skirt! greenville june 2011

S102913

YES! YES! YES!

YES! I’ll be the first to say “I’m sorry”

when I’m wrong. YES! Make it two

scoops of chocolate. YES! I’ll stop resisting

change. YES! Let’s go skinny dipping.

YES! I promise to read the instructions

first next time. YES! I’ll up the ante.

YES! Leftover cold pizza for breakfast.

YES! Bring on blind dates, speed dates,

Cover copy by Nikki Hardin, Art by Trina Dalziel

YES! More vegetables, please. YES! More

caresses, please. YES! I’ll break up with

sugar. YES! I’ll risk heartbreak. YES! I’d

rather be a Venus Flytrap than a shrinking

violet. YES! I won’t take “no” for an answer.

YES! I’ll take pleasure walks as well as power

walks. YES! I’ll find magic in the mundane.

YES! I’ll try not to be so well-behaved.

What ’s on your YES! L i s t ?

“I only have ‘yes’ men around me. Who needs ‘no’ men?”

Mae West

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Women make more than 85% of all purchasing

decisions.

Women spend almost 2 of every 3

healthcare dollars.

Women control 2/3

of the nation’s disposable income.

Women influence 80%of all car sales.

Essays and Profiles

Please Don’t Feed the Narcissists

Stacy Appel .................................................................................... 10

Roar

Jen Wittes Rognerud ............................................................... 14

Profile: Adina Estes

Always in Bloom ......................................................................... 16

Profile: Brenda M. Owen

Wedding Woman ...................................................................... 18

Profile: Hannah Rainwater

Bridal Bargainista ......................................................................... 20

You Can’t Go Home (to Economy) Again Amy Vansant .................................................................................. 24

Shimmy

Nadine Karel ................................................................................. 27

No Uncertain Terms

Stephanie Hunt .......................................................................... 28

FeaturesFrom the Publisher/Editor and Letters.............................6

Calendar ............................................................................................. 7

Don’t Miss ......................................................................................... 8

Skirt of the Month........................................................................ 9

F-Word ............................................................................................. 13

He’s So Original with Kevin Fort......................................22

June Survival Guide ................................................................... 25

skirt! Loves .................................................................................. 26

skirt! Says ...................................................................................... 30

Blooms Day ................................................................................... 31

Meet... Christine Faust ............................................................. 32

Browse .............................................................................................. 33

Planet Nikki .................................................................................... 34

skirt! Finder ................................................................................. 35

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,

sometimes controversial,

always passionate.

Publisher

Nikki Hardin [email protected]

National Art Director

Caitilin McPhillips [email protected]

National Editor

Margaret Pilarski [email protected]

Greenville Editor

Sheril Bennett Turner [email protected]

Sales Executives

Kathryn Barmore864.525.9596

[email protected]

Denise Nelson864.551.7295

[email protected]

Graphic Designers

Shelli H. Rutland Shearer Wludyka

Photographers

John Fowler 864.380.9332

promoimaging.com

Susan Gray 864.201.8395

susangrayphotographer.com

Sheril Bennett Turner

Sales: 864.551.7295 FAX: 864.260.1350

Calendar SubmissionsSend information or mail to [email protected], or mail to skirt! Greenville, 1708-C Augusta St. #335 Greenville, SC 29605.

Letters to the EditorAll letters must include the writer’s name and city/state.

Writers & ArtistsOur guidelines are available online at skirt.com. Submit artwork or essays via e-mail to [email protected].

skirt! is published monthly and distributed free throughout

the greater Greenville area. skirt! reserves the right torefuse to sell space for any

advertisement the staffdeems inappropriate for

the publication. Unsolicitedmanuscripts must be

accompanied by a self-addressed,stamped envelope.

Letters to the editor arewelcome, but may be edited

due to space limitations. Pressreleases must be received

by the 1st of the month forthe 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. Noportion of this magazine may

be copied or reprinted withoutthe express written permission

of the publisher. SKIRT!® is aregistered trademark of Morris

Publishing Group, LLC.


June 2011

This month, make every “yes”

an unconditional double-dip, skinny-dip, party-mix

approach to life.

The

Yes!Issue


Sheril [email protected]

Cover Artist

Trina Dalziel is based in

London but wishes she lived

in a forest. Since the age of six

she has dreamed of being an

illustrator. Trina grew up in the

north of Scotland and studied

at Maidstone College of Art

in Kent, England, and has lived

as an au pair in Copenhagen,

Paris and Helsinki. Most of her

work is first hand drawn with

pens, brushes and inks and

then completed in Illustrator.

Inspiration, for Trina,

can come from exhibitions,

films and books, but also by

“trying to walk slowly and look

at things.” See more of Trina’s

work at lillarogers.com and

trinadalziel.com. From the Editor

Twice I said yes. Twice I was a June bride. My second marriage on June 8, 1996 was a memorable

occasion, celebrated romantically every year…until 1998. That year, full-blown pregnant but not due

for another six weeks, as I dressed for our anniversary dinner I went into early labor. Now each year

on June 8, instead of enjoying a romantic dinner for two, my husband and I are usually blowing up

balloons for the children’s birthday party on June 9. For those of you who have recently said yes, to

marriage that is, this month you’ll meet a witty wedding planner with a big heart, plus you’ll discover

what our three wonderful women wedding specialists do to make Upstate brides blissful. Or, if saying

yes to the shoes is more your thing, our June He’s So Original man is no dummy, especially when it

comes to heels. This June, come with us as we march down the aisle—or just enjoy the front row

seat we’ve reserved just for you—as we say yes, no and maybe, baby.

Letters

I have to respectfully

disagree with the quote

from Erica Jong on the

F-Word page [May 2011].

