And That Got Me Thinking

A Little Advice From My Mother...

2011-08-17T14:43:00.000-04:00

Bluffton Today column
August 17, 2011

My mom told me not to write this. But, last week I told her to call the VOX and she didn’t listen to me, so now we’ll be even-steven. If you know me at all – which many of you assume you do – you know that I couldn’t let the religious right have the last word. Since as I type, we are on day 12 of the Courtney is a Heathen 2011 Tour, I thought it important to make a few points and ask a few more questions.

Based on the feedback from my last column, it is clear that I am likely the most prayed for person on Bluffton. So, sounds like you all are taking care of the job for me and I am in the clear. Thank you for that.

In addition to the multiple prayer chains, I also received a healthy load of invitations to attend various church services and most interestingly, the Answers in Genesis Conference being held in Beaufort last weekend. I almost went. I mean I was a huge fan of Phil Collins in the 80s and I figured if he was going to be just a few miles from home, it was worth the trip. But alas, my schedule got in the way.

All kidding aside, I understand that many people have a personal relationship with God, however I found it interesting that so many are so possessive of their relationship, telling me about “their” God. Does this mean God is different for everyone? I was also a little surprised by the church-goers and believers who want to “run me out of town on a rail,” to find my house and sit out front praying for me (which is why I am appreciative of the second amendment), to watch me be punished for what I write. None of those threats appeared “Christian” to me. So, it begs the questions, what would “your” God think of how you treated me? Now I am even more confused.

Here is what I do know. If there is a God, he must have a fabulous sense of humor, because it is a crazy, crazy world that we live in. And, if he has a sense of humor, he read my column and laughed. If he is all knowing, he knows that I ask questions and make points in order to the stir the pot. He also knows much more about me than anyone else ever will. And, after adding it all up, I presume he would dub us even-steven as well.

Now that this is behind us, let’s talk about a few additional suggestions you should heed when your mother makes them …

Cut your hair. Boys, you look like idiots with the Justin Beiber haircuts. Walking around shaking your head, so your bangs fall just so across your eyes, is not combing your hair. Get a buzz cut and get over it. While you are at it, buy a pair of pants that stays up around your waist so I don’t have to look at your underwear.

Girls, get a pair of shorts that are long enough so I don’t have to look at your “juicy” rear. Keep in mind that the boys you are trying to impress can’t see a thing because their hair is hanging over their eyes.

(Boys, see note above.)

Neighbors, power wash your houses for crying out loud. Mold green is not an approved color in our POA regulations.

Dog owners, scoop your poop. In fact, a new town initiative – which you can learn about at town council, after the opening prayer – is aimed at raising awareness about how water pollution from pet waste affects the May River, and encouraging pet owners to be responsible and "Scoop the Poop." Visit www.neighborsforcleanwater.org for the er, scoop.

Avoid too much sugar.

Brush your teeth twice a day. (And floss.)

Don’t drink and drive.

And, may God bless America.

Are You There God? It's Me Courtney

2011-08-03T10:03:00.001-04:00

Bluffton Today columnAugust 3, 2011

They (yup, still trying to determine who “they” are) tell me that God is everywhere. Interestingly, I bumped into him two weeks ago, at a Bluffton Town Council meeting. A town council meeting, in a government building, is not where I expected to stumble into the omnipotent one. I thought it more likely that we may meet whence I meandered into a church, after a ten year hiatus, and as the lightening was flashing, and thunder crashing, I would shout out, “I believe.”

Alas, I was wrong. And, somehow in my previous visits to council I managed to miss the prayer. The prayer! Am I really even typing those words? I was stunned that after the meeting was called to order, Mayor Pro-tem Fred Hamilton ringed up God and ask him to bless the meeting, bless the people, and bless our town. (I later sneezed and also got a blessing.)

Perhaps I’ve been previously side-tracked by Mr. Hamilton’s snappy attire (I am indeed a fan of his wardrobe), but how have I missed this? I am mortified that after six years in Bluffton, I am just now tackling this topic. I must be losing my edge.

But now that I have my wits back about me, I’m thinking that Thomas Jefferson must be rolling over in his grave. After all, it was old Tommy J. who, in a letter dated in 1802, suggested a separation of church and state. Said suggestion was later adopted as a part of the establishment clause of the first amendment, and cited by the Supreme Court on many occasions.

So, why in the heck are we mixing God and local politics? Don’t get me wrong, I’ve sat through some of these meetings, and many a debate, and I am certain I muttered, “Oh my God,” “Christ Almighty,” “Sweet Jesus,” under my breath on more than one occasion. Yes, I’m a blasphemer but this isn’t about me.

It is about you. It is about your right to a separation of church and state. We have rules people. In fact, we have rules at town council meetings. For example, if you would like to be heard, there is a process you must follow. You must, in advance of the start of the meeting, fill out the appropriate paperwork (online or in person), to be heard. Once you are called to the podium during public comment period, you have three minutes to get your point across. This begs a few questions -- If God is at town council, does he fill out the form in advance? What organization does his form say he is representing? If he (or is he a she?) exceeds the allotted three minutes what happens?

The agenda at the July council meeting was rather benign. The meeting, uneventful. Nothing to get all excited about. No scandal. (There was a special guest appearance from former councilman and mayoral candidate Charlie Wetmore, but he behaved and even stayed within his 180 seconds.) Was the peace and calm a result of a shout out to God or was he too busy to hear the call come in that night?

Now I have even more questions. Does God show up anytime he hears his name? In traffic, when someone cuts you off? At the gym, when you can’t lift another pound? In your living room when you’ve (yes, you!) got the volume on the “Skinemax” channel a tad too high? (You'll note that this sentence didn't make the print version, but I had to try!) In the middle of the night when one of the kids is crying? At the airport when your flight has been delayed again?

How does he know when help is really needed versus when he is being called in vain?

Good lord, I could go on all day …

August: A Line in the Sand

2011-08-02T13:33:00.003-04:00

August 2011 CH/CB2
This month, crazy Frank Dunne, Jr. and I pontificate on philandering politicians. I, as always, am right. You can read Frank's opinion here, if you must.

Frank, I know you are not suggesting that I lack character or the ability to judge character. (Even though, per last month’s column, I do contribute to the eroding moral compass of the nation.) So, I’m going to give you a pass on that one and instead focus on that fact that your singular “Weiner” example is actually the perfect illustration of your one-track argument.

Anthony Weiner, that’s the best you can come up with? I mean granted, Weiner is media gold, he’s out and about showing off his private parts and his last name just happens to also be the caption for his pictures? Jackpot!

But, in truth it’s not about Anthony Weiner, Bill Clinton, Eliot Spitzer, John Edwards, Arnold Schwarzenegger or Mark Sanford. Once again your narrow mind steers you down the wrong path as you suggest that this issue of philandering is one, only limited to politicians and two, that the only ones doing it are the ones who get caught.

Oh contraire mon frère. You may remember my “open your eyes regarding marriage argument” from last month? Well, let me continue to enlighten you. Let’s talk numbers, including the staggering 8.5 million members on ashleymadison.com, a website dedicated to helping married philanderers find a “philanderee.”

While infidelity statistics abound, I’m actually going to go conservative here and quote a 2007 MSNBC.com/iVillage Lust, Love & Loyalty survey, which concluded that, “About one in five adults in monogamous relationships, or 22 percent, have cheated on their current partner. And nearly half of people admit to being unfaithful at some point in their lives.” MSNBC also cited research expert Tom W. Smith, director of the General Social Survey for the National Opinion Research Center at the University of Chicago who conducted the study “American Sexual Behavior,” a poll of 10,000 people over two decades. The study found that 22 percent of married men and 15 percent of married women have cheated at least once — similar to the results from the MSNBC.com survey.

If these statistics are true, 20% of our nation is cheating on their partner. So, for argument’s sake, let’s say that 20% of elected officials are cheating on their partner. However, unless they’ve been caught in a media firestorm, we don’t know about it. Is it really their cheating that makes them a bad politician or is it the media circus that surrounds the “big reveal” that renders them unable to lead?

I vote for the latter. Character is comprised of many things. And, everyone defined character differently. If politically a politician stands for and works for everything that you believe in, do you really care what he does in his personal life? What if you find feet to be disgusting and your Congressman has a foot fetish? What if he is having an affair (with a women with beautiful feet, mind you), because his wife hasn’t been interested in sex in 10 years? Better yet, what if his wife is cheating too? Or, what if they have an agreement to step outside their marriage? Why do we care? Are you not going to vote for him because his ideals don’t match up to yours in every column? If so, you’d never vote again.

Look around right now. One in every five people you see is statistically a cheater. It could be your mailperson, the little league coach who lives next door, the bagger at your grocery store, your child’s teacher, your best buddy, your boss, the waiter at your favorite restaurant, the minister at your church (oh yeah, I’m going there).

Is your mail still being delivered on time? Is team moral up? Are your freezer items separated from the cans? Is your kid getting A’s? Is your buddy still your favorite drinking partner? Is your boss still tolerable? Is your service still top-notch? Is Sunday’s sermon still inspiring?

All I am saying is let’s not rush to judge.

I’m sure you’ve made some mistakes along the way Frank, but heck, our Editor still let’s you write. Right?

What's Up Doc?

2011-07-20T13:32:00.001-04:00

Bluffton Today column
July 20,2011

This one is dedicated to my doctor, who never actually became my doctor, because even though my primary physician felt that there was an issue that needed a specialist’s attention, that specialist refused to see me.

As I am sure you can imagine I was beyond thrilled by this scenario. For entertainment purposes, let me shed a little on the conversation for ya. It went a little something like this.

Me: “Hi, this is Courtney Hampson. My doctor sent over a referral and my file and I’d like to make an appointment.”

Them: “Let me connect you with our referral specialist.”

Referral Specialist: “Yes, I see a note that says, ‘Dr. Evil cannot see you at this time’.”

Me: “So, he’s too busy or is just offended by me in general?”

RS: “Your symptoms are not really something he treats.”

Me: “Really, what specific symptoms are not valid enough for Dr. Evil?”

RS: “Well, I don’t actually have your file in front of me.”

Me: “So, you’re making this up? Or you are just not qualified to answer my questions?”

RS: “All I can tell you is what it says here.”

Me (under my breath): “Specialist may be a stretch in your job title, don’t ya think?

Me: “So what you are telling me is that my doctor of five years thinks there is an issue and wants a specialist to take a closer look, but you are refusing to see me?”

RS: “Well.”

Me (louder): “So what you are telling me is that my doctor of five years thinks there is an issue and wants a specialist to take a closer look, but you are refusing to see me?”

RS: “Yes.”

Me: “Ok. What was your name again? Susannah? Great. You and Dr. Evil can look forward to seeing your name in print real soon. What is it they say … any PR is good PR? Have a great day.”

Then I burst into tears.

I’ve been feeling crappy for awhile. We’ve tried a few things to regulate the ol’ hormones, but nothing seems to kick the symptoms in the arse. I experienced years of reproductive challenges, so I basically chalked this up to faulty plumbing and darn it stinks to be a woman. My doctor (and my Mom) finally convinced me to have someone else take a look.

Enter Dr. Evil, who won’t see me and whose name I can’t pronounce, and since I read aloud as I write, and because I wondered if a name drop would make it to print, I changed his name. He is, of course, the only endocrinologist in my health plan. Oh, and his office is in Savannah. And, his practice might have the word endocrinology in the title. Maybe.

So now what? Well, I’m thinking witch doctor. Which doctor? A witch doctor. Which (isn’t this fun?), in our first world usually refers to chiropractors, homeopaths and faith healers. Homeopathy you say? I’m in. Homeopathy is a system of medical therapy that uses very small doses of medicines, or remedies. These remedies are prepared from substances found in nature - plants, minerals and animal substances.

So, I’m putting on the white jacket and headed to my laboratory. (Since you now know that I read aloud as I am typing, you should know that I annunciated that as “la-BOOR-atory.”)

Plant material – I’m going mint. I will mix said mint with a little rum and some soda and Mojito my way to a healthier me.

Mineral – do diamonds count? I’ve got a new one on my left ring finger. And, frankly that makes me feel better already.

Final ingredient – animal. Pig is big, so I’m going bacon.

Oh, stop. I know that is not how homeopathy is practiced. But it was funny. And it took my mind off the fact that there is a bigger issue here and I am debating how to tackle it, however the last thing I want is a political debate a la health care, or a retort from Bill Roe. So, I guess the only question I have is … what’s up doc?

Dave Miner: The Man, The Myth, The Legend, My Friend

2011-07-14T15:19:00.002-04:00

CB/CH2 goes bi-coastal in the July issue with an interview with Napa winemaker Dave Miner.

He loves grapes and his girls. And if you throw in a little jazz guitar, Dave Miner is in seventh heaven. The stories of his three great loves intersect often. In fact, it kind of makes you believe that some things are indeed meant to be.

Music was his first love. Dave’s aunt was a musician, and guitars were always lying around the house for his amusement. He was also known to fiddle with the ivory keys on occasion. But practicing music was much less interesting than playing sports. So music remained something he did “just for fun.”

Wine came next. In his twenties, Dave began collecting wine with his uncle, the founder of Oracle Software Company. He would visit his uncle in San Francisco. They’d get to talking. Then they’d get to drinking. And as Oracle continued to take off and more money was rolling in, they started buying to satisfy their ever-evolving palettes.

Soon, Dave was working in the Oracle sales department, seeking a closer connection to his uncle and the undulating Napa Valley. And then, the stars aligned and his uncle bought a vineyard. And there, he fell even deeper in love, with wine. He made a break from Oracle, started his own technology company, sold it, and was pondering his next move when he got the call.

His uncle was sick, and Dave was asked if he would take over operations of the winery. “I needed less than five minutes to make that decision,” he quipped. To his uncle he said, “I’ll be there tomorrow.” That was 1993.

By 1996, the first vintage of Miner Family Wines was available. But, not until after he met his third and true love, Emily. As he told me the story of the first moment he saw her, he paused to catch his breath and tears formed in his eyes (and, in mine). With wistfulness he admits that he was “diggin’ her from day one.” Emily was his first employee and after she spent six months trying to set him up with someone else, she finally “got it” and agreed to go out with Dave. After a whirlwind romance, and in a ‘how cool is that’ moment, Emily’s father hired the celebrated jazz guitarist Bucky Pizzarelli to play their wedding reception. Talk about a perfect match!

Today, Miner Family Vineyards is a labor of love. True love. Dave’s jazz guitar collection (all crafted by the legendary Bob Benedetto in Savannah) adorns the winery’s tasting room. And, appropriately, a painted portrait of his wife and two daughters (and the vineyard) adorn the back of one of those guitars.

When you meet this man you are immediately drawn into the warm embrace of his laughter. He is funny, and sassy, and ever so sarcastic. He’ll tell you how it is. And then he’ll ask you if want to share a bottle of wine.

The next time you meet him, he’s an old friend. Indeed. Chances are … you have met him.

Dave makes the journey from the wine country to the South Carolina Lowcountry multiple times each year. He says, “there is an allure to the Lowcountry.” The first time he visited our fine area was to meet with the guys at Benedetto Guitars and make a little music. Six years later we are frequent destination for this vagabond, where he has forged many relationships via his wines.

Yet, Miner’s reach is truly country-wide. When talking to his pal, Jason Carlen, Sommelier at the renowned Spiaggia in Chicago (and former “wine geek” at Palmetto Bluff), his thoughts are sincere toward Dave, “Golly I love that man. He and Emily are some of my favorite people in this crazy world we live in. His wines emulate him beautifully. They possess the ease of someone you want to know, the class and sophistication that only comes from being so well-rounded and worldly, and something un-definable and a little bit dirty that makes you want to do naughty things. I can't get enough of him or his wines. I am honored to know him and call him a dear friend.”

As for the wine, Dave says, “You can collect it, but I’d much rather you open the wine – with your friends and family and create some memories. I mean, the best part of my job is hearing that Miner was at someone’s wedding or family milestone. We were there. What’s better than that?”

Now, I’m no wine connoisseur, but I can tell you that Miner – the wine and the winemaker – are easy to fall in love with – they are both pretty darn smooth.

Dave will tell you, “Pull the cork and drink it. If you get lucky, then I’ve doubly done my job.” He may have the best job ever.

Check out Miner Family Vineyards online

The Luciana Label

2011-07-11T15:15:00.000-04:00

I don't know if I am hip enough to wear The Luciana Label, but at least she let me interview her for the July issue of CB/CH2!

With brow furrowed and lips pursed Luciana Quiroga moves around her client, studying the fabric, the way it drapes, how it moves, and perhaps just as important -- how the client feels donning her creation. It is no doubt that this serious approach to her work is what puts Quiroga in the fashion spotlight.

In contrast, I’m in the background drooling over this line of clothes that appears both comfortable and fabulous in the same stitch.

A native of Argentina, with a Savannah College of Art & Design (SCAD) fashion degree under her belt, Quiroga is a young fashionista with a desire to spread the word on the art of custom made clothing. Nearly two years after the opening of her self-dubbed boutique – “Luciana,” Quiroga is also putting her name on the fashion map.

As her career takes off, I had the opportunity to go behind the seams (so clever, that I stole it from Quiroga’s website) with the designer to get the scoop.

Where did your love of fashion originate?
I’ve always been curious about how all these dresses and skirts were made. My mom exposed me to fashion very early – taking me along to have a dress made by a local seamstress in South America. Also, I did a lot of shopping for clothes as a teenager. Attending SCAD was a dream come true for me - I finally had the opportunity to create my idea of what clothes should be.

Tell me about how your travels have inspired you? I’ve been very fortunate to travel in South America, Spain and throughout Europe. Seeing different styles in person, touching the fabric, from a variety of cultures, definitely inspires me and my designs. All that together defines what Luciana is today.

Are you ever surprised by what inspires you? Not necessarily. Inspiration for me is everywhere and can come from anything – people, places, music …

Did you play dress up when you were little? No, my love for design was a teenage escape. Although I always enjoyed dressing up my sister – and now I love dressing my customers.

If you had to pick one outfit from your closet to wear forever, what would it be? Shrugs. I love them and have plenty of them! They are easy to wear, simple to carry around, look good, and of course, come in handy in cold places like restaurants or movie theatres.

When you are designing for a specific person, what is the first question you ask that client? What colors do you like? Do you like solids or prints? And many more questions naturally follow. The more I know about my customer enables me to create a better design.

How do you want someone to feel when he or she is wearing your clothes? Comfortable, confident and glamorous! In fact, those words also best describe my designs.

What is the one article of clothing that every women should have in their wardrobe? A stylish dress of course! That’s what I create - one of a kind, super comfortable dresses that can be for every day wear or, made formal with accessories.

How long does it take you to complete a piece – from concept to finished product? Each piece is one-of-a-kind and every customer is unique, so it truly depends on the design, the fabric and the print.

What is the last book you read? When time permits, I read Couture pattern making books and anything related to fashion.

Favorite movie? I love so many – particularly ones that make you think - but no movies about aliens!

Is there any one person who you would love to design for? My clients! I get so much pleasure and satisfaction from seeing a client in one of my pieces…

What is your greatest extravagance? My Senior Collection at SCAD. Out of about 200 students I was selected to show my collection in the 2010 Senior Fashion Show. I keep the video, pictures, sketches and the actual clothes close by. I am so proud of what I created – it has helped me greatly in making the transition from student to professional.

What is your most marked characteristic, and is that reflected in your design?Creativity is probably what most of my friends would tell you, but some think my sense of humor too. I like to transform things, and not just clothing - from simple to fabulous and unique.

Tell me a little about the clothes we’re seeing in this issue … Colorful, couture, comfortable and very “now.” And, if you don’t see what you like, please come in and I will design something specifically for you.

What can we expect next from Luciana?I’m very excited about the new “Luciana Ready to Wear Club” launching on July 1st. There is no membership fee for our current customers and each item purchased offers them fantastic opportunities such as exclusive showings and very special pricing. It’s my way of showing appreciation for their loyalty and support.

Celebrity Chefs: Why All the Fuss?

2011-07-07T15:12:00.001-04:00

Things are heating up in the kitchen and in the July issue of CB/CH2

In the summer of 2002, I moved from semi-metropolitan New Jersey to farmland New Jersey (yes, there are farms in NJ, it is the “garden state” for crying out loud!), for my ex’s job. While he was working every day, I was twiddling my thumbs trying to determine where I should set my career sights. I settled on a (short-lived) stint as marketing manager at a local winery (yes, they have grapes in NJ too). Each summer the winery would host a local festival – food, wine, entertainment, etc. I unfortunately started my new gig about 10 days before said festival. So, when a local chef who was going to do a cooking demo cancelled at the last minute, I was volunteered to man that post.

My boss had no way of knowing that my culinary repertoire was limited to (burnt) grilled cheese and scrambled eggs, that usually morphed into fried eggs because I tended to over-scramble.

I’m not sure if having the aforementioned knowledge would have mattered all that much to him, so I kept it to myself. We were desperate and desperate times call for desperate measures. I did what any professional would – I panicked. And then I turned to the Food Network for support. Lo and behold Rachel Ray was whipping up a 30-minute meal that I was certain I could master. I went to bed feeling a sense of relief until …

I received the news that my demo recipe should, of course, include ingredients sourced locally. I was planning a teriyaki and ginger grilled chicken topped with mango salsa. Feeling pretty confident that mangoes were not indigenous to NJ, I had to get creative. And I did. I added wine. Heck, it was local!

Come festival day, I stood atop a shoddy stage, with propane burners and demonstrated to a crowd of old ladies, “my” recipe. And guess what? They loved it. (Did I mention the free wine flowing at the festival that likely numbed the palate?) Alas, I didn’t burn anything and there were no reported illnesses. Success.

I learned a lot that day. Anyone can cook – if they channel their creativity and have fun with it. Today, chefs who used to be “back of the house” personnel are now front and center, infusing their personality into each dish. They’ve come a long way.

In 1963 Julia Child waltzed into our living rooms from her kitchen. With her almost jarring yet endearing vocal pitch and inane ability to honor the five-second rule when a chicken would find itself on the floor, Child brought French cooking and the allure of everything French to the American people. Dubbed “our Lady of the Ladle” by Time Magazine in 1966, Child was likely our first on-air celebrity chef. Under her PBS-documented tutelage, desperate housewives everywhere found the wherewithal to become masters of their kitchen domain.

Fast forward a few decades and then, BAM! Emeril Lagasse shows up on the Food Network scene and kicks it up a notch by tossing his signature “essence” into every dish. Folks were tuning in by the kitchen-load not necessarily for the recipes, rather for the entertainment -- live music, audience participation, sass and sarcasm. And a celebrity chef is born!

As the Food Network began to take shape and adding more notable chefs to their repertoire, a cult following slowly began to take shape. America was interested in cooking at home again. We would watch Bobby Flay conduct a cooking demo on the Today Show and then find ourselves in line at the butcher ordering twice-ground-brisket for our burger buffet that night because, “Bobby told us to!”

Food Network knew the recipe for success, and adding hunky chefs to the mix didn’t hurt the cause. Easy recipes for the at-home cook and eye-candy to boot? The chef-groupie is born!

Tyler Florence was my chef crush. And that was my little secret ... right up until I had to work with him. I have no shame and I will admit that the first time I met Tyler, I got a little hot and bothered. Ok, a lot hot. And I can probably also admit that my cheeks flushed with every exchange for the first year we worked together. By year three, I was cured of the flush and the crush, but remained ever-impressed by his uncanny ability to whip up a Thanksgiving meal, on stage, in front of hundreds, in 30 minutes, and then work the crowd as if it was full of his closest friends.

Locally, our celebrity chef star shines bright. Food Network’s “Dinner Impossible” star Robert Irvine, opened eat! on Hilton Head and made having his food totally possible for locals and tourists alike. Irvine also appears completely at ease in the national spotlight, and the Lowcountry limelight. In fact, I bumped into him on the sandbar a few years ago. Of course, I was so star-struck that the only thing I managed to say was, “I know Tyler Florence.” Classic.

And lest we forget that our very own Orchid Paulmeier – of One Hot Mamas fame - is battling it out plate for plate each week for the crown of the “The Next Food Network Star.”

We are a country obsessed!

Melany Mullens, publicist with Wagstaff Worldwide, who represents some of the biggest names in southern cooking has this to say, “The rising popularity of food-focused TV networks and shows has given the at-home chef a chance to learn from kitchen masters and makes intricate cooking and constructing complex dishes more accessible than ever.

It’s hard to imagine a time before the Food Network when Emeril, Mario, and Bobby weren’t around to show us behind the scenes of their kitchens and give tips. How can you not want to test recipes and expand your palette to try foods you see others enjoy! Thus, a foodie is born. Molecular gastronomy, innovative flavor profiles, and making beautiful, tasty food are some of the simplest ways to be a rock star chef and accrue the requisite foodie groupies.”

And groupie I am. I subscribe to three foodie newsletters and have a grossly ridiculous collection of cookbooks from “celebrity chefs.” I rip recipes from magazines, as if I may go hungry without. And I get a smirk on my face each time I realize how lucky I am that my day job allows me be a part of the team that plans the annual Music to Your Mouth food and wine event at Palmetto Bluff – juggling chefs, winemakers, pig farmers, bbq-masters, and honey-bee herders, among others. (Shameless plug!)

Who have I become? With thousands of Food Network hours logged, I actually relish my time in the kitchen. Now, I don’t have the fever to ever perform the mango salsa shuffle on stage again, but I’ve definitely come a long way from burnt grilled cheese.

Who’s hungry?

Tourist 101: You Could Learn Something Here

2011-07-06T14:44:00.001-04:00

Bluffton Today column
July 6, 2011

Last week a friend celebrated her fourth wedding anniversary. In keeping with Emily Post’s etiquette rules, her hubby presented her with the traditional fourth anniversary gift – fruit and flowers. Yup, he dressed as a banana and delivered a huge bouquet of flora. She, of course, posted the picture on Facebook, for all the world to see, and in return he gains extra credit points for creativity.

So, as we celebrated the 235th anniversary of our nation’s independence this past weekend, it made me wonder exactly what the traditional gift should be. I didn’t have to look very far, as I gifted myself with what were to be a few relaxing days at the beach. And, oh, there was some good people watching this weekend – in fact, this column almost wrote it self.

I could make a fortune teaching a “how to pay the parking meter” course at the Island beaches. There must be no parking meters in Ohio and Kentucky, I can’t rationalize any other reasons as to why folks can’t seem to slip some coins in a simple slot. I’m ten people deep in line and the situation goes a little something like this. “How much does it cost? Do you know how much it costs? No, I don’t know how much it costs, its’ my first time here too. What space are we in? I said, what space are we in? Well go back and check, we have to enter in what space we were in. Yes, I’m serious. I know its hot, just go get the space number. It doesn’t take debit cards? What do you mean it doesn’t take debit cards? Do you have cash? How much does it cost? Do you know how much it costs? I put in five dollars -- that gets us 10 hours.” Yup, the only thing you forgot to pack into the mini van was a little common sense folks.

Fifteen minutes later, after I have proven that it can indeed take less than 30 seconds to pay the meter (I am the master!), I am finally sinking my toes in the sand. But, how can I relax with a plethora of people watching before me. Now that the meter-illiterate family has settled on the beach with their two tents, four coolers, and folding chairs from an era when Bo Derek was actually a 10, it’s picture time. This is when the patriarch of the family insists that the entire family gather in front of the ocean for a family portrait. Well that’s nice, you may think.

Unless … you happen to be the unsuspecting local who is asked to take the picture. She kindly obliged, put down her book, and waited for 90 seconds while the family decided who should stand where. Papa passed off the camera to the local, but not before clearly illustrating how to take the picture. Because the button you press hasn’t been on the top right of the camera for oh say, 100 years.

Ay, yi, yi … all this entertainment for only 50 cents an hour? Now I am deciding if in addition to teaching the meter class, if I should expand the franchise and write a primer on how to go to the beach.

Ladies, a little bit of advice. If in a blind panic you think you've lost your child in the ocean, only to find that in fact he's just hidden between your two stomachs – skip the two-piece swimsuit. I believe Jeff Foxworthy said it best, “Go ahead and bring the spare tire to the beach but leave it in the car.” I’m all for a positive body image. But, I am also quite positive that if the scale is tipping two-hundy, a modest one-piece is for you.

Sea gulls are still utterly disgusting. This hasn’t changed since I dedicated an entire column to the topic last year. Sea gulls poop where they eat. So, when you lay with Cheetos between your toes, calling to the sea gulls to take a bite, just know that if they nibble, you’ll be soon running to the water to wash off their feces. Hey, it’s your call “cheese toes.”

As the beach expands at low tide, this means you can leave a little room between you and the nearest beach-goer. For example, if I am sitting minding my own business, with a 20 foot radius of space around me, you don’t have to erect your tent within 12 inches of my chair. More specifically, when you have to move my flip flops (why are you even touching my flip flops?), to pound in your tent stakes, you are a little close. When I am now in the shade, of your tent, you are definitely too close for my comfort. And I have had it.

I look over my left shoulder just to be certain I’m not day-dreaming. Nope, you have indeed invaded my personal space. So, I stand, brush off the sand, gather my bag to move and suddenly -- lightbulb! You realize I exist and as you lamely mutter an apology, I say …

“No, no, it’s ok,” with a smirk, disguised behind a sweet smile, “You’ve given me the perfect topic for my next newspaper column. Enjoy your stay.”

How do I get syndicated in Ohio?

A Line in the Sand: Marriage Schmarriage

2011-07-01T14:58:00.002-04:00

Ok, this month I may have gotten myself into a little trouble. But, I tried my best to explain my way out of it. CB/CH2 tackles marriage: is it an outdated instituion? I say yes and Frank disagrees (in fact he lumps me in a pile of the eroding moral compass of the country.)

Marriage is outdated. You can’t deny that there is something wrong with an institution that carries a more than 50% failure rate. If a high school graduated less than 50% of their students, they would be shut down. If 50% of cars spontaneously crashed and burned, the industry would be out of business.

The institution of marriage needs a makeover (especially for elected officials ). An extreme – bring out the industrial strength spackle and the back-ho – makeover.

Marriage is no longer your grandparent’s marriage. Folks are meeting – and falling in love with – their betrothed on the internet, for crying out loud. Women choose to work. Women choose not to have children. Men choose to stay home with their children. Men love other men. The times they are a changin’…

Oh, the allure of happily-ever after is so enticing. I’m sure the cave-women were all a tizzy when their intended would drag them by the hair, back to their lair, post ceremony. But, that had to end. And so too must our outdated expectations for what marriage is.

Listen, I’ve been down the marriage path. Heck, I even have a ‘left the guy at the altar a few months pre-wedding’ episode under my belt. It hasn’t worked for me. After years of trying to figure out why, I come up with only one answer. Because I was trying to make “me” (oh right, and “him”) fit my perception of what marriage should be. My perception was wrong. Every marriage is different. Because, let’s face it, every person is different. Marriage is not a fairytale. It is work. A labor of love.

Don’t get me wrong. I want to believe in love everlasting. I love, love. After all, when I was little, I woke up at 5:00 a.m. to watch Lady Diana marry Prince Charles. And, when I was 37, I woke up at 5:00 a.m. to watch Kate marry Prince William.

Back when plaid pants were fashion du jour, I used to sit in my childhood bedroom (that coincidentally donned plaid wallpaper), with my Fisher Price push-button phone, flipping through the JCPenney’s catalog bridal pages, planning weddings for fake couples, right down to the hideous teal satin dresses that their 14 attendants would wear. One could argue that planning a wedding was actually more alluring to me than getting married.

You can only crash and burn so many times before you get smart. And so I did. I decided that I would never get married again, which by the way is extremely easy when you are dating dopes. Knowing that my expectations are extremely high I modestly called a moratorium on marriage. And I stopped looking for perfect.

And then … wouldn’t you know it. Girl meets boy. Girl and boy fall in love. Boy pops the question. Girl says, “yes,” and scoffs at all of the “when are you getting married” inquiries, because this time she is much wiser, ten years wiser, in fact.

“We’re in no hurry,” she says. (She is me, by the way.)

And then it hits me (she). Do people get married because other people tell them that they should? I mean these ‘other people’ are downright relentless. No matter how many times you say, “I don’t know,” they come up with seven different ways to ask the same question.

You are, in essence, forced to have a wedding -- and were probably forced to get engaged in the first place. Just because people (who are these people anyway?) think that 1) your life is their business and 2) that marriage is the “natural next step.” Well, I’m here to tell you that is utter nonsense! And likely a direct contributor to the fact that 50% of marriages fail. For argument’s sake, it may also be possible that the 50% who are still married remain so because they think they have to! Next thing you know, those people also have three kids (because they should), a dog (because kids need a dog), and a mortgage (because buying is so much wiser than renting) - and they are trapped and downright miserable.

I realize here that I am arguing against the institution of marriage. And there is some irony in the fact that I recently responded in the affirmative to a proposal. But let’s be clear, my argument is against the outdated-irrelevant-archaic institution of the last century that for some reason we’ve come to accept. Let’s visit the 21st century shall we?

It is 2011. Life is hard. The world is scary. (The world with in-laws is twice as scary.) The rules are different. There are no guarantees. You should make your own decisions. And you cannot expect to live in bliss without work. Hard work. Being married is the hardest job anyone will ever have.

This girl – and her boy – included.

The Dog Days

2011-06-22T14:43:00.000-04:00

Bluffton Today column
June 22, 2011

We are reared to use ritual language and further taught to understand that in some environments a conventionalized response is expected. For example, I say, “please” when I want something and “thank you” when I receive that something. I greet you with a, “Hi, how are you?” and you respond with, “Well, and you?” That exchange is conventional, meaning we expect folks to stick to the script. Believe you me, if I ask you how you are I am most certainly looking for the standard response, not a seven and a half minute diatribe on your life. (Sorry to burst your over-sharing bubble.)

These ritual language cues are determined by your language environment and learned when we are young. My sister has two daughters born and raised in the south, so although one might think that the girls would be all sweet and southern they definitely have some Jersey in them. Why? Because they spend the majority of their time with Mom, Grandma, and Aunt “Nortney” and if you know us, you know we walk the line when it comes to sweet and southern. (My sister is cringing right now.)

Bottom line is, a lot of time, we say what we think we should say, not what we really want to say. And when you have absolutely nothing to say well, you talk about the weather.

Sweet Mary, it is stinkin’ hot. Not exactly a news flash. But I am melting. It is schlep to work, stick to your office chair, escape early, shuffle out to hide the sweat stains on you rear, go home, crank up the air conditioning, lay under a swirling ceiling fan, while tucking ice cubes into your undergarments hot.

Now, imagine you are covered in fur. And chained to a tree. In a yard with no shade. Your water bowl is empty. And your owner (I won’t even consider calling this torturous human your “parent”) won’t be home for hours.

