I got so riled up by the local primaries in my state (South Carolina) last month that I decided I should run for office, any office, on the skirt! Party ticket. Could I do any worse than an elected representative who yells “You lie” at the president or one who calls Obama and a candidate for governor “ragheads”? So if I’m elected...
✪ I will never call South Carolina state senator Jake Knotts of raghead fame a “racist, sexist pig.” I might think it, but I won’t say it.
By Nikki Hardin, Friday, April 30, 2010, 0 comments
Notes to my Friends:
1. Please ask me to bring wine instead of food to a potluck dinner. You will be sad and possibly poisoned otherwise.
2. I want to want a dog, and when I reach that point, I’ll find one on my own. Instead of suggesting breeds I might like, you should focus your efforts on guys I might like. Are you saving the single men you know for a rainy day?
By Nikki Hardin, Publisher, Wednesday, March 31, 2010, 0 comments
Since I pulled myself up by the roots and left Kentucky at 17, I haven’t gone back except for vacations, reunions and funerals. But even though I lived in several places for long stretches of years, none of them ever felt like home. In truth, Kentucky never felt like that either. I was always itching to leave, and I resisted moving back when I was broke and broken after my husband left me with three toddlers when we were stationed in the D.C. area.
By Nikki Hardin, Publisher, Monday, March 1, 2010, 0 comments
My house is filled with crap that at one time or another seemed like a good idea to buy. What, I wonder, was I thinking? Manolo Blahniks that hurt too much to wear, clothes I thought would make me look like Kate Moss, scores of CDs of artists I liked for about 15 minutes and art I bought under the influence of a glass or two of wine and then deeply regretted. Things meant to fill in the blanks.
By Nikki, skirt! Publisher, Monday, February 1, 2010, 0 comments
In my ongoing battle with insomnia, I’ve started reciting a silent litany of thanks when I go to bed at night for good things that happened that day, things I’m grateful for or things I love. Just to remind myself that life is, not just an endless to-do list. This month I ❤...
The brand-new fuzzy feeling I get when I replace the beaten-down sheepskin insoles in my old Uggs.
Blind dates. They’re like goody bags at an event: There’s always the possibility you might get something you want to keep among all the promotional flyers.
Levi’s 552 straight-leg jeans.
The genuinely friendly cashiers at the local Whole Foods and the genuinely gorgeous blond guy working at the local coffee shop.
Selvedge magazine, because the textiles light up the parts of my brain that respond to color and texture.
“Gangsta Luv” by Snoop Dogg. I’ve listened to it so much that I’ll hate it by next month. On the other hand, I never get tired of “Show Me the Money Papi” by Cuban diva CuCu Diamantes.
My Bella Pamella cherry-patterned retro apron because it looks like a June Cleaverish artist smock.
The anthropologie website. I wish I could block it from myself.
By Nikki Hardin Publisher, Tuesday, December 1, 2009, 0 comments
Lately, I wish I had a safe place to stash my soul when I leave the house. Because in this economy, it’s tough out there for a soul. How do I keep myself from becoming hardened or hopeless when people I know are laid off and laid low? What happens when my creativity gets a dry mouth and a bad case of the Dreads in the middle of a project? And how do I plunge wholeheartedly into a brainstorming session when I feel brain dead from so much uncertainty and flux? I’ve learned that I can’t wait for the Muse to pay me a visit on her temperamental schedule, but I also can’t force ideas to bloom before their time. Just as it takes patience to wait for paperwhites to unfurl, so it often requires sleeping on a piece of writing to allow it to grow in darkness. On the other hand, I know from experience that practice is everything—to keep writing, to keep working, to keep hoping, over and over and over, even when you don’t want to. It’s a delicate balance and one that I’m constantly negotiating. I want my soul to survive hard times without going into hiding or disguising its true voice, but I’m always questioning how to do that. And sometimes, the only answer I come up with is “ice cream.” And sometimes, that’s just right.
