2010 DIFFA

To see what I have been up to, including coverage on 2010 DIFFA's Dining by Design, visit Abode.

Random Moment of Fiction

When I was a little girl, once a month, I watched as my brother got a bowl haircut. I was super jealous. The third Thursday of every month, oftentimes between the Cosby show and Cheers, skipping a Different World respectively, my mother pulled out her size medium brown popcorn bowl and placed it on my brother’s head. Davy would sit there studiously as my mother happily snipped away. I would sit next to him seething with pure rage as our family dog Mitzi, a rescue Lhasa Apso crossed with a Dachshund, would fight for the chance to hump my leg.

“Little girls should have a billion strands of curly tendrils.” She would sing to me on the fourth Friday of the month when my own scalp was pulled and tweaked as she subjected my hair to an Ogilvie spiral perm. I cried inside, dreaming of a day with stick straight strands and non-girly flair. “Beauty must suffer,” my mother’s words would ring in my ears as bits of hair were being tightly wound around a permanent rod.

My brother learned of my bowl-cut jealousy one night while we ate cheez-whiz and leftover water crackers from my parent’s card party. We were in our freshly crafted forts, mine was intricate, featuring the use of old army blankets and camping gear to set a dark, earthy tone. Davy’s, on the other hand, was always lively with fresh-cut flowers and a pink glow, courtesy of the large organ shape that was the sole design of our older brother’s Operation Game sleeping bag. As we watched Friday Night videos, I told Davy of how I longed for bangs like the movie stars we saw on the Night Owl films, well after the videos were no longer on our minds. Davy didn’t say much, but looked at me knowingly, he seemed to instantly understand, I had a head for bangs, not curls.

The next morning, during an epic episode of Doctor Who—with Tom Baker of course—my brother cracked open his prized Cadbury chocolate orange he received from the previous Christmas, something he was saving for a special occasion. Slice by slice, Davy told me of his plan to debunk being the recipient of the following Thursday’s ceremonial bowl-cut. Once finished sharing his mission, Davy looked me stern in the eyes, handed me the last orange slice, and said, “Thursday, you will have bangs.”

Finally the anticipated day came, and, as planned, Davy wore our family Dee Snider wig, a leftover prop from my Dad’s “Before you kids were born” jam session days. After a whole day donning curls, and nearing the hour of the cut, Davy professed his love of long curly hair. My mother, always being one to please her son, as she often admitted she loved him the best anyway, granted him his wish to grow out his hair. However, needing an outlet for snipping, my mother turned to me and I happily replaced my brother’s head with my own. I sat there with a wide grin for the five whole minutes of the cut as I got the bangs I so desired; I didn’t even notice Mitzi humping my leg.

Years later, my brother got his gorgeous, natural curls and even works part time as a hair model in between his interior design projects. My hair is plan-jane, albeit with killer bangs, but I realized that special Friday night wasn’t about me. Davy was meant to be bold and beautiful and my expressed bowl-cut jealousy finally gave him the out he needed to be his true self and become the happy, flamboyant man that he is today.

Kitty Earrings!

I made these kitty earrings for Anjellicle Cats Rescue. For just a $10 donation you can help a great organization save kitties AND get a cute pair of earrings! Check out my designs and be prepared to see more Jolene Jewelry here and on Etsy soon!

Wopat goes in for the Kiss

The other night I was pleasantly surprised to find David Gray singing his beautiful songs at the Columbus Circle complex for a promotion of his new CD, "Draw The Line," in conjunction with Borders. After Mr. Gray sang, all love songs mainly straight to me, he began signing copies of his new CD. Knowing how beautiful he is and being a super fan, I immediately purchased the CD and got in line!