Do you see where I am going with this? During the dog days of summer it is imperative that we keep our pups in mind. If you leave your pet outside in this heat, you are torturing you pet. Yes, torture! Dr. Ben Parker, of Coastal Veterinary Clinic had this to say, in a recent Facebook post earlier this week …

“I see dogs suffering and dying from heat stokes every year when it gets as hot out as it is today, even from well-meaning pet owners. Older dogs, puppies, dogs with chronic diseases, and short-nosed breeds (pugs, bulldogs, Boston terriers, etc) are all very susceptible to the heat even on short walks. My advice is to keep your dogs inside and limit any activity to early morning. It is too hot and too humid even for evening walks. A dog’s body temperature will rise to 107+ degrees in minutes.”

Can you imagine what 107 degrees must feel like? Not sure? Ok, put on your long johns, mittens, and winter coat and go sit in your car. In the driveway. On the hot asphalt. Realize there is nary a cold beer in sight. Stretch to reach that water bottle behind the seat, only to feel defeat. Wilt a little. You won’t last a minute.

My dog, Darby, has his own ritual language -- learned based on his environment, being reared by me. When I get home from work, it can only mean one thing. It’s walk time. He shakes his hind quarters, picks up his favorite toy, runs a few circles around the family room to limber up and heads to the door. He is ready to walk and whimpering if I am not a step behind.

Unfortunately Darby has been disappointed a lot over the last week or so. But, I’m not willing to risk his life or mine for a calorie burn.

It’s hot. Be smart. I want to see you again, so I can say, “Hey, how you doin’?”

Twenty Years Ago ...

2011-06-08T14:42:00.000-04:00

Bluffton Today column
June 8, 2011

At Monday night’s Bluffton High School graduation, I listened to the senior speaker talk about the “unknown” territory to which they were all heading, and I found myself nodding in agreement. A few minutes later we heard hundreds of names reeled off, in quick succession, with barely enough time for each graduate to absorb the step that they were about to take.

This is the real world baby. And boy, if only they knew now that over the next decade (or two) they will be learning lessons that will serve them well into their twilight years. Don’t you wish you could tell them everything? And don’t you wish that they would listen?

But, we didn’t.

Some lessons you have to learn on your own.

In all fairness, I may be a little hyper-sensitive to the graduation chatter this year having recently received the invitation to my 20th reunion. Talk about a shock to the system.

20 years ago, I had just gotten home from the senior prom where I wore an orange dress, custom made by a little old lady named “Mrs. Tennis.” I still remember going to the fittings and her not understanding why I didn’t want to wear high heels with my dress. (Some things never change, Mrs. T.)

20 years ago, I was preparing the long list of things I would need for college. A television, cute clothes, an ATM card for quick access to beer money, the WVU Mountaineers football schedule, bedding to coordinate with my roommate’s (always the Martha Stewart I was), milk crates for storage. You know the really important stuff.

20 years ago, I was lamenting about leaving my high school boyfriend, Brian, at the end of the summer. And, would cry each time I read his yearbook entry that included this line, “Courtney, next year I will be lick (nope, not a typo) a lost puppy dog when you are gone.” Not much of a speller, that kid… but soooo cute.

20 years ago, I was shrugging into a white cap and gown, preparing to walk the dusty field of Brick High School. (A field that as a female athlete I was never allowed to step on, they reserved that honor for the boys’ football and soccer teams. Nope, not bitter after 20 years), concocting the story in my head, for my parents who were NEVER going to let me stay out all night.

If I had it all to do over again, I might make some minor tweaks. I would wear black to the prom. Orange isn’t exactly timeless. A little less hairspray might have gone a long way as well. I would consider the really important things, like what will my study schedule would be like when taking five college level courses. On that note, I might not have picked an institution of 20,000 students, 450 miles and seven hours from home, with a bar called the “Library” to start my college education. The list goes on and on. But, with each misstep I learned something.

As I look back on 20 years, I realize that my true education has far exceeded the college years. In fact, I have learned more in the last ten than I probably did in the first post-high school decade. I’ve learned that the world is about people. Not our titles, not our net worth, nor our good looks (where, as you know, my bounty is plentiful) … it is all about people.

So, as the seniors in our community graduate this week, I wish them well as they prepare for the arduous adventure of continuous learning, inside and outside the classroom.

And as they embark on the journey of life, I hope they remember to have fun and enjoy every minute. Because as Bluffton’s valedictorian and one of the world’s greatest teachers said,

“You’re off to great places. Today is your day. Your mountain is waiting - So, get on your way!”

Perhaps we could all learn a little something from the good Doctor Seuss.

Luke Mitchell: Cool as a Cucumber

2011-06-03T15:09:00.000-04:00

CB/CH2 June 2011 issue
He saunters up the stairs, and casually swipes his sandy brown hair from his brow, just before it falls across his eyes. He gets a hug, a kiss, and a “good to see you sweetie” from every server at Sunrise Café.
He folds himself into a chair, and in true southern fashion orders some grits … and a breakfast burrito. He warns me that he just ran a few miles, so he’ll be “scarfing down the burrito.”

At breakfast, Luke Mitchell reveals that he has made an important decision. “I’m not going back to college. I’m going to see if I can make a career out of music. I’ve got to do it while I’m young.” So his formal education is on the back burner, for now. “I’ll go back … I know I have a lot to learn.”

The young Mitchell – just 20 - waxed poetic about the life of a musician. “I know what I do is not socially normal. I work odd hours, which tends to alienate me from others.” Alienate him from others, yet move him closer to his family. After all he says, “My family members are my biggest fans. They keep coming to my shows no matter how many times they have seen me perform.”

His friends are mostly musicians too – and also “socially abnormal” one would surmise. Mitchell has been making music with friends since his early teens. Mitchell and his buddy Kieran Daly launched “New Kids on the Rock” when they were little. But, that was just the beginning. With a sheepish grin Mitchell asked me if I’d heard of “Lambtron” (named for a Pokemon character), or “The Great Escape,” or “Luke Mitchell and the Footlongs”?

“No?” he chuckled, “What about the “Gnomes”? We were super-famous, we blew up.” I shook my head head no, again, and he said, “When did you move here? Ah, we must have been before your time.”

(Oh yes, he’s a comedian too.)

Mitchell and his mid-teen bandmates did strike gold with the Gnomes about five years ago. Mitchell eventually quit the band, but fondly remembers the “money rolling in” and hinted about his interest in a reunion tour -- The Gnomes, where are they now?

A Family Affair
“My mom used to date musicians,” he says with a smirk. “Growing up there was always music in the house.” Mitchell’s step-father and member of Hilton Head’s home-grown band the “Bonzo Brothers” gave him his first drum set. And his father and mother avidly support Mitchell’s dream-chasing. Mitchell recently moved back to the Island, and is back living with his Dad, who has graciously approved the garage renovation that has yielded a pseudo-recording studio.

The apples don’t fall far from the family tree. Mitchell’s sister Hannah is the lead singer of the “Steppin Stones.” A band of teens that’ve been playing their parent’s music at venues around the Lowcountry for the last few years. (This summer you can find them under the big oak at Harbourtown.)

Making Music
When asked about his first album, High Expectations, Mitchell says, “It’s archaic, I don’t even know who that person is anymore.” Since then, he’s grown and benefited from the tutelage of a cadre of music legends. Namely, Jim Scott, who has seven Grammy’s on his shelf for his work with Tom Petty, Wilco, Rolling Stones, and the Red Hot Chili Peppers.

As Mitchell was working on the songs for his second album, he got up the nerve to call Scott cold. He dropped the name of Jack Sherman, who played guitar on Mitchell’s first album and was a friend of Scott’s. Mitchell joked that he said, “Hello,” and then squeezed Sherman’s name into the conversation as quickly as he could, so Scott wouldn’t hang up. And it worked. Scott was willing to listen. So Mitchell sent him his stuff and then he waited. He waited an agonizing four months before he heard back. When he finally got the call, it was with a green light.

So, Mitchell jet-sets to Scott’s Los Angeles recording studio, which he likened to “heaven on earth for musicians,” and they record “Row Boat Row.” Titled as a tribute to growing up on Point Comfort Road, Mitchell says the album “just sounds like home.”

Appropriately, the official launch party for “Row Boat Row” is slated for June 25th at Remy’s, just down the road from “home.” And it’s no surprise that sister Hannah and the Steppin Stones will open for Mitchell.

More than music
After listening to a preview of “Row Boat Row” there is no doubt that Mitchell has the vocal chops to make it. Smooth and soulful, his voice is soothing, his lyrics have a rhythm and spirit to them that can easily overtake you. (And make you miss your turn on your way back from the Island to Bluffton. True story.)

But it’s about more than writing and singing songs for Mitchell. “These days you need to know all elements of the business if you want to make it a career,” he says. And he wants it. Bad. “My goal is to serve the music and let that lead me … I need to be technically good enough to do anything in this business.” Which is why in addition to songwriter and singer, Mitchell also hones his skills on the piano, rhythm guitar, drums, and in producer’s seat. “In this moment, I’ll do anything to make this a career.”

Even though he’s been at it for years, he still can’t eat a meal before a show. The nerves get to him – but, it isn’t a fear of messing up – everyone misses lyrics – it is the deep desire to put on a good show.
“The performance means nothing if you don’t connect with your audience,” he says. “The more ego you have, the worse you perform.”

This former Hilton Head High School “Student of the Year” is ambitious and anxious. He can’t sit still for 20 minutes. There is no such thing as down time, Mitchell says – “I get restless and feel like I should be working on music. Music is all I want. We can’t help what we do. Music calls to you. I can’t stop it. I guess I never really started it either. It just happened.”

Of Note: Luke told me that when he is being interviewed he always prepares for one question, that no one ever asks – If you were stranded on a desert island, what three CDs would you want with you?

So I asked.

Interestingly, he could only come up with two – “Wildflowers” by Tom Petty and “Lola Versus Powerman and the Money Go Round” by the Kinks. Not a surprise as both offer heavy influence on the musician Mitchell has become.

A Line In the Sand

2011-06-01T14:56:00.000-04:00

CH/CB2 June issue and the great debaters (me!) tackle the topic of Bluffton vs. Hilton Head.

When I was preparing to move to the Lowcountry from the snow-laden northeast, I received one tidbit of advice. If you are going to work in Bluffton, live in Bluffton. If you are going to work on the Island, live on the Island.

Since I would be giving up a 150-mile daily roundtrip commute, and anxious to reclaim some “me time,” I heeded that advice. The decision to move was actually swift. I had only been to the Bluffton/Hilton Head area twice before I decided to move here. My sister moved first. Shortly thereafter, Mom decided that she was going to retire to Bluffton. And I figured what the hell. I bought a home via email, and picked out my upgrades from a large FedEx box that arrived one snowy morning full of tile samples, cabinet doors, and counter top choices.

Fast forward a few months, 800 miles, one broken down moving truck on the side of I-95 outside of Raleigh, and I was home. At first, I was all about going to the beach on Hilton Head, which in hindsight makes little sense to me. I grew up at the beach, in a tourist town, where I would hide from Memorial Day to Labor Day to avoid what we called “bennies.” (Benny was an acronym for some of the places that the tourists would come from -- Bayonne, Elizabeth, Newark, and New York.) And now, I was doing the exact same thing. I moved to paradise to sit in traffic for thirty minutes, to travel eight miles, pay $1 an hour for beach parking, and be annoyed in traffic on the way back home, all for an ocean that I have been swimming in for more than thirty years.

And then, I discovered the May River, and realized I never had to leave Bluffton. I sunk my toes in the pluff mud. I inhaled the salty air. I devoured the sweet oysters plucked from the riverbeds. And it all became clear. This is why I moved here. There is only one place to find the May River. And that my friends, is Bluffton, South Carolina. It only takes one foray into the river to realize what a gem it is.

Oh but life can get sweeter. Buy a boat, for dancing the tides, and your life will change forever. Mine did. Now, I live my life by the tides. Ok, by my iPhone and the tides, which I can check at just a moment’s notice and with a finger’s touch thanks to the handy dandy tide app. Seriously though, from March – October the tides help to balance my life. Whether it is a rockin’ sandbar Saturday, with 1,000 other revelers. Or high tide, when I feel comfortable skirting up Bull Creek, throwing in the anchor, and floating in front of “our oak.” Or, a slow cruise up the river, watching Old Town as if it was a movie set.

I’m also lucky that my office overlooks the May River. (Well, if I crane my neck just right.) Let’s face it, there is no bad day, when you can slowly walk down the dock and feel the stress of work lift from your shoulders.

Now, I realize my entire argument is based on the allure of the May River. But the May River is Bluffton. It always has been. It is centerpiece to the town. Even our main drag, which I would argue is Calhoun Street, empties into the May. Long before all of us Yankees moved here, before Bluffton had a Best Buy, a Target, a Taco Tuesday at Jim n Nicks, a Wendy’s or a Walmart -- folks simply lived their lives by the tide. How fortunate are we, that in 2011, we can do the same.

Frank, just one final thing, I have to ask -- without Bluffton, how exactly would you get to Hilton Head?

My point exactly.

My Rhymes with Bucket List

2011-05-25T14:41:00.000-04:00

Bluffton Today column
May 25, 2011
Last week at Boot Camp (yes, I am still subjecting myself to the daily torture) my trainer was talking about a number of upcoming half and full marathons in the area. She spoke about the training needed to tackle a race of that caliber and went on to tell us that if running a marathon was ever on our “bucket list” this would be a great opportunity.

I was on my back at the time. Enduring what seemed like 1,000 crunches, and could barely muster an audible reply. But have you ever known me to keep my mouth shut? Of course not. So I squeaked out, between huffs and puffs, “Bucket list? That sounds more like something that would appear on my Rhymes with ‘Bucket’ List.”

Meaning, hell no, I’m not doing that. So, that got the wheels turning and I began to compile a list of things I never, ever, want to do.

1. I will never run a distance longer than the “big lap” at Boot Camp. My issue with running is that I just can’t get the breathing right. The more I concentrate on my breathing, the more I hyperventilate. I’m no doctor, but I am pretty certain that hyperventilating for 26 miles might kill me. I’ll walk thanks.

2. I will never skydive. No way. I mean, I can’t even go to the top of a Ferris Wheel without heart palpitations. In fact, if I am on a high floor of a building that has floor to ceiling windows, I can’t look out the window. You know, because I am afraid that the glass is going to spontaneously combust and I will plummet to my death. No really. That’s my fear.

3. I will never mow the lawn. Nope. Not going to do it. I am afraid that I will hit something that will ricochet off a tree and maim me or take an eye out. And, I don’t intend to wear goggles, which means this becomes someone else’s responsibility. (Skip to number seven. He’s going to come in handy.)

4. I will never teach elementary school. I’m going to stick with college students because in nine years no one has ever peed in their pants. Actually, there was that one semester, and that “kid” acted like a six year old so his “accident” was totally appropriate.

5. I will never run for town council. That said I do believe I would add some pizzazz to the monthly meetings. I mean, I would actually speak. More on that as the elections draw near.

6. I will never go to the moon. I remember one of my elementary school teachers telling my class that the moon would be a honeymoon destination when we were ready to get married. You see the crap elementary school teachers have to pull out to keep the kids entertained? Refer back to point four.

7. I will never get married again. Well, at least that is what I thought … right up until last week. Of course, with the moon out as a honeymoon destination, what is there to get excited about?

8. I will never think 40 is old. Having just celebrated the big twenty-eighteen, I have a new found respect for the forties. As I edge closer to the gloom and doom, I intend to embrace the mantra that forty is the new thirty. Until I am fifty.

9. I will never forget what Mrs. Mateyka told me twenty years ago, “You get more bees with honey.” She was right. And I think about that line all the time, as I am yelling at some inept customer service person and getting nowhere.

10. I will never concede to Dairy Queen. I don’t know who they think they are, but a hot fudge sundae includes whip cream and a cherry. Ice cream and fudge is not a sundae. It is ice cream and fudge. (Now you know why I still go to Boot Camp.)

Is It Hot in Here?

2011-05-11T14:40:00.000-04:00

Bluffton Today column
May 11, 2011

I was pleasantly surprised at the doctor last week. I had mentally prepared myself to wait eons, which tends to be medical appointment status quo. So when I was called back by the nurse before I even had a chance to sit, I was ecstatic.

We ran through the standard elements of impending exam. I stepped on the scale, with eyes closed. (Why do I always weigh more at the doctor’s office?) Peed in the obligatory cup, with eyes open. And then settled in for another wait.

Alas, I was surprised again when the nurse quite honestly told me that the doctor was running a bit behind, so she would let me know when I could change. Yes! She was trying to save me from having to sit in a paper gown, with my rear hanging out, on a paper sheet, for an undetermined amount of time. Things were definitely going my way.

Much to my surprise the doctor came in just a minute later. I apologized for still being dressed and she said, “Relax. I know you’ve been to the practice before, but we haven’t met, so let’s talk.” (Really?) So, we talked. For almost 30 minutes. Now, I realize this probably made her late for her next appointment, but I was in healing heaven.

I almost didn’t want it to end, mainly because I knew that when our conversation concluded I would have to don the paper pageantry, for the real work to begin. So, as the chatter came to an end, I started getting uncomfortable and awfully sweaty. They keep the exam rooms at a warmer than usual temperature, for your comfort, while sitting in a paper dress. What I didn’t realize was that sitting in my street clothes for more than 30 minutes in the sweat box would cause some serious overheating.

Momentary relief came when I was able to finally (yes, finally! It is amazing how your perspective changes) change into the paper gown, however my dreams of a stress-free experience were quickly dashed the moment I sat on the exam table, and the paper “sheet” instantaneously affixed itself to my sweaty legs. (I really hope you aren’t trying to picture this.)

So, now I am stuck to the paper, waiting for the doctor to come back, and wondering how I am going to smoothly “slide down a bit” when she needs to get started (Ladies, you know the drill.). There’s no sliding when your hamstrings are hopelessly hitched to the paper.

Which led me to start thinking about the paper itself. The only thing keeping my bare a$$ from the germs of the person before me is a sheet of butcher paper. That seems less than hygienic.

The doctor re-emerged a few seconds into my conversation - with myself - about the less than sanitarily sound paper sheet, and then we were off. Yada. Yada. Yada. Exam over and now I need to extricate myself from the dissolving paper stuck to the backs of my legs. It wasn’t pretty.

This makes me wonder. With ever-evolving medical technology at our finger tips, isn’t there a twenty-something whiz kid out there somewhere who could invent something more medically adept than the same paper we use to pack our lunch? Come to think of it, I may be switching to Tupperware. Bon appetite!

Charity Spotlight: Junior Jazz Foundation

2011-05-03T15:05:00.000-04:00

Each month, CB/CH2 features a local charity, this month we get a closer a look at The Junior Jazz Foundation.

According to musician, jazz historian, and Jazz Corner owner Bob Masteller, "Knowing jazz adds another dimension to your historical perspective. Jazz is America's greatest artistic contribution to the world."

The Jazz Corner has built both a tradition and a reputation as one of the premier Jazz Clubs in the world. In fact, in February, Downbeat magazine recognized The Jazz Corner as one of the 150 Great Jazz Rooms in the world. (The world!) Jazz greats - Bucky Pizzarelli, George Shearing, and Warren and Allan Vache - share Downbeat’s sentiment, and rate The Jazz Corner as the best jazz venue in the United States, hands down.

Parallel with the evolution of The Jazz Corner’s success has been Masteller’s passion to pass on the legacy of Jazz to succeeding generations. Hence, the Junior Jazz Foundation was formed in 2006. Masteller’s firm belief that the original American art form of jazz music is important, fuels his focus on educating and enabling young musicians in our community by supplying instruments, scholarships, classes and seminars.

The mission of the Junior Jazz Foundation is to preserve the American classical art form of jazz, and to maintain the longevity of the art form. Jazz was originated in America and is our version of classic music. Masteller believes that it is “vital that our youth continue to be exposed to the historically rich culture and history of Jazz in its various forms.”

Masteller works with local schools and legendary musicians to pass on the art form via youth programs both inside the educational framework and also through independent sources of development.

With schools being limited fiscally in their ability to provide the exposure to this art form, the Junior Jazz Foundation steps in and provides what the schools – and students – need. Interestingly, the Junior Jazz Foundation also focuses on the correlation between character and artistic development. As such, the Junior Jazz programs emphasize development, group performance, and non-traditional learning and listening through exposure. The value then received by the students includes an understanding of the relationship between freedom of expression and fundamental responsibility.

As a part of their fundraising efforts, the Junior Jazz Foundation seeks collaborations with area organizations to provide quality jazz experiences. On May 5th, the Foundation will partner with Palmetto Bluff for a Concert on the Green, as part of the community’s monthly music series. Palmetto Bluff will host the outdoor concert from 6:30 p.m. – 8:30 p.m. Revelers are invited to bring their lawn chairs and blankets and experience The Jazz Corner All-Stars and Bob Masteller’s Jazz Corner Quintet. A $25 per car contribution will be collected at the Main Gate at Palmetto Bluff. All proceeds will benefit the Junior Jazz Foundation. www.thejuniorjazzfoundation.com

IF YOU GO
Concert on the Green at Palmetto Bluff
6:30 – 8:30 p.m.
Tickets for “A Concert on the Green” are $25 per car, at the Palmetto Bluff Main Gate.
All gate proceeds benefit the Junior Jazz Foundation.

First Set featuring The Jazz Corner All-Stars
Rhythm & Blues Vocalist Reggie Deas
Pianist & Vocalist Lavon Stevens
Pianist & Vocalist Teri Rini Powers "Hilton Head Island's First Lady of Jazz"
Pianist & Vocalist Martin Lesch
Down-Home Blues Vocalist Whitley Deputy

Second Set featuring a "Salute to Duke Ellington" with Bob Masteller's Jazz Corner Quintet
Multi-Instrumentalist & Jazz Historian Bob Masteller
Pianist & Vocalist Martin Lesch
Bassist Will Snyder
Trombonist Jon Miller
Drummer Billy Hoffman

SIDEBAR
"The Junior Jazz Foundation has been instrumental in getting our jazz program off the ground at Hilton Head Christian Academy. Even though we have a small program, the JJF has supported us through numerous instrument donations, and a large monetary donation which allowed us to purchase a wonderful baritone saxophone. In addition, my students have had the incredible experience of playing in front of a live audience at the Jazz Corner and have also had the privilege of sitting inches away from the legendary John Pizzarelli quartet. The Junior Jazz Foundation has gone above and beyond to support our small, but growing jazz program at Hilton Head Christian Academy."

James Berry, Music Director
Hilton Head Christian Academy

The Real Moms of Beaufort County

2011-05-02T15:02:00.001-04:00

CB/CH2 May issue

June Cleaver would roll over in her immaculate kitchen if she caught an episode of BravoTV’s “Real Housewives” for a mere minute. In her fashionable pressed dresses and high heels, Mrs. Cleaver enjoyed needle point, her ladies social club, and having a well-balanced meal on the dinner table each night for her hubby, Wally and the Beav.

In 2011, if you believe everything you see on TV, you wouldn’t flinch to find that housewives throw punches and high-priced parties, linger over lunch and laser hair removal, and yes, they have jobs – boob, nose, etc.
Which is why we thought it would be fun to take a look at five local – (and real) women, who somehow managed to find the time to talk about what the life of a “housewife” looks like today.

ANNA SHARP
Its 7:00 a.m. and Anna has Wells, 6, and Taylor, 4, out of bed and at the breakfast table. After breakfast they head to the barn, they check the chickens, gather the eggs, make sure the horses are happy, and walk the two dogs. On Monday, Wednesday and Friday, the kids head to school and Anna heads to Affordable Healthcare in Sheridan Park where she is Nurse Practitioner. Tuesday and Thursdays are “play days” and that includes Mom.

Growing up in Savannah, and summering Bluffton, Anna fondly recalls a childhood that included jumping off the dock into the May River, waterskiing, and wakeboarding – in the blistering Lowcountry sun. She headed off to college in Charleston, where she met her husband, Cal, a cardiologist. Together they returned to Bluffton in 2000, and made their home on the land adjacent to where Anna grew up and where she learned many of life’s lessons.

“Dad put the nursing bug in my ear,” Anna says, with a grin. “My parents where pro-education and my father told me – ‘you go figure out who you are, find your independence and your freedom.’” This is a lesson that Anna has already begun to instill in her boys – they have chores and responsibilities that help the house – and the farm - run.

When she’s not nurturing animals, or children, or patients, Anna finds time for herself on horseback. “Riding is my sanctuary, ” she says.

C2: When you were little, what did you want to be when you grew up?
AS: Wonder Woman. My dad would cut a toilet paper roll in half that I would slip onto my wrists as her amazing deflecting bands!

C2: What is the greatest gift you have received?
AS: The gift of my youngest son being able to hear my voice. (Taylor was born deaf. He has bilateral cochlear implants for him to hear.)

C2: What television show best depicts your life?
AS: A cross between "Green Acres" and "The Middle."

C2: If you wrote a newspaper column about your adventures as a working mom, what would you call it? AS: "Burn after Reading."

C2: Your biggest splurge?
AS: Horses and shoes.

C2: What is your secret shame or silly indulgence?
AS: Right now, Cadburry solid milk chocolate eggs and "I" everything - phone, pad, pod, love it!

C2: Your leadership style?
AS: Trial and Error.

C2: What is your motto?
AS: It will all work out in the end.

C2: Most embarrassing moment?
AS: It was bad enough the first time, it would be worse in print!

C2: What does “housewife” mean in 2011?
AS: Jack of all trades, or should I say Jill?

BECCA EDWARDS
As a fulltime graduate student at SCAD, with a fulltime job teaching world literature at Hilton Head Prep, and three daughters under the age of four, you would think Becca Edwards would be running in circles to make things happen. Luckily, she has mastered the art of zen – oh yes, she’s also a yoga instructor – and has come to expect the unexpected.

Like last year, when she was teaching a class, and started feeling a little woozy, then a lot sweaty, and finally the nausea won, and Becca had to throw up in the wastebasket. One student called out, “Mrs. Edwards is hungover.” Becca calmly replied (and simultaneously realized), “No, I think I’m pregnant.”

But, she rolled with it, and soon Camilla (now four months) joined big sisters, Ransom, 3, and Ruth Love, 2. Her secret to staying organized is mastering the art of multi-tasking, “I might be making cereal, but I am also concurrently planning lunch and dinner, and what outfit to wear.” Becca splits the home duties with hubby Lee (the newly elected Hilton Head Town Councilman), saying she knew they could do anything, after spending six months on a sailboat together, where they weathered two major storms, literally.

Today, when things getting a little rough, Becca simply channels her Mom who taught her to, “Always be real.”

C2: When you were little, what did you want to be when you grew up?
BE: A photojournalist for National Geographic, so I could travel to remote, slightly exotic/primitive places.

C2: What television show best depicts your life?
BE: “60 Minutes.” My life is divided into several segments. And it’s all got to happen within the hour.

C2: If you wrote a newspaper column about your adventures as a working mom, what would you call it?
BE: “Ready, Set, Mom!”

C2: Your biggest splurge?
BE: Travel. A close second, good antiques and rugs. Coming in third, bi-monthly massages and facials.

C2: What is your secret shame or silly indulgence?
BE: “True Blood.”

C2: Your leadership style?
BE: I believe you have to earn respect, be fair, and be direct.

C2: What is your motto?
BE: Be the change you want to see. (Ghandi)

C2: Most embarrassing moment?
BE: Oh, there’ve been sooo many.

C2: What does “housewife” mean in 2011?
BE: The boss. She might work, she might run marathons, she might be an artist. But a housewife’s primary focus is caring for her family and getting the familial job done.

MARY FRANCES LOWREY
“Every day when the kids and I drive over the bridge from Bluffton to Hilton Head, I say, “Look at this view! It’s beautiful!” Taking the time to enjoy the view, actually perfectly describes Mary Frances Lowrey. With a busy lifestyle that has her constantly on the go, she makes it a point to take time for herself saying, “If I’m off. I’m off.”

As a former corporate trainer, Mary Frances started her own business – IT ALL MEDIA - two years ago. She started slow, with just one client, and didn’t charge that client for five months, until she was absolutely certain that it was what she wanted to do – and that she did it well. Now, a self-taught graphic designer and marketing maven, Mary Frances provides marketing services for a number of Lowcountry clients, and enjoys the freedom of working for herself. “I’m glad I can still be the one to drop-off and pick-up the kids – Maximillan, 10, and Jacqueline, 7 - at school, every day.”

As one of eleven children, Mary Frances is well-versed in what a busy household looks like. Growing up, expectations were high, and Mary Frances – and her seven sisters – each were given this advice, by their father, “Go to college. Support yourself. Then get married, so you have a partner.” And, she did.

Mary Frances’ husband, Larson, logs a lot of miles traveling, which makes it ever-more important that they be completely in sync. And, they are. In fact, it was Larson’s career that brought them back to the Lowcountry, something Mary Frances is grateful for – she says, “I feel like the Lowcountry is who I really am.”

C2: When you were little, what did you want to be when you grew up?
MFL: A Newscaster.

C2: What is the greatest gift you have received?
MFL: From my parents it would be my faith, and my education. From my husband – well, he is a great gift giver and his gifts are always very sentimental. My worst gift ever would be a much more fun answer! (I did indeed ask the follow-up question – the worst gift had to do with a dim-witted boyfriend, a scratchy scarf, and the dim-witted beau’s mother.)

C2: What television show best depicts your life?
MFL: “Designing Women.” Strong women with great friends that love and support each other, lift each other up when they are down, and laugh a lot.

C2: If you wrote a newspaper column about your adventures as a working mom, what would you call it?
MFL: “Buckle Up...It’s a Bumpy Ride.”

C2: How do you find balance?
MFL: I stand firmly on both feet and hold my arms out to the sides.

C2: Your biggest splurge?
MFL: The dress I wore in this photo shoot.

C2: What is your secret shame or silly indulgence?
MFL: A Cafe Mocha with no whipped cream from Starbucks.

C2: Your leadership style?
MFL: I would never ask anyone to do something I am not willing to do myself. I hope that I lead by example.

C2: What is your motto?
MFL: Our family motto is: We may not have it all together, but together we have it all. (That is why my business is named ITALL Media)

C2: Most embarrassing moment?
MFL: Not telling! (I’m sensing a theme here, and maybe a follow-up story – “The Lowcountry’s Most Embarassing Moments.”)

C2: What does “housewife” mean in 2011?
MFL: It means STRENGTH. Weak women should NOT apply for this job.

KATHLEEN MAYERS
“Where there is great risk, there is great reward.” It was those words that finally convinced Kathleen Mayers that starting her own business, KPM Flooring, was the right decision. First, she pondered every aspect of the undertaking – “I thought, I have three kids, I could lose my house.” But as any good leader should, she overcame the fears, and jumped in.

Originally from Tybee Island, Kathleen moved to Hilton Head in 1990 and worked as a taxi cab driver, waitress, and bartender to make ends meet. “You do what you have to do,” she says. Today, business at KPM is booming and Kathleen is juggling six dynamic employees, a busy travel schedule and three daughters – Emma, 10, Caroline, 7, and Honora, 5. Together with her husband Michael, Battalion Chief for the Hilton Head Fire Department, they are always putting out fires.

Kathleen believes that her faith, her family and her friends help her find balance. And in return she “tries to be a better person every day, and laugh as often as possible.”

C2: When you were little, what did you want to be when you grew up?
KM: When I was really little I wanted to be a marine biologist, and a doctor.

C2: What television show best depicts your life?
KM: Is there one about a former taxi driver/scuba instructor/bartender, who is now married with three children, trying to start a business in the worst economy in decades?

C2: If you wrote a newspaper column about your adventures as a (working) mom, what would you call it?
KM: “It’s All Smoke and Mirrors.”

C2: Your biggest splurge?
KM: Springsteen concerts!

C2: What is your secret shame or silly indulgence?
KM: I have no secrets but I am often silly.

C2: Your leadership style?
KM: Hopefully my employees think I lead by example

C2: What is your motto?
KM: Women who behave rarely make history.

C2: Most embarrassing moment?
KM: I do silly things all the time but I stopped getting embarrassed by them years ago. I’d probably have a whole lot less fun if I worried about getting embarrassed.

C2: What does “housewife” mean in 2011?
KM: I think it should mean something different to each person. For me it means mother, wife, friend, business owner, and working every day to be better at each.

KELLY CARON
When Kelly was little, she used to sneak into her Grandmother’s closet and play with her furs, costume jewelry, tortoise shell cigarette holders, Chanel No. 5, and her "red red" lipstick. Kelly’s early love for fashion fed into her interest in textile design, which eventually led to a career in interior design. With a little girl of her own now – Emma, 8 months - Kelly is reliving the memories of being a little girl, and the magic of make-believe.

Born and raised in Boone, NC, Kelly and her husband, Nate relocated to the Lowcountry (via Tahoe), just over a year ago. Today, Kelly is concentrating her time on raising Emma, and plotting the return to her interior design career saying, “I want Emma to see me as a role model, a strong woman, who has a career and can be a great Mom.”

As a new Mom, Kelly finds a lot of support from her friends, which she was surprised to discover through the Breast Feeding Support Group at Hilton Head Hospital. While she joined for practical reasons, it turns out that the “boob group” ladies quickly became her closest friends. (Sorry gentlemen, this is a woman’s only group.)

C2: If you wrote a newspaper column about your adventures as a (working) mom, what would you call it?
KC: The Motherload.

C2: How do you find balance?
KC: I create my "to do" list for every day. It helps me stay on track. The more things I have on my plate the better I perform for some odd reason. My blackberry is my best friend at moments.

C2: Your biggest splurge?
KC: Paris... the food, wine, desserts, boutiques, and attractions had my heart and my wallet! It is always worth it too - no regrets!

C2: What is your secret shame or silly indulgence?
KC: Extra hot Venti Skinny Vanilla Latte from Starbucks!

C2: If you could wish one thing for your child, what would it be?
KC: My wish is that Emma will grow up a secure, well rounded, independent lady with a strong sense of self.

C2: Your leadership style?
KC: I am a Taurus so I know my own strength and I can handle situations with dignity and self-control. I enjoy taking the lead. I am very organized and I like to make sure I have my eyes on everything.

C2: Most embarrassing moment?
KC: I don't really get embarrassed- I just laugh at myself. Life is too short to dwell about silly things like that.

C2: What does “housewife” mean in 2011?
KC: The family nurturer and the glue that holds it all together.

The reality is -- these women are driving a lot more than the family Ford Fairlane. They play partner, mom, dog walker, dishwasher, diaper changer, caregiver, carpool driver, cookie baker, money maker, business owner, boo-boo kisser, and bedtime story conductor.

And you don’t have to turn on the TV to see it.

A Line in the Sand

2011-05-01T14:53:00.000-04:00

It's Official. Our editor decided that both our ideas were bad and alas our new CB/CH2 column is dubbed "A Line in the Sand." I think you'll agree that we love to disagree. This month we tackle mens' obsession with sports.

Frank, Frank, Frank. Dear sweet Frank. I’ve got you right where I want you. At press time, your last four Facebook posts (in just two days) are all sports related. In one weekend you couldn’t even muster up a little love for the beautiful spring weather? Hellooooo. Obsession!