By Skirt.com, Saturday, October 31, 2009, 0 comments
I’m not hard to get along with, but if we’re going to be friends, you should know there are one or two issues I get a little testy about. For instance, please don’t get me started on congressmen with generous, federally-funded health plans (better than those of their constituents) who are against including a public option in the healthcare bill. Or Americans who don’t want the federal government involved in their healthcare but have no problem accepting edicare. Because if you get me started on those topics, I won’t shut up until you agree that I’m right. And don’t bring up the touchy topic of people who forward me YouTube videos starring cats that appear to be saying “I wuv you.” Everyone knows that if a cat had something to say, it would be snarky. No, really, don’t go there if you’re not prepared to have your cat kidnapped and shaved before I bring him back. And definitely don’t ask me what I think about the 30 out of 40 Republican senators (including two from my state) who voted against an anti-rape bill that would allow defense-contractor employees raped by co-workers to sue their companies (yes, Halliburton, we’re talking about you), which they couldn’t before. Because that might make me mad enough to slam the car door on your hand as you’re trying to get out at the stop light.
By Nikki Hardin Publisher, Monday, August 31, 2009, 0 comments
In every yoga class I take, I know I’m coming into the home stretch when the standing poses are done. Once I’ve wobbled in Tree or flapped around like a wounded bird during Eagle, I can breathe a sigh of relief knowing that I’ve survived the hardest part of the hour and can spend the rest of it on my belly or back or even upside down in a Shoulder Stand. But no matter how many yoga classes I take, I can’t seem to lose my fear of the balancing poses and spend the first half of the class anticipating them, dreading them, convincing myself I’ll fail in front of everyone. I’m so obsessed with the challenge to come that I can’t stay in the moment. This is an unfortunate trait that afflicts any difficult endeavor I undertake. It applies equally to sprints in spinning class and the long middle slog of writing a piece when it all sounds like gibberish. My mind anticipates obstacles ahead instead of concentrating on what I’m doing right now in order to build up for the steep hills to come—whether they’re jumps in spinning or transition paragraphs in an essay. I want the byline and the shower after the workout, not the sweat it takes to get there.
By Nikki Hardin, Publisher, Friday, July 31, 2009, 0 comments
The media is full of articles and commentary right now on how the recession is forcing us to live with less, to get back to basics, to make amends for our flat-screen TVs. In other words, we have sinned with our greedy, ungreen consumerism and the recession is our hair shirt. The New York Times even featured an urban neighborhood whose residents are raising chickens, slaughtering pigs and making artisan cheeses in order to be self-sufficient (and a wee bit self-righteous in the bargain). Having grown up around and participated in the slaughter of chickens, I have no desire to return to the good old days; instead, I forego chicken altogether, whether free-range or from poultry prisons. And while my life has indeed become simpler (fewer trips, more savings, less craving), I am still an unapologetically immoderate person. If I get curious about the Russian Revolution or Gnosticism, I will read every book I can find until I’m sated and move on to some other goofy obsession. If I get a hunger for a BLT, I’ll eat one every day until I can’t stand the sight of one more tomato.
Every month, I read and evaluate between 100 and 200 essay submissions in order to choose six to eight for the upcoming issue. For our F-Word issue this month, I noticed that some of the essays focused on why the writers were no longer feminists, or that they redefined feminism as caring for their husbands, or how they suddenly realized that being too outspoken made them unattractive to men, or how they didn’t have time for feminism after they had children. At times, I felt like I was reading the script for an old Tracy/Hepburn movie, in which the feisty, independent Hepburn is tamed and taught her true nature by Tracy’s character before they can have a happily-ever-after ending. As if feminists can’t have happy marriages and motherhood isn’t affected by the outside world. As if not being equally represented in our own government doesn’t effectively silence our voice. As if a wedding dress means we no longer have time to redress some of our community’s injustices. As if having men open car doors for us is more important than all the doors of opportunity that continue to get slammed in our faces. As if being a mother means feminism is irrelevant even though all mothers surely hope their daughters will grow up to have the same rights and protection under the law as their sons.
Fifteen years ago this month, the first issue of skirt! was published in Charleston, SC and 180 issues later, we’ve gone from clueless baby to crazy teenager, from one city to 15, from being called “feminazis” to redefining feminism in our own way. There have been a succession of firsts since we started, but unfortunately, women are still coming in last in far too many areas. We never imagined we’d come so close to having the first woman president back then, but we also never imagined we’d have an all-male state senate here in South Carolina in 2009. Ladies, there is work to be done everywhere there’s a skirt!. The women we’ve profiled, partied with and politicked with are nothing less than astounding—why don’t they rule the world? The men who have had the cojones to appear in skirt! wearing skirts are the kind we’d all like to have for best friends (or take home at the end of the night).
