Reflections on Nostalgia and Progress: A December Special

I was perusing Facebook this morning in between editing articles, and I saw a "Throwback Thursday" that my old alma mater, Coastal Carolina University, posted: a photo of the oldest building on campus -- the Singleton Building, as it stood in the 1960s. I saw the Singleton building myself just about a month ago during a fairly routine visit to campus, and I was shocked to find the building had been totally gutted. The shiny, completely renovated Singleton building will reopen in 2016. It made me a little sad. Thus, I posted this on the Throwback Thursday photograph:

This is a cool photo. I was sad to see it completely gutted when I visited Coastal a month or so ago. Yes, the Singleton building smelled weird and needed to be updated, but I clearly remember walking through it between 1998-2002 and loving it just as it was. Progress and nostalgia are always at odds, I suppose.

Today is my mom's birthday (Happy birthday, mom!), and if you don't know my mom, she's one of the finest examples of poetic nostalgia I've ever known. Part of it comes from her outstanding memory, and part of it is her sincere fascination with how things became the way they are. I spent my childhood relishing tales of her childhood, from the people to the buildings around Florence. Even if they had long since disappeared, my mom could still point out where they were.

That said, I suppose it's fitting that today I would find myself reflecting on progress and nostalgia. After all, this is the time of year when people get caught in between longing for the past and anticipating the future. I know I'm one of them -- I find myself feeling excited about what might happen in 2016 (New freelancing opportunities! Road trips!) but also missing people I haven't seen in decades -- wanting to trade stories and hold on as much as possible.

I doubt very many people, if any at all, would agree with me that the Singleton Building was fine the way it was. People complained about how dingy it was, how funny it smelled, how dark the hallways were, and everything else. But to me, it was just another part of the campus, and the campus has felt like home since my college days. Luckily, it still does, despite the renovations. I think that's the secret, when it comes to balancing progress and nostalgia: making sure you still feel at home, despite change.

When I go home next week for the holidays, things in Florence will be different, as they usually are, and people will be shifting. They'll be getting married, having children, growing older, selling their old sofas, downsizing their homes, retiring, shopping for new cars and whatever else they do to keep up the progress in their lives and move forward. But I'll still feel at home there thanks to nostalgia, which my mom passed down to me.

Merry Christmas and happy holidays, y'all!

Me, my mom and my sister Marie, circa 2008 or so. 

Sweet Tooth: The Next Generation.

I didn't grow up in a household with tons of snacks. I had to venture to my friends' houses if I wanted soda, Fruit-by-the-Foot or Star Crunches. My grandmother has always had an honest sweet tooth -- she just preferred to satisfy it with real desserts, not packaged kiddie treats. Thus, even though there weren't Twinkies and Kool Aid in my childhood home, there was almost always fresh pound cake. She loved making desserts herself. Even now, twenty years later, my grandmother still loves to come home from the grocery store on a Sunday and indulge in a new recipe. It's usually something sweet, because that's what she loves.

For the last couple of years, I've noticed my own sweet tooth -- which I've had since childhood, thus taking after her -- inspiring me in the same fashion. Once in a while I'll make a real meal, but I particularly love making sweets. Last week, I made what I called "peaches in a blanket" (rolled up peaches with cinnamon, butter and honey and baked inside dough) and tonight, I made frozen hot chocolate for the first time. I couldn't help but think about my grandmother. Sure, I've gotten the last two of my recipes off a Pinterest page and she gets hers from real magazines or cookbooks. And sure, she can still turn a Bundt cake right side up without a problem, whereas mine broke apart the last time I tried. Nevertheless, I think this is a trait that I can proudly say I got from my grandmother, sugar highs at 9 p.m. and all. 

During deadline, it can't be a bad thing to feel awake anyhow. 

Breaking Up With Love.

My goodness, it's been absolutely forever. I've had a busy summer, hanging with my friends, their kids and soaking up rays either at my house in Litchfield or right here at the beaches of Charleston. And I've noticed that the saying rings true, about happiness being a butterfly that will sit on your shoulder when you aren't chasing it.

I've been doing some thinking about my ridiculous romantic track record. I've been single for three and some change years now -- not just unmarried or lacking a live-in boyfriend but SINGLE. No flings, no plus-ones to call up for a movie night -- nothing. Yes, I tried Tinder for a bit and it didn't work. Yes, I tried to fan a few acquaintances into a flame; that didn't work either.

For a while, it saddened me. After all, I've been obsessed with love since I first took notice of it appearing in works of literature, classrooms and family sitcoms. I realized it wasn't the kind of love that lasted forever, but it was a taste -- enough of a taste to make me want it.

Though I didn't date as a teenager (I was entirely too awkward) I daydreamed about love constantly, even wrote entire screenplays about my crush during World History class. And, once I got to college and did start dating, I found myself engrossed in a series of relationships basically lasting from approximately age 20 until age 32. Sure, not all of those guys were serious boyfriends, but I always had an object of affection. I always had a goal pertaining to love.