Although I don’t have kids,

I do have a few friends who

are at least partially into

attachment parenting, and I

can say from my experience

that they are independent

and intelligent women who

have taken the time to do

their own research in order

to decide for themselves

what is right for them and

their child(ren). I would

argue that no lifestyle

choice is inherently anti-

feminist; it only becomes

so when women lose the

right to make their own

choice and when the

choices they do make lead

to disparagement from

others, whether that be Pat

Robertson or Erica Jong.

Keena Hutchens Winston-Salem, NC

Hi Sheril,

Just wanted to say a big

THANK YOU for the great

article on me in the May

issue of skirt!...it’s great!

I’ve sent it over to a few

friends :)

Cindy Youssef Greenville, SC

Sheril, I got the May issue

of skirt! yesterday and I

absolutely love the content.

Thank you so much, it is a

real pleasure to know you!

Anna Matusz Greenville, SC

Sheril, I just wanted you to

know that I thought that

my He’s So Original article

in the May issue looked

great! I’m glad I was talked

into doing it. Thanks.

Ted Volskay Greenville, SC

oui

From the Publisher

Nikki [email protected]

theYes! issue

When an introvert says YES to an event, committee or party, please

understand that she might be doing that to please you. She wants you to

like her and she honestly believes the world will end before she has to make

good on that yes. As the time draws nearer, she will begin scheming to find a

way to get out of it. Sprained ankle? Stomach virus? Hiding in the house on

Halloween with the lights out? I’ve used them all. It’s a process that resembles

a wild animal trying to chew its own leg off in order to escape a trap. I’m

getting better at being honest. I hate committee meetings and would be a

lousy board member, so no thank you. I don’t like eating tiny food while

standing up, so please count me out on that political fundraiser. I’ll send a

check and stay home with a big plate of spaghetti. In those cases, NO is my

reasonable, righteous line in the sand, but at others it’s just a cowardly lion.

A way to keep myself in a snug, familiar niche. That’s when I have to say

YES to trapeze lessons, to a dinner party where I know I’ll be intimidated

by the accomplishments of the other guests, to a public appearance that

could make me look like a fool. I always say an adamant NO to writing a

book because I’m so afraid I have nothing to say. But what do I have to lose

if I’m the only one to know about it? Saying no is my way of avoiding the

possibility of failure, so I might whisper a tiny yes to myself and see what

happens. Maybe YES is all it takes to prime the pump, turn the ignition,

tease a smoldering desire into a roaring fire.


17-18. The 5th Annual Juneteenth Celebration will celebrate African American freedom while encouraging self-development and respect for all cultures. greenvillerec.com

17-23. Meet the people and Ideas That Changed America at the Chautauqua Festival 2011—including 20 different interactive theater performanc-es. greenville chautauqua.org

25-26. Don’t miss the Upcycled Liv-ing Fair & Market in Greer, the first event in the Up-state to spotlight amazing re-pur-posed creations! upcycledlivingfair.com

Surprise Dad FREE!CommunityMoo Recycling Twist

7-8. Don’t miss Josh Groban on Tuesday and Rush and their Time Ma-chine Tour 2011 on Wednesday at the BI-LO Center. bilocenter.com

3-4. The Swamp Rabbit Festival & BBQ Cook-Off includes a story-telling festival, a BBQ contest and a children’s art festival. trilliumartscentre.org

9-25. A touching and human comedy about a formidable retired woman, don’t miss Six Dance Lessons in Six Weeks: A comedy by Richard Alfieri. centrestage.org

11. Walkers and runners of all ages, unite in support of adoption by partici-pating in Run Walk Adopt in Greenville. nightlight.org/5k/

11. The Simpson-ville Sunrise Run includes an 8K and 1/4 mile Kiddie Kaper with portions of the proceeds to benefit Leukemia and Lymphoma research. simpsonvillerun.com

11. This Survival Skills Workshop kicks off with Emer-gency Nutrition/Edible Plants and includes Fire Mak-ing/Shelter Building and Basic First Aid. chimneyrockpark.com

Run With It!A Must See

Be a Survivor

Wake Up

National Iced Tea Month • Candy Month • Gay Pride Month • Flag Day • International Clothesl ine Week • National Camping Month

National Dairy Month • Skyscraper Month • National Rose Month • International Picnic Day • Black Music Month • National Smile Month

11A local fav, sample over 100 wines from around the world at the 11th Annual International Wine Street Fes-tival on Trade in Greer. All proceeds go to the Make-a-Wish Foundation of SC. thecazbah.com/events

18Hit a homerun for NAMI and help fight the stigma that surrounds mental illness! This year’s NAMI 5K Walk for the Mind of America will begin and end at Fluor Field, followed by a Greenville Drive baseball game. namigreenvillesc.org

12New York and D.C. have been doing it for years, Greenville guys, it’s time to grab your high heels and run for charity at the Men’s High Heel Race to benefit the American Diabetes Association’s Greenville chapter. go-greenevents.com/highheel

Family Fun Musical Greats

17. Calling all kids 5 and under! Come make something special for your special dad for Father’s Day at the Children’s Museum! tcmupstate.org

15-19. With plenty of family fun, the Mighty Moo Festival in Cowpens cel-ebrates the history and honors the vets and crew of the USS Cowpens CVL 25 and CG63. cowpensmightymoo.com

Legend

2. Herbie Hancock transcends limita-tions and genres including jazz, bebop, R&B, electro funk and classical, all while maintaining his un-mistakable voice. peacecenter.org


Get Your ’70s Dance Duds On for Disco Rock the night away at the 2nd Annual ’70s Disco Fever fundraiser at Larkin’s Sawmill

at North Main on Saturday, June 25 from 8pm to midnight. Don’t miss this groovy evening featur-

ing disco music, delicious food and drink, a silent auction, dance contests plus a contest for best

cool attire! Proceeds benefit Michael’s Way, a nonprofit that helps adults break out of poverty

through education. Tickets are $40/person or $75/couple and are available online

at michaelswayupstate.org or by calling 864.241.0972.

“...nonprofit that helps adults break out

of poverty through education.