Listen. I am a sports fan. In fact, I probably know more than the average lady. Heck, I even have a fantasy football team that boasted an 8-0 start to last season. Further, one of the items on my bucket list is to see a game at every Major League stadium. Listen, I’m no slouch when it comes to sports.

So now that we’ve leveled the playing field (pun intended), let’s talk about the “my team” phenomenon. This is where the man becomes so obsessed with “his team,” that you gently have to point out that he has no stake in the game, match, or contest.

We all know this guy. (Ahem, Frank Dunne.) He screams at the newspaper, the television, the players, the announcers – whatever form of media is bringing him his sporting content. Worse yet, if he is at the sporting event live, he calls out to the players by their first name, as if he’s earned that level of familiarity. (Frank, you’ll want to reference your Masters Sunday Facebook posts to your good friend, “Tiger.”)

His passion is fueled by a fire that burns in his belly - full of beer. And, he reacts in way that would cause anyone of average intelligence to assume that he owns the team, or is a member of the team, or was at one time on the team, or has some stake in a winning season. But alas – no! He is simply a fan. The game is over. Rip up your ticket like the rest of us and move on.

I understand that this is a generations-old problem. In 1979, my father came home from work devastated, and in tears. My mother couldn’t get out of him what was wrong. Her mind raced. Did my grandfather die? Did one of my father’s fellow firefighters get hurt on the job? What could be so wrong that it rendered a grown man nearly catatonic? Two words. Thurmon Munson. Yup, the New York Yankees catcher perished in a plane crash that day and my father was devastated. (Important to note that in my almost thirty eight this is the only instance of my father crying that I am aware of.)

As I pondered this topic, my better half became the unwilling case study. He was hyper-sensitive to my scrutiny and I was keenly aware of all sports-related hysteria. For example, while taking our morning walk, he checked his Blackberry, did a little hop-skip number, and elatedly declared, “We won! Whew. We were on a two game skid.” Oh really sweetie, a skid? Gotcha.

Or better yet, during the final round of the Masters, while Frank was Facebooking Tiger Woods, my guy was whispering to the television. “Go in.” He inched to the edge of his seat. “Go in.” He leaned forward with interest. “Go in.” His voice cracked, with anticipation. “Ohhhhhh.” Disappointment washed over his face and he slumped back against the pillows.

I love a man who has passion. I’d also love the ferocity of that passion to be directed at me, and I suspect that the majority of ladies would agree. I’m willing to – and I do - equally distribute my passion between said beau and my wardrobe, pedicures, and shoe collection. I’ll sit on the couch, after making him dinner, paint my toenails, and root for my Red Sox.

I get it. You love “your team.” But have they ever loved you back?

A Debt of Gratitude

2011-04-27T14:38:00.000-04:00

Bluffton Today column
April 27, 2011

I shook his hand and thanked him for all he had done. When he humbly responded, “I was just doing my job ma’am,” I thanked him again and turned away before the tears welling in my eyes slid down my face.

I had been listening to him tell his story, along the 18th green at Harbourtown, on Friday afternoon. A story that covered 17 years as a US Army sniper, a traumatic brain injury, and a life now in which his service dog, Jefferson, never leaves his side.

“He alerts me when I am about to have a seizure. And, he’ll wake me up when I am having a nightmare. He puts his paws on my chest to shake me from my sleep.”

Those sixty seconds in this wounded warriors presence had an enormous impact on me. And the timing couldn’t have been more perfect, as I had planned to write this column about the upcoming Wounded Warriors benefit golf outing at Hampton Hall slated for May 23rd.

Allow me to back up just a bit. Last November, the Wounded Warrior Foundation of the Lowcountry (WWFLC) was established by a group of area veterans and concerned citizens. The founders of the 501(c)(3) organization, an offshoot of the national Wounded Warrior Project, saw a clear need for local fundraising and a community-involvement mechanism to help returning warriors suffering with catastrophic injuries to receive tangible support as they readjust to civilian life.

About 60 days ago I got a call asking if I would be interested in writing about the golf event, in the works. I was immediately interested and took the committee up on their invitation to attend one of their meetings. Frankly, when I arrived I was shocked to find a room full of a couple dozen men. Nothing against the men folk, but in my experience a few women mixed in the pot helps a committee meeting, and an event to go off super smooth.

My prejudices aside, I gave the guys a chance to wow me. And they did. My question for the room was simple – why are you doing this?

Russ Spicer, committee chair talked to me about his initial involvement, which began as he learned of the plight of his neighbor, Jim Miller’s son, who after being “blown up” in Afghanistan and suffering extensive burns, and enduring more than 40 surgeries, still perseveres. Miller is chairman of WWFLC, and says, “As a community, we have an undeniable and urgent responsibility to support those who return home severely injured or maimed.”

That paired with Spicer’s experience when he returned from Vietnam in 1971 -- “When I came back the guys I served with didn’t get the welcome they deserved,” -- moved him to do something to say, “We appreciate you.”

Peter Dukas told me, “During a time of war, you hope that the country is asked to sacrifice too. We are doing this because we don’t want soldiers to fall by the wayside, if they do we are doing them an injustice.”

Mark and Linda Larsen (Linda is the sole women on the committee , drafted to keep the guys in line) spoke of driving past the Marine Corps Air Station, and truly recognizing and understanding the sound of freedom, and the responsibility that soldiers have 24 hours a day. “We watch the news clips and fifteen minutes later we forget that men and women are risking their lives,” Linda said, “That is why we are doing this.”

Doug Meyers is a veteran, and is involved because, “It is the absolute right thing to do.”

A year ago, a group of golf buddies in Hampton Hall had an idea. In three and a half weeks their idea will become reality as Hampton Hall plays host to The Inaugural Wounded Warrior Foundation of the Lowcountry Golf Classic, with all proceeds benefiting the WWFLC.

Open to golfers throughout the Lowcountry, teams of four will participate in a Captain’s Choice format. Entry Fee is $150 for an individual and in addition to golf, the event includes a celebratory dinner, silent and live auctions (committee member Pete Demarco has scored donations of golf from more than thirty local golf courses), appearances by local media celebrities, representatives from the PGA and the military, and area government officials, and an official proclamation of “Wounded Warriors of the Lowcountry Day” by Bluffton Mayor Lisa Sulka. The field is 75 percent full, so register now, to confirm your spot.

The slogan of the national Wounded Warrior Project is, “The greatest casualty is being forgotten.” The founders of WWFLC are doing everything possible to ensure that the wounded veterans of the Lowcountry will always be remembered.

For more information visit www.woundedwarriorfoundationlc.org.

Swimsuit: Why Do You Forsake Me?

2011-04-13T14:37:00.000-04:00

Bluffton Today column
April 13, 2011

I know no misery greater than attempting to find the perfect swimsuit.

Public speaking – pfff, easy. Dentist’s chair – surely you jest. Realizing I’ve sent an email to the wrong person, whilst bitching about said person – eh, I’ll bounce back. But swimsuit shopping - oh the horror!

Oddly, I don’t mind wearing the bathing suit. It is the journey toward the perfect swimsuit that makes my heart palpitate.

As I throw open the closet this year – having lost some inches of late – I shudder at the thought of having to start from scratch. Yes, I’m smaller. Yes, I’m healthier. But heck, one day of bathing suit shopping will likely set my mental health back years. (And, I’ve worked so hard to become sane, despite myself.)

But alas, successive 80 degree weekends demand a bathing suit, so in I go.

How the heck did I accumulate this many bathing suits? I have more than a dozen tops, bottoms, and one-pieces. I’m a third of the way through this dismal “fashion” show and the only thought running through my head is - who in the hell designed this house? There is no central air vent in my walk-in closet, the master bath seems to get hotter with each tug, and I don’t want to expose my lovely bedroom to this torturous ritual. As I sweat and struggle into suit number four, I silently curse this primal need to actually care about how I look.

Nylon and Lycra are not the airiest of fabrics and of course their sole purpose is to suck-in some trouble spots, so I might as well be trying to jump into a sausage casing, all the while overheating in this darn bathroom, in essence rendering this task a 7.5 on the difficulty scale.

Swimsuit! Why do you forsake me?

Now I’m a dozen pieces in and my favorite find is the black bottoms with the cute tie-string-sides. Front view, adorable. Back view, not so much. Apparently my weeks of boot camp have shrunk my bottom, because I look like I could add a diaper and still not fill out the butt. (Note to self: buy adult diapers just in case this doesn’t work out.)

The top-tier-search goes no better. I just can’t get the support I am looking for, if you know what I mean. Perhaps wearing the same suits for two years has finally stretched the chests beyond their means. Ironically, even though the bathing suits are too large, I remain drenched in my own sweat and I struggle to remove this last once piece.

This means just one thing. I need to shop for a few new suits.

I’ve already ruled out going to an actual store. I mean the thought of standing in the harsh light (of self-disgust), with hip-widening mirrors at each angle, and the size four skinny chick calling out for a size two from three dressing rooms down is less than appealing.

Add to this the fact that I would actually like to see what the bathing suit will look like without my underwear on underneath. And, OCD Courtney may also have a slight aversion to the little peel and stick crotch protectors. I mean paper being so sanitary and all. (I just threw up in my mouth a little bit…)

So, online shopping it is, but I already know how this is going to end. I have no idea what actual size to buy (I know it ain’t two or four -- ok, ok, or six.), so I will order multiple sizes, pay for expedited shipping (because I just can’t wait for round two of the heat box fiasco), and go through the exact same scenario that I described above. I will find one suit that I like. Then I will have to pay to ship back those that didn’t make the cut. Worth every penny, if it means avoiding a fitting room.

Despite my trepidation and ignoring the impending shipping costs, I began the online search. Sadly my “go to” suits from my friends at Lands End appear to have forgotten the better endowed this season. Where is the support? How about a little underwire for the girls?

With a heavy heart, I must continue the search. Sadly, I am seven websites in and I’ve got nada. I’m losing patience and time. There has got to be a nude beach around here somewhere…

The Zerbini Family Circus

2011-04-03T14:51:00.000-04:00

CB/CH2 April issue

Close your eyes. Wait, you’re going to have to open them to read this, silly. Ok, pretend your eyes are closed … and you are a kid again. The sounds, smells, and sights of the circus are all around you -- hot buttered popcorn; bright silk tents; peals of laughter; sweet, sticky, cotton candy; shrieks of surprise; exaggerated clown faces; and acrobats flying over head.

When the Zerbini Family Circus made a stop in Bluffton last October what many of us saw as purely entertainment, was actually a family legacy. In fact, the Zerbini family has been flying through the air, with the greatest of ease, since 1817. Eight generations of circus folk have descended from this family tree, with strong roots in the circus life. The family tradition started in Europe. Alain Zerbini, patriarch of the modern day Zerbini Family Circus was born in Marseilles, France. At fourteen, he and his brother quit school to join the circus, as was family practice. In 1968, his father Julian Zerbini, moved the family to the United States, where they all continued to perform in circuses around the country.

In 1991, as Alain Zerbini was recovering from a devastating high-wire fall, doctors told him he would never walk again. Determined to prove them wrong, Zerbini did indeed walk again, and for good measure decided to start his own circus, to boot.

The Zerbini Family Circus started in the United States in 1992.Then, the “the small big top” seated just 500. In twenty years, the show has tripled in size and the big top now seats 1,500. Zerbini is happy with the growth. Yet, he also values the fact that a crowd of 1,500 is still manageable. After all, one of his favorite parts of traveling the country is talking with the crowd before and after the show, and giving them a little “peek under the tent,” he says.

On the road April through late October, the show is constantly in motion. Sometimes staying in a town for a week, other days, they roll in, set up, perform, and shut down again that night. And then it’s on to the next location. Zerbini estimates they visit more than 100 towns each year. Often invited back year after year, Zerbini works with his team in the off months, to make sure that they keep their acts fresh, and always bring something new to the crowds.

Zerbini’s extended circus-family is comprised of 22 performers, from all around the world. And, four from his own nuclear family -- his wife and two of his seven children are a part of the show. “We’re like one big family,” Zerbini says. After all, they travel together 200 days a year, if that doesn’t force the family dynamic, what does?

Well Zerbini says, “Every member of the circus maintains multiple roles,” which forces them to act as a family. Everyone helps with the set-up and staging, they each perform, and when the show is on hiatus in the off-season, they are all still together working on improving the performance for the next extended road trip. All of this, under the leadership of Zerbini, who oversees and manages all parts of the circus from the time they roll into town until circus day is just a memory.

The Zerbini Family Circus will be back in Bluffton this fall, for an encore performance. There is no doubt you will see it all -- acrobats, high-wire acts, trampoline, trapeze, and some clowning around. And the animals they bring are beyond what you might expect -- buffalo, ponies, camels, and even the Zerbini family’s dogs, rescued from local shelters, and now getting plenty of attention everywhere they go.

A family legacy. A spectacle under the tent. A one-ring circus that appears to runs circles around the rest.

A Master Debater

2011-04-01T14:45:00.000-04:00

This month, C2 mag launches my monthly column featuring friendly debate and fodder for all. I go head to head, idea by idea, with fellow writer Frank Dunne. In this issue, we start by disagreeing about what to call the darn thing ... off to a create start aren't we?

Here's my opinion. You can read Frank's retort here.

I’m addicted to Chapstick. I deplore clip art. I wear flip flops once the weather clears 50 degrees. I love a good party, but not a Tea Party. I’m not a lawyer, but I like to play one in magazines. If I believe something or someone to be true and just, I will support that person, idea, organization, ‘til the cows come home or the margaritas run dry. I’ll study the opposition’s logic, mount a campaign and argue for what I believe. Almost every time.

Sometimes I will play devil’s advocate just for the heck of it. Because sometimes I love nothing more than getting a rise out of someone. I like to make people think (and get a little hot under the collar).

Let me give you an example. If you and I were dating and you were to reveal to me that you “have to look at online pornography,” I would --- 1. Walk out of the restaurant we were dining in. 2. Spend the next 24 hours, before dumping your behind, grilling you in an effort to understand exactly what you mean by “have to.” Oh yes, I’d ask that question 2,000 ways to Tuesday, to try to get a real understanding of what exactly it was you were telling me. (True story.) For me, it was about the choice of words and the non-existent-logic that followed said choice of words. Game was on!

So, when my worthy opponent, Frank, and I were approached with idea of a monthly duel of rhetoric, I was intrigued. I immediately began channeling my inner Jane Curtin ala Saturday Night Live, and pitched a name for this monthly masterpiece – Point/Counterpoint. Frank immediately disagreed with my suggestion (foreshadowing), and later sent a list of 100 other potential column names. All of which I dismissed.

Allow me to provide some reference, for our readers born after the creation of the internet. “Point / Counterpoint” was a segment on Saturday Night Live, in the late seventies. "Point / Counterpoint" featured Jane Curtin and Dan Aykroyd making personal attacks on each other's positions on a variety of topics. Aykroyd regularly began his reply with "Jane, you ignorant slut,” and Curtin frequently began her reply with "Dan, you pompous ass.”
Now, I’m not telling you this because I find Frank to be a pompous ass. (That may very well come with time …) Nor, do I consider myself ignorant or loose, however I do find the title – and the “historical” reference - to be significant because it suggests a certain sarcasm and levity, which allows two people to disagree on a topic, yet still have fun in the process. And if there are two things I love more than a debate, they are sarcasm and laughter.
Alas, here we are at our first column and we can’t even agree on what to call the dang thing. Frank will argue that the name Point/Counterpoint has been over-used, and frankly, I cannot disagree. But, that doesn’t make me like it any less.

I’m not going to fall on my sword for this one. There will be plenty of time for that.

This is where you come in. Help us pick a name for our monthly clash and if you’re up for it, go ahead and suggest some possible topics as well. Just don’t throw me any softballs like – paper vs. plastic, second-hand smoke, or dog poop scooping. Those answers are so obvious -- paper; kill yourself don’t kill me; and if I can do it, so can you.

I want a challenge.

Because let’s face it. I am a master –(de)bater. (Just like my ex-boyfriend.)

A Picture is Worth a Thousand Words

2011-03-30T14:30:00.000-04:00

Bluffton Today column
March 20, 2011

On Monday, radio personality Howard Stern was discussing celebrity deaths. Specifically, that when a celebrity dies, all of the ugly, overweight pictorial evidence of said celebrity disappears and they are forevermore portrayed as young, gorgeous, fit, icons.

This discussion came on the heels of Elizabeth Taylor’s death. Suddenly every less than flattering, sickly, tabloid-worthy, image of Ms. Taylor had also passed on. But the saucy vixen who lit up the silver screen in A Place in the Sun and Cat on a Hot Tin Roof is indeed hot, again.

I tend to be a planner, so, before I go, I think it only appropriate that I find THE picture that will best define me postmortem. The problem is I hate having my picture taken.

I recently had a photo shoot and I literally lost sleep worrying about it. I worried about what clothes to wear. What would look most flattering. What colors would photograph well. How my hair would hold up after an eight-hour workday pre-shoot. Then, post-shoot I sat in the photographer’s studio as she pulled all of the shots up on her big screen TV (I’m cringing as I type this) and we critiqued them together. Seven outfits. Two hours. Half a dozen props. One hundred pictures. And I gave tentative approval for a small handful.

This is not a slight to the photographer. She is, in fact, brilliant. I love her work. I just don’t love her working on me. (She knows this.)

The reality is, I can’t “look natural” when in fact I am standing in a most unnatural position -- with a big light shining on my face, a fan blowing my hair about, in front of a paper backdrop, holding a rubber chicken, turning my hips to the left, twisting my shoulders to the right, tilting my chin to the sky, smiling, and keeping my eyes open, while all eyes are on me. Seriously, who knew how hard it would be to keep my eyes open? I never seem to have a problem keeping my peepers peppy when reading, or typing, or driving. But, bring out a camera and suddenly I am Chief Blinksalot. What’s up with that?

Collectively, I have spent hours un-tagging myself in Facebook photos. Come on people. You know what I look like in person. So, chances are you know what I should look like in a photograph. If the two don’t match (or I have more than one chin), please don’t tag me.

Ah Facebook, where the formula for the perfect profile picture alludes me. Some people though – well, they just don’t care. Is standing in front of your bathroom mirror and taking a picture of yourself really the best you can do? Where is your creativity? Have you no shame? Do we really want to see your zit cream, tampons, overflowing waste basket, and messy bedroom in the background? I say no. Post an unflattering picture that someone else took. Not the one you took pre-pee.

A recent trip to the Post Office to renew my passport had me in a photo-frenzy. None of my Facebook photos hit the mark. I actually emailed the aforementioned photographer and she ever so agreeably sized my best picture down to the required two by two square.

Unfortunately, it was a no-go. While my eyes were open, they weren’t looking directly at the camera. So Marshall, at the Bluffton Post Office was tasked with capturing the moment. On the fourth try, and through muffled laughter, he finally said, “Just open your eyes really wide.” I obliged. This is why my new passport photo makes me look like a deer caught in the headlights or perhaps a woman with a really bad eye lift. My fear now is that I will have to make that face for every customs official I encounter. Hopefully, they won’t laugh as hard as Marshall did.

I don’t know how I am going to go out. But I do know I’d like a strong photo finish.

In A Van, Down by the River

2011-03-16T14:33:00.000-04:00

Bluffton Today column
March 16, 2011

On Monday, I came across a Facebook post from Ryan McCarthy, owner of Downtown Deli. It read, “Anybody see a white dodge van around town let me know. It was stolen from the back of the Deli at some point this weekend!”

I had to crack up when I read it, not because Ryan and his wife Leah lost a valuable member of their catering fleet, but because Ryan had such a great attitude about it. So, I called him to get the scoop.

According to all reports (ok, I only got one report), Ryan and Leah were both at the Deli over the weekend, and the white van was still there as of 2:00 p.m. on Sunday. On Monday morning when Ryan arrived for the breakfast shift, one of his employees asked where the hot boxes were. He replied, “In the white van.” (The underlying meaning being - Duh, where they always are.) His employee went outside, came back in, and with a sheepish grin said, “Um, I don’t see the van.” (The underlying meaning being – I know I am going to sound crazy, but the van isn’t out there, dude.)

As Ryan continued to tell me the story, he broke into laughter. “You know the kicker,” he said, “we only had one payment left.” Knowing that, he and Leah had actually planned to buy a new personal vehicle this weekend.

Still chuckling Ryan went on to warn the thief with these words of wisdom --

1. Sometimes, if the battery is getting low, the alarm goes off, just for the heck of it. This will likely bring much unwanted attention your way. (Ryan and Leah learned this two years ago at the Masters when the white van’s alarmed blasted serene Augusta National for two hours.)
2. The battery is going to go low, and may even die, because it needs to be replaced. (That should make for an entertaining moment when the thief calls AAA.)
3. There is a box of Monster Pizza (also owned by the McCarthy’s) Beer of the Month Club membership cards in the back. If you decide to “join” the Club, the suspect pool has just been substantially narrowed, and you’re now the primary suspect, Einstein!
4. For $223.28, the amount of the last payment, we may have sold you the van.

Ryan’s good attitude is a perfect example of someone taking a bad situation and not letting it get the best of him. If only everyone reacted like that when things just weren’t going our way.

Case in point. I was at one of our big-box home improvement stores last weekend, loading up on spring color, only to have my bubble burst by the worst in customer service. The store was as busy as all get out, and the Garden Center checker seemed less than thrilled that she was spending her day at work, while the rest of us crazies jumped on the “it’s spring, we better plant” bandwagon.

As I rolled up to the register, the checker stepped out with her scan gun to assess the load. She lifted her head, looked me dead in the eye, and proceeded to tell me to lift all of the plants for her, so she could scan them.

Pardon moi?

Once I recovered from the initial are-you-freakin’-kidding-me buzz, two thoughts ran through my head, in quick succession. One -- I’m sorry, do I work here now? And two -- Sure, I’ll help, but you’re going to end up in the newspaper.

Frankly, I would have helped anyway. Mainly because my obsessive-compulsive-must-have-things-in-order indicator light would have come on, thus forcing me to make sure that all plants remained as originally organized on the cart. But, the second the checker decided to not ask me, but tell me, to lift the plants, the game was over.

With a harrumph, I begrudgingly lifted all of the plants so that Ms. Checker Outer didn’t pull a muscle or get any dirt on her hands. Who knows, maybe someone stole her car that morning, but should she have taken it out on her customers?

All in all, it is easier said than done to keep your attitude in check. We could learn a lot from Ryan.

Therefore, I think it is only appropriate, that in recognition of this recent grand theft auto, Ryan name a sandwich in White Van’s honor. Ryan, serve it with a side of CHIPS, and the lemonade you made from the lemons that were served to you.

A Spill in the Drink

2011-03-03T12:50:00.000-05:00

Bluffton Today column
March 3, 2011

I stand by my statement that rodents, a.k.a. ground hogs, should not be predicting our weather.

However, I will also acknowledge that in an utter coincidence, spring appears to have sprung. How do I know? Well, I’ve already had to repair something on my boat. Her maiden voyage of 2011 (in February!) wasn’t exactly smooth sailing. Let me tell you how it all went down. And, by “it” I mean my co-captain, and by “down” I mean, “into the river.”

As you know, the weather has been spectacular the last two weekends. My spring itch came early and I was ready to get Just Mine in the water, and the sun on my face. So, we gathered the necessary accoutrements – food, water, beer (which is really 90% water anyway), music – and we were underway.

We headed out and anchored for a bit, where I promptly took a quick nap – spring sun and the smell of pluff mud are like tryptophan to me. Once my snooze was complete we headed up (or is it down?) the river toward the Spanish Wells point. And that is when we got stuck. Literally. On a sand bar, that I swear to you was never there before.

Co-captain quipped, “I can see the bottom.” Silently I responded, “Thanks Einstein,” and willed him overboard. Much to my delight, he did sink into the sand and 12 inches of 55 degree water to nudge our vessel to freedom. (Apparently 55 degree waters, even if only up to your calves is still devastatingly chilly. More on that in just a minute.) Once clear, I started her up again and began the slow sputter to deeper waters. But alas, we were still stuck.

“We’re still stuck,” I said. And like the true trooper he is, co-captain swung his legs over again and made the quick plummet.

Unfortunately, my calculations were again off and we were actually quite seaworthy and resting upon about nine feet of water. Are you doing the math? Even LeBron James would be completely submerged at this point.

Luckily, co-captain’s cat-like reflexes kicked in - perhaps jolted by the 55 degree shock – and he grabbed onto the side of the boat mere seconds before being swallowed by the frosty beast. What he said next is sadly not fit for print.

What did I do next?

Well, I laughed. Because I was frozen (oh, the irony) and didn’t know what else to do. Frozen. I didn’t even extend a hand, or mind you, a life preserver. Nope, instead I watched him inch himself slowly around to the ladder, still repeating the not fit for print mantra he had adopted one minute prior. It wasn’t until he was back on the boat that I finally reacted. By then, it was a little too late.

Thank Poseidon, that I (obsessive-compulsive-needs-to-plan-every-moment-of-her-life-Courtney) have a man who is so easy going that he just shook off his brush with hypothermia and gave me a smile…

Until he began to thaw and noticed the deep bruising and scratches that began to appear on his forearm. Luckily for me, this was just about the same time that I noticed that he broke the bimini cover clip while tumbling. Whew, we’re even-steven again.

Mr. Bimini Clip should be feeling better any day now. He’s a simple $6.95 fix.

Captain Co-captain however, is still suffering from bruising to his limbs and ego (even more so now that the entire escape is documented in print).

So, as spring continues to flourish and that magical time of year - when our moments on the water begin to outweigh our moments on land - appears, remember:

1. Your GPS may be a liar too.
2. If I catch you in an awkward situation, I will definitely laugh at you. I can’t help it.
3. Stick with a guy who keeps a smile on his face, even after you forced him overboard, and laughed at him, and blamed the whole incident on your GPS.

Smooth sailing, my friends.

Altruistic Islanders: Setting A Good Example

2011-03-01T12:43:00.000-05:00

CB/CH2 March 2011

If cleanliness is next to godliness, what is selflessness?

One who is selfless give up their own interests for the greater good. They often think of others, before themselves. They act willingly and generously. They give of their time, their talent, and their treasure. They are not boastful. They seek no attention in return.

In South Carolina alone, the collective efforts of volunteers were valued at more than $2.5 billion, according to VolunteeringInAmerica.gov, which works in partnership with the U.S. Census Bureau and the Bureau of Labor Statistics, to compile the most comprehensive collection of data on volunteering and civic engagement ever assembled.

Interestingly, their research shows that despite all the additional stresses of a difficult economy, volunteer service remains strong. In data collected over the last four years, VolunteeringInAmerica.gov reports that South Carolina boasts 923,000 volunteers, that is 26.8% of our state’s residents. Together, they clock more than 118.5 million hours of service per year.

Locally, there are dozens upon dozens of deserving organizations. Collectively, hundreds of selfless individuals work each day to make our community a better place – a scratch behind the ear for a dog looking for her forever home, a comforting hand to hold, a connection with an otherwise lost teenager, a meal for someone who didn’t know if they would eat tonight, a call for help answered.

Five individuals in Bluffton and Hilton Head – true altruists – are making an impact right here in our backyard. They stand out among the crowd. And deserve our gratitude.

John Walland
Hilton Head Human Association
Now this is a man, anyone would be happy to walk with. However, the majority of John’s walks are with his canine comrades. And he loves every minute of it.

When John Walland retired from his career in the steel industry 11 years ago, and moved from Cleveland to Hilton Head, he didn’t know what to expect. He arrived, sight unseen, having never been to the Island. His wife, Dr. Debra Walland, talked him into the move as she had her eyes on starting a practice in the Lowcountry with a former medical school classmate. John obliged.

As luck would have it, once John was settled, he learned that two of his new neighbors were board members for the Hilton Head Human Association. They got to talking. And then they got to asking – asking John if he would be interested in volunteering. Before he knew it, John was on the road to Columbia to pick-up cat and dog food donations. That was 11 years and 60,000 miles ago.

Since then, John and his wife have added five rescue dogs to the family and John’s involvement in the organization has continued to grow, much like his pack at home. Executive Director Franny Gerthoffer had a hard time putting into words how she feels about John, saying, “The best word in the dictionary doesn’t even begin to describe this man. Every event, John is there. Every fundraiser, his is the first money in the pot. He doesn’t know how to say ‘no.’ He makes our job so easy. He truly loves the animals. He wants to save them all.”

And he tries to do just that. Earlier this year, on his way back from having outpatient surgery in Savannah, arm in a sling, feeling less than 100 percent, he saw a little dog on the side of the road. He urged his wife to pull over. As they got out of the car, John noticed a second dog. Surprisingly, both dogs sat there, side-by-side, wagging their tails, skinny as rails – as if waiting for this angel to rescue them. As you might expect, John loaded them into the car and took them home. So much for the rest that the doctor ordered! John called Franny that night to let her know she’d have two new friends dropping by in the morning.

Franny’s appreciation for John runs deep. “He makes our job so easy,” she says. But, why does John do it? With a warm, humbled voice he says, “It makes me feel good. Everyone needs that in their life.”

Hilton Head Human Association works to improve the lives of homeless dogs and cats while also working to substantially lower the number of animals reproduced or relinquished.www.hhhumane.org

Raymond Holmes
Boys & Girls Clubs of the Lowcountry
After vacationing on the Island for 22 years, Raymond Holmes and his wife finally made the permanent move in 2008, lured by one of those iconic 72 degree December days. The Washington, DC area that he had called home couldn’t compete with those numbers.

Raymond’s long career in electrical engineering and computer technology for the Federal Reserve had kept him busy. Now, he was ready to give back. Having spent some time volunteering for the DC Central Kitchen (an organization that served 4,000 meals a week), Raymond knew that food service and culinary arts was an area in which he wanted to contribute.

The Boys & Girls Club of the Lowcountry offered just the opportunity, and Raymond volunteers in their “canteen” as a part of the after-school program. While the literal definition of canteen is “snack bar” so much more happens in that space, according to Raymond. “Food is important, but this is where we really get to know the kids and understand their behavior, their quirks, their personalities, and where we can help. The food is the key to opening that door,” he says.

Even though it is not just about the food, Raymond ensures that the food service standards are beyond par, going so far as to get ServSafe certified through Technical College of the Lowcountry. In fact, he continues to take online classes, and in turn trains the Boys & Girls Club staff in nutrition, sanitation, food handling, and more. “I don’t know what we’d do without him,” Bluffton Club Unit Director, Molly Smith remarks gratefully.

After momentarily searching for the right words, Molly continues by firing off, in quick succession a multitude of reasons that make Raymond indispensible. “He is a great mentor. He shares his wisdom. He helps mold and shape the children, especially the young men. He bridges a 60 year age gap and bonds and connects effortlessly. He also gains much respect.”

Raymond is enjoying every minute of it. “The kitchen is the most important room in the house. It is where the magic happens,” Raymond says with a smile, recalling his younger years, waking up and smelling the breakfast that “Momma” was cooking.

Conversation and connection happen in the kitchen. At the Boys & Girls Club, Raymond is making their kitchen a home.

The Boys & Girls Club Bluffton Unit was established in 1998 to provide a safe and stimulating environment for Bluffton's children during their after-school hours and summer. www.bcglowcountry.org

Les Wilner
Second Helpings
When Les Wilner moved here from Queens, New York, 14 years ago he was shocked by the need in our community, unable to believe how many people were seeking assistance. Retired from the wholesale food business and looking for something to do besides golf, Second Helpings immediately caught Les’ attention.

Believing that, “this is his time to give back,” Les does just that by coordinating all of the organization’s Bluffton volunteers (a position he has held for more than 10 years). That means, scheduling 48 people, and two delivery routes a day, six days a week. He’s basically running a small company, on his own time.

Second Helpings Executive Director, Peggy Warnke, conservatively estimates that Les has volunteered more than 8,000 hours in his tenure and touts his, “Strong relationship with the food donors and his passion for the agencies to which he delivers.” (The Second Helpings network extends beyond 65 partner agencies.)

For Les, “The thank you means more than anything. Every time we pull up in a truck to deliver food, the recipients are gracious and grateful. Sometimes we pull up to 20 or 30 people just waiting. It was a shock to me that for some folks, cake is a luxury item.”

Even more shocking to Les – who is admittedly, “not the most emotional and affectionate person” - is the fact that a perfect stranger would give him a hug, so appreciative of his effort. It overwhelms Les that he receives a thank you, when in his mind there are many others who deserve the gratitude.
As such, during this interview, Les turned around and told me the story of a woman who is a hero in her own right, a member of a church of only 15 families that delivers 3,000 pounds of food a week. “She’s who we should be thanking,” Les says.

I suspect that the 4,000 people that Second Helpings feeds each day, would want to extend their thanks to Les. And he takes it all with a grain of salt saying, “Charity comes back. If a little old, obese man (his words, not mine), in his mid-seventies can do it, anyone can.”

Second Helpings mission is to collect and thereby rescue nutritious, surplus foods that would otherwise have been wasted, from restaurants, resorts, caterers and supermarkets. Volunteers deliver this food, in a safe and healthful manner, to agencies serving the disadvantaged in the Lowcountry of South Carolina. www.secondhelpingshhi.org

Nancy Meyer
Bluffton Self Help
Bluffton has always been a “second home” for Nancy Meyer, whose been vacationing here for 30 years. After she made Bluffton her permanent home a couple years ago, she quickly entrenched herself in the local community. At an event benefiting Bluffton Self Help, Nancy noticed the “ladies in red aprons” (the signature attire for Self Help volunteers), started chatting with them, and said, “I think I’d like to join you.”

Recognizing a good thing when they saw it, the ladies immediately put Nancy in touch with the Executive Director, who wisely put her to work. After some time in the volunteer role, Board President Peter Bromley pulled Nancy aside and asked her if she thought the organization needed a volunteer coordinator. Nancy quickly replied, “Yes,” not knowing that Peter’s next question would be, “Would you like to be that volunteer coordinator?”

“I saw how she connected with people. She takes initiative. She has strong planning and organizational skills. With 60 volunteers on the roster, we need someone to take the lead. It never hurts to ask,” according to Peter. Good thing he did, ask …

Nancy accepted the challenge and dedicates time to Self Help, five days a week, making sure that every volunteers needs are being met. “Everyone volunteer has their own reason for being there, and I want to make sure we are doing right by them,” she says.

Being on site, and seeing how the organization works is particularly rewarding for Nancy. “It’s a pleasure to watch an SUV drive up; two guys hop out, and say, ‘Hi, we read in the paper that you need food. We have a truck full of food.’” Even more rewarding for Nancy, is watching a volunteer greet the donors, help them unload, and make then realize the importance of their donation. “Everyone gets something out of it …”

At Bluffton Self Help the our purpose and mission is to help those in the greater Bluffton area who are in critical need of short-term, documented financial assistance, and to also provide them with the most fundamental needs, such as food and clothing, while urging them to become more self-reliant. www.blufftonselfhelp.org

Jack Toady
Hospice Care of the Lowcountry
With a warm voice and an affectionate laugh, Jack Toady immediately puts one at ease. A trademark quality, for a man who volunteers his time, beside those who are watching their own time slip away. A native of the northeast who spent his career as a special agent in the criminal investigation unit of the Treasury Department, one might expect a tough guy. In fact, Jack is the exact opposite.

