August 2010 Priceless
Truth is like the sun. You can shut it out for a time, but it ain’t goin’ away. – Elvis Presley
Couture for the Cure Sasee Veil Participants
Renee Griffin • August 9-13 Renee has a great deal of emotion when it comes to helping raise money for Brides Against Breast Cancer. She lost her mother to the disease 24 years ago and her sister is a 5 year breast cancer survivor. Renee has 3 children and 4 grandchildren and she wants to help raise awareness in hopes that one day a cure will be found. She is employed with Pine Lakes Country Club. Linda Mitchell • August 16-20 Linda is a personal trainer and Pilates instructor at It’s A Core Thing. She is married and has two grown children and two grandbabies. She firmly believes in living a healthy lifestyle in order to help prevent illness and she strives to encourage others to do so as well. Linda’s sister lost her battle with cancer at the age of 49 and Linda wants to do what she can to help fight this insidious disease.
Donna Zeglin • August 30-September 3 Donna is the owner of Salon VIP, she is married to Dale and together they have two children. Donna has several clients who have been affected by breast cancer and she is raising money in their honor. “Miss” Jeri Himmelsbach • September 6-10 Also known as Ms. Jeri, she is a physical education teacher and coach. Jeri has been married to Jack for 37 years and they have four children. She has had several aunts and friends who have fought breast cancer and one very close friend who lost her battle. Jeri wants to help others work to be physically healthy and is honored to wear the veil and be a small part of finding a cure for this disease.
Nancy Grumman • September 13-17 Nancy is a local artist and well known art teacher who is married to Scott and they have three wonderful children. Nancy has many dear friends who have fought, and are fighting, this disease and is honored to be able to participate in such a wonderful cause.
The Little White Dress will team up with Sasee magazine to raise money for Brides Against Breast Cancer. Each week in August and September, one prominent woman from our area will wear the “Sasee Veil” and tell others about Brides Against Breast Cancer, while collecting donations for the foundation. If you would like to make a donation, please contact The Little White Dress at 843-449-4940. For more information about this foundation, visit MakingMemories.org. Rainbow Harbor, 5001 N. Kings Hwy., Ste. 111, Myrtle Beach, SC 29577 843-449-4940 TheLittleWhiteDress.net
TIME LOST is
BRAIN LOST THE REGION’S FIRST DEDICATED STROKE UNIT. When a stroke strikes, McLeod and minutes make the difference. Stroke rates among residents in the Pee Dee are one of the highest in the nation. And any delays in getting care for stroke patients greatly increase the chances of permanent disability or even death. Time lost is brain lost. McLeod has oﬀered the region’s rst Stroke Unit dedicated exclusively to the treatment and care of stroke patients, since 2000. And as a partner with REACH the Medical University of South Carolina (MUSC) Stroke Network, the physicians at McLeod can diagnose and treat stroke patients with the latest therapies even more quickly and without delays. Through REACH, urgent specialized stroke consultations by MUSC specialists are delivered to the physicians and nurses caring for emergency stroke patients at McLeod.
McLeod Health www.McLeodReach.org Florence, SC 46376-McL REACH Female Sasee.indd 1
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August 2010 Volume 9, Issue 8
I’ll Have Fries With That
Publisher Delores Blount Sales & Marketing Director Susan Bryant Editor Leslie Moore Editorial Intern Caroline Cusick Account Executives Kimberly Dahlin Amanda Kennedy-Colie Kim Salyer Erica Schneider Celia Wester Sales Intern Julia Lawson Art Director Taylor Nelson Photography Director Patrick Sullivan Graphic Artist Scott Konradt
by Alice Muschany
Inside the Lines by Mary Hughes
Saved by a Skirt by Erika Hoffman
Southern Snaps by Leslie Moore
Tell The Truth by Linda Vasenius
I’d Have Preferred the Ticket! by Linda O’Connell
Accountant Stacie Sapochak Administrative Assistant Barbara J. Leonard Executive Publishers Jim Creel Bill Hennecy Tom Rogers
by Margaret Bishop
The Unwritten Rules of Marriage by Janey Womeldorf
The Master Plan by Diane Stark
Defining Exercise by Debbie Fox
1357 21st Avenue N., Suite 102 Myrtle Beach, SC 29577 fax 843-626-6452 • phone 843-626-8911 www.sasee.com • email@example.com Sasee is published monthly and distributed free along the Grand Strand. For subscription info, see page 38. Letters to the editor are welcome, but could be edited for length. Submissions of articles and art are welcome. Visit our website for details on submission. Sasee is a Strand Media Group, Inc. publication.
I n T h is I ssue Read It! . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 12 Sasee Gets Candid . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 24 Scoop on the Strand . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 36
Copyright © 2010. All rights reserved. Reproduction of any material, in part or in whole, prepared by Strand Media Group, Inc. and appearing within this publication is strictly prohibited. Title “Sasee” is registered with the U.S. Patent & Trademark Office.
I n t e r i o r
D e s i g n
S e r v i c e
A v ai l a b l e
843•449•7673 • www.rosearborfabrics.com • Rosearborfabrics@aol.com • 6916 N. Kings Hwy., Myrtle Beach
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contributing writers Margaret Bishop is a stay at home mom living in Camden, S.C. with her husband, Matt, and children, David, Olivia and Thomas. She is also the Stay at Home Mom’s Tipster for www.theimperfectparent.com.
letter from the editor For me, swimming in the ocean is a spectacular way to spend an hour or so. It’s a great way to cool off and riding the waves is fun – I like boogie boards, too. I used to run with a group every Saturday morning, and, in the heat of summer, we would run Pawleys Island and then take a dip to cool off – pure bliss! But, Erika Hoffman’s essay this month, “Saved by a Skirt,” brought me back to one swim that ended a little differently. Years ago, I went with a nonswimming friend to the beach and, while she worked on her tan, I decided to take a swim. After a half hour or so, I decided to come in and found I could not swim to shore. I was caught in a rip current. Fortunately for me, my practical and loving father had spent a lot of time with me in the ocean while I was growing up and told me to never try to swim out of one of these deadly currents, but to swim with it and, eventually, I would be able to break free and get to shore. So, I didn’t panic, but floated from the north end of Pawleys nearly to the south end and, finally, was able to get to shore. The worst part of the experience was the long, hot walk back to my friend, who had been dozing in the sun the entire time, with no clue I was in trouble.
Debbie Fox, previously published in Sasee Magazine, sees humor in life’s challenges. She is an award-winning writer and a St. Louis Writers Guild Member of Distinction. Visit her at www.debbiefox.com A native South Carolinian, Lisa Hamilton is the director of the First Presbyterian Church Preschool and Kindergarten. Of course she loves reading, but also finds time for cooking and walking her dog, Hurley. Erika Hoffman is the author of fifty-five published stories and articles and one novel. Her novel, Secrets, Lies, and Grace, will be released November 1, 2010, by Comfort Publishing. She uses the pseudonym, Riki Vogel, for her fiction. Mary Hughes has been published in Chicken Soup for the Tea Lover’s Soul. She also writes newspaper articles, devotionals and stories of encouragement for women. Her subscriber based newsletter, Christian Potpourri, is in its seventh year of publication.
Erika’s harrowing experience was much different from mine. Don’t miss reading it.
Alice Muschany lives in Wentzville, Missouri. Publications include Cup of Comfort for Breast Cancer Survivors and Chicken Soup for the Soul True Love. Linda O’Connell is a preschool teacher and freelance writer from St. Louis, Missouri. As Linda waltzed through the decades, she discovered her age of elegance was in her forties, but she isn’t complaining. Linda resides in the Midwest but her heart and soul hang out at the beach.
cover artist Gossip, by Robin Rowe Robin was born in southwest Virginia and grew up in a farm house surrounded by beautiful scenery. Upon graduating from Lynchburg College, Robin began her career as a free-lance needlework designer. She then went on to establish her own needlework and ribbon company for the next 18 years. In 2000, business took a back seat to her passion for painting; she picked up her pastels and began renewing her love of the arts. Pastels soon moved to oils, and she is currently working in both mediums. Robin has refined her talent working with several teaching artists, as well as attending the Scottsdale Artists’ School. Robin also focuses her creative eye on photography. She now has a full line of photographic images from around the world. Robin’s work is always developing and each painting is a learning experience. It is her goal to create a painting that is as exciting to her as it is to the collector. To see more of the artist’s work, visit www.roweboatart.com.
