My Weekend Getaway to (Up)Chucktown

The Original Cheesy Chicken Sandwich from Sticky Fingers in Charleston, SC is so delicious that I would drive the 10 hours and 8 minutes south just to devour one. That is a true story.

It was the case several weeks ago, however, that said OCCS was the icing on my proverbial weekend getaway cake. Well, sort of. It ended up being the only thing I kept down in 24 hours...so I guess it was more like hitting the proverbial duodenal lottery.

I'm getting ahead of myself. I should mention that my weekend getaway just happened to fall on the weekend before finals. In my defense, I carried my genetics textbook and notes along for the ride. In theory, I had plenty of time to study, as my outgoing flight from BWI was delayed by three hours. Yeah, I said in theory. I did open the book...as I sipped my Corona, gnashed on my nachos, and people watched for three hours.

I arrived in Charleston around 11:30pm, exhausted and slightly grumpy. I rented a car and took an unintentional hour-long detour through Charleston suburbs on the way to my evening accommodations. It is amazing to me how dependent I've become on my GPS. I'm literally and figuratively lost without it.

I was told that when I arrived at my friend's house, I would be greeted by an overly friendly black lab. Do not be alarmed, I was told. The door is unlocked, go in and let her out to pee. Mkay, no problem. I can handle dogs that jump and lick (clearly, if you've ever been to my house). Squinting through the downpour of rain on the poorly lit street, I arrive at what I believe to be the correct house. After checking the mailbox number against the house number against the directions I stored in my text message, oh, six or seven times, I proceed inside. Bag in hand, I stand just inside the threshold, waiting to be annihilated by the killer dog.

Nothing. The house is, in fact, eerily quiet.

I quietly tip-toe outside to the mailbox again and re-check the house number against my message...and against the house number, you know, just in case something changed in the two minutes I was inside. I text messaged my friend to confirm. Are you sure you live here? Yes, he assured me. Back inside I go. This time, after roughly 30 seconds inside the doorway, a black lab strolls down the stairs, glances in my direction, stretches and yawns. I text my friend again. Are you sure I'm at the right house? (I can only imagine, in retrospect, how much my neurosis is misunderstood by these laid back southern natives.)

The rest of the evening is a blur, but I can tell you this: there was a run-in with a rodent, which cost me any sleep I might have enjoyed. I remember not freaking out, as would be my normal response to such an event, but simply shaking my head and mumbling, "Of course there will be a mouse in my room". He was a mean-spirited mouse, too. He didn't just scoot across the floor; he tormented me. I do believe I saw a tiny little smirk on his tiny little mouse face. What a jerk. Needless to say, I laid on the edge of the bed with the light on the entire night. Around 4am I gave up and got dressed.

I was invited down to lovely Chucktown by my former co-workers to participate in the Charleston Dragon Boat Races. The event was set up Dave-Matthews-tailgate-style along the Ashley River. It was a perfect weather day, and the fine people of Charleston were pumped up, to say the least. The very real possibility of death-by-drowning (I can't swim, especially in a current), and the fact that I had never rowed a dragon boat in my life, did not remotely affect the fact that I was totally stoked to be there.

My first heat was late morning, and the current was strong. After an abbreviated dragon boat 101 lesson, I filed down to the pier with my group and boarded our boat. Apparently in dragon boat races, it is important to balance your boat, left-to-right side. I sat very still as our boat nearly tipped over, mumbling, "Of course we'll fall in the water my first time ever inside a dragon boat". Alas, our steerer (who apparently has a vested interest in the future of our boat) saved our lives, but not without stern condemnation...something along the lines of, "What is wrong with you people?!" In my defense, I really didn't know what was wrong with us people. I just started my dragon boating career, like, five seconds earlier.

Let me tell you, I felt like a dragon boating super star. For a rookie, I was pretty coordinated with our little drummer lady, and we won both races in which I was a participant. What I failed to do was keep my mouth shut. Literally. I think I swallowed Ashley River water. By around four o'clock, my intestinal situation was Code Red. Without going into gory detail, by the end of the day I was spewing Ashley River water from all orifices of my body. As if that wasn't bad enough, I had the mother of all migraines. I was prepared to die a lonely death in Charleston, SC. It. Was. Awful.

I was due to fly out on Sunday afternoon. Weak and disappointed, I drug myself out of bed at the arse-crack of dawn on Sunday morning, determined to salvage the weekend. I decided on the perfect loop around Charleston, ending at the airport: first, downtown Charleston (a little mental health shopping was called for, I think); second, Sticky Fingers for lunch (a big gamble, considering); third, an afternoon on the beach (a little more sun won't hurt a dehydrated and weak body, right?).

