Is Vacation, Vacation?

We’re going out of town next week. I wouldn’t call it a vacation, but traveling is always a treat, right? We’re headed back to our hometowns to visit family, sing Happy 70th Birthday to my Dad in Michigan, and celebrate the High Holiday – Rosh Hashanah in NYC. It will be a treat.

However, traveling is not as easy as it was before we decided to shack up together, get some dogs to pretend we were parenting, and then go ahead and open a 24/7 home business known as AirBnBeeber. Not to mention the whole traveling with a 2-year-old… talk about pretending to be parents.

Let me just start with the basics, to travel with or without your own car seat? That IS a question. If you rent a car in Michigan adding a car seat is like an extra $15 USDOLLARS a DAY! Are you kidding me? I could purchase a new one and then auction it off, donate it, return it?, and be better off financially. Why are you penalizing human beings for procreating? Do you actually want the human race to fail? Should we just not travelwith children?

If we left our baby at home with a sitter while we, Jason and I, travel that would be a couple thousand dollars and a lot of heartache, because what’s the point of visiting Grandparents, aunts/uncles, cousins if the wee ones aren’t with you? Rhetorical. I can tell you with certainty that once we had a child no one, no one, but our friends care if we, Jason and I, visit – just as long as the baby makes the trip. And shocker, 2-year-olds are not allowed to travel solo… yet, but in all honesty, if they were, that’s like a whole lot cheaper and then parents everywhere could ship them off to family while staying back and enjoying a peaceful, clean, tantrum free home again – that’s what I would call a Stay-cation, but I digress.

Let’s jump back to those dogs, WTF dogs? Sure, there may be fancy dog hotels and kennels, but only a barbarian (or someone with money, not the Middle Class) would dump their pre-baby, babies off to the unknown while going away for a week or two. No, our furbabies must be treated as the children they are, we will have someone stay at the house full time. Nurture them, walk them, feed them, hug them – basically our dogs get the vacation I want. Meanwhile, I’m schlepping around two cities, taking multiple flights which keep me locked in stale-recirculated-air filled airports for too many hours, while carrying my 30lb toddler because he’s tired of walking and the new “light-weight” (HA!) umbrella stroller we bought for the purpose of travel (add another $60 bucks to the trip) is just not the same as mama carrying him. Not to mention the several carry-on bags that are filled with necessary distractions for said toddler and all our work files while we travel, because hey, we do have jobs and they do require our attention and no, we don’t get vacation days, but that one is probably on us, since we own our own business and all. And being a small business owner (and I’m not talking about AirBnBeeber) is a lot of work, it has its perks, but it’s also 7 days a week and a lot of hours, but again, I digress.

Then yeah, there’s the AirBnBeeber and the guests all the guests that book their trips months in advance. We aren’t going to cancel on them for our vacation. Nope, instead we’ve hired a friend to manage and care for our guests while we’re gone. It’s a nice gig if you can get it! I think we pay pretty well.

Okay, so just to get to my sister’s house in Michigan we’ve spent money on, flights, rental car, child car seat, travel stroller (this may be a splurge, but if you have kids you get it, if you don’t have kids trust those of us that do – this is necessary), dog sitter, AirBnBeeber manager, and car parking at the airport which is about the same as an Uber ride there and back, but comes with a Car Seat for the kid – that’s like SO MUCH MONEY and we’re not even on vacation yet.

I could go on, but I won’t because at the end of the day we’re getting away and while I will worry and fret about the costs, and the business, and my pups I think it will be worth it, right?

I’m laughing like I’ve lost my mind, because I think maybe I have. Please, laugh with me so I feel like I’m not alone. 

~Xo

Table For One

There I stood, by myself, at the hostess stand waiting to be seated. The sign indicated I was to wait, and as I looked up and down the single row of booths, 14 in total, in the little diner that I had been frequenting since I moved to town, I saw a happy bustle of people taking leisurely lunches on a Friday afternoon ahead of the three day weekend. There were two servers and a busboy on the floor; from the window behind the counter I could count three line cooks.

