Project formerly known as "PROJECT 29 to 30"

enabler.

2012-01-24T16:50:00.000-05:00

After my friend Sarah saw my last blog post about my falling prey to the Hunger Games, she admitted that she too had been sucked into the series on her honeymoon.

Along with her memories of eating exquisite meals beneath the lights of the Eiffel Tower in Paris and soaking up rays on the French Riviera with her new husband, she also recalls finishing the Hunger Games and then running from airport bookstore to airport bookstore like a drug addict looking for her next fix.

Not wanting me to suffer the same end, Sarah offered to bring me the second and third installments to help support my habit. And yesterday, she delivered, meaning sleeping, eating, doing anything at all productive must be put on hold.

Sarah. My colleague. My friend. My enabler.

sucker.

2012-01-18T13:50:00.000-05:00

I'm pretty proud of the fact that until recently, I've successfully avoided reading any and all of the cult novels that have seemingly taken the world by storm. Harry Potter, Twilight, The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo - I haven't read any of them.

Worse than not reading them, I judged those who did. Almost with an air of superiority, whenever conversations about these books came up, or invitations to see the films about the novels were extended, I'd decline, walk right by, as if I was too advanced to engage in coversations about such meaningless books.

I mean, if so many people like it, it can't possibly be good, right?

I thought I was better than all of those people who had allowed themselve to fall prey to popular literary culture.

That is, until The Hunger Games.

This book has completely consumed my life over the last five days. I can't sleep, I forget to eat, I've put off things that really need to get done (like work projects) so that I can read it, and I fear it's only a matter of time before I begin finding my very own Katniss "Fire Girl" costume to go to the movie when it comes out on March 23, 2012 at select theaters.

Who's in? Looking for my Peeta.

Namaste. And be quiet.

2012-01-10T13:56:00.002-05:00

If you're one of those people who has had to endure my recent tirades about how much I love hot yoga, I apologize. A five class trial at a yoga studio near my house, and now I've become a full-on yogi, taking 4-5 classes every week, telling anyone who will listen how much I love it and inviting others to join me in class (Do you want to come? Seriously. Come!).

Have no fear, I still drink (too much) beer and coffee, still make irresponsible food choices (I've been surviving solely on candy and baked good since the holidays), and still don't get nearly enough sleep; I haven't completely gone to the dark side.

I've just added yoga to the list of current obsessions I have. My body and mind feel strong, and I feel centered for the first time in a long time. Plus I'm doing things I haven't done since I was a teenager -- like back bends and splits. Moves I can only assume will make me popular in the dating world.

Much to the delight of the more seasoned yogis, lately we've been experimenting with inversion poses, or handstands. As much as I have come to love yoga, I do not love the handstand portion of the class. I just feel so out of my element, flailing my legs in the air, praying I won't fall and embarrass myself.

During one class recently, the instructor walked around and offered to assist those trying to get into the handstand pose. She and I made eye contact and the look of desperation in my eyes told her I was in need of some help.

She gave me some pointers about how to set up for the pose. Once I was in the right position, the only thing left to do was to go for it.

"Ok, now just kick your legs," she gently said, ready to catch them. I did as I was told, albeit with a lot of hesitation, and with her help, I successfully did a handstand.

Once my legs were safely on the ground, I looked up at her to tell me what I needed to work on.

"It seems you have issues with trust," she said.

I know she was talking about trusting myself and my body to do the handstand, but I couldn't help but laugh at what felt like her unexpected insight to my soul, as I thought to myself, "Girl, you have no idea."

Only instead of just thinking privately how much the instructor's comment really meant, I actually said, out loud, in front of her and everyone else in the class, "Oh, you said it, sister."

I said it with a smile on my face, but my eyes still widened and my face burned with embarrassment when I realized I'd used my outside voice instead of my inside one. Some of my fellow yogis chuckled as I shrugged my shoulders and laughed. I don't think the instructor knew what to do or say, so she gave me a sympathetic, awkward smile and then walked away to help someone else.

Yoga is all about quieting your mind so that you can be present within the moment. But maybe I could work on just being quiet in general, and keeping my angst to myself. Clearly, I have a lot to learn, and not just how to do a handstand.

Namaste.

happy freaking new year.

2012-01-02T13:56:00.004-05:00

Just like Thanksgiving is a time to reflect upon what we are thankful for, most bloggers this time of year are reflecting on 2011 and sharing what they are looking forward to in 2012. At the risk of sounding negative and cryptic, I can say with certainty that I've never more looked forward to an opportunity to hit "reset" on a year in my life. Bring on 2012.

With all of 2011's disappointments (and I do plan on sharing more on those, when the time is right), each year always offers an opportunity to learn and grow and change for the better. So while I'm looking forward to 2012, I will not forget all that I learned in 2011:

Being kind is far more important than being right.

Evident by the display of Christmas cards in my house right now, my friends honestly do have the most gorgeous children ever.

Getting stepped on at a party hurts. So does falling off a bike in wine country.

In their words and deeds, people will show you who they are. Believe them.

I will never tire of "Your Momma" or "That's what she said" jokes. Simple. Effective. Always hilarious.

I can hold my own on a ski slope and a golf course. Unfortunately, becoming a skier and a golfer means spending lots of money. I am gifted with the ability to find expensive hobbies.

As sad as it is for me to admit, The Office is really not as funny without Steve Carrell. But I still love it. (Also, Mindy Kaling is still hilarious and her book Is Everyone Having Fun Without Me is worth reading.)

I can travel by myself. Solitude can be healing . . .

. . .Buuuuuut traveling with friends is my favorite. I hate drinking alone.

True, we shouldn't measure our self worth by our material possessions, but never underestimate the power of great jeans. Specifically, Citizens of Humanity Angie Super Flare jeans.

Bravo makes a lot of disturbing, yet highly entertaining and addicting television shows.

I get by with a little help from my friends. Actually with a lot of help from my friends.

Coffee tastes better when someone else makes it.

The people who want to stay in your life will always find a way.

I like the Avett Brothers and I like Mumford & Sons, but sometimes their music sounds the same to me.

The olive oil and salt frozen yogurt topping at Star Provisions is truly life-changing. Thank you, Callie.

I don't see anything wrong with still having a flip phone, even if it means facing the ridicule of everyone (including complete strangers). But if someone wants to present me with an iPhone 4s, I would happily accept it and Face Time into eternity.

I have, for better or worse, developed a style that is distinct and unique to me, and I've built a wardrobe that reflects it. So much so in fact, that when I sent this picture of this dress to my friends asking them what they thought, most of them responded with, "That looks like you," or "That is SO a Stephanie dress." Some of them (my mother, for example), responded, "That's hideous. It looks like a dressing gown," so I'm not sure my distinct style is good. But it's mine.

I don't get Radiohead. I don't think I ever will. And yes, I've seen them live.

Being a Red Sox fan (and I still don't know how that happened), means signing up for a lifetime of disappointment. But I'd rather be disappointed than ever be a Yankee.

I love Jimmy Fallon. Like for real. And yes, I know he's married. I also know that the fact that he's married is not even close to the top of the list of reasons why we will never be together.

My family is everything to me. Everything. Thanks to them, I've learned the most important lesson of 2011:

For the past few years, my New Year's resolution has been to manage my expectations, as if lowering what I expect from people and situations I could somehow save myself from ever feeling let down. But living a life expecting the worst just seems like a miserable existence and since I just can't stop thinking and hoping that something great is going to happen, I've failed at that resolution over and over again. True, maybe I could work on how I react when my expectations aren't met, but I refuse to stop assuming that people, at their core, are good. Life is good, even when it's bad.

I have a new resolution this year, one that I already started working towards in 2011, thanks to starting attending yoga regularly. I'll spare you the details about how much practicing yoga has truly changed me mentally and physically (don't want to be one of those people), but yoga is all about becoming centered and focused on the present, something that I've struggled to do my entire life.

In 2012, I want to live more presently. I want to quiet the distractions that keep me from being completely engaged in the people and situations around me. I want to turn off my phone, turn off the television and breathe in all of the wonder that is around me.

I want to be a better listener, a better sister, a better daughter and a better friend.

I want to be the kind of person who buys presents for no reason and picks up the phone to call a friend to tell them I was thinking about her (Ok, I know I just said I would turn off my phone, but sometimes the phone is fine). I want to do the things I dream about doing now. Today.

Plugged in to the moment. Unplugged from the past or the future; locked and loaded on the here and now. That is my resolution for 2012.

What did you learn in 2011? What are you most looking forward to in 2012?

Triangle Sally wants to wish you a very Happy New Year. And I do too. Let's kick 2012's ass.

My Christmas. In Quotes.

2011-12-29T16:40:00.003-05:00

I like to think of myself as a good writer. But sometimes, this Christmas for example, my friends and family can tell the story better than I can.

"Why don't you get him something for his garage? He looooooves hanging out in his garage." --my friend Lindsay on what to get my brother for Christmas.

I got him a dart board (for his garage, of course).

"Well, you only go around once," -my Dad about going overboard on gifts.

"You better hurry up, because I'm going to be listening to Fox News and you don't want me to get brainwashed." -my Mom when she reluctantly dropped me off at the busy mall to pick up one more Christmas gift.

"Dad, that gift is way too big for those little bows." -Me
"Well, I was sort of thinking I could do a collage." -my Dad

Honestly, his "collage" consisted of three bows scattered randomly on the front of the gift. My dad and I could make a Father-Daughter wrapping presents reality show. I believe it would be highly entertaining.

"She uses really bad language. You know, like you." -my Mom describing her friend's daughter who she says tells hilarious stories. What Christmas is complete without hearing about your parents' friends' kids? I mean, really?

"This says I live in Alabama." -my brother Jeff

Whoops. I wrote the wills my dad requested but wrote the wrong state.

"I think Jeff might quit drinking in 2012." -my sister-in-law Katie
"Well, have fun with that." -my Dad

"I think there is something wrong with this hoop. It's not heavy enough. Or maybe I'm just heavier." -my Mom

I bought everyone hula hoops for Christmas this year. They were a hit. For at least 15 minutes.

"This thing is so powerful it'll suck your toenails off." -my Dad

"The guy told me it's the nicest vacuum you've never heard of." -my Dad

"I just watched my Dad vacuum the floor with my brother's new vacuum and was highly entertained. I think this is rock bottom." -Me in an email to a friend.

All of these quotes are in reference to the biggest hit of Christmas, my brother and Katie's new vacuum cleaner. That's right, we have now reached the age that we are not only receiving vacuum cleaners as Christmas gifts, but we are also blissfully excited about them.

"Stephanie, you need to buy a house." -my Dad
"I know, but what if I decide to leave Atlanta?" -Me
"You've been saying you're leaving Atlanta for five years." -my Dad

"Well that's bullshit." -my Mom on her fortune at the local Chinese restaurant. The fortune said, "Turn your thoughts within. Find yourself." This quote was both funny and shocking, because my mom almost never says "bad" words.

"That key lime pie is on time." -Katie

I hope your Christmas was "on time" as well. Please share your favorite quote from your celebration.

Merry Christmas to Me.

2011-12-24T16:30:00.001-05:00

Despite getting completely out of hand while shopping for others during the holiday season (I almost bought my dad a Pabst Blue Ribbon t-shirt the other day, certain that it's EXACTLY what he needed), I've managed to keep it together when it comes to purchasing things for myself.

But this Christmas, I did something I've never done. Say hello to my new friend; my very first self-bought Christmas present.

Isn't she lovely?

I'd been thinking about investing in a good camera for a while, ever since I lost my POS point-and-shoot in the snowy streets of New York in January. And because I think and obsess over doing things for months and months and then pick the most expensive month of the year to actually bite the bullet, it's only natural that I'd buy the camera just weeks before Christmas.

There were several challenges that almost prevent this purchase -- I thought that the universe was conspiring against me for my poor timing. But I refused to let a less than intelligent saleswoman, a personal in-store freak out about spending this money on myself during the month of December, and a domestic dispute at Best Buy that involved quite a few F-bombs and all of the shopping center's rent-a-cops rushing to the scene to prevent me from establishing my new tradition.

I pushed through. And now this beauty belongs to me.

We're still getting to know each other and I have a lot to learn.

But we've already shared some good times. Some laughs, even.

Merry Christmas to me. And a very Merry Christmas to you.

And while you're here, avoiding your family, you must tell me, what's the best Christmas present you ever bought yourself? Please, because I'm starting to feel bad.

Christmas Funnies

2011-12-20T12:14:00.010-05:00

A few weeks ago, my dad sent me his Christmas list (I realize that we're adults and are probably too old to write lists, but the Gallmans are list people; we always have been) and it seemed pretty standard: a shirt, a suitcase, a golf club, a belt.

He closed his email with,

"The most important thing I want from my children is for each of them to have a will written. You both own property and need to have it in writing who gets what if anything should happen to you. Jeff needs to have one so Katie doesn't have to go through hell if anything should happen to him."

I read it twice just so I was clear that what my dad wants most for Christmas is for my brother and I to write wills. He wrote it. In an email. A CHRISTMAS email.

Then I burst out laughing at the coffee shop. So much so, that people stared at me inquisitively.

I responded, "Dad, is this for real? If so, you just made the blog again!!!!!!!!!! Freaking hilarious."

He was serious. Jeff and I not having wills has been on his mind for a while. Knowing our desire to please him, especially at Christmas, he just threw it in there with everything else, even if it sort of sucked the joy out of the holiday momentarily.

I had to consider, between this and the life insurance policy he's been giving my brother and me for years, that perhaps my father is planning my death.

Not to be outdone, when my mom sent me her list, she ended with, "I think I'm going to have to block the Hallmark channel from our cable. They've been airing Christmas movies 24/7 and I can't get anything done."

I keep telling myself I need to start doing new things or I'm going to run out of topics to blog about, but with parents like mine, I think I'll be good for a while.

Punctuation is Important

2011-12-05T11:07:00.001-05:00

Back in September, my mom sent me an email asking me what I wanted for my birthday. She aims to please, and always feels more comfortable shopping with guidelines. I was busy at work and couldn't think of anything specific that I really wanted, so I hastily wrote her back a generic list of things that I certainly didn't need, but always appreciate receiving as gifts -- clothes, shoes, books, jewelry.

Later that week, I remembered that there was something that I wanted that wasn't on that original list, so I emailed her again.

Subject: Also . . .

Email: ...I would like some good sunglasses for my bday...if Jeff and Katie ask what I would like. Haha RayBans are about 100-150

I said "Haha," because I would never expect my brother and his wife to purchase $100 sunglasses for me. "Haha" = That's funny!

My mother read "Haha," however, went to Sunglasses Hut and told the salesman that she was looking for a pair of "Haha Raybans." The clerk, puzzled, searched high and low for this brand of Raybans he'd never heard of, even opening up the merchandise catalog to do a search for "Hahas."

The day of my birthday, my mom called me in hysterics. She could barely catch her breath as she told me, in between her bouts of laughter, that she'd been purging old emails. When she reread the sunglasses exchange, she saw how I intended the "Haha." She couldn't believe what she'd done, but blamed me for not putting a period before starting a new thought.

After our conversation, she sent me an email.

The manager even tried finding them in the catalog! I'm such a dork, but YOU really need to work on your punctuation.

We've shared quite a few laughs over this story, and now refer to all sunglasses as "Hahas." I recently asked my mom what she wanted for Christmas this year and she said, "The only thing I can really think that I want are some Haha Raybans."

I think she's earned them.

What I did this Thanksgiving

2011-11-28T09:40:00.002-05:00

In the spirit of my last post, I enthusiastically said, "yes" when my mom asked me if I would be willing to answer phones at the Families Helping Families charity phone bank on Thanksgiving Day. My family celebrates Thanksgiving on Friday (to accommodate my unpredictable work schedule and my sister-in-law's family dinner), so giving back felt like the perfect way to spend the holiday.

While the rest of the country was loafing around their houses watching football and enjoying their turkey coma, this is what I was doing:

Amazing, right?

I work in television and have been on television enough times for this to not be that big of a deal for me, yet something about being sandwiched in between my parents answering phones on local TV completely tickled me and I could not keep it together.

I blame my dad, who screwed up the name of the charity every time he answered the phones, "Family Helping Families? Helloooooo?" Or when he asked me, "Do you think we look fat on TV?" right before the reporter went on air.

Regardless, when people ask me how I spent the Thanksgiving holidays, instead of just saying, "I ate too much," I can say, "I ate too much and I was on the local news answering phones and helping people!"

Hope you all had a great holiday! If you are in the Columbia area and would like to adopt a family, you can do so here.

Gratitude. Just Do It.

2011-11-23T11:45:00.005-05:00

“If the only prayer you said in your whole life was, ‘thank you,’ that would suffice.” – Meister Eckhart

When I was growing up, anytime my brother or I whined to our parents that we didn't want to do something, they usually responded with some variation of, "Do it anyway."

"I don't wannnnnna clean my room." I don't care. Clean it anyway.

"I don't wannnnnna do my homework." I know. Do it anyway.

"I don't wannnnnna take a shower." That's gross, Stephanie. Take one anyway.

It's not that they didn't care about what my brother and I wanted, or weren't sympathetic to our desires. They just hated whining. In life, there are plenty of unpleasant things that we're not going to want to do -- work, pay taxes, go to the DMV; whether or not we want to do them is inconsequential because we have to. This unfortunate reality was one my mom and dad wanted us to learn about at a young age.

Do (insert undesirable activity) anyway. Because you have to. Because we said so.

Thanks to them, expressing gratitude for the many blessings in my life has come very naturally for me. Thanking the military for their service and making a list of the things I am most thankful for were just two of the gratitude-related activities I participated in on my journey to turning 30; neither was all that hard. Seeing the good all around me and feeling thankful for it was easy. Life was easy.

That's what Thanksgiving is all about; gathering with family and friends and saying "thank you" for all of the year's blessings. But lately life hasn't felt so easy; this year has presented challenges that have left me feeling lost, uncertain, and at times, very sad. For the first time in my life, feeling thankful feels like a really difficult thing to do. As embarrassing as it sounds, I want to channel my inner 8-year old, and scream, "I don't wannnnnna give thanks. I just don’t feel like it!”

I haven't discussed these feelings with them, but I'll bet if I did, my parents would probably turn on the same voice they did when I was a child and say to me, "I'm sorry you feel that way. Be thankful anyway. You have to."

Because despite the challenges I've faced this year, I do have many blessings to be thankful for. A supportive family, loyal (and hilarious) friends, a challenging job, the greatest pair of jeans that I've ever owned. Life IS good, even though sometimes (right now especially) it feels really bad.