Diane Stark is a wife, a mother of five and a freelance writer. Her work has appeared in publications like Chicken Soup for the Soul: A Tribute to Moms. She loves to write about her family and her faith. Linda Vasenius and her husband retired to the Myrtle Beach area in 2007. She was a librarian for many years, a job that she found truly rewarding. Her interests now include reading, knitting, seeing friends, volunteering and writing.
Janey Womeldorf is a freelance writer who talks out loud to herself on a daily basis. She scribbles and chatters away in Memphis, Tenn.
Playing By the Rules
Think • Run • Play • Enjoy • Speed • Mistake • Opportunity • Diet • Health • Work • Create • Truth • Stretch • Drive • Ride • Compete • Gain • Lose • Overcome • Follow • Lead • Swim • Break • Mend • Affirm • Believe
y e a r s
2 0 t h
A N N I V E R S A R Y
Southern Circuit Tour of Independent Films “Dear Lemon Lima” Tuesday, September 21 • 3:00 pm Free Admission Tara Theater, Litchfield Beach & Golf Resort
“The Curious Mister Catesby”
Tuesday, September 21 • 7:00 pm Free Admission Tara Theater, Litchfield Beach & Golf Resort
“Cheating the Stillness: the World of Julia Peterkin” Wednesday, September 22 • 3:00 pm • 7:00 pm Free Admission Tara Theater, Litchfield Beach & Golf Resort
Remembering Kathy Metts
Thursday, September 23 • 5:00 pm at Cheryl Newby Gallery
C e l e b r a t i n g
Private Wine Tasting
Thursday, September 23 • 6:30 pm $250
Friday, September 24 • 7:00 pm $85 prior to September 1, 2010, after $100
Chalk Under the Oaks
Saturday, September 25 • 8:00 am-3:00 pm Free Admission
Steve March Tormé
Saturday, September 25 • 7:00 pm $35 and $25
Blues Under the Oaks with Cool John Ferguson Sunday, September 26 • 3:00 pm $25
Marco Sartor Concert
Thursday, September 30 • 7:00 pm $25 at Holy Cross Faith Memorial Episcopal Church
Schedule of Events
Friday, October 1 • 7:00 pm $35 and $25
The Jimmy Dorsey Orchestra
Saturday, October 2 • 7:00 pm $35 and $25 Tabled Event
presented by the Grand Strand Theatrical Youth Players Sunday, October 3 • 3:00 pm Children Free, Adults $15
Sunday, October 3 • 4:00-7:00 pm $15 from Murrells Inlet to Pawleys Island All events held at Litchfield Plantation unless otherwise noted
Tickets on Sale Now
I’ll Have Fries With That by Alice Muschany
While my husband and I sat in our lounge chairs watching TV, I read an article out loud that touted the benefits of proper eating. Ignoring me, he cranked up the volume on the football game as he crunched Doritos. When I persisted in sharing the dietitian’s suggestions, he turned to me and said, “That’s your problem. You believe all that crap.” Lord knows I’d harped at him constantly about losing weight, but it was for his own good. Our golden years were just around the corner, and I wanted to spend them together, in good health. Nothing I said or did changed his poor eating habits. He continued to scarf down chips and dip while watching me count calories and carbs. As far as he was concerned, salads were rabbit food. Vegetables? Only if I found a way to fry them. Skim milk. Why bother? Exercise was a sore subject. A waste of time. He had real work to do. One day, I asked what he wanted for supper. Out of the blue, he suggested a salad. I’m not sure, but I think I blinked twice before asking him to repeat himself. “A salad sounds good,” he said. Where’d that come from? I smiled while I prepared a delicious spinach salad, thinking my nagging had finally paid off. Later, I found out the real reason for his change of heart. Fear. When he’d gone for his annual checkup, his blood pressure was sky-high, stroke level, off the charts. The doctor gave him an ultimatum – lose weight or else. No ifs, ands or butts. He warned my husband to go straight to the hospital if he felt tingling in his arm or tightening in his chest. The next morning, my pork sausage, biscuits and gravy man fixed himself a small bowl of Raisin Bran. At first, I was elated that he’d decided to change his ways. He even helped plan low-fat nutritious meals. We switched to grilled foods, whole-wheat spaghetti and pita bread. Dessert was a no-no. Pounds melted off him – not me. He lost five, then ten, then twenty. Soon he needed a smaller pant size and complained his belt was too big. Friends and family commented on his weight loss. I was happy for him, of course.
But come on, I’d been exercising and eating healthy for years. Why hadn’t the scale rewarded me? The final straw came one day when I caught him standing with the refrigerator door open muttering about the yogurt I’d purchased. “What’s the matter?” I asked. He shook his head and turned to me. “Honey, this brand has nineteen grams of carbohydrates.” Puhleease. There’s nothing worse than a reformed man. I kept my mouth shut until it was time to go shopping. In a soft, innocent voice, I asked, “Sweetie, would you mind going to the grocery store from now on? I’m not sure what foods will work for you.” He surprised me when he said, “Why don’t we both go?” As long as I’d known him, the man had not set foot inside a grocery store. We each grabbed a cart and parted ways with our separate lists. Ten minutes later, I rounded an aisle and stopped in my tracks. There stood my husband reading the nutrition label on the back of a package. I couldn’t stop snickering. He looked up and grinned. Recently, I didn’t feel like cooking, so I suggested going out to eat. But no matter what restaurant I chose, it wasn’t on his diet. Jeez! Believe me, it took all I had to refrain from pointing out all the times he had sabotaged my weight loss plan – tempting me with a deluxe pizza or an ice-cold Bud on draft. Never mind the warm Krispy-Kremes. Fast food was out. By the time he made his choice, my stomach was growling. When it was time to order, I let him go first. Naturally, he chose baked chicken, steamed broccoli and mixed vegetables. My turn. It’s true there’s nothing quite as sweet as revenge. His eyes opened wide when I ordered a deluxe double cheeseburger with the works. So what if the scale climbed higher the next day. It was worth every calorie-laden morsel to watch his reaction. When the waitress turned to leave, I added, “And I’ll have fries with that.”
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Lisa Says…Read One Amazing Thing, by Chitra Banerjee Divakaruni and The Yellow House, by Eileen O’Neill by Lisa Hamilton 12 www.sasee.com
Chitra Banerjee Divakaruni’s latest novel, One Amazing Thing is equal parts beauty and drama. The characters in this book are so extraordinary and intelligently conceived; you will never forget them or their story. An earthquake traps nine people in the basement of an Indian Visa office in an unidentified American city. A college graduate student, an African American Vietnam veteran, a rebellious teenager and her Chinese grandmother, an upper class Caucasian couple, a young Muslim-American man and two of the Visa office employees will struggle to survive this catastrophe that appears as real as any we’ve read about in our times. Their first reactions are methodical and reasonable, but as flood waters begin to rise the psychological and emotional stress becomes unbearable. The graduate student suggests passing the time by telling a personal tale or One Amazing Thing about their life. The stories of romance, politics, love and disappointments weave a novel of intimate revelations. Dicakaruni is a brilliant storyteller; this passionate creation is truly One Amazing Thing.
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Fans of historical fiction will enjoy The Yellow House, by Patricia Falvey and truly have a better understanding of the history and troubles of Northern Ireland at the beginning of the 20th century. The passion and politics of one woman’s struggle to keep her home and family together is beautifully composed in this emotional debut novel. When Eileen O’Neill’s family is torn apart by religious injustice and political intolerance, she inherits a lifetime of struggle and heartbreak. Working in a textile mill owned by a wealthy Quaker family, she realizes the opportunities for Catholics at this time are nonexistent. As civil war breaks out, Eileen will make choices that will take her family through war, disease, mental illness, greed and love. Falvey is a native of Northern Ireland and tells her story of family loyalty and national pride in a voice that is convincing and heroic. The Yellow House is a novel of one strong woman fighting for her family, her faith and her country.