Recently, I spent a weekend cruising design blogs and staggered off to bed on Sunday night satiated with Cute, Adorable and Fabulous. Is this what my life has come to?, I wondered, as I fell asleep with visions of dreamy paint colors, amazing headboards and stenciled wallpaper swirling through my brain. I used to get in dramatic arguments with lovers outside bars that involved smashing Irish Coffee cups and then falling into each other’s arms under noir-ish street lights. I stayed up late talking about T.S. Eliot and sex. I have been known to jump in fountains!
By Skirt.com, Thursday, March 26, 2009, 2 comments
In 1818, one of my ancestors set out on
a long road trip that took him from the
Washington, D.C. area to Kentucky after
he was discharged from service in the
War of 1812. Later, one of his sons-in-
law reversed the journey, driving hogs
on the hoof from Kentucky to sell in
D.C. I like to think I inherited a little
of their pioneer spirit, because more
than a century later, I left home at 17
to follow my new husband to the West
Coast on a bus, which ultimately proved
to be throwing pearls before swine.
By Angelia, Wednesday, February 25, 2009, 4 comments
Have you ever had days when your
life is like a crime scene that requires
roping off until all the victims have
been treated and the wreckage is cleared
away? When everything goes wrong
from the time you get out of bed to the
time you crawl back into bed at night
like a whipped dog to lick your wounds?
Like when you lose your temper and
tact and accidentally hit Reply instead of
Forward with an angry commentary on
an email you received. Ouch. Or when
your cell phone makes a “pocket call”
and someone (like your boss) overhears
your inane conversation in a bar. Ouch.
Or when your skirt gets tucked up into
your underwear when you leave a public
bathroom, not realizing it until a waiter
tips you off. Ouch. Or when someone
you know gets a promotion or an award
and your Inner Bitch can’t stop growling
with envy. Maybe it’s a day when all
of this happens in a cascading torrent
of bad to worse. Ouch ouch ouch. It’s
tempting to believe that Mercury is in
permanent retrograde or that our global
timing is seriously off as friends lose
jobs, polar bears perch on melting ice,
bills are harder to pay and our leaders
fiddle while our 401(k)s burn. Maybe
the stars are out of line, or maybe we’re
long overdue for hard times.
Whatever the reason, it’s all too easy
for me to brood, to become convinced
By Angelia, Saturday, January 31, 2009, 5 comments
My heart needs constant gratification.
It’s shallow that way. It sees a red hot
pair of boots and falls head over heels.
Must have, can’t live without, will
not be denied. I stalk the shoe store
hoping to catch a glimpse of them in the
window. I confide in my friends – should
I take the plunge? I fantasize about
them, imagine myself wearing them and
ignore all the warning signs. I don’t need
red boots, after all, and they don’t fit my
lifestyle. And isn’t the price almost too
good to be true? But none of it matters,
because I can’t live without these boots.
Once I have them, my heart soars and
life is good. For the first few times we’re
out together. Then my heart has second
thoughts. Are they too flashy to wear to
a dinner party? That stitching – isn’t it
a little sloppy? And don’t they hug my
calves too tightly, almost possessively?
My heart starts to fall out of love and
wonders what it ever saw in the red
boots. In broad daylight, away from
the alluring store display and seductive
lighting, don’t they look almost…cheap?
My heart turns cold…I’ve outgrown the
red boots. We no longer have anything
in common. They embarrass me when
we’re out with a pair of Frye boots or
worse yet, some exotic, hard-to-get
Golden Goose boots with a 15-inch
shaft and an Italian accent. Soon the
By Angelia, Wednesday, December 31, 2008, 0 comments
I confess...
I loved The Real Housewives of
Atlanta—and not in an ironic way.
NeNe, come back!
I hate Twitter. I don’t want to know
what half of America is thinking or
doing every minute. It’s like everyone
you meet having a CNN news crawl
across their foreheads.
I don’t get nitrous oxide at the dentist
because I worry about blurting out my
deepest secrets under anesthesia.