Earlier this year, I began reading a food blog by a New York based food writer named Jennie. She's witty, smart and cooks beautiful food that I long to eat and could only hope to recreate.

In August, Jennie's husband Mikey died unexpectedly, leaving her a young widow and a solo parent to two young daughters. In a recent post, she wrote about how she was feeling leading up to her first Thanksgiving without her beloved:

As we sit down to Thanksgiving dinner, instead of focusing on what we have lost, I will remind the girls of everything that enriches our lives. I will remind them to be thankful for the new warm blankets we just bought, for the apartment we now call home, for the love of friends and family.

Jennie's ability to mourn her husband while also recognizing how blessed she and her daughters are for the time they spent with Mikey reminds me that feeling sad and feeling hopeful are not mutually exclusive. I may feel like crying this Thanksgiving, but I know I'll probably laugh a lot too, and for that I am extremely thankful.

If Jennie can find a way to be grateful for things this Thanksgiving, then so can I. Even though lately I haven't really felt like it.

So here I go, starting small.

Thank you, homeless man in the Target parking lot who whistled at me when I was wearing no makeup and yoga pants. You clearly saw beauty where most people see none, and I appreciate it.

Thank you, co-worker who said I was so funny I should be on Saturday Night Live. Honestly, best compliment ever.

Thank you, Bravo, for recognizing the genius of Andy Cohen and extending his show, Watch What Happens Live, to five days instead of just two. I suspect my productivity might plummet, but I will be highly entertained, so I really don't care.

Indeed, there is much joy in my life; finding it has just been a bit more challenging this year.

I would love to hear what you're thankful for this year, no matter how big or small.

Have a very blessed and Happy Thanksgiving.

Wardrobe Crisis

2011-11-16T13:40:00.009-05:00

My roots are with the Gamecocks . . .

My degree is from Georgia (and I'm a proud Bulldog through and through) . . .

But my wardrobe, as much I hate to say it, is Auburn. All the way.

This insane springtime ensemble that I sported yesterday got a lot of attention (and not necessarily the good kind). It wasn't for lack of trying -- I pride myself on being able to dress myself pretty well most of the time. But thanks to the abnormally warm weather in Atlanta and the uncomfortably warm temperatures in my office, I'm finding it more and more difficult to get dressed. My legs and arms are pale and no one should be subjected to seeing that. Still, it's 78 degrees outside and 85 degrees at my desk.

Suggestions welcome.

Funeral Set Ups

2011-11-04T12:45:00.008-04:00

A few weeks ago, I went home to South Carolina for a funeral for an old family friend. Randy was the first boy I ever liked and the first boy I ever kissed (in a hotel room while our parents partied in the room next door). His death, at age 33, was a shock; thinking of the grief his family was suffering was devastating for my family and me.

"Death is just so final," my mom said on the phone. "One minute he was here, the next minute he's gone."

I made plans to attend, but I dreaded the funeral, knowing how terribly sad it would be to see so many other young people all grieving for Randy's untimely death. All funerals are sad, but even more so, I find, when the person dies so unexpectedly and so early in their life. My heart ached for those closest to him, especially his mom and sister.

The morning of the funeral, I woke up in my bed at my parents’ house with a lump in my throat. I showered and went downstairs with wet hair to retrieve something from my mother.

"How are you going to wear your hair?," she asked me as I turned to leave.

I chuckled, and paused, looking at her inquisitively. Our house had been abnormally melancholy that morning; her question came completely out of left field.

"Well I don't know. I hadn't really thought about it*."

(*it = how I'm going to wear my hair to this super sad, horribly unexpected FUNERAL.)

"Straight, I guess,” I said, while shrugging my shoulders. “It takes me less time."

She looked at me with disappointment in her eyes, and then cocked her head to the side.

"I really think you should wear it curly. It looks so much better curly."

Perhaps I was distracted by the HORRIBLY SAD FUNERAL that we were about to attend, or maybe I knew what she was saying was right, and that my hair does look better curly; regardless, I didn't protest. I had no energy to fight with her. As I walked back to my own room to do exactly what she wanted me to, I mumbled under my breath, "I don't know why it matters, but alright."

Not until I had completed curling half of my hair to my mother's liking did it occur to me why she'd strongly advised me to wear it this way. The unfortunate thing about a young person's funeral (and I have attended far too many in my life), is that they are full of other young (and possibly single!) people. And seemingly in my mother's eyes, this was reason to wear my hair curly.

When I was ready and returned downstairs, I joked with my dad, "Hey, did you hear mom tell me to curl my hair? I think she's hoping I'll meet someone at this funeral."

My dad laughed, but when my mom learned about my theory, she was not amused.

She'll tell you, like she did that day, that this was not the reason for the hair comment at all, and that I am, in fact, projecting my own ideas onto her.

"It makes a good story when you tell it the way YOU tell it," she said, accusing me of exaggerating for the sake of the blog (Who, me?).

But need I remind you that this is the woman who, of all the new things I did during my 30th year, got the most bent out of shape over me not wearing makeup to work? I'll rest my case.

Maybe her intention wasn't to set me up someone, but she always wants me to look my best, and my best, in her opinion, is with curly hair.

No, much to my surprise, and chagrin, it turns out it was my dad who actually attempted to pair me off. At a funeral.

My parents helped host a reception following the service at a neighbor's home so that friends could visit with Randy's family. My brother and I followed our parents there and stayed for a while, before leaving to return to our respective cities.

On my way back to Atlanta, I checked in with my mom and dad to find out how the rest of the day went. I spoke to my dad first, then my mom. In the middle of my conversation with my mother, I could hear my dad speaking loudly in the background.

"Let me have the phone back before you hang up," he said to my mom who was still trying to talk to me. "I need to ask her if she knows . . ."

When my mom, clearly annoyed at this point, handed my father his phone back, my dad sounded almost excited as he said, "Steph. Do you know Mike Morris**?"

(**Name has been changed to protect the very blindsided, very innocent person in this scenario)

The name sounded familiar, but I couldn't remember ever meeting him.

"No, I don't think I know Mike Morris. Who is he?"

"Well," he sounded almost excited at his point. All of his sentences were coming on top of each other and he barely paused for a breath.

"He is a very nice young man. He knew Randy in college. Now he works and lives in Atlanta. He does a job similar to yours. Likes music. Listens to Phish. Says he likes Atlanta but is looking for a change. I showed him your picture but he didn't recognize you."

I almost ran off the road. I had been amused that my dad struck up a conversation with this 30-something year old guy at a funeral reception and had liked him enough to mention me. But a picture? Is he serious?

"You showed him my picture? Are you serious? What picture?" (I know, does it matter what picture? Yes, in fact, it does. The whole thing is humiliating regardless, but the picture DOES matter.)

The picture was one my dad had taken that morning on his new cell phone. At least my hair was curly!

I was mildly annoyed at what he'd done, but in the context of the day, the whole thing seemed pretty insignificant and silly. I knew I'd be sharing this story to anyone who would listen. I thanked my dad for again supplying me with fabulous blog material, but before we hung up the phone, I strongly advised against him ever doing this again.

As I continued driving, I tried to picture how the whole scene played out.

What was this poor guy supposed to say to my over-eager dad goofily smiling, proudly holding his little girl's picture on his phone in hopes of making a love connection?

"Dude, your daughter's smoking hot and I'd totally like to hook up with her. Can you give me her number?"

"Your daughter is hideous and disgusting and not at all my type. No thanks, bro."

Poor Mike Morris -- he had to have felt trapped and in a no-win situation. I hope he found a quick exit and that this conversation gave him the levity we all needed on an emotional day.

Randy's untimely death has made me think about a lot of things -- life, death, and thanks to my parents, the importance of always looking my best.

Because you really never know when or where you'll meet people, or in my case, when your dad is going to whip out his cell phone and show your picture to random unsuspecting strangers grieving the loss of their friend.

Bachelorette Breakdown

2011-08-30T12:30:00.004-04:00

**Editor's Note: Finding pictures of Bachelorette parties that wouldn't completely embarrass myself or my friends was challenging for this post.

One of the quirks/frustrations of working on Saturday night is that by the time I get off work and want to hang out, my friends are either already at home and headed to bed or they've already been out for several hours and well on their way to making bad decisions.

There is no in between.

Trying to play "catch up" with a bunch of people who have been fully engrossed in partying is not ideal, but it is a risk every "weekend warrior" must take, or else I could go months and never see anyone outside of work.

A couple of Saturdays ago, I took a chance on my friends and went to Midtown to meet them out after they'd been at a pool party that started in the early evening.

As I made my way in that direction, I crossed the street and saw a cute, young, belligerently drunk girl wearing a short, tight dress and high-heeled shoes. She had a bachelorette sash across her body and a shiny, silver tiara on her head. Her getup reminded me of the last bachelorette party I attended and I sighed; I've reached the age where these over-the-top celebrations are happening less and less frequently. Sad.

As I started crossing the street towards her, I could see that she was crying and screaming at someone through her cell phone.

Angry drunk girl screaming on her phone? Oh how very cliche.

And then the bachelorette screamed, loud enough that everyone on the block turned to look, "I DON'T WANT TO MARRY YOU ANYMORE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"

Whoa.

A group of guys walking past me right at that moment burst out laughing while giving each other the "That's a crazy bitch," look.

I looked away when I first heard the words come out of her mouth, embarrassed for her and for myself and for the guy on the other end of the phone. But as quickly as I looked away, something compelled me to turn back and once I did, I was unable to turn away from the train wreck. I almost tripped walking across the street, hanging on her every word and chuckling to myself. Mean, maybe, but what else is there to do but laugh at drunk people? Specifically a drunk, crying bachelorette who may be calling off her wedding after a night out with her friends?

Having planned and attended a plethora of Bachelorette Parties in my day, I scanned my memory bank to recall if I'd ever witness a similar outburst by one of my own bride friends. These weekend-long extravaganzas have had no shortage of drama, and have certainly included massive amounts of drinking for which I am not necessarily proud. But our drama has been more of the dancing on stage, pack 21 people into a mini-van cab playing disco music, and then fall through a screened-in door variety. Never a wasted, tearful, game-changing phone call.

In fact, aren't calls to the husband-to-be forbidden at bachelorette parties?

A bridesmaid 12 times now, I truly thought I'd seen it all when it came to wedding festivities. I had to pause and acknowledge that this was something I'd never seen before.

Many thoughts ran through my head:

Someone take her phone. (If this conversation needs to happen, it shouldn't happen like this.)

What did the guy on the other end of the phone do/not do to spark such a visceral, hateful reaction from his fiance? (I hope it involves strippers.)

I'd really like that dress if it wasn't so tight and short (In times of crisis, focus on the positive.)

I judged this girl immediately for airing her drama for all of Midtown to see and hear. What kind of a classless person does that? If the guy on the other end of the phone could see what a disaster she is he probably wouldn't have wanted to marry her either. What a nightmare.

Yet, there was a part of me that wanted to help her pull her skirt down so that it was covering her who-ha and then take her in my arms and remind her that bachelorette parties are more fun with karaoke, less fun with crying.

"Stop embarrassing yourself dear, that's just the tequila talking."

Despite the internal conflict I was having, I was certain about one thing: I couldn't wait to tell my friends. And I did immediately when I arrived.

"You. Are. Never. Going. To. Believe. What. I. Just. Saw."

My audience, of course, ate it up and we continued to laugh about it several times throughout the night.

The next day, however, I couldn't stop thinking and wondering about the girl and her fiance and what would become of them. Despite continuing to tell the story at least a dozen more times, I started to feel bad. I also started hypothesizing about what was really going on with them.

Maybe, I thought, the bachelorette is a drama queen Bridezilla and a couple of drinks only exacerbates her unreasonable behavior. Her groom is used to it and it doesn't bother him. He thinks her drama keeps the relationship spicy. They've already made up and the wedding is still on.

Or maybe the relationship was already on the brink of disaster and all it took was a wild night out with her friends for everything to click. In which case, her timing and delivery could use some work, but I'm happy that she came to this realization while she was still wearing that cheap tiara and not after she'd already walked down the aisle.

Regardless, I had to feel for her and what I can only imagine was the worst physical and emotional hangover she's ever had.

My mom was wrong when she said "Nothing good ever happens after midnight." Sometimes that's when it gets really interesting.

Reason #497 Why I Love My Neighborhood

2011-08-19T15:59:00.004-04:00

You just never know what you're going to find. Happy Friday!

Put Your Mind to It, Break a Sweat

2011-08-16T13:55:00.000-04:00

Last Friday Mario Lopez (aka A.C. Slater from Saved by the Bell) came to the gym at my office to participate in two exercise classes.

I know what you're thinking:

Say what?

How?

Why?

I could bore you with all of those details, but what's the point? When it comes to anything that has to do with Saved by the Bell, you shouldn't think too much about it, you just go with it. I obviously jumped at the chance and signed up immediately if for no other reason, then it would at least give me something to write about.

After plenty of email conversation about what I should wear (A thong? My birthday suit? Acid washed pleated jeans and a hot pink wife beater?) or what I should say to him should an opportunity for conversation arise (How did it feel to always be in Zach Morris' shadow? Are your dimples surgically enhanced?, Do you really think "there's no hope with dope?"), I arrived at the class ready to get fit with Mario Lopez.

There was an adequate amount of fanfare, the amount you might expect for a child star turned entertainment journalist turned reality star's appearance at a corporate health club, complete with security standing by in case anyone got out of hand.

I checked in for the class, grabbed my weights and found a spot on the floor, chuckling to myself at the palpable sense of excitement permeating the class. Why were we so excited about exercising with a B-level celebrity? I was seeking material to write about, but what was in it for everyone else? Does Mario Lopez have this much of a following?

I glanced at a girl standing to my left one row back from the front and noticed she was wearing a "Bayside Tigers" wife beater in honor of Slater's visit.

I smiled at her and her attempt to be clever, but then turned instantly cynical and downright mean inside my head.

How dare she use this shameless technique to get Mario's attention?! I pictured her buying the shirt on eBay and setting it aside, keeping it special for this very day. What did she think was going to happen? That he'd see the shirt and the two of them would be instant best friends?

I was embarrassed for her, and embarrassed that the rest of us had to be associated with her and that silly little shirt.

Her stunt reminded me of woman at Jerry Seinfeld's stand-up act a few years ago who slid a black and white cookie inside a plastic container onto the stage at the Fox Theatre. She stood there waiting for him to notice, pointing wildly at the cookie and acting like a complete idiot.

When Seinfeld couldn't ignore her anymore, he picked up the cookie and said, with his impeccable timing, "Ahh, yes, a black and white cookie. I was there when they wrote that joke."

Perfection.

I'd hoped Mario might react the same way to this girl and her Bayside shirt, but he didn't seem to notice her, her shirt, or anyone in the class for that matter. In fact, he said nothing from the time he entered the room until the end of class, when he reluctantly waited to take pictures with his adoring fans, and those of us who were just looking to something to blog about.

And that was it. Hardly the exceptional workout experience that was advertised, but it's nice that I will be able to live the rest of my life knowing that I worked out with A.C. Slater.

Be-Bu-Be-Bu-Bu-Bu-Beat, Go Bayside!

Conflicted

2011-08-09T14:05:00.002-04:00

I am conflicted about what to do with this blog.

My mother always says, "If you don't know what to do, then don't do anything." I think this is her way of keeping me from making any hasty decisions like quitting my job after having a bad day or ending a friendship over a simple misunderstanding.

Maybe I'm older and wiser (I am 30, after all), but I'm starting to think my mom actually does know what she's talking about. So, for the last several months, I have done just that. Nothing.

I mean, don't get me wrong, my life didn't stop once I turned 30. It couldn't, really, because I had to continue writing about being 29 well into my thirties. But aside from all of that, I've still been living.

Living large, indeed.

Trying new things. Visiting new places. Meeting new friends.

And (happily) NOT writing about any of it.

I'm ashamed, and kind of surprised, at how easily I gave up writing. After doing it every single day for a year (give or take a few weeks), I hit "publish" on Day 365, burst into tears (the way I imagine mothers do when they put their kids on the school bus for the first time), and then I just stopped writing.

I'm sure if we wanted to psychoanalyze my reasons for quickly abandoning the only thing in my life I could lose track of time while doing, we'd probably find that I'm seriously screwed up (and I'm absolutely certain that I am), but really the reason that I just stopped was because I was tired. Physically tired, yes, but mostly just tired of myself. Personal reflection is important, and it's something I hope I will always do for the rest of my life. But it is exhausting.

So, I've been sleeping late, working out, reading books and enjoying repeating the same day over and over. Yep, it's like Groundhog Day over here in Stephanie land. So much so, in fact, I've been causing drama and picking fights with people just to jazz things up.

Ok, not really. But I have missed writing tremendously. I miss the blogging community of which I'd become apart. The conversation that happens when you share your life with others - I miss that connection with people. I think, shamefully, I also miss people telling me that I'm funny.

Over the year, I developed an identity as the wacky gal that tries new things and writes about them. Since losing the stress of having to write everyday, I have felt a bit lost.

Without a gimmick, though, without trying something new every single day, I'm not really sure I have anything to say that will matter to anyone else. Most bloggers that I like take beautiful pictures and bake delicious things (like my girl Olivia, who I met in person back in May. She is, no surprise, as lovely as her blog). They write about their health goals or about their families or their gorgeous stationery.

I'm just me. Without any real goal other than to live. Big.

So again, I'm conflicted.

I have stories to tell and ideas about things, but will anyone care?

My friend and fellow writer Julie is thinking about getting back into blogging again too after completing her Julie vs. Vegetables blog. She and I have become writing buddies, bouncing ideas off each other and berating each other to stop being lazy and start writing again already.

"We were so structured before with our other blogs, why don't we try and keep it loose this time around?," she suggested when I was whining about wanting to write but not having anything to write about.

I prefer guidelines and parameters. I don't always follow the rules, but I at least like to know what they are. But maybe this old dog can learn new tricks?

Maybe I can, as Julie suggested, keep it loose?

Someone said a good blog should be short and timely (the exact opposite of my old blog) and should have lots of pictures. Considering I'm still long-winded and I've managed to lose or destroy 6 cameras in the last two years, these are lofty goals.

But I'm happy to include other people's pictures, like this one of me "owling" at work. Apparently owling is the new planking, and it was definitely something I'd never done before. I thought this was a pretty funny picture until my hairdresser Moses asked me if I was trying to go to the bathroom on the floor.

(Note to self: Must get new profile picture)

So I'm back. With absolutely no plan except to write. I don't know how often I plan on writing, or what I'm even going to talk about. But I did just buy my own web domain: www.stephaniegallman.com -- so I think it's high-time I put that sucker to use.