Now, I don't. There's nobody I'm crushing on, nobody I'm engaged to, nobody I'm sleeping with, nobody I'm casually dating in hopes to watch it go further. I've reached the age when everyone has someone, usually a spouse, yet I'm the most alone I've been since adolescence. It's pretty ironic I guess. Here's the exciting thing though: I've finally accepted it.

It sort of happened like this. I was walking a bag of garbage to the dumpster at my condo complex recently (Don't you love symbolism?) and realized I've finally broken up with love as an idea. It took me a good few years. I'd been depressed, I realized, when I ended my last relationship at age 32. After more than a decade of having some dude at my side, it was jarring for me. Now, not only have I gotten used to no ball-and-chain, I've discovered I prefer it!

There are a few contributing factors to this. One: I watch other people in relationships and marriages and they seem sorta annoyed with their partners a good chunk of the time. No offense. Two: I'm a social butterfly and I'm selfish. How did I not realize it sooner? Three: I can redevelop my own idea of love now, because I've let the old one go.

I'm well aware that this might mean I stay alone for even longer; it could take time to rewrite the idea of love from scratch. But I think it'll be worth it, because the old idea I had was not working. Plus, I have other kinds of love that aren't the romantic kind. Sure, sometimes I still feel lonely. But just like other mood swings I'm prone to, it's unrelated to reality.

Breaking up with my original idea about love was hard, no doubt about it. But I feel so much happier than I did a year ago. Sometimes the baggage that holds us down isn't material or relational -- it's ideological.

Good thing it's in the dumpster now.

Vintage or Bust.

So, I've developed this obsession with vintage books. As of recently, I'll only deal with vintage copies for anything I'm reading ...unless it's a new release, of course.

I prefer stuff from the 1950s and early 1960s -- more specifically, Bantams and Signets. They tend to have a few things going for them: They smell amazing, they have delightfully campy covers and the "about the author" pages are top-notch.

But I think what I love the most about these editions is that I was first exposed to them during my childhood, thanks to the shelves at my grandmother's house where I grew up. Those shelves are lined with books that my uncles and mother obtained during their childhoods, books that fascinated and engrossed me as a kid.

For example, the latest book I'm reading is John Steinbeck's Of Mice and Men -- which I've never read before, if you can believe it. I've spent literally a day and half searching for an old copy. What's funny is when I call the used bookstores and ask for the oldest copy they have available, it often ends up being something from, like 1993. Which I don't want, of course. I mean, I was alive in 1993. I was 13 and fully conscious. What's special about that?!

So I called everyone in town, from Mr. K's Used Books to Sullivan's Trade-a-Book to even Dream-a-Lot Books in Goose Creek in search of a respectably old edition of the novel. No dice. They either had no copy whatsoever, or they had a nice, shiny copy produced during my years on this planet. Bleh.

Undeterred, I finally ordered a 1955 copy online this morning, which should get to me in a few days. Until then, I'm begrudgingly reading my library copy so I don't get behind, but I can hardly wait til my oldie arrives in my mailbox. Here's what it looks like. Pretty cool.

Also, I had an idea. What do y'all think about a phone app for vintage book scouters like myself? The app could let us know what copies of a book are nearby and what the edition is. It's food for thought, anyway.

I don't plan to stop buying vintage books anytime soon, even on the days that it proves a difficult sport.  As long as I'm reading the classics (which I always will be) I think I should have classic copies. 

And you can call me a book snob. I won't mind.

Napping with my Signet Classic edition of Great Expectations on my face. Ha. 

Little Notebook.

After my post last time about more solitary media, I went out and bought a little notebook. And I'm thoroughly thrilled to report that it has become my go-to for whenever I have an idea now. (Err, except for the stuff that I put here, on the blog!)

In fact, the little notebook is already a fourth of the way filled with snippets of poetry, funny sayings that DIDN'T end up on Twitter, musings over my lunch and happy hour and even an entire rough draft of an essay for a magazine. See the photo below -- I sent the same one to my tutee a few days ago over text message, triumphantly declaring that I "had written a whole essay in mini handwriting in my little notebook" or something like that.

"Cool," he replied, in 15-year-old fashion. 

But it is cool. I've been reaching for the notebook more often than my phone, and that makes me happy. I'd forgotten how much more legit it feels to pull out real paper and a pen, rather than my smart phone like everyone else. 

Yay for being a writer and rediscovering the parts of it that I love!

Social Media Overload, Solitary Media Underload....

First, a list of the different applications and social media whatnots on my phone:

Facebook
Twitter
Tumblr
Instagram
Pinterest
Tinder
Google+

Next, a list of the times I've written something personal, something for myself this week:

Zero. 

This is a problem. I'm spending too much time talking to other people and not enough talking to myself. It would be great if I could compose a diary entry, at least, or edit a poem in complete silence (on a piece of paper with a red pen or something, not on the laptop where someone can IM me).

And to top it off, I've been bitching and moaning about being uninspired and not writing enough.

Sigh.

It's not just me though. (Not that y'all thought it was.) I mean, when I ask a certain teenager whose name shall be unmentioned to write one of the poems for his poetry booklets on a sheet of real paper, I get a reaction like, What? Real paper? Retype it later? WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU? 