I remember as a little girl how I loved to color. I filled countless coloring books with vivid purple scratches, blue scribbles and yellow patches. The black lines on the pre-printed illustrations didn’t hold me back. I colored wherever my waxy, colored crayon wanted to go, and that was almost everywhere, including outside the lines. But people who seemed to know more about coloring than I did encouraged me to stay inside the lines. I was told that’s what the lines were for. I looked and saw that everyone else was trying to color inside the lines, so I started coloring inside the lines more carefully. And I realized they were right: my coloring looked beautiful when I stayed inside the lines! It looked perfect! It wasn’t long after that that I stopped coloring. It was simply too exhausting. So what began with Crayola soon evolved into a lifelong battle with perfect. Part of that battle was trying to cope with all the people who have learned to stay within the lines so much better than I. Because I have tried so very hard; I really have. But it’s like there’s this thick black line and no matter how honest the effort, I go over it. And when I’m confronted with someone who is able to do perfect, I am overwhelmed. Take today, for example. I was invited over to someone’s perfect house, perched on a perfect lot with nary a weed nor bare spot. The grass was edged, and not one piece of grass dared to poke its head over the line. Inside this perfectly painted house were walls without one scratch, floors without one scar, furniture without one flailing thread and carpet without one slight shadow. Outside were brightly potted plants without one brown spot, without one dead flower. There was not a dead little petal or leaf on the ground. Even the stones that lined the garden seemed to stand at attention like a military guard. It was the picture of perfect. Every single thing as far as the eye could see had been colored inside the lines, deliberately, methodically and with surgical precision. And like a kindergartner sneaking a glimpse of another’s superior work, I felt deflated, imperfect, a derelict of sorts. I sighed inside where no one would see the inner struggle. Because in my house you can’t even see the lines anymore, much less stay inside them. I had waged war on perfect, and I had lost. At that moment I once again found myself exhausted. I wanted to throw my whole crayon box away and quit. Instead I went home and sulked. I looked around at the place I call home. I noticed pulls on the couch from the cats. I saw hardwood boards with a bit of a bulge from an overflowing dishwasher ten years ago. Over on the windowsill there are deep scratches from a beloved, but crazy, Labrador Dalmatian mix who has long since gone. I saw scars on the wall corner from the girls’ furniture as it departed the house along with them. In the kitchen I saw marks on the counter from many meal preparations. Ah, yes, far from perfect, all of it. Then I had a mini-epiphany. Just when did perfect become a rule that I must live by? Was it back in kindergarten when I heard the praise for a picture perfectly colored inside the lines? Who was it I wanted to be like? Why couldn’t I just be me, in all my imperfections? There is no denial that there is a pristine beauty that results from the tireless pursuit of perfection, but it will never be mine. And I hereby declare I shall no longer endeavor to wear its perfectly polished crown. Instead I will look around at the scars and mars of my home and see them as a kind of grace note in a painting yet unfinished. I will no longer strive to whitewash any of it, for these imperfections are mine and my family’s, and they are the markings of my coloring book, my story, my life, full of color and fully outside the lines. And imperfectly, perfectly…beautiful.
Inside the Lines
by Mary Hughes
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Brides, Mark your Calendar for
The Grand Strand Bridal Show at
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Join us for: Door prizes and raffles with a giveaway valued at over $5,000.00!! A fashion show Complimentary strawberry mimosas White glove passed appetizers Over 60 vendors A mystery local celebrity and so much more! Donâ€™t miss this opportunity to make connections that will make your fantasy wedding a reality!
Saved by a Skirt by Erika Hoffman
I’m of an age when I prefer buying bathing suits with a skirt. If I do purchase a one piece minus the extra material, I then get the skirt accessory. I never swim without my skirt. On June 5, 2010, I suggested a break from scouring the stove at our beach cottage. The cleansing is an annual ritual before the upcoming rental season. “Just a short swim,” I proposed. Reluctantly, my husband traipsed after me. He and I had been short with each other earlier. When I sauntered into the water, he stood only calf deep. “Come on! It’s not cold if you immerse yourself!,” I urged. I was already paddling about in the gentle waves. A few young kids frolicked shin-deep up the beach; two muscular young men tanned near a tarp; white lawn chairs and an altar remained from earlier nuptials. Still, at five o clock the beach was mostly deserted of people. We floated ten feet from shore when I realized I was over my head and asked my husband if he could touch bottom. “No.” I started the breast stroke. I made no headway. I began an Australian crawl. The undertow pulled me further out. I exerted. I strained. I thrust myself forward. I went nowhere. “Hold on to me!” I yelled. My husband reached for my fingers, but the waves pushed us apart. “Swim in with the next wave,” he answered. We both tried. Like being in a vortex, we were pinned down in a current of water that tugged us backwards. Though a short distance to the beach, it might as well have been miles. We were losing the battle. By sheer will power, I tried to propel myself through the salty sea. I was weak. I couldn’t stay up anymore. I couldn’t even float. “I can’t make it,” I said. “Help!” yelled my husband with anxiousness in his eyes. He began waving his arms, crossing them. “Help!” he cried out, scanning the shore. No one heard him. No one was in sight. We bobbed helplessly with our heads barely above water. In the pit of my stomach, I knew it was over. I thought of our kids. I thought of the headlines. I thought how we’d die here a stone’s throw from shore. I’ve never been afraid of the water. I’ve particularly loved the ocean since a kid riding the surf at Lavallette, N.J. I’ve always dreamed of owning a beach house within view of breakers. A year ago we bought it. Perfect. Drowning is frightening. He was in trouble and should leave me and try to make it on his own. “I can’t go on. I can’t,” I murmured. He looked worried and was
still an arm’s length from me. He grabbed for my fingertips but couldn’t hold them. With the last touch of our hands, hands that touched for 40 years, I knew we were goners. My life was finished; so was his. I felt sad. A swell pushed him in a little. His toe hit sand. He turned sideways, watching me retreat. I strained toward him. He reached back and grabbed my skirt. The wave relentlessly tugged me out. He clutched that scrap of fabric and struggled forward. “I’m too tired,” he said. “Don’t let go.” He thrust on. A wave pulled me back. He stayed put and then lurched forward. I floated buoyant again with no feet anchoring me. The skirt’s stretchy material tautened. He yanked my skirt. My toes scraped land; it was a steep incline with a big drop off. I feared I’d fall back into the hollowed out caldera and into the rip current. Too weak to stand, I crawled. He lay with waves smacking over him. I clawed the sand and collapsed. “Where’s help?” I thought. I couldn’t lift my head. I couldn’t turn. My frontal lobe over my right eye pounded. I lay inert, lifeless as a corpse, limp as a dead fish. “Byron?” No answer. I dozed off. I woke to a noisy machine and lifted my chin to spy a dune buggy with a life guard bolting up the coast much closer to the houses than to the sea where we lay, like detritus washed up after a storm. “You okay?” I asked the wind. He wasn’t as high on the bank and still submerged. “My heart is racing.” “Someone will come.” No one came. I have no concept of the time that passed. We were just like castaways portrayed in movies, enervated from fighting the relentless sea. Stillness enveloped me. I heard a dog bark. “Can you move?” I asked. “Let me stay here awhile.” We lay still. My mind couldn’t grasp we hadn’t died. Nothing was different about the sea that day. Nothing gave us pause. No red flags to warn that our little dip would turn into an epic struggle for survival. We headed to the bench where we’d deposited our towels and flip flops a lifetime ago; a couple there asked us how we were. “We almost drowned,” I said. The guy smiled and then realized we were sincere. “I saw you lying at the water’s edge. I didn’t know you were in trouble,” he said. “The wind kept people from hearing us,” I said. “A father and son got in trouble by the pier this weekend. A surfer gave them his board. He saved their lives, but he drowned.” “My husband saved my life.” Tranquility has settled over me. I am on borrowed time. Besides the throbbing headache and the sore lateral muscles, what have I taken away from my brush with death? I learned I love my husband. I learned he loves me. I learned how uncertain the future is. I was doomed and am reborn. If ever a cross word forms on my lips directed at my spouse, I will take out that black stretchedout skirt and hold it and remember. And, I will thank him again and again for not letting go. Editor’s note: After this submission, Erika began feeling much worse and, upon seeking medical attention, discovered she had suffered a stroke as a result of her experience. Luckily, it was caught in time, and she is now recovering at home.