Oh, and in case you care, here is what I have been up to since I turned 30:

(Inhale)

I personally thanked everyone on Facebook for their happy birthday messages, I went to ESPN's Gameday and then saw South Carolina beat Alabama, I played in my company's golf tournament (and wasn't the worst player!), I went to the UGA/Auburn game and (unfortunately) saw the now diseased trees at Toomer's corner get rolled; my family started a new oyster roast tradition for Thanksgiving, I snuck into the SEC championship game at the Georgia Dome, I bought a new television and a new computer, I received one of the most special gifts - an antique typewriter - that sparked a trip to an antique mall so that I could find a table to put it on, I worked/lived in New York for a month, I met with a book agent (!); I went skiing in Telluride, biking in California wine country, clam-baking in Newport, Rhode Island; I fractured my foot at a party when someone stepped on me and just weeks later sprained my wrist when I fell off a bike; someone recently compared me to Lucille Ball (perhaps it has something to do with the fractured foot and sprained wrist) and I realized that's exactly who I want to be; I saw Prince, the National, Band of Horses in concert, Phish several times, and this past weekend - Steely Dan - with my entire family.

(Now Exhale)

I'm back.

For how long, I don't know. But for now, it feels good. Almost as good as dancing in Washington Square feels.

Day 365: The Bittersweet End

2011-06-10T16:45:00.004-04:00

On Day 365, I woke up as a 30-year old.

As suspected, I didn't look or feel any different than I did the day before, except for the fact that I hardly slept and was so nervous I wanted to throw up.

I might've assumed I was having a physical reaction to my thirties, but I knew why I couldn't sleep and why my insides were turning over and it didn't have anything to do with getting older. The tossing and turning and nerves were because of Day 365's thing that I've never done before: to join a popular radio show to talk about Project 29 to 30.

Sometime around January of 2010 (about 100 days in), I sent Jenn Hobby, co-host of the Bert Show, an email telling her about Project 29 to 30. She and I share a mutual friend (John) and I thought she might think the idea was cool. What exactly I wanted from her and the show I wasn't sure, and I didn't exactly say it in the email. They had an intern at the time who was aspiring to dance 100 days in a row and I thought maybe I could join her. But obviously I was up for anything at that point, and with the help of their listeners I knew they could come up with some great ideas.

Best case scenario, I thought, she would love the idea, love me and I'd become a regular, "girl trying new things," segment on the show. A win-win for us both. Worst case scenario, they'd never respond and I'd be no worse off than I was when I started. I'd never know if I didn't ask, though, so I did.

Within a day, Jenn responded and told me that she loved the idea. She said she'd share it with the others and see if she could make something work out. I was elated. A few days after that, the show's producer, Tracey, emailed me and asked me for my phone number. I emailed her back and checked my phone like a psycho waiting for a guy to call me.

I waited and waited, but just like the guys who have taken my number and never called, I never heard from Tracey.

My friend Emily, a big Bert Show fan, followed up with an email on my behalf, but still nothing. I know that many times in situations like this, persistence is the way to go, but I also find there is a fine line between being persistent and being annoying. And I didn't want to cross that line. Plus, I had a blog to write and new things to do, so I just let it go.

I forgot about the show until I was listening to them one morning do a segment that was so terrible, I htought, "My idea is way better than this!" Clearly they were at one time interested in it, so I emailed Tracey one more time, told her that my birthday was a month away and that I'd love their help thinking of new things to do.

And just like that, she called. We played phone tag a few times, but when we finally connected, she suggested that I come in studio on the morning of my birthday at around 9am.

Perfect.

Emily, who had already taken the day off from school to recover from the weekend, offered to come with me and to drive us to the station, which is in an office building north of Atlanta. But since I was a ball of nervous energy, I told her I'd prefer driving so that I would at least have something else to focus on.

I was a complete spaz, though, and we passed the building a few times before pulling in. I'd already put my phone on silent, but Tracey had been calling me wanting to know if I was still coming. We finally arrived and after sitting silent in the waiting room, Producer Tracey came out to get us.

The co-hosts of the show are local celebrities in Atlanta, so I knew what they looked like, so there wasn't the, "Oh, YOU'RE Bert?! I thought you'd look different!" What was odd, was shaking their hands as if we were strangers; I was definitely a stranger to them, but since the show can get quite personal, I knew quite a few details about each of them. I'm sure they're quite used to this, but I felt creepy asking Jenn about her wedding or Tracey about her infant daughter.

While Emily and I were standing outside the studio waiting to go in, the host of the show, Bert, teased my segment saying something to the effect of, "Stephanie just did 364 things and one of the last things on her bucket list was to meet the cast of the Bert Show. We'll talk to her next."

I work in media, and I understand the art of a good tease, but I was a little confused as to how they got "bucket list," and, "wanting to meet the cast of the Bert Show," from the correspondence we'd had. Now everyone thinks I'm some obsessed radio show fan. Let's be clear, if I did have a bucket list, the only "must meet" people on it would be Paula Deen or Kelly Ripa.

As much as I wanted to clarify, I decided to let it go. I refused to get caught up in the details. I was about to be on the radio.

When I walked into the studio, I noticed first how small the room is. The show was in a commercial break, so everyone was sort of chilling out and doing their own thing. I was in the next segment, so they showed me my seat, gave me a headset and showed me the microphone that I was supposed to talk into.

I sat to the right of Jenn, and she and I started talking about her guest spot on Live with Regis and Kelly (amazing, so jealous). She started asking me about the blog and then she stopped herself, and "Wait, I'm sorry. Let me hear about it with everyone else."

I've heard that on radio shows and television shows that they refrain from a lot of pre-interviews so as not to ruin the conversation on air. If Jenn and I had this conversation now, then having it again minutes later might sound a little forced.

Coming out of the break, Bert welcomed me to the show and he asked me to talk about the blog and I went for it. Emily said she tried to take pictures of me, but I was talking with my hands so much that it was hard to get a good one.

I hesitate to say, "radio is easy," because I was there for less than ten minutes, but the whole segment went by so fast. The co-hosts were friendly and engaging and since they're all right there in the room, it felt like I was just having a conversation with them. After my initial nerves calmed down, I forgot that I was talking on the radio.

Though I don't think my blog is terribly controversial, or worthy of further discussion, part of me hoped they would take calls from listeners. I really wanted someone to call in and say something hateful like, "You've got a lot of nerve, Stephanie."

But they didn't, and before I knew it, someone brought in a beautiful birthday cake and the segment was over.

I can't even tell you all that we talked about, because it all went by so fast. Even as I walked out of the show, I looked at Emily and said, "Did that just happen? What did I say?"

The whole segment is still on their website and you can listen here.

After we left the Bert Show and headed back to Emily's, I felt so jacked up, like I could've lifted my car or run a marathon. It was so much fun and such a perfect way to end the year of doing things I'd never done before. It sure didn't hurt that my cell phone immediately started blowing up with sweet phone calls and emails from my parents, friends and colleagues all telling me that I did a great job. And, no surprise, my blog was never more popular. The Bert Show bump is for real.

Since Trish (just one month into motherhood) couldn't make it to the birthday weekend, she offered to take me to lunch on my birthday. Emily and Kyle were off work too, so we all met at Henri's for two of my favorite things: sandwiches and gossip.

Emily offered to let me leave my car at her house so she could drive us, and we stayed well over an hour just catching up. Little did I know that when everyone abruptly said we had to go was because there was another surprise in store for me back at Emily's.

Her offer to drive to lunch was not simply a nice gesture, but actually premeditated move, orchestrated by our friend Lisa, who on my birthday, avenged the Valentine's Day prank Elizabeth and I played on her with a little prank of her own.

When we turned the corner down to Emily's house, all I could see were balloons tied to the top of my car, which was covered in paint, fake mustaches, and even a cougar tail. I know I overuse this word a lot when I'm speaking, but it was hilarious. She did such a good job and pulled off the greatest prank. Nine months later, after several washes, there are still flecks of paint on my windows.

We stood around laughing and taking pictures for a while and Lisa declared a truce. I'm not so sure either of us is going to stick to that but I agreed for the time being.

Not quite ready to head home, and unable to convince anyone to come out with me for another night of celebrating, I spent the rest of the night at Trish's house, drinking wine and talking. Not exactly a raucous birthday celebration, but exactly what I needed.

I could end this with a lot of sappy reflection about age and say all of the right things about how age is just a number and you're only as old as you feel. I do believe all of those things, and from where I sit, it's difficult even at age 30, to look at my life and feel anything but great.

But to be honest, I still freak about getting older. Less so because I feel old and am worried that I'm not where I should be at this age; more because I know how much the world has to offer. How will I ever find enough time (and money) to do it all?

I still struggle with the unknown and I worry, despite truly believing, "All who wander are not lost," that the only true obstacle holding me back from getting what I want is my inability to identify what that is. But with each day and each new experience, I think I'm getting closer to defining what success and happiness is for me.

This blog hasgiven me an outlet for which to share my joy and my sorrow, something that strangely, does bring me much happiness. What that means for the future, I'm not really sure.

But I have enjoyed this ride so very much.

To Mo and to Lauren, who tirelessly edited versions of these entries that were all over the place and filled with typos, it's OVER! WE did it. Thank you. Seriously. What a shitty job. Thank you times a million.

To my parents, I'm pretty sure "blogger" wasn't exactly what you meant when you said I could be anything I wanted to be, but thanks for always supporting my adventurous spirit. I am who I am because of you, and I'm sorry for the times when that's not a positive thing.

To everyone who participated in this blog, read it, commented on it, stuck with it despite it taking me so long to finish, there will never be the appropriate words for me to thank you enough for making me what I always wanted to be. A writer.

Day 364: Happy Freaking Birthday to Me

2011-06-09T16:40:00.000-04:00

I woke up on Day 364 to the sound of productivity in the living area of Grouper Therapy.

Like the seasoned professionals they are, my mom and her friend Ellen had come over early to gather all of the various things they'd brought over to the house for the dinner party and to clean the house as well as they would've if they were cleaning their own. I may have been a day away from turning 30, but my mom was still treating me like a child, certain that I wouldn't have done as good of a job as she did with the sorting and the cleaning. Under any other circumstances, I would've been bothered by the fact that she sometimes finds me completely incapable. On this particular day, however, I was just fine with it.

We had to check out of the house by noon so that the real cleaning crew could come in and get the house ready for the next guests. I did my part, carrying things from one side of the room to the next and overall keeping my personal cleaning crew entertained with stories from the night before that happened after they left.

After all the furniture had been returned to its correct spot, the beds were stripped, and I'd packed all of the luggage I'd brought (and there was a lot), I gave an appreciative head nod to Grouper Therapy, thanking it for allowing me to make many memories there, and crossing my fingers that we hadn't done any permanent damage to the place.

After dropping the key off at the realty company, I headed downtown with Lauren to meet a group for lunch. After we ate and shared many a laughs (again), I said good-bye to my mom and Mark and Jen, and then per her request, I took Lauren on a mini-tour of downtown Charleston.

If you've talked to me for an hour, or read this blog at all, you know I've had a love affair with Charleston that has been going on for quite a while; yet for some reason, I always get nervous sharing it with people who have never been there, fearing that I may have oversold it. What if the person I'm showing it to isn't that impressed and they feel like they have to fake interest just to spare my feelings? Awkward.

Luckily, Lauren seemed sincerely impressed by my favorite city as I walked her through Waterfront Park and then down to the Battery. It was a beautiful day. Hot, but beautiful.

I didn't really have a tour mapped out, so we just walked and I tried to drop some of the historical knowledge on Lauren ("There's Fort Sumter! Where the Civil War started!")

As we made our way back to Market Street, we saw a group of tourists take a right into a grave site with historical markers and we followed them. As we roamed through the grave markers, I laughed thinking about my friend Jen, who used to tell anyone getting bent out of shape about their birthday, "Well if you weren't getting older, then it would mean you're dead." She was right - there are far worse things than being 30. Being dead is just one of them.

While walking through the Charleston market, where we ran into Amanda and Stephen, we stopped for a drink and then I drove Lauren to the airport. I hugged her tightly goodbye and then drove away, my destination unknown.

I considered jumping on the interstate and heading back to Atlanta, but for some reason, I just wasn't ready to go. I just couldn't leave the beach. So I just drove around the city, by the house that I used to live in and by the health club where I used to work. Finally alone with my own thoughts for the first time in three days, I realized I still hadn't done anything I'd never done before (besides see John Rutledge's grave), and I panicked.

Really, Stephanie? One day to go and nothing planned?

Ahead of the birthday trip to Folly Beach, an old friend from college, now a Charleston resident, reached out to me and suggested that I paint the Folly Beach Boat as something I'd never done before. The Folly Beach Boat is an abandoned boat that washed ashore after Hurricane Hugo in 1989. No one ever claimed the boat, so it stayed, right there on the side of the road. A year after the hurricane, someone painted a message on the boat and ever since, others have followed suit, leaving behind birthday and anniversary messages for their friends and family. I've driven past the boat hundreds of times on my way out to the beach, and I absolutely loved the idea.

Unfortunately, as we all know, planning and executing are not my strong suits. I never really put forth any effort to get the Birthday Party Crew in on this, and since we were very busy with the responsibilities of the weekend like eating and drinking and relaxing, I never got around to it. By the time I remembered the great idea, in my car panicking, everyone was already on their way back home.

I took a few deep breaths and tried to channel the brave girl who started this insane task back on September 27, 2009, and I drove to Wal-Mart, picked up two cans of spray paint, and went back to the boat, by myself, to make Day 364's thing I've never done before to wish myself a happy birthday on the Folly Beach Boat.

On the way over to the boat with my two cans of spray paint, I started thinking, a little too deeply, about what a full circle moment this would be to paint a message to myself. I was brainstorming ideas of clever sayings to put on the boat, and coming up with some pretty awesome rhymes. I was really excited.

Only when I got there, I saw that some woman named Laura's friends had already been there, writing "Thirty-Forty-Fifty, Laura is now Sixty. We Love our Old Bird." My rhymes were way better than that, but their mural was quite colorful and there was a picture of a bird next to it, as well as the words, "Love U Nana."

There are no rules about how long messages have to be left on the Folly Boat before someone else can come and paint over it, so if I wanted to ruin Laura's message with my own, I could have. But whoever painted the message to Laura had taken a lot of time to do it, and I just couldn't justify ruining their artwork with my two cheap cans of spray paint.

Plus, when I reread the words, "Thirty-Forty-Fifty," somehow turning 30 didn't seem so monumental anymore.

I stood there for a minute, cars whizzing by me, unsure of what to do next. Then, without really thinking, I walked around to the back of the boat, to an area that's hardly visible to anyone driving by; I popped the lid off the red spray paint can, and painted, simply, "Happy Birthday Steph."

A birthday wish to myself.

I grabbed the light blue can and painted a little lame flower next to my happy birthday message, and then I got in my car and I drove away, unsure if anyone would ever see the message.

Indeed, it became a full circle moment.

When I started writing this blog, I called it, "my birthday present to myself." For me, it was an opportunity to challenge myself and do things that I'd never done and get back into writing like I'd always wanted to. I'd hoped, but wasn't at all confident, that anyone would ever read it.

Taking that risk, exposing myself has further solidified what I already knew: the best things in life aren't things.

In fact, the best presents are sometimes the ones that challenge us to think about our lives in a different way; the ones that demand us to recognize the wonderful people we've invited to share our journey, and the ones that force us to see the beauty that's all around us. This project did that. I would leave my twenties humbled by the many blessings in my life, and eager for the next chapter, whatever it might hold. There are days when this "present" to myself felt more like a curse. But I know now what I'm capable of, and it's far greater, so much sweeter, than I could've imagined.

That's the real payoff. The fact that so many others connected to my words, or were amused by them or inspired by them has been more than I could've ever hoped for.

I'd like to think though, that like the private birthday message I wrote on the Folly Beach Boat that day, that even if I knew no one would ever see it, I would've written it anyway. Sometimes the best gifts are the ones we give ourselves.

Happy Birthday to me.

Day 363: Thankfully Surprised

2011-06-08T16:20:00.005-04:00

I woke up on Day 363 feeling a bit groggy.

Groggy? Who am I kidding?

I was hung-over something fierce. And I had Trey, my dad, and all of the other drink pushers in my life to thank for that, I suppose. My night ended with me skipping down the streets of Folly Beach while holding my birthday balloons, wearing a Viking helmet, and starting a dance party.

Despite the late night, I was up early, too excited (or too old) to sleep in. When I emerged from my cave of a room to find both Emilys and Mark and Jen sitting together in the living room, I smiled, thankful for these people who were in my life.

If the word for Day 362 was, "overwhelmed," then Day 363's word was "thankful."

I wasn’t thankful for everything. Like the raging headache I had. Even I, who has managed to be sappy about the most mundane activities (wine party, anyone?), can't find a way to be thankful about a hangover, but knowing that the reason I felt so bad is because I had so much fun the night before made the headache worth it. And I knew there was more fun and more people on the way.

I was (and still am) a very lucky girl.

After breakfast, and a riveting conversation about Quinoa with Jen (What is it? Where can I get it? Is it hard to make? What is it for real?), we headed to the beach. Again, I felt immense gratitude for the gorgeous weather, the sand between my toes, and the fact that I had nothing else to do but drink cold beers and bask in the glory of the day.

I was thankful that even with my worlds colliding right there on Folly Beach, that "Freak Out Steph," was nowhere to be found. Everyone was getting along, no one was revealing any of my dark secrets to the other, my friends really like each other.

I was thankful that everyone managed to feed themselves for lunch without me (despite my mom emailing me incessantly that I should at least offer my guests something.) I'm not a planner, what can I say?

I was mostly thankful that my co-workers, who had driven into town with a car that read, "Class of 2014 Fall Break," written on it, did not force me to dress in costume like they had forced our friend Devon, complete with fake mustaches, sombreros and mesh shirts.

The greatest thing about a beach party is that the entertainment is built in, and people could come and go as they pleased. There were football games on all day, so every hour, we'd lose someone to the house to check scores. Some of my friends with kids brought them early, wore them out and were ready to leave by mid-afternoon. Others, like Julie and Sean, drove up from Florida and arrived right when the sun was starting to set.

Not too long after they got there, I looked towards the oceanfront houses and saw Jeremiah and Lucia, my friends from Nashville, walking through the beach access towards us.

"Hey," I said, while waving, like it was completely normal for me to see them.

Five seconds later I realized, HOLY CRAP IT'S JEREMIAH AND LUCIA FROM NASHVILLE!!!!

There was hugging, there may have been squealing as I tried, and failed, to hide my shock and excitement as various phrases came spewing from my mouth.

"OH MY GOD!"