After putting my name down, Jaime – party of one, on the self sign-in sheet, I stood and waited for a good long 5 minutes until I decided to take a seat on the narrow, holding bench, just big enough to support two waiting patrons. The Diner was as put together as an Ikea showroom: small and uniform, filling every space with perfectly fit, custom engineered small pieces, bright, and happy. After another five minutes of waiting a party of three entered the door, just to the right of me, and one of the two waitresses bee-lined over to them and asked, “Have y’all been helped yet?” She had a soft, put-on, Old South accent.

With a quick, unanimous shake of their heads – No, the waitress grabbed a stack of menus and ushered them to one of the two booths that had just been cleared in her section. Surely the dismissal of me was an oversight and the waitress would be right over to seat me in the empty booth opposite the three-top she’d just taken a drink order from. I smiled at the waitress as our eyes connected, and I waited.

I waited another five minutes (it’s now been 15 minutes if you’re tracking). The waitress made no indication that she would be offering me the booth, so I stepped outside and contemplated leaving. If I say something it would likely ignite an argument, I thought, which gave my insides an electric current of anxiety. But what if I just go back in and wait another few minutes standing so there is no confusion whether or not I’m waiting to be seated? I opted for the latter, my curiosity was piqued – just how long would it take for someone to wait-on the SWF (Single White Female)?

I reentered the diner and planted myself directly between the front door and the hostess stand. It would be a tight squeeze for any new diners to be seated ahead of me, and I smiled with newly found confidence.

The minutes ticked by slowly and painfully. I shifted my weight back and forth from one leg to the other, my hips pushing themselves into a deep tea-kettle pose, as I rested one hand at my waist while raising the other hoping to catch the attention of both waitresses or the busboy. It may be cliché to write, but I was boiling, you could tip me over…yada yada yada…

I stared unapologetically as patrons were leaving and tables cleared, first from the section to my left and then from the section to my right. The bright orange vinyl booths held the shape of the wide backs that had previously resided in them, and then after a few minutes they slowly restored to their original plump shape, with a faint pop as air penetrated it’s way back in. There I was, loitering, or so it must have appeared, as no one spoke a word to me. My mind started to wander as I looked at the melting cheeses and toasted buns being served one plate at a time.

Then the bell on the door behind me announced another new arrival. I turned to see a couple smiling at each other dreamily as they prepared for their lovers lunch on this Friday afternoon. I was mesmerized by their affection, and while distracted, had not noticed the same carrion waitress swoop in to snatch the couple up and seat them at the available booth in her section.

It took everything in me not to scream. I felt angry and self-conscious and the fact that not one of the patrons cutting in front of me bothered to say, “I think she was here first,” pissed me off even more.

I stared at the waitress, this two-time offender. I stared with the weight of my anger and frustration until she took notice. She hesitantly walked toward me and asked if I had been helped.

“No, I’ve not been helped,” my mind was bitter and spewing the words, but my mouth was calm and collected.

“Are you waiting for someone?” she asked obtusely.

“I’m waiting to be seated,” I answered as neutrally as possible, while thinking, okay, you’re special, you are a special kind of asshole.

“Oh, I guess we didn’t see you over here in all the commotion,” she giggled as she lied. I frowned. “Follow me this way,” she directed.

She had led me to a booth in the other waitress’ section.

“Some one will be right with you, okay Hon?” As the pronoun rounded itself off her tongue in a slow southern drawl, I smiled neutrally, again, as I made a mental note to write a Yelp review commenting on the one time I didn’t have decent service at The Diner, and then I thought, no I won’t, I don’t like being negative, I prefer everyone to see me as happy and positive all the DAMN TIME!

