Party of One!

Howdy, blog fans!

I just got back from a long weekend in the mountains of North Carolina. I'd been to Asheville once before with an ex-boyfriend, but this time I went by myself. I rented a car (I love the Saturn but she's getting to be an elder) and drove the handful of hours to stay alone in a stranger's house that I booked on Air BnB. It was exhilarating.

I got a lot of questioning surrounding this trip, regarding why I choose to go places by myself. Every trip I've been on in the last two years (the ones out of state) has been a solo trip. Nashville, Auburn, St. Petersburg, Little Switzerland, Asheville -- all of them consisted of me, myself and I. I met up with acquaintances or friends for meals on a couple of the ventures, and I made friends too, but each time it was just me hitting the open road (or boarding the airplane).

I've found I really like it that way. It gives me a feeling of accomplishment, and it helps with my panic and anxiety issues. After all, if I'm busy checking my GPS while driving around a new town in search of coffee and book stores, I don't have time to panic.

It isn't like I don't get scared, driving up the side of a mountain in the middle of the night or wandering around a new place with no best friends at my side. But my bravery pays off in the end, and I come home to Charleston feeling like I can do just about anything.

I guess there's some truth about getting outside of one's comfort zone.

For Those Who Believe in Magic....

I have the unfortunate habit of losing my sunglasses in the Atlantic Ocean. I've done it a few more times than I'd like to admit over the last several years. And they're never the old, lopsided sunglasses that I leave in my car console in case of an emergency. Nope, the lost glasses are always my most favorite pair, swiped from the top of my head by an irreverent wave and carried out to the distant sea faster than I can wipe the salt from my bleary eyes.

That said, when I lost my last favorite pair a couple of months ago, around mid-June when I was in Litchfield, i never thought I'd see them again. Not that I didn't hopefully check out the shoreline after I noticed they were gone. But in all my years of being a sun worshipper, I'd never had sunglasses swallowed by the ocean do anything except disappear for eternity.

Til now, that is.

The Sunday before Labor Day, I went to lunch with my Daniel Island gang after church and they told me they had a "gift" back at the house for me.

"A gift?" I was thoroughly bemused. "What is it?"

"Remember those glasses you lost in Litchfield? Well....We found them when we went crabbing yesterday."

I blinked. "Huh?"

"Yep. We cleaned them off and they look amazing."

I know what y'all are thinking, blog readers. Because I've already heard it from the other people I've shared this amazing story with:

They bought you another pair at the store. They're pulling your leg. 

Another woman with your same glasses lost hers on Daniel Island. 

That's not likely, for a pair of glasses to float from Litchfield Beach to Daniel Island and TO END UP BY YOUR TUTEE'S HOUSE. 

Yes, I've heard it all. And you know what? I've decided I don't care! I got my magic glasses (as I'm now calling them) back last night when I took Rachel home from shopping, and they look the exact same. Maybe just a little bit beat up. A little bit of sand and salt in the crevices. It gives 'em character.

And given the fact that they made their way back to me, I think I'll be a little more careful with them this time.

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. 

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. 

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 Lit Geek's Tour of Nashville.

I decided to check out Nashville for a post-magazine-deadline long weekend. I'd never been there and it seemed like a cool place to visit, possibly consider for relocation one day. It's one of the only cities I've never heard anyone say anything negative about. Plus, I found a mega-cheap guest house on Airbnb.com. The only minor challenge was that I knew nothing about the place and I was traveling alone.

Fortunately, I used my resources and had a killer - not to mention writerly - vacation. I scheduled appointments with a couple of local publications and met their editors, inquiring about whether Nashville might be a cool place to live if you're a wordsmith. (They said yes.) I visited the FABULOUS public library and snapped pictures in the courtyard and the Grand Reading Room, which was like my version of church. I camped out in two bookstores: a used bookstore called BookManBookWoman and Parnassus, the charming book emporium started by writer Ann Patchett.
All the locations were brimming with readers and writers who were eager to talk to me. It was paradise. Oh, and I enjoyed a latte at a well-known coffee shop called Crema, ate everything from farm-to-table veggies to caramel gelato and got into a St. Vincent show for free after befriending the bouncer. I also gathered local publications from grocery racks, restaurant tables and a guy on the sidewalk selling newspapers. (I tipped him extra.)