"WHAT ARE YOU GUYS DOING HERE?!"

"YOU SAID YOU COULDN'T MAKE IT!"

They made a last minute, spontaneous decision to come and drove all day to get there, just to be at the party. They'd have to get up early the next morning and drive all the way back. Most people would've said they were crazy to make such an effort, but these are the kind of choices that Project 29 to 30 is all about.

Drive 16 hours to party for five? Ok!

Again, overwhelmed. And completely thankful that these are the kinds of people I have in my life. We enjoyed the last few moments of sun before reluctantly schlepping back to the house.

Grouper Therapy was already buzzing with activity when we returned. Football was on TV, appetizers were on the table, and those who didn't make it to the beach had started to arrive for dinner. Emily was cheering Alabama on to victory (in a very close game), Danielle and Scott's kids were getting acquainted and chasing each other around the house, my mom and her friend Ellen were hard at work in the kitchen, prepping for the buffet.

Adam had brought the shrimp over from Day 361's outing, making Day 363's thing I've never done before was to eat food that I actually caught. My dad and his friend Wally and my brother's friend Trey had already started the Lowcountry boil underneath the house.

Everywhere I turned, there were things going on, and I did my best to soak it all up.

I thought that the surprises would end with Jeremiah and Lucia's arrival to the beach, but as the night progressed, there were more. Perhaps the day's other word, in addition to thankful, should be "surprises."

My sister-in-law Katie surprised me by decorating the kitchen with pictures of me when I was a child model (yeah, that's right, I was a child model, of the "JC Penny Easter fashion show" variety) and made a poster with pictures from the blog.

She and Emily were also cohorts in a Project 29 to 30 trivia game where guests had to answer questions about my life based on how it was written in the blog. I was shocked at how well my friends did. I thought my parents were the only ones who knew me so well.

Mo, Justin, and Devon gave me a wicker box full of random items that turned into a game for me. I had to dig through each of the items and explain how they related to Project 29 to 30. I wrote the damn thing, and I was surprised at how many of them I had to stop and think about. Thanks to this very generous gift, I am now the proud owner of my very own set of Tarot cards, a box of Dryel, and red nail polish.

My mom surprised me with an extremely special gift, a necklace that was hers back in the 1970s that I repeatedly tried to steal when I was in college and would come home for breaks. After all of these years and failed attempts, she finally let me have it. To go with the $7 wooden necklace, she gave me a beautiful gold bracelet that should I ever grow up, has my thirties written all over it.

Amanda surprised me, again, with her ability to dress fashionably even when the odds are stacked against her. She realized on her way out of town that she'd left her hanging bag in Atlanta, so was forced to go to Cato Women's Fashions on James Island to purchase something to wear (Charleston is full of hip boutiques, but Folly Beach is not). She knocked it out of the park, per usual.

I surprised myself with my ability to shotgun a beer (wait, make that "inability") and to imitate Antoine Dodson of, "Hide your kids, hide your wife," fame.

I remain eternally grateful for life's many surprises.

At some point, right before the birthday cake, I made some awkward remarks thanking everyone for coming and thanking them for their support. I'm usually pretty good at public speaking and speeches of this nature, but fumbled over myself; I couldn't quite put how I was feeling into words. Even now, all these months later, I'm finding it hard to articulate exactly how it felt to be surrounded by so many people who love me and to be given so many generous gifts. Overwhelming, certainly. And, as much as I hate to say it, I found the whole experience quite embarrassing as well.

Strange that I could feel embarrassed over a party that I'd planned for myself. It's not as if I didn't know I'd have to publicly thank my guests at some point. Yet as I stood there, in front of everyone staring at me, I really wished that we were celebrating someone else. Celebrating other people's good news comes very easy to me. I feel like an old pro. Celebrating my own is another story.

When we are children, even the smallest milestones are all celebrated with thunderous applause and paparazzi style photo shoots. I've even seen babies, likely mimicking those around them, even clap for themselves after crawling across the room. But as adults, most of us work hard to fade into the background, hoping that our accomplishments will go unnoticed, for fear, I suppose, that if we called attention to them and to ourselves, that we might seem self-centered or boastful.

Thanks to two very centered parents who taught me from a very young age that I am not, nor will I ever be, the center of the universe, I'd like to think I'm a humble person. But this birthday was, this year had been, in the words of our Vice President, a "big fucking deal," for me. I'd done something big. These people who had flown and driven in from out of town standing in front of me eating Lowcountry boil understood that. Why was I so tongue-tied in front of them?

While I'm forever grateful that I took on this project to do a new thing everyday, and writing about my life, I did, over the course of entire year, become the most self-centered version of myself. Focusing on writing and checking things off my bucket list often came ahead of nurturing relationships. I put me first, even when it felt unnatural and in many ways, this party, that I threw for myself, was a culmination of just that. And it embarrassed me that these people who I'd used, and sometimes abused, for my own project were standing there supporting me anyway.

Plus, having all eyes on me, reacting to everything I said and every move I made, for an entire weekend was unnerving, and isn't the kind of attention I crave. There were times when I felt like a pinball bouncing around trying to keep everyone entertained and happy, and I worried that I wouldn't spend enough quality time with any one person in order to give them the sincere thank you that they deserved.

I suppose in many ways, too, I celebrated myself all year long, breaking away from the mundane and saying, "Yes!" to new experiences. The party felt like the very rich icing on an already very rich cake. Saying the right words to the people who made it possible felt like an impossible task.

Somewhere in the gray area between a self important bad-ass attitude and the demure fading into the background approach to life is a place where being proud of ourselves and celebrating our own triumphs is an acceptable thing to do. I'm still struggling with that gray, too, I guess, but I hope someday I find it.

After all, if we don't celebrate our own milestones in life, then who will?

Maybe my next celebration won't involve a boozy beach party; I'm already looking forward to more low key parties in the future. But I'd like to think that with each passing year, I'll find a way to acknowledge that I am another year wiser, with a year's worth of new experiences, complete with successes and failures to add to the memory pile.

Even if it's just a toast of cheap champagne to say, "Cheers! I'm still here! I'm still alive!"

And it is a big fucking deal.

Day 362: An Overwhelming Celebration

2011-06-03T11:30:00.002-04:00

The best part about spending an entire year trying new things is that I turned 30 with enough adventures to fill several novels, and a long list of things I hoped to try again for a second and third time.

On that list, among others: play golf w i th m y dad and brother whenever they invite me, eat burrata in San Francisco (and anywhere else I can find it), visit Greece in the summer (and winter, spring and fall too). These are things I want to do for the rest of my life, and there are at least a hundred more.

Day 362's thing I've never done before, plan my own birthday party, falls on the other list of things I plan on never doing again (along with Haunted Houses, juice diets and green tea lattes).

Don't get me wrong, my beach weekend-long party was full of fun and laughs and great friends and good times, but the weeks leading up to it were so full of stress and anxiety and bad feelings about myself that I'd be an idiot to ever knowingly take it on again.

I've had a lot of great birthday parties over the years, so thanks to family and friends, the bar had been set pretty high. My mom planned a scavenger hunt when I was 11, and a camp out sleepover when I was 13, and my friends planned a pub crawl for my 21st. I wasn't on some quest to make up for years of sucky birthdays. In fact, knowing what I know now, I probably should've let those same people plan my 30th.

But after a year of living my life on my own terms and accomplishing my challenging project, throwing my own celebration just seemed like the right thing to do. At first, I was really excited about it. I went into the planning with high hopes and super high expectations, thinking that the greatest part about throwing my own party was that I would get to decide where and when to have the party, what to eat at the party, and who to invite to the party. For control freaks and people who enjoy planning, it's a dream come true. For someone like me, being in control of all these decisions was like a nightmare.

First, I agonized about where to have it. Since most of my friends live in either Georgia or South Carolina, having it in either one of those states made sense, but it also meant that half of them would have to travel out of town. What tipped the scales for South Carolina was my beloved Charleston and the beach. The weather was completely suitable to have an all-day beach day on Saturday and a cookout, football-watching party at night. Most of my friends in Atlanta are beach-lovers and certainly wouldn't mind traveling if their destination involved day-drinking at the shore. A fall birthday beach party was right up my alley.

Taking a page from my friend Lindsay's 30th birthday playbook, I also suggested a place for everyone to meet for dinner on Friday night. There was the typical back and forth internal dialogue (Where should we have dinner? Will everyone like Taco Boy? Can we make reservations? What if there aren't enough tables?), but I did my best to be completely different from how I normally am, and not obsess. It wasn't easy.

Renting a house was the next hurdle, a task so frustrating to me I finally called my mom in a fit of panic and begged her to take it on. She happily agreed to help, but it wasn't long before the back and forth between rental companies about prices and 3-night minimums and check-in times, was making her as crazy as it had been making me. When she finally did find one that fit all of our criteria, she sent me the link and I had to agree it was exactly what we were looking for. But even then, I still refused to pull the trigger. My mom knows my tendency to be indecisive, but this was even bad for me.

The angst over the house came in part because of invitation process, which turned out to be the worst part about throwing my own birthday party. I aimed high and invited nearly everyone I'd ever met in my life, which was ambitious, but also obnoxious. And when I still managed to leave people out, I ended up hurting people unnecessarily, a fact that I sincerely regret. Forgetting to invite people was only the tip of the iceberg of hurt feelings, though.

In that regard, maybe karma was proving it's alive and well, because when I sent the Evite declaring that the party was really happening, the enthusiasm garnered from the pre-emptive email I sent in July about the party was non-existent.

My concerns about not finding a house big enough for all of the people who were going to come were soon replaced with concerns that there wasn't going to be anyone to put in the house at all.

Even some of my closest friends who at one time were excited about the party were, for various reasons, responding, "no." Or worse, they were responding, "maybe." Work, weddings, family commitments are all valid reasons for missing a 30th birthday out-of-town birthday party, but I couldn't help but feel disappointed when I would obsessively check the Evite to see who had and hadn't responded.

Being noncommittal is a part of the digital age that we live in, (The Wall Street Journal wrote an article about it), but always a lover of classics, it's not one that I think I'll ever get used to. This little birthday party became an exercise in decoding what the Evite responses meant. "No" apparently still means "no," but "yes" could mean "maybe." "Maybe" could mean, "I'm really trying, but there is a chance that it might not work out," but it most likely means, "no," or "I'm waiting to see if something better comes along."

I hate the word, "maybe."

I blame myself for setting unrealistic expectations, and for thinking that reaching this milestone meant as much to everyone else as it did to me.

What's worse is that by focusing on the 22 "maybes," 38 "no's," and 66 "not yet replied" people in my life, I all but completely ignored the 48 "yeses."

My reaction, that I'm completely ashamed of, reminded me of the book class I had taken with Hollis Gillespie when I told her I'd fallen in love when I hadn't. As if 365 new things, other things, weren't enough, I looked her in the eye and lied about the one thing that I hadn't done. Here I was, with almost 50 people coming from far and wide to celebrate me and my achievement and I was pissing and moaning about those who couldn't.

My, I thought at one point, look how far I haven't come.

With the help of my very grounded mother who doesn't tolerate such bratty behavior and the palpable enthusiasm of those who were coming, any self-pity I might've been feeling was quickly, and quite fortunately, replaced with my own excitement.

I woke up Friday morning after shrimping feeling anxious, knowing that I was just hours away from my worlds colliding.

Adam and I grabbed lunch at Papa ZuZu's on Mt. Pleasant, and toasted our upcoming birthdays with drinks at lunch. So we tried a Greek beer, Alfa. The beer was nondescript, really, but kicked off a plethora of new drinks to add to my repertoire as the other things I'd never done before on Day 362.

The best way that I can describe the next few days is to call them, "overwhelming." As friends from near and far descended on Folly Beach, any feelings of disappointment felt like a faint memory.

To look around around the room at Taco Boy and see my mom talking to one of my best friends from high school and one of my best friends from college at the same time, while watching my Dad (yes, my dad) forcing "Crown Hotel" shots on several of my colleagues dressed in costume is a lot of things, but most of all it's overwhelming. Like in the best way.

To have my brother's best friend Trey order me a shot of jalapeno tequila that he said would change my life while watching a waitress bringing over a tray full of margaritas for everyone at the party bought by my friend Kyle in Atlanta, since she couldn't be there, is many wonderful things, but most of all, it's overwhelming.

Feel overwhelmed by the love of the people in my life: I think I'll add that to the list of things I'd like to do again.

Thanks to fabulous turnout of people that showed up to the party, I was unable to tag everyone individually. I'm instead tagging all of you, "Birthday Party Crew." Thanks again for helping me celebrate.

Day 361: Shrimping, Finally

2011-05-31T13:00:00.002-04:00

On Day 361, I arrived in Charleston to kick off my birthday weekend, and went straight to my friend Adam's house. He'd promised to take me shrimping as the thing I'd never done before since Day 294 when we overslept and quite literally missed the shrimp boat the first time we'd tried to go.

That day turned out to be a lot of fun. Adam and spent the day (ALL day) brunching instead, hitting various Charleston spots that I'd never been before. But I was still very disappointed that I'd blown my chance to go shrimping.

He wasn't sure if he'd be able to make the shrimp boat happen again, but Adam said when I came back to town, we could take his own boat and go shrimping ourselves. That sounded like a perfect way to kick off my birthday weekend. I arrived at Adam's house right as the sun was setting, and we, along with Adam's roommate Roy, jumped in his truck and headed to the boat ramp.

Day 361's thing I've never done before to go shrimping, finally.

I assumed that we'd be on the boat catching shrimp for a couple of hours and that we'd have plenty of time to head out on the town afterward. In fact, I liked the idea of myself wearing a fishing shirt and grabbing a couple of well-deserved beers following a successful evening out on the water. But Adam informed me, when we stopped at Harris Teeter to buy beer and something for dinner, that shrimping was an all-evening affair.

"There won't be any bars open when we finish up," Adam said, as he grabbed a bucket of chicken and a container of macaroni and cheese (sadly the only picture saved from the lost camera is that of Adam and the macaroni).

Clearly, I had absolutely no idea what we were in for.

By the time we loaded all of the tools, coolers and put the boat in the water, it was completely dark outside. A strange time to be headed out on the water, but the night could not have been more beautiful. The moon was full and bright and it hung over the harbor as if someone had painted it there for us. The light it gave was more than enough to guide us where we wanted to go and I wished that all nights could be so lovely, and that all of my evenings would begin on a boat in Shem Creek.

We all cracked our first beer and basked in the moon's glow for about five minutes. And then Adam said it was time to get to work.

Work meant making the shrimp bait patties, possibly the worst part of shrimping. Shrimp bait patties are made of powdered clay and shrimp meal. Adam had already mixed the dry ingredients in a painter's bucket and smiling the whole time, he dipped a few cup fulls of salt water and added them to the mixture, creating a thick, gooey, paste-like substance that stunk really bad. Adam's smile went from charming to sinister as he mixed, darting his eyes from me to Roy then back to me. He knew that I was eager to be involved in this process, and that I was willing to do whatever needed to be done. But he knew sticking my hands in this stinky mush would completely disgust me. And it did.

I didn't hesitate, though, and I rolled up my sleeves and got to work. While Roy and I made the patties, that looked like hamburgers when we were done, Adam scoped out a place for us to set up our markers and drop our bait. If there is any kind of rhyme or reason to choosing a place to shrimp, I couldn't tell. Adam merely chose an area that was far away from any other shrimpers.

When we had our area, we had to mark where we intended to drop our bait, so as Adam drove the boat slowly, Roy stuck the equivalent of a PVC pipe (or maybe it was PVC pipe) into the ocean floor every 10 to 20 feet. Ideally, the 10 poles should all end up in a straight line, only that didn't exactly happen. We were close enough, though, so we decided to go with it. Plus, the first one I tried to stake barely even stuck in the ground at all, so the fact that I was able to get it to stay was good enough for me.

Once the stakes were in the ground, we returned the boat to the first pole and we dropped a couple of shrimp bait patties in front of it, placing them gently into the water and letting them fall.

We hadn't caught a single shrimp and I was tired. I like activities that I can show up and they happen, but shrimping, I learned, requires a great deal of preparation and quite a bit of patience.

Once the bait was set, Roy took over as the driver of the boat, and Adam, wearing fishing waders, stood on the stern with a net. Driving slowly, Roy approached the first pole; Adam, using both hands and his mouth, shook the net out and cast it open. Almost as quickly as he dropped it in the water, he started to pull it back in with both hands.

I watched nervously, and jumped up from my seat, wanting to assist but not exactly sure how, or in what way to do so. Adam said nothing and didn't indicate that he needed any help, and as Roy drove the boat slowly away from the pole, he pulled the net into the boat and lifted it over the empty cooler in front of me. There were about a dozen shrimp inside.

I was elated.

"Alright!," I yelled. "Good job!" No, it was hardly the bounty I'd seen shrimpers get on big shrimp boats, but still, it was shrimp! That we (well, Adam) had caught!

Roy and Adam were unimpressed. They went on to tell me that they'd been out a few nights before and each net full had yielded 20, maybe 30 shrimp at a time. They filled their cooler in a couple of hours.

I loved that shrimping was something that these guys did often, and filed that fact under, "Reasons why living at the beach is way cooler than living in the city."

Roy turned the boat around, and went to the second pole and Adam cast the net again, the second time yielding just five or six shrimp. My role in the process became to pick up the little critters when they bounced out of the cooler and to throw any fish that may have ended up inside our net back into the ocean. The job sounds lame, but it was right up my alley and I only managed to get pinched a handful of times before I took Adam's advice and wore gloves.

There wasn't a whole lot of conversation throughout the process, much to my dismay, and I was the only one really drinking beers at all. Roy, as the driver, had to be focused on where he was going at all times. Adam was under a lot of physical stress because the net was heavy and for the most part the boat was in constant motion. If we'd stopped to take a break between each cast, we would've been out there for hours. Shrimping is hardly the kick your feet up and drink beers kind of outing. It's hard work.

At one point, Roy could tell I was really studying what was happening around me, and he spoke up.

"So, Gallman, how are you going to write this?," Roy asked me. "Will you say I, 'maneuvered the boat with pinpoint accuracy and Adam cast the net like it was an extension of himself?'"

I laughed. Those weren't the words I would've come up with, but I certainly couldn't think of a more accurate way to describe these two shrimping experts.

I couldn't let the night end without at least trying to cast the shrimping net, so when Adam paused for a well-deserved, much-needed break, I stood on the stern and tried to copy exactly what he did. My cast was not at all an extension of myself, more like an ugly toss, but I managed to snag a few shrimp. I only did it twice and I was exhausted. No wonder there wasn't a lot of chatter coming from him.

