October
09
Greenville, SC
Cover art by Aimee Sicuro
our jewelry your journey
Committed to your FIT success!
Look for new monogram styles coming in October.
We are your athletic shoe and sports bra fitting experts!
Cooking with October 17th – join us for a Cookout! Have lunch with us with a Brooks shoe fitting!
LADIES – Save the date! Ladies Night at Fleet Feet
Get personal! Add a monogram disc to any of our necklaces or bracelets.
Special deals on footwear
and gift with purchase all weekend!
November 19th 6:00–8:00 pm
Proud sponsor of the Spinx Run Fest October 31st! Lots of prizes.........sports bra fittings.........drawings
Be sure you’re on our email list for notification of our fall monogram sale. Stop by any store or visit behandpicked.com.
and Special Deals!
Get a jump on your holiday shopping! 1708-Augusta St.
Shops at Greenridge Woodruff Rd. at I-85 & I-385 864.272.1058 www.behandpicked.com
Lewis Plaza 235-4800
fun & affordable jewelry!
www.fleetfeetgreenville.com At Fleet Feet, the “F-Word” is FIT! Ladies, don’t fit just your feet! We specialize in sports bra fitting.
October is Breast Cancer Awareness month.
1708-A Augusta St., Lewis Plaza 235-4800 Check out our new Web site at www.fleetfeetgreenville.com
Remember to schedule your mammogram – and remind a friend to schedule hers, too! We are Greenville’s Premier Mastectomy Boutique By evaluating your post-surgical appearance and lifestyle, our certified fitters can choose a product that best suits your needs. Our goal is to help bring graciousness and confidence to your world. We file for Medicare, Medicaid and all private health insurance.
Join us October 23rd For a Surgical Bra and Prosthetic Fitting Event A representative from
Hours: Mon-Fri 10 am-5 pm Sat 10 am-4 pm Capers Place 2
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will be here to assist you with your fitting!
Greenville, SC 29605
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Septemberw2009greenville
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October
09
about skirt! Publisher Nikki Hardin editor@skirt.com
features The Franken-Tree
Greenville Editor Sheril Bennett Turner sheril.turner@skirt.com
Stefanie Fife ................................................................................................8
Beyond Basil
National Art Director Caitilin McPhillips caitilin.mcphillips@skirt.com
Stephanie Hunt .....................................................................................10
The F Word: Gloria Who?
Director of Sales Angela Filler angela.filler@skirt.com
Julie Zeilinger ..........................................................................................12
Sales Executive Kathryn Barmore kathryn.barmore@skirt.com
“The Secret to…”
Graphic Designer Shelli H. Rutland
“The Secret to…”
Photographers John Fowler Sheril Bennett Turner
“The Secret to…”
Amber Osborne ..................................................................................16
Tonja Weimer .........................................................................................18
Catalina Keller ........................................................................................20
Sales 864.357.3669
Roughing It Stacy Appel ..............................................................................................25
FAX: 864.751.2815
sheMAIL
Coming Out of the Craft Closet
1708-C Augusta ST. #335 Greenville, SC 29605
Nikki Loftin ..............................................................................................26
subscribe! For a one-year Subscription (12 issues), send a $35 check to:
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skirt!Greenville 1708-C Augusta ST. #335 Greenville, SC 29605
Calendar.........................................................................................................5 From the Publisher/Editor...................................................................6 Letters..............................................................................................................7 skirt! Alerts/Brava/It’s a Shame...................................................13 Skirt of the Month................................................................................14 He’s So Original w/ Olivier Blanchard & Trey Pennington..................................................................................23
skirt.com
skirt! is published monthly and distributed free throughout the greater Greenville area. skirt! Reserves the right to refuse to sell space for any advertisement the staff deems inappropriate for the publication. Unsolicited manuscripts must be accompanied by a self-addressed, stamped envelope. Letters to the editor are welcome, but may be edited due to space limitations. Press releases must be received by the 1st of the month for the following month’s issue. All content of this magazine, including without limitation the design, advertisements, art, photos and editorial content, as well as the selection, coordination and management thereof, is Copyright © 2009, Morris Publishing Group, LLC. All Rights Reserved. No portion of this magazine may be copied or reprinted without the express written permission of the publisher. SKIRT!® is a registered trademark of Morris Publishing Group, LLC.
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skirt! Loves..............................................................................................28 Products.......................................................................................................29 Girl Power w/ Amber Elizabeth Singleton...............................................................30 24/7 w/ Mary Ann Sudnick..............................................................32 Browse..........................................................................................................33 Planet Nikki................................................................................................34 skirt.com
09
october
[ Find more skirt! events online at greenville.skirt.com/event ]
sunday
monday
tuesday
wednesday
thursday
2
OCTOBER CHALLENGE
Join Frank Warren, the New York Times bestselling author, as he shares the stories behind the intimate PostSecret blog. peacecenter.org.
“Try a thing you haven’t done three times. Once, to get over the fear of doing it. Twice, to learn how to do it, and a third time to figure out whether you like it or not.� Virgil Thomson
funday
saturday
3
SATURDAY
The Trillium Art Festival is a fun, funky, event, focused on folk and outsider arts, as well as all of your local artists. trilliumartscentre.org/festival. Brush up your chicken dance for the crowd-favorite 4th Annual Greer Station Oktoberfest! greerchamber.com.
4.5
Bike MS: Carolinas Biketober Challenge 2009 is a twoday fundraising bike ride. bikencp.nationalmssociety.org Take a walk on the wild side at Saskatoon with nightly wild game specials like elk, pheasant, and bear— Oh My!
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Pants on Fire tells the story of Brad Spoofer, a pathological liar on a quest for glory. peacecenter.org.
surrects EthelFern rech chains at w ge vinta d turns and fobs anre purposed to them in eating jewelry, cr ces that are unique pie DIY style. perfect for sy.com ethelfern.et
Enjoy a traditional German feast and perfectly paired wines and beers of Germany in the rustically intimate setting of The Farm during Oktoberfest Old Edwards Style. oldedwardsinn.com.