And, as usual, I have trouble arguing my point of view. That there is nothing to distract you from your own ideas with a sheet of paper and a simple writing utensil. And when I (or you) feel less distracted from our own ideas, perhaps we feel less competitive and more peaceful.

I love ideas more than anything in the world, and I love the ideas of others. But I get so freaking bogged down by all the ideas at my fingertips these days, it almost paralyzes me.

If that writer said that beautiful sentence, what will I say? 

Well, the answer is my own beautiful sentence. And who gives a crap if anyone but me reads it? Good gravy, I remember being an adolescent and not even wanting to share my work with anyone. Now, I'm an adult, and it's like if i don't get approval from the masses then i might as well die.

I don't think this attitude is helping me get better.

It's not that I never put down my devices -- i do it every night, right before bed, when i read an actual book or magazine (not on an e reader) before drifting off. But I'm going to have to do better than that.

I'm going to have to start capturing the world in a tiny notebook that I keep in my purse again, just like I did before I became a slave to something outside of myself.

That's all for now.

A Different Kind of Business Profile.

At Mount Pleasant Magazine we do a great many business profiles for East Cooper companies -- and as managing editor, I strive for profiles that are well done and interesting -- even when it's a topic that doesn't strike a chord within me personally.

Other times, something does strike a chord, yet I have to keep the business profile ...business-like. Not so on my blog, however! So, in the spirit of letting y'all know how I really feel about a particular business here in Mount P, I decided to post about Celadon, one of our advertisers in the spring issue.

Once upon a time, my best friend Anna had me over for dinner at her house on a weekly basis. She had this really great shrimp pasta, with cheese sprinkled on top, that she would make on Sunday afternoons, and she served it in these elegant bowls that were higher on one side than the other.

We'd talk about our lives, and I'd look around her apartment, admiring her ever-elegant taste. She had a sofa that I downright coveted. Though she'd generously given me her former sofa, a hand-me-down i accepted gracefully, I couldn't stop myself from lusting after the new sofa in its soft teal hue.

We'd sit in the living room after dinner, and she'd light a couple of fancy candles with matches that she retrieved from a long box embossed with birds unfurling their lavender wings. I know -- at this point you're thinking it all sounds frivolous. And perhaps it was. But it was beautiful to me; the trinkets that Anna shared inside her home seemed to go so well with our conversations about love, our careers, our destinies as poets and our goals for the future.

Celadon happened to be one of Anna's favorite places in Mount Pleasant to find everything, from her furniture to her dish towels. There were a couple of occasions when she'd drag me inside the store to look at something -- until I realized I didn't need to be dragged; I wanted to shop there. But, unlike Anna, I couldn't afford much.

After Anna passed away a few years ago, I found myself venturing into Celadon from time to time. I found myself looking at things that I know Anna would have liked and thinking back to her apartment: about the bookshelves, stacked with volumes of poetry, and the coffee table, spread with papers to grade, half-written drafts and nubby candles that smelled of hyacinth.

It's interesting how mere things cannot possess any meaning unless we assign meaning to them. When we do, they become almost like living things, despite being objects.

One day, I bought myself a long box of those matches. I don't remember what I paid for them. I loved them so dearly, I kept them in the room with me all the time. And whenever I'd light something with their flames, I'd think of Anna.

Anna, reading a poem at a coffee shop. 

Shared History.

Christmas is Florence was a grand occasion, as usual. I spent ample time with my childhood friends and loved every moment of it. It's always a special treat to see my friends of 20+ years and reminisce about our former lives.

Here's what we look like right now:

We're missing one person, but you get the gist of it: despite our crazy childhood antics, we turned out to be well-adjusted women (for the most part).

But aside from catching up and having a drink at the bar, what really takes us back is visiting our old haunts. Mariann and I, for example (she's on the right of me), took a walk around the old neighborhood twice -- and the second time, we visited the old graveyard of the family who owned the golf course and probably the entire neighborhood back when it was a plantation.

It was just as magical to us last week as it was 20 years ago. The modest little picket fence -- I spotted  it from across the green and announced that we'd found our destination -- the names of the Muldrow family, most of them born before 1800, and the peacefulness of the place, despite its being in the center of a popular golf course. It's always felt like our place.

That's the thing about the memories I share with my childhood besties -- we share them collectively, so they feel real and not simply a fictional part of our individual minds. Yet, they don't feel so real that everyone else (random golfers) understands. It's a secret, shared history.

Not to sound too corny, but as I get older, I really value the bits of shared history with my old friends. And not just the childhood pals, but those from high school, college -- anyone I've known for years. When I was growing up, my nostalgic mother always talked about the passage of time (she still does, actually) and hinted that nothing survives it: not friendships, not locations, not ideas.

Thus, I am grateful for the people and ideas that have followed me throughout the almost-35 years that I've been alive. As a sensitive and artsy person, I have the tendency to focus a great deal on loss. But honestly, there is plenty that I've kept in my proverbial pockets as the years have rolled by.

Here's to 2015.

On the Art of Transitions.

