SHOW AND TELL!!

I found this (seemingly) never-worn Banana Republic ‘forever’ sweater, that is akin to a cashmere v-neck from a previous Bode collection.

This brand new, white, ruched long-sleeved top by Vineyard Vines was probably the most out-of-network find of the day, but I considered it adjacent, given its basic, yet feminine styling.

I didn’t assume the black pleated skirt I found and bought solely for the intention of replacing my favorite one that I grew out of (sad) was, too, categorized by Bode, but low and behold, after I took a gander on the site to get some example photos of other things I’d found, there was a black mini pleated skirt.

I considered not grabbing this Zara collared shirt dress with stripes and contrasting white collars and cuffs, but alas, I couldn’t say no the $7 price tag and again, during my peruse on the site for examples, I found similar options, confirming my accidentally accurate taste.

And perhaps my best find of the week — a similar example of a dress I loved from the Bode Spring 2026 collection.

Incredible work, if I do say so myself.

At time of publication, I’ve already thrifted the following week(s) and I can’t wait to show you what I’ve found.

occasionally,
Heather

What a treat to look back at the end of the year and see 12 designer staples added to my closet!

I’m sorry to report that this habit has not held, in any which way. I did purchase a subsequent item in the month of February, but then life started life-ing and I didn’t have much to say about Lucchese boots, albeit I was extremely pleased with that purchase.

Things got exceedingly more hectic and nearly impossible as this year has barreled on and I haven’t been shopping online at all. I’ve bought a few designer things outside of The Real Real, but that wasn’t the point of this endeavor! I have let myself down. It was only a few weeks ago that I even remembered to check my account for sales. I had sent a box in at the beginning of March and forgot about it entirely.

Friday mornings with my coffee appear to be the time to take a little shopping scroll, so I hereby dedicate my first sips of coffee on Friday morning as my time to find that good good on The Real Real.

Up until a few weeks ago (it might have been last week, time eludes me at the moment) I hadn’t saved any new items at all, so I started searching again and then decided to share a few finds. The people love that on the TikTok, so I figured I’d bring it here, to the Substack.

Here are my favorite things I found this morning. Most of this SADLY is not in my size, nor price range, but if it’s in yours, I’ve linked directly to the item in case you want to take a further looksy. Please note that the links are affiliate — I personally cannot see who clicks or makes a purchase, but they are commissionable! I think you have to disclose that nowadays, so there it is.

I’ll start here with this one. Arguably my favorite find of the day — this vintage 1999 Thierry Mugler jacket.

These Prada pumps! If I knew what year these were from, I could figure out if an 8.5 would work for me. If they are pre- late 2000s production, I could probably swing it. After that, they’d be too big. Vintage shoes run on a different dimension of sizing. And often, so do the clothes.

If you could describe me in a dress, it would probably be this one.

The Return to Tiffany-era was everything to me. I am so disappointed in myself for having let go of my heart toggle set over the course of time. I had it all — the necklace, the bracelet, the keychain, the ring. Some was lost, some was sold, I think I ended up just tossing the keychain because it was wrecked. I’m sure it was salvageable given that it’s sterling silver, but you can’t tell me anything when I’m ready to move on from something. Besides, I think the oval shape is more my style now. I don’t know if I desire this out of pure 2000s nostalgia or if I could make this work with the right outfit. Either way, I added it to my obsessions.

I’ve tried on a few Tory Burch ready-to-wear pieces over the course of time and I’m always pleasantly surprised at the designs and quality. I’ve always been a big fan of her shoes, but the clothes are also, very good. I really liked this one.

This Jil Sander black leather bag! It is so oversized, like almost too much, but that’s why I love it.

This is an insane piece. I have absolutely no business owning something like this, seeing as I live closer to the equator than I do Park City, Utah, but I desire nothing more than a good coat.

This Celine Leather Trio. Good bag, good price.

This jacket. An iconic Alessandro Michele-era piece, circa 2017. Acid-washed denim. Studded. Embroidered with such whimsy. I have no words besides why didn’t they fully button that bottom button?

Don’t buy this!! I haven’t finished saving up for it. It’s a 1973 production Day-Date. Black Crocodile strap, 18K gold.

I love this bag, particularly the orangey brown-on-brown colorway. It’s the Louis Vuitton Houston and it’s a certified classic in my book — designed by Marc Jacobs, it was introduced in 1998 as part of the debut Monogram Vernis line. It already sold and that makes me sad.

Speaking of the Lone Star State. I love a bombastic caftan. I’d never heard of this brand until I found it on The Real Real and I could be into it. Texas designers have been entering into my field of vision lately and I’m liking a bit of what I see.

I actually really want these and the shoes that come after. All of the designer shoes I had on my wish list from the 2017 through March 2020-era hold a special place in my heart and I still need them all. They are just so good and you cannot convince me otherwise. CLASSICS, I TELL YA.

And these.

Another Tiffany & Co. I once owned (but in silver). I like it now in gold.

Clearly I have a thing for a hobo bag right now. I loved this Givenchy — the neutral leather paired with two-toned hardware is really speaking my language.

I love all things Gucci, but especially the accessories. You can pry Gucci shoes and belts out of my cold, dead hands. Maybe the ‘GG’ is out of style (it will come back), but this horsebit variation is a timeless classic.

And last, but not least, this flower brooch. This is the second week in a row I’ve saved a brooch to my obsessions, so that must mean one thing and one thing only —  it must be time for me to get into brooches.

That’s all for this week’s finds on The Real Real. Ta-ta for now!

occasionally,
Heather

If I have a super power, it’s finding good stuff. And finding a good deal.

It’s in my blood.

When Macklemore came out with that song back in 2012, my dad was pumped. It was his anthem.

‘Poppin’ tags HMERR!’ — the text I’d receive whenever he found something while I was away at college. A CEO thrifting in his spare time. He’s one of kind, my dad.

I spent many a childhood weekend at secondhand furniture stores and garage sales. Sometimes the flea market. That’s where I discovered roasted cinnamon sugar candied pecans. I’d grab a paper cone full of ‘em and live my best life meandering around a barn full of stuff.

I’ve always loved a Saturday morning. I’d wake up to the smell of my dad’s coffee permeating the house, creeping under the door, hugging my olfactory glands like a welcomed friend. I was counting down the days until they let me drink coffee. We’d watch The Woodwright’s Shop and if it wasn’t a boat day, we’d most likely head out for the forage.

Or we’d go to Home Depot. Home Depot was definitely on the weekend errands list.

Now my dad wasn’t your typical garage sale scoundrel. He was on the hunt for quality furniture and anything else high-value and interesting — I’d wander and observe all the other stuff. He was focused — I had no direction and an insatiable curiosity about the acquired goods that others had purchased and were now letting go.

But underlying what might seem like no direction, there’s always a vision.

Like the time I tried dressing grunge after scoring an outfit that fit the bill at a church bins sale one weekend.

This wasn’t my dad’s arena, so I begged my mom to take me. I found an oversized tee and baggy jeans during my dig and promptly washed it all when we got home — my outfit for Monday ready to go. This was a new look for me and my beloved idol aka my teacher, a recently graduated from Alabama sorority girl, who literally felt like the older sister I never had, pulled me aside mid-morning to ask if everything was okay.

What do you mean?
Wondering what I did wrong.

What on earth are you wearing?
Wide-eyed and potentially concerned.

This is a vibe, I told her. She kindly told me in other words that it was in fact, not a vibe. Those clothes do not fit and grunge is not it, my girl.

I have taken artistic liberty in reminiscing on this conversation, of course, but I did decide to stick with shopping Abercrombie Kids after that tête-à-tête in the hallway .

I did find a sick CD player around the time of my thrifted outfit fail — it was one of those big ones with the speakers. I loved finding CDs (still do). My dad taught me to assess the condition of the case, lyrics sleeve and most importantly, to ensure sure the disk wasn’t heavily scratched. I learned about dovetail joints and where to look for the manufacturer stamp on furniture. The goal was always quality and that meant paying attention to production practices and real materials.

I went through phases of thrifting on my own, post-high school era (I couldn’t be bothered with that then — I needed True Religion jeans and Lacoste polos crisp, straight off the rack at Saks). I loved the Goodwill in that shopping center on north 41, you remember the one. I found fur jackets, designer shoes, vintage bags, you name it. It was the age of Ke$ha. The indie sleeze aesthetic, the MGMT and Kid Cudi playing at the ‘club’ era. We’re talking colored leggings and an intent, that looking back on could be worth studying for research, to be as weird as humanly possible. Mustache fingers. Tumblr. Lots of flannels. Boots. So many unnecessary layers — layered clothing, layered necklaces, layered bottoms.

In college, we’d venture down to America’s Thrift Stores, mainly for themed occasions and parties. One weekend I found a pair of high-waisted denim shorts, the exact thing I was looking for. I was in pursuit of making the at-that-time-viral American flag shorts that had made their way from Pinterest onto ‘Instagram’ — a photo filter app I’d recently downloaded. I was headed to the Daytona 500, so it was a need to have these shorts, so I thought HA! No need to spend $100 when I can make them myself.

I’m not sure I used proper fabric paint. It was probably acrylic paints for canvas. And I did something wrong with the painter’s tape, so when I pulled it off, the aggressive line I’d slopped on in the late hours of the night looked very, very bad. I made the decision to overcorrect the flop. That’s my move. To divert your gaze from the botched stripes we will be adding glitter! This might also be telling for how I deal with mess-ups in real life. Don’t worry about it and cover it with a bunch of glitter! Nobody will know! Not if you cover it with glitter.

We stayed at my aunt and uncles condo that weekend, and so did the glitter. My aunt told me almost a year later she was still finding red glitter every time she cleaned.

Legend has it, the new owners are still finding a spec of red glitter in their Dyson dust bin every time they vacuum.

I painted a dresser I found at thrift store on 15th. I tried to make it Boho-chic by adding drawer knobs from Anthropologie. I think the knobs cost more than the entire dresser itself and the paint was chipping off by my fifth senior year. It was spray paint. And I’m heavy on the trigger.

Thrifting was brought back into my universe during my fresh-faced, second week on the job at 'The Observer. Social season had yet to start, so I was following around the Arts & Entertainment Editor while she did cool things like photograph previews at Asolo Rep and sample gluten-free dishes that were becoming more widely- available in town (back in 2013 this was a new, very feature-worthy thing). Next up, we were headed to Arcadia to check out the historic downtown known for it’s high concentration of… antique shops.

It was weird, I’ll tell ya that. I don’t remember much, but I did find a book that looked like the Defense Against the Dark Arts textbook in The Chamber of Secrets. We had lunch at a notable barbecue restaurant nearby (it was good) and headed home.

Speaking of lunch, I’ve been meaning to ask her if she knew about The Yellow Deli back when we were out there. It’s a California-based sandwich shop/religious commune? I had no idea this sort of thing existed, but of course it does. And of course we have one nearby. I only found out about it while chatting with a friend who recently moved here from the West Coast. She loves the food at this notorious The Yellow Deli and was asking if I’d been, seeing as there just so happens to be one over in Arcadia. I said no, tell me more. I love a good sandwich. She told me more. It’s a whole thing. And then some. I’d probably still be down to try it.

The sandwiches, that is. Not the cult.

I didn’t make it back to the thrift stores much in the past decade, until one fateful afternoon in 2024. I had a few minutes to spare on my way to pick up the kids from a Forest Friday location we didn’t typically frequent and what do you know, there was a thrift store nearby. I didn’t intend on looking to find, I was merely wasting time, but that night I couldn’t stop thinking about a ceramic pitcher I'd left behind.

It caught my eye right away. I turned it over and ‘Heath’ was etched into the bottom of it, seemingly by hand — an intentional, steady hand.

‘Heath,’ I thought.

It must be destined for me. For I am Heath.

I carried it around with me while I continued to look through the store and ultimately, I decided to put it back. Sixty dollars was just more than I was willing to spend on a random pitcher I liked for no overt reason, deciding it should be mine solely on account of sharing a name with the potter.

I put it back and walked out of the store empty handed.

Later that evening, I couldn’t stop thinking about the ceramic piece. I decided to google (verb) the brand to see what the situation was about this $6o pitcher that was calling my soul — to see if maybe the price wasn’t totally outlandish, because I really wanted to go back to get it.

Within thirty seconds I realized I had betrayed my own eye, my innate knack for knowing what’s good, without knowing anything at all.

Heath Ceramics.

“Craft First” — this is how Edith Heath started Heath Ceramics. She developed her own clay from Sacramento, California when she started in the 1940s. Edith was interested in the warmth and texture of the clay and how it felt great on the hands. Her designs focused on allowing the user to see and touch the clay, she did this by leaving the rims unglazed on our Coupe or Rim line. After 75 years, our clay still comes from the same source. — via

It was in fact, a special find, and well worth the $60 price tag. I made plans to wake up early and get to the store right as they opened — 9am. I’d buy it if they still had it, stop into the Goodwill Bookstore just down the street that my mom was always mentioning, and then I’d grab a coffee at a new coffee shop that I’d recently found on Instagram (Palma Coffee, still one of my favorites). It would be a beautiful morning. And it was.

I got the pitcher that day, and at 50% off, for unbeknownst to me, it was ‘half-off the entire store’ day.

That was the day that changed it all, that ignited back the spark of hunting that was still buried inside me.

I’ve been thrifting like a mad woman ever since. No really, at one point, it was certifiably mad. I was buying ANYTHING, I’m telling you. The amount I’ve donated back to thrift stores is shameful. It was a new avenue of consumption that I had yet explored in the age of adult money and daytime freedom, and I had to find my footing (sanity). I have since settled in and know what I’m doing. I’m smart now. I’ve learned things. But that never comes without strife, without misfortune in my world.

The list of oddities I’ve bought in a thrift store stooper is endless. I tried buying a vintage church pew, thinking I could restore it — and do what with it you might ask? I hadn’t thought that far into it yet. I’ve had to re-donate so many dish sets and serving ware items because for a period of time, I was convinced that I was all of a sudden going to become the host I’ve never been in my entire life and have dinner parties every weekend like one of those Instagram accounts with ‘tablescapes’ and ‘hosting’ listed in their bios.

There were many a future craft, many a strange thing I thought I could resell to a niche buyer community online. I bought a lot of clothes I was going to ‘fit into one day.’ I bought a lot of clothes for occasions and situations that were not yet on my radar — nor my calendar, nor in my temperature range.

I, without hesitation, bought a salmon colored walking cane with a plastic, guitar shaped handle.

I’ve had to treat myself much like an addict since.

I need to have DO NOT BUY FOR A FUTURE YOU THAT DOESN’T EXIST OR BECAUSE IT’S SENTIMENTAL tattooed on my brain.

Questions I have to ask myself while thrifting:

• Does this fit now?

• Will you literally wear this tomorrow?

• Do you know exactly where you are wearing this even if it’s not literally tomorrow?