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Cayenne Graves – Living a Life Led by Love by Leslie Moore
Cayenne Graves has witnessed the healing power of expressive art. This vivacious and warm volunteer curator of the Mercy Care art gallery creates beautiful paintings depicting images of women and dogs, representing the many emotions that are a part of the human experience. As well as being an artist, this unique individual reaches out to others through her work as a Happiness Coach and seeks to share the joy she finds in living every day. Cayenne’s life has been, and continues to be, led by loving kindness, rather than convention. A native of New York, Cayenne moved first to California, and then Seattle after college. A vacation to the Virgin Islands changed the course of her life when she met, and fell in love with, an expatriate living in this tropical paradise. Never happy to settle in one place for long, Cayenne soon moved to the islands and married. She and her husband lived an exotic, enthusiastic life, first helping friends build a schooner and then beginning to build their dream home on the blue Caribbean shore. Tragically, Cayenne’s husband died suddenly of a heart attack before the home was barely started. Grief-stricken, Cayenne decided to continue building the home – by herself, piece by piece. “I spent a couple of months gathering a huge, house-sized pile of building stones before I hired a mason to help me get started,” Cayenne remembers. “Unfortunately, I had chosen the wrong type of stone – the mason told me it would crumble! It set me back a couple of months, but I kept going.” Determined, Cayenne did finish her beautiful home and filled her life
with friends and new experiences. “I wanted to learn massage therapy, but I couldn’t go back to the States to train. So, I brought in teachers and learned the art. I wanted to do something to benefit my community.” When her friends wanted to fix her up with the new island doctor, Cayenne was not interested. But, a chance meeting led to love at first sight. A divorced ER doctor, Harrison Graves had come to the islands to get away from it all, but the couple soon realized they needed to move back to the States and be closer to his two sons. When a hurricane destroyed Cayenne’s home in 20 minutes, they packed what was left and moved to Raleigh, North Carolina. Cayenne loved helping raise her two step-sons, Chris and John. “The neighbors would tease me about having no furniture in the house,” Cayenne said, laughing. I wanted the boys to have experiences not things. We did have some furniture, but there were empty rooms that we used as gyms or theaters; it was always morphing and changing. We taught them to go into their heart of hearts to decide if the things they wanted were important. We traveled a lot with the boys, but gave them a lot of free time. I wanted them to know they didn’t have to be busy all the time.” In 2000, with the boys grown into happy, successful men, Cayenne and Harrison sold everything they owned, bought an RV and hit the road. This huge change even extended to their names – both Harrison and Cayenne are “road names.” “Changing our names told people we were different,” Cayenne
explains. Their life on the road was everything they had dreamed of since leaving the Virgin Islands years ago. Harrison devoted himself to his photography, and Cayenne painted. After nine years of the vagabond life, they found themselves in North Myrtle Beach and loved it so much they decided to stay. After settling in the Cherry Grove area, the couple looked for ways to give back. They trained as volunteers for Mercy Care and were very impressed with Sara-Jo Faucher, the Executive Director, and the quality of care offered by this organization. Both Cayenne and Harrison wanted to help alleviate the fear of death in both the patients and families they served. Cayenne and Harrison approached Sara-Jo about opening an art gallery in the office of Mercy Care and, with her enthusiastic support, it opened last April. Today, the halls of the lovely facility on Devon Court in Myrtle Beach are lined with Harrison’s spectacular nature photography, Cayenne’s paintings and the works of other selected artists. All are meant to bring peace and comfort to the viewer. The artwork is for sale, with a portion of the proceeds going to Mercy Care. This generous artist also does artwork featuring dogs and donates a portion of the proceeds to animal rescue. “The dogs in my art represent unconditional love.” tened to what they were saying rather than focusing on the colors in their drawings. The conventional rules of art therapy don’t always apply.” The wanderlust that has been so much a part of Harrison and Cayenne’s life together will never completely diminish. Now they spend nine months here, in North Myrtle Beach, and the other three traveling in their beloved RV. Both Harrison and Cayenne hope to expand their work with Mercy Care, and if funding can be secured, Cayenne hopes to help start an expressive arts program in the coming years that would serve the patients and families coming to grips with end of life issues. “I deeply honor the creative and intuitive space in everyone. I believe that with loving kindness and the opportunity to express themselves, people will naturally open up and begin to operate from the heart instead of the brain. This can come from art, music, writing or dance. I want to train my clients to find the answers in themselves.” Contact Cayenne at email@example.com.
In addition to her volunteer work, Cayenne opened “The Listening Space,” where she helps others find the happiness that is “everyone’s natural state.” A self-labeled “Happiness Coach,” Cayenne is quick to say she is not a licensed therapist, but does work with therapists to help teach people to listen to themselves. “I’m a professional listener,” she laughs. “That’s probably why I talk so much when I’m not working!” Cayenne believes that by guiding her patients to create art projects, and by really listening, she brings them closer to an intuitive state that can lead to healing. “An ‘aha’ moment someone finds for themselves is much more effective than anything I could do or say. I write down everything my clients say…nothing is irrelevant and nothing is an accident.” Cayenne remembers working with a woman who was labeled catatonic – she would not speak or react to others. Her health care providers had little hope for her recovery. For nine hours Cayenne and this woman made collages and, finally, the floodgates opened. With patience and love, Cayenne discovered that this woman was angry, very angry, and thus began the road to her healing. She also worked with school children in Wake County, North Carolina, when teachers began worrying that the children’s artwork was done mostly in black. “Most of these kindergarteners were not troubled at all. I lis-
Tell The Truth by Linda Vasenius
We want to believe that people tell the truth. What we find sometimes is that some people embellish or twist the facts in such a way as to make us believe an untruth. When I was a sophomore in high school, I was shocked to discover that my closest girlfriend had a date with my “steady” boyfriend. I was told this, of course, by another “friend.” One of those friends who so wanted to be liked by others that she would spread a rumor and even embellish it to make it seem more shocking. I was stunned, and my classmates were shocked. She flaunted her news around the school, over to the malt shop, as well as up and down the streets of town. Soon, I felt people whispering behind my back, glancing sideways at me, then turning away. I was furious. First, I was upset with my boyfriend, the one that gave me his senior class ring which hung around my neck on a cord. Second, I was crushed that my best girlfriend had a date with my “man” and last, but not least, I was furious with the girl spreading the news. Thoughts of revenge swirled around my head. I decided I would stage a meltdown in front of the hot shot boyfriend. I would throw the ring at him, maybe aim for an eye, or, better yet, his lower mid section. As for the pretend best girlfriend, I decided to ignore her and act like I didn’t want to be her friend any more, though I regretted thinking that immediately. She and I had been best friends for a long time, since sixth grade. But, how could she have done this? As for pretty Miss Tattle Tale, I would think up something really awful to tell people about her. I was not sure what that might be, but something would come to me. I slouched around the hallways with a storm cloud hanging over my head, scowling at people, shoving my way to the lockers. And, there stood my handsome boyfriend smiling at me. “Hey, beautiful. How you doing?” He shoved one hand into a pocket of his letter jacket. The audacity of him. I was outraged. Did he think I wouldn’t find out? How could he act so nonchalant? “Don’t speak to me.” I snarled. I twisted on the cord with the ring, trying to pull it over my head, but it became tangled in my hair. It hurt like crazy! “What’s the matter with you?” he asked, reaching out to help me unsnarl the cord. “Leave me alone. I know about you and Betsy, you jerk. Everyone in the school knows you dated her. How could you?” I gave the cord a final jerk and it broke, spilling the ring onto the floor.