He and his wife moved to Hilton Head 14 years ago, also lured by warm temperatures and the perk of year-round golf. While the laid back lifestyle was one Jack welcomed, he also felt the need to give back.

Having seen hospice in action for a close friend, he knew that Hospice Care could be the perfect fit for him. Jack spent his first year volunteering in the office, and managing the tedious bereavement follow-up process that is required for each case. In 2007, following some intense training, Jack moved into the caregiver role.

As a Family Patient Volunteer, Jack’s role is to provide company and conversation, to run errands and complete odd jobs, to give the primary caregiver time to his or herself, and in some cases, he just sits in silence, a comforting presence for those in the twilight hours of their life.

Not an easy task – making an emotional connection with someone who you know you will have to eventually bid farewell. Jack has had patients for as short as one week, and some that have stretched beyond a year. He says that each case is different and, “It is very difficult, but when you start talking to people you realize the interesting lives that people lead. More importantly, it is amazing the talent pool of people who have lived right here, our neighbors.”

For Director of Volunteers, Renee Woodruff, “Jack is a super star. He never says ‘no.’ He is compassionate and caring, dedicated to the hospice movement, flexible and always ready to respond and go when needed.”

To Jack, his role is a necessary one. And, “the reward outweighs the emotional toll.”

At Hospice Care of the Lowcountry, the philosophy of care is as much about living well as it is about dying well. The mission is to help patients and their families find the fullness and joy they deserve, even as they face the anxieties of the end of life. www.hospicecarelc.org

One would be hard pressed to place a value on the selfless acts of this quintet. Their priceless contributions – large and small – resound loudly within our community. How ironic, that they toiled long and hard to enjoy a fruitful retirement. Yet, in retirement, they’ve found true fulfillment through their selfless contributions.

Meeting the Parents

2011-02-16T12:42:00.000-05:00

Bluffton Today column
February 16, 2011

I haven’t been brought home to “meet the parents” in about a dozen years. So, when the “I think you should meet my parents” bullet came whizzing past my head, I was so stunned by the potential danger, that in a blind panic, I said, “yes.”

While still suffering a little traumatic stress, I may have also invited his parents to stay with us. Clearly delusional thinking on my part.

After I recovered, and came to my senses, I started asking questions. Of course, I knew they would love me. But, since I purposely have an uncomfortable bed in my guest room, to ward off houseguests, I was worried about what this first meeting - er, sleep over - would yield.

First revelation: They don’t curse. Um, sweetie, have you met me?

Second revelation: They don’t drink. Um, sweetie, have you met me?

Let’s face it. If I am getting through these two days, I’m drinking. If, I’m drinking, I’m cursing. This should be no surprise.

As I type this, it is Monday, Valentine’s Day, and they are set to arrive in a couple hours. I will be at a meeting, having bought myself two additional hours of panic. This basically means, in four hours, I will be walking into a house (my house) full of strangers. My neck is tensing and the red splotches that I get on my chest, when I am stressed, are beginning to form.

I don’t know why I am so worried.

It’s funny, because my parents and my sister and her family (I won’t mention their last name because my sister is always worried that I will mortify her in the paper) all live right here in Bluffton. So, if someone is in my life, they quickly meet my family because we are pretty tight, and heck, they are all right here. Proxemics being as good a reason as any to have to meet my family. It has never even occurred to me that meeting my family could be a source of stress. We are a great family. Of course, I believe that, because it is my family.

So, as I prepare to meet my significant other’s parents, I have great sympathy for my sweet brother-in-law, who has been enduring my family for more than 10 years. Poor guy. After making the decision to move to South Carolina, he thought he was moving 800 miles away from his in-laws. What he didn’t know is that his in-laws would quickly follow. I’ve heard my sister quip about being 800 miles away from her in-laws (they didn’t make the move) and each time her hubby retorts, “Yeah, I moved 800 miles from my in-laws too … and look what happened.”

Anyway, fast forward to Tuesday morning. I had water with dinner and I didn’t curse once. Ok, I cursed once under my breath when I nearly burned my hand pulling the roast from the oven, but under my breath doesn’t count, since they didn’t hear it. (If a woman curses in the kitchen and no one is there to hear it, did she really curse?)

Dinner was a success. Dessert was even more successful. So much so that when I said the cake was from Betty Crocker, his Mom thought I meant the Betty Crocker cookbook not the box. (She loves me!) She cutely said, “I think my Betty Crocker is much older than yours.” She was right, since I bought my Betty Crocker three days ago at Publix. We are both voracious readers and had a lovely debate about “real” books versus the Kindle and Nook options available today. (I got a Nook for Valentine’s Day…)

His father looks so much like my late grandfather, that my heart skipped a beat when I met him. He is quick with a joke and clearly enjoyed giving his bride (of nearly 60 years) a hard time. Also, just like my grandfather.

Bottom line. Dinner was like dining with old friends and family. I think that is a good thing.

Now, I wouldn’t be me, if I didn’t admit that part of me was hoping that something might go awry, for the sake of my readers. But, at the end of the day, as we all retired to our bedrooms (some with more comfortable beds than others) there was no tension in my neck and the splotching had subsided. All signs that I’m really not as bad as some of you think I am.

I Predict We Stop Listening to Rodents

2011-02-02T12:41:00.000-05:00

Bluffton Today column
February 2, 2011

Well, here we are again. Groundhog Day. Is it just me or do we do this every year? Over and over again. We wait for a woodchuck (yes, groundhogs are actually woodchucks) to emerge and predict the future. Er, weather.

It’s 2011. And we are relying on a groundhog to tell us what the next six weeks of weather will bring? I find this beyond bizarre. Should we instead, be seeking that little detail from say, oh, a meteorologist? Or perhaps someone with a smidge of college education under their belt?

Since the average lifespan of a groundhog is merely two – three years, I doubt they have had they time, in their busy schedules – hibernate, procreate, predict future, repeat - to matriculate.

With a mere 39% accuracy for the groundhog, one could argue that the weather man’s “it may rain- it may not rain” 50% accuracy rating is the better bet. Actually, you could hedge a bet on anyone.

Two weeks ago I had the nasty flu that’s been going around. (I likely caught it from you.) Anyway, I liken the groundhogs prediction to my flu predicament. I could go and see a doctor, take 10 days of antibiotics and get better. Or, in 10 days I could just be better. Meaning, I am just as qualified as the Yankee Groundhog, Punxsutawney Phil and his southern counterpart, General Beauregard Lee (I can’t make this stuff up) to pontificate on the weather.

As such, I thought I would describe to you what my morning is like … and you can then determine whether spring has sprung or winter will continue.

The alarm went off at 5:15 a.m. but that wasn’t the first time I turned bleary-eyed to the alarm clock fussing with four-letter words. No, I was up at 2:10 and again at 3:30 and 4:25 to boot. My groundhog, I mean dog, Darby has a tendency to sneak his way up the bed in the middle of the night, rendering me immobile, and actually yearning for reverie. Once the alarm sounds, one of two scenarios will follow.

Scenario one:
I’m up. I fumble on the nightstand for my glasses. One too many stubbed toes having taught me not to walk to the bathroom unaccompanied by spectacles. Splash water on face. Insert contact lenses. Don workout gear. Drive to boot camp. Sweat and pant uncontrollably for 60 minutes. Drive home. Shower. Debate need for blow drying hair. Eat breakfast. Guzzle coffee. Kiss dog goodbye. Embark on my day refreshed and ready to roll.

Scenario two:
“Darby, for crying out loud, this is my bed. My bed.” Tug covers from under dog and back up over shoulders. Try to fall back asleep. “Darby, it’s still bedtime, please stop licking my face.” Roll over and tug covers up over face. Enjoy seven minutes of additional sleep until whining commences. “Darby, please just let me have five more minutes.” More whining. “Hmph. Fine. I’m up. I’m up. I’m up.” Fumble on nightstand for glasses. Stumble downstairs. Let Darby out. Look at the clock and realize that I should have just rolled out of bed at 5:15 and I would already be on my way back from working out. I would be energized and much less cranky.

Now if this morning was a scenario one day, winter will soon be over, birds will sing, the sun will shine, chipmunks will chip, you get the gist. However, if this morning was a scenario two kind of day, we’ll have to wait until spring officially arrives.

I’d bet that regardless of which side of the bed I woke up on this morning, both scenarios will likely lead to March 20, a little more than six weeks from today, the official first day of spring.

Why are we leaving the prognosticating to a grasshopper and grub eating groundhog? Leave it to me. A margarita and mimosa drinking minx. I say shed the winter doldrums. Pull out the flip flops. Let the sun shine on your face and channel spring.

After all, isn’t it really just a state of mind?

What's Love Got to Do With It?

2011-02-01T15:37:00.002-05:00

CH2, January 2011

Love. How can four little letters be so complicated? I mean most other four-letter words are quite self-explanatory. Right?

Dictionary.com shows 14 definitions, seven verb uses, six idioms, and 16 synonyms for the word “love.” That’s 43 potential meanings behind those four letters. Now, throw in the connotative meaning of the word, as defined by the nearly 312 million people who live in the United States, and we likely have 312 million definitions.

Everyone defines love in a different way.

I love the beach. I love days on the river. I love Christmas. I love margaritas. I love pina coladas and getting caught in the rain. Oh wait, that’s not me. That’s Rupert Holmes.

I love my nieces. I love teaching. I love sharpie markers, and good stationary, and Bon Jovi, and cute scarves, and pedicures, and flip flops, and shrimp on the grill, and homemade macaroni and cheese.

I also love, love. And have always been a believer in the “fairy tale.” Even though after numerous attempts, and just as many failures, I’ve got nada. So, why in the world am I still an optimist, you may ask?

I think because I might finally understand what true love means. And, I learned it from my dog.

First let me back up and give you the whole story.

I was blindsided on a fall day. I came home from work and started dinner. He paced the kitchen while I diced and sliced. A few minutes of tap dancing around the kitchen island and he revealed that he thought we should separate. After eight years, he “just didn’t want to be married anymore” - like he was deciding to give up carbohydrates.

He moved out the next day.

The damage was done. And then, the damage began. I was angry. I threw temper tantrums and anything I could get my hands on (namely, three cordless phones and my wisely insured Blackberry). I sobbed and hid in my closet, tucked safely behind my winter coats, and clutching the teddy bear my father gave me the day I was born.

It was six months before I found my smile again.

My dog Darby, well he bounced back a little quicker than I.

Darby sat at the front window for a full month after the ex left. He waited each night for him to come home. With the rumble of every truck in the distance his posture would re-align and his ears would perk. Eventually he gave up waiting, and so did I.

But, Darby – in an attempt to make dog biscuits out of kibble - made himself quite comfortable right there next to me in my former marital bed. I think the message – though subtle – was you had your chance buddy, this pillow is mine now. And, oh does he love his pillow, his 400 thread-count sheets, and his down comforter. And, placing his head on my shoulder, when he knows I need it most.

When we first got Darby, as newlyweds, my ex was the one who picked him up from the veterinarian’s office where he was being sheltered. I always felt that Darby connected with the ex more than me, because he was the one who rescued him. But as Darby sat beside me during my darkest days I realized that his love for me runs deeper than any friend I ever had. He had weathered many a storm with me. This was just the first time I truly noticed.

And from there on, we were joined by the leash. He got me out of the house every day for a walk or a run. He got me in the backyard for some sunshine. He got me on the beach to put my toes in the water and he got me to the sandbar for a quick swim. All that exercise also got me down a few pounds, perhaps Darby’s way of getting me back on the “market.”

I suspect that Darby was looking forward to the fun of scaring the heck out of any potential suitors. I used to think his bark was worse than his bite. Until the standoff he had with one unsuspecting victim. He wouldn’t let the guy near me. We sat on the couch, Darby sat between us. We hugged, Darby barked like a lunatic. When near the end of the short-lived “relationship,” we were “having some words,” Darby sat planted at my feet, growling at the opposition, who eventually retreated. (Victory!)

Turns out, Darby is a pretty good judge of character.

So when my current beau came over for the first time, and cautiously took a seat (he’d heard the previous stories), Darby walked over and put his sweet little chin right on new beau’s knee.

And that’s when I knew, I was ready for love again. And so was Darby.

Every February, in an over-commercialized frenzy, we run around like idiots buying heart-shaped everythings, to show the ones we love how we feel about them. And because of this one day dedicated to everything saturated in sugary-sweet somethings, we just might ignore those we love the other 364 days of the year. Which, when you think about it is completely backwards.

I was inspired by my dog. A mutt. Who still – after thousands of walks – hasn’t realized that I can’t get the leash on while he is jumping around and chasing his tail. Yet, he taught me the purest meaning of love. And he shows it every single day.

We’d be wise to do the same.

Illustration by Matt Anderson

Bathroom Etiquette 101

2011-01-19T16:06:00.000-05:00

Bluffton Today column
January 19, 2011

I had to use the handicap bar in the bathroom at work last week. I couldn’t get up without it. No traumatic injury here. Rather, I just started a “boot camp” fitness program. And, I am exhausted.

Since launching this New Year’s torture (I mean, endeavor), I have been walking on rubbery legs, writing with quivering implements, and sipping shaking coffee cups. I am sore to the core, literally. Ten days ago I didn’t even know what my core was. Now I spend an hour each morning channeling that inner strength in an effort not to look like a total idiot. Who knew that avoiding idiocy was so dang difficult?

I thought I was in shape. I mean, I’ve been walking (with an occasional jog thrown in for good measure) three to four miles a day, for three years. So, of course, when I completed my intake form, I ranked myself a seven – of ten – in terms of my fitness level. Turns out, I am actually looking at something more in the two to three range.

When I couldn’t ascend the stairs at work last week, I knew I was in trouble. But, I still got my aching body out of bed every morning, in the five o’clock hour, to tackle the challenge while chanting: I will not give up.

Ha! Easier said than done. I almost gave up this weekend, while on a quick getaway to New York City.

If you are from the north, or if you’ve traveled north, I suspect you will concur that Newark Airport and Penn Station are two hotbeds of germs, grime, and everything gross. And both top my list of places I never want to be stuck in, for more than hour, for fear of having to use the facilities. Unfortunately, because my new workout regime requires that I drink half my body weight in water (you do the math) – every day - I can now be found in the bathroom 200% more than I ever was (see handicap bar entry above). Which means I had to break “Courtney Rule Numero Uno” and use a public restroom. More than once. Oh, the horror!

So, our flight lands at Newark Airport and I have now been “holding” my grande non-fat mocha for about three hours – because there is no way I am going to use the restroom on the plane. So, here I am in miniscule bathroom stall, with my luggage. Now, typically I would rely on my leg muscles to hold me slightly airborne so that I didn’t have to touch the seat. But, as you have read, my muscles were mush, so the question became … where to put my tush?

And this leads me to the real problem -- women who pee all over the toilet seat. This is a phenomenon that has stymied me for years. It happens everywhere. At the local bar. The local college. The library. The dentist’s office. Your favorite restaurant. Your office.

What is it so difficult to hit your target? It’s a pretty big target for crying out loud.

I’m going to give you the benefit of the doubt and assume that you too are participating in an intense exercise experience and a little shaky on the hind legs. Ok, so you dribble a little. Now here’s a crazy thought – look to your right. Do you see that roll of white paper hanging on the wall? You do? Good. Now pull that piece of paper – that’s it – pull a few squares. Now use them to wipe the seat. Good work, champ.

Was that so hard? Think of the good deed that you have done. Women everywhere will silently thank you as they shuffle into that restroom, check for feet under the stall doors, push the door back with caution, learn that the latch is broken, balance on shaking legs, stand in a puddle of a lord knows what, while trying to hold the stall door closed with their finger tips, and simultaneously finish their business as quickly as possible.

This isn’t rocket science ladies (and men, it would hurt for y’all to follow suit) – if you sprinkle, when you tinkle, be a sweetie and wipe the seatie. Case closed.

Why Do We Do The Things We Do?

2011-01-05T16:05:00.001-05:00

Bluffton Today column
January 5, 2011

So, I’m watching TV and a Badcocks Furniture commercial comes on. The Dad in the commercial is upstairs jumping on his bed with his son. They are jumping, and jumping, and jumping and Mom looks up as the chandelier in the dining room begins to shake. Next thing you know, Dad’s feet are dangling from the ceiling. And, this drives me crazy. Why? Well because I have a hard time believing that by jumping up and down, Dad managed to bust his way through the mattress, box spring, bedroom floor, and dining room ceiling. It’s just not feasible.

As I shared my disillusionment with TV commercials, my TV-watching partner commented, “You never take things for what they are worth, you always dig a little deeper.”

He makes a point. Rather than just enjoy a lazy day on the couch watching TV, I choose to spend 30 minutes analyzing a 30 second commercial. And that made me question (surprise, surprise!) why exactly do we do the things we do?

For example, why do we put our napkins in our lap? If I am at a restaurant and eating a platter of sloppy wings, I wipe my hands on my napkin, and then put that same dirty and now dripping in wing sauce napkin in my lap. So, my hands are clean – until the next bite – but my pants are dirty. Brilliant.

While at the meal, I may also put my elbows on the table. You know why? Because if you are telling me a story I am going to lean in and give you all of my attention. Do you know why? Because if I am sitting back in my chair, with my hands in my lap (on my dirty napkin), I appear un-engaged. It is also important to note, that if I lean forward, no crumbs will hit my lap, and therefore the napkin serves no purpose. Just sayin …

Believe it or not, as I pondered why I act the way I do, I started thinking about Carlos Olivera who lost his life twelve days ago over a car towing incident. Because someone else acted the way he did – it truly makes you wonder how and why people make the decisions they do, especially at the expense of someone else.

Almost five years ago I wrote a column about a car being towed in my neighborhood. As I read that old column, my stomach turned, as I realized that I referenced alleged murderer Preston Oates in my column, as Pro Tow was the tow company in my story as well.

I had been hosting my sister’s baby shower at my house and as the guests dispersed, one of them couldn’t find her car. Since cars don’t usually just disappear in broad daylight, we began our investigation. It took under a minute to realize that one of my lovely neighbors didn’t like that a car was parked in front of her house so she had the car towed.

At the time, my Mom and I were pretty upset and being the ballsy Jersey girls that we are, we marched right up to the “neighbors” front door and started yelling at her. One of our guests, a retired New York City police officer, convinced us to get the heck off that woman’s property before we got arrested. She had a point, so we acquiesced, but my “investigation” continued for days, as I interacted with the Bluffton Police Department and Pro Tow to figure out how the course of events went down.

My Mom and I have had a number of conversations about Mr. Olivera in the past week. And, we talked too about how rash we were to scream and yell at our neighbor, on her front porch, not knowing what was behind her front door.

I’ll admit that I have a temper and if someone ticks me off, I tend to let them know. And on more than once occasion my Mom has said to me, “Cour, calm down, that guy/gal might have a gun.” It scares me that she is more right than I ever imagined.

Maybe I was naive in thinking that moving from the hustle and bustle of New Jersey to the sleepy town of Bluffton, SC would indeed be safer, quieter, and a simpler way of life. But, right now I am on guard. I have read too many headlines this year, in this very paper, about tragic losses of life.

At this moment however, more than anything, I am sad for Mr. Olivera’s family who had to witness this tragedy and who will forever be marked by this reckless act.

Crossing the Line appears every other Wednesday. Email Courtney at courtneyh@hargray.com.

2010, Year in Review

2011-01-03T16:04:00.000-05:00

C2 magazine, January issue

If you are like me, every bleary-eyed New Year’s Day, you begin the annual ritual of taking stock of the previous year. You question what you’ve accomplished, you curse what you wish you had accomplished, and then you prepare the all too familiar (meaning the replica of last year’s) list of resolutions.

2010 was a rough year.

Our country is at war and more than 500 American soldiers made the ultimate sacrifice in 2010. The Gulf oil spill threatened our ecosystem, the fishing and shrimping industries, and the economy. As many as four million homes received foreclosure filings. 15.1 million Americans remained unemployed, at year’s end.

Locally, non-profit organizations have been scrambling to meet the increasing needs of our neighbors who have been impacted by the economic downturn.

Yet, as I ponder the year in review, I realize that what we were most interested in were actually the headlines that stole the real headlines.

For a child of the 80s, it was a devastating year, as we bid adieu to our favorite TV family members. You know actors and actresses who actually played a character on TV, as opposed to playing a part in the reality TV revolution.

What'chu talkin' 'bout Willis? Well, I’m talking about Gary Coleman and his untimely death. I believe that the biggest surprise on this one is that Todd Bridges is the last standing Different Strokes cast member in the game of life. I didn’t see that one coming.

Nor could I have predicted that Michael Seaver’s Growing Pains sidekick Andrew Koenig a.k.a “Boner” would pass so young. He made millions of teens and tweens giggle through the 1980s every time he walked on set and into our living rooms. I mean, with a name like Boner …

And, Corey Haim, the cute Corey, whose poster donned the closet door of my bedroom for much of the late eighties. There is indeed a Teen Beat reunion going on in heaven these days.

We also witnessed the passing of legends – George Steinbrenner, the meanest man in baseball, who we all got to know via Seinfeld and one quirky George Costanza. J.D. Salinger, the reclusive author whose novel The Catcher in the Rye tackled the topic of adolescent alienation and became required high school reading. And Tony Curtis whose acting credits spanned 60 years.

And lest we forget Blanche Devereaux, that saucy minx. She made it ok for women to be loose and wild, at any age. She was the first cougar and for that we thank Rue McClanahan. Rue, thank you. Thank you for being a friend.

When I think about what got people talking in 2010 I remain miffed by the shock and awe over a killer whale at Sea World killing someone. Um, it was a killer whale. I am pretty certain that it got the name “killer” for good reason.

Bedbugs were a whale of a story in twenty ten. When you get hundreds of different people sharing the same hotel room over the course of a year, something gross has got to give. To respond to the hysteria, the first ever bedbug industry summit was held in Chicago in the early fall (seriously). No stunning breakthroughs were made therefore we will continue to get the heebie-jeebies every time we slip between the sheets in a hotel room. The good news is, the bedbug carries no disease and their bites have no effect on one-third of their victims. So you have a one in three chance of being just fine. Sleep tight.

Speaking of sleeping, in other people’s beds, Tiger Woods apologized to his wife, in front of the whole world, for being a cheater. She up and divorced him anyway. And then Howard Stern invited all of Tiger’s mistresses to compete in the Tiger Woods Mistress Beauty Pageant. Jamie Jungers took home the $75,000 prize.

Bristol Palin was tapped for Dancing with the Stars. (I wonder if she wrote her dance steps on her arm?) I’m sorry, if your Mom unsuccessfully runs for Vice President, you automatically become a “star”? I’ve been trying to convince my Mom to get on the POA board, which should definitely secure me a spot on American Idol.

As if the table-flipping Real Housewives of New Jersey didn’t do enough to tarnish the reputation of Jersey girls everywhere (this one included), then the brilliant executives at MTV thought a show dedicated to the summer at the Jersey Shore was just the ticket. For the record, everyone in the cast was from North Joisey (not the shore) or New Yawk!

WTF? Healthcare reform was a BFD for Vice President Joe Biden, who in his excitement over the March bill signing was caught whispering, "This is a big f***ing deal," into the President's ear. Mr. Loose Lip’s exchange was just loud enough to be picked up by the microphone, and quickly made its way onto cable TV and into cyberspace, for all of the world to hear.

The iPhone continued to stun us with applications to make our life much less personal but oh, so much easier. Don’t have time to type an email? The Dragon Dictation application translates your voice into text, so you can simply dictate your message and then send the text, taking that pesky typing chore completely out of the equation. Of course, if you were going to say it anyway, how about picking up the phone and calling? I’m just saying …

Lady Gaga was certainly looking to simplify things in 2010. She yearned to go back to the times of yore, when animal husbandry was the career of choice. So much so that rather than buy a dress at a store, like the rest of us, she had one made -- of meat -- with matching accessories. No really, this was actually news.
Conan O’Brien boldly ended his seven-month stint as host of The Tonight Show, on principle. As a part of his deal, he had to walk away quietly and wasn’t allowed to address his departure on television. So, he turned to Twitter, and began making his first public statements since leaving. In an hour, he gained 30,000 followers, thirty minutes later he reached 50,000. After 24 hours, O'Brien had well over 300,000 followers. Today, he has more than two million.
While we are talking about tweeting, it seems that the “twitterverse” is all akimbo with the tweet revolution. I don’t know about you, but I don’t care what you ate for dinner, how long it took for you to digest your dinner or how many squares it took to end the cycle. Less is more people. Less is more.

However, since we are on the subject of social media, let’s address the fact that my Mom joined Facebook this year! Your Mom probably did too. I haven’t seen the movie, but I’m pretty sure that wasn’t a predicted outcome.

Just like I am fairly certain that Elmo didn’t think he’d see Katie Perry’s boobs at a Sesame Street taping. Well, it was Elmo’s lucky day (and I am sure his giggle could be heard on set), because no one else got a peek, as Sesame Street scrapped the episode after the revealing segment was reviewed by editors.

Speaking of boobs, the TSA instituted the “Free Feel-Ups” at the airport policy, which should make travel in twenty eleven just titillating. Unless of course, you are filmmaker/ actor Kevin Smith, who last year was deemed too fat to fly. Yet, in an ironic twist, the fat guy I always get stuck sitting next to made the cut.
Locally, there remains only one way to get on and off the Island. Unless you fly. In which case, you can entangle yourself in the “is the runway at the Hilton Head Airport long enough” debate. Maybe not, but the lines at Starbucks are, so if someone would please add that to our 2011 county agenda, that’d be just great.
But, in all seriousness, wherever your travels take you in 2011, may you be safe and smiling.

My New Year’s resolution? Smile more, bark less. I give it a week.

You Wanna Pizza Me?

2011-01-02T16:01:00.000-05:00

C2 magazine, January issue

I broke a bar stool at my favorite pizza joint on my 21st birthday. I mean I didn’t
smack it over the top of someone’s head or recklessly toss it at a bouncer. Rather, in the heat of celebration, I may have stumbled a little and the stool took the brunt of my fall. I’ll argue that it was on its last legs (pun intended) anyway.

Why am I telling you this? Well, if you had been paying attention you would have noticed that I spent my 21st birthday at a pizza joint. Not in New York City, not in Vegas, not at a classy restaurant where the champagne flowed like water.

Nope. I was at the Saw Mill, on the Seaside Boardwalk, New Jersey. (Yes, home to the first season of MTV’s Jersey Shore. ) The Saw Mill had dollar drafts and the biggest slices of greasy Jersey pizza you could get your hands on.

Any way you slice it, America’s love affair with pizza is hot, saucy, and laden with temptation. 93% of Americans eat pizza at least once a month. (100% of the Americans in my household eat it once a week.) So, why the obsession?

Ancient Greeks used to top their breads with olive oils and spices, yet it is the Italians who get the lion share of credit for pizza. And more specifically, are the ones responsible for bringing the tempting treat to the United States, in the early nineteen hundreds, when they traveled here seeking a better life on American soil.

The first pizza joint in the United States -- Lombardi’s— opened its doors in Lower Manhattan, in 1905. The combination of garlic and oregano scents wafting from the windows signaled the dish as “foreign food” that would likely upset the stomach, and as such it didn’t catch on. In fact, most middle-class Americans stuck to boiled fish and toast.

It wasn’t until the 1940s, that pizza in its modern form flourished in the United States and became popular across all cultures, no longer limited to Italian immigrants. American Heritage magazine, in a 2006 article on the history of pizza, points to the 1943 opening of Pizzeria Uno in Chicago as the moment when the tides turned. Chicago-style deep-dish pizza was born and a nation was changed.

When I was young, Friday night was pizza night. We would stand at “Pizza Charlie’s” counter, boxes stacked to the ceiling, Charlie’s red hair frizzed from the heat of the ovens, a line out the front door, while the whole town waited to pick up our orders. Back then, there were only so many choices, and Charlie was our guy. I later fell in love with Pete & Elda. Their thin crust and sweet sauce still haunts me today. In fact, when I go back to home to visit, I almost always pay Pete & Elda a visit. The Saw Mill was a dive bar on the boardwalk, one I didn’t discover until I was of legal age (coincidence?) and there was no better summer night than one that included a cold beer, a huge slice, an off-kilter bar stool, and the smell of the ocean. All have left an indelible mark on my senses.

Maybe I am spoiled, having grown up in a pizza-centric region of the country. And I know I am finicky. All pizza is not made equal. And all pizza is not fit for these lips. Yet, it remains my favorite food.

It is possible that I am biased, so I thought it only fair that I seek the opinion of a food expert. I called on my friend Gail Simmons, Food & Wine magazine’s special projects director and BRAVO TV’s “Top Chef” judge and host. And she told me, “I believe pizza may just be the world's most perfect food - piping hot, smothered in cheese, fresh tomatoes and herbs, or your choice of endless toppings, a crispy crust with just a bit of chew, that you can pick up and eat entirely with your hands! It is so delicious and ingenious I would argue it is Italy's greatest contribution to modern civilization -- forget art or architecture. Pizza (made with love, good ingredients and a 700 degree oven) will never go out of style.”

Well, it is certainly not going out of style anytime soon here. The stretch between Bluffton and Hilton Head is burgeoning with pizza business. Whether your taste buds seek a California pie, Chicago-style, New York pizza, or a gourmet concoction that you eat with your pinky in the air, your bases are covered here.

But, pizza isn’t just about the pizza. Pizza is history. Pizza is tradition. Pizza is camaraderie. I’ll argue that there is nothing better than sitting around the table with your friends and sharing a pizza. A group of friends, who may debate sports and dispute politics, will come together and agree on their pizza toppings. And, in synchronized harmony they’ll lean forward and grab a slice from a community pie. The cheese stretches, the sauce steams, the grease drips, and they each tilt their head to the side to take that first bite. That’s amore!

CH2 Bachelor of the Year Unveiled

2011-01-01T15:56:00.001-05:00

C2 magazine, January issue

I was stood up by C2’s Bachelor of the Year. Ok, he didn’t stand me up. He was merely 30 minutes late. Regardless, my tolerance for tardiness being nil, my brain started working overtime to determine how I would introduce this Johnny come lately to the world. Once we started chatting he enthusiastically agreed that my first sentence (as printed above) was completely appropriate.

That’s when Ben Wolfe won me over. By the end of the story, I suspect he’ll have won you over too.

Ben start wooing the women early. His first love was “Susie” a cute girl with a great sense of humor. “Susie” had an interest in the performing arts and was debuting in the school’s production of The Sound of Music. Ben saw his opening and he grabbed it – he was cast as Kurt (cue “So Long, Farewell” lyrics) – and life has truly never been the same. Their spark eventually fizzled, as most fourth grade relationships do. However, thanks to “Susie,” Ben was introduced to another passion – theatre - which he pursued through his school days and into college and today he is the Performing Arts Director at Hilton Head Preparatory School.

After “Susie” Ben chuckles as he describes dating in his hometown of Sandersville Georgia, where he attended a small private school and graduated with a class of merely 25 -- the same 25 kids whom he started Kindergarten with. “It was hard to date, everyone knew everyone so well. It was like dating your sister. So there were a lot of group outings, dances mostly. Once, I could drive -- movies and bowling were the only options and we actually had to drive outside of Sandersville to do that,” he said with a grin.

Now, that the Lowcountry is his oyster, his perfect date around here would start with “seeing something – a baseball game, a movie, a show – then dinner, so we’d have something to talk about over our meal.” I like his strategy.

Ben has a hell of a sense of humor and in fact, seeks the same in a mate. “She has to have a sense of humor.” I asked him if he ever jumped ship because a date just wasn’t funny, or didn’t find him funny. As expected his reply was dripping with sarcasm … “Listen, I’m not going to ditch a date at dinner. I enjoy food too much. It’s not worth missing a meal.”

Admittedly, Ben is not actively looking for the future Mrs. Wolfe. “I’m not NOT looking; I’m also not browsing Craig’s List on a Friday night.” (Good, because that would be creepy.) Two of Ben’s fellow Hilton Head Prep teacher’s – Kathryn Ramseur-Riley and Tina Webb-Browning - nominated Ben for the Bachelor contest. Ben says that he agreed to participate, recognizing that for him it would all be tongue in cheek. However, on the off chance that Carrie Underwood reads C2, he is hoping that this could be the start of something beautiful.

The prize for the Bachelor victor is $3,000 (and this fabulous article). Ben says, “Coincidentally, $3,000 is the same price as my self respect. So that worked out real well.” He intends to spend every penny on a new car. (Good! Perhaps one that will assist him in getting places on time.) Ben is also expecting that once the Christmas trees come down in all of the Island’s traffic circles, a life size statue of him will be erected. Yet, he’ll continue to live life as a commoner and has, “no plans to introduce a new walk or anything …”

Now that he’s won, it is also necessary that he be subjected to a barrage of questions. So, here we go.

C2: What is the quality you most admire in a woman?
Ben: Sense of humor and the ability to help me in matching my shirts and ties.

C2: What do you most value in your friends?
Ben: Dependability.

C2: Who are your heroes?
Ben: My parents, my close friends and ... Ralph Nader.

C2: What are your pet peeves?
Ben: Food smacking and that awkward doctor’s waiting room silence.

C2: What is the most important thing in your life?
Ben: Succeeding personally and professionally, to the degree that my success allows me to aid and support friends in need. Oh! And honey mustard, it just goes with anything.

C2: Beer or wine?
Ben: Beer, if you're offering.

C2: Hamburger or hot dog?
Ben: Do we really know what's in a hot dog? Always a burger for me.

C2: Beach or mountains?
Ben: Mountains occasionally ... but judging by my current location, I've made my sand castle, now I lie in it.

C2: If your house were on fire, what is the one thing you would save?
Ben: I am currently living alone with no pets. I know I'd grab my computer so I could update my Facebook status about the fire, then Facebook chat someone to call 911 for me.

C2: What has been your most embarrassing moment?
Ben: Besides these surveys? You'd think I'd say the countless times I've burst open the seam of my pants while performing on stage ... but somehow I've gotten used to that.

C2: If we asked an ex-girlfriend to tell us one thing about you, what would she say?
Ben: "What? He told me his name was Juan."

C2: Would you take the last sip of milk for your morning coffee?
Ben: Well as an avid avoider of both milk and coffee, the last sip is always safe around me.

C2: What was the last movie that made you cry?
Ben: Field of Dreams. Every time. It’s the magic corn.

C2: What is currently in your Netflix queue?
Ben: Inception and Shawshank Redemption.

C2: What is the biggest misperception others have about you?
Ben: That I'm really tall. Actually, they're just really short.

Ben doesn’t take him self too seriously and he loves to crack a joke. Obviously.

In addition to his stellar wit, he is a hard worker, he likes to take care of the people he loves, and he is committed 110% to everything he does -- and therefore very selective about what he weaves into his life, women included.