I was seated, in a booth, menu in hand and mentally, actively choosing to change my attitude. I sat, my lunch decision made: the Mixed Green Salad, a Fresh Fruit Bowl, and a Decaf Coffee. I closed the menu, and I waited. I checked my phone, the first time since I’d arrived at the diner, and noted I had now been at the restaurant for half of an hour and had not even been asked how I was doing today. Not that it’s mandatory, but it is customary.

I watched as a second booth in my section was filled by two burly men and then a third booth was filled by two women. I watched as the waitress in my section made her way to both tables, and chitchatted. She asked them how their day was going, if they had plans for the holiday weekend. I watched her take both tables’ drink orders and then deliver the beverages. I just sat there, and I waited, smiling, and watching.

I watched as more couples entered the restaurant, sat in the opposite section of mine, and placed their orders. Finally I caught the attention of the busboy and I asked him for a glass of water and if I could order.

“I’ll tell your waitress you’re ready,” he replied.

I watched as he made his way to my waitress. I saw her glance over and felt hopeful. I watched as she hustled to my side of the diner, walk right past me and gossip with yet another table of twenty-somethings about the good old days when she was married to a “Psycho, but that was before you all were born, I’m old,” she joked, lightly.

Then I watched as she took the orders of the burly gentlemen and then the women. I watched with longing, because I had skipped breakfast and was now really hungry. I thought my choice to stay and watch how this played out was stupid, but I was too invested to leave.

As my stomach rumbled, the waitress put the orders in for the tables seated after me, and I swallowed dryly as their drinks were topped off. I flagged down the busboy once again and asked him, loudly, “Who is my server? I would like to at least get a water.”

And then, the energy shifted. I was louder then I had intended to be. In fact I had projected so loudly that the carrion waitress was upon me instantly.

“Hey Hon, what seems to be the matter?” her drawl even thicker and her smile less convincing this time.

“Well, I’d like a glass of water, and I’d like to place my order, but it seems that I don’t have a waitress,” I stated neutrally and still quite loudly.

“Oh,” her tone condescending, “well maybe she just thought you were waiting for someone, Hon. Why don’t I get your order started and I’ll let her know,” she was dripping with sweetness and insecurity, unsure of how she would be handled by me.

“Great,” I started calmly, “I’ll take the Mixed Salad, the Fresh Fruit, and a Decaf Coffee.”

“You got it, Sugar,” I wondered whether Sugar was a euphemism for Bitch or Cunt.

As she placed my order with the line cooks, I saw her gesture at me to the other waitress. A moment later, the other waitress wordlessly delivered me a decaf coffee. The mug, indelicately set before me, spilled with the hard landing. I sopped it up, also wordlessly, and I felt the deep animosity of this older waitress and thought, was it your ex that was Psycho or was it you?

 Exactly three minutes later, my salad and fruit were delivered with the same amount of physical enthusiasm and silence. I ate quickly and efficiently, trying my best to enjoy the fresh cut mango. I had one silent refill of coffee and then the check arrived. I paid, left the standard tip, and exited.

When I got home I wondered if this was a normal, everyday experience for any of my friends.

****

That evening Jason, Jack and I went to the supermarket. I grabbed bananas as Jack and Jason made their way to the sample station, as is customary during our Trader Joe’s runs. When I met them at the sample station, there, cooing at my son, was the carrion waitress with her Old South accent. I said nothing as I looked at her and then to my husband, and I kissed my child’s head to show a little power. This time there was no denying that she had noticed me.

Her face turned as scarlet as the red, eyelet shift dress she wore. I smiled at her confirming recognition, as we had only just parted ways 3 hours prior. The guilt written on her face was enough for me, I looked at the family and asked, “what are we sampling? I’m starving! Did I tell you about the fresh mango I had at lunch?”

I winked good-bye to the waitress and pushed the cart forward as Jason (my husband) popped a bit of mini quiche in my mouth from the sample tray.

****

What would you have done?

Do They Like Me?

Online relationships are hard.

Oy. You have to email, or messenger, or text with a total stranger that we desire to like us, even though we may not end up liking them.