25


Skirt by Betsey JohnsonSaige Consignment Boutique221 Pelham Rd., Greenville

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Perched on the slopes of Rutherford Hill, the Au-berge du Soleil resort is surrounded by a 33-acre olive grove, and boasts panoramic views of the Napa Valley as well as the gastronomic delights of a Michelin-rated restaurant. In fact, Auberge du Soleil, or “Inn of the Sun,” was a spectacular place to play hooky on my final day of school. I was in-vited by my friend Bea’s mother for a lunch there with just the two of them, and since it coincided with the date of my college graduation, I skipped the formal school ceremony in order to join them. At the time, this made perfect sense to me, as the

meal I was treated to, including wine, tax and tip, would cost nearly as much as college tuition, and promised to be a lot more fun than parading around in a cap and gown with people I barely knew. The extravagance of this private celebration struck me as a fitting finale to the effort I’d put in, though Bea and her mother, unaware of my calendar conflict, assumed we were simply having a nice meal in the country.

I never attended my high school ceremony either, so I suppose skipping Grad-uation Day was getting to be sort of a habit with me. I did like the official diploma they sent in the mail, but I was already a college freshman by then, thanks to early admission, and it seemed awkward and anticlimatic to hitchhike home for a day in an attempt to rejoin the class to whom I’d already said a dramatic goodbye.

But I’ve always wondered what I missed. Living near a large university means that on a given few days in June, the streets above the U.C. campus are choked with long lines of about-to-be-grads or just-grads, and stores do a brisk business in tasseled cards and diploma frames and personalized keepsakes to mark the occasion. I never got any of this loot, just a massive student loan bill that took years to pay off.

Most of all I miss having had the benefit of listening to an inspiring commence-ment speaker, some famous or radiant thinker who might have better prepared me for real life with brilliant, worldly advice. Winston Churchill, who spoke at Harrow School, implored the grads, “Never give in.” Steve Jobs bade Stanford stu-dents to have the courage to follow their hearts and intuition. Author J.K. Rowl-ing urged Harvard graduates to value the gift of adversity, and musician Neil Dia-mond sang “Louie, Louie” to the graduating class of NYU, which just had to be electrifying, since everyone cheered and danced. I wish I had been been there, too. And Craigslist founder Craig Newmark told students, “Enjoy your life.” If only I had heard that on Graduation Day, my whole life might have been different—but alas, I was eating lunch in the wine country, without benefit of sound counsel.

Possibly others are completing their education this year and, for the best of reasons, might be forced to skip their own graduation ceremony, just as I did.

Perhaps they, too, long for a last few tidbits of wisdom or at least an assortment of practical tips from an expert, lest they venture into the world unprepared for the complexities that lie ahead. I can only offer a morsel or two gleaned from my own experience, the things I really wish I had known when I started my post-grad life:

Beware of Mapquest. Especially on frontage roads or when traveling to a hotel, when Mapquest routes will invariably call a driveway by a street name and have you back on the freeway when you meant to turn into a parking lot. Do not save packets of soy sauce, mustard, hot sauce and mayonnaise from restaurants. They will accumulate in your kitchen drawers and cabinets, you will forget to use them, and then they will either harden or burst open and create a sticky mess. Buy your own condiments.

If your life is even a moderate success, you will not have the luxury of ironing more than once in a blue moon; therefore, do not buy linen clothing or anything with pleats. Even if you are extremely short on time, do not under any circum-stances shave only one leg, intending to finish the other tomorrow.

If a friend sits you down and says, “I’d like to share something with you, okay?” run for your life. Same with, “May I be perfectly honest?” Do not remove dirty sheets from your bed when you are exhausted. You will not have the energy to find the clean sheets and remake the bed, and will end up sleeping on the mat-tress pad with an itchy blanket over you, or else putting the dirty bottom sheet back on the bed. Do not pass a police car in traffic.

Never describe a pleasure or a habit as “my one indulgence.” Nature doesn’t like this statement and you will automatically turn out to be a liar. Do not spend more on your hair stylist than on your therapist. If you find a therapist who also does hair, count your blessings. Never make your hair stylist angry while she is cutting or coloring your hair. Refuse to live your life by Committee.

Sleep is more important than almost anything else except having fun. Danc-ing is more important than eating or working. Never ask anyone if you look fat, especially if the other person looks fat. Read poetry instead of murder mysteries before bed. Don’t drive drunk, text drunk, dial drunk, accept marriage proposals drunk or write in your journal drunk. Record your dreams. Keep confidences. Don’t feed the narcissists.

Most importantly, dear graduate of any age, believe in your own eccentric ge-nius. Play hooky from the nonsense the rest of the world so desperately wishes to enroll you in and find your own nonsense, which will always be twice as reward-ing. Give yourself an A-plus when you deserve one. Have a great time or a bad time, but don’t fake it. Take naps. Floss. Brood, then eat something wonderful. Invent your own cure for a broken heart, and tell your friends. Practice saying no to what doesn’t fit in your life. It’s like weeding through a closet of clothes you’ve outgrown—in the very back, just behind the itchy old letter sweater or the faded prom dress, is a resounding “Yes!” you didn’t even know was there.

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 and is a contributor to the book You Know You’re a Writer When…. Contact Stacy at [email protected].

Most importantly, dear graduate of any age, believe in your own eccentric genius.

Play hooky from the nonsense the rest of the world so desperately wishes to enroll you in and find your own nonsense,

which will always be twice as rewarding.

Stacy Appel

Most importantly, dear graduate of any age, believe in your own eccentric genius.

Play hooky from the nonsense the rest of the world so desperately wishes to enroll you in and find your own nonsense,

which will always be twice as rewarding.


The Yes! Issue

Say “yes” to joining the circus, or at least to taking

trapeze lessons.


Say “yes” to running a marathon,

or at least to trying a 5K.