It took us several rounds (much longer than it had taken them in the past), but after several hours, we nearly filled a 50 quart cooler with shrimp for the Lowcountry boil I'd planned for the weekend. Adam was right, by the time we got back to the ramp, it was after two in the morning, and there was still work to be done. The three of us sat around the cooler and pulled the heads off the shrimp and threw them in the water. Another not-so-pleasant but necessary part of shrimping.

For all it's unpleasantness, the entire evening was the opposite. A perfect evening in my most favorite city catching my dinner. Not too shabby.

Day 360: Playing the Blues

2011-05-27T11:42:00.001-04:00

Music, especially live music, is one of my first loves in life, so it's no surprise that a lot of my firsts in my 29th year have happened in the context of a concert or a music festival of some sort.

What has surprised me, and disappointed me terribly, has been my inability to personally excel musically. With so much good taste in music, shouldn't it come easily to me? So far, I'd pulled off playing a song on a banjo and singing a song with a band, but both efforts were bad. Scary bad.

With the help of my friend Andrew, who himself is an excellent musician, I hoped to change all of that, when he taught me how to play the harmonica as Day 360's thing I've never done before.

Andrew and I had both hoped that this experience would come about more organically. We'd be out having a couple of beers and one of us would suggest a jam session and Viola! Time for a harmonica lesson.

But time was not on our side, so we planned what time we were going to meet and I went to his house after work. Andrew owns several harmonicas, and even has a case where he keeps them. The only harmonicas I'd ever seen were haphazardly tossed into junk drawers, so I knew these harmonicas were special. He placed the case on the bar in front of me, and I opened it gingerly, and picked up one of the shiny harmonicas as if it was a porcelain doll, certain that this was the instrument that would lead me to musical success once and for all. Give me an hour, I thought, and I'll be playing the blues.

After opening some beers and giving me an overview of his own experiences playing the harmonica, Andrew taught me the most important thing about playing the harmonica:

"Nobody calls it a harmonica."

I was still staring at the harmonica in my hand, but his words caught me caught me by surprised. I looked up and stared at him.

"What?"

"Yeah," he said, recognizing my embarrassment. "It's called a blues harp."

Only minutes into our lesson, and I'd committed a sin as glaring as wearing an artist's concert t-shirt to the artist's concert. I started to question him, "But why?," but I stopped. If he says, "blues harp," he probably knows what he's talking about.

"Blues harp. Got it."

Suddenly this instrument that I'd once associated with honky tonks and college bars felt a whole lot fancier.

Andrew had a blues harp of his own and started the lesson by showing me how I was supposed to position my mouth. Since I'm right handed, I was to hold the harp in between my right thumb and index finger and then cup my left hand over the backside.

Anyone can pick up a blues harp and blow air and make a sound, Andrew said. It's true, I'd done it plenty of times before. But to actually, "play" a blues harp requires blowing, or sucking, air through the individual holes.

"It's weird that you can suck on it," I said. As the words came out of my mouth, I regretted them.

I laughed like a 13-year old boy in sex education class as Andrew ignored my comment and went on to introduce me to words like, "blow note" and "bending." I was trying to pay attention, but I was easily distracted by the vocabulary associated with the instrument.

"All of this blowing and sucking, playing the blues harp is dirty," I continued.

"No, that's you," Andrew said. "Don't blame that on the harp."

The comments just kept coming; in part because I have a dirty mind that just always seems to go there, and in part because I felt like in order to play the blues harp, I had to essentially make out with it.

Andrew humored me for a while with the inappropriate commentary, and we shared some laughs, but time was ticking, and soon we had to get down to business. Like Donald and the banjo, Andrew started by playing me the song that I was going to play, and then writing out the notes out on a piece of paper for me to read from. He showed me exactly where those holes were on the blues harp and told me when to blow and when to suck.

I didn't know the name of the song (Andrew emailed me to tell me it's "Mannish Boy" by Muddy Waters), but I recognized it. The sequence was probably the most popular blues sequence I'd ever heard. Da da da dah dun. That's it. How hard could it be?

Very hard, in fact. All jokes aside, pursing my lips the right way and finding the exact hole to blow into was difficult. I was all over the place.

Clearly I was in the groove, but I kept playing the same wrong note over and over and over. I blame it on the weird dance I do at the beginning and the fact that my hair is in some fishtail braid. I played when I was supposed to, but I kept playing the wrong note, over and over.

The second time we filmed, I took my hair down, as if that would help. I found the beat, barely, but managed every time to miss the first blues harp sequence in the song. I got the notes right (for the most part) the second time around, but it was hardly impressive. I played so badly, even Andrew's dog Dexter ran upstairs to get away from the noise.

Besides my own music shortcomings, I decided to also blame my performances on the video camera. Every time Andrew turned it on, I completely choked. When we were just messing around, and I was relaxed, I managed to nail the five notes (just five notes) several times. Jessica, (Andrew's then girlfriend, now fiance) came home from drinks with her friends, I played for her what I'd learned and she said I sounded good. I'm pretty sure she had a lot of drinks.

Ever reluctant to turn 30, I thought at the very least my own anxieties about my birthday would've inspired me on the blues harp, but I guess I'm destined to leave my twenties with absolutely no success in the music department.

Unless you count concert-attending, of course. I had a lot of success there.

Day 359: Riding Along in the Gray

2011-05-25T15:24:00.015-04:00

Day 359 involved quite a bit more foresight and planning than most of the other things I'd done during my 29th year. Going on a police ride along isn't something that can just happen on the fly. The Dunwoody Police Department actually requires a notarized application for anyone interested. I filled it out and mailed it in weeks ahead of time, then waited impatiently for a response.

Finally, with just a week to go, the department contacted me to join one of their officers for a police ride along on Day 359 as the thing I've never done before.

When I told people what I was up to, their responses were all of the same mocking variety, since Dunwoody isn't what I would call a "crime-ridden" area. It's actually a very nice part of town and boasts some of the nicest real estate in Atlanta.

"What kind of crime is going on in Dunwoody?"

"Why Dunwoody, Steph?"

"Why there?"

The answer is simple: I Googled, "Police Ride Along Atlanta," and it was the first thing that popped up, application and all. They made it easy, so I went for it.

The Dunwoody Police precinct is on the first floor of a building in an office park, which was typical for this white collar area.

Despite all of the jeers I'd received headed into the day, part of me completely expected and wanted to arrive to a waiting room buzzing with scanner traffic and chaos; I wanted danger in the form of drug dealers and prostitutes smoking cigarettes and yelling obscenities. This waiting room was vacant, though, and silent. The only person who was there was the woman behind the plate glass window. She was wearing plain clothes and looked like she was younger than me.

I told her my name and that I was there for a ride along. She nodded and instructed me to take a seat in the waiting room while she radioed the officer I was to ride with. I did as I was told, and watched the local news they had on a television mounted on the wall. After ten minutes, no one had come to get me and I was starting to get nervous that they forgot. Just then, the door leading to the back opened, and the front desk girl walked through with a police officer behind her.

Officer Tim looked almost exactly like how I picture police officers looking in my head. He was bald and he was stacked. Officer Tim looked like he spent hours in the gym bench pressing and grunting and throwing weights around. I was sure he drank protein powder shakes with every meal and considered the possibility that he ordered his uniform one size too small, just to ensure that his muscles would bulge when he put it on.

He politely shook my hand, but was a bit standoffish at first. Not rude, just quiet and not seemingly thrilled with having to entertain me for the next four hours. Having been in that position myself at my own job, I completely understood and opted to just tread lightly, and blanket him with my charm gradually, so as not to overwhelm him.

I climbed in the front seat of the police car, and marveled at all of the car's bells and whistles: a dash cam monitor, Walkie Talkies, a CB radio, and, to my surprise, a laptop computer, mounted in the center console. I asked about each one of them, thankful that the high tech equipment gave us something to talk about.

Officer Tim didn't tell me where we were going, but it was clear he had a plan when he pulled out of the office park into an apartment complex right across the street. He parked his police car on the side of the road, popped the trunk, and got out, returning moments later with a tire in each hand. He threw them in the back and then walked back to the landscaped area in front of the apartments and emerged with two more, also throwing them in the trunk.

Five minutes in to this experience, and I was already terribly confused.

Not for too long, though, because as Officer Tim drove back to the police precinct he explained to me that the tires came from a car that was stolen from the apartment complex. Apparently the car was good enough, the tires were not. So the thieves took what they wanted, and left behind what they didn't. While ridiculously stupid of them, I thought that made them nice thieves. Regardless, the tires were now evidence.

We returned the tires to the precinct and then made our way to the next call, a fender bender in a shopping center. While waiting at a stoplight, Officer Tim explained to me exactly how much of the Dunwoody area he covers. He used his hands to point it out, and referenced street names I'd never heard of; I nodded in understanding anyway.

We arrived on the "accident" scene, and Officer Tim turned his blue lights on, causing everyone in the vicinity to turn and look. I put accident in quotes, because from what I could tell, these cars barely scraped each other while backing up in the parking lot. Perhaps my judgment is skewed thanks to my less than stellar driving record, but this "accident," in my opinion, did not warrant police presence or insurance companies or tears. The woman driving the Nissan Altima disagreed and she put on a hysterical show telling Officer Tim, and everyone else in the city of Dunwoody, that the "DRIVER OF THE JEEP CHEROKEE," was to blame for "BACKING INTO HER." This "accident," was "NOT HER FAULT!"

Officer Tim looked like a seasoned officer, taking each aside to hear their side of the story. He returned to the police car with their licenses and insurance cards. There he ran a report on both drivers, saw that their records were clean and their insurance payments were up to date. Since the incident happened on private property, he didn't cite either driver with a traffic violation, but wrote up an accident report that they could each give to their insurance companies.

Nissan Altima was disappointed. I think she wanted Jeep Cherokee to get hauled off to jail for not paying attention while backing up.

As we drove away from the scene, we both agreed that Nissan Altima was crazy. Officer Tim began to open up to me by way of asking me a few questions.

"So, are you doing this for a class?," he asked me.

I tried not to make it obvious that I was absolutely thrilled he thought I was a student, and just said, "No, I just always wanted to see what this was about."

He raised his eyebrow at me like that answer wasn't good enough. He was right.

I smiled. "Well, and I'm turning 30 next week and I started this blog where I set out to do new things everyday for one year, so this is one of the things that I'm going to write about," I rambled on the familiar sentence I'd reused over and over during the past year.

"Oh great, you're a journalist," he said. I could tell that any rapport we may have established since we met has begun disintegrating rapidly.

"Well, no . . .I mean, yes, I am . . . but I'm not doing this as a journalist . . . my blog is just for fun," I stammered out, but it was too late. I could tell he had started to put his guard up.

"I promise I won't make you look bad," I told him, with a twinkle in my eye. He half-smiled, like he wanted to believe me, but had been burned many times by the media in the past. I tried to change the subject, asking about the students he's taken around on ride alongs. Many of them are budding defense attorneys, or Criminal Justice majors, looking for careers in law enforcement.

After we talked about that, the car fell silent for a while. I looked out the window and then at a laminated sheet I found in the center console that listed all of the numbered police codes and signals for the different scenarios officers may encounter.

28 - Person Drunk

86 - Domestic Dispute

Sure enough, "10-4," means, "Ok. Understood."

I was studying the list, not noticing that Officer Tim was taking a right to get onto I-285. Once we were on the interstate, I laughed watching cars slow down when they saw us coming. One car, a Lexus SUV didn't slow down, though. The driver was flying down the highway, darting in and out of lanes to move past cars going the speed limit. Officer Tim clocked him at 82 miles per hour in a 65 miles per hour zone. He turned on his lights and went after the Lexus, making me feel like we were in a police chase! It didn't last very long, since the Lexus pulled over almost immediately, but I thought it was exciting, and I couldn't help but smile.

Officer Tim turned up the audio on the dash cam monitor before he got out of the car and I listened as he asked to see the driver's license and registration. I couldn't hear what the Lexus driver was saying, but I heard Officer Tim tell him how fast he was going.

The two spoke for a few minutes. As Officer Tim walked back to the car, I saw the Lexus begin to merge into traffic ahead of me. Part of me thought he was driving off and we were going to get to go on a real deal police chase. But Lexus didn't squeal off, he took his time to get back on the interstate. I was confused, as I was fully expecting Officer Tim to come back and haul this guy off for driving under the influence or reckless driving. At the very least, Lexus deserved a speeding ticket.

I gave Officer Tim a look that said, "What the hell was that?"

He shook his head and smiled, in a "you kids these days," kind of way.

"He's in a rush to meet his girlfriend for dinner. He got off late from work, and she's mad, so he's rushing to meet her."

Yeah, I thought. So what?

"Well, he was honest with me. When I pull someone over . . .for anything, speeding, running a red light, DUI . . .I just want them to be honest. He was honest with me, so I told him to slow down, and I let him go. He was a nice guy."

That's it? No ticket? I wanted to haul Lexus off to the slammer for going 82 in a 65 and you're going to let him go? Booooooo.

I decided right then that Officer Tim is exactly the policeman I want to meet the next time I get pulled over, but as far as police ride alongs go, I wish I had someone that fit the "asshole cop," stereotype.

Still, I smiled as we got off the interstate, feeling like I had some insider knowledge on how to deal with police officers like Officer Tim. "Just be honest." So simple.

Officer Tim took a right down a busy winding road that seemed to connect a residential part of Dunwoody to the commercial shopping area. It was heavily trafficked, at least during this time during the evening. At a curve in the road, we could see a car on the opposite side of the road pulled over onto the shoulder with its hazards blinking. Pacing beside the car was an attractive, but extremely weary-looking young woman talking on a cell phone.

Officer Tim immediately turned around, turned his blue lights on, and pulled up right behind her car. Without hesitation, he got out of his car and walked towards the woman, who upon seeing him approach, hung up her cell phone.

I assumed, as Officer Tim did, that the woman was having car trouble, and was likely on the phone with a towing company.
But with cars whizzing by, it was difficult for me to hear what they were talking about on the dash cam monitor. I could see that they were looking at something on the ground, so I got out of the car and walked over to them.

The girl looked up at me, understandably confused (who is this girl and why is she riding around in a police car?). I smiled at her and then looked at what they were looking at.

Lying the grass, was a goose.

An injured goose.

Suddenly it became clear what was going on here. This woman wasn't having car trouble. She hit a goose on her way home from work. While I don't have particularly strong feelings about geese, I felt really bad for this girl. She was really upset.

Officer Tim instructed the girl to sit in her car while he and I went back to the police car. There, he filled me in on some of the details. She hit the goose, but her husband was a veterinarian and was on his way to the scene to see if there was anything he could do.

"Oh, ok," I said, as if this all made complete sense. Only it made absolutely no sense.

Veterinarian or not, what was her husband going to do with the goose right there on the side of the road? Give it CPR? Shocks of life?

Officer Tim told me that the woman, an animal lover, wanted her veterinarian husband to put the goose in the back of their car, transport it back to their house and nurse it back to health. The whole idea was sweet, and made sense, if it wasn't completely ridiculous.

Officer Tim said he'd been on animal calls before, but none of this nature. I pulled out the laminated codes list to see if, "goose down" (get it?!) was anywhere on the list. Sure enough, it was not.

In the worst of circumstances, he said, he could shoot the goose, just to put it out of its misery, but that seemed a little over the top and he knew he would suffer the ridicule of his officer colleagues who would likely accuse him of showing off for his "ride along," who just happened to be a young female.

By then, the veterinarian had arrived on the scene to talk to his wife and to assess the goose. Officer Tim and I watched as they talked. There were some raised hands and shaking of heads, indicating the conversation was not going well. Officer Tim got out of the police car and went to talk to the husband. Vet husband admitted to his wife, and to us, that he didn't know what the goose's injuries were, or if he had the proper tools to save it. And if he did save the goose, he told Officer Tim, what then? He and his wife's house was not equipped to raise a pet goose.

After a lot of conversation, a lot of staring at the still breathing, but clearly suffering goose, Officer Tim took veterinarian husband aside to have a private conversation. I could tell that a decision had been made about what to do with the goose. The vet husband had a brief conversation with his wife and then he hugged her. Then I saw the wife, who still visibly shaken, get into her car and drive away.

There was so much drama, so much emotion, and back and forth, as if we had just made the decision to pull the plug on our sick grandmother. If it weren't for the fact that a goose had been injured, I would've laughed at the hilarity of it all.

Officer Tim radioed in to dispatch to let them know what was about to happen, so if they received calls about gunshots, that it was likely him, dealing with this unfortunate set of circumstances. He got out of the car and pulled his gun out of its holster.

And then he shot the goose, killing it instantly.

Of all the things I thought I might encounter on a police ride along in the streets of Dunwoody, watching a police officer shoot a goose is the last thing I expected.

The vet, also upset about what happened, shook Officer Tim's hand, thanked him for doing the dirty work, and then got into his car to go home and tend to his sad wife. We climbed back into the police car and drove away too, leaving the dead goose on the side of the road.

Almost immediately, as if on cue, the responses from his fellow officers on duty starting pouring in, on his laptop, on the radio, and on the phone.

"Heeeeeyyyyyy, tough guy!"

"Wow, you really showed that goose!"

"I'll bet you really impressed your ride along, pal. Nice job."

We laughed all the way to Starbucks, where we treated ourselves to coffee and a scone.

After the goose, the rest of the stops and calls were rather tame. Several speeding stops, a homeless man making neighbors feel uneasy, teenagers playing their music too loudly after dark.

We drove past a man who was sitting in his car outside of a hotel, with his laptop opened. We assumed he was doing something sinister and downright creepy, but when Officer Tim questioned him, he said he'd had a fight with his wife and needed to get out of their apartment. So he brought his laptop to the hotel to get free wireless internet so he could catch up on his fantasy baseball team. It was so pathetic and sad, we had no choice but to believe him.

We pulled over one man whose tags had expired. Having been pulled over for the same thing after first moving here, I thought this would be fairly straight forward ticket for Officer Tim to write. Only when the driver explained that he was on his way to a construction job, his first in months after having been out of work, and therefore unable to fix his car so that it would pass an emissions test (required to get plates here), Officer Tim wasn't so sure.

The ticket would've made him late to work, which could've possibly jeopardized his employment and any hopes of ever having money to fix the car and get the tags updated. Writing him a ticket for what was a clear violation just didn't seem so clear anymore. There are times, Officer Tim explained, when the law, and what side is wrong and what side is right, is very much black and white. And there are others, in this case, when it's more gray.

I certainly didn't expect to have any sort of epiphany while handing out traffic tickets with a police officer in Dunwoody, but when I could see that Officer Tim was struggling with what to do about this driver, I thought about my own struggle to accept the "gray" in my life.