He bent over at the same time I did to retrieve it, and we bumped heads. “Ow, what are you talking about? I didn’t date Betsy. Gees, why would I do that?” Tears were leaking from my eyes as I examined his face. Was he telling the truth? I snatched up the ring and held it close to me. Betsy rounded the corner and almost fell over us crouched on the floor as we stared into each other’s face. “Hey what are you guys doing?” I looked up at her with tears in my eyes. “Gosh, what happened?” she asked. “I was told that you and Jerry had a date,” I hissed, venting my anger. “Mary Jo told me that you two went on a date.” “You don’t believe her, do you?” asked Betsy. “I wouldn’t do that to my best friend.” I looked at her wanting to believe her. Yet, a nagging doubt tore at my heart. “I don’t know what to believe.” The tears were building, and I was thankful for the bell ringing to signal it was time to change classes. I scurried down the hall and into the girls’ bathroom for a quick splash of water to rinse my face. I heard whispering inside the stalls. “Did you hear? Jerry is dating Betsy. They were at the Dairy Queen sharing a banana split.” The voice sounded familiar. It was Mary Jo. “Mary Jo,” I shouted. “Come out of that stall this minute, you witch. You are spreading a vicious lie. Jerry is still my boyfriend.” Mary Jo peeked out the door of the stall. “Oh, hi. I’m sorry, but it’s true. Other people saw them too. I can give you names.” I slammed the door of the stall on her fingers before I stormed out of the bathroom and ran to catch Jerry before he went into his chemistry class. “Jerry,” I yelled trying to find the ring. Where had I put it? “Did you split a banana, I mean, did you share a banana split with Betsy? Did you lie to me?” I found the ring in my skirt pocket and thrust it at him. “Gee whiz, what is wrong with you? We were planning your surprise birthday party. Sure, I stole a bite of her banana split, but it didn’t mean anything.” He turned and went into the classroom, shutting the door in my face. That was the moment I learned a valuable lesson. People do lie. But, sometimes it might be a case of misinformation. Mary Jo saw what she thought were two people on a date. Did she lie? No. Did she misconstrue? Yes. I learned not to jump to conclusions, but to gently sift through the information searching for the truth. It is there, somewhere.
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Meet Barbara Raskin
This month, the Little White Dress is partnering with Sasee to raise money for Brides Against Breast Cancer, a fundraising activity for Making Memories Breast Cancer Foundation. Five local women will be wearing the “Sasee Veil” from August 9th through September 17th to raise awareness and funds for this amazing charity. Sasee met with Senior Tour Director Barbara Raskin to learn more. Please tell me about Brides Against Breast Cancer. Does it help women locally? Brides Against Breast Cancer (BABC) is the major fundraising activity of the Making Memories Breast Cancer Foundation, a 501 (c) (3) non-profit founded in Portland, Oregon, in 1998. The Foundation’s mission is primarily to grant last wishes to men and women suffering from Stage 4 (metastatic) breast cancer as well as to increase awareness, and encourage self-examination as the key to early detection among the women, their families and friends who attend BABC events. We operate a store in the Santee Outlet Mall that sells wedding gowns, prom dresses, mother-of-the-bride gowns and all types of wedding accessories. Our merchandise is donated from major designers, bridal shops and other retailers. We take the gowns on tour every year, stopping in 50 cities throughout the United States. Though our scope is national, we are sensitive to the need for our services in our own “backyard.” For example, about a year ago we granted a wish for a woman from Holly Hill, S.C., whose career in local government led her to request a trip for her family to Washington, D.C., hopefully to inspire her daughters to follow in her footsteps. We arranged for a beach house on Topsail Island, N.C., for a woman with Stage 4 breast cancer who wanted to see her daughter married where the family had traditionally spent summers. We provided the house and arranged for a designer to create a unique, pink gown for the bride. Another woman, from the state of Washington, wanted to travel to Atlanta to meet her sister and vacation with the family at a beach house in or near Garden City, S.C. We arranged the transportation and rented the house, but what is really special about this wish is what the staff of the Little White Dress arranged to make the experience unforgettable. They sent food, arranged spa pedicures, a dress up day for the little girls in the family, sent monogrammed beach towels, and on and on. They were wonderful. Our partnership with Little White Dress is a magnificent thing. We are blessed by their enthusiasm and dedication. In a nutshell, the proceeds from our sales that are allocated for granting wishes are spent wherever there’s a need. But we will always go the extra mile to assure that funds from local events grant wishes “at home” when there are requests in the pipeline.
How did you get involved with this organization? Why is it important to you? I became involved as a volunteer about five years ago after I moved to Santee from New York City and relocated my mother from New Jersey. My intention was to do something to honor my mom, who survived three husbands and two mastectomies, while she is still alive. She worked with us for more than three years in the Santee Store and on our Tour Shows. While we are not a “chapterbased” organization, Santee is not very far away from the center of the state. The audience for our outlet store says there’s enthusiastic reception for what we’re doing. Santee is a reasonable commute from a lot of places and is becoming known by those who know the Foundation and want to support our cause. Please tell us a little more about your life. I am retired and, apparently, very bad at it. A graduate of New York University’s Washington Square College of Retailing, I have been involved in the New York fashion scene since the 1960s, first as a model – I modeled for Hedda Kleinfield (Say Yes to the Dress) for spending money while I was in school. I was the Marketing Director of Brides Magazine in the 1980s, worked with most of the giants in the bridal industry and am proud to say that many of the gowns donated to the Foundation come from industry resources established through my career. I truly love what I do and how we are able to help people far less fortunate. It pleases me and honors my mother. One thing that’s really important is that those who have helped (and continue to help) with what we do in Santee are friends of my mother’s. In the end, this is “all about Mom.” She’s 91 and, before Alzheimer’s kicked in, was our resident breast cancer counselor – and a wonderful ray of hope for many. Contact Barbara at 843-901-0402, firstname.lastname@example.org or www.bridesagainstbreastcancer.org. To help with the “Sasee Veil” fundraiser, call Nicole from the Little White Dress at 843-449-4940. Photo by Person & Killian Photography
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I’d Have Preferred the Ticket! by Linda O’Connell
Most people zip down the interstate highways like they’re at a race track; young people flash by me a in a blur, and whenever I see an old guy in a Corvette, I just signal and move to the slow lane, as I know he is reliving his youth, a time in his life when he had more agility and less sense. I am not taking any chances. I keep my speedometer in the safe zone. Some days are so hectic it seems all I do is speed here and there, and when I arrive at my destination, I am exhausted. I never drive more than two miles above the speed limit. Even then, I always have one eye on the road and one in my rear view mirror, which is probably more dangerous than my speeding. I imagine the reflection of red and blue cruiser lights illuminating my car, flashing like a disco ball, causing everyone to gawk at me in ratty clothes, having a bad hair day. I just know that strangers will point and stare, and worse, I’ll be recognized by people I know who will taunt me forever. I visualize myself pleading with an officer, being told to exit my car so he or she can search my vehicle. I can see myself standing at the side of the road, cuffed, embarrassed, kicking the dirt and my own behind for speeding and not pitching the contraband which I’m certain he or she can sniff without a police dog, because all those fast food wrappers reek after a while. That duct-taped cardboard box in my trunk really is just filled with junk, but will the cop believe me that ten cans of shaving cream, a stack of egg cartons and the dozen empty baby wipes containers are school supplies? I can hear the barrage of questions. “So, exactly what is it you intend to make with all this material? What are you producing with all this pressurized soap?” My fears are not unfounded; my imagination does not run amok because I write; my visualization is not a result of reading exciting tales. Only one time was I actually pulled over for speeding. I was twenty-five years old. It was late on a warm spring evening; mine was the only car driving down the two lane city street, houses on one side and a neighborhood park on the other. I was less than two miles from home, and I was obeying the twenty-five mile per hour speed limit. Then, out of nowhere, I noticed a car behind me. It came up suddenly and then slowed down and fell back a few car lengths. I laughed aloud imagining my neighbor and best friend goofing around with me. The second time her car approached, I sped up five miles over the speed
limit. She sped up. We played cat and mouse for half a mile, we were both ten miles and fifty dollars into a traffic fine if we were to be stopped, but we were blocks from our homes having fun with no other cars around. Then it happened. A booming male voice, which seemed to come out of the dark park and through my driver’s window, bellowed, “Pull to the curb, and stay in your vehicle.” My legs turned to jelly; there was no way I could get out if I’d been ordered to. I pulled to the curb and the voice blared through an amplified speaker, “Pull through the stop light, dummy! Don’t block the intersection.” Tears flowed like the water fountain spewing in the park lake. I was a dummy! The police officer exited his car snapping his ticket book and his gum. He was a rookie, a twentyone year old red haired, freckle-faced kid who looked like Ron Howard during his Opie days. He walked up to the driver’s window, bent down and peeked inside at me. I hadn’t thought to pull down my long, mint-green evening dress which was hiked thigh-high. My heart sank to the floorboard where my hem should have been. I figured I’d be arrested for solicitation, enticement or bribery. But it was too late. He’d seen my knobby knees; then he looked me in the eye and said, “License! Let’s hear your story.” I sniffled and held up my tiny evening bag. “I left it at home in my real purse. I live right up there a few blocks away. I can get it for you. My husband drove tonight to the wedding, and my son spilled a drink all over my lap. See? My dress is drenched. I was going home to change my clothes, so I can return to the wedding. My son. My baby. My poor son. I have to get back to the wedding.” I blubbered and wept like my three year old little boy who had spilled his white soda all over my lap. The young officer looked at me sympathetically and flipped his ticket book shut. His voice softened. “Ma’am, if it’s your son’s wedding, you go ahead on home and change your dress and get on back to the reception, but drive the speed limit. Have a nice night.” I signaled a turn and went home to change. All the way to my house and back to the reception, I alternated between crying and hysterical laughter. I hee-hawed because I didn’t get a speeding ticket, and I bawled at the thought that the kid cop, four years younger than I, thought I looked old enough to have a son who was getting married. I’d have preferred the speeding ticket!