Sundays in downtown Charleston are...closed. Literally, nothing opens until mid-day sometime. Who knew? Window shopping isn't quite as therapeutic as one might think...and doesn't last quite as long as the real deal, either. With lunch still a few hours away, I took a stroll through my old stomping grounds at College of Charleston. It really was lovely and quiet, and just what my intestines needed. I really love the campus, the buildings, the sculptures. I've always had an affinity for the torso sculpture, and on this day he made me especially happy. I think he reminds me a little of me.

And we're full circle. Lunch at Sticky Fingers was equally as satisfying as my stroll downtown, as was my walk along the beach at Isle of Palms. (This time I was sure to keep my mouth closed tight.) After a few hours lounging on the beach attempting to read my book club selection (I'm sorry, Picoult, you suck), I ventured to the airport for my return flight to Baltimore.

The flight was delayed three hours due to storms in Baltimore. Of course.

I'm neurotic today because...
...I earned two A's and a B+ this semester. The B+ had nothing to do with my weekend getaway, incidentally, but everything to do with how adorable my genetics professor was. He had an uncanny ability to get me googly-eyed over his termite research, what can I say?

An Ode to A/G

Welcome to my photographic journey through New York City.

The key to a good NYC trip is to have no plan whatsoever. Ideally, you will take a bus trip that departs at the arse-crack of dawn. You will, of course, show up at the very moment the odoriferous bus driver is prepared to close the door and leave your sorry butt behind. This man is large and in charge, and none-too-happy that you decided to roll in at your leisure. As punishment, you are assigned seats behind an uber-enthusiastic family of five, who are indubitably on their first trip to the Big Apple. And oh boy are they excited.

And weird.

What was your first clue that the Eager Beavers weren't your average Joes? Was it grandpa sticking his finger knuckle-deep into his nose the entire three and a half hour bus ride? Or was it the way in which the youngest whipper-snapper fondled his bag o' peanuts? Perhaps the fact that said whipper-snapper was incessantly gnawing on the palm of his hand? No, no. 'Twas definitely grandma's enthusiastic desire to catch the Cash Cab...because, peering out the tinted charter bus window, she definitely felt this was a realistic possibility.


With no plan in place and nearly four hours listening to the Eager Beavers, you seek out the nearest Starbucks. Seriously, what did we do before the Find a Starbucks app? (How spoiled yuppy of me.) As you wander in the general direction of your lunchtime destination, you stumble upon these beauts. Oh yes. You seriously consider buying them because, well, who doesn't need a pair of leather daisy dukes?!

With your next club outfit in hand, you meander southward. What's this? Lighthouse Marketplace, Fesitval of Shoes?! Yes, please. Mommy looooves her shoes.

Okay, so as it turns out, you need to get your sight checked. You've stumbled upon the Festival of Shops, not shoes. Nonetheless, you're pretty stoked to go shopping in church, and so you spring for a new Kangol.

Okay, so I don't even know how to make this picture relevant to this blog, but it made me happy...so here it is. There is apparently a contest in NYC for 100-year old microorganisms. What's not to love about that?


Your lunchtime destination, and the only thing officially on the agenda, is a Jewish deli. Surely your surrogate Jewish mother will be so proud that you've just trekked two hours through New York streets to partake in a $15 brisket sandwich. De-lish.

With your belly full and your time in NYC winding down, you brave the subway system back to the assigned pickup location. With time to spare, you duck into a novelty shop. Eureka! You can't decide whether to snag the bobble head leg lamp or the bobble head Ralphie (because, let's face it, they're both sa-weeet), so you buy both. Psych! In this shop, there's no buying anything...the check out lady decided to nap on the job. Sayonara, suckers!

So it goes. You've survived your unscripted journey through NYC. Whether it was the fifteen miles you've walked getting basically nowhere, or the thought of what the Eager Beavers had in store for the ride home, you dive into the best $8 beer you've ever had.




I'm neurotic today because...
...I pay to ride smelly buses that depart at pre-coffee hours with obnoxious people to ridiculously expensive cities. And love it.

Don't Call It a Comeback

This, my 18th semester of college, has been the most validating time of my academic career. Just tonight, my Advanced Writing professor pumped some exceptional sunshine up my booty.

My most recent paper, Women and HIV: Unequal Access to Health Care, was a "definitive A". But more than the grade, I was overwhelmed by her interest in my future graduate studies. She asked me if I planned a career in writing. A career in writing! When I told her I was looking into Johns Hopkins School of Public Health, she emphatically encouraged me to "absolutely pursue it."

I understand your lack of enthusiasm. I do. Perhaps an academic ego boost isn't your idea of exciting. But I'm a nerd, so this is pretty much it for me.

So, with my professor's blessing, I've returned to my blog. Well, that and the fact that I pretend you are all my groupies and you're actually jumping up and down with excitement. This is what nerds without husbands do. Don't judge. (Idea: start a support group called Nerds Without Husbands.)

I'm neurotic today because...
...all the sunshine-pumping in the world won't give me enough chutzpah to talk to my genetics professor, with whom I'm currently in love.