• Why are you buying this?

• Do you wear anything like this at all, like ever?

• You are not in the business of buying and selling items so if this is not for you, right now, leave it!

That last one is less of a question and more of a highly necessary and affirmational demand.

I’m conservative now in my pursuits. I’m focused. I’m intentional. I’m calm.

And now that I’m back in the spirit of thrifting, I’m going to start sharing a bit of what I find on The Occasionall, starting with some incredible examples that are visually comparable to my current hyper-fixation, Bode. I’ll be sharing that in my next article.

occasionally,
Heather

I think that’s what I’ll call this new writing project. What new writing project? This one. The one I shared experimentally on a random Saturday in February, the one I’m defining right now in this so-called introduction interlude.

A creative goal I set for the year was to either be writing or editing something for public consumption every single day. I write every day, but not in a way that I would share on a public platform. I started a notebook last September that I labeled ‘for public consumption’ because much (most) of my work is essentially me working things out in writing. Things in the works — observations, analysis, more questions than answers, more fragmented concepts than fully formed ideas. I think that’s how one could identify my writing style in general, but what I would be willing to share, I’m still unsure how to package that in a consumable way, how to define it even.

I’ve held onto a piece of advice I was given a while ago that I frequently apply in all areas of my life — when you don’t know what to do next, just do the next best thing that you know how to do. And that’s how I came up with this series.

The format is simple, it’s mere daily occurrences and thoughts — both longwinded and scattered, incomplete sentences, logged and distributed in a concise way, written almost like how one would tweet back in the early 2010s. I can make a story out of anything, so I might as well story-tell my life, as it is, as I’m living it. Short-story long is my motto. Let’s not wrap this up.

I digress.

I for one, am fascinated about how other people use their days— what fills their days, what fills their minds, what they are excited about. How people exist naturally is more fascinating to me than engaging in content that is produced intentionally for an audience, to ‘influence.’ No, no, none of that. What are you REALLY doing? Like really, if no-one was watching, if money wasn’t on the table. I don’t want to be sold a lifestyle you are curating for me to literally consume (can we please be honest about the seed intention of most ‘influencing’). I’m intrigued by the every day person, all walks of life, all the nuance, all the realness. From the pureness of heart, the innate curiosity and admiration for another human living their life in the unique way that they do.

What are you doing! Where at you during the day! What are you listening to! What are you thinking! Who are you to the unobserving eye! Who are you to the unknown eye observing you as a stranger merely crossing paths in a chance moment during the day!

Please note that exclamation marks are being used to emphasize my attacking you with questions. I am not merely asking. I am exclaiming.

Our own version of ourselves is so vastly different than every other perception of us, and so on and so forth. The versions of us that exist in the world are endless. I’m so fascinated by the sheer reality of infinite perceptions. It’s both intriguing and terrifying. And yet because of that, it’s that much easier to let go of attempts to control it. You quite literally cannot.

That being said, no matter how intentionally created anything is, the glimpses we do get into most people’s lives are by nature going to be contrived. Even this series I’m introducing. The entire goal of this is for me to present authentically, in the way that I see and experience life. Yet, I’m still packaging it for you to consume — with you consuming it, with you perceiving it, in mind. We all are. In our mere existence there is a level of presentation that cannot be denied.

Not to mention, our presentations derive from our perceptions alone, which are in and of themselves, extremely biased. Each of our own perceptions are filtered by our own interpretation of the world that was not only imprinted on us by genetics and early environment, but built upon countless experiences, interpretations and understandings thereafter. Have you ever paused to think about who you really are at the core? Have you ever stopped to intervene? We are all just tumbleweeds of God knows what, just plummeting through life, allowing that into every interaction and experience we have. Allowing that to navigate our existence.

Pointless authenticity, with an artistic flair. I guess that’s what you could call this. I’ll just be sharing the parts of my day I’ve perceived creatively — sharing by means of small writings, anecdotes, photos and other forms of visual media. What I can’t put in to words, I capture. And what I can’t capture, I put into words. It’s never the full picture, in either capacity, but it’s an interesting glimpse. And that feels like the soul of artistic expression to me.

This is very much so a personal project though, so how it will land, I’m unsure. I’m big on a self-portrait of any kind, but I understand how that can be at the same time, extremely impersonal. How is reading about someone else’s day personal to the reader? Well, the goal is to spark a new way of seeing your day, of interpreting life. Since I can remember, I’ve loved documenting my days. I find the small things fascinating. I love how everything connects. I’m both moved in the profound wonder of the miracle life is and in absolute astonishment (derogatory) by everything that I come into contact with, simultaneously, and with similar vigor.

I also find it crucial to my development to look back and see how far I’ve come, what I was doing, or how similar I still am. It’s an integral part of my process, not only in remembering, but as a way to recognize, or not recognize myself. We should always be shedding, as well as keeping the parts worth moving forward with. I do this personally not only with photos, but from looking through journals, or even notebooks of to-do lists, my planners, my junk boxes (ADHD piles that I concealed at a point in time). I once read a journal entry I found while cleaning when I was in college dated a few years prior. I couldn’t believe my eyes — it was me, three years in the past trying to work out in writing a pattern I’d taken note of, but kept falling into. I don’t think I journaled much after that era and continued forward in life avoiding the topic, clearly, as reading it felt like I was reading a message in a bottle to me, from me, for the first time. It was a humbling experience sitting on my closet floor, an entire season of life later, in utter disbelieve — I was still experiencing the same problem. I’ve been here before, I thought. Of course I have. And how many times before? The pattern had repeated itself without my noticing. I threw the journal away, wiping it from memory, and attempted to power through my own nature.

Needless to say, I did not conquer myself and I’m still struggling with said topic. I just no longer throw away my journals and I try to get through it, instead of around it.

All of that to say, those narratives, those photos, those musings and pieces that are otherwise pointless, they aren’t. It all tells the story of our days.

I’ll still be writing more long-form content, but this will be an ongoing project for The Occasionall. Sometimes less fruitful, sometimes just as packed full as a ‘Consumed’ post. I don’t really know, just as I don’t know how each day will unfold. I’ll try to do this once a week, maybe? Weeks with more creativity, more zest for life, I might post more than that. I guess it depends on what I’m embarking on and how my days are going. I’ll try to keep the days going.

I’ll be keeping some of the daily happenings for my weekly column, but some might branch out into short stories of their own. I started putting the story about how I found out that the Packers lost in my ‘Consumed’ post for that week, but while writing I realized it was a worthwhile short narrative story, so I ended up publishing that as a solo article. You can read it here if you missed it.

The other driving force pushing the idea of this series centered around narrating the basic happenings of my day comes from a question that I get asked on the regular. A question I ask myself as well.

What do you do for work?

I’m a stay-at-home mom.

That’s the hardest of job of all, they all respond.

A response that I do think is rooted in truth and in sentiment, but rehearsed and repetitive, nonetheless.

Something I want to work on though, is replying more confidently. The reason being — my daughters.

After said interactions, if they happen to be present, they have started saying after the fact — 

“but mom you’re a writer!”

I shy away and say, well, not really, not anymore.

“Yes you are!" they argue back. (They really are my biggest fans. And I theirs.)

The problem in saying that though —when you say you’re a writer, that leads to more questions. Oh? What do you write? Who do you write for?

Well, I don’t know. And well, for myself.

I’m no longer a paid writer and I haven’t reached the point where I feel comfortable telling people I write a personal newsletter on Substack. For one, I have minimal subscribers and I haven’t found my groove with consistency. For two, I’m well aware of the general consensus that Substack is now LinkedIn for wannabe creatives and yet another monetary grab for those who have already achieved large followings on other social media channels.

So I just smile and respond with the standard —

“I’m a stay-at-home mom.”

And it is my job. And it’s the weirdest job I’ve ever had. I don’t have a boss and I don’t really know what I’m doing. I don’t want to be a common niceties robot and say it’s the best and hardest job I’ve ever had! I mean I guess yeah, it is, in the sense that I have children and I love them and I feel so honored to get to be their mom and I’m extremely grateful for the opportunity to stay at home, but it’s also really confusing and strange to not have something occupationally for yourself when you dedicated the entire first part of your life to acquire such a thing, so let’s not brush past that. I personally desire an outlet of my own, financial independence and pursuit of my own goals and dreams, outside of my cherished role as a mother. But even then, motherhood is always my number one priority, my first and most important role. It’s not a job to me. It’s a part of me — who I am and who I want to be. I just wish I could have both, encompassing it all together, giving my best to it all.

In trying to understand my hesitation and restraint when it comes to responding to those questions I think I’d prefer to say what I work on in my spare time (or to more accurately reflect the scenario: what I intentionally make time for), but I suppose that’s hard to summarize, particularly in quick conversations. Not to mention, I don’t have the greatest luck when it comes to connecting with people. I find when I converse naturally, people think I’m weird, I’m too much. If I rehearse, if mask if you will, they try to dissect whatever I say — like I’m a riddler. And God forbid I’m overzealous or excited, my ability to be understood correctly seems to plummet even further, along with my approval rating. I can’t seem to figure out how to be, so I’ve had to give that one up.

I suppose for now, I’ll smile gently and continue with the standard reply in person. I’ll save the unraveling of myself and my creative pursuits for the internet.

I’m a stay-at-home mom.

But once upon a time I was a psych research student, a journalist, a photographer. And those parts of me haven’t left. I have interests and hobbies that land me in environments constantly surrounded by women aged 60 and older. Everything that interests me can be distilled down into the categories of documentation and analysis.

I’m a student of self-study — in the subjects of psychology, religion, history, art, astrology, philosophy, the humanities as a whole, I suppose. I recently learned the term autodidact polymath, which I can resonate with and appreciate, but at the same time I desire greatly to obtain a graduate degree. Even when you place my current life circumstances aside, I have the time-management skills of a corpse so for now, I self-study. I take classes online, attend lectures and write independently. I’m a lot of things, but I’m also not definitively anything. I don’t have a LinkedIn cataloging my accomplishments and connections. I haven’t updated my resume since creating one for the first time 2013.

At this point in time I am what I call, merely living. Living with a purpose that I haven’t been able to define, at least not yet, and doing what I can, with the resources I have to get there.

So welcome to my new series, all in a day’s work. Think journal entries, 2012 era tweets — little recaps of my musings, thoughts and what’s keeping me busy as a 30-something mom with no formal job title or taxes to file. I’m just a person existing, while at the same time, trying to make something of that.

occasionally,
Heather

For further reading — all in a days work, episode 1

Great feature in the Vogue Spring issue. I love a punny hook. And this one happens to be a favorite phrase of mine. Not sure where I picked it up originally or why I liked it so much, but it’s been a staple phrase in my personal lexicon for a considerable time. It was my affinity for the common phrase that drew me into this story while flipping through the issue and I thoroughly enjoyed the read — the narrative-driven meets hyper-descriptive tone of the article itself, alongside the cinematic, almost surreal, film-style photos. A veritable reflection of how I envision Bode the brand and Bode, Emily.

bodes well (phrase): current signs, events or circumstances that indicate a favorable, promising or positive future outcome. It acts as a predictor of success or good fortune, originating from the verb “bode” — to portend or foreshadow.

I love when I’m inspired out of nowhere. You never know when it’s going to hit, you never know what it could be, but I will always go 100% into whatever it is —no matter how random, how obscure, how seemingly out of the ordinary.

That’s how I felt the other day when I was flipping through Lyla’s latest Vogue — unexpectedly and greatly inspired. I realize ‘flipping through Lyla’s latest Vogue’ is an absurd thing to say, seeing as I’ve been subscribed to the publication since around the same age, so I have since done the responsible thing and re-subscribed myself so that I’m not scrounging through the scraps of my cooler-than-me offspring. In addition, I signed up for the Vogue Business membership account. I don’t know what that entails exactly and it was not cheap, but I do love a midafternoon browse of archival stories and photos, and apparently there are other benefits such as “opportunities for experiences,” shopping discounts and exclusive content, so I’m thinking (hoping) it’s worth it.

Article: At Home with Emily Adams Bode and Her (Ever-Expanding Family)

As with most of what captures my attention, I’m either lightyears ahead, lightyears behind, or just vaguely keeping my finger on the pulse, which is how I've approached my regard for Bode. I’ve appreciated the aesthetic and craftsmanship Bode embodies since its inception as an American luxury brand in 2016, from afar, that is, for I cannot afford the mighty price tag. But all’s well, because as I’ve noticed for a long time, I’m more of a study than a stylist. I have an eye, if you will, and I can tell you about it ad nauseam, but I’m not much of a wearer. I’m a studier. Even when I get my hands on a luxury piece, it sits in my closet, much like an artifact in a museum. What a waste. I’ve since surrendered to my propensity to dress in unimaginative, repetitive ways. I’ve found it’s best I stick to basics and elevate them on occasion. Sometimes I get wild and wear a boot.

Back to Bode.

I was so enamored by the four-page spread that I peeked through the website for a window-shop only peruse and proceeded to post a few of my finds along with photos I snapped of the magazine on my social media. That post has now manifested itself into words on The Occasionall.

Not much needs to be said further, but I felt it worth sharing in this capacity, to cement it in my fashion adjacent space on the internet. So please enjoy a collection of clippings I enjoyed + pieces from the latest show featuring Fall 2026 Ready to Wear, the ‘Rodeo Bodeo’ collection, as well as a few of my favorites from the 2026 Spring collection, ‘The Expressionist.’

Here are some pieces from the Spring 2026 collection, the detail not only exquisite, but a nod to a familial connection —

Funny, before I finished reading the article I was looking at the latest collection and kept favoriting the tribute pieces to Peter Pan and Alice and Wonderland. I’d chosen quite a few pieces to include in my curation and then later returned to reading, only then to realize what prominence these items had to the story and spring collection.

And worth mentioning for anyone who likes to know things, I read in a subsequent article (that Vogue business account already keeping me up to speed) that Bode is expanding — an all-American brand in Japan.

The flagship store is located in the artisanal Yoyogi-Uehara neighborhood, a choice reflecting the brand’s focus on community, within ‘lived-in’ atmosphere.

To read more, here’s the link to the article.

I’m never not inspired by the creative process, storytelling and achieved results of Bode. And of course, her house was rad.

That’s about it.

Maybe the goal of it all is to be able to afford Bode.

occasionally,
Heather

So gear up for another article filled with otherwise pointless stories attached to endless musings that are the moments of my life. At some point I go into excruciating detail about my lifelong beef with umbrellas. I detail so many side stories while discussing what I was for Halloween that you’ll forget entirely at some point that we were talking about a costume.

October
when the going gets good

October was busy. And fun. I had to set a few things aside, like writing and thrifting, but I was cooking a lot! Which is both the bane of my existence and greatest accomplishment in life. Unfortunately, I haven’t stayed consistent, but I’ve finally established a backlog of meals everyone will eat, which for my family, is a huge deal. A miracle, truly. I won’t be starting from scratch when I can get back into a routine, which for me is crucial. One less barrier to entry.