A few years ago, when I started working on my book, I realized that the hardest part of writing (at least for me) is the art of creating a transition. Thus, I would never abandon the story "between scenes," so to speak. I figured that in order to make things easier on myself, I would reach a stopping point in the middle of some action, so the momentum would still exist when I got back.

This "action versus lull" theory has bled over into my reading habits as well, particularly if I'm enjoying a book so thoroughly that I don't want to stop at a part that might cool my passion for the narrative.

I've tried to explain how hard transitions are to my tutee and probably to any other writer who is willing to listen to me -- including my freelancers, because it's true for magazine articles as well.

But what I didn't realize, until today, is how true it is for real life.

I've always thought of the time between Christmas Day and New Year's Day as a "lame duck period" of the year, when nothing really happens except, well, some people undecorate their homes, I suppose, and get ready to resume real life. You might argue that it's not everyone's favorite place to leave the year -- which is why The Christmas Cliff exists. (You know how everyone insists on seeing you before Christmas, as if the world ends on December 25th after the gifts are opened? That's the Christmas Cliff.)

So, I am proposing a new tradition -- or transition -- for this year, instead of leaping blindly from the action of Christmas Day to the action of New Year's. Let's make the most of those funny days in between. Let's continue celebrating and making merry and enjoying the time off from work (if you have it). I know I said that I'm wary of transitions to the point that I avoid them at times in literature and personal writing, but, if I start facing them in real life, maybe I'll get better at digesting them and creating them for the page.

Writers, after all, often draw on their own experiences. I appreciate y'all being part of mine and helping me bridge to the next chapter.

Imagination: I'm Grateful.

I had a heartfelt conversation with my friend Julia at another friend's Thanksgiving dinner party last weekend. Julia is 11 years old, and her mom and I have been pals for years.

We walked up and down the street after dinner, just the two of us, talking about life. I was amazed at how relatable and easy to talk to she is. But then again, I'm accustomed to being enchanted by the imagination and wisdom of children. Before our walk, we jumped rope, hula-hooped (well, she hula-hooped; I just attempted it) and basically ran around the house being silly together.

The quality time with Julia came right on schedule. I've been thinking a lot about what I should be grateful for, versus what I am grateful for. Am I grateful for all the days I spent lounging underneath oak trees and daydreaming as a kid? Or the elaborate games that my friends and little sister and I invented on Saturdays? Not often enough, until something happens to make me think twice.

For example, I went to the mall tonight after my usual tutoring session was canceled. I was feeling gloomy while walking around the mall, fretting about how I would afford all the gifts I want to buy for people; fretting about a friend of mine who's struggling with her health; fretting about life in general. Then I decided that instead of just sulking back to my car, I would try to perk myself up.

My perk came in the form of a conversation with the man dressed as Santa Claus in the center of the mall. It looked as though Santa was winding down for the afternoon (he works so much harder these days, what with everyone's holiday fever starting at Halloween) so I ducked the velvet green rope and asked him how things were going.

"Are the kids asking for iPads and iPhones?" I asked.

He nodded. "Yes. I tell them all they have to wait until they're older." Then he sighed, and I knew he wished kids still asked for simple toys made out of wood. He was an older Santa, with a legitimate beard.  He talked like he's been playing the role for years. I could tell he understands the importance of childhood and tries his best to pass it on.

A minute later, he was escorted by some of the elves off to his break, and he turned around and gave me a friendly wave. "I'll be back, and we can talk some more," he said.

My own childhood wasn't perfect, but I'm glad it was filled with imagination.

And I have people like Julia to thank for reminding me.

Me with Julia on her first day of first grade. We go way back. 

On Inspiration, and How the Three Day Guest Rule Doesn't Apply.

It never ceases to amaze me how inspiration strikes. Of course there are all the usual places (like sitting on my couch and drinking coffee, which seems to be a standard for artists) but once in a while, inspiration happens in such an awkward way that you can't help but take notice.

I just got back from a stellar trip to Auburn, Alabama, where I attended a writing conference for the first time and totally got back into student-mode faster than you can say "MFA wanna-be." In particular, I loved my short story workshop and my poetry workshop; both the instructors were really cool; I bought their books and got them both signed. It was a great trip, and I'm thankful for all the interesting trips I've taken this year -- Nashville, Florida, Charlotte, Auburn -- but when I got back, my friends kept asking me what I wrote while I was in Auburn. And the truth is, I didn't write much, except for workshop notes on how to craft poems and stories. I was like a sponge there, soaking it all up so I could wring it out later when the time was right.

One incident of this "wringing" came a week later, when I had the annoying and disappointing experience of driving 40 minutes in traffic to see this dude I was quasi-interested in, only to have him announce to me that he was "smitten" with someone else. It was not a big deal (I barely knew him) but really, what a waste of gas -- he could have texted that before I got on 526 during rush hour, right?!?

Anyhoo, so I went and had a drink by myself, feeling sulky. And lo! before I knew it, I had my phone out, typing an entire section of my memoir on the bar top, wishing I'd brought actual pen and paper so people wouldn't think I was texting someone with that furiously engaged look on my face.

