Hello, Hilton Head

School started back in Charlotte this week, and summer is winding down. I absolutely love fall and I will be glad for a merciful break from the heat, but like always, sad to see the days of flip flops and beach time come to an end. We usually save our vacation for the end of the season, so we just got back from spending a few days on Hilton Head Island.

Hilton Head is one of our happy places; Clint has always loved it since he was a kid and he introduced it to me when we were first married. Over the years and all of our visits, we've developed a certain set of vacation memories and traditions that we always look forward to going back to whenever we visit.

Our first day, if at all humanly possible, we have dinner at Hudson's Seafood House on the Docks. They've weathered three major storms in the last four years, but luckily even though there have been some changes and renovations, it's still the same Hudson's we have always loved.

Dockside at Hudson's. Let the vacation begin.

If you don't have hush puppies at Hudson's, did you even go to Hilton Head? 

We sat looking out on the water and absolutely feasted on shrimp, oysters, and what I will fully certify as the best hush puppies in the entire world. I'm not kidding when I tell you that even their steamed broccoli is delicious (I mean, don't fill up on it or anything, but it is good).

After a grocery store stop to fill up on the essentials--you know, the important things like bottled water and Chex Mix--we checked into our condo rental in Harbour Town at The Sea Pines Resort. We were only a few steps away from the iconic lighthouse, plus all the shops and restaurants, including the Harbour Town Bakery that we love for our vacation breakfasts (carrot walnut muffins are the best way to start your day). Best of all, this was our gorgeous, marshy view from our patio:

Room with a view, indeed.

I'm not going to brag and tell you that everything was perfect, let's be real. The king-size bed in the master bedroom was almost definitely made of concrete and we spent our first night tossing and turning and aching from the sheer discomfort of it all. On day two, we discovered that the guest bedroom had two of the softest, coziest full beds ever. And so, we spent the remainder of our vacation sleeping in the same room together, but in different beds, like a couple out of a 1950s television show. It was one of the strangest vacation experiences we've had in a while!

When your husband becomes your roomie. Sweet dreams are made of this.

We got in some near heavenly, sunny beach time, reading and enjoying the sand and the ocean. Give us a beach chair and a cold beverage, and we are perfectly content for the remainder of the day.

Ah, vaycay. I wish you could come around more often.

Of course, we wouldn't consider it a vacation without plenty of good food. From lobster rolls to fresh fish to shrimp and grits (and a crab cake or two), we got our fill of all the goodies that the Lowcountry has to offer. Seafood, seafood, and more seafood...and a good meal was had by all.

Skullcreek Boathouse lets you mix and match your own ceviche ingredients.
Ours had shrimp, conch, ahi tuna, and calamari.

Oysters on the half shell at the Crazy Crab.

I don't think we missed a single delicious thing to eat! 

Saturday was our last full day before we were due to head home, and to put it mildly, the weather did not cooperate. We were so proud of ourselves for being up bright and early and making it to the (increasingly cloudy) beach club by 10:00 a.m. It started sprinkling as we walked down to the beach, and thank goodness the umbrellas were already out and open because it quickly turned into a downpour. I mean one of those Forest Gump kind of rains where it's coming down sideways, at an angle, and even from the ground up it seems. We huddled under an umbrella and not-so-patiently tried to wait it out. Just a little passing shower, right?

After a half hour of pouring rain, we made a dash for the car and did what any sensible vacationer would do: drove across the street to the Plantation Golf Club and ordered Bloody Marys to keep us company while we passed the time.

Into every vacation, a little rain must fall?

About an hour later, the sun came peeking through. We hoped that meant the rest of the day would make up for the morning deluge, so we drove back to the beach club, unloaded all of our beach belongings yet again, and set up to enjoy one last day soaking up sunshine. But right after lunch, dark clouds started rolling in again. The lady beside us, after a quick check of a trusty weather app on her phone, announced that we were in for a half hour of light showers and then we were clear for the day. I don't know what app she was using, but it was dead wrong. We huddled (again) under an umbrella, swathed in towels with our teeth chattering as we got pelted by rain. During a lull, we ran for cover to the beach bar and sat with the rest of the beach goers and waited for another hour as it absolutely poured. Finally, around 4:30, we gave up and admitted it was a washout. However, as you may recall, last year's Stancil vacation was rudely interrupted by Hurricane Irma and an emergency evacuation flight from the Bahamas, so a rainy day in Hilton Head is not what we consider the end of the world.