This ‘Creamy Green Chile Chicken Enchiladas’ is one of our favorites. It’s from one of the Half Baked Harvest cookbooks, which are actually terrible. I am by no means recommending any of her books, but at the same time, I love her creations? I don’t think she actually tests the recipe and many, if not most of the photographed food shows different garnish and items than what is called for in the ingredients list. I’m not sure exactly what is going on with that, but I’ve had countless almost disasters with every recipe I’ve ever tried of hers. She has great ideas though, so I appreciate her talent and basically use the cookbooks as a direction in which to go. Like a blueprint you can’t go by, but you can follow, sort of. For a while I thought it was just a me issue, but after the third time I was like… there’s no way, these are just not accurate. I found validation in the review section on not only Goodreads, but any retail site that sells her cookbooks. One review claimed they threw this particular book in the trashcan instead of donating it, as a form of protecting another from the chaos that is this cookbook.

you can stand under my umbrella -ella, -ella, eh, eh, eh
This is very important, very adult of me. I’ve never actually owned an umbrella. Actually, no, no, I have. As I’m writing this I vividly recall buying a tiny Lilly Pulitzer one time for an event that was anticipated to have rain and it broke that day, in the rain. Unfortunate. The one and only umbrella I ever owned succumbed to its own demise within a day of purchase. Maybe it caught wind of its likely fate under my watch and spared itself.

Prior to that, I’d only ever lost other people’s umbrellas, which is why I never assumed ownership myself. One instance in particular left a mark. It was the late 2000s when I lost a vintage SouthTrust umbrella I took from my parent’s garage on my way to a Britney Spears concert (they used to let us bring large bags and umbrellas into stadiums, crazy). I left it under my seat. I felt terrible. It was the last of the company umbrellas we had.

After that devastating loss, I decided umbrellas were too much responsibility to behold so I entered my rain jacket era — which turned out to be equally as bad, if not worse. I would take them off and leave them… everywhere. Mainly at the desks at The University of Alabama. I’d take off the jacket, let it fall to my waist and after an hour or more of class, after it had gradually wedged itself into the crease of the chair, I’d pack up, stand up and walk off without any recollection of having worn a jacket into the classroom. This became such an issue, I trained myself to turn around and look into my seat before walking off. I still to this day turn around when I get up from a seat to make sure I haven’t left anything.

I think I lost about five North Faces over an otherwise short period of time and banned myself from ever owning another. I’d already taken away my umbrella privileges, so I committed myself to the eternal punishment of being left uncovered when the skies open up.

But that all changed a few years ago. I felt I’d paid my dues and was mature enough to handle the responsibility. I bought myself a nice Patagonia and I’m pleased to report that I am still in possession. An umbrella was pushing it, but I could manage a jacket.

And I was right about the umbrella. Unbeknownst to me, I’d be losing another in the very near future.

It was November 2023. My rain jacket didn’t vibe with the cute outfit I was wearing for a night out with a friend. We were going to dinner and a private Patti Smith concert. This was a big deal for me and it was not the time to be bogged down by a rain jacket. Before I left, I borrowed Tim’s umbrella for the evening. He joked before I left, ‘don’t lose this one!!’

Come on Tim, I’m better now.

I left it. Under my seat at the performance. Just like I’d done at the Britney Spears concert. A sacrificial rain offering. To Britney. To Patti. May your parades never be rained on, my queens.

In fact, that particular location (Selby Gardens) is now in second place right below The University of Alabama for places I’ve left rain protectants. I left a rain jacket in the original Selby event building back in 2014. Again, it was a event plagued by a rainy forecast. The theme was Southern Charm. Black water-repelling polyester didn’t vibe with my ruffled seersucker mini dress so I stowed it away in the staging room, never to be seen again.

Enough about my failures, let’s bring this back to my progress as an ever-evolving human.

It rained a lot in the beginning of this school year and I walk up to get the girls at dismissal. After the first day of rain, I realized every normal mom has an umbrella.

It was time.

I accepted the fact that I might lose one again, but that’s okay. I have to get back in the game. I have to keep trying. I’ll just buy more, I told myself. Accepting that I might be destined to buy an umbrella after every use in perpetuity is not something I’m proud of, but accepting yourself as you are is an important part of breaking habits. I bought a few (small, medium, large, one of them has a duck handle) and I haven’t lost any of them yet. It’s been six months.

I might be important to note that I haven’t had the opportunity to lose them. Florida is experiencing its worst draught in 25 years, so these bad boys haven’t been put to much use. I’ll report back come rainy season, but I think I might be freed from the curse.

Mote SEA!
The new Mote opened in October and we went opening weekend with old friends that were in town visiting. It blows my mind that you have to make a reservation and I still prefer the original location, mainly out of sentiment and the general quaintness it embodied — the same kind that made Sarasota so special, once upon a time. I love old Florida, wild Florida, not the big, better, best, concrete version we’ve all been subjected to.

But that being said, the new research and education possibilities surmount my nostalgia and the structure really is a both beautiful display of architectural art and science. I’m really pumped about the enclosure upgrades and of course, the new octopus. She came out to say hi one day and really put on a show. I felt so unworthy.

The otters were infatuated with my Louis Vuitton ‘Papillon’. I think they thought the bag was one of their kind. I mean, it is cylindrically shaped and brown. Or maybe they just have really good taste in vintage handbags.

I got a nose nudge from a manatee (this was very important to me).

The onion rings were also something to celebrate.

But just be warned, the slime in the gift shop is in fact, $25.

Hoa Hoa season
No comment. 10/10. Yes I did. And I’d do it again. This should in no way be taken as a critical review.

Guns and Ships
I was Hamilton for Halloween. Tim was my (Hamilton’s) 51 authored Federalist Papers. I came up with this idea a few weeks before the festivities and made the coat myself — and accurately, I might add. I printed every known and potentially authored paper from Yale’s Law Library Archive, scaled to a 2x3 or similar size, adhered to brown cardstock, and then attached using star-shaped brads. I only stabbed myself eleven times with the Exacto crafting knife I used to puncture tiny holes into the fabric (if you can call it that) that I was frantically connecting 30 minutes prior to us walking out the door.

I have to admit, I’m a newer fan of Hamilton, the musical. I watched it for the first time in August, but within a month I’d seen it a concerning number of times and had the entire thing memorized.

But let’s be clear — I’m no bandwagon fan of Hamilton, the historical figure.

I hyperfixated on the notorious Founding Father as a young child and when Ron Chernow’s book came out when I was in middle school I bought the hardcover (first edition!) and read it in my spare time. I remember sitting in my aunt’s living room each Sunday in the fall, where we gathered religiously for Packer games, explaining my extracurricular reading to inquisitive family members. I’ll admit, it was a strange choice for a 13 year-old girl, who was as equally enthralled with The Cheetah Girls. But I remember the day like was yesterday, the day that particular fixation neuron fired up and I was locked in. How perfectly aligned that shortly after, the acclaimed biography would be released and there on display at Barnes and Noble? I had no idea that soon after my awakening to his existence, I would see ALEXANDER HAMILTON strewn across a yellow-toned hardcover book the size of a Harry Potter novel on it’s very own display at the bookstore. I’ve never grabbed a book so quickly.

So why Hamilton?

It wasn’t the obvious reasons one could be enamored — a self-starter! An immigrant! Against the grain kinda guy! Never give up and don’t let systems stop you! In fact, make up your own!

No, no, none of that.

I just really liked banks.

My dad was a banker, so banking was front and center always in my life. All of his friends were also bankers. They were also all professional water skiers. It’s not lost on me that my childhood was centered around finance bros doing jump tricks and bare footing on the weekends. I had my pick to hang with the boys, just getting in from the lake after a sunset glass run. There were bonfires, cigars, and the sounds of SEC football from inside the family room. The moms were all freshly dressed for the evening, donning perfect weekend tanned skinned, cooking and laughing in the kitchen with their cocktails. I oscillated between the two. I loved what each had to offer, the common thread — beautiful friendship. I was the oldest of all the kids, by a long shot, so I just hung out with them. I observed. I admired.

I digress, but it was really fun being a banker’s child. I walked into banks like I owned the place. I love it there. I loved banking. I hate numbers and I’m bad at math, but if you read my dry cleaning piece, the sights and sounds of a bank were like a theme park for a mind like mine. I loved the traditional aesthetic. I loved the silence. I loved the candies at the counter. I loved the literal counters — both money counters and the physical counters. Still to this day I love the way the little chain-hooked pens sound when you’re filling out a deposit slip. And don’t get me started on the drive-thrus. I wished I could shrink myself and take a ride in those little containers. I wanted to keep one so badly as a child and play teller line with my friends. Nobody ever wanted to play teller line. And I never wanted to play like the other kids. I wanted to play real life adult errands and accurately, no silly business. In the first grade, the Girl Scouts were invited to a private event at Limited Too. A field trip, if you will. I’m not sure what the enrichment intent was, but we got to role play shopper or sales associate. My one and only objective that afternoon was to stay behind the counter. Everyone else wanted to shop. I wanted to be the cash register woman. I loved the buttons. I loved the scanners. Let me press things. I want to feel it all, like literally with my hands. All the sounds were like music to my ears, the right tickle to my brain. Drown me in realism. I’ve been ‘romanticizing’ mundane life experiences ever since I could conceive reality.

Are we still talking about my Halloween costume? Yes. But more on Hamilton, so let’s get back to that.

The second qualifier that intrigued me, that sealed the deal, was the infamous duel. The synchronicity of the father-son twin deaths.

What do you mean he died by duel in the same spot as his son, just a few years later? If that didn’t wake your mind up to the alignment and patterns of life by means of a greater power, I don’t know what to tell you. It was a religious experience for me. Life really is but a story.

I have a very, very, synchronicity filled life. My mind has been blown more times than not by the patterns and connections that my life has brought forth, that my life is and continues to be. So when I found out while reading my eighth grade American history textbook that he was shot in the same location, in the same way, just three years later… chills ran up my spine. I love a synchronistic storyline. I love something that makes you wonder, how? How can that be? WHAT DOES IT MEAN? Those things are not just coincidences!! I must know more. How does it connect? It must mean something bigger than any of us can comprehend. It’s a signal. It’s a sign. It’s a message. It’s a meaningful connection that cannot be overlooked.

Between that and the banks, I was enthralled.

But fast forward to 2015, when everyone was obsessed with Lin Manuel Miranda’s Hamilton. Not me though, for I had a pervasive, silent grudge. Nobody liked him like I liked him! Hamilton was my thing! My thing I never really shared with anyone. And that didn’t really go any further than reading the book when it came out, but anyways, I couldn’t partake in the debauchery because for one, nobody around me was into it (as far as I knew), and I was pregnant, trying to buy a house and working full-time. When Hamilton started getting even more popular the next year, I was pregnant and chasing around a ten-month old. I simply had no tolerance for conceptualizing how I was missing out on experiencing a once-in-a-lifetime musical theatre happening, so I willed it out of my existence. I decided it wasn’t for me, I didn’t care. And somehow my life algorithm had me so far off from that side of the entertainment industry, I forgot about it almost entirely. I didn’t even realize it was released on Disney+ in 2020. That was my homeschooling era and my first go at truly excavating my psyche, so the musical evaded me, yet again.

It wasn’t until the TikTok trend of people climbing out of windows in Founding Fathers costumes found its way onto my FYP that I was reminded — I have yet to see Hamilton. I tried ignoring it again, but I had been pulled in. Why was he climbing out of windows to escape his wife? Was that a real scene in the musical? Why do all of these people have Founding Fathers costumes laying around their homes, readily accessible for filming TikTok? Anyways, I was inundated with the recurring content and I knew it was inevitable that I was going to finally watch it.

And I did.

And then I watched it again with the girls. We loved it. Then we made Tim watch it. He loved it. And then we only listened to and watched Hamilton for a month. And then it was Halloween.

Tim wanted to be Aaron Burr, but I said no, no. You’re going to be the other 51. I love a nuanced costume. I had a girl at Sephora do my beard and makeup for the night. One of the other girls who works there called me Hamilton every time I came in after.

It’s never too late to enjoy something.

October consumptions
fixation food: Caragiulos. We went as often as we could before it closed. It’s moving just down the street, on Ringling, but they had to move out of their original space before the completion of the new space because of the momentum on the redevelopment of the historic, 100-year old Mira Mar building. The reopening date has been pushed back again, but I looked online and it says the announcement for the opening date will be posted to their socials soon. Fingers crossed for no further delays. And fingers crossed everything goes well with the original Mira Mar structure during the expansion. The Mira Mar is so special, truly one of the most beautiful and iconic landmarks in our town. Sarasota’s skyline is changing so much, but as long as the roots on the ground, the original buildings are being persevered appropriately, it makes all the changes more bearable. Everything is so big, so large, so much concrete, so much glass. ‘Minecraft buildings’ my friend called them the other day. It makes me so sad. ‘It’s design. It’s innovation.’ No. It’s boring. It’s generic. It’s personality-less, streamlined profit. Bring back beauty and muchness! Let’s build prettier things! My opinions are mine and are subject to change, but this is how I feel now and how I have felt and how I think I will continue to feel. And I’m not against expansion. Expansion can be a beautiful thing, but alongside preservation, always. Too often it seems we have enough money to make more money, but not enough money to preserve our history, to pay homage to the originals, what got us here. The new has a place, but it takes no precedence over the old. It can all coexist — and it should. If it’s about innovation, so was what we have from the past. Let’s not erase it. Let’s not forget it.

songs on repeat:
The Hamilton soundtrack
and the Hamilton soundtrack only.

accumulation recognition: SALVATION. Just kidding, kind of. So this wasn’t a tangible accumulation necessarily… well in part it was and I’ll get to that, but the girls were baptized! This was something I always felt I should do, but my heart wasn’t in it, so I didn’t force it. I felt, like with most things in life, you should know, like deep, deep in your soul, and you should be excited about it. It’s not that I was objecting, I didn’t want to do it just because it’s what you’re supposed to do. I wanted to really know. Only then does it actually mean something.

It took a while, but I finally got there.

To celebrate the occasion, we hosted an intimate post-Baptism gathering. I realized a while ago, planning events is not my thing. Although I love a pretty situation, it’s not for me to contrive. To relieve myself of immeasurable confusion, stress and responsibility immediately followed by post-event dread, devastation, remorse, and what-ifs and should have’s, I hired Plaît to help me. I wanted more than a reservation, but less than a ‘to-do,’ if you know what I mean. She’s so talented, I literally gave her complete control. She rendered a planning board, sent it over and I was like, yes, perfect. No notes. She styled the table, cake table and did the florals. She did everything. I’ve never felt more relief.