The Yes! Issue


f-word[ Feminism Free-For-All ]

Jane Pratt, founder of

legendary magazines

Sassy and Jane, has

launched a website for

women called xoJane.

com. “Similar to Sassy

and Jane, the overall phi-

losophy will be bringing

women together and

not pitting them against

each other,” Pratt says.

“We’re creating a place

where it’s OK to be self-

ish and not to figure out

how to please your hus-

band or boss or parents

or whatever.”

In May, H.R. 3, the “No Taxpayer Funding For Abortion

Act,” passed the House with unanimous Republican

support. Most pro-choice organizations say it goes far

beyond the government’s current prohibitions on abor-

tion funding and actually raises taxes on women who

seek abortion coverage in their private insurance plans.

stopthewaronwomen.com

Get out your fishnets! SlutWalks are sweeping the country and going world-wide as women turn out to protest the stereotype that dressing “provocatively” incites rape. SlutWalk organizers hope that the movement creates a global dialogue in which women feel comfortable discussing sexual assault without fear of blame.

This month, say thank you to the feminist fathers who coached your teams, encour-aged you to be independent, be-lieved in girl power and cam-paigned for Hillary.

Just the Facts. Amy Myers, a NJ high school stu-

dent, has challenged Rep. Michele Bachmann to

a public debate on U.S. history and the Constitu-

tion. In her letter to Bachmann, she wrote, “As

a typical high school student, I have found quite

a few of your statements regarding The Consti-

tution of the United States, the quality of public

school education and general U.S. civics matters

to be factually incorrect, inaccurately applied or

grossly distorted.” Show Amy your support by

joining her Facebook page.

Rape

FEMINIST FATHERS

FISHNETS

FUNDING


In the second trimester of my second pregnancy, I felt what I can only describe as a thud of a realization. I would birth my second child at home. The decision came suddenly, like a bee sting or an unexpected double dog dare.

I bounced the idea off a few close friends and relatives. Some of them called me crazy. Some referred to my plan as “an attempt,” as if a mid-labor ambulance ride were inevi-table. Most forced the word “brave” from tight lips, unable to hide the terror in their eyes.

Contrary to popular belief, women who birth naturally don’t do so to “show off.” I didn’t choose home birth for bravery or bragging rights. I didn’t do it to prove a point.

Although I do question the standard of birth in America, I didn’t pick an alternative in protest of hospitals. I didn’t do it for religious reasons, and I didn’t do it for granola-girl street cred.

I didn’t decide to do this for any reason at all. I woke up one morning and despite my attempts at rationalization, my maternal instincts came barg-ing in with a new plan. Thud.

Naturally, I had moments of doubt. I thought up worst-case scenarios. I blistered in the heat of uncomfortable silences and confused expressions. I heard, at deafening volume, the unspoken word on the lips of so many of my peers. Freak.

Fortunately, the night my water broke, the doubt turned to determina-tion; the nagging instinct became excitation.

I lived in New York at the time. On the night of my son’s birth, our Poughkeepsie neighborhood was littered with snow banks, glowing like golden icebergs in the honey of the street lamps. There had been a surprise St. Patrick’s Day blizzard, an inappropriate belch at the end of a wonderfully warm winter.

Throughout both of my pregnancies, Matt joked that he was going to start a club called “Poor Cold Husbands of America.” When pregnant, I throw the windows open in 30-degree weather. I dip the AC to 65. This night was no exception to the raging hormonal furnace. Matt was shivering, look-ing longingly at our cozy colonial each time we passed, as I ushered him up and down our street in a long, exaggerated pace.

We were outside because I desperately wanted to walk. Luckily, that big thud of a decision had set things up so that I could do so. I could do what-ever I wanted, and I energetically and obnoxiously ate up this sense of free-dom and power.

Beneath the ice and snow I could smell the green. I could taste spring. I was like one of those animals in Bambi—heightened senses, hormones thumping, babies brewing. I was an earthy glow worm, or some sort of tan-gle-haired woodland nymph. Me. Little Los Angeles-born, lipstick-wearing, spider-fearing me.

Per the instructions of the official home birth bible, Ina May’s Guide to

Childbirth, we kissed through the early contractions. Not only did it dull the pain to near nothing, it was like I had never kissed before. Even though I was so big my coat wouldn’t button, even though I was wearing pajama pants soaked with amniotic fluid, even though my Poor Cold Husband of America was miserable, reluctant and embarrassed, I felt fantastic! I was a birthing genius! I was a powerful lioness, a sex kitten, a mother. It’s a moment I crave when life gets over-scheduled, hectic, and so rigorously routine—feeling wild yet in control, tasting spring—womanhood by design.

I remember Matt’s lips, like soft butter or warm liquor—grounding, tran-quilizing, mine. They had never felt that way before and they would, sadly, never feel that way again.

As we strolled slowly, we looked up at the guest room window, where the midwives were laying out their inventory, preparing for the baby’s arrival. It hit me, walking that lonely street—before long I’d meet my Nolan, a boy so important for one I’d never seen. His sugar hung in the air like a heavy sigh, like the long walk between abstraction and bloody, screaming reality.

We spent those last quiet minutes trying to hash out a middle name, throwing around crazy ideas like Hunter, Sailor, and Winter. Three weeks later, we would finally settle on James.

Eventually it was time to face the music and transition and that inexpli-cably sweet and humbling pain—a pain so profound and otherworldly, it’s able to make you forget that anything else exists. Within an hour I would go from powerful lioness to desperate dog, sex kitten to touchy feral cat. And through it all I would walk through my house, room to room, shadowed by the father of my children; tearing off clothing and hiding in dark corners, stepping into the shower and out, clinging to the midwives and then pushing them away.

It was my dance, my spring fever, my decision to stop in my tracks and crouch on hands and knees, pushing on the hardwood floor.

