december
Greenville, SC
free!
skirt!is
www.skirt.com
Unwrap the dark days from December to find the surprises inside: tissue paper and tree toppers, glitter dust and gold stars, mangers and menorahs, tape and twine, fruitcake and wine, evergreens and Yule logs, twinkle lights and solstice nights, Santa suits and elfin boots, Scrooge’s ghosts and midnight toasts, mittens and mufflers and ribbons and bows, candle glow and small globes
Shaken With Snow, tinsel streamers and tacky sweaters, gingerbread houses and eggnog hangovers, branches of holly and an overdose of jolly, stockings stuffed with tiny treats and children jacked up on too many sweets, poinsettias because you don’t have a choice and when they expire a time to rejoice. Mistletoe over every door, Rudolph playing in every store, and New Year’s Eve
t o c l o s e t h e m o n t h wit h a cork-popping roar. Cover copy by Nikki Hardin, Art by Daria Jabenko
“Surprise is the greatest gift which life can grant us.” Boris Pasternak
FEEL GOOD DECEMBER
Feel good about creating and sustaining American jobs.
Or More
Starbucks has teamed up with Opportunity Finance Network, a network of community-minded lending institutions, to launch Create Jobs for USA. The program utilizes OFN’s commitment to financing neighborhood businesses that need help. To kick off the project, the Starbucks Foundation donated the first $5 million. It’s easy to help—just donate online or at your local Starbucks. Donors who give over $5 can get a red, white and blue “indivisible” bracelet. All proceeds go into the network in order to finance community businesses that create and sustain jobs in underserved areas across the country.
createjobsforusa.org
Let us know you gave $5! Email us at publisher@skirt.com
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December
Publisher
Nikki Hardin editor@skirt.com National Art Director
Caitilin McPhillips caitilin.mcphillips@skirt.com National Editor
Margaret Pilarski margaret.pilarski@skirt.com Greenville Editor
Sheril Bennett Turner sheril.turner@skirt.com Sales Executives
Denise Nelson 864.551.7295 denise.nelson@independentmail.com Sarah Page 864.356.2903 sarah.page@independentmail.com Graphic Designers
Shelli H. Rutland Shearer Wludyka Photographers
John Fowler 864.380.9332 promoimaging.com Sheril Bennett Turner
Sales: 864.551.7295 FAX: 864.260.1350
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 arrangement thereof, is Copyright © 2011, 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.
skirt! is all about women... their work, play, families, creativity, style, health and wealth, bodies and souls. skirt! is an attitude...spirited, independent, outspoken, serious, playful and irreverent,
theSurprise issue
sometimes controversial, always passionate.
Features
Calendar Submissions
Stephanie Hunt............................................................................... 9
Send information or mail to sheril.turner@skirt.com, or mail to skirt! Greenville, 1708-C Augusta St. #335 Greenville, SC 29605.
Letters to the Editor All letters must include the writer’s name and city/state.
Same-Old Surprise
The Beat of Love
Susan Renee Richardson........................................................ 10 20-Year-Old Me Meets 40-Year-Old Me
Amy Vansant................................................................................... 13
Writers & Artists
The Hen Party
Our guidelines are available online at skirt.com. Submit artwork or essays via e-mail to submissions@skirt.com.
Laraine Perri................................................................................... 16
Women Women make make more more than than 80% 85% of of all all purchasing purchasing decisions. decisions.
Women spend Women almost 2 ofspend every 3 almost 2 ofdollars. every 3 healthcare healthcare dollars.
Profile: Mary Wolters
Always a Lady................................................................................ 18 Profile: Shea Kim
Straight Shooter........................................................................... 20 Profile: Slick-Wicked Life’s a Drag.................................................................................... 22
Profile: Slick-Wicked
A Trick of the Light
Stacy Appel..................................................................................... 28 No Joke
Susi Gregg Fowler...................................................................... 30 Women control 2/3 of the nation’s disposable income.
Issues
Feel Good.......................................................................................... 2 From the Publisher and Editor............................................... 6 Women Women influence 80% 80% influence of of all all car car sales. sales.
Calendar.............................................................................................. 7 Skirt of the Month........................................................................ 8 skirt! Books.................................................................................. 14 He’s So Original with Dan Riley........................................ 24 skirt! Loves................................................................................... 26 skirt! Says....................................................................................... 27 F-Word.............................................................................................. 29 Holiday 2011................................................................................. 31 She’s So skirt! with Grace Bonney....................................32 Browse............................................................................................... 33 Planet Nikki..................................................................................... 34 December Survival Guide..................................................... 35
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Surprise someone with a gift from your heart that doesn’t have to be wrapped, ribboned or requested.
December 2011
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The United Skirts of America
The United Skirts of America was founded on the blood, sweat and
From the Publisher
freedom to choose...to
theSurprise issue
break The Rules, to wear
Surprise! My newly installed operating system erased my address book
combat boots or high
and calendar. Surprise! I lost my ATM card—again. Surprise! Wall Street
estrogen of our foremothers, who won us the
heels, to run for office or
took another mouthful of my retirement fund. I get so fixated on my Whack-a-Mole miseries (“poor me!”) that I neglect to step up to the
run a marathon, to form
piñata moments. I’m a sucker for piñatas because to me they represent
Daria Jabenko
our own rock groups
taking a wild swing at life and flying with exhilaration when it cracks open
Illustration, for Daria, is inspir-
instead of being groupies,
raining gifts and blessings on my head. I’ve always been a sensation junkie,
ing a world of dreams. Every
to shatter Glass Ceilings
Cover Artist
illustration has a personality. The palette of colors can be
and Glass Slippers, to
needing more, better, faster in order to feel alive. Always waiting for “real life” to begin in some vague future time. Always seeking a big epiphany, the one that would change my life forever. I’m starting to understand
sensuous and complex or sleek,
shoot hoops instead of
that piñata moments don’t have to be hair-raising adventures; in fact, I’m
simple and gleaming, but above
settling for hoop skirts.
more blown away by being able to recognize everyday extraordinariness.