Cool Summer Evenings June 16 - August 13, 2010
Wednesdays, Thursdays, and Fridays come for dinner and stay for the show when Brookgreen offers live entertainment every night and cruises down the creek in the cool of the summer evenings. Entertainment is included in garden admission. Creek cruises are $7 in addition to garden admission.
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Speed Trapped by Margaret Bishop
It had to happen sooner or later, and just a few short days ago, on the way home from a lovely beach vacation, my luck ran out! My driving skills have always been debatable and, among close family and friends, there is actually little debate, given the amount of inanimate objects that I have managed to hit throughout the years. However, despite my frequent collisions with curbsides, pillars and mailboxes, I am actually not one to put the pedal to the metal on a regular basis. That is, in normal circumstances, I am not typically a fast driver, but throw in a screaming child or extreme tardiness, and I am off to the races like Mario Andretti. Fortunately for me, I have been lucky to encounter a number of kind, understanding officers over the South Carolina roadways in the past, so I actually have only one or two speeding tickets to my record in the twenty years that I’ve been driving. One of my first tickets came in the embarrassing situation in which I was pulled over for speeding by the exact same police officer that had given me a warning ticket just one week earlier. As he strolled up to my window and perused my license, he gave me an amused smile and asked, “Haven’t we met before?” Needless to say, I did not walk away ticket-free from that encounter, and several years passed before I was pulled over for speeding again. My next traffic stop occurred on a particularly hellish trip to Charleston in the rain, alone with my two preschoolers and their screaming baby brother. In a car packed with baby gear, suitcases and a wailing infant, the officer beat a hasty retreat with just a perfunctory warning for me to slow down. No doubt, he wanted to emerge from our chance meeting with his hearing intact and, given the high notes that my little one was hitting, he probably figured he’d get out while the getting was good. Just about a year later, I was stopped again on a late Fourth of July evening on the way home from the lake. My husband was following behind me but, somehow, I always seem to be the person chauffeuring the screaming infant. Once again, the officer in charge decided that he’d rather spend his time screening for intoxicated drivers than spend one more minute with me and my brood. With a tip of the hat, I was sent on my way.
Now that my youngest has reached toddlerhood, the number of screaming fits has greatly decreased and, subsequently, I really have no excuse at all to be careening down the roadways. Yet, I still manage to up the speedometer for no good reason on occasion. In the spring of this year I was actually pulled over for speeding because I was concentrating so hard on eating the leftover spinach dip I’d brought to a “drop in” that I’d completely missed the speed limit change. The officer that pulled me over – no doubt embarrassed (or maybe disgusted) by my own gluttony - allowed me to drive off with just a warning and, thus, I arrive at the recent afternoon that marked my reversal of fortune. I left the beach feeling a little under the weather, and I suppose I was eager to get back home as I traveled the desolate roads of rural South Carolina. My husband and oldest son were following in the car behind me and, according to my spouse, there was no keeping up with me as I hurried toward Camden. Speeding across miles of farmland, I was nabbed going quite a bit over the posted limit and, this time, I was accompanied only by my wandering thoughts as well as a napping toddler and coloring kindergartner. There was no excuse to offer as I sheepishly handed over my license and registration to the police officer. Peering into my car and seeing no urgent reason that might be spurring me down the highway like a late entry in a NASCAR race, the patrolman returned with a familiar blue ticket in hand, but, this time, there was no warning. I’d been caught red-handed in my carelessness, and this time there was no person or circumstance to blame other than myself. As I pulled back onto the road attempting to explain my error to my wide-eyed 6 year old, I vowed aloud to be more vigilant about watching my speed. Judging by the constant reminders I received from my newly self-appointed backseat driver, I don’t think I’ll have to worry about another ticket for years to come!
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Un w ri t t e n
Ru l e s
by Janey Womeldorf
In marriage, certain rules go without saying: Love, fidelity, honesty and respect. However, it is the second set of rules – the unwritten ones – that cause havoc or harmony behind closed doors. The first unwritten rule reveals itself months into the marriage – usually around the time the happy couple, or should I say she, is finally sending out thank-you cards. Her husband appears at the door. “Need any help there?” he asks insincerely. “Don’t worry, (which he isn’t), I’ve got this,” she instructs lovingly while flexing her stiff, cramping fingers. With zero hesitation, he disappears, eager to get back to where he really wants to be anyway. This, more often than not, will be the garage, which from this point on shall be known as the “man cave.” The man cave is his sanctuary where he will devote countless hours organizing, re-organizing and re-re-organizing his tools so that at a moments notice, he can arise from its depths, his tool holster loaded, ready to save his damsel-in-distress from the enemy leak. Meanwhile, she dutifully returns to the task at hand, ignoring the stage-one arthritis developing in her fingers. Short scribbles of thanks replace beautifully-crafted messages and relieved, she licks the last envelope, blissfully unaware that she has just sealed her fate regarding marriage’s first unwritten rule: “I also promise to remember, shop for, write and mail all cards and gifts for both mine and your family as long as we both shall live.” Unfortunately, these same set of rules will also dictate that the kitchen is to the bride, as the man cave is to the groom. He will assume this to be obvious, regardless of her cooking ability, unless she stipulates otherwise. Sometimes, opposites attract, which often means that a woman who cannot/doesn’t cook is naturally drawn to the man who can. However, for everybody else… A man will never wake up thinking, “What shall I do for dinner tonight?” Men will help clean up and do dishes but leave anything with caked-on grime to soak overnight, safe in the knowledge that it will miraculously disappear by morning. A man rarely needs to try new recipes or deviate from the trusted – that is us – so save yourself the trouble, master eight dishes, rotate them often, and make him take you out for dinner when you don’t want to cook. As the weeks turn into months, modesty and dignity creep out of the fairy-tale and loving acts like saving “long-distance” bathroom calls until our beloved moves out of ear-shot become a distant memory. The honeymoon period is over and previously-unnoticed quirky behavior and questionable bathroom habits rise to the surface. Some couples follow pristine hygiene rules in this area; however, for everybody else… The man will continue to use his bath towel, oblivious to the damp
stench that would make any woman keel over, until the woman changes it. The woman shall under no circumstances, ever attempt to use her man’s razor. Any woman caught shaving her legs, or worse, her armpits, which she will be the moment he spots the rogue hair sticking from his razor head, shall face his wrath. Only in the direst of emergencies – of which there are none – shall a couple be permitted to use each other’s toothbrush. The toilet seat. Fortunately, this is not a problem in our household, thanks to my husband’s former room-mate. One wintry evening, after a hefty bar session, my husband awoke in the middle of the night desperate to answer nature’s call. He groped his way into their shared bathroom and sleepily sat down on what he assumed would be the toilet seat. As his naked skin connected with the icy-cold rim, he almost fell into the toilet, courtesy of the wet, slippery souvenir his room-mate had left there. The grossness of the situation jolted him to safety, scarred him forever and trained him to put the toilet seat down, long before I ever entered the picture. Soap: A sliver to a woman means ten more showers to a man. Admittedly, I used to be like this but changed my ways when the soap disappeared once during a shower. Confused and puzzled, I gave up my search and dried off. About 30 minutes later, as I put on my bra, I discovered the sliver stuck in the small of my back. I pried it off, finished dressing and now consider the soap’s life to be over once it breaks in two. You will go through the toothpaste stages – the correct way to squeeze and whether to roll up the tube. You will switch to the pump as a compromise then return to the cheaper tube, realizing that you no longer care, you’re just thankful you have teeth to clean. And finally, a woman will never want to finish her book in the bathroom, on the toilet. Unwritten rules don’t just pertain to the bathroom; they infiltrate every room of the love nest, most notably in the area of tidiness. When it comes to putting things away, some couples enjoy zombie-like neatness; however, for everybody else… Men know if they ignore an item long enough, it will re-appear days later, clean and folded in their drawer. Just because he puts stuff away in his man-cave, it does not mean he will do the same in the house. Likewise, just because her kitchen is organized, it doesn’t mean her closet will be. And on that note, men get the small one; women get the big one – case closed. My husband and I recently celebrated 21 wonderful years and now laugh at the things that once seemed important. Every couple is different and so are their rules, especially the unwritten ones, but ultimately, what really matters is not where you squeeze the tube but that your breath is fresh when you say “I love you.” My husband’s quirks are as invisible to me now as mine are to him and there’s nothing I wouldn’t do for him – except let him use my toothbrush.
