November Skirt

8/8/2019 November Skirt

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November Loves:

Cloth napkins when you’re eating alone...

Shock-value sunsets…Flashlights in a

power outage…Hot tea with milk and

sugar…Chopin Préludes…Big fat novels…

Holding hands in a restaurant…The comfort

of crying in the shower…Geese heading

somewhere together…Outdoor cats…

novemberCharleston, SC

P R S R T S T D U . S . P O S T A G E

P A I D P E R M I T 1 0 5 7

C H A S . , S C

Cover copy by Nikki Hardin, Art by Penelope Dullaghan

Macaroni and Cheese Moo.com StickerBooks…Homemade

on a winter night…Being forgiven… Foreign

stamps…The mystery man in the moon…

Made in America labels…Folded laundry…

A brand new wallet…Crepe paper turkeys…

Fog…Having your own special ringtone on

someone’s phone…Kilts and biker boots…

Spaghetti and meatballs for a broken heart…

Johnny Cash for a worn-down soul…Wearing

a birthday crown…Sharing the Sunday

paper…Having someone pump your gas…

A good fortune in every cookie .

“The little things? The little moments? They aren’t little.”

Jon Kabat-Zinn

skirt! isfree! www.skirt.com



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about skirt!

Publisher

Nikki [email protected]

Art DirectorCaitilin McPhillips

[email protected]

Editor/CharlestonMargaret Pilarski

[email protected]

Advertising Sta Catherine Lambert

[email protected]

Julie Perretta-McCarthy [email protected]

Harriet [email protected]

Jenny Dennis [email protected]

Ad DesignCristina Young

[email protected]

Assistant Graphic DesignerHeather Hall

[email protected]

O fce ManagerMelissa Goodrich Krueger [email protected]

ContributorsTraci Daberko

Karen GreenbergStephanie Hunt

PhotographyMarni Rothschild DurlachLeigh Webber Alice Keeney

Charleston Center or Photography

sheMAIL

7 Radcli e Street, Suite 302Charleston , SC 29403

O fce 843.958.0027Sales: 843.958.0028FAX: 843.958.0029

[email protected]@skirt.com

skirt.comskirt! is published monthly and

distributed free throughoutthe greater Charleston area.

skirt! reserves the right to refuse tosell space for any advertisement the

staff deems inappropriate for thepublication. Unsolicited manuscripts

must be accompanied by a self-addressed, stamped envelope. Letters

to the editor are welcome, but maybe 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 limitationthe design, advertisements, art,

photos and editorial content, as wellas the selection, coordination andarrangement thereof, is Copyright© 2010, Morris Publishing Group,

LLC. All Rights Reserved. No portionof this magazine may be copied or

reprinted without the express writtenpermission of the publisher. SKIRT!®

is a registered trademark of MorrisPublishing Group, LLC.


inevery issue

eaturesDeath by ChocolateStephanie Hunt .....................................................................................36

The Art o Com ortAmy Vansant ............................................. .................................. ............42

F-Word:“Where Have All the Women Gone?”Shelby Knox ............................................................................................46

From Dusk till DawnNora Du ................................................................................................50

A Room o My OwnLiane Kup erberg Carter .................................................................64

Happy Points Lisa Williams Kline ...............................................................................74

PerspectivesStacy Appel .............................................................................................80

Letters ..........................................................................................................28

He’s So Original .....................................................................................38

Calendar .....................................................................................................45

Skirt o the Month................................................................................53

SmartGirl ...................................................................................................55

skirt! Alerts/Brava/It’s a Shame ..................................................68

skirt! Loves .............................................................................................77

She Said, He Said ...................................................................................82

Browse .........................................................................................................85

Girl Power .................................................................................................86

24/7 with… ..............................................................................................88

Planet Nikki ................................ .................................. ............................. 90

skirt! is

all about women... their work, play, amilies,

creativity, style, health and wealth,bodies and souls. skirt! is

an attitude...spirited, independent,outspoken, serious, play ul and

irreverent, sometimes controversial,always passionate.

november



The

Comfort

Issue

Ahh! getting the call

you’ve been longing for...an unexpected act of kindness...

shedding a worn-out worry...coming home to someone

who waits up for you.

N OV E M B E R 2 0 1 0




Dish

dear skirt!

What’s notto love aboutskirt!? Everymonth I knowI can expect to

be introducedto amazingwomen wholive righthere in mycommunity...

Have an opinion? [email protected].

All letters to the editor must include thewriter’s name and city/state.

As always, skirt! did an excellent job

on the October issue. I always enjoy

reading about new people making

their mark on Memphis! Kudos to all

featured!Nicole Gates,Memphis, TN

What’s not to love about skirt! ? Every

month I know I can expect to be

introduced to amazing women who live

right here in my community, and this

issue was no exception. From artists

to bakers to comedians to surgeons,

you have a special way of showing how

beautiful, creative and versatile our city

truly is. Every city should have a skirt!Keep up the good work.

Susan GreenerMemphis, TN

Every month I look forward to reading

skirt! and advise all of my friends to

read it, too. When I saw the cell phone

tip on your calendar page [October],

I had to respond. Driving back from

Myrtle Beach, my cell phone landed in

my cup holder under two inches of Diet

Coke. I took out the battery and let it dryfor two days. Nothing. Then I saw your

rice trick and zipped the phone and

battery inside a plastic bag of rice. On

the third day, my phone was good as

new. Keep up the great work: You saved

me from buying a new cell phone. The

stories and artwork are incredible, too.

Brenda HuYoungGlen Allen, VA

I wanted to take a few moments out

of my day today to let you know that

your notes to the reader each month

in skirt! remind me that life has

options! Sometimes I forget, but then

I will read your sweet words and my

smile (ironically, the October topic

of the month!) returns. Thank you for

actively doing what you love. With

every issue of skirt! , (which seems to

get better each month) I am reminded

that the world is a big place with many

opportunities. So, thanks. Also, little

known fact—I never throw them awayafter I am done reading them. I keep

them or I pass them to a friend. Best

wishes for continued success.

Brittaney DanielleSavannah, GA

The “Smile Issue” [October] really made

me smile. The essays were downright

hilarious—especially the one about

the dreaded car carts!—and the stories

were delightful.

Kristen Bailey-MillerBartlett, TN

Thank you foractively doingwhat you love.With everyissue of skirt!,(which seemsto get bettereach month)...best wishesfor continuedsuccess.

28 november w 2010 charleston.skirt.com



Let us knowwhat’s on yourmind, respond to

an article, or giveus info on anupcoming event.

We are alwayslooking fornew writers andartists.

If you would like tohave copies of skirt! in

your business, give us a call.

got news?

contribute

distribute

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 .

Send letters or press re-

leases to [email protected], or

mail to skirt!

Charleston,

7 Radcliffe St., Suite 302,

Charleston, SC, 29403.

Need additionalcopies of skirt!?

cover artist

from the publisher

Margaret [email protected]

from the editor

Penelope Dullaghan is an

illustrator and fne artist

who started her reelance

career a ter a fve-year

stint as an ar t director.

She currently lives in the

teensy town o Winona

Lake, Indiana, with her

writer husband, baby

daughter Veda, a dog and

two cats. She chronicles her

artistic development at her

website, penelopeillustration.

com. She also heads up and

contributes to a weekly

creative outlet and

participatory art

exhibit: IllustrationFriday.com.

Penelope’s clients include

Starbucks, Target,

United Airlines, and

Oprah Magazine.