all, unexpected, potent and creatively ambitious.The
The ones who came
Falling in bed and in love with new white sheets and pillowcases. Being on the bike in Spinning class instead of counting the minutes until it’s
invented world should be
before us made it pos-
a place to go that’s familiar,
sible for our daughters
by tenderness. All in now-time. When I took trapeze lessons, it should
to dream bigger, to have
have been a huge piñata moment, but like so much of what I undertake,
provoke positive feelings and a
the chance to grow up
I was focused on getting it over with, having done it rather than the doing
better mindset in the audience.
to be President and turn
almost nostalgic, yet strange and new. Her main objective is to
Daria creates most of her illus-
over. Suddenly seeing into a friend’s hidden pain and feeling overwhelmed
of it. Now that I’m teasing myself with the idea of skydiving lessons, I hope that I will focus on the jump and the fall rather than the landing.
the Oval Office into
I want to learn to love the swing into thin air, the breaking open of self,
medium in combination with
the Ovary Office. In the
the surprise of finding what’s inside.
ink and watercolor. Her clients
United Skirts of America,
trations by hand using gouache
include Condé Nast Germany, Cosmopolitan, Cunard Cruise Lines, Grand Canyon Railway
Nikki
every day is Indepen-
publisher@skirt.com
dence Day!
and others. dariadesignca.com
From the Editor I just love surprises, so for a while now I’ve been looking forward to our December Surprise Issue featuring local women who have done, and are still doing, surprising things in their lives. But, the
T SI
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surprise was on me when I found out that this would be the last skirt! issue printed in Greenville.
S!
So, it is with great sadness that I, along with the whole staff, bid you adieu. It has been such a
U
pleasure getting to know so many wonderful, inspiring, saucy, sassy, and yes, surprising women—and men—during my time as editor. A great big thank you to all of our many readers and to those who have advertised with us throughout the years—both are equally loved and appreciated because you believed in us.
Sheril Eureka!
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sheril.turner@skirt.com
Dec. 1
Decorated for a 1830s Christmas, the award-winning Candlelight Christmas at Ashtabula House features hot chocolate, cookies, and a six-stop play with re-enactors. Through December 11. pendletonhistoricfoundation.org
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Don’t miss one of the most popular children’s events of the season, the St. Francis Teddy Bear Luncheon. Bring a new stuffed animal to donate and enjoy lunch and picture with Santa! stfrancisfoundation.com
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Greenville Light Opera Works (GLOW) presents Champagne Music! This New Year’s Eve Gala benefit features a night of music, silent auctions, dancers, heavy hors d’oeuvres, dessert and cash bar. greenvilleopera.org
Rock On! 1-17. Bring your family, friends and office staff to enjoy this fun and rockin’ out show—it’s Rock ‘n Roll Yule. centrestage.org
Telling Tales 5. Garrison Keillor, the beloved icon from A Prairie Home Companion, tells the homespun tales of Lake Wobegon. peacecenter.org
New Musical 2-11. Discover the true meaning of Christmas with Ebenezer! A Musical Christmas Carol, a new musical based upon the classic Charles Dickens tale. peacecenter.org
Magical! 9-18. If you’ve never seen GLT’s musical and magical take on A Christmas Carol, then you’ve never fully experienced this uplifting tale of hope renewed and joy restored. greenville littletheatre.org
Funny 2-17. Through the lens of two filmmakers, we meet a host of characters in Stones in His Pockets, a riotously funny comedy delivering a powerful dose of humanity. warehousetheatre.com
Kid’s Party 10. Bring your children to the Children’s Holiday Party at the Art Museum! greenvillemuseum.org
Evening of Art 2. LC Art Gallery presents an opportunity to view and enjoy beautiful local art in an elegant Victorian-era mansion, the Greenville Woman’s Club. lcartgallery.com
True Story! 12. Relive the magical true story of Christmas 1914, as WWI soldiers lay down their arms and celebrate—in song—in Cantus All is Calm. peacecenter.org
Christmas Story 3. Travel back in time to an ancient world with Children’s Christmas Celebration: A Journey to Bethlehem. For children ages 5-12. bjumg.org
4. Enjoy Holiday Music in the Galleries, featuring the Carolina Bronze Hand Bell Choir— back by popular demand! greenville museum.org
A Peaceful Tradition 16. Ring in the holidays with Maestro Edvard Tchivzhel and The Greenville Pops at Holiday at Peace! peacecenter.org
Museum Music
NYE Concert 31. Celebrate New Year’s Eve with The Avett Brothers at the BI-LO Center. bilocenter.com
Root Vegetables Month * National Write a Business Plan Month * National Tie Month * Read a New Book Month * Safe Toys and Gifts Month * Winter Squash Month
Universal Human Rights Month * Hi Neighbor Month * National Stress-Free Family Holiday Month * Bingo Birthday Month * Quince and Watermelon Month skirt.com
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Traci Daberko is an illustrator and graphic designer in Seattle, WA. See her work at daberkodesign.com.
Sevier Skirts Custom Skirt Design and Manufacturing 864.498.8709 sevierskirt.com
Stephanie Hunt
It’s all one big rerun...the only thing that changes is the price of Christmas trees and my patience with it all.