While waiting and wondering if I was going to get nervous, I was brought back to the one other time I waited in line to get the autograph of a celebrity. It was back in 1981, maybe 1983, at the height of the Dukes of Hazzard craze. My father brought my brother Davey and I to a Dukes of Hazzard convention where Tom Wopat, Mr. Luke Duke Himself, was meeting fans and signing autographs. Davey was a HUGE fan of the show, just like every other 12-year-old boy, and I was a huge fan of Bo Duke. I used to kiss the television screen as soon as his mug appeared on those memorable Friday nights. I even remember wanting him and Daisy to kiss and I didn't care one bit that they were related! I just thought that they were both so beautiful that they should totally be kissing one another!

At the event, my father dispensed Davey and I in line to meet Mr. Wopat while he perused the hot rods and chargers I presume. Wopat was situated on a riser above the crowd, thus giving everyone a clear view of him. As we waited, we watched and I began to notice a pattern. For every woman that is meeting Wopat, he is hugging each of them and often times kissing them on the cheeks! I was starting to freak out, mind you I was a 9-year-old girl, but I thought this was going to happen to me and I couldn't imagine kissing and hugging a man at that time, let alone a man that wasn't Bo Duke!

As we got closer, my anxiety got higher, I unfortunately didn't share this fear with Davey who likely could have pointed out to me that I was just a kid and Luke wasn't going to kiss me. Finally, just before we meet Wopat, I let the beans spill to Davey, and he did the brotherly thing, he played into my anxiety. He told me how Wopat was going to be kissing me and making out with me because I am a girl after all, and then he had to make matters even worse by saying how disappointed I must have been that Bo wasn't there and that I was settling for Luke instead. He was indeed right, but I didn't want to discuss this with my brother.

The time finally came to meet Luke and I was scared out of my mind. "What if he kisses me!?" I kept thinking. We stepped up on the riser, above the crowd who is watching, in what I believe is in anticipation if Luke kisses me or not—yeah I was a little ego-centric. While I am dying, Davey is buoyant and excited as gets his Tom-Wopat-as-Luke-Duke headshot signed. He's stupidly babbling away as I am internalizing my fate when I suddenly hear him say "This is my sister, she's in love with Bo."

OH MY GOD! The fact that I didn't literally have the first panic attack of my life right then and there is beyond me. Mr. Wopat of course laughed as I wanted to die. I barely said a word as I meekly handed him my Tom-Wopat-as-Luke-Duke headshot and waited. He signed the pic as he tried to make small talk with me and then I saw him begin to stand up. "OH MY GOSH! Here is comes!" I thought. And then the arm, the huge manly Luke Duke arm nestled in blue plaid comes barreling toward my weeness and I freak. I say, as politely as possible, "No. No. I don't want that!" And my arms and head flail 'no' and I run away. It wasn't until I looked out into the crowd did I really realize I had an audience. I saw people imitating my classic 'No Luke Duke you won't be kissing me' move and I wanted to die all over again. Of course the dying didn't happen and of course Wopat didn't want to kiss me. He was just going in for a friendly arm over the shoulder for a quick photog shot with the professional photographer on sight. While I sort of realized this at the time, I, of course, thought making out would happen after, so I declined to be photographed.

And then it hit me, while women were being hugged and kissed I never saw any of them getting their photograph taken and now I was really upset. Upset because I realized I was the cute little girl that was special enough to be the subject of a Tom Wopat publicity shot and I ruined it! Sadly I let that dream go and later, to feel better, purchased a patch featuring a white Maltese for my mom's fictional trucker hat; my mom really liked Maltese dogs at the time and wanted one, the dog, not the trucker patch.

Foxy and David Gray

As for David Gray, I wasn't really that nervous about meeting the most beautiful English, Wales-raised love song writer of our time; I was more hoping that he would totally make out with me, hug me, and demand for publicity photog shots to be taken so that when it came time for our wedding we would have a photographic evidence of the day we met. According to The Secret, the book I picked up in line and read the gist of in all of 20 minutes, my marriage with David Gray was suppose happened as my thoughts were concentrating hard to make it happen; suffice it to say The Secret is crap. Super hot David Gray barely noticed me, however he did call me FOXY! But this was probably because that is how I asked him to sign my CD.