I have to give credit where it is due. I discovered most of my itinerary through the two literary city guides that I printed from the Internet before my trip - one from a blog called Eat This Poem and another from Poets & Writers Magazine. I kept both of them stashed in my purse, referred to them often and pretty much kept my GPS plugged in 24/7 while on the prowl for inspiration.

In the end, my trip was a huge success. I think I'm ready for my next literary city tour. Suggestions?

My Unguided Tour of Coastal Carolina University, 2013.

The other week I visited my old alma mater, Coastal Carolina University. I spent four years there, from 1998-2002,  while I busily worked on my B.A. in English. While it seems rather long ago now, my affection for the place hasn't changed in the least. Originally, I drove up to Conway to attend the Dr. Paul Rice Memorial Concert on the Thursday night before my poetry retreat. It was perfect - Dr. Rice was my poetic mentor, and it was the best way I could think of to kick off the weekend. Friday's work could be done remotely, after all.

After spending a lovely night near campus after the concert, luxuriating in the guest room at a friend's house, I decided to visit Coastal again on Friday morning. The concert on Thursday night, while beautiful and fulfilling, had not quite squelched my desire to roam my old haunt. So, I threw my duffle into my car trunk and headed for what used to be the visitor's parking beside the Wall Building - but more on that later.

There's so much to say about my experience! I really made it happen for myself. I mean, other 33-year-olds might have walked around, admired (or lamented) the progress of campus and new buildings, then drove away. I, on the other hand, really sank my teeth into it. So, I've decided to compile a list of the highlights. Here goes!

1. Breakfast at the CINO Grille. This was where I began my romp about campus. It looked nothing like the days I would order a grilled cheese and pore over my philosophy notes. A very nice, close to graduating senior helped me figure out how the eff to order eggs on the fancy, new computer. The funniest moment was when I got in line with my food and large coffee (using a debit card, not a student ID) and mentioned to the woman who rang me up that I graduated in 2002. She responded she'd been working there since then!

"...but I don't remember you," she said.

Darn.

2. I totally wigged out when I initially thought that the Kimbel Library was gone, only to be replaced by some fancy "information center." So I did what any demanding alumna would do - I tapped a chick in front of me on her shoulder, desperate to find out the truth.

"Where is the library? The old one?" I asked, my voice warbling with emotion.
"What old library? Where was it? Across the street?" She and her pal were clueless.

Luckily, I finally realized that my dumbass hadn't seen that the old library was right there all along - it was just utterly remodeled to the point of my not recognizing it from that angle of the sidewalk. Sheesh.

3. The ice-cream-cone-alarm-incident, as I've now come to call it, was by far the best part of the day. I waltzed into the freshman cafeteria and breezed right over to the woman checking IDs like I owned the joint. I explained that I graduated in 2002 and "just wanted to look around." She waved me in.

Moments later, I discovered the soft serve machine and helped myself to a cone of chocolate and vanilla swirl. I told myself the damn place owed me - I'd given them thousands of dollars for my education and by golly, they could spare my midmorning snack. I took my prize out into the new courtyard beside the freshman dorm and licked the cone nostalgically. Did I really steal it? I guess it depends on who you ask. But when I tried to exit the fenced-in seating area, something crazy happened - THE BUILDING ALARM WENT OFF. FULL BLAST. EVERYONE COULD HEAR IT.

Apparently, it was the emergency exit.

I muttered a few words I probably would've never said as an innocent student, then hightailed it, dripping cone included, to the nearest place that wasn't the cafeteria: the freshman dorm. Two resident assistants sat behind the desk, looking bored. They didn't care that I'd set the alarm off. They also didn't care that I was eating ice cream over their desk, nor that I got on the elevator and rode it to the third floor like I belonged there. I guess I don't look as old as I feel.

4. Hanging with the people that currently live in my old freshman dorm room, 306, was both heart-wrenching and awesome. You see, I decided, once I darted onto the elevator, to find my old room from 1998. I couldn't quite remember the number, but I figured I'd go on intuition. Eventually, I realized that the two freshman boys in front of me in the hallway were getting ready to unlock the doorknob to what used to be my home! What are the odds?!

"Not to be weird," I began, (I figured i had nothing to lose after stealing ice cream and setting alarms off.) ...but I used to live in this very room as a freshman 15 years ago!"

They were awestruck.

"Come in!" they beckoned. The place was the usual pigsty. I politely stood in the corner and chatted with them for a good twenty minutes or so, about everything from life at Coastal, to adulthood, to the chance that they'd make any money based on their majors. It was so cool. 