When you register for the Alzheimer’s Association Memory Walk, you’re joining a nationwide community of thousands of people who are standing up and participating in the fight against this devastating disease. alz.org.
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The International Ballet presents the spicy and lively Fall Gala: Paquita Y Mas, plus a stunning variety of repertoire selections. internationalballetacademy.net.
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Enjoy outdoor dining with selections from 43 restaurants with live music at the 27th Annual St. Francis Fall for Greenville. mainstevents.com.
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SATURDAY
Don’t miss Jane Campion’s (The Piano) latest—Bright Star, the story of Keats and his muse Fanny Brawne or Whip It!, starring 26 You’ve seen her on Ellen Page and Drew Barrymore, shows like “My Life on in a roller-derby dramedy.
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Third Day Revelation Tour Presents THE FAMILY PICNIC, Heritage Park Amphitheatre in Simpsonville. heritageparkamphitheater.com.
the D-List,� “The View,� and “Suddenly Susan,� now catch Emmy Awardwinning comedienne Kathy Griffin live on stage. peacecenter.org.
Be a Part of the Art at the Greer Station Fall Gallery Walk 2009. Free Event. greerstation.com.
27.28 The Albino Skunk Bluegrass Festival in Greer is a local favorite with great food and music. albinoskunk.com.
27.29
Oktoberfest celebration in Greenville, Greenville Symphony Orchestra style! Grab a beer, courtesy of Thomas Creek Brewery, and join Co-Principal Trumpet Phil Elkins. greenvillesymphony.org.
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Have an outdoor pumpkin-carving party.
Set up tables with tools, margaritas and snacks,
Mauritius is a gripping tale of two estranged half-sisters who, after their mother’s death, discover a book of rare stamps that may include the crown jewel for collectors. centrestage.org. Bubble Tea and free Wi-Fi make O-CHA Tea Bar the laid-back place to work or play
33.42 and have everyone bring their own pumpkin to carve.
(Save the seeds to roast.)
Let the wild rumpus begin!
SATURDAY
Join the fight against breast cancer at the 19th annual Clip for the Cure event. Haircuts are only $15 from 12-6pm from stylists at Regis, Hair Plus, and Images. regissalons.com/clipforthecure.cfm. 5th Annual Pink Ghost Breast Health Awareness Event! pinkghost.org.
28.31
Halloween event for kids 12 and under! Join the Boo in the Zoo at the Greenville Zoo. greenvillezoo.com.
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Scare yourself silly when Grammy-winning Doobie Brothers. peacecenter.org. the Warehouse Theatre presents its 3rd Annual Interactive Haunted SATURDAY House: Gates of Delirium. Get Ready to Hoopla! Fun for kids of all ages, the Greer warehousetheatre.com. Station Halloween Hoopla is the trick or treatin’ place to be! greerstation.com. Bin 112 in Greer is now open for lunch Wednesday through Friday! Try one of their 35.36 The whole family will enjoy the colorful costumes spectacular Angus Beef Gourmet Burgers! and memorable characters of this classic version of Snow White, presented by the Carolina Ballet Theatre. carolinaballet.org.
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You’ve heard him on movie soundtracks. He has performed for heads of state, earned 15 Grammys, and amazed audiences for half a century. You’ll be enchanted by Itzhak Perlman’s unmistakable tone, power, and outright joy. peacecenter.org.
Bluegrass at Peace! Soluna Salon and Spa Halloween comes with an peacecenter.org. presents Free Yourself: extra treat—the familyInspiration through friendly 5th Annual Spinx Fashion at the Brooks Runfest! spinxrunfest.com. Center for Performing Arts, Clemson University. This fall fashion show and event benefits Our Daily Rest, Oconee County’s first homeless shelter. Septemberw2009greenville   5 salonsoluna.com. skirt.com
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from the publisher
skirt! & you Let us know what’s on your mind, respond to an article, or give us info on an upcoming event. Send letters or press releases to sheril.turner@ skirt.com, or mail to skirt! Greenville, 1708-C Augusta St. #335, Greenville, SC 29605.
the D.I.Y. issue Last month, I dug up five deeply rooted bushes by the side of my house with the help of a rusty “lady-size” shovel in order to
cover artist Aimee Sicuro received a BFA from Columbus College of Art and Design. After experience working as a line designer for American Greetings and a Flash animator for a once-bud-
We are always looking for new writers and artists. Our guidelines for writers and artists are available online at skirt.com. Submit artwork or essays via e-mail to submissions@skirt.com. Check out our website at skirt.com for giveaways, essays, and other extras that aren’t in the print edition.
ding dot-com in San Francisco,
by circumstance and in search of a new perspective, she took a job as a project manager and illustrator at a design firm in Soho. At Slover and Company she spent three years learning the business of art and the art of business. Currently, Aimee lives and works as a freelance illustrator in California where she rediscovers life every day on the vibrant streets of San Francisco. Whether she is running in Golden Gate Park or sketching at her favorite
nikki
corner café, she never fails to return home with oodles of
backyard. I guess I could have paid someone to do it, but I got tired of waiting on people to call me back. The other alternative was to borrow a friend’s husband, but sometimes I get tired of being pitiful and grateful. It hadn’t occurred to me
she packed her portfolio and headed to New York. Inspired
clear the ground for a path to my
skirt.com & you Crowd Pleaser
to do it myself, because the bushes looked like they were going to put
Join the fastest growing group of creative bloggers, become a skirt!setter today! Sign up at skirt.com/skirtsetter.
up a hell of a fight, and my collection
got news?
with a butcher knife and scissors.