As a professional doula, I am intrinsically a natural birth advocate. That said, I also encourage a woman’s right to choice in birth. Some feel safer in a hospital, some feel safer at home. Both options are totally cool with me. The only slightly opinionated thought I have about the whole thing is that some women don’t know all the options, they aren’t given many choices, and they are unaware of their incredible power.

We walk around so painfully unaware of our animal selves. The un-known reason behind my initial thud was clear to me only after my son’s arrival. I just needed one animal moment. Little California girl, reality TV junkie, frothy-coffee-drinking brat needed just a little room to roar.

As far as bragging rights? No, I didn’t birth at home to one up the women who prefer an epidural. I didn’t feel the pain to show off. I felt the pain to feel. And while I won’t brag about going drug-free, I might puff up a bit about making a choice. That’s the hard part, isn’t it? Going against the grain, getting it done, untying the inner beast and releasing a shy but trium-phant voice. I may be just a little bit proud of all that.

Jen Wittes Rognerud

Jen Wittes Rognerud is a freelance writer and postpartum doula living in Minneapolis. She blogs at yearwithout.net.

I just needed one animal moment.


The Yes! Issue

This month, make every “yes” an unconditional

double-dip, skinny-dip, party mix approach

to life.

Say “yes” to scaling Half Dome,

or at least to trying the local climbing wall.


Adina Estes | Always in BloomEven as a young child Adina had an affinity for flowers, but it wasn’t until she was planning her own wedding over 20 years ago

that she decided to become a floral designer. “I consulted with a florist who actually told me she wouldn’t order what I wanted because she thought

I wouldn’t like the flowers I had chosen. I ended up doing the flowers myself the day of my wedding—something I do not recommend.” Today, as the own-

er of Frilly Bloomers Florals, this creative gal makes floral fantasies come true all over the Upstate. Specializing in weddings, Adina also offers a ceremony

concierge service, preferred vendor suggestions, unique rental items and, for out of town or super busy clients, Skype consultations. “My goal is to keep

doing what I’m doing so that someday I can pay my awesome crew what they are worth!” she laughs. Read more at greenville.skirt.com.

Photo by John Fowler at Carolina Florist Supply

They Do!


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Brenda M. Owen | Wedding WomanA wedding officiant and ordained minister, Brenda is best known in three states (SC, NC and GA) as the Wedding Woman

because of her beautiful, romantic and memorable ceremonies. “I love when I send the couple their ceremony and they tell me it made them cry.”

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They Do!


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Hannah Rainwater | Bridal BargainistaBecause of her passion for volunteer work, when Hannah graduated from North Greenville in 2008,

she considered working for or starting her own non-profit organization. Then the idea of a consignment store came to mind. “I opened Style

You Consignment because it’s the type of business that is beneficial to everyone.” Tucked away in O’Neal Village in Greer, Style You carries everything

from casual to formal wear with plenty of accessories to match, but they are also known for their large selection of wedding dresses, offering brides the

opportunity to schedule appointments to find the perfect gown—at the perfect price—for their special day. “I love what I do,” Hannah says, “It’s not

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Kevin Fort Is Not Just Window Dressing.As co-owner, with wife, Joyce, of Ecy Shoes n’ Chic in downtown Greenville, Kevin is completely comfortable amidst fashionable women’s

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Amy Vansant

Amy Vansant is a writer, blogger (kidfreeliving.com), professional nerd, and shameless Labradoodle mommy.

I blame AirTran.

My husband, Mike, and I booked tickets for a vacation through AirTran. It seemed like a harmless thing to do at the time. When we checked in online later, a window popped up asking if we’d like to upgrade to business class for $39.

“Say yes!” urged my husband.“But, why?” I asked. I didn’t see the point of spending extra

money just so we could be the first people to hit the side of the mountain.

“Come on... it’s vacation!”So, I agreed. I didn’t realize it at the time, but it was quite

possibly the dumbest thing I’d done since agreeing to help Mike re-do our bathroom. Every couple who has ever done a home improvement proj-ect together knows the “D” in DIY stands for “Divorce.”

Thanks to our fancy upgrade, when the time came to board our flight, we got on first. Boarding before everyone else was nice, though a little bit of a waste. Over the years, we’d perfected the art of rushing to the gate half a millisecond after our seat group was called, while still appearing to the casual observer to be strolling like lov-ers on a relaxing walk through the park. You might remember us from the Sydney Olympics; we Gold Medaled in Speed Sauntering. Not everyone can knock an old lady down and step on a kid’s teddy bear on the way to the gate and not look like a Pamplona bull doing it. Now our skills were completely unnecessary.

First on the plane, I was greeted by row after row of empty overhead bins. I heard angels singing. There would be no wild-eyed, neck-craning effort to try and find the last overhead spot to stow my carry-on bag. No standing in the aisle with my face in the armpit of a guy trying to get his bag up there. No patiently waiting, while the lady holding up the line neatly folded her newspaper and did everything but build a nest before sitting down and clearing the way for the rest of us to get to our seats.

In fact, no one in economy had even boarded yet when the flight attendant asked if we’d like a juice or free cocktail. We stared at her with wide-eyed wonder, like she’d just handed us an Official Red Ryder Carbine-Action Two-Hundred-Shot Range Model Air Rifle on Christmas Day.

“We can get a free cocktail?” I asked.“Before anyone else is even sitting down?” asked Mike in a conspiratorial

whisper, thinking the flight attendant had just gone rogue. He didn’t want the captain to find out before the drinks arrived.

The flight attendant just nodded and awaited our order.

And that’s when I knew I’d lost Mike forever.We had screwdrivers in our hands before the first general boarding passenger

even stepped foot on the bouncing gangplank leading to the plane.“We’ve got drinks before anyone has even boarded!” said Mike, his voice

quivering with boundless joy. I hadn’t seen him that happy since the minute before, when he looked left and right and didn’t see his knees on either side of his ears. Business class had the space that someone built like a six-foot-two space alien needed.