T
he L.L.Bean catalogs faithfully arrive, one or two a week, it seems. A yellow Lab on each cover—there’s the “aw, so cute!” puppy all tuckered out on a tartan-plaid doggie bed; a handsome older dog on another cover, wagging its tail faithfully beside a handsome, wholesome-looking model sporting a classic field coat and leaning on a split-rail fence frosted in snow. It’s December alright; some things never change. As the planet tilts deeper toward darkness and the calendar crescendos to year’s end, we burrow into the coziness of habit and surrender to the comfort of routine, or so it seems. December has become utterly predictable, playing out according to the same script, year after year. The catalogs trickle in, then the greeting cards and end-of-year nonprofit appeals. The town’s cheesy light-post decorations go up in mid-November, soon followed by Salvation Army bell-ringers and wreath booths benefitting the high school booster club. Wal-Mart brings out hideous blue-tinted poinsettias and columnists and bloggers chirp about How to Avoid Holiday Stress, with absolutely nothing new to say besides the usual blather about planning ahead, staying within budget and packing almonds in your purse to fuel shopping trips or curb party nibbling. Good try. It’s all one big rerun: the same Rudolph with his misfits, the same recipes trotted out, the same-old Bing Crosby soundtrack, the same family holiday card photo op, in khaki and white, of course. The same old wish that this December—no, really—will be different. But the only thing that changes is the price of Christmas trees and my patience with it all. So at what point does the comfort of tradition collide with the triteness of repetition? When does the yellow Lab marketing gimmick get old? I confess that I actually crave much of December’s sameness. I need those well-worn Advent hymns. I want the Moravian Sugar Cake to taste exactly as it did on Christmas mornings when I was growing up—with the brown sugar so thick and goopy it’s gritty. I love recognizing the rumble of the UPS truck as it delivers yet another package down our gravel road. The familiar grounds me. It holds me steady when so much else seems haywire and haphazard. Even so, December’s predictability can begin to feel plain; red and green glitter becomes uniform and loses its glitz; the well-oiled holiday machine hums toward monotony. This season
of celebration and expectation risks becoming as stale as last year’s crumbling gingerbread house, when it should be the crispest, brightest time of year. What is the secret to honoring sameness without sacrificing imagination? Can we settle in to the predictable yet still crack open the door to surprise? This is December’s challenge. To drag out the hand-me-down decorations, dust off the tired traditions and tap into the sacredness of constancy. To fall in ruts that lead, somehow, to wonder. To revisit stories that we know inside and out— about elves and shepherds, about drummer boys and angels, about bearded old men and swaddled new babes, about asking and receiving—and not only listen to them, but hear; not only ask, but receive. Much, in fact, will be different for me this Christmas. It will be our family’s first holiday with a college student back home, with all the excitement and adjustment that will certainly entail. And it’s the first Christmas after my mother’s death, the first one for as long as I can remember that there will be no new nightgown to unwrap from her. Or that I won’t go to great lengths (and many trips to Talbots and Ann Taylor) to try to find the just-right gift to make her smile, though there is some relief in crossing that off my list. The loss blurs yet also twinkles at the same time, as if I’m squinting my eyes at Christmas lights. But there’s little time for squinting. I fall into step, December’s must-dos propel me forward: the school concerts, the neighborhood drop-ins, office parties, church services, return trips to T.J. Maxx, the endless hunt for scissors and Scotch tape. I’m amazed by what still wows me, despite December’s predetermined props, its dependable narrative, its hum-drum and off-key “buy this” carol. I love that I can still, happily, be caught off-guard, sometimes by the simplest of things. That I can be surprised by the creative thoughtfulness of my husband. By the perfect sweetness of an orange. By the quiet eloquence of a candle. By the aliveness of the sky on a deep black night. By the pleasure of staying home and reading by the fire with my family, our lazy greyhound (sorry L.L.Bean!) resting his long narrow nose on my feet. In this month of too much, the irony is that it can take so little to kindle cheer, to spark awe. The potentially mindless repetition of December’s playbook can also be an invitation to mindfulness—the holiday equivalent of a monk washing dishes. The unexpected lies mangered in the ordinary. Astonishment is at hand, hiding with the damn scissors somewhere under the growing pile of Pottery Barn and L.L.Bean mailings. The predictable, predictably, opens to more than we imagined, as long as we dare to imagine.
Stephanie Hunt is writer, mother, bicycling advocate and reluctant holiday shopper. She has never bought a blue-tinted poinsettia. Contact her at stephaniehuntwrites.com, or via the blog, alifestill.com. skirt.com
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I still had one dream...I wanted to play the drums.
I
Susan Renee Richardson
found the scuffed snare drum in a music store with a faded price tag of seventy-nine dollars. The price included a case and drumsticks, but I was 25 years old and money was hard to come by. Failure had already begun tapping at my door by the time I saw that drum. I dropped out of my first college, got kicked out of a second, and enrolled at a third known for its “progressive” approach, which meant they were used to students like me. Romantic relationships were even worse. The goal was true love, but my dating record read like a pulp novel where the main character is only attracted to people who are in love with someone or something else. My young heart was held together by a roll of spiritual duct tape. I still had one dream though. I wanted to play the drums. So I paid the money at the music store and proceeded to cart that drum through three states, six towns, ten apartments, and four relationships. In a stroke of divine intervention, the fourth relationship was a keeper. We bought a house, had a ceremony, and made numerous unsuccessful attempts to have children, which resulted in buying a dog. We had some heated financial disagreements, suffered through poorly-thought-out career choices by yours truly, and came to terms with approaching mid-life by falling in and out of depression. I had owned that snare drum for seventeen years by then. For the first few years, the sight of it elicited a sense of excitement, symbolizing a promise to myself that music was a dream I would pursue. By year 17, the drum was relegated to the back of a closet. I couldn’t stand the sight of it anymore—a reminder of another dream that was never going to materialize. Month by month the drum got closer to the thrift store. The thought of a musical instrument sitting in the closet collecting dust when someone else might play it nagged at my conscience. Besides, I’d entered my 40s and everyone knows that’s the beginning of the end. While I had mentioned my musical aspirations to my spouse early on, and she had asked once or twice how long that drum was going to reside with us, I hadn’t talked about my dream in years. For reasons that are a mystery, she suddenly decided to surprise me with a beginner’s drum kit for Christmas—in bright pink, my favorite color. The kit came in a huge box that she somehow managed to push up our stairs and cover in gift wrap. There it was, a day before the holiday, sitting under the tree. She likes to tell the story of how I completely failed to notice the mammoth box sitting in our living room. The truth is I noticed it, but I’d asked for stackable sweater-drying racks and just assumed they were a tad bigger than expected. To say that I was surprised on Christmas morning would be an understatement. I was shocked, and not in a good way. A funny thing happens when the dream you’ve harbored for nearly 20 years suddenly stares you in the face. I was afraid to find out I didn’t have what it takes.