Send calendar events to the editor. Inclusion will be based on available space each month.
of garden tools is almost as skimpy as my assortment of kitchen tools. In fact, I’ve been known to “garden”
Removing the bushes wasn’t nearly
as hard as I’d imagined; it only needed a lot of cursing and jumping up and down on the shovel. Which is probably what a borrowed husband would have done anyway. Now that I’ve grown my own tomatoes and done some manual labor, I feel pretty proud, but that’s where the D.I.Y. stops for me. I’m too leery of electricity to install a ceiling fan or rewire a lamp, too lazy to try and change my own oil, too scared of the dark to really enjoy camping. I admire the women who can sew, grow their own food, hotwire a car, replace leaky faucets and chop firewood, and in case of a postapocalyptic natural disaster and the resultant rebuilding, I intend to have
nikki
nikki
one or two of them for friends. And what will I contribute, you ask?
good material for her art and a renewed determination to live
The wine and peanuts, of course!
a creative life. See her work at aimeesicuro.com.
from the editor Hello, my name is Sheril, and I am a habitual Do-It-Yourselfer. Like similar addicts, I have “my projects” scattered everywhere in various stages of completion and they consume my life. I adore writing and enjoy taking photos. I’ve made my own clothes, accessories, and jewelry. I’ve tinkered with toilets, created a stone bathtub surround, and studied home decorating intensely so I could look at thousands of paint swatches without fainting. I’m game for most any art or craft project that does not involve popsicle sticks. There are a few things, however, that I avoid at all costs—only a trained professional will do. I call this my Don’t-Do-It-Yourself List and it includes: 1. Pest control. 2. Preparing experimental dinners for my meat and potato spouse. 3. Cutting my child’s hair (Tried it. It was not a pretty sight). 4. Major medical or dental procedures that involve sharp objects. 5. Homeschooling (Honestly, I’d rather pull my own teeth). Luckily, for those of us in need of occasional professional help, this issue includes some interesting experts with some out-of-the-ordinary advice and tips. It’s DIY—skirt! style!
sheril
skirt.com
sheril.turner@skirt.com
Visit Us! 6
Octoberw2009greenville
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dearskirt!
Aesthetic Solutions by
Dear Nik (I can call you that because we must somehow be friends), Every month I look forward to finding
The common thread that seems to run through all the varied and timely subjects is the celebration of life and hope even through challenging experiences.
the
artistic
and
message-bearing
next issue of skirt!. Thank you for the
engaging
writers,
illustrators
and artists that are woven into each month’s theme. I also appreciate your visual journal as the grand finale!
fabulous, I never think they can get better but I continue to be wrong. The Eve issue was perfect—I will frame and give it to my little girl, Evy, someday. In the meantime, I am working on a little token of my gratitude for the hours of creative spirit, not to mention detailed tasks you must manage in order to share skirt! with readers each month. Again, I am inspired by you and so many
signal to rush to the nearest outlet for a
of your writers and artists each and
new issue of skirt! magazine. I always
every month. Thank you for continuing
remember to get one for my daughter
to engage us to actually read.
of whom love words and clever design as much as I do. Oh, and I always pick up one more to surprise someone who hasn’t yet discovered the joy of reading your publication. Two years ago, I retired from over thirty years of teaching writing and miss most the beautiful essays and poems of my students. How refreshing to have a monthly source of inspiring words from your talented writers. The common thread that seems to run through all the varied and timely subjects is the celebration of life and hope even through challenging experiences. Thank you for enriching my life with such keen insight and beautiful language. Donna Dowling Greenville, S.C.
Lavette Lane Greenville, SC
Just wanted to say that we saw the skirt! magazine article on Morgan [Girl Power, July 2009] and we were very pleased! The article and picture were great! Morgan had lots of fun doing that and we just wanted to thank you again for the opportunity. Suzanne and Morgan Brown Greer, SC
Nothing in a long while has lifted my spirit! What a wonderful publication, wonderful!
things saved, I came across an issue of skirt!, which I am very sorry to say I do not know when or how I acquired it. It was the November 2008 issue. All I know for certain is while on a rather “down day,” I sat with a cup of tea and has lifted my spirit! What a wonderful
Can Do
wisdom, fun, joy and visual delights Alma Lyons Bremerton, WA
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In going through my file cabinet of
read it through. Nothing in a long while
A Perfect time to try our Pampering Services
The messages on each cover are so
Turning the page on my calendar is a
and another for my son’s fiancée, both
October is for Breast Cancer Awareness
Have an opinion? Email your editor. All letters to the editor must include the writer’s name and city/state.
near the intersection of Pelham and Boiling Springs skirt.com
Septemberw2009greenville
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Do-it-yourself was a way of life in our family. Stefanie Fife
I can’t talk now,” said my mother. “I’m on my way to your sister’s. We’re canning tomatoes.” It wasn’t a huge surprise. My younger sister is just like Martha Stewart, without the prison time. “Put Dad on the phone,” I said. “He can’t talk either. He and Beaker are going to the mall for their computer lesson.” Beaker is a white Maltese my older sister rescued and gifted to my father. Beaker travels in a smart red bag on my father’s shoulder. They do everything together. I pause, trying to remember my father before he turned into Paris Hilton. “Then they’re going to mow the lawn.” I’m oddly relieved. Not that I think a man approaching 80 should mow a lawn. Particularly in August. It’s just that this is closer to the man I know. “Tell him to hire a gardener,” I say, knowing perfectly well he won’t. It’s in his blood to do it himself. My family crest has a picture of a glue gun, a tool belt and a Home Depot gift card. Our tartan isn’t plaid, but a quilt made from squares of cheesecloth and burlap. Do-it-yourself was a way of life in our family. A mantra. It didn’t matter what the project was: painting, plumbing, gardening, auto mechanics, sewing, roofing. Why hire someone when you have two capable hands, a weekend and initiative? This philosophy permeated every avenue of life. Right down to our Christmas tree. The last day of school before Christmas was exciting for two reasons. First, because it was the last day of school before Christmas. Second, it was the day we got our Christmas tree. Check that—started to get our Christmas tree. This was a process that took the entire weekend. Procuring a tree didn’t take the whole weekend because we had a tradition of driving to a faraway Christmas tree farm where we’d sing carols in three-part harmony, sip steamy hot chocolate from mugs, skate on a frozen pond and tromp through rows of perfect Grand Noble Firs until a chirping red cardinal or blue jay alighted on one, signaling us, in one of those serendipitous magical moments that this was the tree for us, after which we’d strap the tree securely to the top of a wood-paneled station wagon and drive home, snuggled in warm blankets. Don’t get me wrong, ours was a great tradition. It was just different. We’d drive to the nearest lot and take turns holding up tree after tree for my father’s approval. After much discussion and what seemed like hours, we’d decide on the least ill-formed tree that as little money as possible could buy. The tree wasn’t always shaped like a cone and usually had at least one bald side. Using miles of twine, my father would tightly strap the tree to the top of our Buick Special, and we’d get it home, mostly intact. It took the rest of the weekend for my father to ready the tree for decoration. An excruciating wait for three excited children. “You want to slap ornaments anywhere, willy nilly over the tree?” he’d ask. As a matter of fact, that’s exactly what we wanted to do. But first things first. The tree needed to relax, to open, each branch negotiating with gravity to find its natural resting place. This took time. All of Friday night to be exact.