Gypsy Powder

It's no secret that throughout my life I have always had a girly nature and love for all things pink, frilly, and sweet, but I'm certainly not all sunshine and roses. Under the girly, fuchsia icing is an assertive woman that has no problem voicing her needs and wants, and, ultimately mixed with this sweetness and assertiveness is a mysterious darkness and appreciation for such things as—nearly every vampire story ever told! —palm readings, cemeteries, and Gypsy Powder. Gypsy Powder you ask?

Gypsy Powder, I suppose, is only really special to me, as it's from my childhood. It’s a memory really, one that has stuck with me forever. You know, one of those fleeting memories that pop-in your head for no real reason, it makes you happy for a second, and then poof it's gone before you really have a chance to remember it and figure out why you just thought of it again. Well, Gypsy Powder is one of those memories. It has, in essence, shaped my thoughts, dreams, and desires. It has a darkness supported by light behind it, something deep and motivating, but intense; something I didn't believe my peers could achieve or realize. I am speaking of the feeling the memory gave me (and still does,) rather than the actual memory. However while that feeling is all good and wonderful, the memory is also pretty nifty, at least to me.

Around the age of ten, during one hot Minnesota summer, I attended Campfire Girls day camp for two weeks. Every morning my mother would wake me at the crack of dawn—loud applause here for my mother's heroic accomplishments—and I would board a bus for an hour long journey to the middle of a Minnesota forest where I would do Campfire Girl things like sing songs, make jam, and learn to socialize outside of my suburban Campfire Girl circle. While I didn't absolutely hate it, it was not my idea of how to spend a summer vacation. For one thing, the hard wooden picnic benches, coupled with the large amounts of bugs, made it quite difficult for one to just sit back, read a good rag mag and enjoy a soy latte on a lazy summer day. Come to think of it, lazy summer days didn't exist at day camp, neither did soy lattes, but that’s not the point. The point is, instead of real fun, we were forced into educational tasks from 7:00am to 7:00pm, all quite exhausting.

Campfire Girls camp also lacked two major components of what I believe make good camp: sleeping over in a tent and proximity to a lake. Basically I was put in this awful setting that had me completely roughing it, but yet, I wasn't given the real chance to fully test my capacity for dealing with bugs and dirt because every night I returned to the luxury of my full size bed and comforting puffalumps. To me, this was cheating. On top of that, I didn't get to fish for my dinner or don that year's trendiest swimsuit, likely a pink shimmer one piece with ribbing and cheap white detailing. I was certainly disappointed in this idea of 'camp.'

Okay, so making friends was a good idea, but when would I really ever see these girls again? I lived in suburban Minnesota, you couldn’t really be friends with anyone beyond five miles of your home. And the thought of eating jam, much less making it with molten wax was horrifically upsetting to me. Day camp needed to be stopped.

So, of course, by the last day of camp I wasn't sad to have it end. I was excited and not for the obvious reasons, but rather the ending activities were starting to really get me jazzed! For one thing we were told to arrive in gypsy costume. For a girl that has donned get-ups every night of her life until the age of, well you don't need to know my current age, a gypsy costume was indeed something I could do and do happily! On top of this, we were told we would all meet with a gypsy fortune teller, and participate in a tribal gypsy dance. Oh yes, this was definitely well worth 13 days of Kumbaya.

The gypsy powder came in when I met with the fortune teller, who happened to also be my camp counselor. Upon realizing this, I immediately convinced myself that my counselor was actually a gypsy that had gone undercover as a camp counselor. Her assignment was to read our young minds and steal our youthful energy, except mine of course. The gypsy and I were equals.