He is the self-proclaimed pickiest person on the planet, “I have a little George Costanza in me,” he says. Too much Costanza is likely a deal breaker for most women, so I asked Ben to elaborate. After some quick math to calculate his persona – and liken it to characters on TV – he replied, “50% Ross Gellar, 40% Jerry Seinfeld, and 10% George Costanza.” By my calculation, that is 90% normal … I’d say that’s pretty good odds ladies.

Since his pickiness may be his downfall, I thought I should give the single gals a little head start on landing Bachelor Ben. So, the three questions he will definitely ask you on a first date are as follows: What is your favorite outdoor sport? What type of music do you listen you? And, if you could spend your life working for a charity, which charity would it be? (Ben advises that the answer to question three should not be Al Qaeda.)

I have Ben’s phone number and email, and even though he hasn’t formally asked (ok, he hasn’t asked at all), I will be more than happy to screen any potential inquiries. Otherwise, you should just plan to attend the unveiling of the new Ben statue, which will likely be placed near a beach, and a honey mustard stand.

If we build it, they will come.

Twas Three Days Before Christmas and I Didn't Send Cards

2010-12-22T13:59:00.000-05:00

I didn’t send Christmas cards this year. Not a decision I made lightly. After all, I wrote a research paper in graduate school on the longevity of the greeting card, my thesis being that regardless of advances in technology, people still get that excited twinge when they receive a personal card in the mail. I do.

In fact, each year, as I pull down my Christmas ornaments (about ten seconds after Thanksgiving dinner concludes), I wade through my Christmas cards from the previous year. Oh yes, I keep them. This year as I read through the 2009 cards, it struck me that no one (except Grandma Noon) actually writes anything in their cards. Instead, I have pictures of all of my friend’s kids with their pre-printed family name at the bottom.

So this year my struggle was two-fold. First, do I schedule some pricey photo shoot so I can send a picture of me and … oh, I don’t know, the dog, to my friends and family? Or, do I skip the fanfare all together?

At about the same time I was lamenting, one of my Facebook friends posted the news that her annual Christmas newsletter was finally complete. I had to chuckle. (And privately message some other Facebook friends to share my snarky comments.) Now, I have never actually received a “Christmas Newsletter” from anyone, yet the stories associated with said newsletters often rival that of a fruit cake. Meaning, no one actually wants to receive one.

Anyway, that got me thinking. Isn’t the purpose of Christmas to send good tidings and cheer to others? So, how does reading about the mundane happenings of your family’s past 365 days bring the Christmas spirit to my house? And then … it hit me. Facebook may be the new Christmas Newsletter.

Just brushed your teeth? Status update! Just wet the bed? Status update! Just made a tuna sandwich? Status update!

Just put a piece of tinsel on the tree? Status update! Just bought extra tape? Status update! Just yelled at Lord & Taylor for cancelling your order instead of shipping your order (this actually happened, but you won’t see if on my Facebook page)? Status update!

But, I digress. Back to the Christmas cards. I scratched them from my to-do list and felt an immediate sense of relief. Right up until the first card arrived in my mailbox. And, ever since that first pang of guilt hit, I haven’t been able to stop obsessing about the year I didn’t send Christmas cards, as it will forever be known.

As any good obsessive compulsive should – I ensure that Christmas is a well-orchestrated machine. I make sure that all of my rolls of wrapping paper match, that all my ribbons match that wrapping paper, that my tags match my ribbon, that my gifts are themed (yes, I’m that person) and that every card includes a personal note – a connection with the recipient - which is exactly the reason why I skipped cards this year. I couldn’t muster the energy to write personal notes to my ever growing list. My worry over whether or not I would think of something clever to say overwhelmed me. And, now I feel like crap.

I realize that this is not your problem. However, I also realize that the majority of my Christmas card list is probably reading this right now. (Light bulb!) So, now that I have your attention, I wanted to let you know that my column today is dedicated to you. Yes you, my friend, who means so much.

Close your eyes. Well open them now silly, or you won’t be able to keep reading. Geesh. Picture a card. It’s a nice one -- weighty card stock, glitter, ribbons, foil lined envelope – only the best for my dear friend. And the message inside, pure poetry, courtesy of one of the world’s most recognized writers --

“And the Grinch, with his Grinch-feet ice cold in the snow,
stood puzzling and puzzling, how could it be so?
It came without ribbons. It came without tags.
It came without packages, boxes or bags.
And he puzzled and puzzled 'till his puzzler was sore.
Then the Grinch thought of something he hadn't before.
What if Christmas, he thought, doesn't come from a store.
What if Christmas, perhaps, means a little bit more.”

You lift my spirit all year round, with laughter, smiles, silliness, emails and yes, status updates.

I wish you and yours a very Merry Christmas.

Crossing the Line appears every other Wednesday. You can reach Courtney at courtneyh@hargray.com.

Where Will You Find Christmas?

2010-12-08T13:56:00.001-05:00

Bluffton Today column
December 8, 2010

I remember it like it was yesterday, when in fact it was nearly 1,500 days ago. After talking to the humbled father on the phone, to get an idea of what his children wanted or needed for Christmas, we agreed on a meeting place for the following Saturday.

When I pulled into the dirt parking lot with dust flying, one vehicle car sat off to the side. As I got out of my car and popped the hatch, the door on the lone white minivan slowly opened. A gentleman walked forward, hands in his pockets, head hung.

As he lifted his eyes to meet mine, I noticed the tears welling. He put out his hand, introduced himself and starting thanking me before I could even utter a word or show him what I had selected for his girls.

Once the gifts, that his daughter’s had been asking for from Santa, were loaded into his car, he thanked me again. And then he stood there. In silence. I’m sure I cocked my head to the side, as I do when I am questioning someone. He responded by holding out his arms and pulling me into a warm hug. As we embraced I could feel him holding back the sobs. He thanked me again, with a cracking voice, and he was off.

I don’t remember his name. I wouldn’t recognize him if I saw him again. A ghost of Christmas past, he reminded me the impact that one person can have on another.

That was four years ago when I “adopted” my first family from Bluffton Self Help. I wasn’t prepared for the impact the experience would have on me. And, as I type this column, I have just returned from Christmas shopping for my “Self Help family” this year.

I don’t have to tell you that this has been a rough year. People are hurting everywhere. And, a lot of folks are in need. But, before you send your holiday tidings off to an organization afar, I simply ask you to consider supporting those in our own community this year -- our neighbors, our friends, our colleagues.

Like year’s past, Bluffton Self Help will be collaborating with churches, communities, civic groups, clubs and families to provide toys to over 1,000 children during the upcoming holiday season. Imagine changing the lives of 1,000 children. That is a remarkable feat in our small town.

Self Help Executive Director, Jenny Haney, strongly believes that no child should be denied the joy of having gifts awaiting them on Christmas morning. I couldn’t agree more.

The specific need this year is gift items for boys and girls, ages eight to 12 years old. Haney’s suggestions include: arts and craft supplies, themed Lego’s, books, sports equipment, jewelry-making kits, and girl’s hair accessories.

So, while you are out and about doing your holiday shopping, think about slipping just one extra item in your shopping cart, and then deliver it to Bluffton Self Help (1264 May River Road) before next Monday, December 13th.

Do you remember the joy of waking up on Christmas morning? Pulling back the covers and rushing out of your room to see what was waiting under the tree?

Can you imagine if you had found nothing when you got there? Think about it.

Skip the Starbucks this morning and warm someone else’s heart.

“Remember, if Christmas isn't found in your heart, you won't find it under a tree." - Charlotte Carpenter

For more information:
Bluffton Self Help
1264 May River Road, Bluffton, SC
843.757.8000
www.blufftonselfhelp.org

Crossing the Line appears every other Wednesday. Courtney Hampson can be reached at courtneyh@hargray.com.

A Christmas Story

2010-12-02T15:30:00.005-05:00

From the December issue of CH/CB2

Pictured: Me and my sister, Sharon (left), with Fritz (in the loving head-lock) circa 1978.

When I think about memorable holiday moments, it is hard to ignore the Christmas that my cousin Jimmy was in jail. My sister, brother-in-law, then-husband, and I, marched in from the cold, shook off the chill, and proceeded to take off our coats to reveal matching t-shirts that read “FREE JIMMY.” We got a pretty good laugh, but had little time to pat ourselves on the back because we had to quickly change before Jimmy’s side of the family arrived.

Truthfully though, one flip through the ol’ family photo album and all of my Christmas memories come flooding back. In hindsight, I now realize how fortunate I was to be the oldest cousin on my Mom’s side. Because every one of my Christmas Eve outfits saw three wears post-me. You can basically figure out what year every picture is taken just by doing some quick math. If I wore the red plaid dress in 1979, it is likely that my sister Sharon wore it in 1982, my cousin Kim in 1983, and finally my cousin Ali in 1987. The male cousins suffered the same fate. The powder-blue-three-piece suit that Michael wore, then Dan, then Jimmy (pre-jail) was a little hard on the eyes by the time 1985 rolled around.

Then, of course, there was the Christmas of my first year of college. In August I left for the #1 party school in the nation. By Christmas break, I was home in NJ with all of my belongings, and registered for the local community college. Apparently, straight-A Courtney and #1 party school did not mix.

So, when I arrived at our Christmas Eve destination, and was greeted by my cousin’s husband who said, “Merry Christmas, even though you’re a college drop out,” the holiday spirit was pretty much sucked from the room. If only I had known that years later his son would be in jail (yup, same Jimmy), I might have spoken my mind. And, if my cousin hadn’t divorced him a few years later, he would know that I went on to graduate with a 3.7 GPA, and had an even higher GPA in grad school. How’s that for merry, buster?

If you look at the picture of me from that very Christmas morning circa 1991, you’ll see me in my West Virginia University sweatshirt. That is the 18th such picture in that series. Me, turning the corner, at the bottom of the stairs to see what was under the tree.

The rule in our house was that you couldn’t go downstairs until Mom and Dad were awake. And, once they were awake, you had to wait for them to set up the cameras (including video) so they could capture that moment when we first saw all of the presents piled under the tree. Every year we played along. No matter how old I got, I still savored that moments.

Before we would head downstairs, we would “do our stockings,” which hung on the cardboard mantle. Oh, you read correctly. We didn’t have a fireplace in our house, so my parents purchased a three-dimensional cardboard fireplace, that they would lug out of the attic each year and affix to the wall, so we could hang our stocking by the chimney with care. I still don’t know how that thing survived more than a dozen Christmases with stockings weighing in at a combined thirty pounds easily. It truly is a Christmas miracle.

Now, while we had to wait to get near the tree on Christmas morning, our dog Fritz had the run of the house. Which is why when he peed on baby Jesus, in the manger, I wrote a story about it (career foreshadowing). My Mom reminded me, as I was writing this story, of the night nearly 32 years ago when she and my father went to my back school night, sat down at my little desk, and had the opportunity to read the Christmas story I wrote. Apparently, Fritz’s manger-peeing-extravaganza was the focal point. Hey, drama sells.

As I got older, and started buying Christmas presents (that you couldn’t find at the elementary school bookmobile), I truly began to appreciate the spirit of the season. I love to give. (I’m not 100% onboard with it’s better to give than receive, but I tip the scales on giving, if I do say so myself.)

So, for my first grown-up Christmas, I was excited to buy gifts for the members of my extended family. I picked out a really luxurious pair of satin pajamas for my Grandmother. When she opened the box she appeared surprised. She slowly pulled the pants and the top from their wrapping, and looked at me and said, “This is beautiful Cour, but I don’t know where I would wear it.” I looked right back at her and said, “How about … to bed.” That is one moment I wish we had captured on film.

In a time when our photo albums are posted on Facebook, I miss the days when a picture wasn’t taken from a phone, when you only saved the good ones, when you wrote the event and date on the back, and cherished the picture until the edges were tattered.

Today, as I flip through our old family photos albums, I realize that no matter what year the picture was taken, the story and the characters are the same. I know that … In the dining room there is a green Jell-O mold with maraschino cherries courtesy of Aunt Madeleine. One of the men of the family is in a bedroom somewhere struggling into the decades old Santa suit. The older cousins might be playing drinking games. And, everyone else is gathered around the tree, singing carols awaiting Santa’s arrival.

Christmas is a season of tradition. Quirks and all, every family has a story -- of family traditions that you should never let go.

Are We There Yet?

2010-11-24T08:00:00.000-05:00

Bluffton Today column
November 24, 2010

How do you know if you are in a relationship? Well, that answer smacked me in the face a couple Sundays ago. Let me tell you how it all went down. As I settled into his truck to head out for breakfast I looked down at my bare knees and said, “Geez, I missed my knees shaving.” He responded with, “You want a razor?” as he reached back, pulled a Target bag from the backseat and gave me a brand new razor.

I promptly cracked the plastic, and got to work on my knees. It wasn’t until he said, “I guess this is how we know we are in a relationship,” that the wheels started turning and I began to wonder, what is that pivotal moment when you know?

Now, clearly I “knew” long before I decided to perform my personal hygiene in his car. It might have been the moment when he said, “I adore you.” Or the afternoon he spent hanging a new screen door for me. Or the days he let my dog out, when I was held up at work. Or even more likely, the five hours he spent with the cable guy trying to get new cable run throughout my house. That, my friends, is love.

Nevertheless, a quick poll of my friends yielded some interesting stories on the same subject. Many of them revolved around bathroom-related incidents, which made my leg shaving extravaganza, appear utterly minute. My Mom (who really should start getting some money on the side for all of the fodder she adds to this column!) said, “When I started folding his underwear.” I am not sure if she was referring to my Dad or my Step-Dad and it is probably best not to ask that question. The romantics in my friend list all pointed to the moment when one of them was ready to move away, was begged to stay, and lived happily after.

Relationships become even more complicated around the holidays. Especially when you are preparing for your first holiday together. Whose family do you spend time with? How do you combine your traditions? How do you convince him that chocolate mousse is indeed an appropriate Thanksgiving dessert?

My rules are simple. I host Thanksgiving. I have been using the same recipes for the last seven years. And, I have the day (ok, the week) planned down to the moment. So, by now he knows that obsessive-compulsive-Martha-Stewartesque-detail-oriented-Courtney is going to come out to play. Heck, he’s seen previews of the persona, and he is still hanging around, so I tip my hat to him.

Last night we grocery shopped. Today, we’ll begin our food prep – the stuffing, chocolate mousse, stuffed mushrooms, and soup will all get crossed off the list today. And, our turkey will begin his transformation as we brine him with sweet tea.

Tonight, we’ll test my Thanksgiving Eve tradition and see if it is up to par according to his radar. I am hoping for a chill in the air, so we can make a fire. While prepping the shrimp for appetizers tomorrow, I will squirrel away a pound and make shrimp salad sandwiches for dinner. We’ll pop Home for the Holidays, into the DVD player, and watch this hilarious film that tackles the topic of torturous holiday snafus among family.

If the weathermen are right and temperatures are going to top 80, we’ll launch a new tradition tomorrow – appetizers, margaritas, and corn hole in the back yard, before the big feast.

Finally, when we all gather around the table, we’ll decide if his cheesy biscuits do indeed make the cut. I bet I’ll adore them.
Happy Thanksgiving Bluffton. Here’s hoping your traditions go off without a hitch.

Crossing the Line appears every other Wednesday. Courtney Hampson can be reached at courtneyh@hargray.com.

Who Are Your People?

2010-11-03T15:27:00.003-04:00

Bluffton Today column
November 3, 2010

Eleven years ago I was rushed to the hospital and scheduled for immediate surgery. I was bleeding internally due to an ectopic pregnancy. In an effort to avoid coming to terms with what was happening with me, I focused instead on what was going on around me. Shortly after I was brought into the emergency room, a gentleman was wheeled in, his children by his side. Hushed voices escalated to raised voices and it was clear that this man was fighting for his life. While they prepped me for surgery in the next room (created only by curtains), I concentrated the best I could on his prognosis and it was grim. He too was being prepared for surgery.

I was told later that after I woke in the ICU, the first thing I said was, “How is the man who came in after me?” I was happy to learn that he survived after suffering an aneurysm.

Fast forward about a year and my Mom’s washer and dryer go on the fritz. As she stood in the garage chatting with the repairman – as only she can – he became comfortable enough to reveal that just a year earlier he almost died. You see where I am going with this, right?

Yes, the repairman was the man who lay next to me in the hospital.

I was recalling this story not long ago, after a friend and I were talking about Mitch Albom’s book The Five People You Meet in Heaven. The book recounts the life and death of Eddie, an amusement park maintenance man who dies in an accident at work. After dying, Eddie finds himself in heaven where he encounters five people who have significantly affected his life, whether he realized that at the time or not.

And, of course, that got me wondering, who are my five people? I suspect that Mom’s washer/dryer repairman is one of them. He probably doesn’t know that my being a bystander to his trauma certainly put into perspective my own trauma that day. And oddly, 11 years later I still think about him and that day often.

As my conversation continued with my friend, he was really only able to identify one of his five possible “people.” Interestingly, his connection also revolves around a chance meeting, in the hallway of a hospital, on what was one of the most marked days of his life.

So, as I was processing all of the above, it made me think of the people who pass in and out of your life every day, that you likely never acknowledge, or never spend the time getting to know. And then, there are those who make such a huge impact in your life, that when they are gone, the void is deep.

Two weeks ago, my boss, mentor, counselor and pseudo-father-figure retired. As he choked up during his announcement, the tears streamed down my face. I even let a very unprofessional sob escape. Over the course of five years, Bill was my go-to guy. He was a brilliant manager, always calm under pressure, inspiring at all the right moments, and always willing to let me fall into a chair in his office “just to talk.”

For the next seven days, I cried. (Another example of my innate professionalism.) Until suddenly I realized that everything Bill had taught me in five years was suddenly being put to the test. And because he taught me to be better than I think I am I needed to snap the heck out of it.

Is Bill one of my five, or is that too obvious a suggestion?

This past Saturday, I played in the Wayne Hamby Memorial Golf Tournament at Pinecrest Golf Club. Wayne was a part of my Mom’s group of friends and golf comrades here in Bluffton. Knowing my Mom’s love for Wayne and his wife Vicki, I wanted to play, despite the fact that my clubs had 3 years of no-action-accumulated-dust on them.

As the opening announcements for the tournament unfolded, I learned that friends of Wayne’s had driven in from hundreds of miles and multiple states to be a part of the fitting tribute. That was the impact Wayne made. On Saturday he graced us with perfect weather – and he must have been listening to me as I begged for someone to help me to hit the ball straight off the tee.

It made me wonder, how many people at the tournament would say that Wayne was one of their five, and who Wayne might have met when he made it to heaven.

Strung Out: The Story of Bob Benedetto

2010-10-28T16:04:00.002-04:00

CH2, November 2010

Tucked into a non-descript warehouse, on the south side of Savannah, sits Benedetto Guitars. Wood dust, the scent of varnish, and the strains of string guitar waft into the air. Artisans work diligently on the next masterpiece. And Benedetto President Howard Paul is just wrapping up a more than two hour tour (and a phenomenal education on the history of the jazz guitar) when he nonchalantly quips, “Hey Bob, we’re coming through …”

After a collective gasp and sideways glances, among the C2 team, we realized that we were standing in the same room as master luthier Bob Benedetto. The legend to whom Paul had been referring for hours.

Admittedly, I didn’t ask the question, “Is Bob here?” I wrongly assumed he wouldn’t be toiling in the factory with the rest of his team. But, there he was, head tucked, hands in motion as he slowly sculpted a small body acoustic archtop from a piece of Sitka spruce, salvaged from a salt water bay, where a mollusk had his way with the wood, creating a stunning gift from nature.

But the story begins long before that. Decades before, in fact.

Born into a family of artists, cabinet makers and musicians (his grandfather made the legs on Steinway pianos), Benedetto made his first archtop guitar in 1968, with tools passed down from his grandfather and others that he made himself.

His reputation grew as he crafted guitars for noted players Bucky Pizzarelli, Chuck Wayne, Joe Diorio and Cal Collins. Later he added Johnny Smith, Jack Wilkins, Ron Eschete, Martin Taylor, Howard Alden, John Pizzarelli, Andy Summers, Jimmy Bruno and Kenny Burrell to the list of “The Benedetto Players. ” Pictures of all of them line the walls of the Savannah factory, many with a handwritten note documenting the day and place the moment was captured. The photographic history of Benedetto has been captured over decades by Bob’s wife Cindy, a photographer. (They met at a wedding, she the photographer and Bob in the band.)

As his name grew, so did the demand. From 1999-2006, Benedetto had a licensing agreement with Fender Musical Instruments to produce his models in a small, controlled manufacturing environment. But, for a man who nurtures a love affair with his craft, Benedetto was anxious to be back on his own.

In 2006, he joined forces with Howard Paul to take the Benedetto Guitar brand worldwide. The two have been making music and some rather stunning works of art ever since.

The process of crafting a Benedetto Guitar is long, and tedious, and requires the skilled hands of masters. The precision and personal attention to each instrument is what makes each Benedetto guitar special. The perfect piece of wood is selected from the 103 degree “wood room,” where Benedetto stores unique finds from all over the world (and where we spent 10 minutes sweating along with the story). Once the piece of wood is selected, it is carved diligently by hand to create the top and back of this hollow-bodied instrument. Every tree is different hence, every Benedetto guitar is unique. Master finisher Matt Eady hand sands and applies the color stain to each perfectly crafted body, in painstaking, repetitious manner. Such care is taken that only one instrument a day gets Eady’s attention. Master luthier Damon Mailand works on the final elements, adding the strings and finger plate, which “floats” magically above the body.

Don’t be mistaken – even though Benedetto receives worldwide acclaim, Bob personally signs and packs every instrument. Nothing leaves the factory without his approval. That is probably why Bob Benedetto is acknowledged as today’s foremost maker of archtop guitars. Over a prolific four-decade career, he has personally handcrafted nearly 800 instruments, including 500 archtops.

Today, Benedetto guitars appear on countless recordings, TV and film soundtracks, in videos, books, magazines, concerts, and museums, including the Smithsonian Institution who said, “I can think of no two people in the history of lutherie who have done more to increase appreciation for the archtop guitar than Bob and Cindy Benedetto.”

While the artists are at work, President Howard Paul oversees the day to day operations and handles 100% of sales for the company. While describing his crazy schedule, his phone rang and he rolled his eyes with an exaggerated smirk. “I’m also the secretary,” he chuckled as he covered the receiver with his hand.

Paul is a busy man and a talented jazz musician in his own right. When we sat down he had just played a dozen gigs, in ten days, while also moonlighting as one of the chief volunteers responsible for organizing the Savannah Jazz Festival. This year’s Festival poster features a portrait of him. And as the Festival had just wrapped its week-long schedule of performances, Paul looked exhausted, yet proud.

No rest for the weary, but at Benedetto, Paul is able to combine all of his loves since he admittedly has a hard time saying, “No.”

Paul has always been surrounded by music. He started playing guitar at four, jazz guitar at 10, and was playing professionally by the time he became a teenager. At 21, he was teaching guitar at the college level. Living in Atlantic City, NJ, there were plenty of gigs available for Paul, but he soon learned that the bar scene – “booze, drugs, and loose women,” he says – was a bad environment. So he went to college, graduated from the University of North Carolina and was soon back in Atlantic City. Again with the booze, the drugs, and those darn women.

So, his next escape was the Army, where he spent 10 years as a logistics officer. After the Army, Paul spent 10 years as a logistics executive for Chatham Steel. But, he “gigged the whole time. I never stopped playing,” he says.

Finally, in 1996 he was ready for his first Benedetto guitar. With a 3 ½ year wait on his hands (as if you needed anymore proof that these are truly custom works of art), Paul had plenty of time to become friends with the Bob Benedetto. Their friendship grew and a decade later their partnership was sealed.

Now four years into the journey, the duet crosses paths each day in the Savannah factory, where a tireless crew works to ensure that the artistry of jazz is as present in the instrument as it is the musician.

Voter Apathy and the Missing Blufftonians

2010-10-20T16:02:00.000-04:00

Bluffton Today column
October 20, 2010

With Election Day just a couple weeks away, I thought it only appropriate that we brace ourselves for that mysterious time of year when 75% of Bluffton residents disappear. And by disappear, I mean sit on their behinds and choose not to vote. Voter apathy in Bluffton is an epidemic. I’ve written about it before. No one ever listens to me. Alas, I will give it one more try …

I get that you are busy, and that your time is valuable, but it will only take 15 minutes to vote. I promise. So, omit one little part of your daily routine and you’ll have made up the time … don’t shave your legs, or skip the trip to Starbucks, or eliminate one Facebook login, maybe even trade in your daily workout and walk to your polling place instead.

With our Gubernatorial and US Senate seats up for grabs, I hope you will move to action (you can find those ballots at scvotes.org). And, if nothing else, direct your attention locally (bcgov.net). Don’t just sit back and watch the world go by, and let other people make decisions for you. When you do, you eliminate your voice, literally and figuratively. Meaning, if you aren’t going to vote, then for crying out loud, don’t complain. You haven’t earned that right. (I have earned that right, by the way, which is why I am going to continue down this path, just in case you were wondering.)

Now comes the twist. Locally, with the exception of the County Treasurer, every other seat that Blufftonians have the opportunity to decide, is an unopposed race. So, what is worse – folks not voting, or folks not running for office?

Whilst we are talking about the County Treasurer’s race, allow me to say this to the incumbent, Joy Logan. You ma’am, have some balls. I applaud your bravado (commence eye rolling) as you forge ahead in an attempt to continue to serve as an elected office, despite the public flogging that you have received, of late. I mean, the County Council has passed a resolution asking for your resignation. (Pay no attention to the fact that it is actually the voters who should be doing that, since we elected her.) And who cares that one of her former employees, the Clerk of Court, was indicted on federal charges of conversion of public funds. (Everyone makes a mistake now and then, right?)

Let me just point out that this time around, Joy Logan has an opponent.

His name is Douglas Henderson.

Now, I’m not going to tell you how to vote, but for the love of Pete (or Doug), would you do me the favor and at least do some research? If nothing else, could we ensure that Mr. Henderson has never let $200,000 of public funds disappear under his leadership? That’s all I ask.

Ok, now you’ve gotten me all riled up.

Since we are talking about the Treasurer’s Office, might this be the appropriate time to ask why in the world we are instructed to make the check out to Joy Logan when we pay our personal property taxes (car, boat, etc.)? Let’s ignore the obvious, and focus solely on the fact that my tax check shouldn’t be made out to a person. If these are county taxes, I’d prefer to pay the county. So, this begs the question, when I pay my property taxes online (I refuse to write a check to Logan) is it deposited into an account in Logan’s name (and, in essence funding her retirement, or legal bills for that matter)?

Now, my dear friends, if you decide to take my advice, and walk, jog, or bike to your polling place (doing good for your health and the health of our community, bonus!) then maybe you will be able to answer one more question for me. Why, oh why, when we have miles and miles of bike paths in Bluffton do the bikers insist on riding in the road? When they do this they put themselves and the rest of us in harm’s way. I mean, if I am driving in the right lane, and have to avoid a biker riding down the shoulder, but there is car in the left lane, whose life do I decide to save?

Now I am all worked up, and out of breathe, from agitation. I might ride my bike on Buckwalter Parkway this afternoon, just because I can. Or, maybe I should run for town council next time around. Just sayin’ …

There's A Hole in my Bucket

2010-10-06T09:08:00.003-04:00

Bluffton Today column
October 6, 2010

Last weekend, I was preparing to spend the afternoon on the boat when I remembered that I threw out my “beer bucket” after my last outing on the high seas. “Beer bucket” is the nickname (yes, even buckets have nicknames in my life) for the garbage can on the boat. After three years of extensive use, “beer bucket” needed to meet his maker. So, to the landfill he went.

I called my co-captain for the day, let’s call him Lanky, and asked him to grab a bucket on his way. As we piled all of our gear – including new beer bucket - into the car, Lanky told me about the great deal he got on the bucket saying, “They gave me a discount because it has a hole in it.”

(If you’re not laughing now, you should never read my column again. Seriously, throw away the paper and never read another word of Courtney again.)

I was consumed by laughter.

Shoulders shaking.

Chest heaving.

Pee-your-pants laughter.

So much so that I couldn’t even eek out a reply.

When I finally composed myself, I had to ask, “So Lanky, who do you think really made out in this situation? I mean, the sole purpose of a bucket is to hold things. A bucket with a hole is no longer able to serve his purpose. So, did you really get a deal? Or is the guy at the store laughing all the way to the bank with the two bucks that you spent on an item that was no longer sell-able?”

Lanky was less than amused. I may have even hurt his feelings a little bit. Hey, maybe I’m crazy. Maybe the joy in receiving a good bargain far outweighs the fact that said bargain may suffer an early demise.
But nonetheless, we installed new beer bucket, who we’ll call “busted bottom,” and enjoyed the day on the boat.

Perception being everything, this bucket blunder made me wonder … if the bucket salesman was telling the story, what would his perspective be? And that got me thinking even more – when two people witness the same thing – how likely is it that both will recap the event in the same way?

I ask because, well, the bucket blunder didn’t end there.

After docking on Saturday, we cleaned the boat and brought “busted bottom” off the boat to dump his contents. Then, we threw him in the back of the car with the rest of the boating paraphernalia. So, on Sunday, when I was at Target and opened the back door of my SUV, “busted bottom” took a tumble. He rolled right under the car. I couldn’t grab him in time and he was soon safely stuck beneath my vehicle.

What to do? What to do?

I looked around to see who was watching before I determined my next move. And, as luck would have it the cart guy was in my parking aisle, and stopped to watch the show.

Now, I had to think quick.

My gut reaction was to just drive away. “Busted bottom” wasn’t worth the struggle, I mean he was already injured so why not just put him out of his misery? Honestly, what I wanted to do was utter a phrase that rhymes with bucket. However, upon further reflection I realized that based on how he was positioned under the car, it was more likely that I would back up and end up dragging him all the way home.

Another quick look over my shoulder revealed that cart guy was still watching so I really had no choice but to rescue “busted bottom.”

So there I was, lying on my side, in the Target parking lot, head beneath my car, arm outstretched, trying to fish “busted bottom” out from under the car with an umbrella. And, wouldn’t you know it … if it wasn’t for that hole, I never would have been able to capture the bucket.

I can only image that when cart guy got home that night he told the story of the crazy lady, lying down in the parking lot, with her head under her car, trying to grab a bucket. I wonder how his version ended?

Now, according to Lanky, his $2 was well spent because Bluffton - if not the world - got at least four stories out of it.

Interview With A Vampire

2010-10-04T15:41:00.005-04:00

C2 EXCLUSIVE: Candice Accola - Interview With A Vampire

“No doesn’t mean never, it just means not yet.” Wise words uttered by Candice Accola’s father, and the inspiration she needed to continue auditioning, hoping for the perfect role. It worked.

In grade school, scary movies were an essential element of any slumber party for Accola. She grew up shrieking to the “Scream” and “I Know What You Did Last Summer” thrillogies. So, it is only natural that once she determined that acting was her career path, she would land her breakout role on the hit television series “Vampire Diaries.”

For Accola, her role is proof that dreams do come true. For the rest of us, it is the realization that at some point over the last few years the vampire genre has become a pop-culture phenomenon. It’s saucy, sexy, and fraught with innuendo. Oh, and there’s blood (corn syrup and Jello) and fangs if you’re into that kind of thing.

On the Vampire Diaries, Accola plays “Caroline Forbes,” who in the first season was of the non-vampire persuasion (we thought!), yet a selfish, bitchy, "frenemy" who was always out to win the popularity contest. According to Accola, “As the season progressed, I think the writers gave the character the opportunity to be so much more than any stereotype. The audience got to see that all of her external characteristics were really just a front for her insecurities and her constant need to just feel loved.” The writers may have also seen the spark in Accola, who has made this role her own.

At the end of season one “Caroline” was in a car crash and her fate was unknown. However, just days after the premier of season two – fans where in a tizzy and the internet was all a buzz with the revelation that Caroline survived the crash and in a dramatic twist is indeed a vampire. The plot thickens.

As a fan of the genre, it is clear that Accola isn’t spooked easily. She admits to an adventurous spirit, but very little scares her. “I’m pretty adventurous person but I've never ridden on a motorcycle,” she says. “The thought of not controlling the situation is what scares me more than being on a motorcycle. For instance, I love driving jet skis but if I have to ride on the back of one, I'm a pain in the ass for whoever's driving it!”

Ah, so it is control she seeks.

She has it. At a mere 23 years of age she is on her own in Atlanta, where the series films, and completely in control of her future. Raised in Orlando by her surgeon father and engineer mother, Accola remarks that it was “quite a curve ball” to her parents when she decided to pursue acting. Yet, her parents are her biggest fans and together with her brother Kree, they tune in each week to watch Vampire Diaries. And, Accola admits that it warms her heart when she sees Kree’s Facebook updates telling all of his friends to tune it and watch his big sister on TV.

While she is not one to get ahead of herself, and appreciates all that she has today, Accola continues to dream big. Her dream role? “A biopic seems like it would present the kind of role that would scare me the most and create the most challenges. When things are uncomfortable and scary, that's when you find out how capable and strong you really are,” she says.

And, she thinks a lot about the kind of career she wants to have. When asked if there is an actor’s career that she wants to emulate, Accola hesitates and says, “I think about this question a lot. Then I feel overwhelmed by this pressure to live up to somebody else's achievements according to their timeline. I respect so many actors’ paths and choices. But if I keep paying attention to what they're doing, I lose focus on where I'm at in my own journey. I'm focused on where I want my own career to go. Anything is possible in this business.”

When she isn’t dodging vampires on set in Atlanta, you’ll find Accola at the DeKalb Farmers Market, taking guitar lessons, riding her bike, seeing a movie or reading. (Specifically, she’s just convinced the other ladies on set to start a book club in their down time, and they’ll be tackling the Stieg Larsson “Girl with the Dragon Tattoo” series first.) Luckily, Accola also set aside some time to indulge CH2 in a little Inside the Actor’s Studio- like Q&A.

Here, we get a little more insight into her persona, a la Proust and James Lipton. I think you’ll agree - she has her head and her heart in the right place.

What is your idea of perfect happiness?
A hammock, on a beach, with the one I love, after a Sunday BBQ with family and friends.

What is your greatest fear?
Fear itself. That quote's an oldie but goodie.

What is the trait you most deplore in yourself?
My inner monologue when it becomes plagued by fear.

What is the trait you most deplore in others?
Close mindedness.

What is your greatest extravagance?
Dinners and dinner parties. And vintage jackets that are ridiculous to wear in L.A. or Georgia.

What is your current state of mind?
Focused.

What do you dislike most about your appearance?
Everyone has insecurities about their appearance. Rather than single those out I’d rather embrace mine in a positive way. They're what make me, me.

Which living person do you most despise?
It takes a lot of time and energy to despise someone. I focus my energy on the people I love.

What is it that you most dislike?
Questions that ask you to pinpoint negative things in your life. (Touché! Love this girl.)

What do you most value in your friends?
An unconditional love without judgment, a willingness to agree to disagree, an ability to go with the flow.