Saturday morning, after cartoons, the real work began. My father would scoot us away from the garage and then, like an arboreous Dr. Frankenstein, start redesigning the tree. He’d chop off a branch from one location of the trunk, drill a hole in a different place and begin moving branches. Sometimes a branch would be moved clear to the other side of the tree. Sometimes just a few inches. By nightfall, assuming there were no unanticipated complications, the entire tree was reconfigured. We’d pace, nervous about the outcome. We needn’t have worried. My father was a skilled and masterful surgeon. Our Franken-tree was moved into the house, where it spent another night “breathing.” A final inspection deemed it ready for decoration. After lights were carefully draped around the perfectly symmetrical branches, it was time for decorating and our annual Christmas ornament contest. The ornament contest was great fun, and I’m pretty sure it was my mother’s idea. She loves crafts of all kinds—the wilder the concept, the better. She’s very encouraging and full of great ideas, although actual outcomes may vary. When I was eleven, she helped me make a five-foot Tyrannosaurus rex out of chicken wire and papier mâché as part of a Halloween costume. It took two months to build and five minutes to figure out that dragging a five-foot tall dinosaur on a red Radio Flyer wagon up and down slender walkways in the dark wasn’t as easy as it sounded. People at the few houses I managed to reach were quite complimentary, even after the tail came off. Winning the Christmas ornament contest in our family came with a huge honor. The winner got to place the blown-glass star on top of the tree. We hung our cotton-ball snowmen, sleigh bells crafted from walnuts and glitter and bedazzled felt stockings on the tree next to the more traditional glass balls. Every year we added more homemade decorations. I have to say, we always had beautiful trees. More magical than any fluttering red cardinal or blue jay could have imagined. It was a different time. Doing it yourself was a watermark of the era, and while it could be frustrating, it was mostly fun. My mother spent countless hours sewing so we could have matching special-occasion dresses. She taught us to crochet. We made jars of apricot jelly, gardened and bled brakes, and all the while we talked. A broken dishwasher meant a weekend spent kneeling on the kitchen floor, appliance guts strewn about, screws and bolts organized in pot pie tins and baby food jars, numerous trips to the hardware store, bologna sandwiches, and delicious discussions over the meaning of life, how spark plugs work and why sometimes extra parts didn’t matter and sometimes they really did. It was exhilarating when the broken appliance roared back to life. I wouldn’t trade those memories for anything. Technology and time changed things. One day, due to the computer in the car’s engine, my father hired a mechanic. It became more cost-effective to buy a fancy dress or a new mixer than to sew or repair. Eventually, my father stopped changing his own oil and took up golf. One year, my mother even bought an artificial Christmas tree. She loves the ease. It’s up, fully decorated in an hour. No watering, or messy pine needles to vacuum. My father seems to like it as well. Now he has the entire weekend to take Beaker to the mall.
Stefanie Fife has no intentions of recovering from her D.I.Y. youth. She lives in Los Angeles where in between work as a musician and her writing, she recently built and painted two fences. 8
Octoberw2009greenville
skirt.com
October the D.I.Y. issue
09
Fixer-upper or brand new
or a credit at ACE?
Are you DIY?
skirt.com
Octoberw2009greenville
 
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Stephanie Hunt
Beyond
It’s a marvel of modern living that I, a 46-year-old with a healthy appetite, averaging 2,000 calories a day, have consumed well over 32,752,000 calories in my lifetime, and never grown, raised or produced more than a few hundred of them myself. And it takes a lot of basil, mint and rosemary— my only successful crops to date—to account for 200 calories.