IMG_7086First impressions are the easiest because everyone looks good in a profile picture the size of a thumbnail! I’m not telling you anything new, I know, we all know, YES, everyone knows. It’s the best size to sell oneself because it’s not big enough to even be a book cover, let alone judge one. We accept the person and their happy, white, toothy grin because teeth are the one thing that standout on a picture that requires a magnifying glass to look at.

After we take two seconds to review this micro-mini thumbnail, we dive into the portfolio pictures, maybe manipulated with an app or for the pros, Photoshop, and decide if we are in love – which can take a total of one awesome picture staged perfectly, or a few super cute composite shots procured with any number of free apps, again, that make the common phone user a photographer.

That first written correspondence is the next gatekeeper. Most of us can agree that Twitter is not the example for proper short hand in an email or text, right? I want to see if they’ve used commas, periods, or exclamation points too much, or just enough? Have they substituted an “a” for an “e” on commonly used words? I am hesitantly forgiving of the “auto-correct” dictionary on the phone, but “definitely” will never be auto-corrected to “definAtely.” And if there are multiple paragraphs in the correspondence I tend to gloss over a few punctuation errors, as I make them myself. I’m not an asshole. As long as there are periods at the end of a sentence, I can live.

*Sidenote – This whole piece will not be edited since my editor is not home and I tend to ramble and forget basic-comma-laws.

Okay, the potential match has made it past the first several rounds: Profile Picture, Picture Gallery, and Written Correspondence. They’ve sent a wonderfully crafted and engaging first email and we are all smitten. I’m smitten. I’m ready to engage. I write back, immediately, not wanting to lose them to the other potential match they’ve reached out to. My response is equally generous in length, plus I am witty and approachable.

Our online banter goes on for several hours and we are confirmed for the following day and several dates after that… I have a two-date minimum. You should too. It’s just not worth it to pull everything together for one night. Time is money, and I spend a lot of time getting ready to make the best impression. I put money into the right look, I make the bed, I clean the bathroom, I vacuum, after all I am investing in my future. Then there’s the childcare now and I’m giving up time I could be working on my books. I love all this and I have no regrets, but no one-nighters.

You text me, “Getting on the road, should be there in an hour.”

After an hour goes by I look out the window waiting for you to pull into the driveway. I’ve left a light on so you can easily find your way, but an hour comes and goes and I don’t see you or hear from you. I debate whether I should reach out or not. I decide against it. I will wait until the morning.

The next morning I still haven’t heard from you so I text, “Good morning! I just wanted to check in and confirm all is well?”

Nothing. No response. Not a peep.

After all the build up and the back and forth messaging, inside jokes had already formed and then they just stopped communicating with me. I wondered if I had said something wrong. I reread our messages to be sure; the last thing I would want to be is offensive or insensitive. Nothing.

Day 3 – Silence.

Day 4 – I just stopped worrying about it.

It has now been five days. Five days and I just now, now received a new message in my inbox!

“Hello, I apologize for the late response. I had a few things to take care of when I arrived and then returned home. I do want to thank you, however, for everything. I’ve stayed at a few Airbnb’s in L.A. and this has been the best stay by far! Thank you, thank you, thank you. I will definitely be referring you to others and I know they will enjoy their stay and your hospitality as much as I did.”

So, in summary, no news is good news. As a host and concierge I am hella awesome. And it’s not like I’m trying to date online – thank goodness – but if you are (trying to date online), I’m definitely on your side. If that ass doesn’t call, text, or has the nerve to stand you up – let me know. I’ll write them a well crafted, edited email or text letting them know they suck.

It’s The Little Things, Ya Know?

IMG_6817I can’t drink coffee anymore.

I love coffee. The rich, intoxicating aroma leads me into a calm, serene state of mind. The purposeful measured “splash” of cream that caramelizes its hue brings a smile to my face. A single sugar cube to sweeten the roast for my tongue is my greatest pleasure in the morning. It’s my ritual, my every morning, and my friend-date go-to.