It’s the Com ort Issue. I know what you want me to say—that a com ort zone o herbal tea and bubble baths is divine and that we should lay around in velveteen smocks

all day. I hear ya, but I think you’re wrong. And this is coming rom a happy home hobbit who can spend a whole Saturday oriented around my dog, duvet, The New York

Times and a Top Model marathon. There have been Saturdays when I realized I never actually le t the house. But last month I had overscheduled mysel with fve Saturday

activities. (That is fve too many or me.) What I ound, though, was that I quite enjoyed my bicycle ride to lunch at the armer’s market, gathering up a backpack o books

at the Big Book Sale, partaking in a dirty chai at Kudu, and then making my second and third outft changes as the sun went down or a ashion show and then a late-nightarts estival. So I didn’t get to read all o the paper that morning, but I le t my zone and I survived. I recommend the same to everyone reading this rom the com ort o a

dog-warmed bed. You can always DVR America’s Next Top Model marathons. You can’t DVR a balmy Charleston breeze.

u s ! v i s

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the comfort issue

Most o us relinquish our blankies when we grow up, and we have to be tricked

out o our paci ers be ore preschool. In my case, cigarettes eventually supplied the

same com ort that thumb sucking did as a child. They got me through scary parties

or dates and soothed me when I was upset or stressed. Later, in order to get in a

com ortable writing zone, cigarettes and ountain Cokes were as necessary as pen

and paper. I was convinced that i I quit smoking I’d never write another word. I

can’t deny it was tough to end the a air with the Marlboro Man, but eventually

I developed other rituals to get me in the writing zone. Going to a co ee shop

with other people around worked or a while, but there had to be just the right

number o other people to produce a white noise buzz, and not just any co ee

house worked. More recently, I’ve trained mysel to go to a di erent place in my

head when I plug my Bose headphones into iTunes while I write on my laptop.

The shape and size o the headphones are as important a trigger as the music

itsel . Because they cover my ears, I eel like I’m shutting out the world and tuninginward. The music has to match what I’m writing, too. Baroque or ocus when I’m

umbling around with the beginning, rock or rap or energy when the piece starts

to take o and fy on its own. And i I’m writing my blog, I’ll choose sad country

songs by Teddy Thompson or siren songs by Joni Mitchell. Most o my li e, I had

a personal soundtrack running in my head or on the radio, and then it suddenly

stopped. I couldn’t “hear” music or a while, almost as i my hormones had turned

o my internal receiver. Now that it’s working again, music is my biggest com ort,

whether it’s Jay-Z blaring while I drive with the windows down and the wind

blowing in, or Chet Baker swirling around my bedroom like cigarette smoke when

my heart is breaking. It brings me tears and wipes them dry, gives me courage and

calms me down, li ts me up and lets me dream.

Nikki [email protected]




Comfort is having a friend make

all your favorite foods

when your heart is broken.It doesn’t heal your heart, but it feeds your soul.

The Comfort Issue




Comfort is the look in your dog’s eyes

that means he’s trying to say,“It’s going to be okay,”

when you’re crying.

The Comfort Issue




Comfort is pajamas straight from the dryer

when you get home from work in the rainy dark with wet hair

and cold feet.

Comfort is pajamas straight from the dryer

when you get home from work in the rainy dark

with wet hairand cold feet.

T h e C o m f o r t I s s u e

The Comfort Issue




Stephanie Hunt

Grie eels like a pit in your stomach, an ache in the throat.

It’s hard to swallow. But chocolate cake, even when favored with sadness and regret,

tastes like li e.




It’s been a month since my ather died. This realization struck me ran-domly in the Piggly Wiggly bread aisle, as I weighed the nutritional merits

o Nature’s Choice (whole wheat, $2.99) against the bulkier loa o Earth-grains (multi-grain, $3.50). The sell-by date was the trigger—a month to theday. That and the act that over the last ew weeks I haven’t had to groceryshop, or cook much. I was rusty navigating the cart, as our larder has beenstocked and our stomachs lled by the culinary kindness o riends.

Debbie was rst out o the gate, bringing barbeque the day a ter hisdeath—tangy vinegar-based Q, with a bit o ery kick that was so tened bysweet corn on the cob and slices o juicy watermelon or dessert. She had noidea that BBQ was manna in my dad’s gustatory universe, or that a barbequesandwich was the last meal I brought him only a ew weeks be ore. Dad couldno longer say my name, speak a coherent sentence or ollow simple directions,but he smiled as he kept o ering me bites o his chopped pork, prodding meto share his lunch, even though he was the one withering away.

On day two, my riend Molly delivered a delicious quiche and reshHoney Crisp apples she brought home rom the North Carolina mountains.

Then Shirley spoiled us with creamy sea ood casserole and key lime pie,and Jeannie’s chicken casserole was topped only by the pecan pie she made

rom resh nuts her in-laws had picked and shelled. We bene ted rom theegg-laying bonanza o Betsy’s backyard fock, with a ve o’clock phone callannouncing a potato and cheese rittata coming our way, solving the what-shall-we-order- or-takeout dilemma on a Friday night.

“Mama, it sure is nice to be cared or,” my sweet, and sweet-toothed, 10-year-old said, eyeing the homemade chocolate chip cookies that she counted as the rit-tata side-dish. Grie began to taste like buttery sweets and resh-baked baguette.

Yet I elt a heaviness that could not be attributed, solely, to too muchcream sauce. My stomach gnawed with guilt that I was eating so well whenperhaps I ought to eel sadder. Shouldn’t my appetite be sinking amidst loss?Instead I salivated as I sat down to yet another meal that I’d done nothing todeserve and nothing to help prepare. I choke on the irony: I watched as my

ather’s strong ootball-player rame diminished to nothing, his pelvis hollow-ing like a Georgia O’Kee e image, as he slowly starved, Alzheimer’s havingswallowed his ability and will to eat or drink. And now, in death’s a termath,we are easting. My girls are thrilled not to wonder, or worry about, whatMom will “throw together” come seven o’clock on a school night—to u withlimp, ormerly- rozen veggies, or God orbid, pasta and salad, again?

I now know or sure that there’s consolation in casseroles, and yes, com-ort in numbers. My cousin Mallory’s booze-in used chocolate cake—all

22,430 calories o it—is dense, decadent proo . Mallory was my one cousinwho was able to travel to my dad’s memorial service, and the week a ter,when she brought over supper and dessert, each bite o that still-warm, to-die- or dark chocolate cake (a amily recipe, no less) held the rich bittersweeta tertaste o the service. Tears, laughter, memories, regret (doesn’t chocolatealways pack a hint o regret?) all baked together.

My only childhood experience o uneral ood was much less pleasurable.When my paternal grand ather died 40 years ago, I have vague memories o my dad in a dark suit, our house ull o people and a kitchen ull o ood.More distinctly, I remember that several days a ter his uneral, our base-ment reezer, packed to the gills with tin- oiled chicken tetrazzinis and othermysterious incarnations o cream o mushroom soup, joined him. It died,unbeknownst to us. Mourning soon morphed into one soggy, rank mess. Mygrandmother was devastated by her loss; my mother was equally distraughtby ours—a house that now smelled o reezer burn and spoiled meat.

A month post-mortem and li e has recalibrated to its mundane patterns. I’vesettled back into haphazard grocery shopping and ad-libbed menus, subsidizedby store-roasted chickens and Papa John’s. Volleyball games and soccer practicemore o ten than not make dinner a rushed, ill-planned a air. But I remain grate-

ul or the period when our table was set with the sustenance o others. Fromage 12 on, I ate with my ather only sporadically. Weekly cheeseburgers (thedivorced dad staple) grilled at the house he rented be ore moving out o state.

Garlic overload when he’d take us out to Cellar Anton’s. Only one Thanksgiv-ing together in all my adult years. I hungered or more, always. He was an excel-lent, imaginative cook, tossing ingredients together with Bobby Flay abandon,but my sisters and I seldom got to savor his are. The meals our riends delivereda ter his death became my private, unspoken celebrations o how di erent it isnow, and hope ully will continue to be, or my own children.

Grie eels like a pit in your stomach, an ache in the throat. It’s hard toswallow. But chocolate cake, even when favored with sadness and regret,tastes like li e. Whether it was Mallory’s cake or Betsy’s rittata, I alwayswent back or more.

Death by Chocolate

Stephanie Hunt is a freelance writer in Mount Pleasant, SC.





Matt Goodrich is hydro dynamic.A coastal and oceanographic engineer by day, and a rock star underwater hockey player by night, Matt ain’t no slacker (oh yeah, he’s also a husband

and ather o two). Guess all that discipline rom being a collegiate swimmer pays o . He puts his hydropower to the test as a member o the Charleston

Blockade Runners, an underwater hockey team that competes regionally and nationally. “I took up hockey when lap swimming got boring,” says Matt.