What or who is the greatest love of your life?
Life itself.

When and where were you happiest?
Whenever I’m laughing with friends, loves or family. A glass of wine in hand is the cherry on top!

If you could change one thing about yourself, what would it be?
I'm in my twenties. I change constantly as it is.

What do you consider your greatest achievement?
Thus far, my greatest achievements have been signing a record deal, being a part of the record breaking Miley Cyrus “Best of Both Worlds” tour and booking the job of Caroline on “The Vampire Diaries.”

Where would you like to live?
Seattle.

What is your favorite word?
“Oh-my-goodness.” When I say it, it's one word.

What is your most treasured possession?
A purple trunk of my childhood memories at my parents’ house.

What is your most marked characteristic?
My ability to find true excitement in life's mundane things.

Which historical figure do you most identify with?
Benjamin Franklin.

On what occasion do you lie?
When I'm asked, "which historical figure I most Identify with?"

What is your motto?
It always works out.

Puppy Love

2010-10-04T15:36:00.002-04:00

C2 October issue
Gimme Shelter - Pal's New Home Provides Hope For Adoptable Pets

Four to five thousand unwanted and homeless cats and dogs are euthanized each year in Beaufort County. That is not a typo. Four to five thousand every year. It is a heartbreaking statistic.

Amy Campanini, Executive Director of Palmetto Animal League (PAL) witnesses that heartbreak every day. It is the reason she has dedicated the better half of this decade to being a part of the solution.

Palmetto Animal League (formerly Beaufort Humane Association) is a thirty-year young non-profit organization dedicated to being the voice for animals in need in the Lowcountry. PAL works tirelessly promoting pet adoptions, providing rescue, educating people about the humane treatment of all animals and ending pet overpopulation through low cost spay/neuter services.

In 2002, PAL launched a foster care program and in the eight years since they have helped over 5,000 animals through rescue, foster care and adoption. What is most remarkable is that they did all of this with no place to call home. PAL has no physical building, simply an extensive foster care network and a dedicate corps of volunteers.

However, this is all about to change.

On October 30th, PAL will open their new Adoption Center in Riverwalk Business Park. There, they are creating a home-like atmosphere for the cats and dogs that need a home away from their forever home. “It is a halfway house,” says Campanini with a chuckle, “they are halfway home.”

And what a home it will be. Cage-less kitty condos will be available for the feline population. Puppies will room with their littermates and in some cases with Mom too. A dozen kennels will allow dogs to live communally according to their pack profile – their personality types and dispositions will determine who their roommate is. The Lifestyle Room will feel like your family room at home - featuring couches and TV – and offering a spot for the animals, and their human volunteers to horse around or simply relax. Socialization is key for the animals, to prepare them for their new families. The dual benefit for humans isn’t to be ignored either … in fact, Campanini mused about singles’ activities at PAL. Hmmm, she may be on to something here.

Campanini’s goal is to make the Adoption Center people-friendly too, “We want people to come in, feel comfortable and spend time here. And more importantly, we want them to return.”

After all, the success of PAL has been built on the backs of their volunteers. PAL has more than 100 active volunteers who bathe, groom, socialize, and train the animals. Campanini also encourages volunteers to have a doggie date. Take a road trip to Petco or Petsmart. Walk on the beach. Visit an outdoor café. Play fetch at the dog park. (A date who doesn’t talk your ear off. Or pick his teeth during dinner. Or belch the alphabet. Score!)

“The mantra at PAL is that we work hard, but we also have fun,” says Campanini. Her warm and engaging personality supports that theory. Her eyes smiled as she reminisced about a woman visiting the PAL booth at Mayfest this past spring. There, she happened upon two dogs humping and commented, “Wow. PAL really does have fun!”

The work is fun. But, their goals are lofty. The Adoption Center has room for 120 adoption-ready cats and dogs and Campanini hopes to adopt out 500 pets in the first year. They can’t do it alone.

And sadly she says, “We won’t adopt our way out of the problem that exists.” But we can change the perception of this problem, which Campanini indicates is the underlying cause. The negative stigma of shelter cats and dogs prevents many from making a shelter animal a member of their family. People hear “shelter” and they picture hundreds of skinny dogs, behind bars, with sad eyes. And then they are reluctant to pick just one, they feel guilt over leaving the other animals behind. So, folks avoid shelters. And, as a result six to eight million cats and dogs will die this year in the United States.

But the bottom line is these animals are not damaged goods. They are sweet, innocent, unique personalities … each hoping for a place to call home. And we – YOU – should give them a chance.

Visit the new PAL Adoption Center. Volunteer. Laugh. Learn. And maybe, just maybe, you’ll meet the four-legged love of your life.

IF YOU GO
Palmetto Animal League Adoption Center Grand Opening
Saturday, October 30th
Come dressed to celebrate “Howl-o-ween” and bring a treat for our furry friends. The Center appreciates donations of dog and cat food and treats, toys, and cat litter. Visit palmettoanimalleague.org for more details. Woof!

All Charged Up

2010-09-22T10:44:00.000-04:00

Bluffton Today column
September 22, 2010

Last week my car battery died. So, what’s a single girl to do? Call her mother, of course! Seriously, I’m 37 years old and still called my Mom. I chalk it up to the genre of the problem. I am just not comfortable dealing with car issues. (Or cable TV, landscaping, or exterminating, just in case anyone is taking notes.)

Call number two was to AAA, who assured me that someone would be at my house in 45 minutes to an hour. Five minutes later there was a knock on the door and Carolina Towing was ready to get to work. Five minutes! You have to love Bluffton.

Brian from Carolina Towing concurred with my dead battery diagnosis and then he shocked the hell out of me. He installed a new battery, right there, in my driveway. Hello! Now that is service.

Remember the old days, when you used to have to have your car towed to the garage. Drop your keys in the drop box. (Because don’t batteries always die after the end of the business day?) Get a ride to work the next morning. Call the garage when you got to work, explaining that you are the dope who dropped your car off in the middle of the night. Then, listen to them tell you how long it would take for them to “get to it.” You catch my drift.

As Brian toiled under the hood, my Mom swung by just to make sure all was well. (And, that Brian was not an ax-murderer.) To keep him on his toes, she drilled him with car repair questions and complimented him on the nice “wrap” on his truck. Oh yes, even going so far as to ask where he got it done. Um Mom, are you planning to get your 2005 Chevy Malibu wrapped with your personal logo?

Once the work was done, in less than the time AAA thought it would take for them to even arrive, Mom reminded me of another AAA escapade more than a dozen years ago. This would be the episode where I locked my keys in my car, three times in one week.

Back then, I would go out for a morning run, and stick my keys under the car mat, while I was gone. In hindsight, not my wisest move ever. I realize now that not only was I giving a potential unsavory character access to steal the car, but they could also unlock the front door of the house. Anyway, on one particular morning (and two subsequent, but who’s counting?), I somehow managed to lock the keys in the car, so I called AAA.

Now it is important to note that my car at the time was a Kia Sephia. Basically the first Kia model ever introduced to the world. Hey, I was a recent college graduate and making peanuts, give me a break.

So, I called AAA and explained that I locked my keys in the car. The very helpful (insert sarcasm here) customer service representative began her line of questioning. Name? Membership number? Address? Car make and model?

“It’s a Kia.”

“A what?”

“A Kia. A Kia Sephia.”

“I’m sorry, a what?”

“Kia. K-I-A. Kia.” (Exasperated sigh.)

“That isn’t a car. There is no Kia in my database.”

“Oh, I assure you, it is a car.” (Volume increases and a special accent is placed on the word “car.”)

“Kia?”

“Yes, A KIA!” (Shouting now!)

Mumbling almost inaudibly, “I’ve never heard of a Kia.”

“How about this … it is THE ONLY CAR IN THE DRIVEWAY! Think you’ll be able to find it?”

“Ok, someone will there shortly.”

Miracle of all miracles, the AAA guy did find the only car in the driveway.

Fast forward one third of my life and you can now see why my delight regarding good service – signed, sealed and delivered in under an hour – has me pretty giddy. (Thank goodness I drive a more recognizable vehicle these days.)

Now, if only we could get the DIRECTV customer service reps to employ that same level of service. Mom, will you call DIRECTV for me?

What's In a Name?

2010-09-08T10:42:00.001-04:00

Bluffton Today column
September 8, 2010

Sweetness.

Old Blue Eyes.

Tricky Dick.

Big Papi.

Phreenie.

These are the nicknames of legends - Walter Payton, Frank Sinatra, Richard Nixon, David Ortiz, and my Mom, respectively.

I want a nickname. I’ve always wanted a nickname.

The acquisition of a nickname however is serious business. Some nicknames make you cool. Some make you a laughing stock. Others prevent you from garnering votes. And then there are those that force you into a hermit-like lifestyle. I’d prefer the first -- a nickname that indicates my cool factor. One that sticks. One that defines me.

In high school, my best friend’s father, who was also a teacher, nicknamed me “Pita.” Translation: pain in the ass. When I sat three rows back in his Algebra II class, he called me Pita for 180 long days. You can imagine how well that was received. Luckily, Pita never caught on at home or elsewhere and it diminished along with my big hair at the end of high school.

My parents and sister call me “Cour.” Friends in high school called me “Court” (and still do today), but I don’t know that dropping a few letters constitutes a nickname, does it?

Why the fascination with a nickname?

Well, my first name is my father’s middle name. My middle name is my mother’s first name. My first name is also my paternal grandmother’s maiden name. So, it is only natural that my obsession with names came at an early age.

And, what a tangled web it wove.

You see it all started when my paternal grandmother died when my father was quite young. In tribute to her, my father always planned to name a daughter Courtney. A year before I was born my aunt gave birth to her third daughter, whom she named Mary, middle name Courtney. The family called her Mary.

That is, until I came along. Then Mary became Mary Courtney. Fast forward a few more years and suddenly Mary Courtney is just Courtney. And out of nowhere that branch of the family tree started calling me Courtney Eileen.

Whoa. Wait a minute now. Isn’t the first name-middle name combination reserved for ticked off parents wanting to make a strong statement yelling down the block for their child to come home? As in, “Courtney Eileen, get your butt in this house right now!”

Once the Mary vs. Courtney smack down came to light, I made a decision. People will call me what I want them to call me. No exceptions.

So, you can imagine my surprise the year that Aunt Madeleine and Uncle Al decided to make personalized ornaments for everyone for Christmas, and mine read “Corey.” Um, who? There must be some mistake here. Either, Aunt M and Uncle A have misunderstood my real name for oh, twelve years, or they were running short on yarn. For crying out loud, no one had ever (and has never since) called my Corey because well, it’s not my name!

Twenty something years later and I am still seeking that bonafide nickname.

It is important for all of the men reading to note that “Babe” is not a nickname. It is a feeble attempt at showing the woman you are with that you have some affection toward her. However, it may be perceived in the negative. Correction. It will be perceived in the negative by moi. Think Danny Zucko. He was so much cooler when he wasn’t trying so hard.

I was actually jealous when in her early teens my sister Sharon was dubbed “Sharnee” by a girl she babysat. It stuck, and she is still Sharnee today.

When my nieces began to talk, I knew I would get a nickname out of it – Courtney isn’t exactly easy to annunciate when you are a toddler. And, I did. I have been dubbed “Nortney” and “Ninny.” But outside the family circle, they really don’t see much play. However, let it be known that I dread the day that Erin or EmmaKate says, “Courtney.”

But, I still long for a nickname.

Do I have to do something memorable? Lead the league in tackles or homeruns? Croon ‘til folks swoon? Resign the Presidency?

Or simply, be me?

Like Phreenie has. Her nickname happened upon her in the most generic way. Young girls acting silly, making rhymes, and suddenly Eileen becomes Phreenie. We don’t remember exactly when or how it happened, but she is Phreenie. And, today is Phreenie’s birthday.

Maybe for my next birthday, I’ll get a nickname. Until then, I’ll wish Phreenie the happiest of birthdays. And hope that Sharnee, Peanut and Monkey continue to call me Nortney. After all, a nickname born of love is better than no nickname at all.

Midway Blue

2010-09-07T10:11:00.004-04:00

CH2 September 2010: The boys of Midway Blue rolled into town and I got the interview.

On a road somewhere between Florence and Myrtle Beach sits an old, rundown motel. A diner-esque sign flashes its name – “Midway” - in blue.

That sign defines the character of the country cool quintet, Midway Blue. It was lead singer Warren Stone who named the band while traversing the state headed to a gig. He was halfway to his destination when he paused for a minute and said, “wait, we don’t even have a name.” His wife looked out the car window and pointed to the Midway sign. The rest is history.

I caught up with Stone as he was once again, in the car, negotiating a state highway -- his manager talking in one ear, and me in the other. Stone wouldn’t have it any other way. He acknowledges that sometimes flying by the seat of your pants is the best way to arrive at your destination. In fact, he does it each night on stage noting, “Every night we make up lyrics.” It seems the lyrics don’t always come to him when he needs them. Stone admits that, “Sometimes on stage I just get side-tracked, I get caught up in the drummer’s energy or someone else bopping around. Heck, sometimes I even forget the lyrics to songs I wrote.” He is nothing, if not honest.

But, his band mates know him well enough to know that when he turns to them with that questioning look, he is searching for the next line. They nod, feed it to him, and the band plays on.

If truth be told, the band is often in sync like that, more so that you would expect since the five of them have been playing together for a mere two years. But sometimes things just click.

Stone believes that. In fact, his father has been telling him that for years, “Life is 110% luck, its being in the right place at the right time.” And that is really how Midways Blue’s story unfolded five years ago when Stone walked into Shuckers Grill and Raw Bar (where they are now the house band) and was mesmerized by the “kid” on the drums.

That kid was Parker Dewitt, then just 17 years old. The two hit it off immediately and eventually combined sounds with guitarist Tyler Roberts to form the trio “Stone and Friends.” In 2008, the three decided to cut a full length album as Midway Blue. In search of a new sound - to add a little edge - they invited bassist Liv McBride and mandolin player Jeff Springs into the studio. They grit their teeth and hoped for a little magic. They got it. Their self-titled inaugural album debuted last November.

Stone says it is also luck that landed them on “Fast Track to Fame,” which he likened to American Idol for NASCAR fans. Hosted by the Speed Channel, “Fast Track to Fame” was staged at eight racetracks around the country. 10,000 bands submitted audition tapes. Midway Blue quickly advanced and was dubbed “the band to beat.” Their 90 second final performance, a stellar rendition of the Marshall Tucker Band’s “Can You See,” made them the band that no one could beat, and they emerged the winner. I don’t know if this was pure luck, and chances are if you listen to them play, you might agree. There is a heck of a lot of talent in this band. And twice as much mutual respect.

To hear Stone talk about his band mates, it appears almost too good to be true. They all grew up in and around Florence, SC. They are small town boys. They love each other. They are a family. And like in any family, they each have a role to play. As the oldest member, at a whopping 29, Stone sees himself as the papa bear, always on the move handling the business of being a band.

When asked, Stone was more than happy to offer a little insight to his band of brothers. Tyler Roberts … “Well he is the class clown,” and Stone admits it is actually difficult to describe Roberts with just words.

If Stone is the hare, then Parker Dewitt is the tortoise – contemplative, he takes his time, with his music and with his thoughts. Liv McBride is the opinionated one, “you’ll never have to guess what he is thinking,” says Stone. And finally he says Jeff Springs is “pure musical genius.”

You might get a better of understanding of just who Warren Stone is by watching him on stage. He plays every show with a lit cigarette in his mouth. Yes, he is the lead singer and yes, he’s swallowed a cig or two over the course of his short career. And with a smirk he’ll tell you that, “I have worked very hard to be able to do both in tandem.”

In a recent appearance on WHHI’s Talk of the Town, the Midway Blue compatriots were dubbed “good old country boys.” But what exactly does that mean, I had to ask. Well, according to this five-some it means they like to drive big trucks, wear plaid shirts, sit on a tailgate, drink beer, and talk about good times … and they are proud of it. Frankly, they don’t care if you disagree.

They put 110% into each lyric, each recording session, and each live show. They keep pushing, because they can’t stop. Music is in their blood, coursing through their veins, it’s a passion, an addiction. “It doesn’t matter if we are playing for one person or 1,000 – someone is listening to us and that is a real good feeling,” Stone says.

The nerves are still there each time they get up to perform says Stone. And before each show you can usually find him puking in a bucket somewhere. Really. But, that’s alright because according to his mentor, the late Bill Pinkney of the Drifters (also a South Carolina boy), “The day you get up and you’re not nervous, quit. Put your guitar in its case and the case in the closet. Find something else to do.”

For now, they do it for the love of the music. They do it for their fans, “the best fans.” And they do it to pay homage to the small South Carolina towns where they come from.

Stone sums it up best -- “I was country before country was cool. I was plaid before plaid was cool. I’ll never outgrow my roots.”

Music to Your Mouth

2010-09-01T10:06:00.001-04:00

This month in CH2, I got to write about one of my true loves, the Music to Your Mouth event at Palmetto Bluff. And, they even took our picture!

Just a couple of weeks ago I woke in a cold sweat. However, once I realized that it was indeed just a dream that our event headliner (Gail Simmons, from Bravo TV’s Top Chef) didn’t show, I was able to relax a little.

Palmetto Bluff’s Music to Your Mouth event series is a lot of work. I won’t lie. I lose sleep thinking about all of the details. In fact, once I have my first Music to Your Mouth related nightmare, I know we must be within the 90-day mark. The good news is that as we near the fourth year of the event, I have come to expect the sleepless nights.

The better news is that I share the stresses and the successes with three other members of the Palmetto Bluff team—Sommelier Jason Carlen, Executive Chef Kirk Gilbert, and Food and Beverage Director Jeremy Walton.

BLOOPERS
Our blooper reel is quite comprehensive. Together we’ve battled frigid temperatures. Yes, when the mercury dips below 20, shrimp will freeze on a buffet. We’ve learned that pulling all the power from one source will indeed trip the circuit and result in pure mayhem, especially when it is merely 10 minutes before the start of an event, and the band is shooting daggers from their place on the darkened stage. We’ve felt the panic associated with the “what do you mean the toilets won’t flush” moment (also 10 minutes before the start of an event). And we’ve watched while the sprinkler system blasted the interior of the 10,000-square-foot main tent, soaking everything in its wake (stage, sound system, lights and all), leaving a spectacular ice coating, due to aforementioned frigid temperatures.

We’ve also watched a two-day event that started just four years ago grow into a year-long food and wine series with more than 40 events and some of the most noted chefs and winemakers in the country. I think it is fair to say that we are quite proud of what we have created. As a team, we are a force to reckoned with. We work hard. And we are hard on each other. In the end, however, we truly enjoy the camaraderie and have fun. But that wasn’t always the case.

FOOD FIGHT
Flashback to October 2007. We were just 45 days out from the first ever Music to Your Mouth event. Jeremy had recently joined Palmetto Bluff and was walking into the event planning mid-stream. So we got together for the first time to tackle all of the looming logistics.

All was well until we came upon the topic of glassware. I was adamant that we need glassware for our block party. Jeremy was concerned (and rightly so, I’ll admit in retrospect) that if someone dropped a glass on the “block” (i.e. street), it would shatter and someone could get hurt. The debate was on. As I think back to it now, I can picture everyone else in the room shrinking back in their chairs as Jeremy and I jousted for dominance. That first duel was a draw, but he eventually won the bout (however, our acrylic-ware was of the highest quality!). We learned later that we both walked away from that first meeting muttering, “Geez, what a bleep he/she is.”

We still have our battles, but we’re smarter now. We know each other’s personalities well enough to guess where we will each land on a topic, and we certainly play our hand accordingly—sometimes we gang up on each other; other times we accept defeat.

CAUTION: TEAM WORKING
Picture a square. Now try putting the four of us in that square. We would each exist in a totally different corner. We’re that different. But in the end, despite our differences—and our never-ending debate—the whole of the team is certainly greater than the sum of our parts. Meet the players:

“FOOD FEST COURTNEY” —The guys call me “Food Fest Courtney.” On the rare (cue laugh track) occasion that I get a little persnickety, I apparently morph into this alter ego. Food Fest Courtney has a little more sass (read: attitude) and an agonizingly infinite attention to detail. I can often be heard saying, “No, move the table to the left, another inch, now back, to the left again, a little bit more, no, no, no!” They won’t let me in the kitchen, so instead I handle the organizational aspects. I maintain the look, balance the books, book the travel, coordinate the vendors, court the sponsors, tout the event. And I move tables back and forth, and back and forth again, to ensure that our vision is achieved.

JOLLY JUICE DIRECTOR —Jason. He makes magic. He is a certified sommelier with the Court of Master Sommeliers, but we prefer to call him the director of jolly juice. People get sauced on his good drink. He’s concocting cocktails and toiling away in his wine cellar, seeking the best and brightest stars of the wine world, enticing them all to Palmetto Bluff. And, if he can’t find exactly what he is looking for, he’ll travel to Napa to blend his own. (He unveiled Palmetto Bluff’s first Pinot Noir just a couple months ago.) Persuasion is a tool that Jason has mastered. Celebrated winemakers with standout collections travel from as far as Germany to be a part of Music to Your Mouth. He’s that good.

CHEF KIRK —I picture the culinary team standing behind the line saluting Chef Kirk. He commands attention. Almost stoic, he is all business. He takes his job quite seriously, which is probably why his résumé includes a Mobile Four Star rating and a guest chef stint at the James Beard House. During Music to Your Mouth, Kirk and his team provide support for nearly 30 guest chefs, no small feat. As the newest member of the team, Kirk had to elbow his way into a pretty tight trio. We’ve found that when the work is done, his quick wit keeps us all on our toes. He’s a perfect fit.

SOUTHERN COMFORTER —Jeremy is the lone southerner in the group, and he works to ensure that the traditions of the South maintain a presence at Music to Your Mouth, and on Palmetto Bluff’s menus and tables year-round. Jeremy works with our culinary team and guest chefs to coordinate the tastes of 17 event menus. But he isn’t just in the kitchen; he dives into all aspects of planning and helps build the events from soup to nuts. We’ve seen him carry tables on his back, de-lint linens, tap a keg, and polish wine glasses. He may talk a little slower than the rest of us, but he moves twice as fast. He gets the job done.

THE ROAD LESS TAKEN
We’d like to think that we put together the finest nibbles and nectars to ever tickle a taste bud. And when people ask what we want this event to become, we actually provide the unorthodox answer. We could make this the biggest food and wine event in the Southeast—heck, in the country. But believe it or not, we don’t want to. For us, it is about creating connections. You’re not just going to taste the food; you are going to talk to the chef who prepared it. The winemaker himself is often filling your glass. The farmer is explaining why his food is best for your table. All of these elements come together to create an experience that can only be described as … Music to Your Mouth.

We invite you to join us at our table and become a part of our tradition. And we’ll try to make sure the bathrooms are working, the power is on, the food is not frozen, and the tent is dry. It’s the least we can do. Cheers!

Our Right is All Wrong

2010-08-26T13:49:00.005-04:00

Bluffton Today column
August 26, 2010

August 26, 1920 – women finally gain the right to vote.

Fast forward 90 years.

August 26, 2010 - we’ve come along a long way baby.

Or not.

Communication theorists still argue that gender differences are due to inequalities in social power. For example, Janet Holmes suggests that because of women’s lesser social power, they are more apt to communicate with greater deference and politeness than are men. Further, Deborah Tannen illustrates that while women tend to use “rapport talk,” in an attempt to build a common bond while communicating, men use “report talk,” meaning they state the facts and just the facts, with little time for niceties.

Why is it acceptable that women are deemed to be sugar, spice, and everything nice? Due to these perceived inequalities, one could argue (and I will) that a woman who speaks her mind is labeled as pushy, obnoxious, and speaking out of turn. However a man who pushes his opinions on others and acts aggressively will be viewed as a fine leader, if folks are following.

Is this misnomer the reason why women have a harder time ascending to leadership positions?

Consider these statistics. Presently, a mere 28 women hold Chief Executive Officer positions in Fortune 1000 companies. That’s a piddly 2.8%. In fact, the first woman CEO of a Fortune 500 company (Katherine Graham of the Washington Post Co.) wasn’t even appointed until 1972. An even more interesting tidbit is that the first minority woman to hold a CEO post didn’t come along until 1999. She was Andrea Jung, the first ever female CEO of Avon. Pretty ironic since women have been selling Avon since 1886 (34 years before we won the right to vote), yet men led the charge for the company’s first 113 years.

Sadly, in 2010, only 92 of the 535 members of Congress are women. However, according to the US Census Bureau, in the 2008 elections 54% of the 131 million who voted were women. That doesn’t seem equitable, does it?

If we look further at our government, we’ll find that Madeleine Albright, the first woman Secretary of State and highest ranking woman in the U.S. government didn’t come along until 1997 (that was only 13 years ago people!). The first female executive chef of the White House didn’t get cooking until 2005. And, it was only three years ago that Nancy Pelosi became the first woman Speaker of the House. What is wrong with this picture?

The media doesn’t help our plight.

Michele Obama’s wardrobe is more often a headline than the work she does. In fact, the first time she was photographed in shorts there was uproar. Political analysts (and I used that term loosely) debated whether shorts were appropriate attire for the First Lady? Um, do y’all remember the miniscule running shorts that Bill Clinton used to wear? He didn’t leave much to the imagination, jogging around Washington DC as if he were smuggling grapes. Perhaps that is why the interns were all a flutter?

Speaking of Clinton and interns. He had sex in the White House, got a slap on the wrist and remains revered. Don’t get me wrong, I am a fan of Bill Clinton. But, for arguments sake, if a female elected official was caught having sex in the White House she would be branded a whore. Not collecting $1 million per public appearance.

Now, say our former President wanted to be sure that no first babies were a result of his dalliances with wanna-be-first ladies -- he might opt for a vasectomy. And, because most insurance companies cover a vasectomy, the President would pay a minimal co-pay and, after the swelling subsided, he would resume his oval office activities.

However, female infertility, which affects one in every 10 women, remains treatable, only for those of means because of the great expense. Currently, only 15 states throughout the country require or encourage some type of infertility treatment. Yet, I am pretty sure that women live in every state in the US, no? Infertility is a medically recognized disease that affects men (yup, men too!) and women equally. Still, many insurance companies do not provide coverage for treatment to overcome this disease, but single out infertility for exclusion. Anyone care to tackle this debate?

On the 90th anniversary of our right to vote, I have to ask what exactly are we celebrating?
Only 72% of female US citizens over age 18 are even registered to vote. And, only 65% of those voted in the 2008 elections.

Why are we celebrating a right that 69,715,750 women don’t even exercise? Frankly, we should be embarrassed.

I Say Tomato

2010-08-11T11:48:00.001-04:00

Bluffton Today Column
August 11, 2010

Apparently I have an accent. A New Jersey accent it would seem. Frankly, this is news to me. As far as I am concerned, I don’t have an accent. But geez, you certainly do. Have you heard yourself?

I bring this up because last weekend I was at a restaurant with my sister and we experienced a little communication breakdown. We ordered drinks and something to eat, and as the waitress turned to walk away I said, “And can we get water too.” She spun back around and looked at me like I had two heads, “waters,” I repeated in exasperation. Yeah, still nothing. I gave it one more shot and enunciated as best I could, “waah-ter?” Bingo! “Of course,” she responded with a smile.

It was at that moment that I finally had to admit that I do indeed have an accent. But, only on some words … like “warder,” which is apparently how I pronounce water. I suspect that the waitress thought I was asking to order (rhymes with warder), which we had just done so that certainly explains her you-have-two-heads look.

While I am at it, I might as well fess-up to “cawfee,” you know that caffeine loaded goodness you start your day with? And “wawlk,” which is what I do when I put one foot in front of the other.

So, basically the more I think about it I realize that if I was to narrate my first hour of each day, no one would understand me. I get up in the morning and I go for a wawlk. I come back and I simultaneously drink some warder while making my cawfee. Hmph, what are the chances?

After the warder episode of 2010 my sister and I started talking about some of the other linguistic challenges we have encountered since migrating south. For example, when I need food I go to the food store. People always laugh at me when I say “food store.” Apparently, it is the “grocery store.” I beg to differ … if I buy I liquor at the liquor store, why can’t I get my food at the food store?

Once at the food store (fine! the grocery store) I take items off the shelf and put them in my cart, which is another misnomer. Groceries (read: not food) go in a buggy. Buggy? As in horse and …? When I think of a buggy, I picture the Ingalls family (Ma, Pa, Laura, Mary, the whole crew) headed into town to Olsen’s Mercantile. After Laura and Nellie pull each other’s pig tails (which happened in every episode) they buy their necessities for the next 60 days, load them into their buggy, which is pulled by their horse, and head back down the dusty road to their farm, where everyone slept in one room. I’m just saying …

Speaking of Pa, I don’t drink pop, I drink soda. Actually I don’t really even really like soda. I have, however, become the number one fan of sweet tea. If I was to go back to Jersey and order a sweet tea, I am pretty certain the waitress would give me a tea, toss some sugar packets on the table and mutter under her breathe that I should sweeten my own damn tea. Yeah, they don’t really sweeten anything up north. (Including moi.)

Now, if it turns out that I need cash before I grab a sweet tea, I will stop at the “MAC.” The what? You know that machine at the bank that spits money out at you, after you enter your four-digit code. Ah yes, you’re probably thinking that machine is called the ATM. And, for 99.9% of the world it is. Somehow however, when the ATM was unveiled in New Jersey, we decided to call it the MAC machine. In our defense, “MAC” was one of the interbank networks similar to the Cirrus and PLUS networks today, the logos for which you see on machines. Apparently in the garden state, we haven’t been able to let go of the MAC label. But at least now you know what the heck .01% are talking about.

So in homage to the “garden state” that heavily influenced my vernacular and pronunciation, I guess we can only come to one conclusion. I say tomato, you say tomahto, let’s work the whole thing out. Or, we can just keep making fun of each other, which is certainly my preference.

PS – this one is for you Jack!

Courtney Hampson says either, you say eyether. She says neither and you say nyther. If you’d like to communicate with her sans accent, email is best. Contact her at courtneyh@hargray.com.

Death Penalty Certified

2010-08-11T11:44:00.004-04:00

CH/CB2
August 2010 issue

“My first death penalty case was back in 1990. My client was the first person in South Carolina to be executed by lethal injection, after the demise of the use of electric chair. Oddly enough, I spent the last few hours with him in his cell. They put a TV nearby and let you watch anything you want, and they let you call anywhere in the world. We watched John Wayne war movies and he spoke to his young relatives asking them not to follow his path. We ate popcorn shrimp from Bojangles’ until his time was up. His name was Michael Elkins.” – Dudley Bradstreet Ruffalo

282 people have been executed by the state of South Carolina since 1912. Just two of the dead are women. Sadly the count includes a 14 year old boy. An additional 54 sit on Death Row in South Carolina today.

234 of the 282 executions occurred prior to 1960.

A federal moratorium on executions was enacted in 1962, even though state statutes remained in effect. According to the South Carolina Department of Corrections, for a number of years, South Carolina’s death penalty statute was “fairly typical” and “provided for the ultimate penalty for a number of crimes including, but not limited to, murder, rape and kidnapping.” The statute predicated that the death penalty may be imposed in “those situations where the jury made a final finding of guilt without an affirmative recommendation of mercy.”

In 1972, the US Supreme Court declared that most death penalty statutes, including South Carolina’s was unconstitutional. So, South Carolina changed the statute. But then in 1976, the Supreme Court ruled that while the death penalty was not unconstitutional, “each case should be considered upon its merit,” but the 8th amendment (cruel and unusual punishment) could not be violated.

By the time this all shook out in 1976, the court reasoned that if the prosecution wanted to pursue the death penalty, a number of things must happen. First, there would be a two-phase hearing – part one would determine guilt or innocence. And in the case of a guilty verdict a second phase specific to sentencing would commence. The sentencing phase allows for mitigating circumstances to be entered into record. Next, the death penalty can be sought in murder cases, but only if the murder was accompanied by one or more aggravating circumstances (rape, torture, kidnapping). Finally, the defendant is appointed two attorneys and has a mandatory appeal process (to make sure the law was applied correctly).

Interestingly, it is extremely rare for a person facing the death penalty to pull out the yellow pages and start calling lawyers. The cost to defend a death penalty case runs in the hundreds of thousands of dollars. Thus, once the prosecutor decides he is going for the death penalty (the prosecutor alone makes that call), a judge is assigned to the case, and that judge immediately begins to seek counsel and co-counsel for the defendant.

It seems odd, but the judge truly picks up the phone and starts calling the best criminal defense attorneys in the county where the crime was committed. In Beaufort County that means one of three guys is getting the call.

Enter the realist, the historian, the humanist. Three men who march into a courtroom and defend the rights of someone accused of a heinous crime. Why?

The realist
Sam Bauer is rather matter of fact. He has been involved in four death penalty cases (and an additional 25 homicide cases). “No one takes these cases,” he says. “But,” he continued, “When the court puts that much faith in you … you step up.”

Bauer was put in the criminal defense chair right out of college. Literally. He graduated and was waiting for his new job to start, when a family friend called. That “friend” was the federal circuit court judge in Mobile, Alabama. He invited Bauer to “come watch.” And before he knew it, Bauer was appointed as the defense attorney. “I knew the second I walked into that courtroom that this was what I wanted to do.”

The perception of a defense attorney can be quite negative. And you have to ask (and I did), how they do it. For Bauer, he knows that his role is to protect his client, to make sure that the evidence is trustworthy and value, to afford his client the right to a fair trial, to ensure that the government is not corrupt, and most importantly than an innocent person is not convicted and sentenced to death. It’s a matter of fact.

The historian
Dudley Bradstreet Ruffalo comes from generations of attorneys however his interest in law goes back much further. As a student of ancient history, he offers interesting perspective on crime and punishment.

Ruffalo can roll back the clock and cite historical references dating back to the Ancient World and Hammurabi’s Code – the ol’ eye for an eye, tooth for a tooth theory, to the Roman Empire, the Middle Ages, modern European times, and finally the United States legal system.

I’d peg Ruffalo as a “social historian” – his evaluation of the complex systems of rules, over centuries, all boil down to the effect on society. And he studies the historical elements, for better understanding of the role he plays today.

SIDEBAR: Did you know that when you raise your hand in a court of law and swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, that is actually a throw-back to a practice that started in Roman times and continued into the Middles Ages? Back when, if you committed a crime, that crime was branded on the palm of your hand?

Yes, this means that Hester Prynne actually got off easy when they simply sewed the scarlet letter on her frock.

If your hand was marked, you were a felon and your testimony would not be taken.

Ruffalo has participated in eight death penalty cases - four for the defense and four as the prosecutor.

He’s seen both sides of the courtroom and admits that he questions the merit of the death penalty all the time, mainly because he says, “What scares me most is that innocent people have been convicted.”

In fact, Ruffalo introduced me to the Innocence Project, a non-profit organization dedicated to exonerating the innocent. Shockingly, there have been 255 post-conviction DNA exonerations in United States history. Seventeen people have been proven innocent and exonerated by DNA testing in the United States after serving time on death row. They were convicted in 11 states and served a combined 209 years in prison – including 187 years on death row – for crimes they didn’t commit.