Growing up, I always thought people, and experiences, were one way or the other. Good or bad. Right or Wrong. Positive or negative. Worthwhile or a waste of time.

Only with age and experience have I been able to understand and accept that things are not always what they seem. Thank God I am not a creature who exists within the lines or boundaries of what makes sense; I'm far more layered and complicated. I'm crass, self-deprecating and a ball-buster, but I'm also insanely sensitive and emotional. I'm fiercely independent, but want to be with a man who will open doors for me. I'm bubbly and silly, but am easy depressed and have slipped into ruts so deep I thought I'd never get out. If I can wear stilettos and go to Phish concerts, I can only assume that everyone else's personalities are also a little bit country and a little bit rock and roll like mine.

After all, sometimes my friends who can be the most difficult can also be the most loyal, and some of the more irresponsible things I've done have always made for the best life lessons and the best stories. The gray is where life really gets interesting.

I'm a good person, I'd like to think, but I've made some bad decisions and I've said and done things I regret. I'll probably never be the smartest or richest person in the room, but I know what I don't know, and I know I already have more than I'll ever need. I'm not as good or as bad as my best and worst critics think I am. I'm somewhere in the middle, somewhere in the gray.

The challenge for me then, and for Officer Tim, is knowing when to stand my ground and when to let things go. When to write someone a ticket or cut them some slack.

And most importantly, when to shoot the goose, and when to call your veterinarian husband to see if he can save it.

The gray. It's tricky.

Day 358: Pop Rocks Rumor Control

2011-05-18T14:00:00.005-04:00

I don't remember how old I was when I first started hearing rumors about, "Paul, Kevin's friend from the Wonder Years," but once I heard the first, all of the rest quickly followed.

When the show was still on the air, I heard that he and Winnie Cooper were a couple off screen, and it was actually Kevin (played by Fred Savage) who was really a nerd.

Years after the show went into syndication, someone told me, with such conviction I couldn't help but at least consider it, that Paul had grown up to become Marilyn Manson.

I'm not sure who comes up with these rumors, or why Paul from the Wonder Years was always the main character in them (what did he ever do to anyone?), but by far the most tragic of all was that he was dead, and the seemingly innocent activity that killed him?

Eating Pop Rocks and drinking Coca-Cola at the same time.

I hadn't thought of the Paul rumor and this apparently lethal concoction until my friend Anne suggested that I test the urban legend for myself for the blog. In her email she included the sinister, "dun dun dun . . .")

She was kidding, of course, and all research (i.e. Internet searches) led me to believe that no one had ever died by drinking Coca Cola and eating Pop Rocks. If Paul from the Wonder Years had ever even tried it (and there was absolutely no evidence that he did), his questionable choice didn't kill him. He was alive and well.

But rumors usually have some basis in fact, don't they? What if someone did die trying this? Was I playing with fire? There were just seven days to go until my birthday; should I risk it?

Of course I should! If I'm going down, I'm going down in a blaze of candy and soda! Day 358's thing I've never done before was to mix Pop Rocks and Coca-Cola and hopefully live to tell the tale.

Before work, I drove to Richards Variety Store to buy the Pop Rocks, something that I'd looked for at the grocery store and other discount stores, but couldn't find. Richards is a completely random store full of anything from hilarious greeting cards to hand crank egg beaters to Pez dispensers. I could spend many hours and several hundred dollars there.

Emily happily joined me for this challenge when I told her what I was up to, and I asked Justin to film it.

The video is long, and includes Emily and I willing our personal possessions to members of our families in case the urban legend was true, and this candy soda experiment did make us explode.

I willed everything to my brother, Jeff, and sister-in-law, Katie. Everything except for my car, which I said Justin could have, in light of Day 353.

Emily willed her stuff to her parents, since, "they are responsible for me having most of it anyway," and because her Mom, Joan, is an active Project 29 to 30 blog reader.

I felt badly for having left out my parents completely, so I went on to explain why I left it all to Jeff and Katie. I was actually thinking about my dad complaining, when he can't find anything in his closet or in the attic, "There's too much crap in this house! When I die, it's going to take you kids years to sort through all of it!" (As I've said before, my father talks about his death as if it is happening any minute.) But, understanding his detest of all the clutter that he blames all on my mother, I figured forcing my brother and Katie to acquire all of my things would at least make my dad happy.

So after we willed our personal belongings away, Emily and I opened up our Pop Rocks' packages, tilted our heads back, and dumped the contents into our mouth.

Pop Rocks is a carbonated candy, and the gimmick is that the "rocks" will fizz once eaten. I know that I ate Pop Rocks when I was a little kid, but I didn't remember them tasting so terrible. They're extremely sugary and I felt like my teeth could rot right then and there.

I took a sip of coke, which was difficult because there was so much going on with the Pop Rocks. Even after I swallowed, the fizzing continued down my esophagus. It was all very weird. I could have expected some negative life-threatening reaction and there wasn't one. I survived!

Emily said she thinks the bubbles of the soda negate the bubbles of the Pop Rocks, but I couldn't disagree more. I couldn't even taste anything, all I could taste were bubbles and sugar.

But we lived. Like it or not, I thought, I would make it to 30.

I had to laugh at this ridiculous rumor and how it got started in the first place. I imagine someone retells a story so many times that words and tenses get omitted or mixed up. After having tried this combo myself, I have to believe that if Paul from the Wonder Years tried it, be probably said afterward that he wanted to die.

Which makes perfect sense, because it's weird. And disgusting.

Day 357: V-I-C-T-O-R-Y

2011-05-16T13:38:00.003-04:00

When it comes to celebrating milestones, wins, or any good news, I'm extremely superstitious, and I never count my chickens before they've hatched. Maybe I'm a pessimist, or maybe I've just been pulling for sports teams all of my life who always managed to blow sizable leads with hardly any time left on the clock. Regardless of how obvious and attainable a victory may be, I know how quickly things can change and not until the clock reads 00:00, do I ever raise my hands in triumph.

Declaring victory on Project 29 to 30, then, could only come if and when I turned 30 and had successfully done 365 things I'd never done before.

Maybe victory shouldn't have been declared until I actually wrote about them (who knew it would take me this long?), but with just a week to go, and a new thing already planned for each of the seven days headed into my birthday weekend, I knew success was mine. And on Day 357, I let all of Athens, Georgia know when I rang the Chapel Bell on North Campus and declared “victory” over my 29th year as the thing I've never done before.

Not that it matters, but I didn't set out to ring the victory bell on Day 357. Georgia lost to Arkansas the day before, and to South Carolina the week before that, so as a Bulldog, I didn't have much to celebrate.

In fact, I drove over to Athens to see Rebecca, my friend, former college roommate, and recipient of the diaper cake I made on Day 209 with no other plans than to meet her new baby daughter, Edie. No surprise, Edie was adorable and perfect, and had the cutest fat rolls I'd ever seen.

Because Athens is like a playground for young adults, I knew the possibilities for new things were endless and I'd have no problem finding something to check off the list. Yet, after Edie went down for a nap, Rebecca and I didn't set our sights on something new; instead, we set out on an all-too-familiar journey.

When Rebecca and I lived together and found ourselves bogged down with schoolwork and all of the drama associated with being 20-years old in college with literally no responsibility, we walked. We walked for hours through campus, talking about everything and nothing, solving each other's problems, and the problems of the world, that at the time, seemed monumental. We talked about the real world post-college like it was so far away, and we talked about the men that we would marry like we weren't sure that they even existed.

When Rebecca got married, she woke on her wedding day full of nervous energy and excitement. So we did what felt natural to us, and we walked. We walked and we laughed about the angst we shared years ago over thinking this day would never come, and mostly laughed that she was marrying Brian -- THE Brian we'd known since college, followed around at band parties and stalked on spring break. He was that obscure guy she thought she'd never find! We walked with a spring in our steps, and as we did, we cried tears of happiness.

And on that September Sunday, with 356 new experiences under my belt and one week before my 30th birthday, we walked again. We walked in front of fraternity houses where we once partied, and next to buildings we'd taken most of our classes in, and through some that didn't even exist when we were in school. We wondered, as we walked, if we could still pass for college girls and we laughed as a cute, shaggy haired fraternity guy walked by and we both checked him out. I tried to think if there was anything better than walking through Athens on a Sunday in the fall.

Somehow, in reminiscing about our pasts and daydreaming about our hypothetical futures, we found ourselves completely present in a beautiful moment, on a beautiful day, in one of my most favorite cities on earth.

A victory indeed.

Suddenly, what I needed to do that day as the thing I've never done before became quite clear.

We apprehensively approached the Chapel Bell, and pretending to be civilized, read about its history. Rebecca took my camera and took over, equal parts photo director and blog supporter/friend.

I stood next to the rope and looked up at the bell, having no idea how difficult ringing the bell would be. I gave it a little pull, just to check it out, and much to our surprise, it rang. Not as loudly as we knew it could, but enough to startle us both.

Once I knew what I was dealing with, I had nothing else to do but go for it. Completely sober, in the light of day, with no football victories to speak of, I rang the Chapel Bell at UGA.

The sound echoed throughout campus, and in a strange way, embarrassed me. Even though I know I'm not the first person to ring the bell in the middle of the day for no reason, I was happy, at first, that it was just Rebecca and me. But once the bell started to slow down, I stopped caring, and I rang it again, this time getting lifted up by the rope and taking it for a ride.

I felt joyful. And silly. And amazing.

In so many ways, ringing the bell before my birthday was much like spiking the football before getting to the end zone and therefore completely out of character for me. But then again, so was the whole year.

Then I hoped that someone might walk by and ask me who won, because I had the best answer.

It was me.

I won.

Day 356: Black and Tans and Other Stuff

2011-05-13T12:49:00.009-04:00

My friend (and new neighbor) Andrew called me the morning of Day 356 to see if I wanted to walk to nearby East Atlanta Village to see our friend Jarrett's band perform at a festival. I had a list of things to accomplish that day, but I knew nothing was going to happen without first getting a cup of coffee, so I agreed.

Jarrett's band, Animal & the Evolvers, put on a riveting performance to a small but spirited group. Their song, "Love is in the Air at the Indy Zoo," was epic, and since I'd never heard them before, technically that is the first thing I did on Day 356 that I'd never done before.

I really had no intentions of spending all afternoon in East Atlanta. Seriously, I didn't. But Day 356 was one of those days where I just decided to go with the flow. I had nowhere to be, so why not stay and have a beer in the middle of the beautiful day?

So I did, and we all headed to the EARL, where I drank my first Black and Tan, the second thing on Day 356 that I'd never done before. A Black and Tan is a mix of two beers, usually a pale ale like Bass and a stout or a porter like Guinness.

I'd already tried a Guinness, and about a dozen other drinks, for the blog, so adding another wasn't too far out of my comfort level. When the waitress brought me the pint, I was surprised to see that the Guinness floats to the top of a Black and Tan, and the Bass sinks. Based on the heaviness of a Guinness, I guess I thought the opposite would occur.

I took a sip and further proved that there aren't many beers, or mixture of beers, out there that I don't like. I can't really explain what it tastes like, because I'm terrible at that; it tastes like beer. Heavier than a pale ale, not as heavy as a stout. I had to assume, based on this experience and after having tried a black velvet, that I most enjoy a Guinness when it's mixed with something else.

After a few beers, we decided to walk down the street to grab some food at Midway Pub. On the way, we saw a mechanical bull ride. And naturally, everyone that I was with, after hearing about the blog, suggested that I ride it.

I'm unsure whether or not this is the third thing I did on Day 356 that I'd never done before. I went to Wild Bill's years ago for a bachelorette party and hilariously witnessed my friends taking turns riding the mechanical bull. I'd like to think that I would've joined in the fun, but I can't remember if I did. Isn't riding a mechanical bull something I should remember for life?

So, maybe that's where the new thing will emerge here. Andrew insisted that I climb aboard, if not for the blog, then for his own amusement. And I took a mechanical bull ride that I will never forget.

It's certainly no secret that I like attention; it's why I tell stories, it's why I started this blog. But I like attention that I can manage, and when I found myself mounted on this ride in front of strangers, I quickly realized that I was no longer in control. Plus, perhaps I've seen too many bad movies, but I associate riding a mechanical bull with women arching their backs in an overtly sexual manner and I felt extremely uncomfortable from the start.

The ride operator talked like a high school dance D.J. and gave his own play by play.

"Do you wanna go fasterrrrrrrrr?"

"We're gonna speed it up now! Ahhhhh yeah."

The bull spun around slowly at first and bucked only lightly. But so it goes with mechanical bulls, the longer I stayed on, the more difficult and the faster it went. I was nervous, embarrassed and physically exhausted after only a few minutes.

I didn't last very long on the bull. The moment I thought I was going to have to arch my back to stay on was the very moment that I gave in. When I got knocked off the bull, and landed on the trampoline below, I noticed a group of kids hanging over the side of the "bull ring" laughing hysterically. I didn't mind; my friends and I were all laughing too.

As I tried to garner the momentum to stand up and get out of the ring, one of the kids that was laughing leaned over the edge and aggressively yelled at me, "GOD YOU SUCK!"

I immediately stopped laughing and looked around to see what caused this insane preteen to flip his asshole switch and be so hateful. In the span of five minutes, I went from feeling much younger than 30-years old, wasting away my Saturday and riding a mechanical bull to feeling much older, wanting to grab this little punk by the ears and hand deliver him to his parents.

It was a strange ending to an unexpected and awesome day of saying, "yes," to whatever adventure came my way. A day when young Stephanie gave old Stephanie the middle finger and said, "Whatever chores you had to take care of can wait, now is the time to have fun."

And I did.

Day 355: Alternative Medicine

2011-05-12T11:27:00.002-04:00

Acupuncture was something that I'd wanted to try since I started Project 29 to 30. Do I feel like I've been saying that a lot lately. I definitely put a lot of things off until the very end.

Tippr (another daily deal email like Groupon that I'd signed up for) was offering a session at Longevity Health Care at half the price. So I bought it, and headed there on Day 355 to make acupuncture the thing I'd never done before.

When I think about acupuncture (which isn't that often), I always think about Charlotte from Sex and the City getting the treatments in hopes it would increase her chances of getting pregnant. The ancient Chinese practice of inserting tiny sterilized needles at certain points on the body to help the body mend itself is used by people all over the world to help manage pain, quit smoking, lose weight.

I consulted a lot of websites before Day 355 so I would know what to expect. Each website had varying historical perspectives on acupuncture and its benefits; there were also plenty of websites doubting the practice altogether. Regardless of what side of the acupuncture argument these sites fell on, all agreed that even doctors couldn't explain how it works or prove that it does.

One of these websites said that the Eastern medicine believes that the body is made up of energy and that acupuncture points on the body serve as conduits of that energy. I don't know about that last part, but evident in my behavior on Day 355, I absolutely agree with Eastern medicine.

I was a hot mess of energy that day. Really I'm a hot mess of energy most days, but I specifically remember this day especially.

I arrived at the appointment the way I do for most things: like a tornado. I squealed into the parking lot on two wheels, completely panicked, crazy. I left my house early because I had no idea where I was going, and despite a pretty good sense of direction, I still got lost. I realized on the way that I printed out the Tippr certificate, but left it in another purse. Complete disaster.

In all my research about acupuncture, I never read that it could be used to heal "insanity" or "forgetfulness" but I immediately hoped that it might.

I busted through the office doors and told the front desk who I was. Everyone was very friendly and I was able to calm down and fill out the paperwork they provided. Not long after I arrived, a nice woman came from one of the back rooms and introduced herself; then she led me through a winding hallway of a structure that reminded me of a house turned business turned hippie doctor's office. I can't remember if there were tapestries on the walls, but I wouldn't have been surprised if there were.

We walked into a room that resembled a spa only in the fact that it had a massage table in the center of it. Unlike the peaceful, candlelit, Eucalyptus smelling spas I'd been in in the past, this one was like an office that just so happened to have a bed in the center of it. As if trying to exude a sense of medical authority, the acupuncturist sat at a desk that was covered with paperwork; I sat in the chair and we discussed why I was there. I was friendly, telling her how I'd always wanted to try acupuncture. She seemed excited until I told her that only when the Tippr deal presented itself did I decide to go for it.

Her face fell, as if she had high hopes that I would be a serious new client, and after telling her I bought this session with a coupon, those hopes were now dashed. I wanted to tell her that I don't have that much disposable income just lying around to explore alternative medicines with, and also if I did make acupuncture a regular thing, I'd probably choose a place closer to my house. She seemed sad, though, so I kept all of that to myself.

She asked me if I was experiencing any pain that I wanted her to focus on. I really wasn't, not serious pain anyway, just mild back tension from running and sitting in front of a computer all day. She nodded and exited the room long enough for me to lie down, on my back, on the massage table.

Not until the acupuncturist came back into the room did it occur to me that I was about to get pricked with needles all over my body. I'm not terribly needle-phobic, and I knew it wouldn't be worse than giving blood, which I've done before, but I was slightly anxious that I wasn't sure if it would hurt or not.

My fears quickly subsided when she began inserting the needles into my hands and feet, ears and face, and it didn't hurt. Just a slight prick that strangely did, albeit for a short time, energize me in a strange way. Kind of like that rush that you get when you quickly rip a band-aid off your skin.

Once she had strategically placed all of the needles, she exited the room, turning on some soothing music as she went. So there I was, on a comfortable massage table with nothing to do but clear my head and chill out. No more traffic, no more getting lost or forgetting coupons. Just peace.

Only when I would move my hand slightly did I become aware that I had needles sticking out of it. Not in a painful way, but still strange.

When people later asked me if acupuncture hurt, I said, with certainty, "No."

When they asked me if acupuncture was relaxing, I said, "Yes," knowing full well that the soothing music and massage table and mid-morning nap had every bit to do with that.

When they asked me if I could tell a difference in my back, my answer was less certain. I felt great that day. But I'm not entirely convinced it was because of the acupuncture. I'm not entirely convinced that it wasn't because of the acupuncture either.

When she came back in thirty minutes later to remove the needles, she told me to flip over on the table; I just assumed that she'd be hitting more acupuncture pressure points on my back. Will I ever learn? Never assume anything when trying new things.

Once I was comfortable lying on my stomach, she said she was going to do some Chinese cupping on my back.

"Ok," I said enthusiastically, but having absolutely no idea what she was talking about. She was sweet and I liked her, so I had no reason to doubt what she was doing wasn't safe and pain-free.

I lifted my head up to get a view of the "cups" that she heated up and adhered to my back like little suctions. They looked like glass doorknobs.