Once we showered and got dressed, the weather had finally improved and we managed to get one last gorgeous sunset out of our trip. We enjoyed a glass of rosé and our amazing view one more time. Later that same night, we had four deer walk right by us out there, not more than six feet away. Clint said that experience alone made the granite mattress worth it.

Patio perfection.

After dinner, we headed to another favorite vacation spot: the Salty Dog Cafe down at the South Beach Marina. It's vacation tradition to listen to live music out on the Salty Dog's deck; in fact, one of the performers who is a regular there--Dave Kemmerly--has been entertaining us for years now. He even sang "Happy Birthday" to Clint way back on his 30th birthday!

That's Dave, playing in the background. It's like going to see an old friend.

We came, we saw, we relaxed. Now we are home, the laundry is finally done, and almost all of the sand has been shaken out of our belongings. Our Clemson season football tickets were delivered and waiting for us when we got home, which I consider the signal that fall is almost here, and I'm thankful we were able to wrap up our summer on a Hilton Head high note. 

Thanks for the memories, Hilton Head! See you next time!

Mid-Life Crisis (Now Available in Petite Sizes)

During one of my check-in phone calls with my mom (there are, on average, about three or four a week, unless in the case of a social/fashion/gossip emergency and then there may be more), she relayed that she had seen a family friend of mine in the grocery store and wished him a happy 40th birthday. She then informed my friend that I had "a really hard time" when I turned 40 back in April. I did? This was something I didn't recall or maybe didn't realize. Or maybe, as my Southern mama has been known to tell me from time to time when she embellishes, "it makes for a better story."

I thought that turning 40 would be the hard part: saying goodbye to my thirties, checking this new box and belonging to a different age demographic. Instead, I went to Tahiti, stayed in that overwater bungalow, drank umbrella drinks, and celebrated. My life nor my body immediately fell apart overnight and I was reassured. I've got this. And that's what life wants you to think when it's plotting against you.

I've had a doctor's appointment of some shape or size every week since the beginning of June. It seems that when you age, this is not uncommon. I've had migraine doctor visits, mammograms (wow, am I glad to be part of that club now), annual physicals, and one "concern visit" of a personal-yet-horrifying nature that was resolved, thankfully but embarrassingly with a diagnosis to apply Neosporin. Good grief.

One night we went out to dinner and had such slow service that I unintentionally downed three glasses of wine and woke up the next morning with a horrible headache--when did that become a consequence of imbibing? I ate hot dogs and potato chips on the 4th of July and wound up with indigestion and esophageal spasms for four days afterward, which not only made me feel as if I had swallowed fire but caused me to adhere to a soft, bland diet out of sheer fear. A couple of weeks ago, I had a weird reaction to a lobster roll--a food I have enjoyed without incident my entire life up to this point--and woke up with a rash all over the side of my face and neck.

"Just wait until you're 50," people keep saying. If the current circumstances persist, I'll be lucky to make it that long, y'all. My friend Jason and I often joke that we're here for a good time, not a long time. I'm starting to think that might not be a bad mantra after all. The wheels are coming off the train, and I'm starting to feel like I'm in a bit of a crisis over here. I've been questioning my purpose and what I'm doing with myself quite a bit lately, and feeling uncharacteristically anxious. A quick Google search turned up what I was looking for: I do have, however mild, the symptoms of a midlife crisis. I haven't exactly gone out and bought a candy apple red Corvette or anything, so maybe my crisis is a petite version. Who is this person? This forty-year old, aching, paining, complaining person looking back at me in the mirror as I slather on wrinkle cream?

Upon inspection, I'm the one my neighbor's college-aged kid calls "ma'am," even though I protest. I am practically his age after all (in my mind)...I'm a peer, not a ma'am. I'm the one who walks into a room and then immediately forgets what she came for, the one who now religiously takes a fistful of multivitamins each evening, the one who now (for the first time ever) appreciates a good nap. I'm the one who still feels like the 90s were ten years ago, not almost twenty years ago. The one who still looks for the adult in the room when something goes wrong, before realizing with a sinking feeling that I am the adult in the room.

I'm also the same big-haired, loud-mouthed, Clemson-loving, taco-craving, carbohydrate addict I've always been. I still can't resist the lure of anything sparkly, still love a good scary movie, and live for Saturday mornings when I can sleep in. I never met a brunch I didn't like, I'm deathly afraid of birds, and I will not eat meat that is on the bone.