The drum kit sat in the living room for two solid weeks before she finally asked, “Are you ever going to take it out of the box?” Not wanting to disappoint her, I gave the vague excuse that I didn’t know how to set it up. She immediately cleared a spot in our basement and assembled the kit in less than an hour. I dutifully gave the shiny new snare a tentative tap with a drumstick. She looked pleased. Then she informed me that the music store she bought it from offered lessons. I sat down at the kit a few times, but grew frustrated by my complete lack of ability. Surely, I told myself, a naturally talented person would be able to play something remotely rhythmic. Frustration finally outweighed fear. I called the music store. On the day of my first lesson I stood in the store with my heart pounding, waiting to meet my new drum instructor. He came out of the lesson room accompanied by a drumstick-wielding six-year-old. As the kid swaggered past my kneecaps, I desperately wanted to sneak out the door. But no, my teacher had seen me and was standing there with a welcoming smile on his 20-something face. Thus ensued some of the most humiliating half-hour segments of my life. My instructor wasn’t mean, but he was serious about teaching his students how to play the drums. Considering my age and clear lack of talent, I hadn’t expected to be taken seriously. Week after week, his young students walked by me. He assured me he taught other adults, but I never saw them. In the meantime, I was floundering through basic rudiments and rhythms while the six-year-olds were pounding through Pearl Jam. I thought about quitting, but underneath the fear and frustration was the first glimmer of excitement and hope I had felt in years. That drum kit was the best gift anyone had ever given me. For two years I vacillated between excitement and a stream of self-doubt which included a little voice telling me that by the time I learned to play, I’d be too old to stay up for gigs. My teacher sounded forlorn when he asked me whether I had an opportunity, any opportunity at all, to play with other people. It was time either to commit or give up, so I posted an ad on Craigslist seeking beginning musicians. Within two days I had responses. A week later, I had a jam session with the nicest guitar and bass players one could ever hope to meet. Within a year we formed a band, the bright pink beginner’s kit was upgraded, and we played our first gig. The day of the gig was surreal. My biggest fear was that my mind would go blank, causing me to stop mid-song and spontaneously combust in shame, but that’s not what happened. The event was a success, the enthusiasm from the crowd was sincere, and I truly felt like myself for the first time in almost 20 years. I’ll never forget the surprising gift my spouse gave me. More than the pink drum kit itself, the true gift was that she loved me enough to believe in my deepest dream when I didn’t believe in it myself anymore.
Susan Renee Richardson is a freelance writer/reporter and a volunteer creative writing instructor at a state correctional facility. In her spare time, she plays the drums for a rock band covering an eclectic list of artists from Sublime to The Beatles. 10
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skirt.com
The Surprise Issue
Talk to your seatmate on a flight instead of hiding behind headphones.
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The Surprise Issue
Make a cd of your favorite music for a friend who has a long drive home for the holidays.
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“Do I have things I want to tell you!”
I
Amy Vansant
look at the woman sitting in my aisle of the plane. She is young. She is familiar. My god, she’s ravishing. “Wait, are you...? She nods. “Yep. I’m you, 20 years younger. Surprise!” I gasp and flop down in the seat beside her. Okay, maybe she isn’t ravishing, but she’s 20 years younger than me, and that is about as ravishing as I ever was. This is it. This is the moment when I tell Young Me all the things I wish I knew then. Either that, or I’m in a Lincoln Financial commercial and I’m supposed to tell Young Me how proud I am she’s saving money by flying in coach. Like she had a choice. No, that’s not it. My idea of saving money is not feeding a parking meter and gambling the ticket lady won’t stroll by. I clap my hands together, giddy with excitement. “Do I have things I want to tell you!” Young Me seems happy to see me, but she has dark circles beneath her eyes, marring otherwise tight, fresh skin. How did I not appreciate that skin? I make a mental note to tell her to wear sunscreen. “Can I guess why you look so tired?” I ask. “Were you up all night talking your overly dramatic boyfriend out of throwing himself off the porch?” She nods. “Our first-floor porch, five feet from the grass.” “Riiight... you have four more years of that to look forward to.” Young Me is alarmed. “Four? But we’re soulmates! What happens in four years?” “In four years you spend all the money you have buying him a ticket to grad school in Hawaii.” “I do? By himself? Why?” “Distance makes it a lot easier to break up with him. After missing your chance to do a semester abroad and all sorts of other fun college things, you realize that taking care of him is making you lose yourself. This epiphany arrives right after you catch your “soulmate” flirting with another girl on the phone. I wish I knew who she was so I could send her a thank you card now...” “Seriously?” “Yep. It’s the breaking point. When the opportunity arises, you pay for his ticket, buy him a laptop and send him on his way. When he calls to ask for more money a couple of weeks later, you end it.” Young Me’s jaw falls. “I buy him a laptop, too? I’m an idiot!” I nod. “I know. That doesn’t really change.” She spots my wedding ring. “So who do I marry?” she asks, motioning towards it. I look at the ring and smile. “First or second time?” “What?!” Young Me is getting agitated. I would buy her a drink, but I know she only likes sticky sweet margaritas and thanks to her passion for them, I can’t bear the smell of them.
“Well, you’re so traumatized by the first guy, you end up marrying the exact opposite person. He dotes on you.” “Dotes? Then why do we get divorced?” “One night, after you have a minor knee operation and are recuperating, this boy scout of a husband doesn’t show up for dinner. He doesn’t show up to dinner with your parents after you had an operation. When he finally does come home, he explains he lost track of time showing a young, male tennis partner around downtown.” Young Me scowls. “Okay, weird... but hardly a reason to leave him.” “It seems less weird after he gets more distant and mean and you look through his computer and find photos and... Well, let’s just say it seems less weird later.” Young Me falls silent. “You get the house,” I say, trying to cheer her up. “So who’s this guy?” she asks, pointing at my ring. “Oh, he’s great! Third time’s the charm. You meet him at a bar about a year after your divorce.” Young Me perks up. “Whew! I was really starting to worry!” I smile. “You don’t do everything wrong,” I say, my eyes drifting to her frizzy hair. “For instance, I think you’re only a year away from losing that perm.Yikes.” She touches her head self-consciously. “Okay, well... good! This is amazing finding out what I do wrong!” “I have so many things I want to tell you!” I say, mentally listing examples of zigs where I should have zagged. “So many things to avoid, so many...” My eyes fall on my wedding ring. I stop in mid-sentence. Young Me is alert and ready to hear the secrets of her future life revealed, but I’ve stopped thinking about all my wrong turns. I’m thinking about how happy I am now. If I tell her what to avoid, even the smallest thing, it will change my path forever and everything will be different. If I tell her the things she should have done differently in her career, her love life, with family, with friends; where will I be now? If she breaks up with the boyfriend she has at 20 too soon, she’ll change my path and I’ll probably never meet husband two, whom I love very much. I release a deep sigh. “I can’t tell you anything,” I say. “And I need you to forget everything I told you so far.” Young Me starts to fade. Soon, she’ll be gone, destined to make all the mistakes I made and me powerless to stop her. “WAIT!” I scream, trying to grasp her now transparent arm. I am about to lose a once in a lifetime opportunity. A million facts are clamoring to be revealed: the rise of the Internet, what stocks to buy, the real estate bubble; how can I help her without disturbing my timeline? There must be some way… “One night you’ll eat Mexican food with Husband Two and his mother!” I yelp. Young Me nods, lingering long enough for me to share my final words. “Don’t eat the guacamole!”