The glint in Mike’s eyes illuminated the whole plane. Business class had be-come a magical place where cocktail rivers flowed peacefully into roomy pretzel forests (no peanuts since the allergic people ruined that for everyone).

This particular flight had an unruly pack of spring breakers in the back, so obnoxious that the captain actually announced that if they didn’t calm down, he would “turn this plane right around!” When one of the amateur drunks tried to come forward and use the business-class bathroom, our bulldog of a flight at-tendant sent him packing to the back with a deft point of her bony finger. I think I heard Mike giggle. The flight attendant went on to regale us with tales of her 20 years protecting business-class passengers from the rabble in the back, like a battle-worn sergeant sharing war stories. I think Mike was in love. That flight attendant could have had him with the promise of life-long business class seating and a bag of salted snacks. What a hussy. Mike, that is.

In my business, I often put other people’s expenses on my credit card. I get reimbursed by my clients and I get airline miles. This means, using the points, we flew everywhere for free. Not anymore. Not since the day I agreed to upgrade. From that moment on, Mike would never again fly economy. It was a very dra-matic ceremony; he put one hand on his heart and one hand in the air and swore that never again would he sit anywhere near a screaming baby. He thinks in busi-ness class, if a baby screams, the flight attendant just politely asks it to stop, and it does. I didn’t have the heart to tell him first-class babies cry, too.

Now I have two problems.First, AirTran sold to Southwest, which has no first/business class. We may

have just lost the best upgrade trick out there. Just when I thought we won the Cold War, here comes Southwest and its communist seating policy.

Second, it takes a lot more points to fly first class on airlines that don’t have upgrade tricks. Now I am completely out of points, and we’re ground-ed for the foreseeable future. It’s not like we can actually afford to buy first-class tickets.

I wonder if I can pay my mortgage with plastic.

Just when I thought we won the Cold War, here comes Southwest and its communist seating policy.


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“Shimmy!” our instructor shouted. We tried to fol-low along: 20 women, aged anywhere from 18 to 60, shaking and twisting and jiggling every possible body part except the ones we were suppose to be moving.

Our dance instructor, Theresa, stood in the middle of the circle, revolving slowly around, critiquing each hip shake and belly wiggle. A sly smile crept onto her

face, a glint appeared in her eye. She threw her head back. “SHIMMY!!!!!” she bellowed.

There was frightening movement in the room. Dozens of hip scarves with coins of silver and gold flew out in all directions as we shimmied and shook as if our lives depended on it. I snaked my arms and Niled my hands, all the while trying to cast a seductive net with the downward turn of my eyes (a look my instructor likened to a glare). So I didn’t quite have the seduction part down, but my shimmy was improving. Still, I was far from mastering the art of belly dancing.

Belly dancing! Me, Nadine, the girl who can’t dance. Friends have teased me about my awkward dance moves for years. In fact, when I dance, I move every-thing but my hips, and here I am in a belly dancing class, where somehow I am expected to learn how to move just my hips. How in the world did I get here? I ask myself this question during every class. Easy. I said “yes.”

This year, I am saying “yes” to everything. I have a few limits, but I still have seven months to go, so there’s no telling what I’ll agree to next. Some of the things I do make me nervous. Some push me past the limits of my comfort zone. Some are things I’ve wanted to do for years, but never have.

And it all started with David. Here’s the short, simple, neatly packaged story of David and me: He was my

boyfriend for five years. We loved each other. We broke up. A year later he was diagnosed with cancer. Six weeks later, he died.

I’m not writing the story of David’s illness or of my grief, but it’s impossible to separate my life right now from what happened to David. And the story of what happened is not, of course, a simple one. For all intents and purposes, David was my ex-boyfriend when he got sick, but that is not the term that I would have picked to describe what we were to each other. He was still the man I loved. He was still my best friend. David was still the person I talked to every day, still the one I’d eat sushi and watch The Office with. Our relationship had changed, but it never ended. And so when David called me last October from a hospital bed, his brain riddled with tumors, I ran back to his side and stayed there for the next six weeks, not letting go of him until he took his last breath.

I’ve had some big experiences in my life but nothing that I would consider life-changing until David’s death. In the hour after David died, I sat alone in a small room in the hospice center, staring out the window as the setting sun illuminated the city’s skyscrapers. I felt deeply and significantly changed. I was 30 years old, and one of the most important people in my life had just died in my arms. I knew that my world was different.

I had changed, and yet, on the surface, so much was the same. I still had to live my day-to-day life. Go to work. Cook dinner. Pay the bills. Hang out with friends. Carry on.

People say “Life is short” all the time. Carpe diem had always been one of my favorite phrases. I thought I understood what it all meant, but I really didn’t. Until David died, I had always lived as if I had all the time in the world. So much that I wanted to do could wait for another time—a time when I had more money, or more energy, or more courage, or more guts, or...whatever. All these years I thought I had been living, when actually I had been putting off my life.

And that’s when I decided to say “yes” and do the things that I had always been too scared to do, or things that I thought I didn’t have time for. I didn’t go off the deep end and start living by anyone else’s rules; I recognized my limits. I know that I’m never going to jump out of an airplane or make out with a strang-er or trek through Asia solo. Those things aren’t me, and I’m perfectly okay with that. But there is a difference between knowing myself and what I don’t want to do, versus knowing myself and the things that I’m too scared to do.

I kicked off the year by doing a polar bear plunge. At 8am on January 1st, I was diving into the (somewhat) icy waters of Bermuda. I was on a trip with Da-vid’s family; the day before, we had scattered his ashes into the ocean. The polar bear plunge was a chance—if only for a moment—to be with David again. But more importantly, diving into a cold ocean woke me up. It made me feel alive. I had been surrounded by death for months, and now I wanted to focus on life.

So I signed up for the belly dancing class. I started a blog. I dressed to the nines for an Oscars party. I talked to a therapist. I helped a neighbor.