Let me chat about Plaît for a minute. Jen is the brains behind the creative studio. She’s a tablescape artist and food stylist and she is the absolute sweetest. I met her at an influencer event way back when, probably 2018/2019, back when I was writing Chic in Sarasota. It was a tasting event at Art Ovation and we were seated together and have been internet friends ever since. She’s incredibly talented at all things and watching her creativity evolve in real time over the years has been such treat. I recommend her over and over again — her website is linked above and here is her Instagram account.

Okay, that’s it for now. I started writing ‘Consumed’ posts in real time now, so I’ll be scattering those in after this goes live and then eventually I’ll finish editing the November/December collection of stories. Or maybe I won’t, who knows.

Stay confused.
(This was a typo, but maybe it’s more fitting).
Otherwise, stay consumed.

occasionally,
Heather

*we never got past the pilot, but my 3 friends who I force to read all of my content say it was GREAT

Consumed with what you might ask?
Strange things, I assure you. Some normal things, too.

I’ve abandoned some things, acquired and pursued some new. Other things have reemerged, back from the dead.

Eight months since the first consumed.

What’s happened since? What hasn’t happened since (besides not publishing another one)?

I think to start, I’ll mention a few requisite happenings and from there I’ll follow up with some bits and bobs from each month that’s passed. I could have easily just picked this back up and jumped right in to the last week or so, but I’d be remiss to not backtrack. Plus, I like some of the stories I’d written that were left withering in my drafts, intended to have been part of each weekly ‘consumed’ piece that I did in fact, attempt to write.

Sadly, I can’t include it all, but still be forewarned that this is quite a long recap — one mainly for me and my sense of completion, a sense of accomplishment. And most importantly, I didn’t want to abandon this idea. Not only do I enjoy sharing in this capacity, but it’s a welcomed challenge as a writer to present the every day happenings in my life in such a way that even a stranger might enjoy reading. For the pure art and act of storytelling.

I did end up having to separate this post into two articles, however. I reached the ‘near email length limit’ before even starting the month of October and although that’s technically an arbitrary limit, I took that as a nod that it was too much for one article.

Ok! Let’s get to it.

turning over a new leaf…
However, there are no more leaves. No more palm fronds. No more horseshoe crab carcasses. No more children covered in dirt. No more sourdough exchanges in the parking lot. No more fairy tales and beeswax crayons. No more pagan festivals and lanterns. No more school days at the beach.

We were sad to leave the school community we were apart of for the last few years, but it was time for more academics, a bit more structure. I am still grappling with why there can’t be a happy medium, but that’s a discussion for another day.

This was the biggest change that backdropped my entire life in the months to come — the girls transitioning from their early elementary ‘Waldorf immersion meets outdoor school’ experience into a traditional American school. This wasn’t just a skip and a hop change either — Waldorf curriculum is a bit behind traditional curriculum in elementary school and is supposed to converge at some point in middle school. It was a nerve-racking change because not only were we giving up the slower-paced, nature-oriented lifestyle we wanted to foundation the kids with, but they would be facing an uphill academic catch-up battle by switching prematurely. There would be uniforms. There would be structure like they’ve never seen. There would be more people and a lot less of what they were used to.

Thankfully, the switch has been pretty seamless. Kids are so naturally adaptable and eager to learn and the school we are at has been really wonderful. I was so nervous about making the jump, but it’s been exactly what we needed and far less challenging than I had assumed.

I had bought an ice-cream party from the school’s silent auction a few months ago and last Friday was THE day — how exciting! But when the girls found out it was during school hours, they both freaked. The questions started immediately. What time is was going to be? How long would it take? All because they were concerned about which subject they’d be sacrificing.

“I just really want to learn and don’t want to miss anything” was the consensus.

Who knew?

Actually, I did. That’s why we made the switch.

That, and a few other things.

We are confident in our change, but we really do miss so much of what that environment provided and we cherished our time outside for those years — most of all, Forest Fridays. Every Friday we ventured into the Florida wild for an immersive day in nature. Despite living less than 4 miles from the beach and our town being encapsulated by beautiful parks, I have proven to myself since leaving such an opportunity that I do in fact have to be forced outside, regardless of my natural inclination to want to be there. I get so in the groove of whatever it is that I’m embracing at the moment that it becomes a challenge to live out all the parts of me at the same time — to make time and transition into anything outside (lol) of my current routine. I am trying to make it a point to schedule more of the outdoor activities I used to enjoy, but so far, I’ve been failing, and miserably.

However!! Spring is upon us and like Mother Earth herself, that is when I come alive — and that is when I go outside.

I did sporadically pack the car and convince my family to go out to the beach for sunset last Friday night. Liv wanted a night off from her Friday practice, so I took advantage of the opportunity. We had Meaney’s mini donuts for dessert and no matter how many times I’ve swept and vacuumed, my laundry room is still bleeding sand.

Just like the old days.

Bang, bang
I grew out my bangs! It was getting to be too much. My hair grows absurdly fast and I was having to go to my stylist every four weeks, which was difficult not only in scheduling, but in distance. I will follow her anywhere, but I don’t need to be trekking 20 miles northeast every moon cycle in order to have clear vision. I tried finding someone closer to town for my in-between trims, but no one cuts them like her.

It was a codependent relationship.

At one point while trying to accommodate in-between cuts, I looked like this

She even gave me an in-person lesson on how to do it myself. I went out and bought the nice shears she suggested and I was able to do it (kind of), but I wasn’t very good. I was so over being consumed by my predicament that when she went on maternity leave, I gave it up for good. Holiday season was around the corner and I didn’t want a mess of a situation during a highly photographable time. We haven’t taken family photos in years and the two times we’ve hired a photographer recently, the sessions happened to be in-between bang trims, and that was unfortunate. It was time to say goodbye.

That was September. It is now March. It was a challenging phase to live through, but the once were bangs are looking more like face-framing pieces and I can put my hair in a slick back bun again, which ended up being entirely necessary in these times. I’m running, like absolutely running. Here, there, everywhere, and I did not need to be attempting hair cuttery alongside the need to style bangs on the daily that were plagued from the start by a substantial center cowlick.

Now that we’ve addressed the most overt changes in my life, let’s take a look at the last eight months. Consumed commenced her indefinite hiatus in early July, so we’ll begin there.

(the rest of) July
We had a lot of new direction and essentially an entire lifestyle change after committing to a new school in June, so much of our summer was centered around preparing for this new chapter. We spent the majority of the month finishing out camps and summer bucket lists.

the pause of heath merrch
I never actually formally introduced this project, although it has its own Instagram account and I did a test run drop around the 4th of July and made 3 sales (thank you, thank you!). I just couldn’t get it off the ground with all the changes and everything else going on, so that’s as far as it went.

A play on my abbreviated name, Heath Merr, this was intended to be an occasional curated vintage and styling pursuit. I didn’t have an organized concept, per say, but essentially I was going to curate collections and sell the pieces via Instagram story drops and then what didn’t sell, have listed on Poshmark or Depop, while using my socials to illustrate the selection process and promoting individual pieces and collections.

I still have a few things I couldn’t part with, but I dispersed most of the inventory I had for that project. It’s not that I don't want to do it, I just don’t have the bandwidth for engaging and negotiating in the capacity something of that nature requires.

And I absolute hate taking photos of the merchandise.

Oh my god. The photos. I consider myself a pretty decent picture taker, so I’m not sure if it’s the lighting in my house, not having a good spot, or if I just don’t have the skillset for such a task, but it was draining and stressful and I was not having fun. Not to mention, in true me fashion, I decided to publicly launch my Substack at the same time. Of course I did, and of course I thought I could pull it off.

Ultimately, and expectedly, I had to pick one — and writing always wins.

I spent the last few months selling my inventory to consignment and The Real Real and then donated what they didn’t take. I sadly don’t have the space to hold on to all of it for a ‘maybe I’ll do this at some point’ scenario. I have probably three bins left that I still need to sort through and then I’ll be completely rid of the evidence of the failed before launch pursuit. I had so many ideas and curations that I was piecing together, but the involvement to execute the vision I had in mind, to the standard I’d set for myself, was far greater than I’d imagined. The mere buying and listing of items was never the goal and I overshot my ability to pull such a thing off, even half-heartedly.

What I was able to learn from this entire experience though, is that I just like buying cool things. I have a vision, somewhat unique to me, and I like to share it.

This is something I’ve also come to realize through the indefinite pursuit of finding my personal style. I can see what’s good and I can find the right pieces and put them together in an interesting way, but that doesn’t mean it’s for me. That took a lot of trial and error and finding myself from the inside out. I have slowly, but surely, discovered who I am and what I like — mainly from finding out what I don’t (this method is not limited to clothing). It really just comes down to the obvious — what makes me feel good. Confident. Comfortable. Paying close attention to the amount of wear I was getting from the items I was buying helped streamline this process.

I found that I don’t actually wear most of the things I buy.

I embody my personal style best when I am quite literally, physically comfortable in my clothing (shocking! I know).

I have a lot of jeans. White t-shirts. A lot of boots and sneakers. Designer bags. And that’s all I really like to wear. I like to style a cute fit once in a while, but that’s it — occasionally.

And I think that’s why I wanted to create heath merrch. If I wasn’t going to be wearing the cool things, I wanted to buy them for other people. It was going to be the outlet for the creative expression I love, yet physically do not wish to represent. But that wasn’t the answer. I still hold the desire to create something with my vision, but at this time, I don’t want the responsibility. At least not for now.

July consumptions:
food fixation:
A week did not go by this summer without eating our favorite dinner on the patio: Florence and the Spice Boys house salad + Origin pizza. That paired with a white wine or a Sun King brew (Keller Haze and the Pachanga are my favorites), while listening to music and watching the girls’ competitive jump-offs in the pool.

songs on repeat:
I basically listened to my ‘lake’ playlist all summer. Five hours of music that has no business being paired together. Bangers include, but are not limited to:

Pirate Flag by Kenny Chesney
What Dreams Are Made Of by Hilary Duff
Ain’t Life Grand by Widespread Panic
MakeDamnSure by Taking Back Sunday
ATLiens by Outkast
Texas Sun by Khruangbin, Leon Bridges
There Is a Light That Never Goes Out by The Smiths
Hot Like Sauce by Pretty Lights
It’s All Coming Back to Me Now by Celine Dion
National Anthem by Lana Del Rey
My Kind of Party by Jason Aldean

accumulation recognition award goes to:
This black Rebecca Minkoff moto satchel. I love this thing. She’s got a passive edge to her and fits a ton — a full size wallet, sunglasses WITH the case, a book, a notebook, a small water bottle. It’s not too deep, so you don’t lose anything. So usable. So efficient. She was seemingly brand new and $30 at a local thrift shop.

August
ah,
I can feel the humidity from the inside of my skin. I can smell the scent of stifling heat mixed with mildly concerning polluted gulf waters. One of those weird life things, summer in Florida. The kind where the craving always creeps back. I hate it in the moment, but that thick air holds memories like a womb and despite the torture, your body erases the pain and temps you to do it again.

So what was going on in August?

Lots of shopping for school. Final preparations. More shopping. I got back on a routine, but it was a new routine, so it took some adjusting myself. I started writing again. I restyled Tim’s office and we celebrated Stuffy’s birthday. Stuffy has now lived longer than her predecessor, Lambie, so we had to celebrate, obviously.

To round out August, football season began. I was pumped that our new school celebrated the occasion with a football spirit day, so we had fun getting our outfits ready for that. We have no shortage of Alabama paraphernalia in this house. I unconditionally love Alabama football. It’s embedded into my psyche, into my soul, so of course, I had to ensure the legacy (brainwashing) would live on in my offspring. They are finally fully conditioned and ask what time the game is on every Saturday in the fall. They don’t know all the words yet to Hey, Alabama, but they are desensitized to my screaming at the television and can properly shake a shaker while yelling ‘Roll Tide’.

That being said. Lyla *also* likes Auburn.
I know.
Her conditioning was intercepted by the decor at our family friend’s beautiful lake home on Lake Martin. I might have also taken her to Auburn, so there’s blood on my hands, too. Apparently running around and doing cartwheels at sunset in front of Hargis Hall leaves a lasting memory. One that makes you question what you’ve been told.

She claims she likes the colors (ew). She roots for Alabama in the Iron Bowl… but she asks to put the Auburn game on if they are playing at different time. If we can’t watch it, she’ll ask for the final score — if not that evening, the next day when she remembers. Sketchy, I know. Hopefully she’s not lying, but I can sense a betrayal in my future and I’m never wrong about those.

August consumptions
food fixation:
I ate at Namo Izakaya Ramen & Yakitori a lot, a lot. It’s good, you should go if you haven’t.

songs on repeat:
Black Out Days by Phantogram
Cosmic Love by Florence + The Machine
Hampstead by Ariana Grande
Hot Blooded by the New Constellations
I Told You Things by Gracie Abrams
Buzzcut Season by Lorde

accumulation recognition award goes to:
Glossier’s Glossier You. I never got into the Glossier craze back when, but I read Marisa Meltzer's ‘Glossy’ when it came out and enjoyed the hell out of it. So much so, I started buying Glossier. I’m not sure that was the intent of the book, but I went straight to Sephora and bought a boy brow, balm dotcom or whatever it’s called (the clear one, it’s basically Aquaphor I think? just cuter packaging), and sprayed Glossier You all over myself before walking out. I don’t know why I never bought a bottle, I’d just spray myself whenever I was there shopping, but I finally surrendered to the desire, bought a full size bottle and wear it at will.

September
off to the races

This was the month of finding out if we could mentally withstand my impeccable, yet ‘is this actually achievable?’ scheduling for the coming school year. My kids have goals and I'm here to assist in their achieving them. I also have goals.

I am tired.

As I write this in March, we are still holding strong, albeit, my house is shall I say… lived in and I’ve given up on cooking regularly. I’m still trying to figure out how to do it all… at the same time.

Hill House Hype
I get it now, Hill House. I bought a lot of it out of nowhere. Like three dresses in one month and then I haven’t bought anything since. And not because I’m over it, I’ve just been buying other things and three nap dresses seems like a fine amount, but then again, as I’m writing this, I’m thinking I might want more. Apparently, I can convince myself of anything in any amount of time and now I’m curious to see what’s new. You’d think I know, seeing as Nell Diamond is one of my favorite people on TikTok as of late, but you’d be surprised how much I’m seeing and also not seeing when I take in the world around me.

I digress. The styles are so flattering, so feminine and most importantly, effortless. The ultimate throw on. That sounds like a derogatory, but it’s the ultimate compliment.

I just took a look. This is what I love from the new arrivals:

This is not an influencer account!!
Speaking of! I started using my LTK creator account again and I have a shopMy. I don’t remember exactly what month I started doing this again, but I guess I’ll confess to this now and say it was September.