And while I now realize that I'm not exactly changing the world by being a stay-at-home dog mom, I'm going to keep doing my thing. I'll be over here talking too much, eating too much, trying the latest fad diet, being the occasional drama queen, doing my best to love people (even the idiots) and trying even harder to just appreciate what I have and not get too far ahead of myself. Oh, and of course I'll keep blogging, too, which means you can be sure I'll keep you updated. Stay tuned. Wink.

What you talkin' 'bout, forty?

Charcoal Capsules (And a Death Wish)

This is not a topic about which I usually write (thank merciful heavens). It borderlines on too much information, however, once one has survived a catastrophic event, it is not unusual to want to discuss the trauma and share The Event with others. Today, as a survivor, I feel the need to tell my story.

Here at Mayhem Manor, our motto and battle cry is "the diet starts tomorrow!" And so, when it was time last night to prepare the broiled swordfish and fresh green beans I had intended to serve for dinner, we instead veered a hard left and made the decision to order pizza. Here is where my horror story begins: with three different kinds of meat and little plastic tubs of garlic sauce (I read recently that Papa Johns is now going to sell the stuff by the gallon, so I take comfort in realizing I am not the only glutton in this big, wide world). After feasting on our pizza, appropriately named "The Works," I threw all caution--and my notable history of having a jittery stomach--to the wind and capped off my meal with Hot Tamales, a cinnamon gummy candy. In hindsight, I can practically hear Jack Nicholson as the Joker in the movie Batman asking me, "Have you ever danced with the devil in the pale moonlight?"

Later, as I brushed my teeth and started getting ready for bed, I still felt full. Stuffed, in fact. Then I got the bright idea to head to the kitchen to my arsenal of supplements to see if I should take a little something to counter the effects of my Italian extravaganza dinner. Now that I've turned forty, I have developed a series of medical maladies, none of which are severe enough to require a prescription, and a real interest in natural ways to treat whatever might be ailing me at any given moment. I opened the cabinet that contains Susie's shelf-of-wellness and perused my stash.

My cache of feel good supplies.

Naturally (no pun intended), I found just the thing: a bottle of recently purchased charcoal capsules that are for detoxification after eating or drinking. I bought these specifically in the hopes of enjoying two glasses of wine without getting a crippling headache, but I decided that a family reunion with Papa John was also a fitting occasion, and popped two capsules before heading to bed. 

CHARCOAL CAPSULES.

Even now, in the light of day after the crisis has passed, those two words fill me with dread and regret. Around 11:00, what had begun as minor discomfort had turned into stabbing stomach pain. On a scale of 1 to 10, I rated this a solid 9. Doubled over in agony, I headed down hall to our guest bathroom, banging my funny bone on the door frame along the way...and that actually felt good compared to the war being waged in my intestines. I will spare you details, but my stomach felt like two ninjas were doing battle--a full-on fight to the death. Had I been poisoned? No, charcoal is the universal antidote for poisoning, so that couldn't be the case. Had anyone ever died from stomach cramps? I decided, even if this was not the ideal circumstance, I was ready for the good Lord to take me home rather than have me continue to suffer this agony. But, alas, it was not my time. 

CHARCOAL CAPSULES.

I staggered back to bed, a chalky Pepto Bismol mustache still covering my upper lip. I was disgusted by the sight of both my husband and my faithful dog snoring away in blissful slumber, unaware of my ailing condition. I briefly considered spiking Clint's next meal with some of these wonderful capsules, but decided it was too cruel...both for him to endure, and for me to have to put up with (sick men and their bevy of complaints are worse than any stomach upset EVER). I tossed, I turned, I got up two more times to go to the bathroom. Have you ever noticed, when you are in any sort of gastric distress, what an oasis the bathroom becomes for you? I thought it might be my final resting place; I willed the rest of the cruel world to go on without me. My insides were clenched as tightly as Hillary Clinton's fists whenever someone mentions the 2016 election. I slept off and on, curled in the fetal position from the stabbing pain, wearing long sleeves and wrapped in blankets because of the chills I was suffering.

CHARCOAL CAPSULES.

I woke up this morning, feeling weak but thankful that my overnight ordeal was over. I managed to get down a piece of toast with peanut butter for breakfast and walk the dog for half his normal route. If this is detoxification, give me all the toxins from here on out. I'm not sure there is a moral to this story, but it will be a cold day in Cabo before I scarf down an entire loaf of bread dipped into garlic butter sauce again. If anyone is into masochism, I still have an entire bottle of these little charcoal vixens that you are welcome to enjoy. And the menu for dinner tonight will be the fish and vegetables that my guardian angel tried to feed me yesterday. Carpe diem, people...and steer clear of the charcoal.

Take two of these and call me...after the longest night of your life.