I’m saying “yes” to opportunities as they come up, but I’ve also compiled a list of things that I want to do, things like: wear a bikini; pay for someone’s toll; pick strawberries. Some of this is “little stuff,” but I’m finding that often it’s the little stuff that makes up most of life.

So I’ve thrown caution to the wind. I don my hip scarf and shake my belly, and the frantic jingle of the gold coins makes me laugh. David would think I was being ridiculous, but he would also be proud of me. Proud, because I’m not doing these things for him, I’m doing them for me. I’m saying yes, I’m having fun, and I’m living my life.

Nadine Karel is a drug and alcohol counselor living in the suburbs of Philadelphia. Visit her blog, deenie12.wordpress.com, to read about her year of saying “yes.”

Nadine Karel

This year, I am saying “yes” to everything. I have a few limits, but I still have seven months to go,

so there’s no telling what I’ll agree to next.


Stephanie Hunt

I’m learning, the hard way, that saying Yes to life

sometimes sounds like No.


“Yes Ma’am” was the rule when I was growing up. “Yes Ma’am”—the unequivocal, ever-ready reply when answering my mother or grandmother, teacher or aunt—a swift, usually chipper, verbal nod. Talking back was not an option, at least not audibly. When I was really pissed off, the “Ma’am” became sassy punctuation, a spoken right hook, my tongue a balled fist pushing against my bottom teeth. “Yes. MA’AM!” I’d huff, then stomp off or slam the door. My combustible temper and polished manners all rolled up in one not-so-polite mouthful.

It was not until college, when I met kids from all over the country, that I realized Yes Ma’am/No Ma’am and Yes Sir/No Sir, were not part of the universal English lexicon. It had never occurred to me that this was a South-ern colloquialism, and that in fact saying “Yes Ma’am” counted as “talking back” in some families, that “Ma’am” could be considered pejorative rather than showing respect.

Though I’ve been a mother myself for 18 years, and an old-fashioned enforcer of inherited “Yes Ma’am” protocol, I catch myself still replying “Yes Ma’am” when talking with my mom. It’s an ingrained, unconscious response. It’s like getting an automatic reply on email, except instead of saying “Out of Office” it acknowledges: “I’m still the daughter,” “I still defer to you; I’m still trying to please you.” That is, until the point where the tables turn, the point when, as of late, this daughter and her sisters have to say “no.”

No, Mom, you cannot stay at home alone any more, we have to tell my fiercely independent mother, a woman who has trekked bravely, solo, through rocky domestic and professional terrain and back again, a woman who craves solitude, who could give Amelia Earhart a run for her money (except for the fact that Mom hates to fly). No, Mom, it’s not sufficient to have piecemeal sitters here and there when Lou Gehrig’s disease is now calling the shots. When muscles have gone on strike and your larynx has long since been silenced, when your arms can no longer hoist you up from a chair and your feet and calves are reduced to useless, stubborn sinew. No, Mom, 24-hour care is no longer a down-the-road “maybe.” We need it, you need it, now.

No, she answers in weak, ragged, but still elegant cursive, no, she pecks out in email messages, her only ways of communicating. No, not yet, she insists, dreading with all her gutsy might the loss of independence, the sacri-ficing of her beloved solitude, the bitter sentence that this entails.

No, Mom, we counter, the “Ma’am” swallowed in choked-up throats. No, we can’t abide by your wishes. We’re so deeply sorry, but this is how it is, we reply, our tears not detectible in the email inbox.

But while my decision does not waver, my heart does. I’ve come to be-lieve the “no” in the phrase “no uncertain terms” is a misnomer; it’s wishful thinking. I am a maelstrom of uncertainty. As a mother delivering post-prom party edicts or establishing hard-and-fast “No Texting While Driving” rules, my “no” is forthright, my threatened “or else!” adamant, my limits absolute-ly clear. I am Mama Moses with my stern stone tablet. As a daughter, I find myself on shakier ground. As daughter I am better at obeying than dictating. I have no “or else!” to leverage; it’s easier to acquiesce. But I am certain of one thing: that the underside of No is almost always a Yes.

The No is the hard, protective shell of a whelk; Yes is turning it over to find its translucent orangey-pink inner sheen, the color of newness, vulner-ability, of promise. The glossy smoothness you want to run your finger over. No is shaking your head back and forth, only to gently shimmy your heart more open.

Our “no,” our insistence on around-the-clock care, says this in the affirmative: Yes, we are scared and concerned. Yes, we love you and want you to be safe and well cared for. Yes, we have our limits, we are frazzled and need the comfort of knowing someone is there for you. Yes, this disease sucks, really sucks, but Yes, too, this is life, in all its uncertain turns and unfair terms. This is the hand we are dealt, and yes—I mean Yes Ma’am—we accept it. No Ma’am, we won’t fight any longer, not with you, not with our conscience, not against this disease.

I’m learning, the hard way, that saying Yes to life sometimes sounds like No. It may mean closing doors rather than opening them. “Yes” is not always a bright and buoyant Oprah moment, it may not lead to self-im-provement, self-empowerment or the burnishing of our tarnished souls. Saying “yes” may instead lead to sorrow and emptiness, to harsh and un-happy truth. Grief is this kind of yes, the closing of a door. And yet there is, even here, an opening.

No Uncertain Terms

Stephanie Hunt, a Charleston-based freelance writer, is in awe of her mother and all those who struggle with ALS or other debilitating diseases and their caretakers. She and a friend reflect on this journey at alifestill.com.


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medication.


Po Campo Loop Pannier Bike BagPedal Clinic 651 S. Main St. Greenville 864.242.2442

Shelly Jelly Sandals by Lilly PulitzerPink Bee 105 Augusta St. Greenville 864.271.4332 Fashionista Blooms

The Embassy Flowers & Nature’s Gifts 1922 Augusta St. Greenville 864.282.8600

BloomsDay

Field of Flowers Fragrance and Body Lotion Philosophy

philosophy.com


Meet Christine Faust, of Christine Faust Events, Greenville’s party planner extraordinaire who gives back by

helping Weddings for Warriors provide free weddings for active duty military personnel.