Another time in the last week, I was fretting over the fact that I had not written so much as an introduction for a magazine article that was due right away. Then, Saturday morning while I was babysitting my best friend's son, I had this incredible first sentence pop into my head while I was lounging in their front yard, soaking up the autumn rays. Again, I got my phone out and typed a few lines (I've become quite the pro at emailing myself phone memos) and felt thrilled to have the hardest part of the article finished. Because, really, once you write a killer first paragraph, the rest just tumbles out.

For as many years as I've been a writer, none of this should surprise me. I know good and well that inspiration is like a butterfly, true love, boiling water or anything else that arrives when you aren't watching the doorway like an overeager freak. So maybe it's not surprise I'm feeling after all. Maybe it's joy at inspiration's arrival.

She's one guest in my life whose welcome is never worn out. In fact, I think I'd let inspiration rent my walk-in closet or couch-surf for as long as she wants to stay with  me.

Auburn's campus. 

Could E.T. Phone Home Now?

The other day, I was using my "phone" to make a call for something or other and I received the following message:

We're sorry! Dialer has stopped.

In other words, my phone application on my pocket computer had stopped working for a bit.

It got me thinking, rather wistfully, about phones. I've always loved to talk on the phone, long before I became a busy magazine editor and HAD to talk on the phone 24/7. In those days, of course, there was no such thing as texting or carrying around a phone in your pocket -- but I still managed to keep in touch with my people most of the time. I would drag the phone from the hallway in my grandmother's house, where I was brought up, into my bedroom. It reached only so far that I could sit on my floor, head propped against the foot of my bed. For hours I'd sit, tracing the patterns on the rug with my finger, talking to my best childhood friends about crushes, music and the woes of school. I'd talk until it was time to go to sleep or someone asked me to hang up; I never had my own private line as a teenager.

My favorite aspects of phones hardly exist now, thanks to technology. The other night while I was in Edisto, I was both amused and baffled to find a landline phone inside the condo, complete with push buttons and a cord. You couldn't even walk around with the thing. I picked up the receiver eagerly, ready to hear the dial tone.

Nothing.

But, really, all the sounds that we once experienced with our phones -- from busy signals to dial tones to that obnoxious beeping when you left it off the hook -- have almost disappeared. I never gave it much thought, since the real point of a phone is to keep in touch, and I've done that part well enough as phones have evolved. But this week, I find myself a little nostalgic for these old phones. Maybe it's because I've craved a source of comfort during the last few crazy-busy days. Maybe that old phone in Edisto reminded me. These pocket computers that we call phones just aren't the same. I suppose it's almost like music -- we still have the songs. But we're missing the CD cases, the artwork, the lyric sheets, the stereo plugged into each kid's bedroom wall.

It's weird, the way so many forms of art have become just another computer application. But my grandmother, for one, has never given up her regular phone, nor her regular stereo that plays classical CDs each time I visit her. No matter how many times I power up Pandora on my Android, those Beethoven compact disks are still important ....and I still love picking up her old-school phone in the kitchen, saying "hello" and feeling surprised at who's on the other end of the line.

Edisto.

"Genuine beauty is always quite alarming."

--Donna Tartt, The Secret History 

I just got back from my first ever trip to Edisto Island. Yes, I'm a South Carolinian who'd never ventured to this quaint, quiet beach until now. My experience was ...interesting. I guess what I'm trying to say is, after my CRAZY week of work and juggling a million things at once, I found the snail-like pace of Edisto to be slightly maddening when I first arrived. I checked into my eerily quiet condo all by myself on Thursday, found that the television didn't work (there wasn't any wi-fi either!) and tried to figure out what to do with myself. The obvious answer would be to read something or write something, but it wasn't that simple. 

For those of you who don't know, I struggle quite a bit with anxiety and panic. It took some work to calm myself down that night (a little bit of song therapy, if you must know, and a well-timed visit from my roomie, John, who was concerned after my phone call about how "SPOOKY" my accommodations were) but by the next morning, I was quite all right. I figured out the pace of Edisto, and darn it, I embraced it the best I could. I poured myself a cup of black coffee and walked to the bookstore, where I purchased a book of the island's history and another novel by Donna Tartt, since I loved The Goldfinch. I met a few of the local business owners and chatted them up. I swam in the ocean. I took a post-beach nap. I rode in a boat. I ate plenty of fresh seafood. 

In the end, Edisto turned out to be a beautiful and serene place. I just had to ...dial it back a bit. 

Bad Language - A Personal History.

Throughout my childhood, my mother never used bad language. In fact, she'd admonish people who had the nerve to say anything than worse than "damn" or "hell" around my sister or me -- even as I got old enough to handle it, hear it, even say it. In fact, no one we knew (the adults, anyway) had a filthy mouth. After all, we were closely monitored kids with MTV removed from the remote control (my grandma said it was "trash"), R-rated movies removed from our wish lists and friendships supervised with a careful eye.

Later, as I became a young adult, I was exposed to more bad language -- but I still wasn't much of a potty mouth myself. In fact, I was sometimes made fun of for being a goody-two-shoe, but I wore the label proudly. It was part of being Denise. I came to high school, and eventually college, as a late bloomer, determined to hold onto my virtue and not snort lines alongside strangers or miss class the next day. I'm not sure how or when those not-so-nice words crept into my vocabulary. But they did, little by little.