Once I sat down, under the makeshift tent of pink bed sheets and blankets, I peered into the gypsy’s eyes and waited for her words of wisdom. What she actually said to me I cannot remember, it was after her words that I recall vividly. She doused me with gypsy powder. A white, very perfumey powder that was addressed to my forehead and wrists, designed to give me strength, beauty, and inner power to achieve whatever I wanted. It’s the actual smell and feel of the powder that is the heart of my Gypsy Powder memory. The smell was sweet, not overpowering or girly, almost as if it had a hint of Nag Champa incense. I wish I knew what Snyder drugstore she had picked it up from, because I would definitely purchase it for use today. The feeling of the powder was like softly spun silk coupled with the softest feather pillows ever invented. The mix of these two senses, just from a chintzy body powder, completely enlightened my entire being and when I left that gypsy tent I was completely ready for the tribal dance!

I was a 10-year-old little gypsy wearing an old beat up three-tired favorite multicolored skirt, a silly scarf wrapped around my head, and loads of my mom’s old gold costume jewelry. Inside I was the Queen of Sheba ready to conquer the world. I smelled of sweetness and felt as soft as that powder as I danced to the tribal drums. I was a very happy gypsy.

Stella, He-Man, and not much more...

Well I am officially back online on my terms! Stella arrived yesterday and she is fancy! Now I can Twitter and blog all I want, but more importantly I can get back to seeking more writing gigs!

While computerless, I have been spending my time reading, socializing, working, and walking around town and, as a result of the walking, I had the pleasure and shock of running into He-Man! A New York city celeb, He-Man is this giant alien-like individual with a 14" neck, biceps the size of boulders and thighs that could crush a small mammal in one minute flat. In Chicago I used to read about him on the blog Find He-Man and I longed for the day that I too would find He-Man. That day happily, and surprisingly, came one week ago!

While walking in a light drizzle on 9th Ave, just passing 38th Street I looked up from under my umbrella to see this gynormous slab of flesh headed my way, "what is that?' my first thought was and then it hit me, "OH MY GOD! It's HE-MAN!' I could barely contain my enthusiasm and astonishment! What do I do first!? Do I whip out my camera and snap pics, or my phone to text to the first person I know who'd care about He-Man? The camera came out first, text messaging could wait; I had to get my shot of the He-Man! I tried to get a full-frontal shot, as the shirt he was wearing proved to show all his HUGE chesty muskulls, but alas I was also quite petrified of getting caught. I feared if he saw me snapping photos he would take one giant step over to me (the equivalent of 10 feet) and crush my camera with one hand.

So I opted to stay a safe distance behind and nervously get any shot I could... I managed one good shot of him bumming a smoke off this, what appears to be a very tiny man... the man was of course a normal sized human probably around 5' 8", but next to He-Man, he was wee.

Until I get my Macbook...

I am living a little at the Apple Store on 5th Ave these days... my computer broke just before I moved, so blogging, twittering, facebooking, emailing, interneting, all that cool-kid stuff is a little slow for me these days... Basically this is my computer station for now:

Not too shabby, eh?! It's a little weird here. People just basically plant themselves on the computers and then others, either wanting to buy, or seeking free Internet time, come by and stare at what you are doing. They try and intimidate of course, but alas I just invite them to read my emails, no biggie!

In other news, today was Day 3 of 4 for training at the AG Cafe on 5th ave. The cafe is SO different than the Bistro in Minnie. I think I am SO going to love this! It's fancier and pinker, the money seems great, and we get to wear hot pink aprons! Yay!! My first official day is Monday and I hope to make some money! Sunday I have a free day and would like to do some errands and laundry and maybe a lazy afternoon in Central Park. Come join me!? 

I am currently studying a cool freelance idea as well as studying the man-purse, or rather 'Murse.' Some handsome man has asked me to investigate this 'trend' as he thinks it's quite unfair that women get to freely tote around purses and men either have to go for the backpack, laptop bag, or become the target of some sneering if any other type of bag is carried... I have to say I am a huge fan of the Murse! He is trying to find a cool one and showed me these below. I think he should most definitely find one that resembles the murse on the right.

I should cut this short and will promise to blog more from my cool new "office!" Oh My God, the guy next to me is watching a movie.