Amy Vansant is a freelance writer and blogger at kidfreeliving.com, and just release her latest book: Kid-Free Living: Humor Essays and Fiction, available in paperback and Kindle format at Amazon.com skirt.com
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Wrap up a neW skirt!book! [ In the offIce, we’re readIng and lovIng How GeorGia Bec ame o’Keeffe. ]
Suburgatory: Twisted Tales from Darkest Suburbia linda erin Keenan
How Georgia Became O’Keeffe: Lessons on the Art of Living
Machu My Picchu: Searching for Sex, Sanity, and a Soul Mate in South America
Karen Karbo
Iris Bahr
Let us know which book you enjoyed! Email us at publisher@skirt.com
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My (not so) Storybook Life: A Tale of Friendship and Faith elizabeth owen
The Surprise Issue
Ask the teenagers in your life what they’re passionate about and why.
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It’s unspeakably good to be together again.
L a r a i n e Pe r r i
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The Hen Party
Peace on earth. We gather one evening near Christmas, as we have for some years now, and as we will for many more, come snow, sleet, hail, or 21st century worse. Postal workers have got nothing on us. We are seven ordinary women (extraordinary, by some measures), brought together by one truly uncommon one. The bright and beautiful Marianne is the reason why our lives have intersected at all—six degrees of connectedness. We are an unlikely group. The oldest friendship dates back to elementary school and years spent at Our Lady of Perpetual Laughter. Another began postcollege at the ladies’ residence we winkily call The Home for Wayward Women. One of us came on board via a dysfunctional but technicolor ad agency, another from an earnest and prescient involvement in the Big Sister organization, and yet another while shuffling off to Buffalo in a tap dance class. We include a corporate lawyer, an illustrator, the manager of a hair salon, a magazine editor, a retail maven, a writer, and a proud, chic French woman who has dug her extremely high heels into the terra firma that is the U.S. of A. We have been gainfully employed, self-employed, and unemployed. We are liberal and conservative, risk takers and safe players. Five of us are married; three have children. One had twins, and one had cancer—the inexplicable work of the gods. We seven are as likely to encounter each other at the baggage carousel at Kennedy Airport as at an intimate party. And that’s what makes our gathering all the more remarkable. We align at Christmas. We call it “The Hen Party.” We arrive at Marianne’s Manhattan apartment independently, shivering in the December cold. One of us comes from two miles away, one from two city blocks away, another travels the distance of two states. We greet each other joyfully, if nervously at first. Wine is poured, cider for some. New haircuts are admired; photos of young children are shared. It’s been a year since we’ve seen each other. For ten minutes it will feel like forever; in twenty it will feel like ten minutes. Each of us had wanted to look great for our reunion, applying make-up and choosing clothes more thoughtfully than we do for dates with husbands or lovers, but half an hour in we’re weeping with laughter, mascara be damned. There’s a year’s worth of catching up to do. There are new stories—the best of the best from each of us, and across a wide swath—family, politics, ethics, men. And there are requests, demands even, for retellings of our greatest hits (the story about the ex-boyfriend who turned out to be a member of the Russian mob remains a hen party classic). It’s unspeakably good to be together again. One of us has eight sisters, one of us has none, but all would agree that we constitute a sisterhood of a rare and special sort. Still, though we come to the evening hungry for reconnection, a few of us are sufficiently polar that there is the inevitable bump. It may be prompted by something as simple as the recounting of how one of us handled a situation with a taxi driver, or how a co-worker responded to a remark. We stiffen for a moment. We remind ourselves that this is why—though we are friends—we aren’t quite that exactly. It will be a year before most of us make contact again. Our lives intersect at the corner of Marianne and Christmas. But we have only these hours together and are hellbent on making the most of them. The bump passes, passions cool, and laughter, again, becomes the order of the night. We add a splash or three to our glasses, and then we eat. Marianne always serves up something wonderful, managing to respect the latest restrictive diets of some while fueling the Dionysian appetites of others. Eventually, it’s time for gifts. Friendship is the heart and soul of the hen party, but it’s our tradition of homemade gifts that gives the evening its pulse. Our offerings have been impressively creative and lovingly wrought, full of surprise, and with it, delight. Among our efforts: homemade snow globes, decoupage tea boxes, hand-sewn lingerie and luxe velvet scarves, personalized fortune cookies, and on and on. Twenty-two years of them. The exchange of gifts is the culmination of the evening, and the beginning of the end of it, too. Two or three of us are always first to go, two or three of us always linger on. Having reconnected again, leaving each other isn’t easy. There are always vows between some or all of us not to wait a whole year before seeing each other again. “We should get together! We should!” But mostly, we don’t. Marianne is the sun around which we orbit. Without her, we would almost certainly spin away from each other. But she is a life force, and an irresistible one—a natural attractor of people and souls. If you are lucky in your life, you will have such a sun, maybe even be it. We wrap ourselves in wool and cashmere. We hurriedly collect our six one-of-a-kind gifts, hug each other close, wish each other a Merry Christmas, and say goodbye. It’s late, and outside the cold is even colder now. It always is without Marianne. Laraine Perri has been published in O, The Oprah Magazine, The New York Times (“New York Observed” column), The Christian Science Monitor, and contributes regularly to more than a dozen national women’s and lifestyle magazines. She is currently writing a memoir.
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You Did What?!