Here's a short list of experiences that stand out in my mind.

In the third grade I had my first real introduction to bad language -- though I wasn't the one who used it. I was brought to my teacher's desk along with a couple of other female students. We were informed that one of us had used a racial term on the school field trip -- but our superiors weren't sure which of us it was. At the time, I was a Catholic schoolgirl, and when the teacher repeated the word to me, I told her with honesty that I didn't know the word, and that I'd never heard my parents say it. She didn't believe me. I was mystified.

I had a babysitting job at age 16. At that point, I wasn't using bad language but I was listening to it -- I've always had a soft spot for rock n' roll. I remember popping in a Cake CD and playing a song with some choice words, only to be called out by the 7-year-old. I quickly turned off the CD -- who knew kids were so perceptive? -- but it was too late. I didn't babysit for that family very often after that.

My first job after graduate school was at a tiny book publisher that dealt primarily with military fiction and reference. My boss, an old dude around 70, let the F-bomb fly one afternoon because he was angry. I blinked in surprise, but I didn't question it.

One day, when I was around 27 or so and sobbing on the phone to my mother over a particularly brutal break-up, I let a word slip out that she had never heard me say. She gasped in shock, but she knew I was upset. Thus, she didn't say too much about it. But I still felt guilty.

Two and a half years ago, I started working at Mount Pleasant Magazine and Brian told me I had a dirty mouth. I dismissed his comment; I was stressed out and needed to vent.

I guess the point is that even now, at the age of 30+ years old, I still get scolded for using bad words. It's not that I don't know other words to use; in fact, I think of myself as having a decent vocabulary. I'm not exactly certain how I picked up the habit of uttering anything other than the Biblical "damn" or "hell" from my childhood years. Maybe it was all that Cake. And while it's true that a lot of people find bad language to be offensive, it's probably my worst habit. I mean, I don't drink that much (anymore); I don't have cigarettes in my handbag; I don't like porn and I don't snort lines.

Everyone has a vice, dammit.

St. Augustine: A Welcoming Place

I have just returned from a delightful long weekend in St. Augustine, Florida. I decided to take Thursday and Friday off from the office (the magazine is uploaded) and drive down on a whim, having never been there and having an offer for free lodging (my roommate is there on business). I invited one of my best pals from childhood, Mariann, to meet me since she lives in Florida. The result was a tantalizing weekend of good food, touring the city and wallowing in decadent relaxation.

In fact, it was probably one of my top five out-of-state vacations. I've been thinking about what made it such a winner, and I came up with the solution: It's because I pretty much lived like a local the whole time. Oh, sure, I did enough touristy stuff -- Mariann and I took a ghost tour; I bought some souvenirs; I stayed in a hotel and shaved my legs with a Bic. But the bulk of the weekend was spent getting to know how the natives of St. Augustine live. Below is a list of the ways I fit right in with the scene.

1. The first afternoon I was in town, I wandered to St. Augustine Beach and struck up a conversation with several locals in a beachfront bar that had no AC (just a bunch of fans blowing), befriending them to the point of trading poems with one guy and scoring free drinks.

2. While I was waiting for Mariann to arrive on Friday morning, I Googled a local yoga studio and signed up for an a la carte class, which just happened to be the same type of yoga I'd taken at home in Mount Pleasant two days before.

3. I went to Mass on Sunday morning, paying a visit to the Cathedral Basilica of St. Augustine. It was lovely. Sure, I was wearing a strapless sundress like an obnoxious tourist. But so was everyone else. Plus, Catholics don't really dress up for church much.

4. John and I went shopping at Target. I bought a pink swimsuit bottom. We also went to Barnes & Noble, where i picked up the local publications.

5. Hanging out with Mariann (or any close friend) always makes me feel more at home. It was fun laughing at random stuff like the old days in 1993.

6. I read three poems in a local coffee shop called City Coffee. John and I had lunch there, and I noticed they were hosting an open mic that afternoon. So, I signed up and read off my phone screen, just like I would in Charleston!

As you can see, playing tourist was only part of the agenda over the weekend; I also did a swell job at playing local. I can't wait to go back and visit St. Augustine. It's hard not to love a place where you feel so at home.

No, that's not cough syrup. We're at a wine tasting. 

The Kindness of Strangers (and Friends) in Bidding Theresa Drive Farewell.

Friends and fans, I apologize for my absence. I've been busy preparing for a move out of the house I have lived in for seven years. Long time to not even own the dang thing, eh?

It's been emotional, and it hits me at unexpected times. Like tonight, when I was snipping a Spoleto poster to fit inside the nifty frame I purchased at the thrift shop. Suddenly, all the occasions my friends (and ex-boyfriends) and I stood in this very kitchen, mixing up cocktails and dancing in circles to songs piped in from Pandora flashed through my head. Yes, I've had some good times here.

And I've been busy and absentminded during the process of moving my crap from James Island to Mount Pleasant. That's why I decided to take this breather and talk about the people who have made my week a little more bearable and, to be honest, have restored my faith in the notion that human beings are often kind.