And his work doing wave studies, environmental impact and water quality studies or a Charleston-based international consulting frm gets him out onthe water (occasionally) as well. But playing bass or local bar-band, The Krays, is a decidedly dry-land endeavor. “It’s a lot o un, we play classic rock

covers,” says this ormer college rock-n-roller who took a musical sabbatical while his kids were young, and is enjoying being back on stage.

The best thing about wearing a skirt? “They’re so versatile. What else could one wear or both the caber toss and rocking on stage like Axl Rose?”

His favorite thing about reading skirt!?

“I read the Wall Street Journal entirely too much. skirt! adds a little diversity (it’s not owned by Rupert Murdoch too, is it?).”

Photo by Marni Rothschild Durlach

he’s so original




A r t

b y

K a r e n

G r e e n

b e r g



Sometimes you need a retreat. A source o com ort.Personally, I nd com ort watching kittens wrestlein the grass with junebugs, photographing wildhorses running through elds with their manesdyed the colors o the rainbow, or the eel o anew “wild side” Snuggie wrapped around my bareshoulders—pre erably in zebra print.

Sigh... Om... Just kidding. I nd com ort in booze.I’m not talking about grabbing a warm gallon

jug o cheap tequila and sitt ing, smoking and eatingdonuts in a window seat, staring at the rain. That is

SO college. (I I were to do that today, obviously I would choose vodka.) I amtalking about the com ort that the per ect drink choice a ords me or every

occasion. In this realm, I am something o a com ort genius.On those days when restless sleep brings me to a miserable morning lledwith a general sense o impending doom, clearly a drink is in order. But youcan’t just whip yoursel up bourbon on the rocks at 6am—you might as wellemail your immediate amily the direct line to A&E’s Intervention. For thisreason, you have to master the art o the high octane co ee. A purist canjust add a shot o her avorite liquor to any steaming mug o java, but atrue artist knows that a shot o Grand Marnier mixed with a little blurp o chocolate syrup makes a co ee taste just like a chocolate orange. Top with

at- ree whipped cream to complete the magic. Even i your child asks you ora sip o your “special co ee” you can eel secure knowing she’ll have nothingmore exciting to report back to Grandmom than the act your co ee “tasteslike candy.”

I your day is rapidly heading to hell in a handbasket in the early a ter-noon, a martini or a glass o wine is totally socially acceptable with lunch,

unless you’re having lunch with Grandmom or at Chuck E. Cheese. For thoseemergency situations, a nice healthy low-cal energy drink—the contents o which has been heavily diluted with vodka—is always my best bet. For thebest e ect, I like to don running attire, though I haven’t actually joggedsince grade school gym class. No one would ever ask a woman in tights and aper ormance feece why her orange Gatorade seems so unusually pale incolor. I people do have the impertinence to ask, tell them they should stopworrying about your energy drink and maybe pay a little more attention totheir own thigh region. That will shut them up. I they persist, simply jog away.

Hope ully by now you will be eeling better about li e. But i you still eelas though the weight o the world is on your shoulders, an a ternoon com ortcocktail should be arranged. I you are at home, start cooking dinner a littleearly, and open up a nice bottle o wine. Do not pour it into a glass. As youare cooking, simply swig directly rom the bottle as needed. Should anyoneenter the room, they will no doubt assume the wine is there or use duringcooking (a ter all, there is no drinking glass ). Keep in mind that i you aremaking peanut butter and jelly sandwiches or tuna subs, the presence o theopen wine bottle may be more di cult to explain. Stews and meat dishes arerecommended.

Pre-dinner, a cocktail is not unusual. I I really want something a littleharder, like a Manhattan, I am always care ul to sit down and sigh, “Ah, Ithink a cocktail will be very nice right about now,” or something to that e ect.This makes it clear that you are nally enjoying your rst drink a ter a long,

hard work day, and I nd people will smile warmly and agree that you deservea break.To avoid the appearance that your nightly cocktail is a crutch, several

times a week declare you are going to enjoy your “mocktail” instead. Makeyoursel a lemonade on the rocks in something un and in ormal, like a redplastic beer cup or a Dora the Explorer mug. Add vodka when no one is pay-ing attention. Flasks hidden in various spots around the house can help withthis i you nd it too hard to get near the liquor cabinet without arousing sus-picion. Then, while you imbibe, note that having this “mocktail” is almost asgood as the real thing and how it really “ ools your body into relaxing withoutthe alcohol.” You will not only appear sober, but also clever and creative. I eelcom orted just thinking about this now.

Dinner, o course, opens the door or more wine wi th the amily. The trickhere is to be sure that dinner is the sort o meal that calls or a glass o wine.Luckily, I nd this covers just about every conceivable dinner other than a

bowl o cereal or Subway sandwich, though their Italian BMT pairs nicelywith a glass o Chianti.

I you are still in need o com ort a ter dinner, be sure to leave the openwine bottle rom supper preparation on the counter as you clean up or pass inand out o the kitchen. Have another mocktail. I all else ails, just stay up laterthan everyone else in the house. Then you can curl up in the window seat witha bottle o vodka and a donut in peace. Add a twist o lemon or vitamins.Take a deep cleansing breath.

Hope ully, by tomorrow, you will be ully com orted.

Amy Vansant is a writer, blogger (kid reeliving.com), professional nerd, and shameless Labradoodle mommy.She’s probably at a restaurant drinking wine as you are reading this right now.

Amy Vansant

“Ah, I think a cocktail will be very nice right about now.”

OF




N o v

15-19. Check out“Deeper Wisdomand the Art o Ne-gotiation,” a work-shop presented

by Erica Ariel Fox.thesophiainstitute.org

17-19. Learn “Pho- tojournal ism: TheArt o Story Telling”with Andy Dunaway,Stacy Pearsall and

Alice Keeney at theCharleston Center

or Photography.ccforp.org

19. CelebrateStephen with TheSongs of Sondheim.Go on a journey

through the song-

book o musical theatre . Tickets, $35,Charleston AreaConvention Center Ballroom, 740.5854.

20. Check out theCharleston Cra tBee rom 3-5pmat the Mixson PoleBarn in Park Circle,

North Charleston.$10/advance, $12/door. facebook.com/ charlestoncraftbee

22. Attend a reception or Clara MaeNeuman, 27-year veteran o Charles-

ton Friends o the

Library. Mayor Riley will proclaim her birthday a holiday.charlestonlibrary friends.org

Dinner Theatre CrafternoonStorytelling

Fur Ball

Sophia Week Clara Mae Day

3 . Join scholar Richard Stamel-man at the Gibbes

to explore “TheFragrance o Colors:Per ume in Ar t and

the Art o Per ume.”Enjoy wine andcheese and abook reception.c4women.org

10. Don’t miss the Women at Work Pro essionalNetworking Groupluncheon at theHarbour Club, 35Prioleau Street,

rom 11:45am-1pm.membership@womenatwork charleston.com

6. Attend the Fur Ball Royale to

undraise or PetHelpers. Auction,dancing and dinner at the LockwoodMarriott with TomCraw ord andVictoria Hansen.pethelpers.org

12. The Holiday Festival o Lightsis up at the JamesIsland County Park

through January 2.Take their three-mile driving tour and stop or cocoahal way through,$10/car.

13. Have dinner with skirt! profleRenata to beneftLowcountry Or-phan Relie . From5-10pm, her “LocalImpromptu Move-able Evening” will

eature Che Laura Vein. limeincharleston.com

13. The Roper St.Francis Ryan WhiteProgram hosts itsannual AIDS Walk at Hampton Park indowntown Charles-

ton. The two-milewalk will beginat 9am.ropersaintfrancis.com

13. Stop by Holy City Artist andFleas at Eye LevelArt, 103 SpringSt. Local artists,

ashion and jewelry designers will be inattendance. Free!10am-4pm.