After I parted ways with the guys, I promptly met some friendly chicks who showed me what the apartment style dorms, which I'd lived in as a sophomore and junior, look like these days. Overall, none of the dorms have changed much, other than the fancy names. But it was pretty interesting to find out for myself.

5. Refusing my undeserved parking ticket was not really necessary (What can campus police do to me, take away my degree??) but it was still fun. I called the number on the back of my ticket that awaited me at my car -which was parked in a spot marked visitor! - and raised hell with the public safety peeps.

"I graduated from this place in 2002 and I parked in a spot marked visitor so I could look around and see what's new on campus!" I bellowed into my phone over lunch at the Market Common, once the office finally called back.

"Ma'am, we'll forget about the ticket this time, but you need a visitor pass to visit the campus," the woman on the other end explained.

Whatever. I do what I want on that campus, obviously.


In conclusion, though I spent ample time reminiscing in the hallways of the English building, sitting in the courtyard, walking in and out of new buildings and thinking back to my glory days, my favorite parts of the morning turned out to be the interactions I had with students, staff and people that visitors might not usually strike up conversations with. I feel like I got the real scoop on Coastal Carolina University, circa 2013. And I have to admit I'll probably go back in a few years - or sooner - and give myself another tour.

But next time,  I'll remember not to use the emergency exit.

Go Chants!

I remember (and love) this view. 

Ninth Annual.

Once a year, I get some of my best girl pals together and head to my house in May for a long weekend. This past weekend marked the 9th trip, and every year is special in its own way. 

Our traditions include eating ourselves silly, sipping frozen cocktails on the screened-in porch, playing board games and card games, hitting up the Hot Fish Club on Saturday night, soaking up the rays all day on Litchfield's gorgeous sands and just being together. 

My mother has always said that it's not where you go, but who you are with. Thus, being in my favorite place with my favorite people is double the magic. 

What Would an Adult Do?

Over the weekend I spent time in Myrtle Beach with two of my oldest, dearest friends and their children. We drank frozen cocktails by the pool and enjoyed each other's company after not having it for a few years - that is, until this obnoxious deejay started playing club music and telling everyone to get up and dance. I happened to raise myself from my beach chair at that moment to collect napkins from the pool bar after Haylee, their almost-six-year-old, spilled strawberry drink everywhere.

"Are you about to get out there and dance?" teased my friend when he saw me standing up.

"No," I replied, with more than a gentle curl of my lip.

"Are you old now?" he asked.

"Yes," I said, without missing a beat.

Then, yesterday I was wasting time on the Internet when I saw that NPR wanted to know "how readers' tastes in music had changed since they aged." Had they simply turned the volume knob, or something more drastic, like changing from psychedelic rock to Kenny G? Now, I know I'm not quite old enough (I don't think) to have changed my taste in tunes yet and I know NPR wasn't talking to my age group. But it's still interesting, especially because my own mother still listens to all the ribcage-rattling rock n roll she can -- and brags her taste hasn't changed at all. Still, the fact that she's noted herself how her taste hasn't changed means most people in her age group do tone it down.

What are the expectations when it comes to adult behavior? I ask myself this quite a bit. I don't have a husband (or even a boyfriend or even a plus-one at the moment) nor do I have children, but i still suspect that people are expected to act a certain way and hold certain tastes after ...30? Would Kevin and Natalie have wrinkled their brows at me if I had ordered a shot of liquor in midday, jumped up on my lounge chair and shaken my ass like I was 19 years old? Probably.

Some changes, you aren't even conscious of. For example, I hated being around small children when I was 18, 19 years old. An old friend I had in college was the mother of a toddler at the time and I was a notoriously terrible, impatient babysitter. Nowadays, I love my friends' children, and they love me back. Is this a result of age? What if I still hated children -- would that be a sign I wasn't maturing properly?

Normally, when I write a blog post, I have some neat little way to tie it up at the end. But this question hasn't been fully answered for me. I wrote in my journal (the private one, on paper) yesterday that "as I get older, my place in the world seems to get smaller and triumphs seem to get smaller because I'm pickier about them."

Perhaps this process of "weeding the garden" to create the adult life we personally want is a lengthier process than I imagined. So far, I know that I won't be making a scene in my swimsuit by the pool. But as for loving a good guitar riff, I'll take my mother's cue and blare it in my car. I'm working on a lot of the other stuff, but that's a good start, right?

Local Flavors.

