The Fiery Quill

All my life, I've been a little on the thin side. My clothes have usually been a tad too big, my collar bone prominent. But lately, I've noticed that my pants are a bit snug. This is, I admit, a foreign concept. Especially the part where I (cover your eyes, parents)actually have what they refer to as cleavage . I always saw extra weight as the enemy, uncharted territory I never wanted to navigate. But now, this unfamiliar five pounds is starting to feel...well, familiar. I like the way I look with a more womanly shape. It feels good to be content with a slightly swelled version of myself, a reality I never thought I'd welcome. Whatever the reason (being in my thirties?), I hope I continue to have a rosier impression when I look in the mirror.

Blackness of screen. Cold. Blank. Unyielding as a 100-year-old tree trunk to a toy hatchet. Glittering blue lights wink from the keyboard, evidence of life within. Mr. Gates, where do I find the missing puzzle piece? How do I unlock the impenetrable surface? It hides my words, music, sunsets over Mexican beaches. Blank. Cold. Blackness of screen.

Anyone who knows me, is aware that I have had a lot of boyfriends since I was old enough to date. Some might even call me boy crazy. I am secure in admitting these things because I am very aware of who I am. It is part of my personality that I tend to wear my heart on my sleeve, or rather, tattooed on my naked arm. I recently had a female "friend" make fun of my hopeless romantic alter-ego. I have been guilty of wishing aloud that each new beau is The One. She pointed this out to me in front of audience (we all know people who do their best work this way) with a decisive sneer in her tone. Although cruel, her point did make me think about the nature of love and the all-important quest for the Holy Grail of partnerships: the nacho to my cheese, the peanut butter to my jelly, the sugar to my coffee....that person who will still be with me when my idea of sexy is elastic-waist pants and flannel nightgowns. I am ok with the cruel jokes at my expense. Hoping that each new boyfrien...

In an age where everything is seemingly driven by sex, true male-female friendships reach mythical proportions. It appears that I am one of the few who has captured this elusive phoenix of a relationship. Matthew and I have been best friends for the better part of a decade. Our friendship began with a chance meeting in a coffee shop during that carefree summer of 1999. Despite distance and time, the closeness we have has never wavered. We have seen each other through an array of failed romances, disappointments and unthinkable heartache. I can comfortably speak for both of us, when I say that Matthew and I can talk about anything. This fact, coupled with our loyalty, ensures that we will be friends for the rest of our lives. This remarkable friendship has become a testing point for new romances. We have deduced that, if a future (or current) partner can accept our platonic union and befriend the other one...then they are a worthy lover. And in every case, this has been a valid litmus t...

A nice big bowl of grits is one of my favorite foods. I am from Western North Carolina, so grits always remind me of home and breakfast cooked by my mother, Sunday mornings with my family. I like mine with cheese (has to be Velveeta), garlic salt, and pinch of paprika on top. Some people like theirs with butter and salt, jam, or honey. Personally, I prefer my grits to be under the savory category. I save the sweet for things like cinnamon buns and my mother's delectable Sweet Waffles. The cheese version is also good baked and served in squares alongside a couple sausage patties. Mom served that exact meal to some hungry prom-goers for a midnight breakfast when I was 16. I'm certain my friends also remember that meal with smile of satisfaction. The key when preparing grits, is to be attentive. The heat should be low, so as to avoid a burnt layer on the bottom of the pan. Stand close to the stove, wooden spoon in hand, ready to smooth out any offending lumps that may appear. ...

You know it's going to be one doozy of a Monday when: your pants split straight up the butt after you've already locked the front door, you realize you forgot an important document at home after you've already arrived at work, and best of all...you find a pool of dog diarrhea on the carpet after you took the dog out for his morning constitutional. Happily, the day did get better after the above trifecta of crap (literally). But I am glad that Mondays, or days like them, are only once a week. But believe me, I couldn't wait to crawl into bed that night, soak up some sleep, and open my eyes to a different day.

As a child, going back to school meant getting a new 3-ring binder, a Lisa Frank Trapper-Keeper, and a fancy new pair of Zips. I thought nervously about the first day of school: would I be in home room with my friends, would my teachers like me? As an adult, going back to the classroom brings a different set of worries with it. However, there is a kind of excitement that I never felt as a child. I still wonder if the teacher will like me, things still written on the board, students at their desks with an instructor leading them on a path of knowledge. This time around we are adults, leaving our adult concerns behind to learn skills we hope will change the course of our separate futures. We come from a multitude of backgrounds, jobs, and lives to come together for three hours every Tuesday night. Instead of of reluctantly participating, we jump in with almost a child-like enthusiasm that might have been absent when we were children. Class is no longer a perfunctory task, but a mindful m...