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Octoberw2009greenville
skirt.com
Beyond Basil
Fourteen leaves. That’s counting the sad ones with crinkly brown edges and the tiny ones barely curling off the stem, too young and tender to be tossed into the hurly-burly of a salad. That’s the whole of my basil harvest this season. As summer’s growing spell shrinks to blessedly cooler days, with the sun trailing off center stage, trading its glaring overhead light status for softer, tilted angles, I’m surveying my garden, or what passes for it, and shaking my head. Full disclosure—the basil actually never even made it into the ground this year. Those fourteen leaves on a slumping stalk are on my kitchen windowsill, root-bound in the plastic container I bought it in over a month ago at Publix. It’s a marvel of modern living that I, a 46-year-old with a healthy appetite, averaging 2,000 calories a day, have consumed well over 32,752,000 calories in my lifetime, and never grown, raised or produced more than a few hundred of them myself. And it takes a lot of basil, mint and rosemary— my only successful crops to date—to account for 200 calories. I attempted tomatoes once or twice, which ended up being a charitable act benefitting the antioxidant-rich beetle population. Right now, adjacent to the defeated basil on my windowsill, there’s an egg carton incubating some nascent pepper plants my youngest daughter planted, now shooting up in flimsy fashion, but given that it’s almost Halloween I fear we’ve missed the boat. The pitiful smattering of crabs I’ve caught, and one fish on a deep sea expedition in Florida 20 years ago, plus several buckets of blueberries and blackberries rustled up from the North Carolina mountains are the sum total of my hunting-gathering that has not entailed swiping my grocery store customer card. My intentions may be green, but my thumb is not. And is this because I’m lazy? Spoiled and clueless? Too busy? A product of growing up in a culture radically disconnected from the art of growing? I think of “do-it-yourself” as a tagline for Home Depot, or my M.O. when I buy Clairol Natural Instincts on sale at Target, but the most basic natural instinct would be to provide food and sustenance for my family, by myself. The oldfashioned alchemy of seeds, soil, sun and luck. Getting my fingernails grubby, gambling on lunar phases and early frosts, enduring heat and mosquitoes for the satisfaction of sweat, toil and fresh squash. Yet more often than not, “Do It Yourself” at my house means “Mom’s Not Cooking, Fend For Yourself,” e.g., take out from Whole Foods or the cheap burrito joint for the Kids’ Night special. My Grandmother Blum would roll over in her grave. I can still hear her carrying on, bragging about the necks she’d wrung, the feathers plucked. “Honey, if I had a dollar for every chicken I’ve caught, dressed and fried…” she’d say, and boy could she fry ’em. If I had a dollar for every homegrown, fresh-caught chicken I’ve ever eaten, I’d have maybe six dollars, almost enough for a large chicken and black bean burrito, with guac. I may indeed be lazy and busy and of a generation brought up to think Swanson’s TV dinners were a treat. But thanks to the fertile blogosphere, I can no longer plead ignorance about gardening. So what if I had no idea what my friend Debbie was talking about when she was grumbling about not side-dressing her tomatoes this summer? Sites like YouGrowGirl.com are today’s earthy-girl version of My Body, My Self, giving basic how-to info, spilling the beans about side-dressing and microfarming and helping empower women (and men, soil doesn’t discriminate) from the ground up. Even the folksy, trusty Blum’s Farmer’s and Planter’s Almanac, first printed by one of my Moravian ancestors in 1829, using paper and ink John Christian Blum made himself, is now available online. In a few quick clicks I can find out the best days to transplant (if I knew how to transplant) or apply organic fertilizer (which, for some strange reason, are different from the best days to apply non-organic—go figure). I love the irony that high-tech advances like the Web and blogs are inspiring and equipping me to get back to my roots and become the dirty girl I’ve always wanted to be. So I’m tilling my conscience and cultivating a change. I’m weeding out my excuses (not enough yard, not enough sun, not enough time) and digging in. It’s taken me a while to embrace the slow-food movement as something more than the latest foodie trend, as something I can do myself, in my small yard, with my small dreams of spicy gazpacho from homegrown bounty. Granted, my timing is not great; it’s fall, four to five months before I can even think about propagating and planting. But that’s just as well; I’ve got plenty of groundwork to do, like learning how to propagate. For now, I’m going to try to rescue my ailing basil, root it and plant a late crop, and cross my fingers for one mini-batch of autumn pesto. The delicious thought of feeding myself is growing on me. Stephanie Hunt is a freelance writer and mother of three in South Carolina, where the soil is sandy and the sun is hot, hot. Luckily, there’s a terrific farmer’s market a mile from her house should her agrarian aspirations flop. stephaniehuntwrites.com
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?
[ T he F -Wor d | Fe min ists Sp e a k Out ]
GLORIA WHO?
Julie Zeilinger
“SO MANY OF US SEE THAT OUR CURRENT ROLE MODELS ARE PATHETIC, BUT UNTIL SOCIETY CHANGES, UNTIL WE START VALUING WOMEN
She’s staring at me like I’ve just insinuated that she embodies the Antichrist. “A feminist? No, I’m not a feminist. Oh my God.” Despite the fact that my classmate just spent ten minutes ranting about how a woman has the right to choose and thinks anybody who disagrees is archaic, she is equally appalled at the thought of labeling herself as a feminist. Am I frustrated? Yes. But as a teenage feminist, I’m used to it. Teenage feminists are a mighty minority. You may find us in the malls, mingling amongst girls who carry bags plastered with a naked torso and the word “Abercrombie.” We’re even at football games, willingly crushed between excited pubescent bodies. Maybe we’re the girls in hoodies rolling our eyes as the cheerleaders jump around, but we are there. The fact is: We’re not always the hairy-legged girls with makeup-less faces scowling through the daily grind of the high school experience, clutching a battered copy of The Second Sex. Sometimes we are. But we’re not always that easy to spot. Why? That image is a stereotype most feminists, let alone teenagers, don’t fit. We can be the girl at the game, the girl shaking her ass at homecoming or even “the girl next door.” So, why can’t you recognize us? Most teenage feminists don’t even know that they are teenage feminists. How could you? How are we supposed to identify as feminists when most of us don’t even know what a feminist looks like? Role models are important. They help us figure out who we are as we sit in a cafeteria full of people who are defined by a single word. Prep. Jock. My favorite: Slut. Role models help us figure out what we want to be rather than what everybody else has labeled us. But who are our role models? Most teenage girls don’t know who Gloria Steinem is, or they believe that Hillary Clinton is a whiny bitch, because that’s how the media portrays her. It’s sad, but true. If these women are even on our radar at all, they’ve probably already been made unpopular by the media. And nobody wants to be unpopular at sixteen. We fear the hatred of others like our parents fear taxes. Our society’s obsession with fame is more than creepy or sad. It’s detrimental. We are looking up to people whose greatest accomplishments include grinding on stage in glorified lingerie and flashing the paparazzi. It may be their choice to do those things, but it’s my choice to reject them. I want to look up to somebody who is real and who has accomplished real things. My solution is to be my own role model. Of course I draw from the masters: Gloria Steinem, Betty Freidan, Jessica Valenti, Courtney Martin. But it’s come to the point where the only reliable person I can depend on is myself, which is a feminist idea in and of itself. Of course, this is easier said than done. The essential problem is that most girls need role models because they can’t come up with all the answers on their own. Plus, girls my age are trained so thoroughly to hate themselves that, sadly, it’s probably harder for them to be their own role models than to find one in the vast, global populace. It’s up to us to be critical, to put in a little effort. And this is something my generation is completely capable of. So many of us see that our current role models are pathetic, but until society changes, until we start valuing women for what they do over the way they look, the right role models will never be in front of our faces. My hope is that one day I will turn on the TV and see someone who is truly inspirational, dauntlessly representing feminist values. Until then, don’t lose faith in the next generation of teenage feminists. Look at the football games. Look at the dances. Even look at the mall, if you dare. We’ll be there. Photo by Brian Zeilinger
WHAT THEY DO OVER THE WAY THEY LOOK, THE RIGHT ROLE MODELS WILL NEVER BE IN FRONT OF OUR FACES. ”
Julie Zeilinger is the founder and editor of The FBomb, a feminist blog for teenagers who care about their rights and want to be heard (thefbomb.org). The FBomb posts the articles of teenage feminists from all over the world about issues such as pop culture and self-image, while also promoting open dialogue about more serious issues like politics and social justice. Julie is a 16-year-old from Pepper Pike, Ohio. 12
Octoberw2009greenville
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THE SECRET TO...