LIMESniff Do Lunch Night Lights

Local Crafts

Walk for Ryan

National Adoption Month • No Shave November • American Indian Heritage Month • Aviation History Month • Family Caregivers Month

Family Stories Month • Inspirat ional Role Model s Month • National Peanut Butter Lovers’ Month • Pomegranate Mont h • National Vegan Month

4

13

9

Celebrate the power o red at the LOVE Art andPhotography Auction at ONE (478 King St.). Hal o auction proceeds will go to Lowcountry AIDS Services. aids-services.com

5It’s the opening reception or Robert Lange Studios’“Women Painting Women” exhibit, eaturing f ty emalepainters who re use to play it sa e. 5:30-8:30pm, 2Queen St.

Join Dr. Trish Hutchison o Girlology or the Co ee Talk Series or Moms o Tweens. 9-10am, $30/class, call Blush

to reserve your spot, 388.9091.

Attend BarCamp, the “user generated un-con erence,”where those in attendance teach, learn and determinepresentation topics. All are invited—learn more atbarcampchs.org.




Would thatnumber be

higher iflittle girls

kneW that thefirst Woman

to run

presidentWas not, in

fact, hillaryclinton in 2008,

but VictoriaWoodhull

in 1872?

?[ T h e F - Wo r d | F e m i n i s t s S p e a k O u t ]

Think about the buildings in your town named a ter real people. Now think about streets near your housebearing the surnames o history’s pioneers. Are any o the names that pop to mind emale?

Odds are, probably not. Or at least not many compared to the male names. While American women haveprogressed leaps and bounds since the eminist movement in the 1970s, we still lag ar behind in recognizingwomen’s contributions to society in the myriad o ways that we as a culture connote who and what isimportant.

Take postage stamps, or instance. Men outnumber women three to one on stamps depicting actual persons.Or note the ratio o men to women honored with statues. O 150 historical renderings in New York City, fve are

emale fgures. And in the National Statuary Hall in Washington, DC, to which each state is allowed to submittwo avorite progeny or display, only nine chose to honor daughters rather than sons.

Now, I know what you’re thinking. With all the serious social and political issues still acing women—equal pay or equal work, insurance coverage or birth control and reproductive health services, and startlinggender disparities in math and science careers, to name a ew—why waste time and energy on whetherbusts have breasts or not? Because we’ve lived or too long with the myth that men created the worldand everything good in it and women stayed at home and did the laundry. Statues, stamps, street namesand national holidays (o which there is not a single one honoring a woman), are how we as a cultureteach children who is and is not important in our nation’s history and, by extension, our uture. I youngwomen can’t see ourselves as the inventors, artists, revolutionaries and creators that came be ore, how arewe supposed to ashion ourselves into the modern versions?

Shelby Knox

Where haVeall the Women

gone?

Luckily, hope is on the horizon. A new non-proft called Equal Visibility Everywhere (EVE), based in Washington, D.C., and powered by volunteers acrossthe nation, is making strides toward parity in America’s social celebrations. EVE success ully lobbied Kansas governor Mark Parkinson to give them the power

to undraise or and commission a statue o Amelia Earhart to replace John James Ingalls as one o Kansas’ contributions to the National Statuary Hall. EVEis sponsoring similar campaigns (and looking or volunteers!) in Maryland, Ohio, New York, Florida and Cali ornia.

There is also a renewed push or a National Women’s History Museum in Washington, D.C., that, according to the museum’s website, would“research, collect and exhibit the contributions o women to the social, cultural, economic and political li e o our nation in a context o world history.”The museum, which is a privately unded venture, is attempting to buy land rom the government near the Smithsonian museums on the National Mall;yet, recognizing the history o more than hal the population is not without political pit alls. Senators Coburn (R-TX) and DeMint (R-SC) have issueda hold on the legislation needed to sell the land on the grounds that women already have museums chronicling their accomplishments. When askedexactly where and what those museums are, the senators cited the National Quilters Hall o Fame in Indiana and the National Cowgirl Museum andHall o Fame in Texas.

This bizarre hold issued by two o the Senate’s most anti-woman membersis urther proo that the battle to recognize and celebrate women’s historyis political and pertinent. Women comprise 17 percent o Congress, anumber too small to even secure a vote to recognize that hal the populationexists, much less to properly represent it. Would that number be higher i little girls knew that the frst woman to run or president was not, in act,Hillary Clinton in 2008, but Victoria Woodhull in 1872? Would there bemore emale inventors i they knew that the windshield wiper, the bullet-proo vest, the fre escape and the globe were all invented by women?The answer is resoundingly “yes!” And until we make these pioneering womeno our past reappear, we are disappearing the promise o our uture.

�

Shelby Knox is an itinerant eminist organizer and reelance writer plotting the next generation o the eminist revolutionrom her tiny apartment in New York City. She is widely known as the subject o the Sundance award-winning documentary flm, The Education o Shelby Knox.

She blogs or the Hu fngton Post, AlterNet, and her own site, shelbyknox.com.




Home Work

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I catchsight o mysel

in a hallway mirror as I’m talking tomy sister on the phone. We are makingThanksgiving plans, and I see my ace: Itstartles me, the eyes especially. They reado terror, my riends, and it’s real.

Am I out o my mind planning a am-ily get-together or Thanksgiving? Justa ew years ago, this same sister hosteda Thanksgiving dinner that can only bedescribed as horri c.

Everyone has a rightening holiday story. You’re standing at the holidayjunction, waiting or the happy train to arrive. But it just doesn’t come. You peerdown the track, and see nothing but trouble.

My nightmarish Thanksgiving played out like that Robert Rodriguez movie,From Dusk till Dawn . In the lm, a couple o bank robbers, played by GeorgeClooney and Quentin Tarantino, make their escape to Mexico only to hole up ina bar run by vampire zombies who want to suck their blood.

That mirrors the plot o my Thanksgiving rom hell. Everything started outne, but then came trouble, and be ore I knew what was happening, my entireamily turned into fesh-eating, Mexican zombies. In act, the movie itsel plays a

prominent role in my story.Like any good horror story, Thanksgiving always begins with high hopes.

The turkey goes in the pre-heated oven a ter the obligatory debate about whetherto stu or not. The women gather or the traditional chopping and prepping o the all-important relish tray. The men are sent o to the store or last-minute sup-plies and to rent a movie or two.

Nora Duff

Like any good horror story,Thanksgiving always begins with

high hopes.

Happy Thanksgiving!




From Dusk till Dawn

Nora Duff is an essayist whose work has been published in the Chicago Readerand in South Loop Review. She is the CEO of Duff Media Partners, Inc., a writing,editing and communications consulting business. Nora lives in Chicago.

In our case, I ail to notice that my mother is happily pouringsherry in her glass while she chops carrots and celery. Just as the sherry is

reaching the height o its powers, my sister decides it is the per ect time totell our mother that her only son, our brother, has married his girl riendin London.

I knew all about the marriage, but I wasn’t about to spring this newson my parents in such a dangerous setting. I had visited Michael theprevious year and noticed his wedding r ing. “Oh yeah, I orgot to tel l you,”he says a little sheepishly. “Vic and I got married, but don’t tell Mom andDad. I’ll tell them.”

Sworn to secrecy, I tell my two sisters everything the moment I’m back inChicago. And, o course, I swear them to secrecy.

My mother takes the news well; she bursts into tears mid-chop. “Mom, hewas going to tell you. They had to get married so he could stay in England,”I say weakly, while glaring at my sister, who’s looking guilty. What is it aboutThanksgiving that makes people want to haul out the dirty laundry?

“Someone has to tell your ather,” my mother wails, “and I’m not going

to do it.” I eel the holiday take a sudden turn toward the dark side. I duckinto the bathroom to collect mysel when I hear my ather’s booming voice.“I’m not surprised, he was always a one-way street,” Dad thunders. “I’d havesplinters in my ass rom this chair be ore he’d call us.”

That’s when the three brothers-in-law, including my husband, comebreezing in the ront door. For some unexplained reason, they have cho-sen From Dusk till Dawn or later viewing, when the children are sa elytucked into bed. Lots o violence. Piles o pro anity. The swearing alonewill turn your ears black, and the violence will curl your nose hairs. Justper ect or Thanksgiving.