Favorite Restaurant:Bin 112

Favorite TV Show: Bethenny Ever After

Dream Vacation: Italian Countryside

My Handbag:JJ Cole Diaper Bag

My Workout:13 lb Baby Bicep Curls

Where You’ll Find Me On Friday Nights: Wedding Rehearsals My Guilty Pleasure: Chocolate Pound Cake from Coffee to a Tea My Muse: Fans of

Anthropologie Where I Shop Locally: Kudzu Three People I Want at My Dream Dinner: Planner for the Royal Wedding, Diane von Furstenberg

and my Mamaw What We’d Eat: Chicken Piccata with Linguine Favorite Feminist: My Great Aunt Gladys Pyle (1st woman Senator in South Dakota)

Pho

to b

y Jo

hn F

owle

r


Make

Visit

Create

Learn

Focus

If you are a committed DIYer, visit ana-white for free step-by-

step instructions on building your own furniture. ana-white.com

Traveling and hoping to get a taste of local life? Stay out of the

big box hotels by connecting on Airbnb. The site allows you to

both find and list places for short term rental. Single bedrooms,

entire houses, yachts and even a VW Camper Van are up for

grabs in 10,741 cities around the world. airbnb.com

Austin Kleon is a self-described visual thinker and the author of

Blackout Poems. His list called “How to Steal like an Art-

ist (And 9 Other Things Nobody Told Me)” has creative

juice you’ll want to steal. austinkleon.com

Get distracted often? Set yourself a time limit for browsing

eBay or work 30 minutes straight with Tick Tock Timer. The

simple webpage allows you to set the timer for any length of

time and will gong when time’s up. ticktocktimer.com

Think only Apple geeks create apps? Think again!

AppsBar is totally free to use and it can take as little as

20 minutes to customize your app. Once it’s approved,

your app can be shared with the world. Go forth

and create! appsbar.com

“Testeria. (n) An un-

controllable outburst of

masculine self aggrandize-

ment, often characterized

by stunts intended to prove

one’s manhood, or in other

words, the size of one’s

balls. Bob appeared to have

a sudden attack of testeria

when he said “Hold my

beer and watch this,”

and headed for the roof.

Related forms: testerical.”

“People had warned me

that wedding planning

would be stressful, but

I had always viewed that

variety of suffering as a

glut of privilege, like a

high tax bracket. Now I

felt my anxiety deepen.”

Kathryn Kefauver Goldberg

“I looked at the essay

prompt. ‘If you could have

dinner with anyone, living

or dead, who would it be

and why?’ Classic prompt.

So I started thinking.

Nelson Mandela? President

Clinton? And then I got it:

Chris Rock.”

Erniebufflo.wordpress.com Modern Love, NYTimes.com Iwillteachyoutoberich.com

Blogfiles

Bookswe are enjoying

Caleb’s CrossingGeraldine BrooksNikki Hardin Publisher, skirt!

The Bride’s Ritual Guide: Look Inside to Find YourselfCornelia PowellSheril Bennett Turner Editor

Jun

e

Bookspublished by skirt!

Confessions of a Tarot ReaderJane Stern

Paper DollhouseDr. Lisa M. Masterson

Musicwe love

Tamer AnimalsOther Lives


Nikki Hardin is the founder and publisher of skirt! magazine. She blogs at fridaville.com.

In the orthopedist’s waiting room,

I suddenly realized everyone, including me, was wearing some

sort of cast or appliance on one or more of their limbs.

Our wounds were right out there in the world, visible to all.

I started wondering what it would be like if we had the power

to peer into strangers’ lives and hearts and see all the emotional traumas they had

sustained over a lifetime. The window

cleaner on the corner who doesn’t have the money to take his mother to the doctor.

The waitress at your favorite restaurant who never reveals she

lost her only child a long time ago.

The child who still remembers waking up and you weren’t there.

We are all stitched up and patched together and sent back out into

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

the world after every major or minor psychic surgery, limping along,

doing our healing mostly in private. Wouldn’t it be a relief if we could wear a warning

that said “My heart is broken so please handle with care” in the same way we make allowances

for someone crossing the road on crutches?

Just when everyone started relying on

phones for the time, I wanted a watch

for the first time in my life. And then a

second one...like this funky, frivolous yellow

item by Tokyo Bay. And I’m still late

all the time.

The skirt! Postcard Show last month inspired my London friend and me to make and mail weekly postcards to each other. For my first one, I cut up a linoleum block print I’d made and wrote a “Summer is...” list on the message side.

Copy-editing puts me in a zen zone, while writing puts me in a mental war zone. I loved working on the manuscript for Forty Beads by my friend Carolyn Evans because it induced a state of flow instead of fear.

I covet the porcelain wing pendant that’s handmade in Germany by famed Nymphenburg Porzellan. Maybe because it reminds me of Wings of Desire.

I became addicted to Grazia magazine while I was staying in London this winter and miss my fix.

www.tokyobayinc.com


style&

Want to get a free skirt! rack for your store or office?

Email [email protected]

substance

skirt! Greenville is distributed to more than 250 locations in the Upstate!

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SpartanburgA Cut AboveConverse Deli & Coffee barPetite ArmoireThe Lemon PeelThe Runway

Travelers RestGreat ClipsPetee’s Good FoodsPremier NailsThe Café @ Williams Hardware Ultra Tan

®

Located in McDaniel Village with Panera Bread and Coplon’s

1922 Augusta Street | 864.631.1919 | M-F 10-6, Sat. 10-5 | www.labelsonaugusta.com

Greenville’s designer consignment boutique.

Don’t buycheap clothes.

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