Mary Wolters | Always a Lady It’s not every day that you see a woman operating a bulldozer, but it is Dark Corners, an area known for its strangeness. A 21st anniversary gift from her husband, Mary used the old Komatsu bulldozer, nicknamed Sue, to clear the land for their Red Horse Inn and surrounding cottages located in picturesque Gowensville. The couple, graduates of The School of Visual Arts in NYC, also helped design and build the award-winning “Most Romantic” destination where they serve as innkeepers. “Along with the bulldozer, Roger also gave me pearls from Wal-Mart,” Mary laughs, “because my mother said you could always tell a lady by the single strand of pearls she wears. Now there is no doubt when I emerge covered in mud off my tractor that I’m a lady.” In fact, Mary, who still finds ’dozing a relaxing pastime, has been affectionately dubbed “Our Lady of the Bulldozer” by the once-skeptical locals. Photo by John Fowler
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You Did What?!
Shea Kim | Straight Shooter You just don’t mess with Shea. She’s a former medaled member of the US Navy Military Police, a certified Dive Master with over 180 dives logged in five different countries in the last three-and-a-half years, and an ace tennis player on a USTA league team. She’s also the owner of Definite Defense, a firearms and CWP training company, and is currently in the process of getting certified to teach the NRA Refuse to Be a Victim course at local high schools, colleges, churches, and other organizations that would benefit. “My goal is to take a portion of the proceeds and donate them to women’s shelters,” Shea says. Oh, yeah…this combat-ready wife and mother of three also knows how to deal craps from her days in Las Vegas as a dealer and floor supervisor. Move over 007. Photo by John Fowler
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You Did What?!
Slick-Wicked | Life’s a Drag What started as a custom auto-painting business in the Slick-Wicked Rod and Race shop eventually grew into the all-female truck and motorcycle drag-racing team, consisting of founder Angie Young, Reah Smith, Donna Carman Blackwell, Ann Arnett, Beth Marie, and Jennifer McAbee. With the help of an agent, the Slick-Wicked Girls are being branded as the hottest racing team on and off the track, with negotiations under the hood with several networks to produce their own reality show. “Hopefully with the launch of a show we will be able to have the opportunity to teach other women how to race and wrench and serve as role models to the next generation.” In the meantime, the team will keep on trucking with sponsors such as Anderson Motorsports, Brad Penn Oil, and Palmetto Moonshine among others. “We are always looking for sponsorship; horsepower is not cheap!” Find out more at slick-wicked.com. Photo by John Fowler Pictured L to R,Top: Angie Young, Beth Marie, Reah Smith, Donna Carman Blackwell, Ann Arnette Bottom: Jennifer McAbee
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He’s So Original
Dan Riley Weighs In As co-owner of InShapeMD in Greenville, Dan’s job is to bring the new personalized weight loss program and its products to market, as well as to train his staff how to use these tools to best benefit their clients. “The biggest joy is seeing the direct impact you can make on someone’s life. I am blown away at the transformations patients make when they are motivated to embrace our weight-loss program and they watch the pounds melt away. Our top patient has lost 97 pounds!” Dan is also co-owner of Any Lab Test Now, located in the same office, which offers just about any lab test you can think of to businesses, as well as to the general public. What do you love about skirt!? “skirt! is the most original print magazine I have ever seen!” How do you feel wearing a skirt? “I am Irish, so I should feel good in a skirt. I’m still waiting…” Photo by John Fowler
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k c i A Tr
of th e
Lig h t
Maybe the magic is back.
Stacy Appel
S
now sifts down from the sky in light flakes, a fine dusting of powdered sugar that begins to melt almost as soon as it reaches the ground. Still, it is snowing!— a rare occurrence in Berkeley, so even this one glimpse is exhilarating. I’m walking in the hills just before dark, as lights come on in the houses around me. The stucco cottage on the corner is festooned with colored lights and pinecone wreaths; next-door, a gaudy procession of painted reindeer marches across the lawn. Though the holidays are still a couple of weeks away, the chilled air feels charged and enticing. Maybe the magic is back. For me, the past year was one of intense struggle, of proceeding in a dogged one-foot-in-front-of-theother fashion, a year punctuated by losses and mishaps. A friend died, a pet died. I fell through my deck when a board snapped, a perfect metaphor for the way I was already feeling. My elderly Honda gave out and had to be towed from a concert in another town, and when I got home the roof was leaking into the kitchen. Floor to ceiling, everything seems fragile now. I’m grateful for an interlude from the string of disasters. Yesterday I walked in the woods near the reservoir in the fading winter light. In a secluded spot near the main trail, I was startled to come upon a fully decorated fir tree tucked in amidst its plain neighbors. I wondered who had spent the time packing up these decorations to bring to the woods, who had taken care to adorn this one tree so majestically with the miniature drummers, bears, painted trains and bells that hung among the pine needles. Glass orbs glowed silver or gold from every branch, and one little lopsided star winked down from the highest point. A finch alighted next to it for an instant before swooping off to a nearby oak. On days like this, I try to remember that just the smallest handful of faith might be enough. The universe is good at pulling rabbits out of hats. I think back to a December night a couple of years ago during a winter that felt increasingly stressful and devoid of enchantment. I went by myself to a theater production downtown, only because someone had given me a free ticket. I was dubious: the show, Aurélia’s Oratorio, was one I knew nothing about and the title sounded highbrow and boring. Once inside, I steeled myself to the possibility of a wasted evening. Then the lights were extinguished and the curtain went up, revealing a simple wooden dresser on a bare stage. Aurélia Thierrée, a wide-eyed French beauty, slowly emerged from the dresser. As gypsy jazz music swelled, her limbs appeared and
reappeared through the drawers in puzzling combinations while she smoked a cigarette and drank a glass of wine—raising the question of just how many hands and legs were emerging, and how they were managing to do so. In a little over an hour, the actress/contortionist and her helpers created a mystical inverted world, upside-down and inside-out, in which rats walked cats, a kite flew Aurélia around, coats donned humans and a curtain family took on distinct personalities. The show, which had no dialogue, was like a thrilling collective dream reverie, including a lavish snowfall made of lace, a train that chugged through Aurélia’s belly, and furniture and puppets with minds of their own. She seemed bent on providing the audience with endless proof that the impossible can happen. At the show’s conclusion, I walked out, elated, into the foggy night, where it seemed that the whole world was infused with beauty, had become extraordinary again, the way it often felt when I was a child. Only later did I learn that Aurélia Thierrée is Charlie Chaplin’s granddaughter. I read an interview about her production in which she said, “Our cardboard and strings are so fragile that they sometimes break. In the seven years that I have been performing this show, I believe that there has only been one performance where everything was executed perfectly.” Then she added, “...and when I think about that performance, I realize that somehow it was not one of our best shows.” I walk slowly, snow drifting onto my hair, my eyelashes. It isn’t sticking long to anything. I think about my difficult year, the way nothing went according to plan. Relationships faltered, projects hit the dust. And now there is a feeling of magic lurking at the edges, though nothing has yet changed. The Japanese artistic principle of wabi-sabi, or flawed beauty, embraces the idea that nothing lasts, nothing is finished, nothing is perfect. Desolation and solitude are viewed as positive characteristics because they represent a separation and liberation from the material world, transcendence to a simpler life. A chip or a crack in a vase makes it more interesting and gives it greater meditative value. When I get home from my walk, the roof is leaking again, this time dripping through the kitchen light fixture. I slide a pot underneath, then decide to ignore it. I make a cup of Earl Grey tea and hunker down on my sofa to balance my checkbook. I discover a thousand-dollar error in my own favor, which is so extraordinary I do the math three times before I’m willing to believe myself. Tomorrow I will buy roses and pay bills and call a contractor. I will give thanks—for the tree glowing in the middle of the woods, the disasters, the snow that didn’t stick around and the friends who did, the magic, the kindly tow-truck driver, in fact, for this whole upside-down, wabi-sabi year.