One o my brothers-in-law, a bit o a brown-noser, breaks out a bottle o my ather’s avorite whisky (Crown Royal), which has been largely o limitsto Dad or years. To prevent my ather rom enthusiastically downing the en-tire bottle, we employ a strategy best described as “Let’s all drink the whiskyas ast as we can so there’s less or him.”

Dad’s voice grows louder even be ore he’s done with his rst drink, andhe calls or the movie despite our protests that it’s too early. The younger kidsseem to be occupied upstairs, so we give in. Be ore the opening credits nish,my ather takes another slug o Crown Royal and launches into a lengthymonologue about what constitutes a real horror story. Because he is so loud,someone keeps turning up the volume. The roar rom both draws the kidsdown the stairs like a tractor beam, and they start chanting many o the morecreative cuss words rom the lm.

My ather’s language is growing more color ul as well. The situation is de-teriorating rapidly. My mother tells him to be quiet—“Harry, you’re loud andobnoxious!” But the brown-noser brother-in-law eggs my ather on. “Yeah,tell ’em, Harry! Who picked out this crap?”

My sister yells down the stairs to turn o the movie. “This is my house!”she announces, as i we didn’t know where we were. My ather tells her she’salways been a pain the ass and to put a sock in it. She starts to cry.

So there we are: The movie is blaring, the whisky is fowing, my atheris ponti cating, and the kids, sensing chaos, are running around the houseshouting cuss words. The brothers-in-law have le t or the kitchen. I lookaround or my sisters, but they seem to be hiding.

We have arrived at the Mexican vampire bar, and we’re all going to die.Finally, someone has the good sense to shut down the movie and pour the

rest o the Crown Royal down the kitchen sink. I maneuver my ather into thekitchen, but my mother is there, and she won’t leave it alone.

“No more holidays together!” she says. “As ar as I’m concerned theydon’t exist anymore.”

My ather turns to her and drops the big one—that’s right, the F-bomb,the word that athers generally don’t use inside their amilies. He tells her toshut the uck up. But he pronounces the “F” with such orce that he delivershis alse teeth across the table along with the message. Stunned silence, ol-

lowed by mu fed laughter.My mother stomps up the stairs, and the men slink o . I’m le t with mydad. We head or the garage, the only place where he’s allowed to smoke;he takes a deep drag o his cigarette and turns in my direction. “Is it me orwhat?” he asks.

We talk through the night; be ore long, we’re laughing at the ab-surdity o it all. It’s dawn, and all I can think o is this: Like warriors,we’ve outlasted the zombies and each other. We’ve made it to the daya ter Thanksgiving.




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Betsy Cribb

smart girl

Prettify Your Notes.Take notes in an array o colors. By changing up thecolor every ew minutes(or when a new topic isintroduced), your page willtrans orm rom blah blueink into a rainbow o enlightenment. You’ll staymore ocused and engagedduring class, and when itcomes time to review,your notes will be moreexciting to read, and you’llbe more willing to keepfipping through.

Whistle While You Work.We remember every wordLady Gaga croons but orgetalmost everything we learnin class. Change the words o your avorite song to relatethem to your schoolwork,and you will totallyremember every singlepresident o the 1800s oryour next big history test.

Just don’t let your American

Idol moment disturbeveryone around you.

Go Outside.Fresh air can do wonders

or an in ormation overload.When you get stressed out,take your work outside. Ab-sorb some Vitamin D whileyou soak in the ridiculousamount o in ormation thatyour chemistry teacherwants you to know ortomorrow’s quiz . Whenthe blades o grass becomea distraction, it’s time oryou to head back inside.

Stick It (to the Mirror). Jot down in ormation

rom your class notes onPost-its and stick them toyour mirror the night be orea big test. Come the nextmorning, you can brush yourteeth and simultaneouslybrush up on your knowledgeo Shakespearean sonnets.

Happy Hour.Sip mocktails with yourgirl riends while reviewingnotes together or yourupcoming exam. Payattention while you mixdrinks: one hal cranberry-raspberry juice, one hal lemon-lime soda. Fractionreview? Check.

Ace with Grace

Who says studying has to be boring?SmartGirl shows you how to spice up your study routine.

Betsy Cribb is a senior at Ashley Hall in Charleston, South Carolina. She is current ly fnishing up her college applications. Eek!

“Sip mocktailswith your girlfriendswhile reviewing notes

together for yourupcoming exam.




Francesca DiSalvo-Follmer | Newton Farms CateringWhen The Pig launched an upscale catering arm o their Newton Farms brand, they hired Francesca to bring home the bacon

(and order baguettes, calm the brides, organize event details). The outgoing Pennsylvania native is a natural—energetic and un inching with last-minute

fascos—not surprising, since she’s rom hearty ood & bev stock. Her dad ran an Italian restaurant; in act, “every restaurant in town was owned by a amily

member,” says Francesca, who’s washed dishes, chopped veggies, waited tables—“every job in the house.” She loves being in event mode 24-7.“I’m a people person,” she says. “My brides end up becoming my riends.”

Francesca’s party tip: “Give your guests something to remember, get creative!

Put your own personal touches on decor and ood to make your party stand out.”

Photo by Alice Keeney

party people




Kerrie Schmidt | Manager, Hibernian HallThe luck o the Irish may not be in our-lea clovers a ter all. It’s in hiring a savvy woman to keep green beer fowing and events hopping,

which is what Kerrie has done or the lads (and lassies) at Charleston’s venerable Hibernian Hall or the last nine years. The Hibernian Society dates rom

1801, but Kerrie, a born-and-bred Charlestonian, keeps its social calendar resh, with creative twists on traditional events and estive touches to everything

rom the Society’s annual membership banquet to weekend weddings. “It’s amazing to see how di erent this hall can look rom event to event,”says an enthusiastic Kerrie. “I’m throwing parties. What’s not to love?”

Kerrie’s party tip: “It’s all in the small details. I love carrying on a tradition, with a twist—like my amily’s Christmas Party.

Guests know that Santa will be there with a tray o signature cocktails, which we change up every year.”


party people




Renata Dos Santos | Impromptu Event Planner In her native Trinidad, “lime” is slang or “hanging out, just chilling,” a term derived rom the days when slack British soldiers ate limes or scurvy.

Now or Renata, LIME stands or Local Impromptu Movable Evening—her hip new addition on the underground dining scene. “We o er a 5+ course

dining experience at a lower cost, emphasizing local ingredients, while bene ting a local nonpro t,” explains Renata. LIME’s location and theme changes

or each monthly event, and are revealed only days prior. A “nomadic soul,” Renata lived abroad or years be ore landing in Charleston,where she’s a personal che , artisan bread baker and caterer, in addition to her LIME-ing.

Renata’s party tip: “A gathering is only as much un as the host and guests are willing to have. Be fexible, go with the fow and be open to the unexpected.

It’s all in your willingness to step outside your com ort zone and enjoy li e.”


party people




Sara Tanis | Invitation Keeper I it’s the thought that counts, then the invitation counts most when giving a party. That’s where Sara comes in.

As manager o The Scratch Pad, she keeps Charleston’s social scene decked out in stationery— rom snappy and cute to elegant and engraved.

“The invitation is the party portal, the frst thing you see; it sets the tone,” says Sara, who brings a background in sales to the business her mother,

Sue, began 36 years ago (decades be ore Evites!). Their clientele spans several generations and two coasts, with customers rom New York to Cali ornia.“Who doesn’t love getting something in the mail? It makes you eel special.”

Sara’s party tip: “The invitation is your guests’ frst impression. Don’t skimp. Go big, do it up!”


party people




The summer a ter graduate school, I accepteda job as a copywriter at a well-known pub-lishing rm. I had been recruited and hiredby a woman named Serena, a blonde, coollypro essional woman, who praised my work

lavishly. I loved my job. But two months later,Serena was inexplicably red. They replacedher with a shrill, sarcastic woman namedCrystal, who’d once worked or—and been

red by—Serena, and so she took an instantdislike to anyone Serena had hired. Especial-ly me. I believed my work was good; I was

diligent, always met deadlines and the editors consistently praised me. Yet eachweek Crystal would summon me to her o ce and catalog what she labeled as mypro essional ailings. Some nights, weary and ready to weep, I would nally prymysel rom the vise-hold o that o ce, and Crystal would look pointedly at theclock. “Running out early again?” she would say.