I worked at a coffee shop. I loved pulling shots of freshly ground, espresso. I loved the smiles and thanks I received when I handed someone their drink. I loved the smell of my clothes that permanently wore the scent of roasting beans. I loved the false bravado of the customer who set-up her/his laptop for a long afternoon of staring at a blank screen.

Coffee can perk you up when you’re down or feeling sluggish, and it will be your muse when you lack inspiration. It’s a treat and I rewarded myself daily.

Now, the Doctor says I cannot drink coffee.

“You should consider yourself allergic,” she rationalized.

Two months ago today was my last mug of the good stuff. Had I known it would be my last cup, I would have cherished it more. I would have sat down, with delicious biscotti, and I would have closed my eyes and thanked it for the lifetime we’d spent together. I wouldn’t have let it get cold sitting on the counter while I changed a poopy diaper, dressed a screaming toddler, and dropped him off at daycare only to come home and resent my coffee’s stale bitterness from being nuked in the microwave.

I’ve been savoring the rich dark roast since the age of nine. My parents allowed me a cup of their Folgers every weekend. If I visited my parents today, surely I would find a large, plastic, red tub of Folgers precariously shoved into the top cupboard of their 1986 galley kitchen with its light blue wallpaper that’s been peeling at the corners since 1989. It would go without saying that coffee would be made and a large blue tin of Danish butter cookies would be served.

I miss my coffee.

A couple of weeks ago I tried decaf. While the smell that wafted from the hot cardboard was familiar the taste – was off. The warm drink minus the caffeine made me drowsy. I tried to convince myself that the decaf espresso would be better than stale diner coffee, it isn’t. It’s not the same. There’s no reward to drinking decaf, no high, no rush, no momentum.

I went grocery shopping yesterday. I wandered sluggishly down the baking aisle and followed my nose to the coffee beans. I smelled every bag, I lingered at the bean grinder, I stuck my face into the shoot it was still warm and oily from the last grind. It smelled amazing.

I picked up a bag of Breakfast Blend and headed to the express lane. I forgot to pick-up dinner, but we could just order in. I rushed into the house as fast as I could, running to the corner of the kitchen counter I ripped open the coffee grinds ready to pour them into the filter and I couldn’t find the coffee machine. Here, on the white Caesarstone, coffee stained counter there was no coffee machine.

“JASON!” I shouted, not caring if the toddler was sleeping.

“Yeah, Babe?” came his calm, measured response.

“Where’s the coffee pot?”

“I sold it.”

************************************************************************************

My heart is racing and my eye is twitching and my leg keeps bouncing, but I am happy. I am across the street at the Coffee Haus writing to you, sipping my café au lait made with fully caffeinated, dark roast coffee. Don’t let anyone tell you, ‘you can’t,’ because I am proof you can.

Unsolicited Advice

Let’s Rant.

What is it about unsolicited advice that gets me so worked up? There are multiple scenarios within reason I can admit I’m guilty of “advising” in… for example friends/people/strangers that may have just wanted an ear to vent to and there I go giving advice. I am specifically not talking about those times. Because unless you specify at the top of the conversation, “I am going to vent a lot to you right now and I do not want you to tell me what to do or give me your insight or thoughts AT ALL,” then, you’re screwed, because whatever, we (meaning me) want to express our opinion or perhaps, unsolicited advice, because it is human nature.

No, I am not talking about that brand of unsolicited advice, rather, I am talking about the advice a certain generation (Generation Baby Boomer) writes out on old receipts found in the trash or at the bottom of a salty purse for Jason and I to find brazenly atop the pillows after they’ve checked out of the AirBnBeeber.  That’s right, those crazy nuts that also go by the name Grandma and Grandpa, just cannot help themselves and need to let us know what we’ve done wrong.

For some reason the current Grandma and Grandpa generation just cannot enjoy an experience without sharing their important unsolicited advice that I have “coined” as criticism. 