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THE SECRET TO...
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THE SECRET TO...
Catalina Keller | Artistic Muse Catalina, a California girl, has been an artist’s model for twelve years. “To the casual observer,” she says, “a model is just lying there, draped languorously across a divan or perched on a stool. In reality, you start to lose feeling in parts of your body.” The ultimate creative type, Catalina is a jewelry designer and fiber artist whose company, Stagebunny’s Cabinet of Wonders (stagebunny.etsy.com), contributes to adult literacy programs and the ChildLife Orphanage in Thailand. Not one to rest on her laurels, Catalina also enjoys acting, belly dancing, practicing yoga, and collecting obscure perfume oils. In addition, she keeps a well-catalogued private library, occasionally paints, has been known to cross-stitch, and knits while watching good movies. All hail to this inspired goddess! “The secret to posing in the nude without blushing: Think of more interesting things. It’s amazing how full your internal life can be when your exterior is busy.” Photo by John Fowler
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October
09
the D.I.Y. issue
Do it now! If you get in a journal rut, use a strategy from poet William Stafford and make a list of '' Things I Learned Todayďż˝'' to shake you loose.
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HE’S SO ORIGINAL
Olivier and Trey Are On a Dual Mission Olivier Blanchard and Trey Pennington share a mission. “We’re battling useless babble on social meaning and aiming for meaningful, significant engagement,” Trey laughs. The two longtime business and marketing strategists became acquainted on Twitter, but had never met face-to-face until Trey started the Greenville Social Media Club in 2008. “After that, we went from being online to offline connections and best friends,” Oliver relates. Socially conscious, Trey serves on the SC State Board of Nursing (his signature will be on all nursing licenses beginning this year) while Olivier supports his favorite “charity,” the US recession, “donating as much of my time as I can to cash-poor small businesses in need of strategic insight.” Follow these master marketers at treypennington.com and thebrandbuilder.wordpress.com. What do you love about skirt! magazine? “I spend so much time online, it’s the little things: the weight, the smell of the ink and the paper, and the cover designs.” ~Olivier How do you feel wearing a skirt? “It was an uplifting, stimulating experience!” ~Trey Photo by John Fowler
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“The first time I see a jogger smiling, I’ll consider it.” Joan Rivers
“I used to jog but the ice cubes kept falling out of my glass.” David Lee Roth
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I suppose I was the last to admit how dire my circumstances had become.
Stacy Appel
A
t the beginning of the current economic upheaval, I was forced, as were so many single women I know, to cut my expenses severely. Like other women, I realized I would need to begin by divesting myself of the household help. The first to go were the chauffeur, the butler, the day cook and the bartender, all of whom knew I hated to see them leave. I watched them trudge slowly as a group down the long driveway to the wrought-iron gate, heads held high, attempting to disguise their reluctance. I personally will never forget that morning, though I hope they will in time. Wiping away a few tears with the tip of my scarf, I found myself handing pink slips that very same day to the gardener, the personal trainer, the concierge and the on-site hairstylist, most of whom seemed to have sensed it coming. I suppose I was the last to admit how dire my circumstances had become. With these mainstays on the way out, I couldn’t rationalize retaining other key personnel, so I wrote out a brand new batch of slips for the spiritual advisor, pastry chef and piano-tuner, the latter slightly less difficult to let go of since I discovered I’ve never actually owned a piano. I asked the accountant to write out his own slip, for I felt he really should have had the foresight to offset this particular crisis in the first place. Suze Orman, you would have been as proud as can be. I straightened my shoulders, tightened my belt and bade farewell to the decorator, handyman, front yard gardener and landscape designer at the start of the very next week. All this on an empty, growling stomach, since the evening chef, in a show of solidarity, packed up and left the moment I terminated his girlfriend, the tea consultant who doubled as a yoga teacher. My heart filled with dread when I realized there was no way around letting go of the social secretary, despite the fact that she’d done a magnificent job organizing even the most minute details of a very busy summer. But even as I made my earnest apologies, she comforted me by pointing out that I really couldn’t afford to go out anymore anyway, and it mightn’t be all that hard to learn to pencil a few things onto my calendar all by myself. She assured me that her sister, recently brought aboard as my personal shopper, would understand the sudden demise of her employment as well. During one fiercely anxious week at the start of September, I came perilously close to laying off the cats. Upon closer inspection of the books,
however, I realized they’d never actually been on salary in the first place. So I practiced a few times while looking into the ornate bedroom mirror, and sure enough, found the courage to say good-bye to the scribe, the live-in mechanic, my personal physician and, naturally, the nutritionist, who frankly hadn’t made enough of a difference over the last few years to be much missed. But I can only describe as excruciating the rainy afternoon of my teary farewell to the pool maintenance guy, who held an umbrella over my head as I handed him a smudged and dripping severance contract. One might suppose that my not having a pool would have mitigated the pain of this particular layoff, but he was so extremely handsome and over time we’d become very close. On my first morning alone, when the last of my help had gone for good, I awoke to a fragile, silent house. A few jays and songbirds chirped outside my window, just as always, to hail the autumn day, but inside the rooms were deafeningly quiet. Now there was only me to make the coffee, get myself dressed, feed the animals, do the laundry; in short, fend for myself in every way. The biggest surprise was the feeling of relief and comfort which began to steal over me: a delicious sense of freedom which began in my toes, curling up slowly over my knees and around my shoulders like a cashmere shawl. In the far South Atlantic, a week’s sail from Brazil and about 2,000 miles from the African coast, lies an island called Tristan da Cunha. It is the world’s most isolated inhabited island. Almost 50 years ago, the 270 Tristanians were forced to leave when the island’s volcano suddenly exploded. Less than two years later, even after tasting the wonders of modern life and technology, they all got homesick and voted to return, overjoyed when a ship brought them back to their island to stay. Like the islanders, like single women everywhere, I am busy carving out a self-reliant life, in all its wonder and loneliness and humor and bored flights of fancy. I talk to a phone solicitor in a fake Cockney accent; I propose to one of the cats and then call the whole thing off. I imagine what it might be like to really have help—a gardener or a cleaning person or a regular handyman, none of which have ever been a part of my life—and then I remember that I’ve had help anyway for all the things which really mattered, never mind a faded lawn or busted porch lamp. October sweeps in, replenishing the coffers, an abundance of gold leaves filling up the yards, the smell of ripe apples and woodsmoke filling the air after dark. Diamond glints of sunlight wink up from the pond near the hiking trail late in the afternoon. We who find ourselves alone, or choose to live alone, are a wealthy tribe indeed.