I couldn’t wait to get home. My cat would meow plaintively as soon as sheheard my key in the door. Some nights, when I was just too tired to cook dinner,I’d go to the reezer, shave o a slice o rozen Sara Lee chocolate cake, sit by the

window and listen to a scratchy recording o Dvorak’s New World Symphony. Iwas dismal that winter. I had just lost my beloved Aunt Jeanette, and Dvorak’ssonorous second movement, a beauti ully melancholy melody based on an oldspiritual called “Going Home,” spoke to my sadness.

Home was my haven. Alone in my 11- by 14- oot bedroom, I would sit or hoursat my desk, a long butcher block slab that rested on white particle board crates. Night-ly I would ll the pages o a black and white marble composition book, parsing theevents o the day. Writing was my re uge. Writing pinned the chaos to the page; it madeit containable and manageable. I was 25, living alone or the rst time, in a diminutiveone-bedroom apartment near New York University. I was nishing a master’s degreethere and had been dating another student named Victor on and o or two years. Iliked and admired Victor, and I loved that he could always make me laugh, but I eltnot an ounce o passion or him. I was repulsed by his sexual overtures; his kisseswere so sticky that I wanted to wipe my mouth. One icy rush-hour evening, Victormanaged to wedge his oot between the subway car and plat orm. While he wasrecuperating, I stupidly spent a night with a man who’d pursued me unsuccess-

ully all through college (and who, once I’d nally succumbed, didn’t call again orthree months). It had le t me eeling used, bruised and abandoned. I was still lickingthat wound a week later, when a strike by the city’s transit workers derailed theentire subway and bus grid, bringing all ve boroughs o New York to a standstill.

“Don’t know how I’m going to navigate getting to work on these crutches,”said Victor, who lived out in Queens. “Any way I could camp out at your place?”

It didn’t even occur to me that it was possible to re use. All I could say was,“But you’re allergic to my cat.”

“I accept your gracious invitation,” he said.For the next 11 days and nights that the strike lasted, Victor, as well as

Meg, our mutual riend rom Brooklyn, camped out in my apartment, passingcontainers o Kung Pao chicken and sesame noodles. My re uge had become afophouse: Victor and his crutches took over the tiny bedroom and Meg com-

mandeered the so a bed that, when open, covered most o the living room foor.The only privacy to be had was in the small windowless bathroom, strewnwith towels, toiletries and a large litter box. There was nowhere to write,nowhere to read, nowhere just to be. Each morning I couldn’t wait to leave.I would lace my sneakers, toss my high heels into a tote bag and walk twoavenues west and 40 blocks north to my o ce overlooking Rocke eller Center.Exhausted, I would orti y mysel with endless cups o co ee. By lunchtime my

ngers would jitter across the typewriter keys.And so the transit strike labored on amidst rumors it would not resolve

be ore summer. One morning, Crystal ripped up the pile o press releases I’dwritten the day be ore, dropped a mountain o manuscripts she demanded Iread or the next day and departed the o ce in a miasma o malice. I cradledmy head in my arms, ghting tears.

My ace grew hot, my hands icy; my heart pounded. Suddenly I couldn’tbreathe. The sense o impending doom was overwhelming. I was certain I was

going to die.I thought: I can’t do this anymore.I shoved manuscripts into my tote bag and fed. I couldn’t even eel the

legs that carried me out o that cubicle and into the elevator. The sky was sobright it hurt. I don’t remember how I got home; all I remember is fingingmysel onto my bed, still failing against the quicksand pull o panic. I thoughtI was going mad.

I now know that what I su ered that day was a classic panic attack. Notsurprising, given that I elt hounded at work, constricted with grie or myaunt and strangled in a dreary, dead-end relationship rom which I did notknow how to extricate mysel . For as long as the transit strike wore on, Ihad—quite literally—nowhere le t o my own.

The strike ended eventually, and the house guests departed. I ound a ther-apist, booked a Club Med trip with my college roommate, and, two monthslater, on the aptly named Paradise Island, I met the man who would becomemy husband within the year.

And I quit my job.Since then, I have made sure always to preserve a place o my own. I eel

most grounded when I am in ront o the keyboard, most ully mysel . At mydesk, I am still the dreamy teen writing unrequited love poetry to an olderteacher; the harried young mother eagerly snatching at spare moments whilethe babies nap; and the middle-aged woman, struggling to wrest meaning romthe mystery o a disabled son. When I write, I eel ageless, orever orgingmysel in the word smithy o my soul.

Liane Kupferberg Carter’s work has appeared in The New York Times, the Hu ngton Post, McCall’s, Parents, Child, New Parent, Cosmopolitan,Glamour, skirt!, Literary Mama, Babble, and Errant Parent.

L i a n e K u p f e r b e r g C a r t e r

Writing was my refuge. Writing pinned the chaos to the page; it made it containable and manageable.




1 3 4 5Change all the doorknobs to giveyour house an instant aceli t. Check outthe ones on anthropologie.com, or take aday to browse local hardwareand antique stores.

Start or increase a savings account,and then don’t touch it except to make

deposits. You’ll eel a warm glow everytime it grows.

Learn how to seasona cast iron skillet. It’sremarkably e fcient andnon-stick when preparedand maintained properly.And it lasts two orthree li etimes.

2

Buy an expensivechef’s knife...Shun,Wusthof, Henckels

or the like. It makeschopping and slicing faster, of course, but it also looks damnimpressive when friends comefor dinner. As if you actuallyknow what you’re doing in thekitchen, even when you don’t.

eelgood fve

Make a PowerPointpresentation aboutsomeone you love. You’lllearn (or per ect) a skilland have a thought ul gi tto leave in someone’sinbox.




u According

to responses toquestionnaires sent

by The Republican

National Coalition

or Li e, at least 78

Republican congressional

candidates state that

they are “pro-li e without

discrimination.” That

means a woman would

be orced to bear her

rapist’s child.

v A recently released

study, the most

comprehensive look

at sex behaviors in the

last 20 years, fnds that

although 85 percent o

men say their sexual

partner experienced

orgasm during sex, just

64 percent o women say

they did.

w There were

our high-profle teen

suicides in September

a ter the kids experienced

bullying and harassment

at their schools or

either being gay or

perceived to be gay.

u Alaska schools

have introduced a newprogram called “The

Fourth R: Relationships”

into their curriculums.

The program is designed

to promote healthy

adolescent relationships,

and targets bullying,

dating violence and

substance abuse.

v Dan Savage, Savage

Love columnist, has

started the It Gets Better

Project—a series o

videos by gay adults

to reach LGBT youth

who can’t picture what

their lives might be like

as openly gay adults.

Nine out o 10 gay teens

experience bullying

and they are our times

likelier to attemptsuicide. youtube.com/

itgetsbetterproject

w For the frst time,

changes to the National

Highway Tra fc Sa ety

Administration’s 2011

5-Star Sa ety Ratings

System include emale

crash test dummies.

your natural wine

corks (no plastic) at

Whole Foods. Look or

the recycling box in the

wine department.

A local amily have

Thanksgiving. Make a

donation to Charles-

ton Basket Brigade.

Together with Piggly

Wiggly, they provide a

Thanksgiving dinner

or Charleston and

Berkeley County ami-

lies located through

Communities in

Schools. charleston

basketbrigade.com

a high fve to GirlUp,

a campaign o the

United Nations Foun-

dation, that encourages

American girls to raise

awareness and unds

or UN programs that

reach girls in other

parts o the world.

Donate $5 or more

to provide girls with

basic needs like school

supplies, clean water,

health services and

more. girlup.org

recycle

help

give




Funny Feminists

o v e r h

e a r d

“So a sailor suit is a feminist skirt?”

Hard KnockLife.“My rental cardoesn’t evenhave GPS.”Li e in the frst world

is rough. White Whine,

a collection o petty,

privileged complaints,wants your contributions.