What a busy weekend! I enjoyed it by engaging in one of my favorite activities - trekking across the state to visit my best friends.

On Saturday I arrived in Columbia around lunchtime, and spent the afternoon with my childhood best friend,  Kristi,  for her baby shower. She's having a girl next month, so the house was filled with bonnets and butterflies. 

After the shower I drove the quick hour-and-a-half to Greenville to visit Alice, my college best friend. (I have different best friends for different life phases.) 

Greenville was quite the adventure. One of the highlights was definitely our meal downtown, which was topped by a conversation with a street poet, trying to sell us his spiritual musings for cash.

The poet, whose name was Ricky Jones, pressed a folded square of notebook paper into Alice's hand after she generously gave him a dollar bill from her purse. We unfolded it and read it later at the bar, where we decided that one dollar was a fair price.

The next afternoon we walked around the lake on the Furman campus (I got quite friendly with a black swan), then hopped into the car and started driving toward the Jones Gap state park, singing along to 90s songs on the satellite radio the whole way. 

The old saying, half the fun is getting there, definitely rings true when I go anywhere with Alice. We made a few pit stops on the way to the park, including a hardware store-cafe in Traveler's Rest, which Alice insisted had the absolute best blueberry pie to be found. Too bad they were out of the pie when we got there. 

Undeterred, we decided to pay a visit to the Tugaloo Junction, a quirky structure off the side of the road with signs that claimed we could buy boiled peanuts and fresh produce. While we didn't find the peanuts or produce (apparently, the Tugaloo Junction is just a place where miscellaneous toys, clothes and utter junk are sold to unassuming mountain folk), we still had fun chatting with the locals.

I told Alice that although I loved our stint in downtown Greenville, eating at the nice restaurant and walking around the city, I was even more inspired by the mountain trail, dotted with horses grazing the hillsides, interesting shacks and questionable produce huts.

"This is the real local flavor of the area," I declared.

The next time I go back to visit, we're definitely ordering that pie ahead of time and doing some more exploring.

Friend Fix.

This morning, I read an article (in ELLE) about the "euphoric benefits" of shopping and how they apply to true shop-a-holics, even when no product is purchased.

"Shopping addiction is consistent with gambling, sex, etc .... "It's not the act of getting the product that's so compelling, it's the anticipation."  

I hate to brag, but I knew this already, after my experience last night.

As I mentioned a couple of posts ago, I gave up shopping for Lent. No sooner had I done that when my best gal, Sarah, asked me to accompany her on a shopping trip to help her pick out a chic vacation wardrobe.

Talk about a moral grapple! Could I really help Sarah, a self-proclaimed non-fashionista, find suitable clothes and accessories without focusing on myself and my own desires?

The answer is yes!

After dinner last night, we hit the outlets and power-shopped for items that wouldn't make Sarah feel "like a soccer mom," a label she was aiming to avoid.  We went into an assortment of stores - from Michael Kors to Rue 21 - and finally ended up with three necklaces, five shirts and a pair of sunglasses, all which had been carefully selected to mix with Sarah's 3 bottoms: white linen pants, dark jeans and a long, striped skirt.

purple tee, floral shades, scarf 

"Are you sure this stuff looks good on me?" Sarah would ask about everything. Each time I convinced her that she was doing the right thing and she ended up in the checkout line, I felt thrilled.

Maybe I could have a side career as a personal shopper!  I thought.

"I can't believe I'm saying this, but this has been just as satisfying as shopping for myself!" I said, as we went back to the car afterward with her bags bursting.

Of course, I eyeballed a thing or two during the two hours, but I kept my cool. I was there to help Sarah, after all.

"But doesn't that count as window shopping? Which counts as shopping? Isn't that what chicks do all the time?" demanded Brian earlier that afternoon, when I told him about my mission with Sarah.

"No," I insisted. "This doesn't violate my Lenten sacrifice. I'm helping a friend. I would have never gone shopping otherwise!"

So, there you have it. Sarah offered to bring me along on a shopping trip for herself again if I "got the urge," but I think my duty is done ... for now.

Unless anyone else needs a helper, that is.

Bestie Birthday.

My birthday has come and gone without *quite* as much fanfare as years past, perhaps. The main reason for this is that I have been feeling subpar for about a week and a half--I'm finally almost recovered today, after falling deathly ill with Vestibular Neuronitis, a peculiar virus of the inner-ear, on February 1st. Thank goodness I'm about 80% over it.