Stacy Appel is an award-winning writer in California whose work has been featured in the Chicago Tribune and other publications. She has also written for National Public Radio. She is a contributor to the book You Know You’re a Writer When… by Adair Lara. Contact Stacy at WordWork101@aol.com. skirt.com
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Coming Out of the
Most children think about what they want to do when they grow up. I thought about what I didn’t want to do.
C
Nikki Loftin
ross-stitching. Hand quilting. Macramé. Knitting. I learned it all. So did my siblings. You had to, if you wanted to spend time with Mom. Even if the television was on, even if we were at the beach, in a movie theater, she was always making something. Her fingers never stopped moving. My best friend, Anne-Marie, had the board game Candy Land. I asked for it every time I went to her house, then just stared at the board when she took it out. The ice cream-covered castle of King Kandy, the Lollipop Woods, Queen Frostine. It was foreign and magical to me. I didn’t play board games at six; I did needlework. “Why would you play games when you could make something, something wonderful? Something useful?” asked Mom. I suppose games could also be useful. In a cabinet in my childhood home I once found a dusty, torn-up Scrabble box, missing most of the letters—the ones Mom had used years before to make necklaces that spelled our names. Plastic needlepoint. Crochet. French knots. Wheel-thrown pottery. Most children think about what they want to do when they grow up. I thought about what I didn’t want to do. I never wanted to spend my Saturday mornings in another fabric store or yarn shop. I never again wanted to rip out 14 rows of stitches because I had lost track of how many squares the damned crossstitched duck feet took up in the pattern. As God is my witness, I whispered over macramé knots that scratched my fingers, I will never do craftwork again! Christmas was gift time, show-and-tell. Everything handmade. I gave my Grandma a plastic needlepointed Kleenex box covered with bright orange yarn sunflowers. Aunt Mae thanked me for the lovely set of hand-painted ceramic life-like fish hanging by their mouths from a real metal fishing stringer. Saint that she was, she even hung it on her wall. Our Christmas tree was covered with cross-stitched ornaments we kids had made in bright plastic, circular frames. Little drummer boys, geese with Christmas ribbons wrapped around their necks, tiny drums worked with metallic gold thread. I yearned for the ornaments only a mall could provide. I longed for something painted by an underpaid laborer, or even a small child. But one who lived far, far away—in China, or Japan. Embroidery. Machine sewing. Gold-leaf rubbing. Stencil painting sweatshirts. The worst was the clothing. For years, Mom quilted vests for me to wear to school. It may have been the 80s, but vests hadn’t been in style since 1960-something, if ever, and I knew it. I buried the vests in my closet, underneath a halffinished table runner on a hand loom she had given me for Christmas.
One year I tried out for cheerleading. She sewed me little maroon bloomers and a white shirt with a sailor collar. The other girls had clothes with logos on their expensive pockets. I did not make the team, and I never believed it was because of my jumps. I longed for clothes with labels, labels that didn’t read “Home Made with Love” and “Care by Mom.” My grandma understood. “When your grandfather’s pants needed hemming,” she whispered into my ear as I tried not to cry at the crazy-quilted vest Mom had made me wear to church, “I used a stapler instead. It scratched his legs up so bad, he never asked me to sew again.” She smiled when she gave me this gift of knowledge, this forbidden apple of rebellion I had never imagined could exist. I squirreled it away, wondering if I would ever be that brave. Decoupage. Beaded necklaces. Painted ceramic figurines. Weaving. Mom got craft-crazier and more desperate as I grew up. I think it was because she had run out of new crafts to attempt, new skills to master. As her nest emptied, she filled our old rooms with looms, spinning wheels, racks for hanging shibori-dyed T-shirts. When I was 20, she became obsessed with lampworked glass beadmaking. I came home from college at Christmas. She had bought torches, four-foot long rods of glass from Murano, Italy, and built a workshop with tanks of explosive gases right outside. “Come out here and I’ll show you how to make a pony bead,” she said, her eyes lit with fire, glowing as blue as the flame that shot from her torch. I took a bite from the apple my Grandma had shown me. “No,” I said. “I don’t want to.” Like an alcoholic who offers a drink to a teetotaling friend, she couldn’t believe I didn’t want to try it. She asked a hundred times. I said no, and no, and no again. I watched her spin the hot glass on the wire mandrels. She was torn between time with me in those short weeks home from college and time with her obsession. I made it easy for her. I sat in her workshop for hours, reading, listening to music. But I never went near a torch. Mom was so confused. “You don’t want to make one? Just one? Just a small one?” I smiled at her and came out of the craft closet. Acceptance or no, this was who I was. “No,” I said, remembering my grandma and her stapler. “Not even one.” Chipped-china jewelry boxes. Rag-rug hooking. Batik-dyeing. Oil painting. My son ran up to me yesterday. “Mom, I have a hole in my shorts. Can you sew them?” “No,” I lied. “I can’t. We’ll have to throw them away. I’ll buy you new ones.” My favorite check to write is always the one with the name of the tailor on it, the one that would make my Mom shriek with horror and despair. The one that would make my Grandma smile and remember her stapler. The one that says “no.” No to hemming pants, no to shortening sleeves, no, no, and no to doing it myself, ever again.