I viscerally detest any form of unnatural influencing at this point, which I wrote about a while ago and never posted (maybe I’ll do that soon) to discuss and hopefully rationalize my decision for occasionally linking. It’s probably more of a think piece mainly for myself, less for you, but ultimately I decided it’s no harm against my integrity as a creative and a writer to give myself the opportunity to make a commission if someone CHOOSES to be influenced and desires to support — but only if. That’s the only reason it’s there. Feel free to Google image search my things. Feel free to ask straight up, I’ll just tell you without spamming you or making you comment ‘LINK!!’ I never want to be disingenuous or formulate content around commissions and promoting ‘what sells,’ but I am excited to have user friendly platforms that facilitate commissions deriving from my moderate and intentional likes and suggestions, nonetheless.

Goodbye, old friend
I traded in the big green machine.

My beloved TRD Pro 4Runner. Her name was Fiona (please understand this) and we all loved her dearly. But it was time. I needed a bit more comfort and an optional third row. We cried when we pulled out of the dealership we traded her at, leaving her there, all alone. She was the coolest companion and couldn’t have been a better option for our time braving the wilderness (our old school’s parking lot) and those aforementioned Forest Fridays. We all get so excited when we see one on the road, which seems oddly infrequent now that I don’t have one.

The theory around cognitive biases driven by selective attention and confirmation bias, i.e. the frequency illusion, seems to have been proven by my experience of this car. That or everyone who bought the 2022 color of the year, Lime Rush, quickly got over daily driving an off-road suspension with the added commentary from any and everyone who encountered the machinery (both in compliments and in confusion). Maybe we are all now living a life of much needed automotive anonymity. I’ll never know. But I do miss her.

A decade of motherhood
And last, but certainly not least, it was in September that I became a mother to a child in double digits. TEN YEARS. I have a ten year old. I HAVE A TEN YEAR OLD. In less years than she’s been earth-side, she’ll be in college. How is this actually possible?

September consumptions
fixation food:
If there was seafood and outdoor seating, I was there. Walt’s and Owen’s were heavily frequented in the month of September.

songs on repeat:
I Knew It, I Know You by Gracie Abrams
Little Dark Age by MGMT
Helicopter by Bloc Party
More Than A Woman — SG’s Paradise Edit by Bee Gees
Blue Monday by New Order
Fade Into You by Mazzy Star
The Gold by Manchester Orchestra

read:
Killers of… my hope for humanity? I finished the last book I read in 2025 in September (I failed my Goodreads goal, miserably) — the monthly pick of my beloved long-distance book club, Killers of the Flower Moon: The Osage Murders and the Birth of the FBI by David Grann. Great read. I knew nothing about any of that. It’s insane how much we don’t know, particularly about subjects, cultures and lives entirely different than our own. I feel like I do a decent job with staying informed and intentionally exposing myself to that which I was previously unaware, but there is so much still to learn, unlearn and keep yourself enlightened to. I’m never not thinking about this book. WHAT IN THE ACTUAL. Anyways, great read.

worst accumulation recognition award goes to:
0/10. I bought a couch that I hate! This is precisely why I never replaced what I have — I have no idea what I’m looking for. And now we have two couches that don’t match because I was going to buy another couch to replace the second couch we have to then coordinate with the new one and now I don’t like the new one, so I have to start over entirely and we’ve been so busy that I haven’t been able to even touch on that yet. Not to mention, I still have no idea what I want. So for months I’ve been living with a traditional brown couch alongside a blue mid-century(ish) couch and it’s just really not cute. It’s a design nightmare, actually. I don’t even look at it, to be honest. I mean… I am existing in my living room, but I'm not seeing it, you know? Selective vision is serving me well during this unfortunate time.

Well, we’ve reached the end of this road, my friends. Fall is upon us now within this recollection meets reemergence series, so you can find out what happened during October, November and December in Part II. I bring back my earlier obsessions with Alexander Hamilton and The Jonas Brothers, I watch Twilight with a candlelit, rock band orchestra, I get invited to a Christmas pop-up bar in exchange for social media content (!), I set a few tables and buy a Golden Retriever. See you there.

Stay consumed, but in a good way.

occasionally,
Heather

That was also my first and last pair of red bottoms, for I’m not sure God gifted me a conducive arch for such footwear, but what I was gifted was a last minute ticket to Wine Women & Shoes that year. I wanted something overtly designer and interesting, on a budget and with no time to spare to put something truly expressive together. I had a brown satin jumpsuit and just so happened to have bought my first Chanel (sourced by Julia Rose! Love her) that was possibly going to be delivered in time, so I took my chances, found a pair of brand new Loubs for half retail that pulled from colors in the hardware on my not yet delivered bag and I was ready to go. That is, as ready to go as one could be having never worn Louboutins and deciding to give it a go at the LONGEST event of the social season.

I did pretty well until the after party. My feet were numb and a bit clammy from being outside in Florida for a number of minutes (ah, November humidity, there’s really nothing like it). I’m not sure what I did exactly, but at some point, my left Loub went flying. No really. The shoe flew off of my foot. My friend had to go fetch it and help me put it back on while I propped myself up on the Veuve champagne bar. It was at that moment I knew it was time to change into my spares, the Jimmy Choos I’d stashed at concierge in the likely chance I couldn’t withstand wearing 120mm So Kate’s for an entire day, for the first time.

Feeling anew with a pep in my step (not for long), I found myself in a bit of an emotional conversation with an ex-girlfriend of my perished brother-in-law in front of the bar at Jack Dusty (I live in my hometown and am burdened with lore, okay) and I proceeded to cry uncontrollably for a hot minute before a dinner I’m not even sure I was invited to. You can always count on me to make a good impression.

Next on the agenda: an Uber ride to see the the missing member of our ensemble that day (could this have been why the vibes were way off?). We hopped in a random sedan summoned by one of our phones and made our way to the hospital to end the night by her side. Loub scootin’ through the hallways got me to her room, but when it was time to head home for good, the feet had swelled at a disturbing rate and I had no scoot left in me. Bed bound bestie loaned me her trusty TKEES so I didn’t have to walk out of SMH barefoot (or more likely to stop me from trying to convince someone to push me out in a wheelchair). I actually never gave those back and wore them until the straps broke off, just last year. If you’re in need of a quality flip flop, let me tell you, those are them. Here’s a link. Or better yet, you can buy them locally at the gracious dinner party host’s recently re-opened boutique at The Quay.

Anyways, I haven’t made a Real Real purchase since, but one of my resolutions this year was to consume less overall and put that savings into buying one or two quality pieces a month. I love uncommon and mostly out of production designer items, even if they were once very popular and mass produced — it can even be a little gauche, but if it’s been at least 10 years since its hay day and is still calling my name, it’s welcomed into my closet.

After spending most of Black Friday perusing the site, I decided it was time to bring this intention into reality, so I gave my 2026 goal a test run and opted for a crochet Zimmerman dress for our family Christmas dinner —

and my favorite purchase possibly ever, a literal dream of a find… my first Hermès enamel bracelet.

Now, let me discuss this bracelet with you, ad nauseam.

I have been wanting to purchase an Hermès printed enamel bracelet for years, but any time I’ve looked or been able to buy one, I just haven’t liked anything that’s been available. I am both visually and viscerally connected to the early 2000s style prints most notably, those painted by the beloved American artist, Kermit Oliver. This era of Hermès artistry shaped my preferences because it was the collection I was first introduced to the brand with — think western, equestrian art, the whimsy, storytelling, flamboyant traditionalism. I remember the first Hermès bracelet my dad bought my mom — I used to look at it in admiration, studying the repeating, yet individually differing images throughout.

My mom continued to grow her collection and as she did, I started to take notice that there was something really special about those first pieces in the early 2000s and later in my college years I started to really note a shift in the styling. I wasn’t sure if my mom’s taste was venturing to new heights or if her Hermès SA was doing the selecting, but either way, I wasn’t as taken by the latest additions. Although beautiful, there was just something about those earlier designs that resonated with me, so it was no surprise that when I started looking to buy my own, I could never land on one I liked enough to buy. I’m intentional to a fault sometimes and I had my heart set on what I couldn’t put into words until I started looking into the history of the designs. Turns out, her personal style hadn’t been evolving, the selections available had been changing for years, and drastically at that.

Before the 2010s, the scarves and bracelets were printed with more traditional, intricate designs. Less experimental — themes centralized around historical, detailed nature scenes, equestrian focus, fantastical storytelling imagery. Since the early 2010s the styles started modernizing with the times, production varying more in technique and designs themselves learning towards more abstract, bold and minimalist patterns. Although the craftsmanship and talent remains the same, I prefer the more dense, detailed visuals found more commonly in the pieces when my mom first started collecting.

Quite possibly the most important detail to note — to remember, to enshrine, even — it was fall 2004 when Jean Paul Gaultier stepped in at Hermès, infusing the house’s luxurious equestrian style with his signature avant-garde flair. Truly, what a time it was for me to have met the brand.

I love muchness. I love depth. I love story. MORE PASSION.

So, like I said, I’d been inconsistently hunting for an enamel for a few years, yielding no results and I kind of gave it up, until six weeks ago when I found THE one. I was umpteen pages deep in a search with no direction, no budget, just vibes when I saw it. Rich, earth tones. Repeating horses. Cowboys. Lassos. I knew it was of the era before it was confirmed in the item description: vintage 2004.
Jack. Pot.

I’ve never been more sure of a purchase in my life (you’ll understand the importance of this knowing impulse as you continue reading), so I broke the seal on purchasing an Hermès piece and it was my most cherished Christmas gift. I’m pretty committed to that distinct artistry of the past, so my pieces will likely reflect that as time goes on and I find more. That being said, I’m so enamored with this piece, if it ends up being my only one, I'll be forever content with that.

Another Hermès piece I have often considered, yet never purchased, is the Clic Clac H Bracelet. It’s not a style that does much for me, but since I couldn’t land on an enamel, I thought maybe a Clic Clac was the way to go. I mean, there is an ‘H’ on it and I do love that I share my first initial with this beloved house. But again, like the printed enamels, I could never bring myself to actually buy one. My heart just wasn’t in it and I recently discovered why.

I was waiting to come across the Clipper watch.

I discovered this timepiece around the same time I found my enamel and I knew this was going to be my next Hermès purchase. I wasn’t familiar with this piece, albeit, I wouldn’t consider myself a connoisseur of fine things, I just frequently browse and randomly accumulate, but I take very seriously what catches my eye and for some reason, I’d yet to notice this now discontinued Hermès mainstay, The Clipper. Named after 19th century sailing ships, the watch debuted in 1981 and carried through until its discontinuation in 2018. The round case and bezel resembles the clipper’s porthole and the bracelet features H-shaped links. It’s an iconic nautical-themed timepiece and now that it’s out of production, it’s all the more enticing to me.

Steadfastly committed to my shopping challenge (such a difficult task, I know), I spent the better half of January saving items, trying to decide what my designer staple purchase of the month was going to be. There’s so much good good on The Real Real and I’m learning the hard way that you really can’t afford to wait and think about items. There were so many things I liked, but waited to think about and they sold before I had a chance to decide that I couldn’t live without them.

It was getting closer to the end of the month and I’d yet to make a purchase. It wasn’t that I was forcing myself to buy something, it was that I wanted SO many things and could not decide on what was the best piece to accumulate. Not to mention the strange stress of brisk consumerism on a luxury resale site. I was in full blown decision paralysis, not to mention I get overwhelmed sometimes when I can actually execute something or get what I want — I end up almost wishing it would go away.

Who knew shopping could be a psychological process? A sort of exposure therapy. An unassuming tool for unraveling your fears and subconscious mind tricks.

I digress.

I took a few screenshots of my top items to try to narrow it down, but I kept thinking about one in particular. It was far beyond the monthly budget I’d made up for myself, so I kept pushing it out of mind, but I live my life guided by signs and synchronicities, so it was no coincidence that when I was trying to find an image to use for the first of my ‘Friday Finds’ carousel on TikTok, I stumbled upon an account of a girl also named, Heather. Not just Heather, we have the same initials, HMS. She even has a Substack that is an ambiguous word to encompass her range of topics, Miscellany (she’s great, you should check her out). I’d gone searching in the tagged photos on The Real Real’s IG account to see if I could find any retail store photos from a fellow creative to credit and use as my main image photo on my TikTok to keep the grid looking aesthetic (you can’t change the featured image anymore on TikTok if it’s a photo only post, don’t ask) and that is how I found this very cool, other Heather — she tagged The Real Real in her most recent photo dump and what was the tagged photo you might be wondering? Something she recently bought. Something that just to happened to be THE item I kept coming back to.

What are the chances?

I took that as a sign from the universe/God/Neptune moving into Aries or whatever. A girl named Heather, with the same initials and comprehensively titled Substack just bought what I had spent weeks now debating on. It was fate. That was what I had to buy this month.

Now… you won’t believe this!
I still debated. For days. My saved items were continuously selling at absurdly fast rates. It was right in my face, it was right there all along. There was only one thing to buy.

Yet, I still could not make a decision.

I knew it was time when I woke up last Friday and went straight to my obsessions tab hoping it was sold. The whole ‘if it’s taken from me, I don’t have to commit and/or make a decision at all’ issue that I have (I am well aware of my neuroses, I am a work in progress). I think this is a subtle variation of self-sabotage, no? So I made my final decision this morning, decided to put a stop to my incessant debating, and made my purchase.

Drumroll please… my January purchase from The Real Real is —

To be clear, I am well aware that I’m two items deep with no Hermès purchase history. I do not and might not ever have a pre-spend or SA at Hermès. And that’s not to say I’m against a quota system or don’t care to play. Alas, I enjoy the secondhand hunt and have a wish list that cannot be purchased in present production time.

It’s also looking very possible that I will live my entire life without a LinkedIn. C’est la vie. I am free.

I’ll be back next month with my February find!

So long shoppers,
Heather

Watching the Packers tonight? Big game.
Yes! Now that I’m aware, yes, of course I am.
Heather! It’s the NFC Wild Card Playoff! Against the Bears!

I’ve been a terrible football fan lately. I just don’t have the time. And to be honest, I keep forgetting. This has been the trend the last few years, but this year was the worst. The NFL was the first to go, then the extra college games. I even only managed to watch half of the Alabama season this year. I’d been diligent about making the time, but this year posed more roadblocks than years past. My kids have two very busy lives, my own barely fits into our schedule, let alone three and a half consecutive hours to sit down and watch a football game. What does fit has to be high priority and sadly, the Green Bay Packers are not at the top of my list. I’ll try harder next year though. I know my dad misses our football talks and my obscure, seemingly irrelevant, but very relevant, sports drama. He comes with the stats, I come with the lore.

Saturday evening.