I’m irrationally jealous of friends
whose husbands fill up their gas tanks
every week so they don’t have to get
their hands dirty. Just thinking about it
makes me want to stuff potatoes
up their exhaust pipes.
Being a Kentucky Colonel makes me
smile, not least of all because it makes
my little brother so jealous. Is it any
surprise I used to lock him out of the
house when I was babysitting?
Justin Timberlake’s “SexyBack”
is at the top of my Most Played iTunes
list. My ringtone is Beyoncé’s “Single
Ladies.” My emotional age is 12.
I think one of my life tasks is to rid
myself of narcissism by the time I die.
I’m not making much progress.
I never get enough birthday presents.
(See above.)
Sometimes in yoga, I pretend to
Om along with the class, but I’m
really lip-syncing.
By Nikki Hardin, Saturday, November 29, 2008, 3 comments
I
love the intense, orange-flavored sunsets of winter, but not the shorter days
and cold mornings. Driving home from work in the dark, I start to crave tacos
and chili, cornbread and collard greens, apple pie with ice cream, beef stew or
anything cooked in a crock-pot, which I don’t even own. I vow once again to
start sitting in front of a light box every morning, and I get in my pajamas
earlier and earlier every night. But what I really crave with the onset of gray
winter days (and the bleak prospect of a recession) is the comfort of a tribe.
I want to retreat to a cave and build a fire to keep saber-toothed tigers at
bay while my tribe cooks something on a spit and fat drips and sizzles in the
flames. Afterward, we might draw pictures on the cave wall or wrap up in bear skins
and smoke a peace pipe of wacky tobaccy while someone plays a flute or tells a
story. I want to go to sleep comforted by my family and friends gathered around
me for safety in numbers, especially now that the numbers that tempted us with
the promise of security––a rising Dow, low interest rates, high returns, annual
raises––are meaningless. I’d love to withdraw from the world right now and hibernate
through dark days and hard times, but I’m trying to change the way I react
instead. I’ve dabbled at meditation more than once, and I always gave it up
By Nikki, Publisher, Monday, October 27, 2008, 1 comment
Hang onto your hats—in this rollercoaster economy, the very notion of abundance seems preposterous when your 401(k) is bleeding to death. Everyone I know is talking about cutting back, doing away with or doing without. But instead of obsessing about what we’ve already lost and might lose in the future, maybe it’s exactly the right time to start giving things away. That’s the message of a website called 29 Gifts (29gifts.org). It was started by a woman named Cami Walker, who followed the unusual prescription of a South African spiritual teacher to give 29 gifts to others in 29 days in order to escape her constant preoccupation with a serious chronic illness. You can read her complete story on the website, but the prescription itself was simple—give something away every day. The gifts can be anything—old clothes, running an errand for someone, food, money, a kind word, a postcard to an old friend—and you can start it any time. There’s no contest or time limit, and the official rules are more like gentle suggestions. I’m a skeptic when it comes to the popular idea of visualizing prosperity, not because it won’t work, but because it emphasizes attracting more success, joy, riches to me, me, me. I already think way too much about me, me, me, so a ritual like 29 Gifts is appealing because the focus is on being a spiritual spendthrift rather than a money magnet.
By Nikki, Publisher, Tuesday, September 30, 2008, 7 comments
I’m not a Wonder Woman. I wish I were, and I waste a lot of time giving myself tests of courage, like, “Introduce yourself to the guy at the bar who looks like the model in the Tommy Bahama commercial” or “Quit your job and move to France.” I always fail these mental feats of derring-do and I always have good reasons (“He’s probably dating the model from the California Closets ad,” or “ I’m a Berlitz dropout.”) And then, when I’m sitting at home watching Top Chef instead of eating escargot in Paris, I feel utterly depressed about myself.
* My dreams are only interesting to my therapist (and sometimes I wonder if he’s just being polite). I promise not to tell you mine if you don’t tell me yours.
* Forwarding an internet joke, message from Jesus or chain letter doesn’t qualify as a personal note.
* No matter what concourse your plane arrives on, your connection is going to take off from another concourse at the opposite end of the airport.