I’d say that is certainly enough evidence to warrant taking your job seriously and Ruffalo does.

He’s been the prosecutor, served as municipal judge for Hilton Head, was director of a legal clinic, and today has his own practice as a criminal defense attorney. It’s safe to say Ruffalo has seen it all, and yet he keeps coming back for more.

The humanist
“They all have a story to tell and need someone to listen,” says attorney Donald Colongeli, who struck me as a man with intense passion for what he does. It is clear the moment you start talking to him that he shoots from the hip and tells it like it is. It is even more evident that he uses that approach to build a rapport with his clients.

Admittedly, he has to go to a pretty dark place to try to understand a client charged with murder. “I shut the door, I lay out all of the evidence, I look at gruesome pictures, I listen to the 911 tape -- all in an effort to understand,” Colongeli says. He likens his role to that of a surgeon saying, “The prognosis is not good, but I still have to give my client a fair shot. I still have nightmares about some of the things I have seen.”

Interestingly, Colongeli started law school as a staunch republican. But, as his education progressed, so did his thought process and he divulges that he became more and more liberal as time passed because of those cases where the defendant may indeed be innocent.

He does what he does because he gets, “a certain satisfaction from upholding the law of the state and the country.” It all boils down to applying the law. There is a checks and balances in the criminal justice system. And Colongeli notes that it is his job to protect the rights of his client … even if he thinks he is guilty.

“It never gets easier. I still get the shakes and vomit before a case. I’m human too… and I love it.”

A realist, a historian, a humanist -- three very different men with very different backgrounds, personalities, and passions.

Men who aren’t saying they don’t believe in the death penalty, but do believe that no innocent man should lose his life.

And, based on the statistics, we should all share that worry.

Writer’s Note: This year I have penned a story about Beaufort County Sheriff PJ Tanner, Beaufort County Sheriff’s Investigator Bob Bromage, and the County Crime Lab. Each of those stories, interviews, and experiences weighed heavily in my mind as I tackled this topic. I’d received such a complete education on the prosecution and investigative side of things that I felt like my mind was partially closed when it came to the defendant. However, I have to give credit to Sam, Dudley, and Don; they opened and may have actually changed my conservative mind.

The Art of the Break-Up

2010-07-28T12:33:00.002-04:00

Bluffton Today column
July 28, 2010

Warning: intense humor and sarcasm to follow.

Mom is always right. Admittedly, it takes about thirty years of mistakes to come to this realization. And once you finally do concede that your mother will eternally be correct, you begin to flip back through that ol’ rolodex in your mind and wonder if there is anything valid that you have missed.

Mom has certainly had some gems over the years, and the more I think about her advice the more I appreciate it. Having recently re-entered the dating world after a decade hiatus, I have been tapping into some of her most prolific mom-isms. Namely, never date a guy whose legs are skinnier than yours. (Check.) And the spin-off of that rule, never date a guy who weighs less than you do. (Check mate.)

After a twenty-plus year career in education, Mom had compiled a mental list of all of the pain in the-you-know-what students over the years. And when she retired, my sister and I inherited a rather long list of names we should never use were we to provide her with grandchildren. Said logic was also to be applied when choosing a mate. Bottom line, Mom had a lot of bad students named Jacob over the years – so we avoid Jacobs (among others) at all costs.

With a Mom like ours, it is only natural that my sister and I have also become rather adept at creating some “rules” (i.e. pushing our ideas on others). As such, my sister has a very strict keep your nails and hair trimmed at all times credo, which luckily her husband follows to a tee. I have since adopted this rule as well, and send out an early warning to any future callers. Let’s keep the personal hygiene in check, why don’t we. However, as a side note, over-zealous “manscaping” can be perceived in a negative fashion. It’s a thin (hair) line to walk, so be careful. Ok? Thanks.

A recent quandary had me scouring the Mom and sister database for wisdom, and I’ve come up empty. So, alas I turn to you as I ponder the rules of the break-up. Since I haven’t dated or had to deal with a break up since, well, cell phones were the size of Volkswagons, I need a little help.

Consider this. You are dating someone and buy them a rather generous birthday present, let’s say for arguments sake, two tickets to an NFL game. Now, the plan when you bought the tickets (because everything lasts forever, not!) is to attend the game together, in a city six hours away, in late September.

You still with me?

Ok. If you break up in June, are you still bound by the birthday gift contract? Meaning, can I re-sell the tickets, in a non-scalper way, pocket the $350 and buy myself something fabulous? I say yes.

Whoa Nelly! Slow down. Before you make a judgment, I would like to enter some additional evidence in the case. A very generous Christmas present to the aforementioned “break-up” and one additional birthday present are also both still at my house, despite attempts to arrange for a pick-up. I say, if he doesn’t want them after 30 days, then I keep them too.

Hold on. If you don’t yet agree with me, I have one final piece of evidence. If, hypothetically speaking, the “break-up” was the one who determined that breaking up was indeed the correct course of action then I might argue that all of the above is moot. All aforementioned presents are mine, and after this column I will likely never have another date again.

Yes, he broke up with me, can you believe it? Of course, I simply contend that he jumped in line and did the deed before I had the chance. This is called self-preservation.

This dating thing is for the birds! Send me your best break-up stories and I may even throw in a prize. Say, two tickets to see the Jets play the Dolphins in Miami on September 26th …

Courtney Hampson will most likely be single for the rest of her life and she’s ok with that. Send her your break-up story at courtneyh@hargray.com.

Facebook = Free Therapy

2010-07-14T12:29:00.000-04:00

Bluffton Today column
July 14, 2010

Last Saturday I swayed in the hammock. Cold beer. Nice breeze. Blackberry in hand. I know that final component almost ruins it, but in truth, I get a heck of a lot of entertainment value via my Blackberry. So she (yes, she’s a girl, I call her Betty) is always close by.

On this particular afternoon I was perusing Facebook and pondering the perfunctoriness of the phenomenon. My friend Natalie has just shattered two bottles of red wine and was dealing with a grape-flavored river running through her kitchen. My sister’s American flag had been stolen from off of her house (Happy 4th of July!). My college crony Cari was back at home in Washington DC for the holiday weekend. And my three-decade-pal Lisa was demonstrating the Slip n’ Slide for her kids, and hoping the neighbors weren’t watching.

After getting all the news fit to Facebook, I headed in for a refill on the Corona. My dog, Darby, emerged from somewhere in the shade and followed me inside. I opened the door to the refrigerator and looked down at my panting pup only to find that one side of his face was swollen beyond recognition.

I panicked. Darby has a penchant for sticking his snout where it doesn’t belong and has had an angry bee or two stick it to him. So I grabbed the Benadryl, mashed up half a pill, and put it in some peanut butter … but Darby wouldn’t bite. I knew something was really wrong now. Peanut butter is the secret elixir in our house and if Darby didn’t start spinning in excited circles, I knew my next step was to get the vet on the phone, pronto.

At 5:00 p.m. on Saturday, a holiday weekend no less, I called the emergency vet line and waited for the call back. I sat on the cool kitchen tile, with Darby’s ever-swelling mouth, face, and neck in my lap. Tears rolled down my cheeks and onto his.

Dr. Nance called me back in record time. His guess was a snake bite and he told me to meet him at the office in fifteen minutes. I was there in five and pacing the parking lot when he arrived in bathing suit and crocs, straight from his July 4th celebration, I’m sure.

As we walked in the front door, the vet tech came in the back door, and I was comforted by the fact that they both made Darby their priority (much love to Bluffton Veterinary Hospital!). They assessed the damage, concurred on a snake bite to the shnoz, and as I waited for a prognosis I did the natural thing …

I grabbed Betty and updated my Facebook status: Courtney Hampson is at the vet. Snake bite. The dog. Not me.

Why did I feel the need to share this with Facebook? Well, because I was alone and scared. Darby is my best friend. He is the one I wake up to each morning, the one who greets me at the door each afternoon, and the one who lay beside me each night. (Yes, I need a life, but focus people.)

And my Facebook friends didn’t disappoint. As Dr. Nance got Darby patched up (and drugged up – in a responsible doctor way), messages of support started rolling in and instantly made me feel better.

I guess I could have picked up the phone and talked to someone, but cognizant of the fact that it was a holiday, I didn’t want to burden anyone with my current emergency. Instead I turned to Facebook where oddly, someone is always listening.

Courtney Hampson is obsessed with Facebook, ChapStick, and sweet little Darby. Friend her if you “like” this. She can be reached at courtneyh@hargray.com.

Marty Falle Is Stirring Up Dust

2010-07-01T15:58:00.003-04:00

CH/CB2 Magazine
July 2010 issue

He made me cry. Yup, sitting right there in front of the coffee shop, in a jam-packed shopping center, on a busy memorial day weekend, with hundreds of visitors passing to and fro. My eyes filled with tears as the lyrics unfolded. He made me cry before he even hit the first chorus.

Marty Falle fancies himself a Midwestern cowboy, complete with hat and boots. No, he’s never herded cattle or lassoed a wild stallion, but to Falle “cowboy” is a mindset. It’s old America. It’s the simple life. It’s appreciation for those things that truly matter. It’s pick-up trucks, scuffed boots and a country bar on a Friday night.

Born and reared in Ohio, Falle parents believed that the arts were just as important as English and math. And, as such they insisted that he and his siblings play a musical instrument during their formative years. One viola, a saxophone, a guitar and a bass later and Falle was hooked.

“Music was meaningful in our family,” Falle says.

However, using his vocal instrument didn’t really occur to him until he was recruited - from detention to choir - in high school. The choir director offered a detention reprieve to the band of football brothers, if they were willing to help fill out the male-depleted choir. “We were bribed and it worked,” Falle reminisced, with a Cheshire smile. With his strong tenor voice, Falle quickly became a standout ascending to lead soloist and then participating in the school’s barbershop quartet, pop ensemble, musicals and school plays.

When he headed to Ohio University he majored in applied voice, but quickly changed gears. Convinced that music would never pay the rent, he graduated with a double major in history and communications and a double minor in philosophy in music. All the while, he kept the music going and his college band, Voices, was ever-popular in Ohio playing to crowds as large as 4,000.

Falle won’t reveal how many years that four-part degree took, but once in hand, he was off and running and headed to the big city. There, he climbed the corporate ladder of a Fortune 500 company, ascending to Senior Vice President and a life fraught with travel, stress, deadlines, and empty suits. While the corporate world paid the bills, Falle found balance with his music.

Eventually music tipped the scales. Falle traded in his New York City commute and a closet of suits in favor of the beat of a different drum. He left the corporate world and started three “lean and mean” smaller companies. Now, he has the best of both worlds … he’s his own boss, lives by the mantra “if it’s not fun, I’m not going to do it,” and has the flexibility to pursue his one true love, the music.

Speaking of love, Falle is clearly a romantic. And, the thematic undertones of his lyrics suggest the same. With two original albums to date, and a third in the works, Falle tells a story with each.

His first album, “Ohio,” speaks to lost love, broken hearts, regret and the emptiness that accompanies heartache. In fact, it was a broken heart brought that brought him to the beaches of Hilton Head Island, where he retreated, healed, and now lives full time.

It’s the writing that brings Falle the most joy. “It’s therapeutic, inspirational … there is so much I want to write about, I need three lives to get it done,” he says.

Falle’s second album, “Dingtown,” is inspired by all of those small American towns, where life is simple, folks work hard and they recognize what is important. (Dingtown is also the name given to his seven-piece band of musicians who help to create the full country experience.) The lyrics speak to Falle’s own journey, of learning who he is and coming back home again, if only symbolically, to that Midwestern cowboy in his heart.

Falle’s original songs will entertain and move you (did I mention that the preview of album three brought me to tears?). The songs also provide significant insight into who Falle is, if - and only if - you are willing to listen close.

But, if it’s just the two-step you are after, Falle plays to that crowd too. His live shows are abundant with cover songs courtesy of all of his inspirations – the Eagles, Johnny Cash, Dwight Yokum, Alabama, and Garth Brooks.

And his voice, his stage presence … wow. Utter magic. Falle makes you want to hoot and holler in your best Southern drawl, throw back a Bud, and eat cracked crab with drawn butter. He’s that good. Smooth. Sultry. Soulful. Country.

You can find him playing ‘round here most weekends (he frequents the Metropolitan Lounge and Bluffton LIVE in Bluffton, and The Smokehouse on the Island), and if you’re lucky, all the boys of Dingtown will be with him.

Even in the Lowcountry of South Carolina, this Midwestern cowboy manages to stir up some dust.

Where are you going? And, did you really come all the way from NY to get there?

2010-06-30T10:40:00.001-04:00

Bluffton Today column
June 30, 2010

I know that I - the Jersey Girl - have obviously adjusted to life in the south when even I start to get annoyed by all of the New York, New Jersey, and Ohio license plates. The annoyance is furthered by the fact that said license plates are most often attached to a vehicle that a. is going too slow in the left lane, b. is unfamiliar with the fact that we can make u-turns anywhere we want to down here, or c. has just cut me off.

My most recent encounter was totally my fault. I mean, what am I thinking trying to brave Wal-Mart on a Sunday? I have a very strict “No Wal-Mart On Weekends” policy. Actually, that’s not true. I don’t discriminate. I avoid Wal-Mart on all days ending in “y.” However, if it wasn’t for my brother-in-law, who I suspect broke my beach chair; I wouldn’t have had to schlep to Wal-Mart en-route to the Island for a day of sun.

But, I digress. Now that I have been successfully cut off by the New York plates, I search for a parking spot. And there are plenty. Unfortunately, most are adjacent to some “Northern plate” that has crossed over the line, rendering said spot inhabitable. But no worries, I don’t mind parking 200 yards from the entrance, and walking in 105 degree heat past a dozen empty spaces, my time isn’t valuable.

Upon entering Wal-Mart I am struck by the realization that I may have actually walked onto the set for MTV’s Jersey Shore or The Real Housewives of New York. Oh my GAWD! Where did all these people come from? And how did I-95 accommodate the onslaught?

Once I navigate through the sea of boogie boards, water noodles, coolers, beach chairs, Pringles, popsicles, and other paraphernalia I finally reach the check-out lines.

Holy mackerel, you would think Bon Jovi was giving a free concert at the food court. The lines are a few dozen deep. So, I made a game time decision and went to the self checkout lane. Self checkout never ends well, but desperate times call for desperate measures, so I made my move.

As suspected (based on years of self-checkout blunders) the woman in front of me caused quite a little back up. She had a number of large items that wouldn’t fit in a bag. So, of course, the register squawked out its automated commands “please place the item in a bag, please place the item in a bag, please place the item in a bag.” And then finally, “please wait for assistance.”

This is when my eye-rolling and incessant bouncing from one foot to the other activity commences. I am equally as frustrated by the “automated” process and the woman who couldn’t control her own items. But, help did arrive in the form of a Wal-Mart employee who got things moving again.

Alas, it is my turn. Bottle of water scanned. Success. Now how about this beach chair … that features one, two, three stickers and/or tags all possessing bar codes. None of which scan successfully. (I start to sweat a little.) “Please scan your next item. Please scan your next item.” (Panic sets in.) The automated screens begins to flash, “Manually input the sku number.” (Is it hot in here?) Which sku number? There are three!

And suddenly I am the woman in front of me who can’t control her own items.

After an agonizing check out, I make the slow march back to my car, past twelve empty spaces (thanks again New York!) in the broiling heat, with head hung low, and new beach chair dragging. My spirit deflated, I get back in the car to head to the beach.

I am startled from my depression by the sound of screeching tires. Beep! Beep!

As I look to my left, I see the unmistakable red, white and blue of New York plates, running a stop sign and about to broadside me. And suddenly, all is right in my world again.

Everything Happens For a Reason, Oh Really?

2010-06-16T11:03:00.002-04:00

Bluffton Today column
June 16, 2010

When I first moved to Bluffton, I sought out a spa for my monthly pedicure obsession. It turned out that the woman who “did my toes,” Lani, and I grew up just miles apart in New Jersey. We never met back then, but here we are today, 800 miles from home, great friends, and wondering how we could have missed each other all those years ago.

My closet friend (ok, we’re dating!) down here is a Yankee. (No, not a NY Yankee. You think I’d still be writing this column, if that was the case?) We lived just towns apart in New Jersey for the better part of our adult years, worked in similar industries, enjoyed the same favorite restaurants, yet our paths never crossed. Then, we both follow family to Bluffton and end up meeting here.

Was it meant to be? Or did Lani and her family, the Yankee and his family, my family and I all just happen to realize at the same time that property taxes in New Jersey were crazy and we were getting the heck out?

On Monday, CNN ran a story about a married Florida couple who discovered that they had crossed paths much earlier in their lives. Just before their wedding, the two were looking at old photos from the bride’s childhood vacation to Disney World. Upon further inspection, the groom realized that the kid in the stroller in the background of the photo was him! They met – face to face – decades later, and are now married.

Is that fate? Or did their parents both happen to take advantage of the same summer special that Walt was running? And, is that fate? Or is it really just a small world after all?

Last week I was forwarded an email (I usually delete these, but it was from my Mom, so I obliged) that talked about some of the survivors of September 11th attacks. Those who, because something unplanned popped up that morning – he had to run his daughter to daycare, he was stuck in traffic due to an accident, it was her turn to pick-up donuts - were late heading to work at the World Trade Center, and as a result didn’t perish.

The email went on to say how important the little things are and that in this instance, each of these “little things,” was a “blessing” that saved their lives.

I have a little trouble with that. It makes me wonder what the other 3,000 people, who did lose their life, did wrong that day to not be “blessed.”

And further, if the traffic that the guy was stuck in was a result of a car crash on the NJ Turnpike, what did the people in the car do wrong that day?

Heck, I’ll do you one better. Maybe the woman who had to pick-up donuts slowed at a yellow light, instead of racing through. Maybe her caution then caused the guy in the car behind her to be late. So, what if he rushed through the next intersection and was side-swiped?

And this gets the ol’ wheels turning in my head. Does everything really happen for a reason?

You hear people say that all the time … You didn’t get the promotion you were gunning for? Well, everything happens for a reason? Your dog died? Well, everything happens for a reason. You had a miscarriage? Well, everything happens for a reason. Your wife left you? Well, everything happens for a reason.

Oh really, what’s the reason? Is it a higher power directing things? Or maybe the answers are simply …

You weren’t qualified.

He was 16 years old and his ticker couldn’t take it anymore.

Biology just wasn’t with you this time. (I know. I speak from personal experience.)

You’ve been sitting on the couch eating wings and sucking the sauce off your fingers for ten years instead of looking for a job and she was sick of it.

Nineteen men decided to hijack four planes and THAT is the reason why 3,000 innocent people died and a handful got lucky.

Courtney Hampson wonders if it is fate that she wrote this column and you read it. What are the chances? Tell her at courtneyh@hargray.com.

CSI Beaufort: This is Not a Drill

2010-06-01T09:29:00.000-04:00

My new friends at the Beaufort County Sheriff's Office tapped me to go behind the scenes (with a full camera crew) and check out their new crime lab. I'm beginning to wonder if all of these law enforcement-related writing assignments are a means to keep an eye on me ...

CB/CH2 June issue
Having spent three hours in the Beaufort County Sheriff’s Office new forensics lab, I suppose my DNA is all over the place. The good news is I have no prior record, so I don’t believe I will end up in the suspect pool. However, if I—or you—decide to go rogue anytime soon, be assured, we will be caught.

In fact, Sheriff PJ Tanner has committed that the new lab will have evidence processed in less than 30 day—that’s up to 12 times faster than it used to take, before the lab, and when all DNA and arson evidence was processed via the South Carolina Law Enforcement Division (SLED), who by the way, is also processing all of the other evidence gathered in the state. Continue Reading

Buttah is Bettah, Per Paula Deen

2010-06-01T08:12:00.000-04:00

You really get a sense of just how big a celebrity is when you try to interview her. My interview with Paula Deen took place via email and via a publicist, and some of my most seering questions were overlooked. But regardless, CH2 scored the interview and there was no way I was turning this one down!

From the June issue of CB/CH2
I’ll admit I’ve been one of the hungry souls standing in line along West Congress Street in Savannah, amid hundreds of other revelers, mouth watering, waiting for a taste of what The Lady & Sons are servin’ up.

As a native Yankee, with a healthy Food Network obsession, I was a disciple of Paula Deen, long before I ever crossed the Mason Dixon line. However, living in her backyard makes any girl feel a certain kinship. With the sass and spitfire of a Yankee, yet the sweet drawl of a southern belle, Deen has launched herself into the spotlight. And with her trademark “y’all” and signature laugh, she has endeared herself to the masses. Continue Reading

Never Too Old To Turn "It" On ...

2010-05-22T18:07:00.001-04:00

Bluffton Today column
May 19, 2010

You may remember a column I wrote just before Christmas about the passing of my Great Aunt Madeleine. She was defacto-matriarch of our family, based solely on my belief that no one could lip sync “Away in the Manager” on Christmas Eve like she could.

Anyway, last week Aunt Madeleine’s hubby of more than sixty years, Uncle Al, ventured south to visit the Bluffton branch of the family tree. Uncle Al made the trip with my Grandmother (Aunt Madeleine’s sister). It is safe to say that we’re all hoping this new development is platonic in nature. However, we are also a little afraid to ask. Wink. Wink.

So, one morning Uncle Al was venturing out for his morning walk and my Mom reminded him to take his cell phone, just in case. Uncle Al told mom that he has had his cell phone for two years, but he never uses it because the battery is always dead.

Mom, whom I clearly get my sense of humor from, and has an uncanny ability to ask a string of questions in such quick succession that you don’t know what hit you, retorted, “Then why do you even have a cell phone? You’re missing the purpose. What if something happens? What will you do?”

“I need a Verizon store,” Uncle Al declared. So, off to the Verizon store they went. That encounter went a little something like this:

Uncle Al: “My phone doesn’t work. The battery is dead.”

Verizon (after turning on the phone, and not flinching when the AT&T logo appeared!): “Sir, your battery is fine.”

Uncle Al: “Wait! How did you do that?”

Verizon: “Well, I just hit the red button, the ‘on’ button.”

Uncle Al: “On is red? I’ve been hitting the green button all this time. Doesn’t green mean go?”

Mom (under her breath): “For two years!?!”

Back in the car, and back to Mom’s house they went, where apparently Uncle Al thought it would be an appropriate time to make sure he understood how all of the household appliances worked. You know, just in case. That encounter went a little something like this.

Uncle Al: “How do you turn on the coffee pot?”

Mom: “You hit the button that says, ‘on’.”

Uncle Al: “How do you answer the phone?”

Mom: “You hit the button that says, ‘talk’.”

This may have gone on for hours, but Mom had only a few seconds while serving Sunday dinner to pull me aside for the highlights. And knowing Uncle Al like I do, it is perhaps more likely that he did this just to see how far he could push my Mom. He has a hell of a sense of humor for an octogenarian.

Regardless, it got me thinking. About age (as I reluctantly celebrated the glorious “twenty-seventeen” last week). And more significantly - about the recent revelations of swinger activity in Sun City. Yowzer! Hello! This is big news for our little town, so I must address it.

I’m actually torn on the issue – torn between a “good for them” attitude and throwing up in my mouth a little bit. Now, if this little ditty is true can we conclude that there is more sex happening in Sun City than on the USCB campus? That could be revolutionary.

Further, this could be a huge branding opportunity for Del Webb. “Sun City, An Active Adult Community” could easily be transitioned to “Sun City, A Sexually Active Adult Community.” Heck, sales may even “rise.”

Their “Lifestyle” Director (who I am sure is a lovely woman, and hopefully has a good sense of humor), could get a national sponsor courtesy of yup, you guessed it -- LifeStyles condoms. A box of new business cards, maybe some free samples, and she’ll be the most popular gal on campus.

According to Sun City’s website, “team sports” are a big hit and “who knew you could work up a sweat playing croquet” … I would, of course, modify that page completely.

I’ve always been of the “shoot me when I’m sixty” school of thought. I don’t want to get old. But, it seems that although my knowledge of technology may wane, I have a pretty good shot of “gettin’ a little” something else out of my golden years.
If after reading this column you experience laughter for more than two hours, please consult your doctor.

Pet Peeves, Rants, and Raves. Actually, No Raves.

2010-05-06T20:14:00.003-04:00

Bluffton Today column
May 5, 2010

Way back in the olden days, when I took my driving test, I ran over all of the cones during my parallel parking maneuver. But, the instructor was still nice enough to pass me. And this was before I “developed,” so he must have seen a spark of something special in my ability.*

However, since then I have avoided parallel parking (and driving instructors) at all costs. Further, if I don’t have to move the car in reverse, we are all better off. In fact, the day before I moved my boat to dry storage was the day that I tried to back up the truck, the trailer, and the boat and wrapped all of the above around a palm tree.

As such, I will never ever understand why folks will voluntarily back their car into a parking space. I can barely back out of my driveway and into my cul de sac without incident. Backing up on purpose? I don’t get it. Do you walk backwards just for the heck of it? No, I didn’t think so.

While we’re still behind the wheel, let’s address the folks who speed up, race past me, and then end up stopped adjacent to me at the next traffic light. I call this the “hurry up and wait” maneuver. And, I get great joy from giving said drivers the side-eye, a quick tip of the hat, and perhaps an over-exaggerated chortle.

Every time I experience a “hurry up and wait” I am reminded of an outing with my Dad many moons ago. I was driving and apparently tailgating the driver in front of me. My father told me to slow down. But, being the smart-aleck teen that I was, I argued, “but the speed limit is 45!”

And, my father, in all his wisdom said (with deadpan delivery), “but the car in front of you is only going 35, Cour.” Good point Dad, good point.

While I’m at it, might I also mention that people who use the word “irregardless” need to pull out the ol’ dictionary and realize that irregardless is not a word. I believe the word you are searching for is “regardless,” which means, in spite of everything. I’m pretty sure that is what you are trying to say anyway, right? In a chuckle-worthy twist, the dictionary actually has an entry for “irregardless,” that basically says, this isn’t a word. Classic.

Further, if you tend to start a thought with, “we as humans …” you may want to re-think it. If you are talking to another someone, chances are they are also human, so that clarification is probably unnecessary. I’m just saying …

Now, if we are chatting, and you present a number of points and then tell me to “do the math,” I expect some actual numbers to be in the mix. And, if I am telling you a story with stunning statistics for example, I received 1,000 pieces of fan mail last week (an obvious exaggeration, but bear with me)! And you feel the need to tell me that you, in fact, received 2,000 pieces of fan mail last week, that makes you a “one-upper.” In essence you are telling me that everything I do, you can do better. Of course you can. I totally believe you.

Since I am on a roll, I may as well cross the line and tell you that if you truly believe in God and everything he has created, don’t you think you are selling him short when you call him ”awesome” in your Facebook status? I mean, if I was God, and had the omnipotent power that the Bible suggests, I’d feel a little short-changed by “awesome.” (And, if I was God, would I really have time for Facebook?)

And last, but not least, my rant would incomplete if I didn’t thank the Tea Partiers for sending me a copy of the United States Constitution with a note regarding the First Amendment. Many thanks, but that gift was unnecessary. I am quite familiar with my right to free speech and press, as evidenced by the fact that I wrote (and you just read), 704 words of Courtney and no one stopped me. God bless America!

What are your pet peeves? Send them to Courtney Hampson at courtneyh@hargray.com.

*Note this sentence read - "And this was before my boobs came in, so he must have seen a spark of something special in my ability." - before I was advised to change it. :-)

Don't Let the Bed Bugs Bite

2010-05-03T11:17:00.004-04:00

Um, let me first say that this was not one of my all-time favorite assignments. I couldn't figure out how I would possibly make this topic interesting (and, maybe I didn't) ... but, as my mentor told me many moons ago ... "the world is about people." And, he was right ... my "subject" John Harris was a riot and once he got me laughing, I was on his team. So, I hope he enjoys my take on his life ...

CH/CB2 May 2010

“Have you ever ridden the tilt-a-whirl?” That is how John Harris, two years into his role as general manager of Hilton Head Exterminators, describes an “average” day on the job. That gem was quickly followed by, “I don’t want to gross you out too much…”

Both statements offer some interesting insight into what Harris’ life is like on a day-to-day basis. He is down and dirty and into all things that creep, crawl, and lurk—in the night, in your attic, in your walls, in your ductwork, in your backyard. Since 1968, Hilton Head Exterminators (HHE) has been making sure that pests live where they are supposed to. However, when the pests invade your world, HHE’s goal is to drive them out. Serving Hilton Head, Bluffton, Okatie, Sun City, and Jasper County, HHE is the Lowcountry’s largest independent pest control company. Part of the key to their continued growth and success is the recognition that their reputation is being built every day. So, every customer interaction is crucial. HHE’s continued focus on building relationships is part of what makes them stand out. Add a favorable dose of community involvement to mix, and HHE’s formula yields a very impressive result. Continue reading

Flock of Sea Gulls

2010-04-14T09:21:00.002-04:00

Bluffton Today
April 14, 2010

If a stray cat wanders into your backyard and you feed her, what happens? She starts coming back for breakfast, lunch and dinner because she has found a food source and you are generous enough to keep the buffet open.

So, what happens if you feed the sea gulls on the beach? Uh, they keep coming back.

I’ve learned that there are two types of people on the beaches and sandbars of the Lowcountry.

Feeders (noun): people who feed sea gulls, willingly wave cheese puffs in the air, and are almost always sitting directly adjacent to Courtney Hampson on the beach.

Feeder-haters (noun): people who bring food to the beach so they can eat it; they don’t feed the sea gulls.

Now that summer has recently sprung, and I am taking full advantage of our beloved beach and boat days, I get the distinct honor of having weekly run-ins with the feeders.

You know the type. The feeders think it is funny to have dozens of birds swarming over head. The feeders laugh along with the gulls cackling call. Feeders don’t mind that this dirty bird will strut confidently within inches of their beach blanket for a small taste of their mid-afternoon meal.

It is no coincidence that the migratory path of feeders mimics that of the sea gull. Meaning it doesn’t matter what shore – ocean or river, Jersey or South Carolina - the sea gull will swarm if feeders are present.

It is my distinct hope that the feeder species are tourists from interior states, flocking to the shoreline for vacation, and awestruck by the sea gull, so much so, that they must get a closer look and feed them. In such cases, this may warrant a one-time excusable offense.

But for locals, to be a feeder is inexcusable.

Sea gull is actually a nickname for the Herring Gull. In North America, the sea gull breeds along the Atlantic coast and inhabit shorelines of oceans, seas, lakes, and large rivers. So, bottom line. They are here to stay.

And I am willing to peacefully co-exist with the species (the gull, not the feeder).

In fact, The Migratory Bird Act of 1918 tells me that I have to. Believe it or not, in the early 1900’s sea gull feathers were a hot commodity and were being pillaged. The Migratory Bird Act makes it illegal to harm or injure a gull without a Federal permit. This Act combined with the resources provided by human activity (food!), allowed the species to make a remarkable rebound. The success of the Act was, in fact, so great that now sea gulls have become a bit of a nuisance in many areas where large numbers of sea gulls coincide with human activity and land use. Yup, that means our beaches and sandbars.

Gulls are very opportunistic and adaptive feeders and will forage on anything -- from your lunch, to someone else’s leftovers found in the garbage can, to fish, to chicks of other bird species or their own.

Listen, it isn’t up to me to tell you who to invite over for lunch and dinner. But, it is important to note that the sea gull isn’t the cleanest bird in the ol’ food chain. They tend to carry avian tuberculosis and internal parasites, salmonella and botulism are often the cause of their demise and, they like to play host to fleas and ticks. Now, I’m no scientist, but why exactly do folks insist on sharing a meal with them?

As a founding member of the Feeder-Haters Association, I feel it is my duty to also point out that as with all living creatures ... when you eat, you poop. Unfortunately, the sea gull’s defecation reaction is almost instantaneous. Sea gulls don’t follow the “don’t $hit where you eat” mantra. The bottom line is, if they are eating off of your beach towel, they will probably be pooping there too.

Enjoy the beach and oh, bon appetite!

Courtney Hampson can’t make this stuff up, in fact, she even did some research on this one. For a plethora of sea gull facts and figures, visit http://bna.birds.cornell.edu/. And, if you want to share your tales of feeder-woe, email courtneyh@hargray.com.

Special thanks to Ro Carcione for the pic!

Profile: Sheriff PJ Tanner

2010-04-01T11:45:00.002-04:00

CH/CB2, April 2010

On the morning of January 23, 1981, PJ Tanner put his pants on one leg at a time. However on this morning those pants were a part of his Beaufort County Sheriff Officer’s uniform. Tanner had waited for that moment for years. He knew at a young age that he wanted to “be all he could be,” and his intent was to do that through law enforcement.

Tanner spent his late teens and the first year of his twenties “just waiting to turn 21.” He didn’t want to commit to anything long-term post high school, because he knew his ultimate goal. So, as any good born-and-bred Bluffton boy would do, he farmed soy beans on the Ulmer’s Farm (now Old South Golf Links) and worked on the golf course at Moss Creek. And he counted the days.

After hitting the magical age 21, he was off and running (new shoes are also a part of the uniform!). Two years into his new career, Tanner remembers standing at the coffee pot and talking to then Sheriff Morgan McCutchen who asked Tanner what he wanted to do with his life. Tanner replied, “Well, I want your job.” A surprised McCutchen chuckled, and an immediate bond was formed. McCutchen became Tanner’s mentor, and they nurtured a decades-long relationship of mutual respect, both personally and professionally.

Tanner’s road to McCutchen’s job was a winding one. For 13 years, he moved up the ranks, working SWAT, drug task force, and internal affairs. “I was a cowboy, a sergeant answering directly to the Sheriff. I thought I could do anything,” he said.

And he did. On March 15, 1994 he filed the paperwork to run for sheriff. Continue reading ...

Tea for 2,000?

2010-03-31T09:10:00.003-04:00

Bluffton Today column

The way to my heart is a grande non-fat mocha, with whip. Preferably delivered each morning. And, if you want to sweeten the pot, write a little note on the lid. Something along the lines of, “Good morning beautiful,” or “You make my day sweetheart.”

Clearly I’m a coffee girl, which is why all this talk about the “Bluffton Tea Party,” slated for April 15th at the Promenade, has me on the wrong side of the caffeine line. Rumor has that 2,000 people are expected to fill the Promenade for the festivities.

The national media has been all abuzz with the Tea Party movement. Governor-turned-vice-presidential-candidate-turned-reality TV-star-turned-talk-show-host, Sarah Palin, has been traveling the country touting the tea. If you’ve been under a rock and missed the pontificating, the mission of the tea party is to “attract, educate, organize, and mobilize our fellow citizens to secure public policy consistent with our three core values of fiscal responsibility, constitutionally limited government and free markets.”