Mom isn’t there a game you wanted to watch on tonight? My eldest daughter checking in as I’m knee-deep in 3 different tasks and projects. Omg. Yes. I’ll put it on. An hour later, I still haven’t put the game on. After taking care of the dogs, picking out our clothes for the morning, deciding on my patron saint once and for all (my confirmation papers are due tomorrow — obscenely late, I might add). I never put the game on. I wasn’t even sure if there was still time on the clock. I open the ESPN app. Twelve minutes left in the third quarter. Oh hell yeah. I felt immediate regret as I said it out loud, for I know all too well. What’s the score Tim asks, his interest peaked. 21 to 3, but there’s still plenty of time for the Bears to pull something off. I meant to text my dad before falling asleep for a debriefing, but once my head hit the pillow, I said a prayer to Vince Lombardi and I was out.

I didn’t think about football again, until after lunch the following day.

Sunday afternoon.

I was sitting in the donut room (it’s definitely not called that, but it’s the room with the donuts after mass). I’d finished my OCIA class, but Liv still had an extra hour because it was sacramental prep class day. I decided against a grocery run at Whole Foods because I quite literally did not want to do anything that required me having to walk anymore than I had to in the shoes I chose to wear. I decided to get a head start on my Catechism readings for the week, so I found a seat at a table in the donut room and got to work.

A good thirty minutes or so into reading, the room was starting to fill from the mass that had just ended. I looked over to my left and was taken aback. Is that the Bishop? I must be delusional from reading so thoroughly into transubstantiation.

Oh look it’s the Bishop, the sweet older woman siting across from me whispered to her husband. Alas, I was not hallucinating.

A short while later that same couple was heading out. The man stopped at the donut table where the Bishop was standing to pay respects as he was walking out, followed by a cheerful announcement that the Packers had won last night.

Omg we pulled it off I thought with sense of relief about the game I didn’t remember, did not watch and had forgotten about entirely, yet again.

The Bishop smiled to say hello and continued to say no! The Bears won!

Well, that sounds about right I thought, defeat washing over me. The sweet old man was in shock. You don’t say! I went to bed in the third quarter!

So did I.

I couldn’t believe my eyes just moments ago and now I couldn’t believe my ears. Straight out of the Bishop from Green Bay’s mouth. The Packers lost to the Bears.

I immediately opened the ESPN app. It was right there. Front page news.

The Chicago Pope’s power is alive and well.

Well, I’ll be damned.

my Oura ring will be delivered. I am quite terrified of the data it will provide me, but health and habits are the focus this year, so let’s go, I guess.

I’m having lunch with my eldest at school before I run off to get some botox injected into the bane of my existence, my vertical forehead line. My plight in life is looking young until you really look at me. And believe me, I’ve tried to embrace it. I went years without getting injections of any sort, but I seem to be resisting a true desire at this point, at odds with my loyal, yet entirely lackluster pursuit of embracing so-called natural feminism and I have decided to use my freewill to surrender. My genetic profile and tendency to keep my face in a snarl is out of my control, so I must handle the evidence.

01. 06. 26 / yesterday

was the first day back to school. I’d say it went pretty well. I’d considered carline for the week, but I managed to embrace the in-person drop-off/pick-up line. Said a lot of hi’s, a few returned Happy New Year! I think I did a good job.

I came home and told Tim I’m worried about losing weight and getting back in shape because I really like a lot of the pants I’ve bought recently.

I made a botox appointment. The one I’m going to today.

I had therapy for the first time in four weeks. We unexpectedly touched on some things I haven’t wanted to talk about for a while and I did that thing where my physical body cried for my emotional body, an experience entirely out of my conscious control, and I immediately started apologizing. Something along the lines of ‘I don’t know why this happening, this is so weird that I’m crying about this, I’m so sorry’. I think I’m making tremendous progress.

At my last session a few weeks ago, my psychologist (should we call him LJ, he should probably get a pseudonym for my writings, otherwise I’ll be saying ‘my psychologist’ at every mention, which I find to be strangely possessive and also, impersonal). Anyways, LJ (? we will see if this fits, I might be changing this) asked if I remembered the story of ‘Bluebeard’ in Women Who Run With the Wolves. I said sadly, no, and more sadly, I never finished the book. I don’t know why, it was a book I’d been eager to read, but I just never picked it back up after starting it. It eventually was shelved on my favorite bookshelf in my living room with a post-it note bookmark still in tact in the early aughts. He told me to go back, read the story and reflect. I completely forgot over the holiday and he didn’t mention it in our session, but I remembered afterwards and felt I needed to read it immediately. I grabbed it off the shelf and headed out to my reading chair on the patio with my second cup of iced coffee to see what I could extract from the assumed fable. There was no mention of ‘bluebeard’ in the contents, so I flipped back to the index and found the pages mentioning the phrase. Page 19. Wasn’t it. Let’s try page 35. Page 35. The page with my post-it note bookmark. The page I decided to pause at 2 years ago, never to start again. Funny how things work out like that.

I walked to my favorite sandwich shop for lunch. It’s less than a mile from my house, yet in the past decade I've averaged walking there maybe once a year. This is a direct result of me not wanting to change my clothes in the middle of the day. I am never in clothing that you’d want to do any real amount of walking in. I mean, you can walk in the clothes I wear, but like …walking to be a walker, you know what I mean? Fitness-intended clothing you will not be finding on my body unless I am embarking on a serious adventure. It’s just not going to happen on the daily. I don’t like athletic wear and I don’t like changing in the middle of the day, so I typically just stick with tasks that are congruent with my attire, outfit appropriate tasks, if you will. This is a bigger problem in my day-to-to than one would think, so it’s actually a huge deal that I transform this particular neurosis. I have to stop succumbing to this ‘autistic inertia’ that plagues any and all assumed daily transitions. However, I will not be transmuting the issue of changing clothes (yet). I will start by managing the issue of stopping myself because of the clothes. In other words, I will just walk. In jeans. This was an immediate decision I made after debating myself for 3 minutes about what to do — should I just walk, should I change, I don’t want to change back if I change and I want to be in these clothes, I don't want to be in those clothes and then I might as well shower because I don’t want to be sweaty getting back into my regular (desired) clothes. Immediate decision paralysis. I was so fed up with myself I silenced the noise and walked out the door wearing Levis. Hair down, untied Golden Goose sneakers. And to be honest, I don’t really like walking anyways. Where am I going? In a loop? How long do I do this? Do I do this everyday? There’s a bit of existential awareness that routine and body maintenance brings to the foreground. What is my root issue here, you ask? Is committing to a routine me adhering to my undeniable fate of mortality? Do I perceive commitment to a routine as a total loss of personal freedom? Anyways, I will walk for food, so this seemed like a good start. So if you see me out in the world, walking in my Levi’s, just know I’m really trying. And I’m really wigged out about all of my new, cool pants.

listening to
Entire albums in proper sequence, and mostly on my record player (I got one for Christmas and I’m currently making it my entire personality).

on repeat
The Killers hot fuss
Alabama Shakes boys & girls
Suki Waterhouse memoir of a sparklemuffin — and on the Spotify we are listening to Suki Waterhouse and Suki Waterhouse only this week (or as Lyla likes to call her, Zuki Watermelon)

And I’d like to mention, I have the great Patti Smith to thank for getting back in the swing of creativity. I won’t elaborate. This is all it needs to be. And in that, it is good.

Ta ta for now, I’ll report back in a few days.

occasionally,
Heather

It seems as though occasional(l) was a bit of a stretch. Ah yes, I have spelled occasional wrong. Let me explain. All of the things, occasionally. The Occasionall. Occasional, because true art can’t be forced (yes, you’re right, it can, but I hate deadlines). I operate fully on my Piscean fantasy time clock, ignoring the built in Saturnian functionality God equipped me with so that the water in my chart didn’t swallow the creativity whole. Despite my full comprehension that freedom comes within structure, my embodiment is lacking. I don’t capitalize on those five Capricorn placements enough, however I do love a tweed overcoat and button down shirt. The intent was to create and to do so occasionally. The removal of the ‘y’ linguistically implies we have the occasional mention of all things, embodied in one misspelled word.

If you’ve been following along, no I have not figured out what The Occasionall is about. ‘All the things, occasionally’ is my tagline. But what is that, exactly? I’m not really sure and I think at this point you’re going to have to find out with me. I’ve been studying my favorite newsletters and the common denominator is a well-defined focus. The one thing I don’t have. Writers I enjoy the most center their content around fashion, and although I love clothes, I wouldn’t say I’m a savant enough in that world. I’ve gone down that road before, I think more in hopes that I could expand myself in that way by doing so, but it really has to be your thing, your passion, your talent, and it’s not mine. I enjoy clothes, but they aren’t my passion. I throw on what feels good, what looks good enough and call it a day. I don’t routinely shop and I don’t buy what’s trending or even duplicatable because I prefer to thrift and dig deep into the sale racks. Another notable, well performing niche is cooking. I cook, but not consistently and in no organized, aesthetic manner to be able to share with the internet at large. Clothing and feeding myself seem to be my main areas of consumption, but that doesn’t mean that’s my speciality — clearly, I’m outsourcing my guidance. We all wear clothes and eat food. Some better than others, but I for one, don’t need to be taking that further than the occasional mention. I also don’t want to film myself putting on pants. So what do I talk about? Well. I don’t know. It just comes to me, I suppose. On a whim. Short stories, musings, anecdotes, observations, commentary spanning various topics. The through line is just… me. How I see things, how I write. What my mind is thinking about at any given time. My (supposed to be) recurring piece consumed encompasses that what I’m consuming — in any sense of the word. Everything else I write is just a little bit of… well, everything.

So let’s begin.

94 drafts
Since the inception of this Substack, I’ve written 94 posts. I wouldn’t say they are polished pieces, but 94 drafts sit in the backend of this program. I’ve published close to nothing, but last week I felt the birthing pains of creativity and I sequestered myself in my room in attempts to force publishable content out. I do have a few private projects I’m working on feverishly, so there is no lack in creative movement, but a key part of this equation is publicly posting. I like creating in this way and I feel they are connected, both the other projects and this one. If I fail at one, I fail at them all. I must keep going. As mentioned previously, close to none of those drafts are ready to be published, except *one*. I wrote a confessional about how I sorrowfully killed a frog and for some reason, that one is edited and ready to go. Maybe I’ll start there? I have to start publishing the content I’m creating, no matter how strange. Otherwise, my entire spiel will be posting posts about wanting to post and this will continue in perpetuity. They say you need to niche down and niche again. My niche I suppose is infrequent posting and then telling you about my infrequent posting. The perpetual pursuit of posting. Please help. No one wants this. And neither do I.

My very own desk
Speaking of detaining myself in my room to write, I can actually do that now and it is *chef’s kiss*. I haven’t had my own personal desk since college. It was one of those Pottery Barn Teen hutch systems and I loved that desk. It was like a limb to my brain. It was covered in my favorite things. Filled with books and oddities I enjoyed owning. I did my best creative work there. I studied in the library, but I was ‘me’ at that desk. After college I worked at the bar in my parents house and eventually I landed at Tim’s parents house with the lottery desk. What is a lottery desk you ask? Well, it’s a desk you buy with lottery money. Back in the early 2000s, if my memory serves correctly, Tim’s older brother won a decent amount from a scratch-off and bought an entire recording studio setup. The desk from this situation remained and eventually ended up a permanent fixture in a leftover room in the house — the room where I boarded while I was working at the paper. I wrote stories there. I read magazines there. It’s where I read Sophia Amoruso’s Girl Boss, the only book I read in a span of 3 years (it was a weird time for me). It was massive, which was ideal because I like to spread out. I need about 45 square feet of space when I work. I have 6 working notebooks, about eight books stacked and thrown about, three planners, a magazine or two and a coffee and the six different pens I use interchangeably. Let us not forget a stack of bracelets and rings I’ve had to take off because I can't write or type with anything attached to my extremities.

I used to write in the dining room at my current home, which is fine and I still work in there, but I needed a secular space for writing and creativity only. I can’t blend intent. It’s hard for a busy brain to function like that. We can’t have chaos within, chaos without and zero defined spaces for designated tasks. While the dining room table and nearby curio has served its purpose well, I'd been on the hunt for a new surface to call my own. I had no idea what I was looking for, but I knew when I found it I would know — and I did. Standing tall in all her glory at the Goodwill on 17th street, an ARTICLE. standing desk/table/bar/whatever piece of wood with legs, somehow not snatched already by the resellers of the town, likely because of it’s steep for Goodwill price, but I did not care. This was what exactly what I’d been searching for.

It fits perfectly within the confines of the only unoccupied spot in my room — up against the slider, squeezed in-between a bookshelf and my meditation cushion. So à propos. I borrowed one of my vintage McGuire barstools from the butler’s pantry bar, added a bankers lamp (I’m a bankers daughter through and through, the charm of 90s southern bank decor will always feel like home) and voilà! My very own creative space.

I love to be surrounded by things. I buy what grabs my attention, what makes me think, what I’m called to for unexplained reasons and I decorate with said pieces accordingly. Nothing is more necessary to me than well stocked spaces that have personality. Spaces that tell a story, even if you aren’t sure what that story is. My spaces are stacked with tchotchkes and books and art and who honestly who knows what. I believe that when you are existing, when you are creating, you take in all that surrounds you — which is why I make sure everything that surrounds me is fun and cool and beautiful and weird.

keep it simple
I heard advice recently at a PTO meeting, given by a mom who seems like she has it together — grounded, focused, practical. “Keep it simple.” I’m not sure I’ve ever done that in my life, but I felt it was message for me directly from the universe. Not saying I received that message in the way it was likely intended, or in a way anyone could assume, but I do think simplifying my life would be helpful. I want less. I want to keep it simple, to keep being… not simple. To understand, you must understand.

and now…
Before I start putting arbitrary expectations and parameters on this post that make it perpetually stuck in the drafts section of my Substack (see, I’m keeping it simple), I will be signing off now, but not before I share a few books. Something you should know about me is I’m always reading and I’m always buying books. Due to human time restraints, I end up buying more books than I’m able to read. Sometimes I wonder if there is a subconscious motivation I’m unaware of and I’m stocking for a future pubic library. It’s overwhelming at times and multiple times a year I find myself donating a trunk full of books because I just don’t have the physical space. I don’t want to part with these beloved bounded pages of words I never got around to reading, but it just gets to that point. I often pivot into new areas of interest or I realize I don’t in fact need an entire 5 decade span of iconic astrology books. Just kidding, I do, and that project is still alive and well.

Books I’ve bought recently that are waiting to be devoured:
A History of God by Karen Armstrong (recommended by a literary muse/friend from book club)

Second Chances, Shakespeare & Freud by Stephen Greenblatt and Adam Phillips (I saw this at Bookstore1 and the title itself echoed a few of my longstanding fixation topics — “a powerful exploration of the human capacity for renewal, as seen through Shakespeare and Freud”)

Infinite Jest by David Foster Wallace (very important recommendation, for it came from my longtime friend, who also happens to be my former editor)

Florida by Lauren Groff (Groff is an incredible writer — her deep knowledge and incorporation of old Florida in both a historical and visual context is substantial)

Books I’m currently reading:
Out of Your Mind by Alan Watts
Catechism of the Catholic Church (Ascension Press copy)
The Artist’s Way by Julia Cameron (+) The Artist’s Way Morning Pages Journal

I forgot what my sign off is, so for now,
xoxo,
Heather

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I wipe down the handle and head to the produce section. Liv wants chili mac for dinner.