Just like acupuncture, cupping is all about "opening up the meridians to let energy flow through," (what?) and also claims to pull toxins out of the body. Really, though, it just felt like there were little vacuums on my back.

She left the room again and let the cups do their job; I was left to relax with more music (and cups). But this time I was less relaxed because as the cups started to lose suction, I was worried that they were going to crash to the ground and break. One actually did fall, but thankfully it just rolled across the carpeted floor. Thankfully the acupuncturist/cupper returned to remove the cups before anymore fell.

The next day (which I'll get to on Day 356), I was hanging out with my friend Andrew. I told him about Day 355 and gave a detailed description of what an acupuncture session really feels like, and how Chinese cupping works.

"Oh, that's what that is," Andrew exclaimed, as I was telling him.

"What are you talking about," I said, feeling and looking confused.

"The bruises on your back."

"Bruises? What bruises?"

I demanded that he take a picture so I could see what he was talking about, and I couldn't believe it. I don't know why it never occurred to me that huge enormous heated glass suction cups would probably leave a mark, but when I looked at the picture, it looked like I had enormous hickies all over my back. I'd never had a hickie before, much less more than one, or one this size. The thought delighted me and I'd never felt better. I'm not really sure if acupuncture or cupping did for me on the inside, but I'd say my energy was lifted and I was feeling quite positive.

Thank you, Chinese medicine.

Day 354: Nice Try, Einstein

2011-05-06T11:08:00.000-04:00

I had big plans to go to a pole dancing/strip tease class on Day 354. It was something I'd put on the list from the start of Project 29 to 30. Unfortunately, despite my friends all having loose morals (kidding . . . kind of), I had a hard time getting anyone to come on board with this one. Perhaps they were embarrassed, perhaps they were busy (it was Thursday), or perhaps this was God's way of saying, "You shouldn't be stripping for anyone, even if it's for exercise."

Melanie said she was up for hanging out, but that she would rather do so at a restaurant she had a Groupon for. So I made going to Einstein's on Juniper Street Day 354's thing I've never done before.

I know, not necessarily groundbreaking entry here, but after Day 353, I deserved a break. And while parking the car across from the restaurant, I was introduced to a whole subculture of Atlanta I never knew about -- that being, the tight-dress, high heel wearing crowd who stands out in line to get into dance clubs on a Thursday. I'm not one of these people, ever, so it was hard for me to imagine that such a crew came out to get down on a weekday.

The meal at Einstein's was good, but, as Yaya would say, it was, "nothing to write home about." The patio was nice and it was fun catching up with Melanie. Knowing I'd have difficulty cranking out an entry about a new restaurant, she and I tried to up the ante a bit and send a drink and my phone number to a good-looking guy at another table. And then we realized that he was definitely dating the terrible girl that was sitting beside him.

Bummer.

Day 353: Driving School Dropout

2011-05-04T16:45:00.003-04:00

My driving skills are, at best, questionable.

I don't think I'm that bad, and when it comes to road trips with my girlfriends, I'm usually one of the drivers (though that may have something to do with the size of my vehicle and not my skills). But my parents' insurance agent Jerry (who has a nice house on the lake because of me), my former boss Lucia (who couldn't hire me at Country Music Television at first because I had so many tickets), and a plethora of small town police officers in Georgia and South Carolina would definitely tell you otherwise. I like to get wherever I'm going in a hurry, and as a teenager was quite distracted behind the wheel. I've definitely improved over the years (accident free since 2003!), but my less than stellar driving record has been the source of many uncomfortable conversations with my parents over the years.

I'm learning that in life, when it comes to learning new things, mastering the easier version of an activity before moving on to the more challenging one is usually the best way to go. For the 15 years that I've been driving, I've managed to prove that I'm definitely not an expert on automatic transmission. Moving onto a manual transmission might not be the best plan.

But who said I did anything according to natural order? On Day 353, I attempted to knock one of the top 3 items off my Project 29 to 30 list and learn how to drive a stick shift. Because why wouldn't I put everyone's lives and vehicles in danger as the thing I've never done before?

My very good friend Justin offered himself and his Jetta for this challenge, a move I'm sure he's still regretting all these months later. I hate to blow the surprise, but this innocent little driving lesson did not go well.

Perhaps I should've put Justin in touch with my ex-boyfriend Mark, who also tried to teach me how to drive a stick shift once. The lesson (which hardly lasted an hour), ended with both of us screaming at each other and almost breaking up. I was frustrated for many reasons, mostly because I could not get it, but also because Mark taught via the Art Teacher Molly method and instead of explaining to me what to do, he simply gave me a lot of, "justs."

"Just ease off the clutch while applying the gas."

"Just put it in neutral."

"Just apply pressure to the clutch, while shifting into second. You'll know when to shift because you'll just feel it."

To me, it all sounded like, "Just do these things that you've never done before in your life but are terribly easy for me." Uh, what? Thanks for nothing.

In Mark's defense, he wasn't a bad teacher, I was just frustrated that I couldn't do any of the easy things that he was telling me to do. Plus teaching someone how to drive period is challenging, especially if you've been doing it yourself for a long time. Trying to break down something that feels like second nature, is not easy.

I have to hand it to Justin (and to Mark) for even wanting to try. Had I known it was going to turn out the way it did, I wouldn't have even asked. But I honestly thought a little more maturity, several more years driving experience, and a heightened level of patience and I'd be ready.

Justin and I met after work in an open parking lot next to our building for the lesson. Learning in the dark wasn't an ideal scenario, but it was all we had. Luckily the lot was partially lit and wide open, a perfect place to learn how to drive.

Justin threw out some preliminary instructions, gave me a pep talk and then we traded seats. There was nothing left to do but drive.

Since I understood the basics of what to do, and had attempted them before, I wasn't completely clueless. In my head, the instructions made perfect sense. The trouble with me, in driving a manual transmission, is the mind-body connection. Making my feet and hands do what my mind is telling them to is most difficult.

The first few trips up and back in the parking lot were rough, no question about it. Justin gave step-by-step instructions on what I was supposed to be doing, but I was nervous, and unsure of myself. I stalled a few times and jerked the car around. We had some good laughs.

As a teacher, Justin was pretty good; very laid back and very detailed with his suggestions. But there is only so much that he can tell me before I'd just have to feel it on my own. And that, he said, just takes time, something we didn't really have on our side. But the more times I did it, I started to notice, without him telling me, when it was time to switch gears; and soon I started doing it on my own.

Back and forth we went in the parking lot, switching gears and getting faster. I was actually driving a stick shift. I wasn't confident at all, but I was doing it.

There was some frustration, on both of our parts, that though the parking lot was big, it wasn't quite big enough to ever get going very fast. And I really wanted to get to fourth gear.

And apparently the only way to get there, was to take it outside the confines of this parking lot. I call it, "Justin's Bad Idea."

Famous last words: "I don't know if I do . . .I'm scared."

I was really scared. It was dark and late. I was doing alright in the parking lot, but out on the street, I had other drivers and other people to contend with, and that just sounded like a recipe for disaster. But how could I claim to have learned how to drive a stick shift if all I did was take some laps around a parking lot?

Obviously I silenced all parts of my brain that said taking it to the streets would be a bad idea. Not until I got out onto the road did I realize how much I didn't know.

Like, where I was going to take us . . .or how to come to a pleasant stop at a stoplight and successfully make a left turn . . .or how to turn off the windshield wipers.

That left turn was disastrous in many ways, most of all because it led us directly into one of the scariest neighborhoods in Atlanta that I have ever seen. I knew as we started to approach the area that I should probably turn around, but how could I? I was just learning how to drive this car forward, there was no way I was attempting a U-Turn. Instead, I drove us to a red light right in between two rundown convenient stores where dozens of people had gathered, on a Wednesday night, to smoke cigarettes, drink liquor wrapped in brown paper bags, and deal what I can only imagine was crack cocaine. If I wanted to make a movie that had a scene with a scary ghetto neighborhood, this is exactly what it would look like. Justin and I were nervously chattering to each other under our breath, both willing the light to change to green, but feeling like we were sitting there for an eternity. Just when I thought I couldn't be any more anxious than I already was, a handful of people who had been standing on the sidewalk, had walked into the street and to our car to ask us if we had any money or cigarettes.

Justin cracked the window and told them that we didn't, and they fortunately accepted our answer and walked away, not before staring us both up and down in a sinister way. I kept looking straight ahead, still praying for the light to change and then added another prayer that I wouldn't stall in the middle of the intersection, prolonging this terrifying moment of my life.

We made it through the ghetto without stalling and immediately decided we needed to get back to the side of town that we knew and were more comfortable with. And somehow in the midst of my nervous energy, I was actually driving a stick shift through Atlanta. I guess it's true what they say about adrenaline -- it can make a person do crazy things.

It wasn't pretty, and I was never confident in my abilities, but I was doing it. And a handful of times, after a million questions and instructions from Justin, I actually pulled off some pretty smooth transitions.

Just when I thought it would never happen, I found fourth gear.

With all of the stalling and mishaps during our lesson, I was well aware what the car would do when I did something wrong. But as we made our way back to the parking lot we started in, the Jetta, presumably fed up with the torture I'd put it through, started to make a clicking noise. The thermostat in the car was spiking into the red, indicating that the car was overheating.

I whined to Justin, "I don't know what's happening here;" I wasn't quite sure if what the car was doing was normal, and I was just driving it incorrectly, or if something was wrong. Without driving it, Justin couldn't really tell either. Right at that time, I noticed a police car with his flashing was approaching. I had to assume he was coming for me, and was obviously relieved when he kept going. The whole experience was too much, though, and I immediately pulled over and made Justin take us the rest of the way in.

We picked up my car and I followed Justin home to make sure the Jetta didn't completely die. Like I had done with the stoplight in the ghetto, I prayed that the car was just acting temperamental due to the stress that I'd put it under in the last couple of hours. Give it a night of rest, I thought, and the car will be fine.

The car was not fine the next day. The clicking noise was still there and it was still running hot. Justin dropped it off at a mechanic near our office and we waited patiently for the news.

Actually Justin waited patiently. I was a bundle of nervous energy, unable to eat or think about anything but the wrecked Jetta and the amount of damage I caused during our lesson. I emailed Justin every hour to find out if he'd heard anything. When he checked in on the mechanic and got an idea of what the damage might be, I immediately started Googling it to see how much it would cost and how long it would take to fix.

When the estimate finally came in, the final damage was $1200 for a broken water pump and timing belt. Justin generously only asked me for half of the amount, since he said he was in on the adventure just as much as I was. I don't think he fully comprehended how terrible I could be. I know I didn't.

Destroying a friend's car while he was doing me a favor was bar none the worst part of this experience. Justin was without wheels for roughly a week, and no amount of rides or money I offered him would ever make me feel at ease about it. Even months later, I still feel sick about the whole thing.

Having my dreams of ever learning how to drive a stick shift (I mean, who is going to want to teach me now?) dashed and therefore ruining my chances of ever winning the Amazing Race was just the shitty icing on the already shitty cake.

Justin owed me no more favors, but after the car was fixed, and I had paid him for the repairs, I came to him in a fit of desperation and asked him for one.

"Will you please not bring this in front of my dad?"

He laughed. "Sure," he said. "I won't mention it."

And just like that, it was like I was 16 again. Driving, and acting, like an idiot.

Day 352: Skype Date

2011-04-26T17:30:00.000-04:00

Tackling a project to do 365 things I've never done before could not have happened had it not been for the eager support of my friends and family, rooting me on from the start and willing to be a part of challenges.

If you've been reading this blog from the start, you likely know the names of some of these supporters. Their names appear to the right of the screen, in that huge long list of awesomeness where I've "tagged" them each time they participate in my blog, and in my life. The more times they participate, the larger their name gets. But don't be fooled into thinking that only those on that list have participated in this experience. There are plenty more, whose names are smaller or nonexistent, who have cheered me on from afar, commenting on my progress and leaving me messages of encouragement when an entry has touched them. Tagged or not, without my team, my pit crew, there is no way this project would have ever gotten off the ground or sustained 352 days.

One of my friends, who had yet to appear in the blog until this day, is my hometown friend Kelly.

I have known Kelly since middle school. We met in 7th grade at the height of our awkwardness. We spent summers swimming in her pool, going to the mall, and obsessing about boys, and have been friends ever since.

When we were in college, Kelly moved to San Diego to live with her sister. She was only supposed to stay for the summer, but after meeting a wonderful guy and falling in love, she decided to stay. Years later, she and the wonderful guy got married and now they have two gorgeous kids. It's taken years, but I think I've finally accepted that Kelly's probably not moving back to the east coast. Knowing that I will always have a friend in Newport Beach, California with a free place to stay makes that pain hurt a little less.

With two young kids and a busy life in California, flying to Georgia to go sky-diving or polar bear plunging with me for the blog was obviously not in the cards for Kelly, but she is definitely one of my supporters from afar. There was something that I'd wanted to try for the blog, though, and I thought she might be able to help, so I emailed her ahead of Day 352.

"Do you Skype?," I asked her.

"Are you kidding?" she said. "Yes! We Skype all the time!" Kelly's sister has since moved back to the east coast and that's where her parents live too, so web chatting through this service is something that they do often.

We made plans to make Day 352's thing I've never done before to catch up with each other via Skype.

Ahead of my Skype date with Kelly, I talked to others who were frequent Skype users. Some of my co-workers with long-distance boyfriends were big fans of the service, as were those who lived far away from their families. My friend Jackie said Skype has been great for her son because while he's not much for talking on the phone, when he can look at the screen and see the person he's talking to, he's much more likely to become engaged in the conversation. In fact, at one time her son thought her parents (his grandparents) actually lived in their "'puter" (computer).

I looked forward to seeing Kelly's face (and her kids' faces) and for us having a real conversation that included body language and visual responses. There is only so much that a phone call can do.

Everyone that I talked to said Skype is extremely user-friendly, but it would be like me to somehow screw it up or not be able to figure it out. So I asked a ton of questions before logging onto my boss' computer, where he had a webcam installed for Skype. I created an account and then found Kelly's username that she had given me ahead of our date. I clicked on her name, and within seconds, a screen popped up and I could see her! Clearly I'm behind the times when it comes to technology, evident by my television and my cell phone, but I honestly could not believe how easy this was.

I gasped like I was seeing her for the first time in my life.

"KELLY! HIIIIIIIIIIII!" I shouted at the screen. Everyone sitting around me turned and looked annoyed. I apologized for my overzealousness and tried to play it cool. And then I laughed at myself, as I imagined that how I was acting was exactly how my technologically disadvantaged father might act if he was using Skype for the first time.

Kelly smiled and waved, but then frowned and told me she could see me, but couldn't hear what I was saying. "WHAT?! YOU CAN’T?!?! OH NO!!!!!!!!!!!!”

Again, I was shouting at the computer.

I started spastically clicking on audio buttons and furiously looking for a microphone hook ups, anything to fix the problem so that she could hear me. I knew my friend Katy uses Skype for her job, so I rushed over to her desk to see if she could help."

Do you have a Skype headset?," she asked me.

I looked at her, puzzled. " I don't know what that is."

She explained that a lot of personal computers have microphones built in, so an external mic isn't necessary, but since we're in a public workspace, a headset with both earphones and a microphone is necessary. I didn't have one. She didn’t either.

Noooooooooooo. My Skype date was about to go up in flames.

Kelly was patiently waiting in front of her computer when I ran back to my desk. Skype has an application that also allows you to Instant Message the person you're talking to, presumably in situations like this. I explained to her what was going on and told her I was in search of a headset and would be right back. She laughed and said, "Ok."

After pleading with several people, my friend Jason finally came to the rescue with a Skype headset. It made me look like a telephone operator, but I didn't care. I plugged it in, and finally I could hear Kelly and she could hear me.

Crisis was averted, and our Skype conversation could commence.

Unfortunately for Kelly, our Skype conversation, at least for the first ten minutes, became a conversation about Skype. I was so enthralled with this technology and the fact that it costs nothing; I could hardly concentrate on the conversation. I was "that girl" who said probably a dozen times, "I can't believe I'm looking at you right now! And you're in California!"

When I finally calmed down long enough about Skype to actually talk to her, we had so much fun catching up. There is a little bit of a delay, which can be frustrating but also humorous. I could hear her laugh sometimes before I could see her react to what I was saying. And because I was looking at her on the screen and not directly into the camera, we never really looked each other in the eye.

I didn't think about it while we were talking, but later I was absolutely hysterical thinking about the first time I ever logged onto the Internet with Kelly and our other friends Lisa and Cindy. We were at my parents' house on their old computer with one of those free trials from AOL. We stayed up for hours online chatting with God knows who, pretending like we were in college and making up fake names for ourselves.

Fifteen years later, there we were, on the computer again, only this time talking about our real lives, not ones we made up. Still hysterically laughing, though.

I felt like I got a glimpse into her life, and she got to see a little of mine too. I was at work, but I wasn't technically working when we spoke, but still there were phones ringing and co-workers stopping by my desk to talk to me. Kelly's kids were waking up from a nap and were running around in the background, demanding to be let out where their dad was. She managed to get them to say hello, but they are active little boys with an agenda of their own. And they even cuter live than they are on their Christmas card. I was soaking it up.

There is absolutely no way that Skype could ever replace the comforting feeling that comes with being the presence of good friends. I so wish that Kelly and I lived closer and saw each other more than once or twice a year. There's nothing quite like giving her a hug, seeing her face in person, and hearing her laugh without a delay. But to have the option of speaking to her face-to-face and see her crazy kids bouncing through her house, all for free, through the wonders of the Internet? Well, that's technology that I can get behind.

Skype, you are amazing. As long as, of course, I remember a headset.

Day 351: Sipping and Stroking

2011-04-25T18:00:00.002-04:00

Day 351 was several weeks in the making. In fact, several friends of mine and I had started talking about taking an art class back at the wine party I threw on Day 297.

Sips N Strokes is just one of many "art for amateurs" studios popping up around Atlanta and all over the country tailored for non-artists who want to learn how to paint. The teachers at the studios will actually teach their students step by step how to paint their very own masterpiece, and the studios encourage students to bring their own wine or snacks and make a party out of the experience. The friends that I knew who had been before all had a great time and all created something worthy of hanging in their homes.

A Sips N Strokes outing sounded like a fun thing to do, and several of the wine party participants were interested. But thanks to busy schedules and lives, when it came down to it, Emily was the only person who could actually commit. She and I perused the studio's website that allows you to see what painting will be taught on each particular day. There was a lot of emailing back and forth, a lot of discussion (Do I really want a UGA Football themed painting in my house?), and a lot of us almost deciding on a painting only to have it sell out before we could put down our deposit.