Actually, I never lost that faith. It's part of what makes me Denise.

Scene One: Yesterday, in Mount Pleasant, I carelessly ignored the low fuel light in my car and drove around like an obsessive person for hours, trying to find a case for my new cell phone (a Moto X, which I adore) and eventually purchasing a vintage Vogue poster from a consignment shop. The next thing I knew, I ran out of gas and my car stopped.

On Bowman Road. In traffic.

I put the car in neutral and got out to push it to the side of the road. I was joined by two fine gentlemen, who helped me steer the Saturn to safety. I thanked them each several times, but they seemed pretty accustomed to saving damsels in distress. Next, I grabbed a ride from a friendly cop -- do those two words go together? -- and filled a gas can at the Exxon up the street. (I'm a chick, so I had to buy the gas can. I mean, I didn't have one in my trunk or anything.) And the Exxon folks showed me how to operate the spout and everything. I felt so fortunate, even as I walked back to my car in the hot sun after the cop dumped me off to attend the Blessing of the Fleet. Whatevs.

Scene Two: Today I made a complete jerk of myself in the Goodwill parking lot when I dropped a vase of silk flowers I had just purchased, and glass/stones/fake daisies went EVERYWHERE. Luckily, the sweet-natured woman from the checkout counter came outside and helped me gather up the pieces of my spill, even going so far as to find me another vase and pick up the colored stones, one by one.

"Thank you. I appreciate your help," I kept saying. She earnestly insisted that it was her job. She was happy to assist me -- and I was happy to be surrounded, yet again, with people willing to go the extra mile for a stranger.

And, of course, I've had tons of help from my best friends as well, on everything from packing the kitchen to driving the UHaul to carrying boxes of miscellaneous notebooks filled with short stories. I don't know what I would do without y'all. Really.

So, as I depart Theresa Drive after seven happy years, I think I'm going to be OK. And it's a good feeling.

The Art of the Visit.

On Sunday afternoons when I was a small child, we'd get out of church, have lunch somewhere with my mother (usually Pizza Hut) and have visitors at our house later in the day. My grandmother, ever a classy lady, has always understood the art of hosting - just ask my mom. Well before any of us were born, grandma cultivated a knack for hosting lively dinner parties, festive holiday gatherings - and, on peaceful Sundays, the perfect visit.

I feel sometimes that the perfect visit is lost. And y'all know what I mean by a "visit" - having a friend or cousin who comes by your house for a couple of hours in the afternoon, has a glass of wine or cocktail along with a few salted nuts or some cheese, chats with you about the week and leaves before imposing about supper.

I, too, am guilty for not knowing how to visit people properly. When I go to a friend's house - especially my best friends - i pretty much camp out with them. We start with breakfast and by five o'clock we're pondering dinner. Nothing is really wrong with this method of socializing - but I've found that if you limit yourself to shorter visits, two things happen: you see more people and you get more done at home. Plus, if you're just dropping in on someone, a shorter visit ensures that you don't hog their day without asking. 

This weekend I did some visiting, or made the rounds, as I like to call it. I saw all of my best friends and a few casual acquaintances. I shared snacks, drinks and chatter with these folks. But I also cleaned out my sweater closet, wrote a few articles for work, cooked brunch at home, caught up on sleep and read a few chapters of Frankenstein (the book my tutee and I are currently engrossed in). 

I liked it. Not to say that I'll give up camping out with the besties when the time is right. But when a girl is lucky enough to have so many people to hug in a short time, my family's visiting tradition is a good way to go. 

Even today, visits at grandma's house are the best. 

Throwback Thursday (In Da Club).

Last night was Cullen's birthday celebration - he's one of my writers - and I assured him earlier in the day that I would come out and have a drink. Well, imagine my ...hesitation when he texted me that he and his crowd were at Mynt, a bar/nightclub known to be for the under 25 set. (Cullen is 24 this year, so I can't blame him, but yeah.)

Nevertheless, a drink obligation is a drink obligation. So I put on my sparkly tank top and headed downtown to Mynt to rub elbows with the college kids. It's not like I do it that often, really. Mostly I have a very adult-like evening of red wine and chat with other adults.

Fortunately, it turned out to be a wildly amusing and interesting time. I kept myself fairly sober - but frankly, anyone would be more sober than a shot-saturated, pill-hopped college junior - and soaked up the atmosphere. Naturally, there were a few times when I remembered my age. Here are a few examples of those moments:

1. When I asked the bouncer, who was also in his mid thirties (we had a chat outside; he's 35 and a fire fighter), for a squirt of antibacterial liquid after touching the stair banister along with about 100 other kids on my way to the outdoor lounge.

"Do you have hand sanitizer?" I yelled, over the roar of house music.
"I wish," he sighed.

2. I asked the deejay to play "nineties rap." Then when he supposedly did, I didn't recognize any of it. I concluded he must be playing rap from the late nineties, when I'd already entered my "hippie shit" phase in college. So, I asked him if he could play me some disco.

"Uhhh, I have some disco mixes," he offered.