“I need to get my life back on track,” I think to myself with some urgency all too often. As if there’s an invisible path that everyone ambitious and accessorized is following and I’m veering off on the shoulder or taking too many rest stops or side trips. I realized recently that I probably don’t take enough detours, that I say I want spontaneity in my life, but instead I’m just going with the fl ow a lot of the time. This month, I’m giving a speech in Lexington, Kentucky, so I’ve decided I’ll take a detour that’s short in miles but long overdue.
I was so frustrated by the sexism on blatant display in major newsrooms during the primaries that as I write this, I’m planning a party to blow off some steam...a She Devils Party, that is. Named in honor of Chris Matthews and his characterization of Hillary at one point in the campaign. Although he’s the worst offender, he was by no means alone. But Duke Ellington once said, “I merely took the energy it takes to pout and wrote some blues.” So I’ve decided to take the energy it would take to complain and have some fun. My party won’t be a fundraiser–it’s intended to be a hellraiser instead.
Have you ever had your voice muted or silenced because of rules of convention or what you say might discomfit someone? I vividly remember the first time it happened to me. I was about 12 years old, and I said something in a very public setting (church, for God’s sake!) that embarrassed my grandmother. I still have a mental cringe when I remember her lecture, how ashamed and belittled it made me feel. In my family, being “nice,” or more important, appearing to be nice, was paramount, and the fact that the incident still bothers me tells you how much of an impact it had on me.
By Skirt.com, Wednesday, April 30, 2008, 6 comments
A friend had a collage I made of myself turned into stickers. I still have a sheet of them left and when I pulled them out recently, I thought about what I would do if I had a bunch of Mini Me's running around. If I got to live more than one dream or if I were more adventurous or spontaneous, less controlled and controlling. Here are some tasks I'd assign the Mini Me's.
I’m afraid of so many things–dental x-rays, Kirstie Alley, de-icing on the runway and the germs on gas pumps, children and ATM machines, to mention just a few. But lately they have all taken a back seat to my fear of giant Burmese pythons, the ones weighing up to 250 pounds and measuring as much as 20 feet long. The ones that are slithering toward us as I write, making their way into our homes via the sewer system. The ones that can swallow a whole hog or small poodle. The ones headed toward my neighborhood, according to USA Today.
Throughout most of my adult life, I drove a succession of “preowned” cars, most of which hadn’t seen a warranty in decades. There was the Suburu that somehow came off its frame, or something equally mysterious and fatal, a few weeks into my ownership. The VW that blew an engine. The Nissan whose timing chain broke as I crossed into two lanes of oncoming traffic. The Corvair that made a mysterious loud hooting noise that was never diagnosed. The Ford Galaxie whose headliner drooped so low I had to wear a hat to keep it out of my eyes.
Love to Hate Dr. Phil: so much smarmier than you or me • Maureen Dowd: so much snarkier than you or me • Glenn Beck: way more self-righteous than you or me • Control-top pantyhose: more pain than gain • Hugh Hefner’s creepy crape-y pajamas • Pretty Woman: Mama, don’t let your babies grow up to be prostitutes. • Victoria’s Secret Angels: getting by on a wing and a pushup bra. • Candidates running with God on their side: Who would Jesus vote for?
Dinner with Bill. I’m still not sure how I got included in former President Clinton’s dinner party at a local restaurant last month (maybe they confused me with someone else), but all I could think about that night was growing up and just getting by in a Kentucky town smaller than an eyelash. Back then, I dreamed about the wider world incessantly, but I couldn’t have imagined meeting a President, much less having dinner with him. It was a lucky fluke, like so much of my life. I’m grateful for having had a hard-luck life, short on money and full of wrong turns.
When I was home with a bad cold recently, I tuned in to “As the World Turns,” a soap opera in which nothing has changed since the last time I saw it about five years ago. The main characters have aged, of course, and children who were infants five years ago are now miraculously going through puberty, but the pickles they get into remain predictably the same. The characters have
intermarried so often and the plots are so regularly recycled that you can jump in after decades away and not miss a beat.
I’ve spent all my life trying to be braver. A couple of months ago, I was driving to a beach near my house when I spotted a Tsunami Zone warning sign. I almost ran off the road, because it was as if the highway department had zoned in on my deepest secret fear and given it credibility. See that little stick figure desperately trying to outrun the tidal wave racing toward its back? That’s the subtext of my life story.