Despite all of that, my 33rd birthday was one of my best. Two of my dearest, oldest friends came and visited me from afar, and sprang for an oceanfront hotel room in Folly Beach during "Folly Gras," Folly's celebration of the weekend before Lent begins. The rest of our clan, including my housemates, another good friend from out of town, and pretty much all the ladies who matter most to me, gathered seaside to heal my emotional woes after I'd been sick and filled with despair for a week.

Although I didn't swill cocktails and pound shots this year in a trendy bar downtown with 60 people, (I had exactly one flute of celebratory champagne; that was it)  the clarity helped me realize that I was fortunate to be flanked by my favorite people in the entire world, so soon after withering in bed for five days. It was a message from the universe about reviving myself for the road ahead in life, as corny as it sounds.

On a side note--my skin looks amazing, I haven't had a hangover in ages, and I've discovered lots of interesting, festive things to drink that don't include booze. These include hot cocoa with whipped cream, fruity virgin cocktails with lime slices, bubbly mango seltzer, and my old stand-by, cranberry juice with soda water.

Cheers.

With my BFF Mandie from TN

Center Street on Folly Beach during Folly Gras 

My best friends and me, ready to celebrate. 

The Early Beckon to Litchfield.

My first trip to Litchfield this year came a bit earlier than I anticipated. I drove up yesterday, after delivering the "Stork Basket" that Mount Pleasant Magazine gives to the firstborn baby of the year. This year's baby lives on the outskirts of Georgetown, so I took the opportunity to visit my beloved beach home for the day.

The water has been turned off for the winter, so I didn't expect to stay the night. I figured if something changed my mind I could stay with one of my seaside friends.

The weather was magnificent. I sat on the beach in my aunt's chair (I left mine at home in the garage) and soaked up the sunshine. I even dipped my toe in the ocean. It was freezing, of course.

A few hours of bliss later, I got together with two of my oldest and dearest friends, Gayden and her brother, Steven, for an early dinner in Murrells Inlet before heading back to Charleston.
We had a lot of laughs.

"This weather is nice, but it kind of confuses my brain," I confessed.

It's true. It's strange to feel that surge of springtime hope in January--my heart felt like it was going to burst open yesterday, the day was so lovely. Then again, my moods are more susceptible to the weather than most people's are, I suspect.

Florence + Christmas = Joy.

I just got back from Christmas in Florence for six whole days, which was absolutely wonderful. I spent ample time with really old friends, saw all the members of my family and even made a fancy dessert from a Christmas magazine for the first time.

cake roll

I mean, really, who knew I would be so excellent at rolling up angel food cake? Not I. The recipe made two cake rolls, so I brought one to Christmas dinner at my dad's house and the other to supper that night at my uncle's house. I thought it went over well in both locations. 

Abbey and me

Besides rolling cake, I also feel like I bonded with my cousins on my dad's side a little more this year. I've always liked two in particular--Anna and Abbey, who are my first cousin Tammy's young daughters. Whenever we see each other on Christmas day at my dad's, we talk about planning something else before next Christmas. But this year I think we actually will. 

My oldest friend Gayden and me

I suspect one of the reasons I enjoyed Florence so much this year is because I was completely alone, with no boyfriend, and I was able to submerge myself into feeling 12 all over again. I feel like I got back to my roots.

Now I've got the post-holiday blues, which typically happens to me after an exceptional Christmas. There isn't much going on this weekend and I just woke up a little while ago, wondering if it's warm enough to sit out in the driveway and read books and magazines. 

I crave other people's ideas for the new year. Everyone can use a little inspiration now and then. 

The 4th: A Recap.

I just returned from a truly epic vacation with my family in Litchfield Beach. Independence Day this year was one of the most spectacular on record, not to gush or anything. However, as I sit here at work, I can barely move. Why is that? Because my muscles ache to high heaven after falling out of my Uncle Joe's boat and into the saltwater marsh.

Let me explain. My Uncle Joe, a seasoned boater, invited me out on the morning of the 4th for an impromptu boating adventure and I happily accepted, second cup of coffee be damned. It was the funniest boat trip I can remember. 

First, we actually got pulled over by a boat cop, and Joe got a warning ticket for "not having either a horn or a whistle" on board. Who knew that a small boat like the one we were in needed such a plethora of emergency items?! Luckily we had life jackets!!