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The Master Plan by Diane Stark
“Hey, Honey, the insurance representative is coming to the office tomorrow,” my husband, Eric, said. “I’m going to double my life insurance policy, OK?” “Double it? Do you really think we need that much?” Eric nodded. “Well, since we got married, we’ve doubled the size of our family, so I figured you’d need double the money if something ever happened to me.” “I don’t even want to think about anything happening to you,” I said, giving him a hug. “But if something ever did happen, you’d be one wealthy widow.” “I don’t care about that. Nothing is worth more to me than you are,” I said. He grinned. “Oh, Honey, I’m worth a whole lot more to you dead than I am alive.” “No way, Eric,” I said, shaking my head. “Not in any way that matters.” Two days later, I stopped into Eric’s office with his lunch. “I brought you a cheeseburger and fries,” I said, setting the fast food bag on his desk. “I was going to bake some chicken at home, but I ran out of time.” I shrugged. “I guess it won’t kill you to eat this stuff once in a while.” Eric grinned and took a huge bite out of the burger. “Mmm,” he groaned. “Why can’t I just eat this way every day?” “Umm, let me think. Ever heard of triglycerides?” I teased with a grin. A few days later, I strongly encouraged – OK, forced – my children to sort through their very-soon-to-be-too-old-to-eat Easter candy and get rid of the stuff they weren’t planning to eat. My daughter put several packages of Smarties in her “don’t want” pile. “Oh, those are Daddy’s favorite,” I said, scooping them up. And pretty soon, all of the “don’t want” piles became “give to Daddy” piles. By the time the last of the candy was sorted, Eric had been gifted with several thousand calories worth of marshmallow bunnies, speckled eggs and those you-either-love-them-or-hate-them Peeps – in a variety of colors and shapes. The kids were so excited about their “present” that they begged me to take them to their dad’s office so they could give it to him.
When he saw the huge bag of junk food we’d brought him, he said, “Wow, that’s a whole lot of candy. Thanks, you guys.” But to me, he said, “Holy Cow, I’ll never be able to eat that much junk! I’d have heart burn for a month!” That’s what he told me, but I’m sure I saw him gazing at those purple Peeps with longing in his eyes. Later that week, I was out running errands, so I stopped by Eric’s office with a chocolate milk shake. “Surprise,” I said. “I brought you a little treat.” But instead of taking the shake from me, Eric caught his co-worker’s eye and chuckled. “What did I miss?” I asked. Eric looked at me and shrugged sheepishly. “Well, Honey, my buddy Aaron here has a little theory.” “Oh, yeah, what’s that?” I said, turning to Aaron. Aaron said, “Well, I overheard Eric talking to the insurance rep the other day, so I know he doubled his life insurance amount.” He grinned. “And now I’ve been watching you guys over the last week or so, and I think you’ve got Eric on the fast track.” “The fast track? What does that mean?” Eric put his arm around me and said, “He thinks you’re trying to kill me.” My mouth dropped open, but Aaron didn’t give me a chance to speak. “Seriously, think about it, Diane,” he said. “There’s actually quite a bit of evidence to support my theory. Two weeks ago, you were baking chicken and lecturing Eric about triglycerides. Then this week, you’re feeding him cheeseburgers, French fries and chocolate shakes, not to mention that enormous bag of
expired Easter candy. And what did your all-tootrusting husband do just last week?” “I doubled my life insurance policy,” Eric finished. He rolled his eyes at me and grinned. “He thinks you’ve decided to speed up the inevitable by feeding me a bunch of junk food. He thinks you’re hoping I’ll have a heart attack and wind up in an early grave.” “You know, to get your loot sooner,” Aaron finished with a grin. “I…well, I don’t even know what to say,” I sputtered. But Aaron wasn’t finished. He looked me up and down and said, “If you can manage to kill off this old guy in three to five years, you’ll still be young enough to get re-married.” He tapped his wrist and said, “But the clock is ticking. You’d better step it up.” I laughed because I couldn’t help myself. “So by ‘step it up,’ you mean try even harder to kill off poor Eric, right?” “Well, yeah, of course. Why feed him a double cheeseburger when you can give him a triple?” He gestured toward the cup in my hand. “And no more medium-sized shakes. If you are serious about getting this thing done, you’ve got to super-size every thing he eats.” “But then I’ll super-size him, and I like him slim and trim,” I said. “And alive, Aaron. I like him alive.” Eric smiled at his friend. “See, there’s no master plan to get rid of me.” His grin grew bigger. “She’d rather have me than all that cash.” “Whoa, hang on a minute here,” I said, holding up my hands. “Exactly how much cash are we talking about?” Eric’s mouth dropped open. “Baby, how could you?” “Oh, I’m only kidding,” I said, hugging him again. “Why would I need a million bucks when I already have you? I don’t need that money because you make me feel like a million bucks.” Eric smiled sweetly and said, “And now you’ve discovered my master plan.”