Stacy Appel is an award-winning writer in Lafayette, California, whose work has been featured in the Chicago Tribune and other publications. She has also written for National Public Radio and is a contributor to the book You Know You’re a Writer When…by Adair Lara. Contact Stacy at WordWork101@aol.com
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f-word [ Feminism Free-For-All ]
Rape Firstborn Kudos to Prime Minister David Cameron for championing the right of a firstborn royal daughter to assume the British throne rather than any sons born after her. “We espouse gender equality in all other aspects of life, and it is an anomaly that in the rules relating to
Frontlines OffTheSidelines.org
was
started
by
Fresh
The Girl Scouts are updating some of their badges. New badges include Computer Expert, Website Designer, Financial Literacy and The Science of Happiness. Some old badges are also getting a makeover. For instance, what used to be a Fashion, Fitness and Makeup badge has morphed into The Science of Style. Go Girl Scouts!
the highest public office we continue to enshrine male superiority,” wrote
Senator
Cameron.
Kirsten Gillibrand of New York in an effort to get more women involved in the issues they care about. Gillibrand knows that women must get off the sidelines if they’re to make a difference in their community. offthesidelines.org
Firsts
High school can be cool. TheFrisky.com reports that Patrick
Henry
High
School in San Diego crowned lesbian student Rebeca Arellano as its first homecoming king during the school pep rally, and days later, Re-
Facebook Depression Social media guidelines released by the Academy of Pediatrics warn that there are unique aspects of Facebook that can make it a potential minefield to navigate for kids already dealing with poor self-esteem. Public friend tallies, status updates and photos of happy party people might make some kids feel worse if they feel they’re losing the online popularity contest.
beca’s girlfriend of two years, Haileigh Adams, was
crowned
home-
coming queen. skirt.com
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A Christmas surprise? Oh, yes. The best gift ever? Indeed. Romantic? Oh, my, yes.
H
Susi Gregg Fowler
e’s no romantic, my husband. We had only been an item for a couple months when that insight hit me over the head. Picture a candlelight dinner in my tiny apartment, the two of us seated on the floor at the coffee t able, across from each other. Dinner is a smorgasbord of snacks—lovers’ treats: olives, smoked oysters, gourmet crackers, special cheese, and wine. The music of a favorite Canadian singer spills into the room. Hey, I didn’t say I wasn’t a romantic. Jim looks across the table, shakes his head, and says in a husky voice, “I can’t believe it. Sometimes you just look so beautiful.” My heart almost stops. Really. A prior marriage and divorce had left me bruised and disappointed. I rarely felt beautiful—but I see something in Jim’s eyes. This is magic. I don’t know what to say. His words dance around my brain. “Sometimes you just look so beautiful.” But spells, alas, are easily broken. He pauses only a moment before saying, “And then again, other times…” End of magic moment. Curtain comes down on that picture. I must say, however, that to Jim’s credit, once he realized that I was hurt, that I felt like the butt of a joke just when I was most vulnerable, he fell all over himself apologizing. It was just that he couldn’t resist a punch line waiting to happen. That’s his credo. I learned to be prepared. Lest I seem to be painting a sad picture, I must say that Jim’s ability to laugh at a wide range of foibles, pretensions, and fantasies, including his and mine, has taught me to take myself much more lightly. This, in turn, has made my life easier, better, and a whole lot more fun. So he’s not romantic. So what? I know Jim’s sense of humor and his style so well that these days I can anticipate the one-liners before he speaks. I know his repertoire of jokes and often begin rolling my eyes before he opens his mouth, sensing, as I do, what’s coming. He is quick with unexpected quips or puns, too, but even with his “new material” I can guess the tenor of the remark brewing. As he has aged, he has also learned that there are times for silence, but I have been amused on several occasions knowing that he’s holding his tongue while someone pontificates and imagining—almost like thought transference—the quip he longs to make. I guess
I’ve internalized his sense of humor. Our daughters share my skill at reading their father, and sometimes we’ll all groan before he even starts a familiar story. He accepts our teasing with his typical good humor. And so, for better or for worse, Jim’s predictability is woven into the fabric of our family life and the tolerance and affection we have for each other. There is, after all, comfort, not to mention entertainment value, in this predictability. And he can, of course, predict our reactions, too. But there was once a Christmas no one could have predicted. It is a memory that still possesses a glow—a kind of halo—around it when I think of it, although it occurred many years ago now. Amidst the chaos of the opening of stockings, the crumpled wrapping paper everywhere, and the music of my mother’s old Harry Simeone Chorale record playing in the background (as it still does every Christmas, never without a groan from Jim), my very predictable husband took my hand and led me to a wrapping paper-free spot on the carpet and asked me to sit down. What on earth was this about? He sat opposite me and took both my hands in his, and looked deep into my eyes. Shades of that moment 20 years earlier! I knew I was about to become the butt of a joke and steeled myself. I wasn’t going to get suckered in this time; no one can say I don’t learn from the past. And then Jim began to recite. “Come live with me, and be my love, / And we will all the pleasures prove / That valleys, groves, hills, and fields, / Woods, or steepy mountain yields…” This wasn’t happening. Jim doesn’t memorize poetry—okay, maybe a limerick or two. Poetry is my thing. “And we will sit upon the rocks, / Seeing the shepherds feed their flocks,/By shallow rivers to whose fall / Melodious birds sing madrigals…” He continued. Time held still—I swear. The dog and cats quit rustling through the gift wrap. The girls were motionless. At least, I think those things happened, or maybe I was just suspended in my own personal snow globe, a magic place. And there, in that magic place, Jim recited to me all of “The Passionate Shepherd to His Love.” His hands trembled—or was it my hands that trembled? His eyes never left mine. He left me breathless, and the children witnessed yet another miracle: their mother, speechless. There was no punch line. A Christmas surprise? Oh, yes. The best gift ever? Indeed. Romantic? Oh, my, yes. Does it balance out all the jokes at my expense? Hmm. I might have to get back to you on that one. But it did remind me that the possibility of surprise always exists. You can’t prepare for it. You don’t know when it’s coming. You can only be grateful. Delighted. Surprised!