Chili beans. Fire roasted tomatoes. Onion. Shells. Cheddar. Grabbed an extra container of strawberries, some grapes. I'm headed to the self-checkout in less than 10.

I’m immersed in a dialogue discussing the death of the romcom when I see an older lady standing near her vacant register. I always forget about that singular aisle before the self-checkout. I feel bad. People losing their jobs to automated self-checkout machines. But at the same time, efficiency is the name of the game. I’ve got dogs to walk, kids to pickup. Not to mention I dreamed of this as a child. Doop. Doop. Scanning the items. Pressing buttons, bagging the groceries. My affinity for cashier duties could be studied, scientifically, psychoanalytically.

That’s when I notice the baby doll secured to her body, her Publix apron performing the unexpected role as a forward facing baby carrier.

Oh god.
My brain quickly tries to compute what genre of person this is, an automated social strategy my brain is prewired for, as a way to appear less socially awkward and more importantly, to be kind. Maybe she lost a child and this is her therapist’s way of getting her to talk about it. She’s old and alone and she only has strangers to do this sort of exposure therapy with because the rest of her family is dead.

Or she’s recently joined Toastmasters? A conversational project. The baby is the icebreaker.

Then I remember an episode I heard a while back on Sounds Like a Cult. Reborn dolls. That could be it.

I realize my scenarios are taking on specifically broad generalizations. DBT would label this as jumping to conclusions. My brain labels this as necessary and helpful. All I know is, I’m never not trying to understand and I’m probably always scared and/or wrong. But maybe her grandchild asked her to take their babydoll to work with her. Lyla gives Tim a stuffed dog occasionally to accompany him at the office while she’s at school. At the end of the day he scans the dog in the copy machine and brings her the photocopy home, very professionally assembled in a legal file with her printed name on it.

I totally accept whatever the reason for the baby doll and I fully support her journey as a person. I send her silent messages of goodwill and rationalize that a properly computed reactionary response won’t be needed after all, because I’m still in motion for the self-checkout.

I think again for a moment. Maybe I should go to her aisle, maybe that’s the right thing to do, people > computers.

I’m unsettled with baby dolls in general, so I continue towards the self-checkout.

I'm almost there when my peripheral vision detects movement. I've been spotted.

I hear her ask if I’m ready to check out. It comes through subtly underneath the sound of Naomi Fry’s voice outlining how romcoms used to be a mega commercial proposition, but with the advent of the tentpole IP movie, romantic comedies have weirdly become, if not actually indie, then a place for potential experimentation. I agree.

I pull out my left AirPod to signal an acknowledgement to the lady with the baby doll.
Yes, I say. With a smile.
I’ll take you right here.

It's written all over her face.
She knows I see the baby peering up from her chest.
I know she wants me to ask.
I don’t.

I place my items on the conveyor belt. She asks if I found everything okay today.
I did.

I see Martha Stewart on the cover of her Halloween issue. Do I want to look like that when I’m 84? I’m impressed. She looks incredible. But is it weird? Maybe I'll look like that. Full glam. Why stop looking hot? I should probably get a baby dose of Botox soon.

I flip through and see a recipe for boo shakes. The kids would like that. I’ll grab this. The cover is so good, I'll use the recipe and figure out how to display this icon within my decor this coming season.

I check the price. Last week I bought my eight year old a $25 Vogue, so I’m recently primed in the current cost of special editions.

$14

I decide to take a photograph of it instead. I’ll google a boo shake closer to October and add this obscure photograph to a TikTok recents dump.

How is your day going? She’s smiling, ear to ear.
Good! How about you?
Good! Still smiling.
Now I’m smiling, nervous.

I don’t ask. I don’t acknowledge. I'm giving privacy for what is not my business, for what I’m not sure how to handle if brought up to me. Why is there a baby doll in your apron? Considering this is even too much. My mind is flooded with potentially devastating conversational outcomes. I have about enough bandwidth of social niceties left at this hour to muster up a nod and smile if something strange is said to me, but if history serves correctly, it's never that simple. They always want more. Or they say something I haven’t rehearsed a response for and will be forced to improv and who knows what I'll say then. I'll be leaving the conversation as the victor. The victor of who was the most weird. And I'm not wearing a baby doll.

I type in my phone number for Publix rewards when I realize she hasn’t bagged my items. I let out a silent, internal sigh of relief. A job for me to keep busy. Idle hands are the devil’s playground.

Would you like to donate to March of Dimes?
Sure.

How much?
$1

I make my way over to the payment machine. I press the side of my phone twice. My face permits access to my debit card and I tap. She’s smiling ear to ear now.

Douglas says thank you.

I would bet money that that fateful day at TJ Maxx was a Thursday.

More logically, maybe it’s because when I was working as an editor, Thursday was publication day. Thursday’s were our budget meeting and the events to follow would be in the following issue. The weekend yielded the cover for the next week, so for me, the weekend was the start. This was so long ago, I might add, but some routines get embedded in the psyche and cannot be removed. So for me, Thursday will always be the start.

All of this to say, that a Thursday culmination will be a thing for me. A column of sorts, a column of what I consumed throughout the week. Tangible, intangible, maybe my reflections. We aren't really sure. We as in, me.

So here is my first installment of consumed,
a weekly column. on Thursday.

forget and you shall receive
Per our recurring discussion about my confusion with how I think, what I know factually and when I need to trust my instincts, my trusted psychologist of 5 years recommended I read a book. He doesn’t typically recommend books because of my insatiable, compulsive need to read them and provide a book report after (reference: my tendency to people please and derive my self-worth on academic/performance success). So when he recommends I read a book, it’s of importance. His suggestion was ‘blink’ by Malcomn Gladwell. With the hustle of the last week of school and diving right into the girls’ first summer camp, I forgot entirely about the recommendation until I stopped into the Goodwill Bookstore while the girls were at practice. Lo and behold, I was reminded when I saw the book sitting on a shelf in the business section. I could tell it was an older copy — a hardcover with no book badges or endorsement markings on the jacket, but I didn’t realize until I got home that it was a first edition, SIGNED copy. for Harry, Malcolm Gladwell.

I’m only 100 pages in, but I understand the recommendation. Scientific, yet truthfully, entirely ambiguous in regards to how we really are to quantify our knowings and differentiate the good from the potentially misleading filters we subconsciously apply to our thoughts and actions. Is there ever a definitive understanding of what we are understanding? I’ll share my takings and findings when I finish the book.

deadlines.
I was thinking about deadlines this week. How much I need them. How much I despise them. I tend to mindlessly drift in the ether without a goalpost and time stamp. Yet, too much pressure — absolutely not. I suffer from extreme demand-avoidance, and it’s not limited to demands placed on my externally, I avoid my own demands, too. I created *gentle* arbitrary urgency this week with something I was working on and to my surprise (not at all) I executed perfectly and ahead of schedule. That being said, I neglected my daily yoga practice, ate out every meal and I’m behind on the laundry again, but I did the big thing. But why is it so hard, why do I have to light a fire under my ass to accomplish anything and why can’t I blend the rest of my daily functionings along with it? Am I too busy? Or am I incapable? I’m either all in or I float around aimlessly with concepts of a direction and pursuit. Can I continue with this haphazard way of living and make it work or do I need a lobotomy? I’ll let you know.

the superstar of superstars….
Saturday night I dragged Tim along with me to watch Josh Rhodes’ production of Jesus Christ Superstar at the Asolo. I’ve never been happier. What. A. Show. I have my own analysis on the script itself, watching it now at 35, fresh off of reading the entire Bible, but no need get into that now (or maybe ever). Marty Fugate’s review in the Observer (read here) articulates my feelings on Rhodes’ portrayal, quite exactly. Brava!

one man’s trash… is brand new Hermès
Stopped at the thrift three times this week. I told myself I wouldn’t go at all. Discipline and restriction are going well, but alas, I was rewarded by my lack thereof. This week I found Oscar de la Renta, Hermès and a few vintage items. I probably sound like another broken record, but you just can’t find this quality in the stores anymore. Tailoring might be good, but you’re spending $300 on polyester. No shade to the fabricated fabrics, I have quite a few myself, but I viscerally oppose spending top dollar for one synthetic item. Not to mention, possibly the biggest advantage of thrifting for me is the vast, yet at the same time, limited selection of apparel, helps guide me through the indefinite pursuit of personal style. Amidst the chaos, it allows me to find clarity in what is I’m actually looking for, what it is that I like. We are bombarded with so many choices and micro trends, so to be able to figure my personal style out in a hunter-gatherer way at low stakes costs, I’ve been able to create something I’m really proud of in my closet.

pulling the plug
I made a big decision recently that I’ve been putting off for longer than I’d like to admit. One that’s needed to be done, one that I knew was coming. No need to give specifics, but I will say, I stuck it out until I knew my decision was to commit to making the change. It was a big leap, but I wanted to do it right. Compulsive reactivity *was* my middle name, so I was trying something new this time. I took it in steps, first being the decision to make the change — literally, only making the decision to make the decision. I wanted to know it was time, when it was time. And even though I barely had a plan when I made the decision, I jumped ship and have been figuring it out along the way. I heard advice once that said having certainty is everything, along with knowing you might have to learn to fly the plane, while flying the plane. I’ve made so much progress in navigating through the next steps of the decision and each step gets easier to tackle. The steps aren’t necessarily getting easier, but the ability to handle them is. I haven’t landed yet, but I’m in motion and most importantly, I was able to exit and exiting is often the hardest part. The rest will always follow.

consuYUMptions (is this lame)
I love going to out to eat, but lately even I’ve been sick of eating out. There has been no time to grocery shop, other than the standard lunch items and snacks, so almost every substantial meal has been out. Weeks like these, I try to eat out in way that make the caloric intake and financial toll worth it, so here are a few standouts from my culinary adventures this week:

Please note —I am not a food reviewer. I am a southerner who grew up on fried chicken and sweet tea, white mom spaghetti and unseasoned casseroles, who happened to attend James Beard dinners and culinary tastings when my friend and coworker (the arts & entertainment editor) so kindly let me take a night off her calendar. I have no dialect for describing a dish to you. All I know is when shit tastes good.

not new to me, but haven’t been in person in a long time —
Michaels on East. I basically order the East Avenue Caesar and Michael’s bowtie pasta every time (it’s my most desired meal), but I did try the seasonal dessert menu this time, opting for the Georgia peach cobbler. If there is peach cobbler on a menu I must order it — but if I don’t like it I will quite literally never order it again, ever. Peach cobbler reigns supreme in my book and this one was top-tier. The brown sugar streusel made for a super rich and unique flavor and the peaches were perfect. I might be the only person in the world who prefers cobbler not a la mode, but their house-made vanilla made that exception any easy one to make. I will most definitely be ordering again (and I want to try their Spumoni Baked Alaska).

new for me — 
BESO. This was a few weeks ago, but very important to discuss. I loved every single thing. I had dinner with some girlfriends and we ordered enough food to feed a small army, so I have a decent understanding what they’ve got going on. What we ordered:

Champinones
Queso de Cabra
Spanish Grilled Cheese
Mixed Olives
Alcachofas Fritas
Patatas Bravas
Carrillada de Ternera
Gambas Ajillo

songs on repeat this week:
green light by lorde
party 4u by Charli xcx
spitting off the edge of the world by the yeah yeah yeahs, perfume genius
Talk by Selena Gomez, benny blanco
fame is a gun by Addison Rae
sound & color by Alabama Shakes
when the stars go blue by Tim McGraw
Eleanor Rigby by The Beatles

playlist is here: the end of May
I’ll be adding to this as I go until I can’t listen to these songs anymore and have to start a new one.

That’s all for now. See you here next week. On Thursday.

occasionally,
Heather

Meditation complete or not, I find it hard to believe that the hilarity of the situation would escape me otherwise.

Her infamous deadpan expression paired with maximizing her lung capacity while I sprayed her hair in sections, combing it through, spraying again — using the lice repellent as the product equivalent for the slick back braid I was twisting to keep her hair tightly bound, hopefully protected from the potential spread of lice at school. For the entire duration of the task, a full 5 minutes if I had to guess, she blew out all the air her little lungs could exhale. Never putting it down, never taking a break. If she took a breath, I never noticed.

Good to go, tell your sister to come in when she’s finished getting dressed I tell her. She silently agrees, running out of my room, still playing the recorder.

As I waited for her sister to come in, I couldn’t help but laugh to myself. My hair is done, but I’ve only filled in one eyebrow. I’m wearing the pants I plan on wearing, but I’m still wearing the top I went to bed in. I’m not stressed, not yet, but time is of the essence.

Moments later, I finish getting ready. I’m walking through the house with my bags layered on my arms. In my head I’m concerned about the girls’ getting lice, wondering if I should do a once over with the spray, just to be safe. The little one still hasn’t put down the recorder. The older one is heading a warning that if I happen to go to the window side of the dining room, she has invisible string tied in every direction connecting all the Barbie houses, a booby trap of sorts. I thought she was referring to a scenario she had constructed in her imagination, but no, she had in fact tied the string we use for friendship bracelets in every which way and it was, as she said, nearly invisible. As in, I would have never seen it and absolutely succumbed to the trappings if I’d walked anywhere in that direction.

I thank her for the warning and assure her I’ll be avoiding it entirely because I wouldn’t be home today until I’m back with them in tow. As I finish my sentence, the little one sets down her recorder and confirms that under no circumstance will I touch her slime. I assure her that under no circumstance will I ever touch any slime. We head to the car to start the next leg of our day — the part where they embark on their day, and me on mine.

You know those moments, those memories you can’t for any other reason discern why they stay so vivid, so real in your mind? I try to will certain memories into that category. I’m hoping I can manipulate this memory into that certain bank. When I’m having an experience I wish to keep alive, I make a mental note — remember this one like you do those other random ones.

I’ve never been able to understand how my memory works, how some moments, even just a memory of a mere thought can stay cemented there, accessible at any moment, some willing, some unwilling. Emotions, intensity, certain people, that’s what all the memory studies say, but I’d beg to differ. That’s not the only explanation, it can’t be. Moments that evoke emotion are obviously going to have more potential staying power, but again, do we have conscious control over that?

And what about memories of just thoughts themselves? I have the most vivid memories of thoughts, just the thoughts, paired with an exact picture of what I was seeing at the time of the thought. The wall, the floor, a room I was in, a landmark while driving, the most random visuals come paired with a memory of thought, almost to ensure there is some tangible reality for me to visualize while remembering at a future time — perhaps because how can one just remember a thought? I can only hypothesize that the visual component of my surroundings in those moments must attach themselves to the thought memory, so I can see it when it comes through later.