For example, there was recently a note left behind, two-sided, front and back, that expressed how we could have, “made their stay nicer,” if we would have, “installed a larger refrigerator and a microwave oven.”

This was so important to the guests that they both texted and emailed us to let us know they left said note for us in case we missed it or thought it was trash, since it was written on a piece of trash.

It was hard to miss the red, bold, Sharpie pen ink.

If you are not feeling what I am emoting it is heavy silence. My face has become hard and my eyes are shooting daggers into an imaginary target.

Preposterous.

Then there was the sixty-nine year old hippie that needed, needed, us to immediately return our sink and vanity to IKEA and purchase a larger, wider and deeper unit like the ones at Crate and Barrel (this from a legit hippie) or take the overhead matching cabinet off the wall and install it two feet higher so he didn’t feel like he was going to bump his head while brushing his teeth.

He also wanted to show us how he had rearranged the room and thought it worked better with the murphy bed raised…in raising it himself without the know how he busted the mounted reading lights, broke the bed’s feet off, and could have maimed himself from his own stupidity had he not called us in to complain about our bathroom vanity.

I’m laughing. Truly, I’m laughing. What an asshole. 

Preposterous.

Then there was the lovely woman traveling alone (right-on!), that also left us a long, two-sided note of all the things we should add to the unit to make it nicer:

Lemon Tea

Chamomile Tea

Mint Tea

Herbal Tea

Lavender Tea

Chai Tea

Rose Water Tea

Jasmine Tea

Oolong Tea

Sleepy-Time Tea

Tension Tamer Tea

Green Tea

 

I’m confused, additional tea options? Could have just said that. Or gone to the market across the street and picked up the flavor you like. 

Preposterous.

And finally, for now, we will come to the one couple that left us a note regarding money. They wanted to let us know how nice our studio is, but that we are just not the best value because we’re not…wait for it… a hotel. Maybe if we added a pool or hot tub we could compete with the better hotels around Los Angeles… let’s get one thing straight we cost a fraction of what the Best Western up the way charges, so it cannot be the nightly charge, right?

So, wait, WHAT?

Preposterous.

The teenager in me wants to talk back and tell them how stupid they sound, but there’s a little fear I may be grounded and not heard. AmIRight? 

 

 

Book Excerpt – Two-Fer Tuesdays

pexels-photoIt was Tuesday, and I was sitting at my desk, which was two medium strides away from the bathroom, and my dead-end job was promising to bind me to it for eternity.

I had the unique and questionable privilege of being able to observe every person walking in and out of the bathroom. My co-workers, whom I also referred to as “Work Friends,” felt a deep sense of obligation to chat me up every time they used the loo… which was often, and in some cases (Derrick) too often, much to my chagrin.


“Please come to Happy Hour tonight. It’s Two-Fer Tuesdays; that’s two drinks for the price of one, but they give them both to you at the same time. We can split the cost of one drink, but each actually get a full drink of our own!” The Cogs in the machine, that’s what I called us and when I say ‘Us’ I mean the ones of us that dedicated our work hours to work and got paid a pittance for it. This was Elaine; a cog. She was always trying to make it OKAY for me to spend money with work people after work hours.

“What if I just want water?” That is how I treated Elaine: with obnoxious requests I knew she would accept.

“Yes! So you’ll come! Yay! Also, do you know Adeline?”

“No,” and frankly I wasn’t interested in knowing Adeline or anyone else from the company on a personal level. I didn’t want another excuse to NOT walk away from this job. I didn’t want it to become more bearable by making friends. I liked being the loner here.

“You’ll love her. She’s new, one of them, but you’ll love-love-love her, promise.” By Them Elaine was referring to the Marketing people. And I was suspicious of her promises of “love-love-love”.

The Marketing Team was the Pride of the company. The rest of us were just trying to survive out on the Serengeti of day jobs. And since your title defined your merit, it was difficult to blame them for believing they were the very best of the company.