Susi Gregg Fowler lives and writes in Juneau, Alaska. Her work has appeared in news magazines, literary journals, and anthologies, including The Christian Science Monitor, The Binnacle, Windfall, Tidal Echoes, Underwired, and The Centrifugal Eye. She is also an award-winning children’s book author. Contact her at susi@susigreggfowler.com. 30
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HO L IDAY 2011
Country Boy’s Garden Center Belk
Macy’s Ten Thousand Villages
Toys “R” Us
Hallmark
Bed, Bath & Beyond
Pottery Barn
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she’ssoskirt! G ra c e B on ne y | B logge r | Author |DIY VIP Because she keeps it real • Because she looks out for the ladies • Because good design never goes out of style Since 2004, Grace Bonney’s blog, Design*Sponge, has been a touchstone for accessible décor; but it’s not only creativity and a can-do attitude that make her stand out—ingenuity and plain old hard work have pushed the site to a daily readership in the tens of thousands. “I’m just a big fan of focusing on the work and what you’re really passionate about. I don’t think anybody ever regretted working really hard and then picking their head up to see all the great things they’ve done.” Looking for a weekend project or a business lesson or something in-between? Grace is a go-to girl. “When I started out I had someone ask me if I knew how to process a credit card and they were like, ‘Well you know not every girl knows how to do that.’ That, for me, stuck.” Out of early encounters like that came her recurring series, Biz Ladies, which focuses on managing ethical and business snafus and how-tos. “I think that people really learn from mistakes almost more than they do from success stories. People succeed in very different ways but people often fail in all the same ways.” For less fail and more win in your own abode, pick up Grace’s new book, Design*Sponge at Home. Photo by Johnny Miller
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Reasons to get online If you’ve ever stressed out over losing a password to a website,1Password may make your life easier. This utility can create and remember unique passwords, and can also safely store all your credit card information. $49.99 at agilebits.com/onepassword. Come across a funny video on YouTube and want to send it to your hip niece to show her that you’re still cool? First stop by Is It Old? and input the link to see if the clip is ancient pop history. isitold.com Online mag Rookie is geared toward teenage girls, but the site has features for all ages, like quirky DIY craft videos and interviews with celebs like Aubrey Plaza and Elle Fanning. rookiemag.com
Books we are enjoying
Big city style hard to come by in your hometown? Enter Sudden-
The New New Rules: A Funny Look at How Everybody But Me Has Their Head Up Their Ass Bill Maher Nikki Hardin Publisher, skirt!
lee, where you can shop multiple retailers and pay a single shipping charge.You can even purchase items from places like Uniqlo, which don’t even offer online shopping. Get details suddenlee.com.
The Hunger Games Suzanne Collins Sheril Bennett Turner Editor
Excusesto catch up on a few blogs “There’s not a single emoticon that fully expresses my hatred of emoticons. Nope, not even that one with the slanty, angry eyebrows. Don’t be an emoticon addict. Fight yellow ball fever! Use words!”
Gurl.com
“When Bossy was a girl, she got all of her cues about how one should react to the notion of airplane travel by studying her mother. Naturally these lessons took place in the airport bar, where Bossy’s mother would plant herself a couple of hours before takeoff. In the very early hours of the morning.”
Iambossy.com
“Over the last few weeks, I’ve watched as my six-year-old has fallen madly, deeply head over heels in love. With reading.”
Mom-101.com skirt.com
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planetnikki [ a visual journal ]
I grew up wanting to be a rebel, someone who forged a path rather than followed a well-worn highway. I’ve veered wildly between the twin poles of
Instead,
personality—
my please-like-me Nikki versus the-hell-with-it Nikki. Housewife and hippie, flouting rules and fearful of breaking them, middle-of-the-road and off the charts.
Is everyone such a smorgasbord of selves?
On constant replay: I can’t listen to Patti Smith (my favorite rebel), Bono and Bruce Springsteen belt out “Because the Night” on my way to work and be in a bad mood. I finally watched James Dean: Forever Young, the documentary that I’ve had out from Netflix forever, and was mesmerized all over again by his achingly beautiful talent. Rebel Without a Cause, East of Eden and Giant—all in my top 100 movies of all time.
I’m not a breakfast person, but I’m addicted to starting most every day with plain Greek-style yogurt.
Can't wait to try AtlantaFresh, handmade in the southeast.
Add some sacred pomengranate seeds, which represent life and regeneration, when in season.
Someone recommended The Art of Living by Epictetus (interpreted by Sharon Lebell) to me during lunch recently and said he reads a snippet from it every morning. I love the idea of being inspired by an ancient Greek instead of Gawker.
Let us know what inspires you every morning Email us at publisher@skirt.com
Nikki Hardin is the founder and publisher of skirt! magazine. She blogs at fridaville.com. 34
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December survival guide Twinkle Lights Snow Days Winter Solstice Parties Ticket to Tahiti Champagne Nights The Nutcracker No Layovers
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Don't buy cheap clothes, buy good clothes CHEAP!
McDaniel Village | 1922 Augusta St., Ste. 112 864.631.1919 | labelsonaugusta.com Monday through Friday 10-6 • Saturday 10-5 • Sunday 1-5 AIM81778