So do we see memories or think them? Is it mutually exclusive? I think for me, it’s both. As far as why we remember what we remember, particularly the random thought memories I was mentioning prior, I can assure you, there was nothing of substantial emotion or attachment occurring and if so, it was entirely unconscious, which cannot be empirically tested, which then cannot be included in data, which then cannot be presented to the public as a scientific explanation of how memory works. Was there a forethought attached to the memory that triggered the security of its permanence? Theory will tell you, yes. But I could not tell you in these circumstances, because it’s not until the flashback of the memory that I realize it has embedded itself as a memory at all. And then it continues, at random occurrence, in that same way for the rest of my life.

I did some quick research on the topic while writing this piece. Mind you, this is how my mind, how my life goes. I try to write something or do something in a chill, normal way, in a way that can be completed, finished, finite. And then I go off on a journey of realizing things, researching more and eventually, I’ll find new niche diagnosis that describes myself or a pocket of heavily studied pseudoscience I’d never heard of until now, that I wish to explore and talk about for the next 4 months, until I’m on to the next thing, never finishing the original task (or thought) at hand. Sometimes I feel like I’m just an infinitely curious mind wandering around collecting experiences and learned topics, but never fully, never in a way that I can use in any productive manner. We were talking about my morning not long ago if you’re still reading. And what you don’t know is that I started writing this in January. It’s late June. It’s still Monday, but it’s June.

There are countless studies and theories on memory, but I like this one as a point of departure — 

Memories stay through their connection to the unconscious mind, particularly, the collective unconscious, which acts a repository of ancestral memories and archetypes, essentially embedding experiences and patterns deep within our psyche, allowing them to resurface in our thoughts, dreams and behaviors even, if seemingly forgotten.
— a very, very brief summation on memory, according to Jung

If I had to formulate a thesis, I’d be trying to find out what triggers bring them out. Are they directing us to a pattern? Is it an alert? Dreams express things to us in such incoherent, yet vividly miraculous ways, so this must too be happening in our wake state, perhaps making it more challenging to notice those symbols and connections that are supposed to be guiding us through life. Theories suggest our wake state and dream state are one and the same. How do we differentiate which state we are in? All we know for certain is the undercurrent of consciousness is guiding us through both, if we are paying attention. Are these random memories that pop in entirely unsolicited trying to tell us something, trying to connect something subconscious to the conscious? We could get lost in our own psyche, our own delusions, if we sit too much in that space, but those moments that repeat or those moments that are so random, so vivid, yet perceptually meaningless — that has to be connected to something of significance.

All of this to say, I hope to remember this Monday morning, in that vivid, present like moment memory that I know is possible. I likely will, now that I’m attaching it to the internet, rereading it multiple times before publishing. Moments I write or photographs I take seem to have a better chance at permanence, but that’s not to be expected either. Oftentimes, I look through photos or read old journals and it’s as though I’m experiencing the recollection for the first time since the moment happened. It really is seemingly impossible to quantify.

As for the moments without documentation? Those are entirely at the will of the spontaneous algorithm I experience as my memory. Recollection cannot be assumed, nor anticipated. I like to imagine that in the afterlife we have access to a room of files, a magical room full of our memories. A place where we can sift through and pull them out to enjoy, to study, to understand — much like the Pensieve in Harry Potter. I hope I’ve properly stored my memories in the spiritual cloud. I want to remember it all. And there’s so much to remember, especially those little moments. Those are the moments that make up the entirety of your life.

Occasionally,
heather

(If anyone has read anything pertaining to the exploration of memory, let me know in the comments. I prefer something of a scientific nature, empirically-based for sure, but nothing too quantifiable that it takes out the miraculously curious nature of it all, while also nothing too woo, relying on faith in who knows what. Loosely empirical? Scientific, but not discriminative to the pseudo of it all? Open to the unknown. Scientific method, but up for interpretation. How many ways can I express my potential preference of material?)

Despite not writing professionally or publicly for almost 6 years now, I write all the time. Every day. More formally, when I sit down to my laptop or notebook. But I write in the notes app on my phone. On post-it’s that are scattered on all the surfaces in my house, in my designated purse notebook. If it’s coming through, it needs to come out. I write stories, both fiction and non-fiction. I write poetry. I draw. Sometimes I write and draw, because neither seems to illustrate what I’m seeing in my mind, what I’m trying to express well enough, so it must be both. I write down my dreams every night and attempt to understand them through dream analysis. I write down my struggles and experiences to discuss with my therapist. And after we meet, I write an analysis of our session. I journal my feelings, both good and bad. I write down parenting strategies, both the wins and losses. I write down experiences I have with people, how I’m hurt and how I have hurt. I try to understand myself. I try to grow. I try to articulate my feelings and experiences in the way that has guided me the most —through reading. I give and take, all in the form of words. 26 letters in various combinations to sum up everything we experience on earth.

The only problem is, I have no real direction. I’ve talked to a few people who have asked, ‘so what is it you’re writing about?’ I don’t know. Anything? It sounds stupid when you answer it that way. But it’s the truth. Concepts and theories? History. Florida history. Self-analysis. Style, in all ways. Thrifting. Books and my love of fries. I wrote about dry cleaning a few months ago (and proceeded to never post again). I thought Minecraft was deeply spiritual and I want to tell you why. I love astrology and human design. I read the entire Bible last year and I’m going to do it again. I study Jungian psychology and dreams. I LOVE dreams. I like Kabbalah and the Four Agreements. I study a lot. I think about the subjects a lot of people do, but a lot of people don’t (or won’t). I like to be outside. I like taking pictures. I love clothes. I can be as deep as I can be shallow. So much so that I don’t believe my shallowness lacks any amount of depth, let me tell you about it.

I like to think. And I like to write.

Anything I stumble upon that interests me cognitively. Anything at all that comes to mind, whenever I feel like it. I don’t want to have to write, I want to just want to write. My Substack name clears that up. The Occasionall.

All the things, occasionally.

And if I’m being honest with you, writing keeps me sane. It’s like emptying the well. The well fills up and I can’t think. When that happens, I have to write. I’ll try to move the energy physically, I’ll try to study it away, but ultimately, if I don’t write, I can’t keep thinking. When I start doing circles in my brain, it’s time to write. And not just dumping. I have to start out with a brain dump, but if I don’t finish the job, the well fills up more quickly the next time. It must be intentional. Writing to write. Writing to publish. Keeping myself disciplined with the creative pursuit I love the most and somehow, keep refusing to pursue.

Yet, something keeps pressing me to write again publicly. I don’t know why I’m taking it so seriously, why I’m so nervous about posting on my Substack and telling people that I’ve done so. I have little to no followers. Even if I post that I’m writing on my personal social media accounts, it doesn’t mean it will be read. I finally had to cut the cord today, the cord entangling my relentless desire to write and post and create with my apparently visceral fear of executing a seemingly simple task. I made my coffee and told myself I couldn’t make another until I was done writing about why I won’t write. I didn’t expect my brain dump analysis to turn into the post you are currently reading, but that’s the magic of writing (and a little restriction based self-discipline). I debated on whether to share my brain dump, but the brain dump is what got us here. And maybe sharing the analysis can inspire another in whatever they are stuck on. To inspire, to inform, that’s the point of writing, isn’t it? Against my better judgment, I urge to write and I urge to share (some) of it.

So why haven’t I been able to bring myself to write publicly? I think it’s a few things.

One.

I have a hard time regurgitating the knowledge I consume into cohesive thoughts for others to understand. It’s like my brain can digest it completely and apply, yet the part where I can then share it with another... it’s too far embedded into my mind to get back out. It’s synced. We’ve moved on. This is probably some kind of processing disorder, I’m realizing as I’m typing. But it’s in there. Packed deeply into the cerebral jelly mould they call a brain, that is also the mind. The mind that also feels like it’s the eyeballs. No amount of physiological psychology courses in college could ever get me to truly understand the apparent disconnect between my thoughts and my eyeballs, but I digress.

Two.

My thoughts are my thoughts, and those seem to be too personal to share. They feel safe alone within myself. I can’t fail by articulating them incorrectly (which I often only notice later, mortified) and I can’t be hurt or judged if I keep it all inside.

Writing, no matter what it is, is so personal. It’s a creation of itself. It’s my own translation of what’s running through my mind and sadly, I've never felt I’ve done an accurate job as my own personal translator. Maybe in my private writings, but not with what I feel comfortable sharing, or who I’ve been as a person, in general. I find the inner workings of my mind, how I see, how I think, to be profoundly beautiful, as we all should. Our ability to experience the world in our own unique ways should be cherished and molded accordingly. The mere fact that so many of us are scared to be ourselves, play the parts others have told us to play (or that we’ve assumed), or have had damaging experiences in attempts to figure it all out should raise the biggest red flag to how we are all existing, but again, I digress.

The plaguing weight of feeling misperceived, much at the fate of my own hand, I've spent the past few years trying to better understand how to calibrate my inner and outer worlds, while loosening my dependency on belonging and being ‘seen’ (which is funny, to expect to be seen, when you aren’t accurately seeing and authentically acknowledging yourself) and letting go of trying to control the narrative around others perceptions of me. It’s an endless game of whack a mole, that nobody will ever truly win. I surely did not.

Being in the world as me has always felt difficult, more so as time has gone on. I don’t know how to write without being personal, without sharing personal anecdotes, without sharing pieces of me, of my process and my way of thinking. I've tried to work around it, and I can't. I can only work it in. And in doing so, I’m facing my worst fear, yet greatest desire. Putting myself out there again. Being seen.

Three.

But being seen leads to being watched. Being watched and being supported, those are two very different things that unfortunately, took me a long time to understand.

and lastly,
Four.

I kept asking myself, ‘what the point?’

The point is, there is no point. I kept trying to answer my own question of who am I writing for, why am I writing, but I’ve come to realize, I’m only writing for me (and about five people whom I send the published link, force them to read and provide immediate feedback). I’m writing because I want to. For no reason at all, other than pure desire to write, to challenge myself creatively, to share what I want to share and to continue pushing myself through the muck of becoming whole, syncing all the parts of me, while still pursuing my interests, even if I don’t feel ready yet.

So a little bit personal it is. And all the other things, occasionally. - Heather

Nothing peeked my excitement quite like a quick stop at the cleaners on the way home from school as a child. This was an experience among the ranks of admiring the pneumatic tube system at the bank drive-thru and the post office, most definitely the post office. The fascination was palpable.

I loved the sweet, ether-like, yet minorly offensive chemical smell that greeted you the instant you walked through the door. I still remember the crisp sound of the owner matching the stub to the ticket in the worn recipe box near the cash register. The aggressive ballpoint pen scribbling something illegible, the quick grab of a stapler to secure the tickets, to the immediate puncture onto the check spindle — seemingly so haphazard, yet entirely methodical. I was engrossed in the experience of witnessing such a streamlined organizational system. I’d lean forward on the counter in amazement, watching as she pressed the light switch lever that moved the garment conveyer. The garments hidden inside plastic wrappings, paper wire hangers rubber banded together descending towards me, abruptly turning at the bottom before ascending again towards the other end, much like models on a runway. The sounds and smells paired with the order of it all satisfied an itch in my brain — a euphoric experience for whatever brand of autism I clearly had that no one seemed to notice.

To make the already fantastical sensory experience even sweeter, the owner always let me take two strawberry bon bons. The privilege of receiving two was well earned — one of my first, crucial lessons in ‘just ask and see.’ I’d spent years unsatisfied with just one candy, but the sign had said ‘take one,’ and I followed rules. One day I mustered up the courage to ask if I could perhaps take two. Of course, of course, he said.

I’d take great care in the enjoyment of those hard candies filled with a chewy strawberry filling. By the end of the second one, we’d be turning onto our street, the uneven concrete block road, the lake barely in view. The timing was like clockwork. I was especially interested in timing things with things. Two candies to home from the cleaners, three and a half songs to school from home. I loved the expectation. Filling the uncertainty with certainty — possibly my biggest asset and biggest hinderance in this life.

As I head into my 10^th year of cosplaying adulthood, I’ve accepted my fate. I am now ‘older people.’ I may not have an important job that requires important clothing, but I have a designated basket full of dry clean only fabrics that has been collecting for a length of time I refuse to share. On a few occasions throughout the past decade, I’d look in the basket, feel overwhelm and decide dry cleaning was out of the question. I’d donate the lot just to rid myself of the looming responsibility of taking my clothes somewhere because it wasn’t just a singular commitment errand — I’d have to go back. It was a two-part errand. It still seems like a logical decision to have made at the time and I support my past self’s decision. I would have never gone back to retrieve the clothing, if I managed to drop it off in the first place. To embrace dry cleaning, was to commit to a level of preplanned, organized consistency that I was not ready for.

Needless to say, despite my unconscious’s best efforts, I am now established at a dry cleaner.

I must admit, however I do in fact, not drop it off and pick it up. I have opted for the pickup and delivery plan. It’s not a weekly undertaking, but when I have a decent collection of dry clean only items, I schedule a pickup in the app, put it by my front door and a few days later, it’s back — a new kind of magical system. One that satiates an itch in my now adult brain, still riddled with a certain brand of undiagnosed autism that everyone notices.

The mechanics of dry cleaning are unbeknownst to me and quite frankly, I’d like to keep that part a mystery. But what I am sure of is that my clothing comes back in a state more pristine than when originally purchased. So fresh, and so clean (clean). Some of my silk button downs are so perfectly pressed that I’m rather intimidated by their appearance. My personal manner of dress could never assimilate something so intentional, proper, poised. I have this innate messy type B aura that follows me around, despite my best efforts to conceal. I’m convinced my natural essence, who I am at my core, would now offend the shirt. It’s been weeks and I still haven’t worn this particular vintage Ralph Lauren silk. In a twisted turn of events, I might still be donating. An inverted yet somehow identical response to the commitment that for so long plagued me.

I miss the all-encompassing sensory experience I devoured so intently as a child, but I’ve accepted that life in the 90s was a mystical experience never to be duplicated, so I keep it safely intact in my scarce yet vivid memory bank. In this era of life, pick-up and delivery still elicits the same unfeigned response, but this time, it’s less a physical experience and more an experience of appreciable relief. It’s in the caretaking. Having one task completed off my list in such a way I’m incapable of duplicating brings me a sense of contentment I find difficultly expressing in words. It’s the feeling of being tucked into bed at the end of a long day — after an everything shower, skincare lined up next to you on the nightstand, ready to be put on in the appropriately timed layered sequence, while watching a repeat episode of your favorite comfort show, the bed made and tucked so tightly it feels like a welcomed straitjacket. Calm. Clean. Completion.

It also ensures I won’t accidentally shrink yet another cashmere sweater during a mass dumping of laundry into the washer, just to get the job done.