Loose translation: the conservatives are perturbed that there is a democrat in the White House and that they don’t have the majority in the other house. (I’m pretty sure these are the same folks who were appalled by the anti-war protests and those speaking out against then President Bush. But, I digress…)

Locally, the Bluffton Tea Party Patriots (Check out their website ) have organized the April 15th Tea Party. Interestingly, the event tagline is “Let’s party like its 1773.” Sure, because 1773 was such a grand time. Slavery was legal. Women had no rights. The colonies were ruled by the British crown. And, we had to ride horses to work, for crying out loud!

As a side note for non-history buffs, did you know that on July 1, 1776, South Carolina voted against independence? Apparently minds were changed overnight (bi-partisanship in action at the birth of our nation!), and on July 2nd, South Carolina voted in favor of independence.

Anyway, the Patriots are pulling out all the stops for the totalitarian tea fete, with live music, citizen speakers, trivia, and prizes will be awarded for the best overall sign (what’s a protest without good signs?), most unique patriotic costumes and best decorated carriage, stroller, or wagon (expecting a big under-three crowd, are we?).

So let me get this straight. 2,000 folks are going to gather to protest national policies? Now obviously, I’m all for freedom of speech and having a voice but, what exactly is the intended outcome?

I’ll be conservative (but, only in my math) and say that 25% or 500 of the participants will actually live in Bluffton. Don’t you think that 500 people could make a huge impact right here in our community, by speaking up about something we see, feel, experience every day in our own neighborhoods?

Namely, I’d like to catch the idiots who are responsible for the rash of break-ins in my (and maybe your) neighborhood. I’d love to see the “drainage” ditches on McCracken Circle not overflow with every rainstorm (otherwise we should change the name, because nothing is draining). I’d like to help one or two or three or four dozen of the local families who’ve found themselves out of work and struggling. I’d like to donate my time to Bluffton Self Help, or the Boys and Girls Club, Palmetto Animal League, or The Curry Foundation.

So, why don’t we get something going here folks? Give two hours of your time locally. Let’s get together and talk about it. I’m thinking a little coffee clatch may just be my cup of tea.

Courtney Hampson sits a little left of center and can be reached at courtneyh@hargray.com.

Squeak, No Grease. Honey, No Bee.

2010-03-17T10:32:00.001-04:00

Here is the story of how the squeaky wheel got not grease, and how the honey got no bee.

The short story is that I had to change my name on all of my accounts, and my go-to credit card (with the platinum sheen and the deliciously low interest rate) had yet to arrive. So, I called the 1-800-bank number and was connected to a customer service representative. I told Mr. Service my dilemma and he put me on hold to “review” my account.

Thirty seconds later he came back on the line to ask me some questions about my income. I answered, clueless. I mean, my income had increased nicely since applying for the card years ago, so I wasn’t worried. He put me on hold for another thirty seconds and came back on the line to tell me that “after further review, they would be lowering my credit limit to my balance, ” and in essence wiping out about a hefty chunk of available credit. My cushion, my just-in-case-plan, gone before my eyes, eliminated.

So, in a not-so-shining moment I went a little berserk. I may have gone a few decibels over really loud in order to point out that 1-800-bank was home to my checking account, my savings account, and my mortgage. I went on to point out that I have never had a late payment with ANY credit card, my balances were low compared to my available credit and that 1-800-bank was, of course, utterly ridiculous.

1-800-bank man wasn’t won over by my hysteria, and as such I flung the cordless phone across the office thus ending the call.

Breathing exercises commenced, and I decided to let it go.

Until the next morning, when in a rare “aha moment” I decided to call back and try being nice. My plan was to sweet talk the customer service representative. And boy, did I luck out. 1-800-bank person was kind, understanding, she listened and then she broke the good news … “Courtney, I don’t see any notes about this on your account. The limit hasn’t been dropped.”

“Wow, really? Well, I’m not making it up …”

“Of course not,” 1-800-bank lady chuckled. She asked me the same questions about my income, commented on the increase since my application, and put me on hold to “review just one more thing.”

And that, my friends, is the moment when I should have hung up!

But I didn’t, and she got back on the line and “after further review decided that 1-800-bank would be lowering my credit limit to my current balance.”

“Um, what?” I stammered. “So, you’re telling me that the thing I called about, that you said never happened has now happened, because you made it happen?”

“Yes ma’am, is there anything else I can help you with?”

Uh, yeah, you can buy me a new phone because this one is about to be launched across the office, again!

So, to the old wives who’ve spun the ridiculously contradictory tales that claim that the squeaky wheel gets the grease and that you attract more bees with honey, what say you now? I’m maxed out and I need a new phone!

As a foot note, I figure this is my opportunity to thank BJWSA for refusing to change my name on my account. So, here goes …

Dear BJWSA People:

Now I know that you haven’t been present in my home office for the last five years while I have sat down and been the one to actually make the payment to you each month, despite whose name is on the bill, but it was me. It’s been me all along. So the fact that you won’t change the name on my account without a hefty deposit irks me to no end. However, I give up, you win, and I’m not fighting you anymore. I do have one question for you though. If I stop paying the bill (and find an unlikely alternate water source), who are you going to call?

Heck, Honk If You Love Me

2010-03-03T15:00:00.000-05:00

Bluffton Today Column
March 3, 2010

I am out walking or running the Bluffton Pathways almost every day. I’ve been doing it since the ol’ New Year’s Resolution of 2008. Not too shabby, huh?

Depending on the time of year, you’ll find me burning calories just as the sun is coming up and the street lights are flickering out. Or, at the end of the day as the sun is making its final decent. I tackle the terrain along the pathways on Buckwalter Parkway, McCracken Circle and Bluffton Parkway.

While out this past weekend, I was reminded of an incident that occurred about a year and a half ago. Twice in one week I had received a little more attention that I bargained for whilst on my trek. Both involved some brainiac driving by, slowing down their vehicle, and hanging out the window to whistle, hoot, holler, and my personal favorite sending me a kiss -- you know a loud, wet, smooch that was audible over the purr of their engine. Really?

At the time, I was overly spooked by the smooch. It was barely dawn and I remember keeping my eyes straight ahead and focused. First on the house where I knew a Marine lived and would most likely be awake and have a gun fully loaded. Then, my Mom's house was in sight and I knew she would be on the couch, with coffee in hand, waiting for the Today Show to start. Mom’s next-door-neighbor’s police cruiser was in his driveway so I was safe for just a few more houses. Finally, I rounded the corner to my house, where two Sheriff's officers live just doors down. Whew. Home. Alive and well. And, in tears.

These days my dog, Darby, is usually with me and my iPod is lulling me into my groove. Once I hit cruising altitude, I am unstoppable. Darby enjoys the walks too and quickly falls into his sniff, pause, and pee routine.

So, we’re happy. Until …

The inevitable honk. And, it’s THE honk that got me all bent out of shape this past weekend.

If I hear a horn honking while walking I tend to assume one of three things: 1) there is a vehicle that has lost control and I am in harm’s way. 2) The driver knows me and is saying a quick, “hello.” 3) Another driver has just cut driver #1 off, and he is less than thrilled.

What I don’t anticipate is the honk, just to honk. But, you do it every time. You honk. I look over my shoulder. Your vehicle is not careening out of control. I don’t know you. There are no other drivers on the road with whom you are communicating.

You’re honking just to get my attention as you cruise by? You’re honking to break my stride? You’re honking because while attending male chauvinist school you learned that this was an appropriate greeting for strangers? I don’t get it.

Believe it or not, and all evidence to the contrary, I’m a nice person. I would say hello if you called out a simple “hello,” “nice weather we’re having,” or “cute sneakers!” Something, give me anything. Because guys, ladies would much rather you string a sentence together than emit a noise from your steering column.

And, I would much rather enjoy my exercise than spend the next 10 minutes memorizing your license plate number.

Soulful Singer: Angie Aparo

2010-03-01T14:39:00.001-05:00

CH2/CB2, February 2010

Its midnight in Nashville, TN, and Angie Aparo’s phone is ringing. He answers. On the other end is John Rich, of Big & Rich, who’s calling from his bar. “You’ve got to get down here,” Rich says, “Jeremy Piven is at the bar and you have to sing for him.”

So Aparo stumbles out of bed, heads to the bar, downs three Jagermeister shots and a Miller Lite, (“to catch up”), and joins the party. He gets on stage, sings a couple songs, and before he knows it, Jeremy Piven is inviting him to play his birthday party.Fast forward three weeks and Aparo is in an oceanfront house in Malibu doing just that. “I’m doing my thing, playing, and I look up; and in a surreal moment, I realize I’m staring out at Dane Cook, Cindy Crawford, John McEnroe… it was like I was watching T.V., but it was real,” Aparo joked. When he finished the set, he brushed past McEnroe in the hall who said, “Nice singing.” At a rare loss for words, Aparo replied, “Nice tennis playing.”

Ah, the life of a star. CONTINUE READING

Sleight of Hand Held

2010-02-17T14:58:00.000-05:00

Bluffton Today Column
February 17, 2010

I was at an event a few months ago where I didn’t know the majority of the guests. There, I was introduced to a woman who said, “I think we’ve met before, I am friends with so-and-so.” Ah yes, I vaguely remember, “good to see you again!”
Two hours and one open bar later and vaguely familiar woman and I started chatting. Then, she leans in real close and says, “I heard all about what happened with you and your husband”. The shock of her statement prevented me from saying anything at the time (however in hindsight, I can think of plenty to say). So she proceeded to provide me with all of the details regarding my break-up with my ex-husband. Which by the way, I was already aware of. I mean, it was my story she was re-telling me.

Aaaaaaawkward.Ok almost stranger, now where do we go from here?

Utterly infelicitous social moments happen all the time. And it is how you handle those moments that probably define you best. So, in a rare moment of self-control, I swallowed back the lump in my throat, blinked back my tears, tilted back my drink, high-tailed it to the bathroom, and immediately commenced breathing exercises in order to prevent gasket blowing.

But, I am not usually so well-mannered.

In fact, I avoid awkward moments and unwanted conversations every day. Every day. It is a skill. One that has been made universally easier now that we all posses a Blackberry, an iPhone, or whatever latest handheld technology suits us best. “Handheld” being the operative term here; because we are always clutching our devices in our sweaty little palms. We can’t put them down. We’re addicted. But, that’s ok. This obsession allows us to much more deftly perform a well-executed technology duck, or as my brilliant colleague dubbed it, the “tuck.”

You know the move. When someone that you have very little interest in speaking with, much less spending any quality time with, approaches and you raise your handheld device to eye-level and immediately begin pushing buttons. If you are lucky the phone will actually ring. If not, you can continue to pretend that you are taking some very important emails.

The “tuck” effectively deters any extraneous conversations. It also provides a security blanket. Meeting someone for drinks and you don’t want to walk into the restaurant alone? You’re not alone! Just hold up your handheld and it will be clear to everyone that you are concluding a very important business exchange, not a single woman hoping you haven’t been stood up.

This phenomenon is taking over society. In fact, 3,479,414 people are fans of “Pretending to Text in Awkward Situations” on Facebook.

In the old days, back when we used to walk up hill (both ways), barefoot in the snow, to get to school, we actually had to look someone in the eye and say, “I’m not interested.” Or, “please stop talking about that.” Or, “I’m not sure this is appropriate.”

Today however, thanks to the brilliance of the computer club kids (who walked up hill both ways with us), we can simply lift up our handheld and declare to the world with dexterous thumbs that text forty words a minute and declare, “I don’t give a damn what you have to say!”

Ironically, with the technology to text and email we are saying more … but communicating less.

P.S. I am still searching for the “friend” who shared all of the details of my life with an utter stranger. Of course, once I figure out who you are, and when I bump into you again, you can be certain that I will deliver a big ol’ tuck (to) you.

Not a People Person Per Se?

2010-02-03T14:57:00.000-05:00

Bluffton Today Column
February 3, 2010

While watching a segment on Inside Edition last Monday, I totally lost it. I cried my eyes out while a fire fighter rescued a German shepherd who was caught in the raging waters of the California floods. As the fire fighter, via helicopter, was lowered into the water to save the pup, I couldn’t control my sobs. And this was a happy ending!

The next story was about Haiti and the 150,000 lives lost and how they were burning bodies in the street just to get rid of the stench. And oddly, I didn’t shed a tear.

So, it begs the question. Am I a heartless you know what?

I pondered that question that evening and into the next morning when, while packing my lunch for work, I heard my cat Skye vomiting in the living room.

Skye puking was not a normal occurrence, but she has, on occasion scarfed down her food so fast that it has come right back up again. So, I was not alarmed. Until I got to the living room, where I found my sweet girl vomiting, shaking, struggling for breath and balance.

As her legs went limp beneath her I lost it. My dog, Darby, sat close with his eyes darting back and forth from me to Skye as if to say, “Mom, what are you going to do now?”

Well, as any good “mom” would do, I called my Mom to ask her what to do. The sobbing commenced again as I told her that I thought I was watching Skye die in front of me. And, luckily my Mom snapped me into reality and yelled to call the vet. Duh!

I called Bluffton Vet’s emergency line and Dr. Davison called me back immediately and told me to head right over. I put Skye in her carrier, and paused for a moment by the door while Darby gave Skye one last sniff. I guess I subconsciously had a feeling it might be the last time he saw her.

When I got to the Vet’s office they whisked Skye into the back and immediately started an IV and began a battery of tests. It happened so quickly that I never took the time to consider what the outcome would be. I guess I hoped it was a virus, the kitty flu, something treatable and I would walk out with a prescription and my Skye.

Unfortunately that is not how this story ends. I had to say goodbye to Skye with little warning and no preparation. They gently brought her back to me so I could say my goodbyes. I whispered in her ear and told her about when I first brought her home fourteen years ago, and how she used to sleep right on my chest. I reminded her that I loved her, that she was my first “baby” and will always hold a special place in my heart. And, I apologized for yelling at her the night before when she missed the litter box. That was utterly heartbreaking. If I had known I would be saying goodbye, I would have cuddled her next to me all night and given her the pillow that Darby has since claimed as his own. (He’s pretty lonely these days.)

Skye drifted to sleep, with my hand on her head, and my nose to hers. There I was again, a mere fourteen hours after the Inside Edition incident, crying like my heart was breaking. And, it was.

Bob Bromage: Cold Case Files

2010-02-01T14:32:00.000-05:00

CH2/CB2, February 2010

At first glance, he is your typical cop. Cop hair. Cut short, a sprinkle of salt among the pepper. Cop shirt. Tan not white. Cop tie. Tan and green—no contrasting colors.

At second glance, Captain Bob Bromage is all business. In his twentieth year with the Beaufort County Sheriff’s Office, Bromage is Criminal Investigations Branch Commander, responsible for all detailed and technical criminal investigations not assigned to the Enforcement (Uniformed) Patrol.

Originally from Connecticut, Bromage entered the Army after High School and was stationed in Savannah, where he became familiar with the Lowcountry and Beaufort County. After leaving the Army, he moved back North and began his search for a position in law enforcement with the Connecticut State Police. At the time, however, available positions were few and far between, and a job posting would attract 2,000 applications. Rather than waiting to be the needle found in the hay stack, Bromage journeyed south once again and was hired in 1990 as a patrolman for Beaufort County, working the midnight shift.

CONTINUE READING

T.M.I.

2010-01-20T14:55:00.000-05:00

Bluffton Today Column
January 20, 2010

I woke up last Friday morning to a Google Alert notifying me of the Naughton v. Naughton final divorce hearing in Beaufort County Family Court. As if I didn’t have enough stress surrounding the day’s proceedings, now even my Blackberry has to taunt me?

I spent my drive to the courthouse mumbling under my breath, crying on the phone to an extraordinary friend, and cursing technology. Of course, I was also simultaneously thanking the technology gods for allowing me to listen to my favorite radio personality via satellite during my drive. I was a little out of sorts, to say the least.

I realize that I am a technology addict. I can’t imagine life without the internet, my laptop, my Blackberry or my iPod. Seriously, how did I exist without them? Over Christmas break when the track ball on my beloved b-berry broke I had a momentary panic attack and addressed a series of questions in rapid succession. Do I call IT? Are they in the office? How quickly can I get a new Blackberry? Is it under warranty? Should I go to the Verizon store?

I am over-exposed to technology. We all are. But, I do believe it makes me more efficient and a little smarter in that I know where to go for information and I don’t have to battle the Dewey Decimal system to find it. But, it also makes me - all of us - less personal. We can easily lose our personal connections by hiding behind an email or a Facebook status update.

So, in an ironic twist … while my wake- up call was like something out of “2010: A Space Odyssey,” my divorce hearing was like an episode of Little House on the Prairie. (Well, if Ma and Pa had indeed decided to divorce.) The role of the court – in their not so humble opinion – is to reconcile the husband and wife. Two strangers to the court whom the judge knows nothing about. Smart, right?

I do give them some credit. I mean, if you embarrass easily, the line of questioning may be enough for you to run right back into the arms of your betrothed. In my case, even though I knew the question was coming (special thanks for the heads up from my attorney), I was still taken aback.

“When was the last time that you and your spouse had sexual relations or last co-habitated together?”

Apparently the court system is all about getting personal.

As if it wasn’t bad enough that I had to answer the question. I also had to provide a witness who could swear to the same. So, there sat my brother-in-law – selected as my witness because of the close proximity of his office to the court house – answering whether or not my ex and I had rendezvoused at any point over the last twelve months.

Suffice it to say, my face was as red as a Jersey tomato in July when I marched back down the courthouse steps, a little worse for wear.

I’m thinking it may be time that we update the ol’ South Carolina law books and maybe bring things into the twenty-first century? And, while we are making the bold move to not care about who people live with and/or have sex with we may also want to address why dance halls may not operate on Sundays; why horses may not be kept in bathtubs; why merchandise may not be sold within a half mile of a church unless fruit is being sold; why every adult male must bring a rifle to church on Sunday in order to ward off Indian attacks.

And why, if a man promises to marry an unmarried woman, the marriage must take place.

Um, I’m pretty sure that’s how I got into this mess to begin with.

This column is in no way meant to disparage the wonderful state of South Carolina. Check out www.dumblaws.com for more state law hilarity, even New Jersey.

Victory, Valentine, Vagina

2010-01-06T14:53:00.000-05:00

Bluffton Today Column
January 6, 2010

Vagina.

Does that make you uncomfortable? The word vagina? Is that inappropriate? The word vagina? Is this bothering you?

It shouldn’t.

What should bother you is that a woman is beaten by her boyfriend or husband every 12 seconds in the United States. Not convinced yet? In 2008, 32,889 victims received services from a domestic violence program or shelter in South Carolina. A 2006 SLED report indicates that Beaufort ranks 9th of the 46 counties in the state for domestic assaults.

Need more? Statistics show that one in every three women will be a victim of abuse – physical, sexual, financial or emotional. Look around you right now – your neighbor, your colleague, your teacher, your student, your mother, your sister, your daughter. Are the odds with you or against you?

I understand that we don’t like to talk about taboo subjects, or things that make us uncomfortable. Like violence against women. But, what is more uncomfortable, talking about it openly and honestly or being a victim, or knowing a victim, or ignoring a victim?

I speak from experience. Right out of college I was with a guy who liked to control me, to intimidate me, to accuse me, to call me every four-letter word in the book, to push me … All in an effort to keep me down when, in fact, he was so down on himself. And I was in a committed relationship with him, wearing the love blinders.

Eventually I had to escape. I ran back to my parents with all of my belongings in tow - including two cats and those two damn oversized sofas that haunted me for years.

I was lucky. Sadly, I’m not alone. Fortunately, there are people in Beaufort County who find this issue as disturbing and important as I do.

Enter Megan Roberts, University of South Carolina Beaufort junior, student life intern, and orchestrator of USCB’s “Stop the Violence Week” slated for March 22 – 27. “Stop the Violence Week” is a part of the global V-Day movement created to call attention to and stop violence against women and girls.

The “V” in V-Day stands for Victory, Valentine and Vagina. No coincidence since we are talking about overcoming the fear and the stigma, loving ourselves, and well I think we all know what the latter represents.

Roberts is bringing her A-game. And she has brought her passion for women’s issues to the USCB campus. This makes us – as a community – lucky. Lucky that a young woman is willing to voice her opinion and rally the community around an important cause. Lucky that she is not afraid to have her voice heard. And lucky that she is providing a venue for women to have their voices heard as well.

V-Day is a catalyst that promotes creative events to increase awareness, raise money and revitalize the spirit of existing anti-violence organizations. V-Day generates broader attention for the fight to stop violence against women and girls. Through V-Day campaigns, local volunteers and college students produce annual benefit performances of The Vagina Monologues and screen the V-Day documentary Until the Violence Stops, to raise awareness and funds for anti-violence groups within their own communities.

Roberts’ efforts at USCB will include educational forums, self-defense training courses, creative outlets for participants to express their feelings, and yes, a three-day performance of The Vagina Monologues.

The Vagina Monologues (the inspiration for the V-Day movement) from playwright Eve Ensler has been performed in cities all across America and at hundreds of college campuses. The Monologues give voice to women's deepest fantasies and fears.

Roberts is excited about the diversity of the fifteen cast members for the USCB performance who range from 17 to 60 years of age, and include both students and community members.

The first performance is scheduled for Thursday, March 25 at the USCB Performing Arts Center in Beaufort. Two additional performances are planned for March 26 and 27 in Bluffton and Hilton Head. However, there is one hiccup. They need a venue.

Now, I don’t want to speak for Hilton Head, but I think we – Bluffton – can come up with a venue to offer? Town Hall has an auditorium. An auditorium that seats a couple hundred people. An auditorium that is empty most nights of the week. An auditorium that our open-minded and ever-loving (yes, I am kissing ass) Town Council would be willing to donate for the one-night performance to support USCB and the women in our community who are silently suffering?

What say you Town Council? What say you?

Let’s do it for our neighbors, our colleagues, our family, our friends. And, let’s do it to support Megan Roberts a passionate student leader who is working with her community and her fellow students to bring awareness, health and balance to us all.

Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. said, "Our lives begin to end the day we become silent about the things that matter."

Let’s not be silent. Let’s speak up.

Writer’s Note: Women are not the only victims of domestic violence and/or assault. If you or someone you know is in need of help, Citizens Opposed to Domestic Abuse (CODA) is a Lowcountry resource. Visit www.codalowcountry.org or call 843.770.1070 or 800.868.2632.

Man on a Mission

2010-01-01T14:25:00.002-05:00

CH2, January 2010

“Strive for Success”; “Chamber Recognizes Year’s Best”; “Just One of the Guys”; “Intriguing Islanders”; “Good Men”; “Fruits of His Labor”…These are just a handful of the headlines that decorate the walls in Tim Singleton’s office at Hilton Head Island High School. After spending time getting to know Singleton, his colleagues, his students and his supporters, you realize that no headline is an exaggeration.

CONTINUE READING

Roger Pinckey and His Reefer Moon

2010-01-01T14:10:00.002-05:00

CH2, January 2010

He lives his life by the tide, the sunrise, and the sunset. His way of life is the Daufuskie Island way. Laid back. Sand and sea soaked. Preservation focused.

With a gruff exterior and a questioning eye, Roger Pinckney may not endear you at the outset. However, I warmed to him almost immediately the first time I met him three years ago. When he calls you “dear” in his sweet Southern twang it’s hard not to.

But, I think it’s fair to say that some folks may be put off by his pointed commentary regarding those who have invaded his beloved Lowcountry, where he was born and raised.

CONTINUE READING

Sleep in Heavenly Peace

2009-12-23T14:51:00.000-05:00

Bluffton Today Column
December 23, 2009

Growing up in our house, Christmas Eve was much anticipated. This was the day our entire family – grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins - would gather to celebrate.

We’re a sarcastic family, as you may have gathered from moi, so it only made sense that some torture be included in our annual holiday gathering. You see, tradition with my Mom’s side of the family was that Santa would visit on Christmas Eve. However, in order to get your first gift, you had to sing for Santa. This was especially fun when a new and potential significant other would be introduced to the family and be put on the spot. We lost quite a few good prospects over the years!

So, each year as the Christmas decorations would come down from the attic, so would the song books. My sister, Sharon, and I would pore over the books making our selection for the “big show.” For years and years (and decades before we were born) we placated Santa with musical mumblings of “Jingle Bells”, “O Christmas Tree”, and “Rudolph, the Red Nosed Reindeer”.

But one year it all changed.

Maybe it was the eggnog.

Maybe it was the festive green Jell-O-mold decorated with maraschino cherries.

Whatever it was, Uncle Al and Aunt Madeleine upped the ante. That year, Santa didn’t just get lyrics. He got a choreographed routine that would have put the Von Trapp children to shame - hand gestures, fancy footwork, and a little miming to boot. Uncle Al and Aunt Madeleine stole the show and the competition was on.

After that year, it became each family unit’s mission to out sing and out dance the others. We added background music, dance steps, lip-synchs, and song parodies. This was serious business. And, it became a new tradition. One that we continued until the year our “branch” of the family tree migrated south.

Our branch will celebrate our fifth Christmas here together in the Lowcountry tomorrow. And the tradition will continue. (If your dog starts howling around 7:00 p.m. it is because I am singing and I am most certainly off key.)

But this year as I prepare - by practicing in the mirror with a hair brush as a microphone - there is an angel on my shoulder.

You see the matriarch of our tradition, Aunt Madeleine, passed away two weeks ago. And I know that Christmas will have a new meaning for our family this year.

In the eulogy my Mom wrote honoring Aunt Madeleine, she talked about her favorite memories and the best way to memorialize Aunt Madeleine.

“As I took my Christmas ornaments out I realized I had a treasure trove of memories from her. And they are, right now, adorning my tree. For Christmas I'll give Courtney and Sharon the felt stocking ornaments she made for them when they were little and the rest I'll keep for myself and every year I will pay tribute to the kind, loving, wonderful woman who made them. You know how we all sang Christmas songs on Christmas Eve and sometimes changed the words to our favorite carols? Well Aunt Madeleine ... ’Sleep in heavenly peace’.”

So, from me you’ll get no sarcasm for Christmas this year - just a wish for silent nights, holy nights, and peaceful sleep.

Merry Christmas Bluffton.

The Shallow End of the Bluffton Dating Pool

2009-12-09T14:50:00.000-05:00

Bluffton Today Column
December 9, 2009

Disclaimer: this is not a personal ad.

However, in case you are taking notes, I do like pina coladas and getting caught in the rain.

You may have noticed that my byline has two last names. This is my gradual transition back to my maiden name upon commencement of year-long, state-required separation, which will result in the finalization of my divorce this month. Special thanks to South Carolina for making this process so damn long, much appreciated. Cue religious right who abhors divorce and is adding another slash mark to my trail of sins. (Get in line!)

This all means that I am newly single. And I recently had my first foray into the art of letting someone down easy.

Last time I dated, oh a decade ago, there was no Facebook, no Twitter, no blogs, no Google Alerts, and no newspaper column where I trounced my life out in print for the world i.e. Bluffton to read. Meaning I was able to live my life without someone being able to “find me online”. Well, the times they are a changing.

Last month, a member of the opposite sex, let’s call him Mr. X, sent me a message on Facebook.

Hi Courtney. My name is Mr. X and I live in X-town. I'm originally from X-state and moved here three3 years ago. I just finished reading your Proust Interview in CH2 magazine and was really impressed with what I read about you. I don't know if you are married or if you are in a relationship but you sound like a really intelligent and down to earth woman and the type of person I would be interested in getting to know and I wanted to know if you would be interested in meeting me for coffee sometime. If you are presently in a relationship I apologize for the intrusion.

If you're interested in learning more about me please feel free to email me via Facebook.

Best wishes, Mr. X.

So, in keeping with my salty sarcasm I replied with a little challenge.

Hi Mr. X. Wow. I was definitely not expecting that, but I am flattered. And, if you learned anything about me in my interview ... you know that I am now questioning whether or not you are an axe-murderer or a nice guy?

So, I'll offer this challenge. If you can provide three references, I'll think about it.

My hope was that my obnoxious wit would immediately stall his efforts but alas, one hour later I had three references in my Inbox. What to do, what to do?

Well, upon review of the references I realize that neither his high school best friend, nor his realtor who he hasn’t spoken to in four years, nor the elderly couple who he befriended up North, are what I was looking for. So I decided the best plan of attack would be to ignore, ignore, ignore.

Five days later Mr. X appeared again requesting an answer to his inquiry. So, despite every instinct to the contrary, I was a lady, I curbed the sarcasm, and I simply said that I was once again flattered, but extremely busy and did not have much time for a personal life. All true!

Then Mr. X turned on the obnoxious with a simple response, “Your loss.”

Now I thought I handled this appropriately. I was kind and gracious. When what I really wanted to say was, listen buddy with that Hawaiian shirt and spray on hair, it would never work between us.

So, it is my hope that this was merely a floater in the shallow end of the Bluffton dating pool. But regardless, now I face the million dollar question … join a convent or jump in?

A Bluffton Tradtion

2009-12-01T14:00:00.002-05:00

CH2, December 2009

What started last year as my family’s annual ritual to the Bluffton Christmas Parade ended with a muddied shoe and a bruised ego. That’s the day I fell into a drainage ditch along May River Road.

Now, I didn’t take a header straight into a pile of muck and mud. No, I teetered precariously along the edge as I trekked from the Promenade to “our spot” at the Squat & Gobble corner.

You see last December there were no sidewalks along that stretch of road. So I stepped over dogs, strollers, lawn chairs and a small child or two (lest someone move out of the way and find themselves in the ditch) – all jammed along the roadside with nowhere to go, but down.

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I'm Back ...

2009-11-25T14:49:00.000-05:00

Bluffton Today Column
November 25, 2009

I’m back.

Perhaps you hadn’t noticed?

But yes, it’s me. The Jersey Girl. The Cranky Yankee.

After a one and half year hiatus, I have returned to the Bluffton Today ring. And yes, I fully expect a smack down via VOX and blog. (In fact, it has already begun. In record time) But, this time will be different. I won’t read the blogs or peruse the VOX comments. No this time, I am only going to take the feedback offered by my Mom. She loves everything I write.

In all seriousness, when offered this opportunity to return I grabbed it without a second thought (ok, I had one second thought). Heck, I even updated my Facebook status to reflect my return to BT. The comments included a mix of “I can’t wait” and “oh, no”. Tell me about it people.
However, I shall prevail. At my first public event since my re-appointment I offered a little smack down of my own. Last month I participated in the “Toss for the Cure” corn hole tournament at Monster Pizza.

In the first round my partner and I were pitted against Bluffton Today publisher Tim Anderson and his wife Jill. We beat them in straight sets … or the corn hole equivalent of straight sets ... successive holes?

Either way, it was extremely embarrassing for Tim. So, I wanted to publicly apologize for publicly humiliating my new (again) boss.

But, while we are talking corn hole. Everyone who is anyone is doing it. And I know this because well, I am someone.

Ryan and Leah McCarthy owners of the Downtown Deli, Downtown Catering and Monster Pizza started a corn hole league over the summer and it has been growing with increasing fervor. More than 30 two-man teams gather each Wednesday night at Monster Pizza on Burnt Church Road for friendly competition. This is a brilliant move on the part of the McCarthys whose Wednesday has become the new Saturday. I mean, they are guaranteed that sixty people will eat pizza and drink beer. That my friends, is brilliance.

But it is more than the food and drink.

In fact, it is the only time all week that I don’t have my Blackberry with me. I disconnect for three hours every Wednesday, which in turn allows me to actually connect with people. Real live people. Standing right there in front of me. And I talk to them face-to-face. And without my right thumb rolling feverishly over the track ball of my Blackberry to see if a new message has arrived.

If you don’t know what corn hole is, I invite you to come and check it out. The new league starts Wednesday, December 2. Stop by Monster Pizza to register and come see what everyone is talking about.

I promise you it is quite a scene, and the place to be seen. And heard. After all, when you get sixty locals together there are bound to be some column ideas brewing there.

Until then, Happy Thanksgiving!

Let Pooping Dogs Lie

2009-11-11T14:45:00.000-05:00

Bluffton Today Column
November 11, 2009

“Pet owners are to have their dogs urinate / defecate in their own lawns prior to taking them for walks. If you cannot control the animal from urinating/defecting while being taken for a walk, then you need to find another place to walk your dog.”

This quote is taken from a recent update sent out by my Property Owners Association. Pardon the pun, but I expect that this may insight a $hit storm.

Let me shed a little light on how dog walking works.

The moment I lace up my sneakers my dog, Darby, begins spinning in maniacal circles. He knows that we are going for a walk. When I open the closet door and reach for the leash, the spinning is joined by jumping and an audible increase in breathing rhythm. So now I have a spinning, jumping, out of breathe dog who if he was a little smarter would realize that we can’t go for a walk until I put on his leash. And, I can’t get the leash on while he is spinning and jumping.

Eventually good sense kicks in and I am able to get the leash around his neck and us out the back door. Where we pit stop in our yard for the first “go”. I hope the POA is watching!

Then, we begin our trek through the neighborhood to the main entrance. Now, because Darby is a dog he does stop at almost every mailbox to take a sniff, each stop sign to take a whiff, and every fire hydrant to take a … well, you get it. In some instances he is marking his territory and in others checking out an already pre-marked locale. I think it is because he is a dog!

Once on McCracken Circle we get moving at a pretty good clip. And undoubtedly each time I hit my stride, Darby hits a mandatory pit-stop and practically separates my shoulder. Again, I think it is because he is a dog.

Believe me I am the first one to complain when I see a steaming pile of poop that someone didn’t scoop. But, I do think the POA needs to be a little more realistic. It isn’t as easy to control a dog’s bathroom habits as they may think.

So, I pose this scenario to Mr. POA. Imagine you just had a huge Mexican dinner. Beer, tacos, salsa, hot sauce, re-fried beans. About half way home you start to feel the rumble in the tumble. You park the car haphazardly in the driveway, fumble with the keys, and race through the front door only to find that your wife is in the bathroom. You dance around outside the bathroom door, holding “it” in agony pleading with your wife to hurry.

And, she says, “honey can’t you hold it just a little bit longer?”

Better yet, she comes out of the bathroom, ties a leash around your neck and tries to drag you to somewhere that she deems better for doing your business.

I don’t know about you, but I’d bite your wife and bust through the bathroom door. When you’ve gotta go, you’ve gotta go.

Proust Interview

2009-11-02T13:16:00.000-05:00

I love writing, but was super-excited to have someone write about me. For about a minute. Then I got embarrassed. Then I re-considered all of my answers. Then it was over. Then I emailed the writer to change my answers. All is all, she did a hell of a job ...

Read my "Proust Interview" in CH2/CB2 here ...

And ... is Photography By Anne not pretty darn talented? She made me look good!

College Life Comes to Bluffton

2009-11-01T13:58:00.001-05:00

CH2, November 2009

She laughed. She cried.

She is Kate Torborg, Student Life Director for the University of South Carolina Beaufort.

She is one of the first people students meet when they arrive on campus and it is her job to make sure their college experience is everything they’ve imagined, and for the traditionally-aged student, everything their parents have hoped for.

She is helping to transform Bluffton into a college town and I am pretty excited about it.

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