Browse the smug sel -

sent gripes, as well as

screenshots o riends’

Facebook statuses and

Twitpics. Send “white

whines” to whitewhines

@gmail.com or tweet

them to @whitewhines.

Your monthly friend (us!)would like to introduce you

to another lady mag (or lady

rag?), called Vag Mag.The brainchild of hilarious

comedians, Vag Magazine isactually a series of webisodes

about hipster third-wavefeminists Fennel, Sylvie,

and Bethany, who buy outfashion mag Gemma in order

to start Vag. Follow the trio,along with fellow staffers

Heavy Flo, Reba, Meghan

(a lone holdover fromGemma), and Intern Kit

at vagmagazine.com.

“Did yousee Groupontoday?”

At WhatCost?

We all subscribe

to daily deal emails,

but besides buzz

and discounts, what

does it generate?

Some biz blogs say

the gimmick is

unproven to net

repeat customers

and nd that after

credit card fees,

commission and in-

cremental payouts,

some retailers can

take a loss if they’re

not prepared.

Bottom line: Werecommend sustaininglocal businesses

with full-price (andfull-passion) support

when possible.

I’m reallynot a fan of bloggers

takingLabor Day

off.This Fijiwater bottle

doesn’t fit in mycup holder.

Myheated

car seatsmake

my skindry.

Of course I geta sinus infectionthe day before...

Where’sthe

whiteiPhone

bumper?

Do youknow if the

vegan oat baris gluten

free?

Browsethe smug self-sentgripes...




company in the tub

sugar body scrub

hot water heaters

bedroom candles

a new book on the Kindle




My husband has been col-lecting happy points. Theygive them out at our gro-cery store. Considering allthe thought that has gone

into understanding whatmakes modern adults hap-py, it’s com orting to knowthat to achieve happinessall you really have to dois go to your grocery storeand spend a little money.

In this case, you receive one happy point or every $10 you spend.The happy points come in the orm o stickers that can be applied to a page,

similar to Green Stamps. My husband takes great joy in a xing these stickers.He volunteers to go to the store or random items, items we don’t even need yet,and I watch him as he comes in brandishing tiny metallic squares. He licks themand neatly adds them to the line o stickers we’ve accumulated. Then he pleasur-ably contemplates the prizes we will win once these happy points are redeemed.Once, a ter shopping, curious to see i I could capture a bit o his pleasure, I a -

xed the stickers mysel . My husband was visibly disappointed when he oundout I had done it.

I have actually been in therapy or depression or the past year, and it’s rus-trating to learn that achieving happiness, which or me has become so elusive, isa simple matter, or my husband, o buying a ew dollars’ worth o groceries andcoming closer to the goal.

“What is the goal?” you may ask. Kitchenware. Small kitchen appliances.When we perused the page showing the prizes, I pointed out to my husband thatthere was nothing there we needed. He was undaunted. “We’ll get things or thegirls,” he said. A ter several phone consultations with our grown daughters, wesettled on the hand blender and the wa fe maker.

When the promotion was over, my husband had proudly collected the maxi-mum happy points. In a highly anticipated trip to the store, he took the sheet withour collected stickers to redeem or the prizes.

“Sorry,” the clerk said when my husband arrived. “We’re out o the handblenders and wa fe makers. All we have are the 36-cup co ee makers.”

“When will you get more?” my husband asked.“Tomorrow morning early,” she replied. The next morning my husband was

at the store at the crack o dawn. Not early enough, however. All o the handblenders and wa fe makers were again gone. Or maybe they had never actuallycome in.

“When will the next delivery be?”“Tuesday morning.”“Can I put my name on a waiting list?”

“No. First come, rst served.”“So? Still eeling happy?” I asked my husband a ter his second trip home

empty-handed.“They will not de eat me,” said my husband. “I will wear them down with my

patience. I don’t care i I have to go back ten times.”

A ter his third trip, the store had nally begun a waiting list that was seven oreight pages long when they added my husband’s name to the end. My husband,just to be on the sa e side, visited several other branches o the store and addedhis name to their lists, too.

“They said we weren’t allowed to put our names on more than one list,” hecon ded when he got home, red-cheeked and a little winded with excitement.“But desperate times call or desperate measures.”

A ter almost a month had gone by, I went to the store and checked with themanager. “Do you know when you’ll be getting in the wa fe maker and the handblender?” I asked.

“They said it would be next week but I don’t believe them,” said the clerk.“We’ll never do a promotion with that company again.”

“That’s okay,” said my husband when I told him. “Having to wait longer orour prizes will just increase our pleasure when we nally get them. The key is thatothers will give up. They’ll orget. We can’t. Not when we’ve come this ar.”

Finally, nally, nearly two months a ter the promotion ended, we received thelong-awaited call rom the store manager in orming us that our wa fe maker andhand blender had arrived. My husband raced to the store, obtained our prizesand delivered them to our daughters. Our daughters took them with that casualgratitude that children have, never knowing that the price paid or these littleappliances was literally dozens o trips to the store. Like many o li e’s goals, theprocess o getting them eclipsed their value many times over.

“And are you happy?” I asked my husband. “Have the happy points madeyou happy?” This essential question, the one I have been pondering about myexistence or the past year, kept coming back to me.

“Very,” he said. “It makes me happy to get ree stu .” But my husband knewwhat I meant. He put his arm around me and squeezed my shoulder. “You’ll getit back,” he said with con dence. “You just have to be patient.” He went througha depression several years ago a ter his ather’s death. He was hollow-eyed andlistless or months and I, having never experienced anything like it, became im-patient with him. He is not that way with me. His deep and loving empathy issometimes all that gets me through.

He understands that today, or me, happiness is a word whose very de nitionbegins a soul-searching that involves therapy and medication and whose answerseems complex and unreachable.

Now, or him, happiness is as simple as a xing a shiny sticker to a sheet andturning it in or out-o -stock kitchen appliances that we don’t really need. Thereis something magical about his ability to do that. And the act that he’s able to

eel happy about happy points gives me hope that one day I will, too.

Lisa Williams Kline is the author o three novels and a nonfction book or young people. She is also the author o Take Me , a short story collection or adults.

Lisa Williams Kline

...it’s comforting to know that to achieve happiness all you really have to dois go to your grocery store and spend a little money.




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Come Sip(and paint)with skirt!

When:

Nov. 186:30-8:30pm

Where: Bottles ‘n Brushes424 BroadwayMount Pleasant

How: Reserve yourspace by callingthe skirt! of cewith name andcredit card.

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PERSP E CTIVES

Stacy Appel

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…. Contact Stacy at [email protected].

November light spins a pale gold webthrough the redwoods as we makeour way along a narrow rocky trailhigh above the creek. My brotheris a seasoned hiker, proud to leadthe way on this precarious pathhe’s convinced me to walk insteado the main trail through MuirWoods. Far below us, near the cen-tral entrance gate, a swarm o noisyvisitors spills rom the tour busesinto the parking lot, cameras and

thermoses slung over their shoulders like insect wings.Peter steers me away rom the clump o poison oak to our right, and pulls

me in sharply when the overhang o a branch cuts abruptly across our path. I’mtouched by these small courtesies. He was an Eagle Scout so many years ago—I remember how naturally he took to camping trips and long treks, somehowknowing without instruction how to pitch a tent and start a good re rom sticks.He could discern without a compass which direction was northeast and couldsense a storm coming in be ore anyone else. Together we pick our way up anincline, testing or traction on ground slippery with damp leaves and small stonesthat slide every which way under our boots. I stumble on a large root, startlingmysel —the way my heart suddenly pounds makes me realize that, despite Peter’ssure ooted lead, I’m actually very anxious at our proximity to the edge o thismossy cli . The vantage point above the creek o ers a stunning view o the old-growth redwoods, but one misstep could send me tumbling down the hillside intothe silvery rush o water below. My brother slows his natural pace so I don’t eel

hurried, though he’s not aware that I notice this.Hiking is what we do best together. On this chill, ragrant a ternoon, thesplendors de nitely outweigh the risks. In years past, Peter and I have oughtin nearly every restaurant in the Bay Area, yet here on the trail, we are quiet to-gether, listening companionably to the occasional cry o a raven or a jay be orethe noise is swallowed up by the sponge o dank orest that surrounds us. Welisten to our breath, to the gentle muted thud our ootsteps make on the packedearth, to the ar-o laughter o tourists clustered at the trailhead. I can almosthear the trees themselves when I listen more deeply in the spaces between the

other sounds. Majestic old souls, they whisper to us in a complex language wecan’t decipher, but it’s com orting.