After we parted ways with the boat police, we made our way back to the floating dock at the house. Here's where the mayhem began. I tried to leap from the boat to the floating dock, while the two were connected only by my hand. Only I didn't quite make it. The boat floated away, my fingers slipped and --SPLOOSH!-- next thing I knew i was knee deep in oyster shells and mud softer than my own heart. I struggled to hoist myself onto the floating dock, but much to my dismay, my arms have zero strength and, between the pluff mud practically engulfing my lower body and my lack of biceps, the whole thing took awhile. When I got out, I resembled some sort of marsh creature and my toes and legs were slightly scratched after coming into contact with the oyster shells. But I survived. 

That was Wednesday and I'm still sore. My upper body feels like I subjected it to a crash-course in weight lifting. It hurts to move too vigorously. But you know what? I wouldn't take it back--it was funny and interesting. And we writers thrive off funny and interesting stuff, even if we get left a bit achy. 

Besides the boat adventure, other highlights of the trip included meeting my Aunt Stephanie's sweet 13-year-old niece, who said I was "more fun than any other adult there," spending time with my best friend John Myers, seeing my grandma, pool-lounging with my childhood pal Gayden, and the awesome fireworks on Wednesday night. My little BlackBerry did me proud, until the very end, when it was completely tuckered out from so many photos on the beach and went to sleep. I couldn't blame it. 

Mountaintop Picnic.

I would have to say that my very favorite part of Asheville this past weekend--and there were plenty of awesome parts, like having a Guinness with Billy, watching the freaks in the square, checking out the Thirsty Monk, and more--was definitely having a picnic at the top of a mountain with Stefan. It was cold, but it was romantic. Our menu was simple but tasty: meat and cheese, fresh bread, plums, veggie chips, and my favorite part: the apple cider. Yum.

Plans for Asheville.

If I can just get through this week, I'll be handsomely rewarded with a trip to Asheville, NC. I've never been there before, and not only am I excited to take in the sites (and the actual FALL weather, which hasn't been the case in Charleston these last few days) but I'm also going to spend time with an old college buddy and his wife. I haven't seen them in several years. In fact, the last time I saw this friend, he didn't drink--he was a teetotaler all through college--so I'm looking forward to having my first beer with him ever. A dark one, preferably.

via

Any other suggestions for places to visit in Asheville and the surrounding areas?

Half and Half.

Happy October!

I'm just finishing up another fantastic weekend. I spent half in Litchfield with my mom and her best friend Lorraine, and half here in dear Charleston. Sometimes, these weekends are my favorite. It somehow makes the weekend seems longer, making a mini-road trip to our house up the coast and then coming home to enjoy Sunday in my own city. The weather this weekend has been extraordinary, both here and in Litchfield. It's the kind of glorious weekend that puts one into a decadent mood. I've been shopping for soft sweaters, eating the best meals, and writing poems. I've been surrounded in Stefan's records, my own reading material, and great company.

Me on Litchfield

The gorgeous beach, with Stefan in the corner. :)

Colonial Lake in Charleston. 

Oh, I also learned that Stefan is not afraid of Black Widow spiders. Just another reason I love him.

Happy Autumn, readers! 

End Of Summer.

September is finally here, and I just finished up a fabulous Labor Day weekend in Litchfield with Stefan and the whole family--including my grandmother and my mom! Yay.

It's funny; I thought I was good and ready for fall. This season has been pretty scorching hot, and disappointing in some aspects. Yet as I wound down the summer hurrahs with my loved ones, I found myself feeling that old sadness that we always feel when summer ends. Sure, we'll have warm weather for a few more weeks, but fall is already making her appearance known with cooler mornings and evenings.  I'm glad I made the most of my final real weekend of summer, with delicious watermelon cocktails from the Cocktail Club...

...and fresh, yummy tomatoes grown in my Uncle Joe's garden for our post-beach sandwiches...

...and of course, beers on the beach.

'Til next time, dear summer.

New Orleans.

We got back from New Orleans a few nights ago. I've spent the last couple of days soaking in the memories, resting, and basking in the magic of the city. It was an amazing trip--hot, yes--but mostly amazing. Music, delicious food, moments with friends that I don't typically see. Everything a vacation should be.

Blues artists at the Apple Barrel Music Club. 

We walked around the French Quarter despite the crippling heat. 

Delicious beignets and coffee at Morning Call 

Stefan standing in front of DBA, a city music club. 

I can hardly wait to go back to the Big Easy, but I'll probably wait until the winter this time. There is much we didn't see. I'm sure in a city that rich in culture, you'd never take the same vacation twice.