Nikki Loftin is an award-winning freelance writer. She lives just outside Austin, Texas with her Scottish husband, two sons, and five chickens. nikkiloftin.com 26
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October the D.I.Y. issue
09
Do it now! Make art part of everyday life. Keep a basket of art supplies on your coffee table or kitchen table. Throw in colored markers, rubber stamps, gluE sticks, watercolor crayons, your favorite ink pens, notebooks. Keep addinG new items to inspire you to play.
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3 “The gorgeous color drew me to this beautiful tin candle holder from Roots. Now to decide: mantel, porch, dining room or bathroom?” Angela, Director of Sales
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Amber Elizabeth Singleton
Whether making jewelry, writing mystery stories and poetry, or producing award-winning quilts, sixteen-year-old Amber is definitely a Do-It-Yourselfer. This outgoing and witty Riverside High student also marches in the school’s Colorguard and is a talented singer, making it to State Choir last year. Future goals include more quilts and quilting lessons with Grandma Donna, writing a bestselling novel, and a career as a
“I am find the truth out.” most proud of standing up for what I believe in—not what most people think.” lawyer “because,” she says, “I always
Photo by Sheril Bennett Turner
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October the D.I.Y. issue
09
Do it now! Create a collage self-portrait using wrapping paper, magazine pages, old maps or photos, whatever scraps come to hand and attract your eye. Frame it and hang it-you just made a piece of original art.
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TWENTY-FOUR SEVEN
Mary Ann Sudnick | Style Guru My work: Women’s Boutique Owner and Image Consultant in Greenville, SC.
The smartest woman I know: I can’t pick just one!
My passion: Helping women look and feel their very best!
My favorite body part: I like all parts of my 52-year-old body!
Whose diary would you most like to read? Princess Diana’s.
The worst idea I’ve ever had: I have had many, but I don’t let them stop me.
The nickname I wish I had: “Slim” (Lauren Bacall in To Have or Have Not).
I still can’t get the hang of: Getting to bed at a reasonable hour. If I could be totally wild, I would: Be a contestant on Dancing with the Stars.
Photo by Sheril Bennett Turner
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At the end of a long day, the first thing I want to do is: Be at home with my husband John and my dog Maddie. Always... Smile. Never... Let your dreams die. I wish… There were more hours in the day. Read more at greenville.skirt.com
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This issue of skirt! was put together to the sounds of: Cuculand Cucu Diamantes The Cricket’s Quartet EP Meaghan Smith
Esperanza Esperanza Spalding
American Classic Willie Nelson
Page Turners Alone in the Kitchen with an Eggplant Jenni Ferrari-Adler, editor
Subtitled “Confessions of Cooking for One and Dining Alone,” this book of essays pushed me to take stock of a refrigerator filled with withered lemons, Perrier and Skinny Cow ice cream sandwiches. They made my mouth water and had me reaching for a pad to jot down ingredients for Single Girl Salmon. Nikki Hardin, Publisher
Photojojo!: Insanely Great Photo Projects and DIY Ideas Amit Gupta & Kelly Jensen
I have this terrible habit of taking lots of digital photos and letting them languish on my computer. Photojojo! will motivate you to get ‘em off and printed with plenty of cool photo projects, creative photography tips, and inspirational ideas. Sheril Bennett Turner, Editor
At a Glance Travel Therapy: Where Do You Need to Go? Karen Schaler
Recovering from a broken heart or a season of sniffles? Suffering from writer’s block or a swollen ego? Rx Travel! Schaler gives you choice spots for what ails you, places where you can lick your wounds, volunteer your time or change your attitude. (Seal Press)
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planetnikki [ a v isua l journa l ]
A friend introduced me to Pilot’s Varsity disposable fountain pens that come in different ink colors, and they’re my current crush. (Whoever took my green one, hope you’re loving it.)
“floating world”
I always have a stack of books by my bed waiting to be read. Next up: the 50th anniversary edition of The Americans, by Robert Frank, with an introduction by Jack Kerouac.
Today as I crossed the bridge to go downtown, a flotilla of white clouds like an armada of tall ships in the sky kept me company. When the clouds pile up like that, I feel like the earth is a very tiny gondola just waiting to cast off into dreamtime. I think we could be free to go sightseeing in the universe if we only let go of the guidelines that hold us to our schedules and very important duties, titles, jobs. I would love to go sailing into the land of N.C. Wyeth and The Wind in the Willows and A Child’s Garden of Verses. To travel back in time to my imaginary friends and storybook lands where the usual laws of nature don’t apply. It’s still there somewhere behind those clouds...I can almost see it, almost reach it, almost let go of my driver’s license, dry cleaning tickets, grocery list, property tax, shoes to be repaired, library books to be returned, dentist appointments, jury duty—almost. I’m just happy to know it’s there even if I can’t gain admittance as easily as I used to. My journal is wishing for a tropical island and passport stamps instead of cancelled ones.
I keep an abalone shell on my desk to remind me of the colors of the Pacific Ocean and the northern coast of California, one of my favorite places in the world.
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Live Responsibly. Š2009 Miller Brewing Co., Milwaukee, WI. Per 12 oz., MGD 64 contains 64 cals., 2.4g carbs, < 1g protein, 0.0g fat. Visual depictions based upon artistic renditions of calorie information found at www.calorieking.com.
The 64 Calorie Collection