As we continue along the ridge, the path levels out and we arrive at a smallset o steps etched into the hillside, which marks the beginning o our descent. Mybrother bounds ahead, showing o a bit, tall and lean in his blue feece jacket andjeans. I know he’ll wait or me down below to make sure I take the proper orkin the trail with him; he’s probably hungry by now so we’ll wind our way backto the entrance gate and consider where to drive or dinner. Though I’ve steeredaway rom the memory all day, not wanting to tarnish this pleasing excursion insuch good company, my mind veers back to a di erent hike: less arduous physi-cally, but still the toughest walk we ever took together.

The a ternoon o the day my ather died, we couldn’t think what to do withourselves. Break ast in a posh restaurant near the hospital in D.C. where he’dspent his last hours was an expensive, spur-o -the-moment mistake. Hungry butunable to eat, we le t our elaborate plates untouched and drove my rental carout to Cabin John, a Maryland regional park we hal -remembered rom child-hood. At the commissary, we bought potato chips and ice cream sandwiches totake with us and set o slowly beside the lake, hobbled by grie . When, inevi-tably, we got con used and even angry about the direction o the trail we hadsupposed we knew well enough, my brother and I turned back and ended upsitting on a rock, shivering, wol ng down our snacks like lost children. The sunwent down and the moon came up, turning the sur ace o the water to mirrorglass. We couldn’t get our bearings in this once- amiliar place. There was no oneto call, no one to lead the way, no house to go home to except the one where my

ather no longer lived.For a long while a ter Dad died, Peter couldn’t bear my company. He lost

himsel in work, in relationships, in Santa Fe and on Maui and on mountain tops

and in oreign countries. Mourning was a private journey or each o us, and theday by the lake was the ork where our paths diverged.But here in Muir Woods so many years later, we might be orgiven or

imagining that we were never lost at all, never a raid, that it has always beenthis way: one o us waiting up ahead in a slant o sun or the other to reachthe clearing. My older brother leans luxuriously against the trunk o a red-wood tree, grinning when I spot him. He has no idea exactly how small helooks in the shadow o a thousand-year-old redwood, nor how very tall helooks to me today.

Hiking is what we do best together.




“The single mostimpressive fact about

the attempt by Americanwomen to obtain theright to vote is how

long it took.”Alice Rossi

she

saidhesaid

“Don’t you realize that as long as you

have to sit down to pee,you’ll never be a dominant

force in the world?”Don Delillo




This issueof skirt!was puttogether tothe soundsof:Trent Dabbs& Ashley MonroeTrent Dabbs& Ashley Monroe

Consolersof the LonelyThe Raconteurs

Black FlowersLynn Miles

Red HorseEliza Gilkyson,

John Gorka,Lucy Kaplansky

browse

view

bookmark

build

learn

We love the quirky objects found at The Curiosity

Shoppe site, especially the set of porcelain keys that

really have no purpose at all. curiosityshoppeonline.com

Have you ever wanted to dress a cat in baby clothes?

That’s not exactly what Mila’s Daydreams is about,

but the creator makes it her mater nity leave hobby

to create little tableaus around her nappi ng baby.

milasdaydreams.blogspot.com.

Remind yourself of how much the little things in life

mean, like “#409 Kids who dress themselves,” by

bookmarking 1000awesomethings.com.

Big Girls, Small Kitchen is a quarter-life guide to

cooking and recipes written by two 20-somethings to

provide affordable, fun ways to navigate the kitchen.

biggirlssmallkitchen.com

Want to downsize or minimize? Holly Thacher’s PopUp

House kits won an award from Dwell Magazine for their

ingenuity. A single-cube kit measures 1,024 square feet and

costs $75,000. Check out the options at ehouseport.com.

PageTurnersThe BootBradley Quinn

Start at ancient boot history(BC and BS—“before san-dal”), throw in some Wellies,some Catwoman and topit all off with a load of designer delightfulness. FromAlexander McQueen to Vik-tor & Rolf to Chanel, bootsget a whole book for alltheir looks.

Margaret Pilarski, Editor

Great Gals: Inspired Ideasfor Living a Kick-Ass LifeSummer Pierre

A former contributor toskirt!, Summer has puttogether a guide to inspireyou to greatness in your life.Full of prompts, quotes and

ideas to get you to your goal.I loved it!

Nikki Hardin, Publisher

Sunday RedemptionHolly LongMagic TimeVan MorrisonSomeone to Watch Over MeFrank SinatraSeeing StarsMeg HutchinsonLast RequestPaolo Nutini

COMFORT ME

“Full of prompts, quotes

and ideas to get youto your goal.

I loved it!

November playlist




Photo by Leigh Webber

Caroline Rhett

When this 10-year-old climbed on

stage at age three to sing with Amy

Grant, it was a prophetic moment.

Within years, she’d declared to her

mom she wanted to be a pop or classical singer and since then hasn’t

let go of her dreams. She’s performed

at Riverdogs games, local parties,

fundraisers, and competed in various

competitions. She’s even caught the

attention of folks at Capital Records

(who usually don’t consider meeting

with under-12s). For now, she’s

training with a vocal coach and it won’t

be long till you see her name in lights.

“It’s reallyfun to do, it cheers me upwhen I’m feeling sad.




Allison Williamson | Art Afcionado

Occupation: Founder/Director o theCharleston Artist Collective

My passion right now: Promoting anddiscovering artists and the directing thedocumentary about Don ZanFagna.

My website: charlestonartistcollective.org

Signature scent: Coco Mademoiselle.

My favorite feminist: Maya Angelou.

Favorite restaurant: High Thyme.

Walker, runner or couch potato? Always in motion.

My muse: My boys.

I never want to: Sit in an ant pile again.

The food I never want to eat again: “Thuny” in Spain is not tuna!

My guilty pleasure: Pedicures and Cheetos.

Right now I’m reading: The Talent Code .

My secret ambition: Follow my passions!

The food I could eat every day: Sushi.

My best friend says I’m: Witty.

I still can’t get the hang of: Flyfshing.

I’d like to learn to: Sur and play gol .

One thing people don’t know about me:I am a certifed ski instructor or disabled skiers.

My mother always said:There is no excuse or boredom.


TWENTY-FOUR SEVEN WITH...




If you pulled your bike

out of my spider-webbed shed and rode it

a few blocks from my house, you would end up at an old bridge

that dead-ends in the middle of a spectacular view.We’re entering the days of splendor in the marsh grass and ery late fall sunsets in my

part of the country. Soon there will be goblin moons suspended above the ocean, and I

heard yesterday that there were dozens and dozens of spinner sharks driven shoreward from the passing storm, leaping

out of the water like star-spangled acrobats. I wish I’d seen it.

I daydream about living another life,

a bigger life, in a different place,

and then I remember that William Blake never traveled

anywhere and saw angels everywhere.

They must be here, too—it’s just my vision

that’s faulty.

The 5 x 5 inch Hand Book Artist Journal is my current

avorite because it’s a per ect journal/sketchbook and ftsin my purse.

planetnikki[ a v i s u a l j o u r n a l ]

A riend brought this back or me rom Paris, and I’m

beginning to think that beingborn in Paris, Kentucky, is asclose as I’ll get to the original.

I’m a little obsessed with William Blake rightnow, and this piece rom Becca Stadtlander’sEtsy shop reminds me o his Tyger poem.

Oh, howI wish I ledthe kindo li e thatrequired aLittle Doeheadpiece!

littledoeislove.com

My veryguiltiestpleasure:owning theDVD o theOne NightOnly concert

by the BeeGees.

November Skirt

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