I needed to get out of this Happy Hour.

“Shoot… I forgot, I might have something I already committed to, but I’ll let you know for sure by the end of the day.”

Elaine could see through my poor attempt at a lie, but honestly, the title “Marketing” was equivalent to Narcissist, and I just didn’t want to spend the evening biting my tongue and fighting the urge to challenge this newbie every time she wanted to dominate the conversation with her branding ideas. Or the numerous accolades awarded her in MBA school.

Gag.

As I watched Elaine walk away disappointed, I knew I was going to end up going, and maybe split the cost of a drink with her, and talk to this new Marketing woman – Adeline, and maybe make a new friend.

Gag.

WTH Is jayra joy?

Screen Shot 2017-02-12 at 7.48.38 PMFor the friends and family that have been asking, what is the deal with jayra joy Designs – I am dedicating this blog post to telling you what the deal is. And for those of you that only know me from my blog and as a writer – I also have a little Etsy boutique called, jayra joy Designs where I sell clothes I design and make with my business partner.

jayra joy – the name itself comes from the combination of my partner/neighbor/friend’s name and mine: Jaime + Ruthann = jayra. The JOY just happens to be the name of the beautiful little street all the magic and fun happens on…or as we like to call it our Lab of Designs.

I just love the way clothes can make me feel. They transport me into the roles and characters I feel like playing on any given day. No, I’m not saying I have multiple personalities, but I do have a lot of fun pretending. And I do have my own little quirky style that features me at my best.

Clothes have always been out of my budget. Why does so-called “quality” mean I need to sell my kidney to afford it? And why can’t we all have access to these great, staple pieces that make us feel good, and aren’t made to fit one or two body types, and are versatile and feminine?

I found myself experimenting with some of the online styling sites that send you clothes based on your preferences, budget, and style, and it was a huge fail, but I did love putting together all the boards of my favorite pieces and styles on Pinterest for them! And I found I was just creating the same outfit over and over which happened to be the exact pieces I’d worn the hell out of already in my closet and couldn’t afford to buy new ones of on my writer’s salary or lack there of.

Right before I’d found out I was pregnant I’d started collecting clothing patterns and I had the idea that I was going to sew my own clothes. My perfect A-line skirts with folded pleats and stunning tutu’s I could wear any day or night of the week. I wanted a wrap that paired with jeans and dress slacks. I wanted shirts with flutter sleeves that highlighted my arms correctly. I wanted to make clothes my way that were unique and fit, and all with the best fabrics and that would be that.

I went downtown to the fabric district and investigated. I bought a ton of amazing fabrics. A couple heavy bags worth. And then I sat in the closet with those heavy bags of fabric and I realized I had no idea how to sew and I had no sewing machine. So I started to collect more clothing patterns and I Yelped sewing classes and I thought, I can do this.

Then I took a pregnancy test and it was positive. And I forgot about making clothes and hid those heavy bags of fabric in the dark corner of my cramped closet and I just prayed I could book enough acting gigs and finish writing my first book before the pitter patter of little feet were upon me.

Cut to 2 years later, many discussions with my neighbor who just conveniently happens to be an amazing designer and owns the Olympics of sewing machines, two women with a passion for creating, and a little part time business later – we’re making clothes! Really great clothes that we love making; it’s part business, part passion.

We all should be able to do something we have a passion for: karaoke, knitting, marathons, boxing, I just happen to love designing. I’m having fun and yes, I’m still writing full time, but having the opportunity to do another thing I enjoy and provide an extra source of income for my family is a gift and I cherish it.

For everyone that has supported us and purchased from us – multiple times – thank you from the bottom of my heart. It means so much to me. It is art, and I love creating for you.

If you’re interested in checking out our shop just head to http://www.jayrajoy.com! And just for checking us out, here’s a little treat: use code HBDJAIME2017 to get 15% off your purchase! Good thru April 30, 2017.