3. There is nothing more age-affirming than being in a bathroom with a bunch squealing girls. Also, it was pretty funny when I casually commented to the line of ladies that "a bar this packed should have more than one restroom."

"They do have more than one," said one chick, gesturing at the 3 grimy toilet stalls. "One, two three!"

Riiight.

4. I hate to list this example, because it means I'm telling everyone I smoked a cigarette, but while maneuvering around the thick, drunk crowd outside I held my smoke high above my head, so as not to burn anyone. One girl leaned over and said, "You are so respectful! Thank you!!"

Charming.

5. I kept checking the time, feeling sure that I would turn into some form of pumpkin at midnight. After all, today's a weekday. And the crowd was getting so heavy and boisterous, I knew it was my cue. Plus, I need my sleep.


But overall, it was a terrific night - and I got lots of compliments when I revealed that I was over thirty  but enjoying Mynt for my first (perhaps only) time.

"Well you look 25," said one girl heartily. I returned the favor and told her she looked 18.

Cheers.

New Adventures in the Old Kitchen.

I grew up with my grandmother - who is an excellent cook - preparing the majority of my meals. She'd make an array of classic dinners, from beef stew to chicken with rice. I took it slightly for granted as a kid, but now I recognize that she has mad skills. She's also a killer cake baker.

My sister took after her, always inquiring about how to prepare certain dishes, particularly traditional, Lebanese plates that my grandmother only made on special occasions. Marie is definitely more talented than me. But she's also always had more of an interest in the art of cooking. I've always been more like my mom; I can put something simple together, but my passion for eating always outweighed my passion for putting food together.

I don't know if it's been the chillier than usual temps this winter, or just a newfound inspiration in the kitchen, but I've been making food at home a lot more. And yes, I'm enough of a newbie that I need to brag about it (at age 34). There are always the usual reasons to cook meals at home: You'll save money; you'll be healthier. However, I've compounded a list of additional reasons I like making food at home.

• My computer is nearby, as are my books, papers and anything else I might need to jot down a poem, take photos of my food without receiving withering looks from a tableful of people, etc. 
• Genessa often comes home, asks what I'm making, and sounds mildly impressed when I announce the evening's project. 
• The grocery store is apparently a good place to meet men, or so I hear. I haven't met one there yet. 
• I can listen to Pandora. 
• The smell of the food cooking pretty much counts as an appetizer. I think I eat a little less at home, because I'm not as frantic when I finally sit down with my plate. 

And, if you're wondering what I've been making as of late, it's nothing to get ALL excited about. Here, a short list.

• French toast with a side of oranges 
• Salmon with Brussels sprouts tossed in balsamic, olive oil and bacon bits 
• cheese and onion omelet with toast 
• steak and eggs with a side of spinach 
• fajitas with steak and bell peppers 

So, as you can see, I'm still a beginner. But I'm getting better. I didn't mean to make a resolution for 2014, but I think I've come up with one without meaning to: Eat at home at least a few times per week.

And flirt with a man in the grocery store.

Our Christmas Caroling Troop.

Tonight I attended an oyster roast at my pal June's house. June and I have known each other for almost ten years, and her daughter has been one of my favorite kids since I was in graduate school and I took care of Baby Julia at a Montessori preschool - my day job at the time.

Anyhoo, Julia had a few girls over during the party. Like most preteen girls, they were sitting around, looking terribly bored and complaining there was nothing to do except fiddle with their iPods and gossip.

I tried to steer the conversation into a different direction. First, I asked what they all wanted for Christmas. They all said they wanted tablets, preferably iPads. Sigh. I knew I had to get them out of the house. Eventually, I did.

First we played hide and seek, the trusted standby. I found very few places that would accept my five-foot-nine body quite as easily as the old days, but it was fun nevertheless. My adult friends who were also at the party were highly amused at my willingness to hang out with the kids, but hey. Eleven-year-old girls are fun.

TV tag came next (I think they may have made up a few television shows) and then, on a whim, I blurted out the winning idea of the night.

"Let's go caroling!" I said, without really thinking it through.

"YEAH!" They shouted in unison. I was officially committed.

Of course, there were many occasions when i was a kid that I caroled around the neighborhood I grew up in - mostly with my little sister and my friend Gayden, plus her brother - but it had been absolutely years since I'd attempted knocking on doors and singing songs. But I couldn't let the girls down. We were doing it, even in the 75 degree weather and no real plan of a setlist.

And in the end, it all worked out. We sang Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer, Deck the Halls and We Wish You a Merry Christmas, plus a round of Frosty the Snowman on the way home. We managed to pick up a couple of extra singers at one point and got a few photos of the group in full force. I'd say it was a success. The girls had a blast. Frankly, so did I.

Sure, it could have been a chillier night. And we could have been more organized and more in tune. But none of it mattered. The neighbors loved it. 

"This is SO fun!" the girls told me, as they skipped down the street to the next house with white lights. "Thank you for suggesting this!"

I have to admit, I felt triumphant. I mean, if I can convince preteen girls that there are more adventures to be had in this life besides sitting around the living room and griping because your mother won't buy you a smart phone, then that's pretty dang cool.

Now I can't get Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer out of my head.

Fa la la!