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A N N I V E R S A R Y
Defining Exercise by Debbie Fox
Isn’t it ironic that the word exercise, exertion made for the sake of training or physical fitness, can also be defined as a public exhibition or ceremony? Exercise is becoming more and more public. Health clubs abound and attract both the fit and unfit, offering high-tech equipment in place of home-rigged gear. We abandon our basements, garages, back rooms and privacy to flock to upscale clubs for training among a group of strangers. I don’t know about you, but I prefer my exercising remain private. However, since I don’t own a swimming pool or a Nautilus machine, nor a basement or room designated for training, I joined a health club and, unwillingly, became one of the many who exercise (employment or use) exercise (training) as an exercise (exhibition). Club members are a breed apart from the private sector exerciser. The women wear the proper clothes, not any old thing dragged from the closet. Sport bras under tight tank tops and Capri-length pants of spandex hug their muscled bodies. Like the rule forbidding the wearing of white past Labor Day, I won’t wear spandex until I’m the size of Paris Hilton, which will never happen. Besides, isn’t spandex combustible? Too much thigh friction on the treadmill and va-voomph – sizzling, hot pants. Besides having the trendy clothes, club members preserve their sneakers for use only in the gym and lace them up with reverence. My sneakers go everywhere I do, both indoors and out, a sacrilegious outrage that draws a few uplifted eyebrows as if to ask, “You’re not changing your shoes?” I frown at the eyebrows and want to ask their owners, “Do you think I want you scrutinizing my socks, too?” The eyebrows relax, and their owners hasten from my presence, bottles of Evian in hand. Wouldn’t want to ingest germs from the water fountain after expending so much effort staying fit and healthy. Working out in a health club is an adjustment from working out in private. In a room filled with machines meant to make exercising efficient and fun, club members, with their iPod ear buds jammed in their ears, ignore the room of strangers and soberly perform their routines – in front of a wall of windows. Any passing pedestrian or driver can witness the exhibition. I hunker
down on a low rider bike as far away from the glass as possible, humming to myself because I don’t own an iPod. The distractions interfere with my concentration. I notice people of all shapes and sizes, and my mind starts dreaming up scenarios about them. Maybe, that pencil-shaped woman once weighed three hundred pounds. Perhaps, that chunky man traded his cigarette habit for gym workouts. Lost in character analyses, I suddenly realize my pedaling is slowing down. The hunky, hot trainer in the corner is eyeing me suspiciously, probably thinking a twoyear-old could pedal faster. I pick up my pedaling pace. The sounds of the various machines – whirs, clicks, clanks – and the thump, thumping of footfalls on the treadmills make me feel as if I am not emoting enough noise as I pedal the bicycle. I vow next time to bring along a couple of baseball cards and clothespins to clamp on the spokes. Oh wait – the bike doesn’t have spokes, just one solid, whisper-quiet wheel. The weight machines don’t interest me, mainly because the club doesn’t have weights in cute colors. Besides, they’re just so heavy. I prefer my two-pound purple hand weights I have at home that exhaust me after ten reps. And the treadmills terrify me they’re so complicated. They measure everything except I.Q. and my aptitude for walking. I walk as if I had concrete blocks for feet, and even the slowest speed would be too fast for me. When I feel like Lance Armstrong winning the Tour de France – exhausted but jubilant – I check my time. 12 minutes! Wow! Am I great? I want to shout for joy at my new personal best; however, seeing the somber expressions on faces of strangers keeps me silent. They might like being on display in front of windows, but they don’t appear to be having much fun exercising. I decide I’m not cut out for exercising among strangers at a gym. Wouldn’t these members be surprised to learn that the word gym comes from the Greek word gymnazein, meaning to exercise naked? Maybe, that would put a smile on their faces, but that’s a whole different form of exercise, one that’s better exercised in a private exercise.
The Gentle Cycle Boutique
Barbara’s Fine Gifts . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 25 Magnolia OB/GYN . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 37 Brookgreen Gardens . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .27 Maguire Law Firm . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 5 Butler’s Electric Supply . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 29 Marina Inn at Grande Dunes . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 16
Fashion Stretch Ring $13.00
Carmen Carmen Salon . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 25 The Market Common . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 11
Designer Inspired Handbag $42.00
Caché Top $21.00
Carolina Coastal Plastic & Reconstructive Surgery 17 McLeod Health . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 3 Christopher’s Fine Jewelry . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 12 Palmetto Ace Home Center . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 31 Curiosities . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 27 Pawleys Island Festival of Music & Art . . . . . . . . . . . . 8
Aeropostle Capri’s $13.00
David E. Grabeman, D.D.S., P.A. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 19 Pawleys Island Swimwear . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 13
Give Style a 2nd Chance
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Fashionable Anklet Styles $9.00
Fashion for Less
Guess Shoes $16.00
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Celebrating Our 40th Anniversary 1970-2010
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Fine Jewelry. Quality Service.
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Historic Downtown Conway 317 Laurel Street Conway, SC 29526 • 843-248-2624
Long Bay Symphony . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 38 Zeidwig . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 33
august A Sense of Time, A Sense of Place, exhibit at Myrtle Beach Art Museum, open Tues.-Sun., 3100 South Ocean Boulevard. For more info, call 843-235-2510.
Moveable Feast, Susan Kelly discusses By Accident, location TBA, $25. For more info, call 843-235-9600 or visit www.classatpawleys.com.
28th Annual Craftsmen’s Summer Classic Arts & Crafts Festival, 10 am-6 pm each day, MB Convention Center. For more info, call 336-282-5550 or visit www.CraftShow.com.
Jackie, Gretchen and Friends, 7 pm, Brookgreen Garden’s Cool Summer Evenings, free with garden admission. For more info, call 843-235-6000.
Music on Main, Main St., North Myrtle Beach, 6:30-8:30 pm. For more info, call 843-280-5570.
Coastal Kayaking, Mondays, Huntington Beach State Park, 10 am-12 pm, $35. Call 843-235-8755 for reservations.
Wine and Cheese Tasting, 3-7 pm, Wednesdays, Kd Morris Wine Shop & Gallery, 3422 Holden Beach Rd., Holden Beach, N.C., free. For more info, call 910-477-7093.
Visit www.sasee.com for a full calendar and more Sasee events!
Art Walk, Downtown Conway Historic District, 10 am-5 pm. For more info, call 843-248-6260 or visit www.conwaymainstreet.com.
Sunday Signings, featuring local authors Dr. Phillip Comfort & Nan Turner, 1-5 pm, My Sister’s Books, Litchfield. For more info, call 843-235-9618.
Creative Exchange Series, “The Art of Songwriting,” Jim Quick, Sunset River Marketplace, 10283 Beach Drive, Calabash N.C., 11 am-12:30 pm, lunch included, $5, RSVP required. For more info, call 910-575-5999.
U “N” I JAZZ, 7 pm, Brookgreen Garden’s Cool Summer Evenings, free with garden admission. For more info, call 843-235-6000.
South Carolina’s Largest Garage Sale, 7 am-2 pm, MB Convention Center. For more info, call 843-918-1014.
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Personalized gifts – you won’t find just anywhere! Classic, colorful…preppy with a twist!
An all female physician practice offering compassionate customized healthcare. We provide in-house ultrasounds and dexa scans for your convenience. Preferred Providers for most insurances including BCBS, Cigna & Aetna. Tracy D. Nelson, M.D., Board Certified Karyn C. Markley, M.D., Board Certified Helena P. Kirkpatrick, M.D., Board Certified Tracey A. Golden, M.D., Board Certified Norah Nutter, MSN, WHNP www.magnoliaobgyn.com
8203 Nigels Drive • Myrtle Beach (Off of 82nd Parkway)
Onsite embroidery, engraving, imprinting & hand painting. Turn around time under two hours. The Hammock Shops, 10880 Ocean Hwy., Building 12, Pawleys Island • 843-235-3907 www.personalize-it-gifts.com
Friends in dance are friends for life Sign up for our fall dance classes in • Ballet • Modern • Jazz • Tap • Hip Hop • Acro • Pilates
Classes for all ages and skill levels begin on August 23.
843-281-8444 539 Hwy. 17 North, North Myrtle Beach, SC 29582 ★ Across from Gator Hole Plaza, behind Starbucks ★ www.whataboutmeboutique.com • Tues. - Sat. 10-6
Litchfield Dance Arts Academy
Ilka Doubek, Director • 97 Otis Drive in Pawleys Island, SC • 843.237.7465 www.litchfield-dance.com • firstname.lastname@example.org
Antiques Avon Collectibles Country Decor Fabrics + Notions Glassware Handbags Jewelry 114-A Hwy. 17 N. Handmade American Girl Doll Furniture Surfside Shopping Center Unique Handmade Crafts Surfside Beach, SC 29575 Vintage Items Mon - Fri: 9 am to 6 pm Wood Products Sat: 10 am to 5 pm • Sun: 1 to 5 pm WoodWick Candles
Roman Spa Toga Party Come dressed to relax and be treated to samplings of the ultimate spa experience and music from The Long Bay Symphony Ensemble! Stroll through the spa sampling heavy hors d’oeuvres and sipping libations. Guests will be given a “passport” to visit all of the spa treatment rooms, when the passport is complete you will be entered into a fabulous drawing. Wear a toga and enter the “Most Creative Toga” contest to win more prizes.
Give Your Mom, Sister, Best Friend or Yourself the Gift that Lasts a Year!
Saturday, Sept. 11, 2010 Place: Cinzia The Spa at North Beach Plantation from 5:30 – 9:30 PM Tickets: $70.00 includes food, beverages (2 tickets/person – cash bar), entertainment and mini spa treatments.
Name Address City State
Zip Send check or money order to Sasee Distribution 1357 21st Avenue North, Suite 102 Myrtle Beach, SC 29577
for more information call 843.448.8379
Special Introductory Offer 12 Issues for $24
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