Finally, we came together and decided to the embrace the country side of our usually rock 'n roll personalities and paint a picture of cowboy boots as Day 351's thing I've never done before.

When I arrived at the class, I couldn't believe how many other people were there, interested in painting cowboy boots on a Monday night. The tables, all set up with easels and white canvases, were packed.

I purchased a magnum bottle of red wine for Emily and I to "sip" on while we were there (I don't know why I thought we'd ever drink that much), but I proved my amateur painting and drinking status because I forgot cups to drink from. I was like an unprepared student on her first day of class without paper or a pencil and I embarrassingly had to go to the head of the classroom and ask if they had an extras. Luckily, they did.

Only when I returned with cups (phew!) was I was able to properly get set up and ready to paint. Emily poured the wine, while I put on the apron they had provided. There was a young, spunky redheaded woman walking around instructing us on which colors we would need for this painting. I joined the other students at a station set up with huge jugs of paint with what was the equivalent of a piece of white cardboard and collected the colors and returned to my seat. I felt like I was back at Harbison West Elementary School art class.

When it was time to actually get started, the young, spunky lady slipped fastened a microphone around her head a la Britney Spears. She told us her name was Molly as she climbed up on an elevated platform to stand in front of her very own white canvas. There were a few other welcoming pleasantries and then she went right into teaching us how to paint cowboy boots.

At first, her instruction was extremely straight-forward. She told us to dip our medium-sized brush into a little yellow paint mixed with white and to draw a straight line down almost in the middle of the canvas. From there, still with the yellow paint, she gave more specific instructions that included drawing more lines next to each other and an upside down triangle at the base of one of the lines. I trusted the process, but I had absolutely no idea where she was going with this. My lines and upside down triangles looked more or less like everyone else's around me, though, so I felt like I was on the right track.

And then Molly went off the map, abandoning step-by-step instructions for the more abstract. She said, "Now from the lines you've already drawn, just draw the body of the boot."

"Just draw the body of the boot?" Just like that? Just do it? How, Molly? How?

I don't know how to just do that. That's why I'm here, Molly. Because that would take artistic ability, something that I lack. I'm going to need you to tell me exactly how to pull that off. I looked around and saw that everyone else was just doing what Molly was doing, and with serious reservations, I went for it.

The result was the most insane yellow boot I've ever seen. The leg of the boot was so big, it looked like someone with elephantitis owned these boots. And the toe pointed upward like an elf shoe. I took a step back and tilted my head to the side. The boots still looked awful, so I took a sip of wine. Clearly this painting was going to be a disaster, I thought, might as well drink!

The whole, "now just paint the boot," merely kicked off a succession of instructions from Molly that were hardly helpful or really instructional at all. And I had to consider that maybe painting can't really be taught. At some point, true talent has to step in. That's what separates the Van Goughs and the Picassos from everyone else. Or, in this case, what seemed to separate every single other person in the class from me.

Molly went rogue, slapping blue, yellow, and pink paint in the white space surrounding her boots, encouraging us to do the same. I tried to follow her lead, or literally copy what everyone else around me was doing, but my color blocks looked crazy, and not at all like the picture on the website.

After slapping paint on her canvas and somehow making it look great, she turned around and told us we'd need to clean off our medium sized brush and dip it into the black paint.

"Now it's getting real," she said, smiling. I paused, pleasantly surprised and half-expecting for her to tell me that everything that we had done up until now was practice. Then she'd deliver new canvases and we'd all get to start over.

I'm sure I don't need to tell you that's not what happened. She kept talking.

"This is serious," she said.

Indeed she was serious about the black, and when she said it was getting real she meant that once the black paint goes on the canvas, there is little a painter can do to fix it. All of my terrible yellow lines and ill-shaped boot could be tweaked with darker colors or covered up all together. But once black gets slapped on there, it's a whole new ball game. A serious one, according to Molly.

I did as I was told, looked at Emily and started to go for it, but then I stopped. I waited for her to go first, like she could show me the way. I hoped that the black paint could help me shape my boot to not look so crazy.

Once the boots were traced in black, Molly came down from her platform and began walking around the classroom to check out how everyone's pictures were coming along. She was still mic'ed, so we could all hear her as she responded with constructive criticism or words of praise. Occasionally she'd shout instruction as vague and confusing to me as, "Just draw the boot."

"Now add an emblem to your boot if you want."

"Shade the back of the boot with black so it looks like it's casting a shadow."

"Blend the blocked colors so that they're not so separate from one another, like they all run together."

Say what?

When she responded positively to someone's work, we all turned to look at what picture warranted such remarks. I should've known by the elaborate wine and cheese spreads laid out by some of the other students that there were definitely some in the class who had been to Sips N Strokes before. But to turn around and see what could only be the work of professional artists, I couldn't help but be annoyed. Not only were the paintings good, these painters were so good that some of them had taken the creative license to make their cowboy boots depict the Impressionist or Cubist art movements.

I had flashbacks to the adult guy with braces who tried to one-up everyone in cooking class. Pretending he really wanted to know how to cook Thai food and then dropping Thai cooking knowledge on everyone for hours. These people didn't sign up for this class to learn how to paint. They came to show off!

When Molly came to our table, she looked at mine and tilted her head to the side, clearly disapproving of what she was seeing. She pointed to an area that I had left unpainted and then looked at me.

"Were you meaning to leave that part white?"

I certainly wasn't meaning to do anything really. At that point, I was just putting paint on the canvas and hoping for the best. She was hardly the warm and fuzzy art teacher that I remembered from elementary school and she made me nervous.

"Uh . . .uh . . . I don't know," I stammered. Ease up, Molly, I felt like saying. I'm no artist. I never claimed to be.

I looked at Emily with pleading eyes. I didn't think it looked that bad with the white, but before I could defend my decision, Molly turned her attention to Emily's painting. I could tell she liked what she was seeing. She picked up it up, much to Emily's surprise and mine, and held it up for the entire class to see.

"See how she added the black accents?" The class smiled and nodded. Emily is a teacher herself, so while it was nice to be praised in front of the class, I could tell she was a bit uncomfortable being on this side of the attention. In an instant, Emily went from teacher to teacher's pet.

By the time Molly was done walking around the classroom, we'd all more or less finished our paintings and were free to go whenever we wanted. Emily and I stayed, mindlessly adding accent lines and filling in gaps, pretty sure that nothing we were doing was going to make much of a difference on how our pictures looked. I had also become engaged with the conversation happening across from me. A handful of girls, probably five years younger than me were discussing some serious drama between a guy one of them was dating and some other skank from Auburn and I had to hear how it all played out. Plus they were having a party that weekend and desperately trying to decide on whether or not Jell-O shots were necessary, or just a pain to deal with. I almost spoke up, saying Jell-O shots are almost always a good idea, and then asking if I could come to a party.

I found myself aching to be a better painter, and to be five years younger, and then perfectly happy with just being me, almost 30 and a painting amateur.

Sips N Strokes does not an artist make, but I did prove that I'm excellent at following directions and hanging out with my friends, drinking wine always makes for a good time. Like Molly said at the beginning of the class when faced with a room full of skeptics, the painting did come together in a way that I never thought possible. Not in a way that it merits hanging on my wall anytime soon, or ever, but certainly worthy of wrapping up and giving to a family member for an awkward Christmas present.

Or, perhaps worthy of a sale on eBay. I wonder if that bitch Connie likes cowboy boots?

Day 350: Au Naturel

2011-04-20T10:40:00.000-04:00

Day 350 was the day that my mother had been dreading since I started the blog and told her it was on my list of things to do that I'd never done before. When I told her that since I was nearing the end, this had to happen now, I could hear the disappointment in her voice over the phone.

"Mom, are you ok?"

She let out a half-laugh/half-sigh that she does when she's holding back what she really wants to say.

"Are you really that upset about it?," I asked her.

"I just don't know what the point is? I mean, so you do it, and then what? How are you going to write about it?"

I didn't say it to her, but I knew I'd write about this ridiculous conversation she and I were having about Day 350's task and how strange it seemed to me that she could get so bent out of shape about this one little activity.

I pointed out to her that I'd done far crazier, way less safe, downright embarrassing things over the course of the year that could've definitely brought shame to me and my family. I'd jumped out of a plane, inappropriately danced with a Panamanian, and sang "Happy Birthday" to my friends and other patrons, in a nice restaurant, on a microphone. She never once cared about any of them like she cared about this one. She hardly batted an eyelash when all of these other challenges went down!

So with all of the other stupid things I've done in my life, especially for this blog, I couldn't understand why my decision to go to work not wearing makeup as the thing I'd never done before on Day 350 was going to be the one that was going to really send her over the edge.

My mom is not a shallow person, nor is she particularly looks-conscious, so her concern over this challenge was perplexing to me. Was she afraid that I'd regret my decision and be embarrassed, forced to sit through an entire night of work feeling ugly? Did she think that the decision might make my bosses and other managers think I wasn't taking myself and my job very seriously?

No, it's none of those things. She just thinks I look bad without makeup on.

She's not entirely wrong.

I tried to make her feel better about it, while also convincing myself, and I told her I was actually working an overnight shift on Day 350 into Day 351, so I wouldn't run into a lot of my usual colleagues anyway. Plus, I was still tan, my skin was clear, and I had just had my eyelashes tinted so they weren't their usual blond/invisible. (When it comes to my not wearing makeup, it's my eye lashes that change my appearance the most. Without mascara, I look like a completely different person.) But all things considered, this was the best case scenario to do it.

Plus, and I didn't tell my mother this, I feel like I've eased up on my need for makeup all the time in general. I'm not sure if I've completely given up on myself, or truly don't care anymore, or if I've just come to the realization that those scenarios of meeting cool people in line at the supermarket are never going to happen to me, but I've definitely become more comfortable without wearing it just to run errands or go to the gym.

When making the case to my mother, I told her how free I would feel without wearing makeup. Taking the step out of my "getting ready" routine would free up extra time and my freshly clean face would be free of any and all impurities. That's how I thought I would feel, and what I was most looking forward to.

But getting ready for work, skipping the makeup step, and then walking into my office made me feel the opposite of free. I felt like I was missing something; like I forgot to wear pants or shoes. As usual when I do anything for the first time, I was extra sensitive to who might notice or what they might think or say seeing me for the first time without it.

I didn't feel free at all. I felt anxious.

I was extra friendly and smiley walking into work, greeting everyone that I saw perhaps with the mindset that if I was really nice and a hyped up version of myself, then maybe they wouldn't notice that I'd forgotten to put on my face. And from what I could tell, it worked. No one looked at me any differently or seemed startled to see me.

Just my luck, I arrived to find an attractive guy sitting two seats away from where I was supposed to sit. I'd met him once before, so I waved hello; at that moment, I regretted the decision, certain that I couldn't possibly bring my charm and my A-game without makeup on my face. Thankfully work was busy and I effectively avoided looking in his direction for the rest of the night.

There aren't a whole lot of people coming and going on an overnight shift until the morning, and that's when things got particularly uncomfortable. I was already tired from being up all night and mentally drained from the workload. Then I had to attend early morning meetings, hyper aware that I looked messy and not put together.

I'm the kind of woman who puts makeup on once and then never thinks about it again; I don't pack makeup in my purse and reapply throughout the day or night. I thought it was interesting that I'd never thought more about makeup and my bare face than I did during this night when I wasn't wearing any.

Hardly the freeing experience I was hoping for.

Still, no one seemed to notice that anything was different except for me. Only when I asked Jackie to take pictures for me, for the blog, did she even acknowledge that something might be slightly different.

I decided that regardless of whether or not it changes my appearance all that drastically, makeup is a workday requirement for me simply because of the way that it makes me feel. Without it, I felt out of sorts without it and, sadly, not my usual confident self. If by not wearing it, all I do is think about not wearing it, then I'd rather just wear it and forget about it.

And if it makes my mother sleep better knowing that I'm not out galavanting my bare face for all of Atlanta to see, then that's nice too.

Day 349: Not that Kind of Transfusion

2011-04-20T09:00:00.002-04:00

Elizabeth and Kristof were in town from San Francisco, and on Day 349, we all met at Kyle and Greg's house to watch the South Carolina/Georgia game. Friends dropped in and out with their kids and their dogs throughout the day and we flipped back and forth between baseball and football games. It was a daytime get together that lasted well into the night.

I was sure that at some point, after all the games were over and we needed a change of scenery, that we'd head out to the bars.

But no one was really interested in doing that. And I couldn't help but think that in addition to having conversations about life insurance, getting older also meant that we'd traded bar-hopping for staying in and playing games.

But having game night was not Day 349's thing I've never done before. Pretending to be Charlie Chaplin and humming the words to "Here comes the Sun," by the Beatles and having Momo understand it during a riveting and competitive game of Cranium, well, I'd never done either of those things either but what I'm not counting them.

Day 349's thing I've never done before was to try a new drink called a "Transfusion." Andrew told us about them and how good they were and when he saw that we were interested, he wasted no time in going to the store to buy the ingredients to make them. The drink includes vodka and grape juice, half a cup of ginger ale and a lime wedge. I assume they are called, "Transfusions," because their color makes them look like blood, but I didn't care. After drinking beer all day, the cocktail was a sweet and refreshing change.

As Andrew said, "These are money." Indeed they are.

Day 348: Measuring My Existence

2011-04-19T13:15:00.002-04:00

Every Christmas, in addition to our other gifts, my brother and I receive a statement from Northwest Mutual in our stockings.

"That's from me," my dad announces proudly, always smiling. "I got you that."

The first year we got the envelopes, Jeff and I confusedly looked at each other while opening them and then stared blankly at a statement neither of us understood.

"It's your life insurance policy!!!!," he exclaimed. "You're welcome."

For several years, I laughed and rolled my eyes, tossing the envelope to the side and filing it away with all of other generous things my parents have done for my brother and me over the years to set us up for financial success. Only a few years ago, did I finally ask, holding the envelope, "Really Dad, what's this for?"

My question sparked an ill-timed conversation about life insurance right there on Christmas morning, while we were all sipping coffee in our pajamas.

"I have life insurance so that when I die, your mom will have some money to live on," my dad said. He talks about dying as if his death is imminent.

Since he opened the policies for Jeff and me, and still pays for them, my dad said he is the sole beneficiary of both. As children, we didn't really need life insurance, but he started the plans early, since buying life insurance only gets more expensive the older we get. He said he did so with the intention that we'll eventually take on the payments, and make our spouses and children the benefactors of our policies.

The whole conversation made my eyes glaze over. It was a little heavy for Christmas.

Jeff seemed more concerned, if not suspicious, of the whole thing.

"So the only way anyone gets any money is if someone dies?," he asked, eyebrows raised. We all laughed.

Life insurance is morbid and quite sad, and reminds me of all the 20/20 specials I've seen about victims who were murdered by greedy spouses after their money. Now that I had my very own life insurance policy, I wondered if I should keep it a secret to any eligible suitors.

But my dad, with the whole envelope in the stocking trick, somehow managed to turn life insurance into quite a humorous topic in my household. And now every time I ever hear a commercial for life insurance, I smile thinking about Christmas.

So when I received a call from a life insurance agent associated with one of these policies, wanting to meet for a chat, just weeks before I turned 30, I honestly thought it was a joke. First of all, Jeff and I have had little to nothing to do with paying for these policies, so I wasn't sure why they wanted to meet with me. Secondly, the timing was equal parts hilarious and daunting. Two weeks before my 30th birthday and I had to face that maybe life insurance was more than a Gallman family joke, and actually something worthy of a serious meeting?

I called my dad to tell him and he was also confused, wanting to know several times who had called, how they got my number and what they wanted. He promised that he hadn't put anyone up to it. He encouraged me to go, and report back about what was discussed.

Day 348's thing I've never done before was supposed to just be seeing the Avett Brothers in concert (which I did and the show was amazing; they are definitely worthy of the hype they are receiving). But before that, I reluctantly had a discussion about life insurance.

Seemingly desperate to make this meeting happen, Greg, the agent who made the call, agreed to meet me at work. He found a table at the food court area in my office building, and when I was done with my day, I joined him. He had a binder opened up on the table with stacks of paperwork (about me?) and he was joined by an older gentleman. Both introduced themselves and both seemed nice, but I was guarded from the start, not really wanting to talk about life insurance on a Friday afternoon, and hyper aware that this meeting was going to involve them asking me to pay more money.

I tried to suck it up and listen to what they had to say. Maybe this is what 30-year olds do, I thought. They talk about life insurance and retirement plans and mortgages. No more mindless conversations about unimportant things for me anymore! All business, all the time. Even on Fridays before concerts.

After brief introductions, they asked me about myself. I wasn't quite sure what they were looking for, so I briefly glossed over growing up in South Carolina, going to Georgia for college, and some of the jobs that I've held since graduating.

They smiled politely, but I could quickly tell that's not what they were looking for. The older gentleman gave me a creepy smile as he leaned back in his chair and said, "So, what is it that you want out of life?"

I nervously laughed, completely surprised and intimidated by his question. In 29 years I hadn't been able to identify and articulate for myself or to any of my family and friends what I want out of life. How could I possibly tell this insurance agent I've known for 15 minutes?

There was an awkward silence as I tried to figure out what kind of answer he was seeking so I could answer accordingly. But after a few minutes of searching, I still had no idea what he was looking for, so I rattled off something that made me sound like a complete flake.

"Um . . .I'm not sure, I don't think anyone has every asked me that . . .um . . .um . . .I just want to be happy!"

I sensed by his reaction that other 30-somethings he'd met with didn't have such a hard time explaining what they wanted. And I wondered if he wanted me to say something more specific like, "I want a house! And a boat! And an expensive car!"

My vague answer left him with a challenge, but it also set him up so that he could tell me how buying more life insurance would secure this happiness I desired.

So he went for it. In a completely annoying way.

He flipped through the paperwork that showed the current policy that my parents were currently paying into and how by just increasing my monthly payment slightly, I could increase the value of the payout amount. I could even borrow money against the policy at a lower interest rate if I ever needed it, "You know, for things like braces for your kids or a new fence for your house."

I said I wanted to be happy. Apparently this guy thinks happiness is kids with bad teeth and a home with a bad fence.

His vague explanations and feigned interest in me was maddening. If you're trying to sell me more life insurance, explain to me why I need it for the life I have now, not one I might have in the future and tell me how much it's going to cost.

I fought the urge to grab him by the shoulders and shake him, screaming, "ENOUGH OF THE SMALL TALK!! JUST TELL ME WHAT YOU WANT FROM ME!"

In his defense, my vague answers to his questions made his ability to make a case for additional life insurance quite difficult so he was struggling to make a point that I was struggling to get.

In fact, the most interesting, and humorous, parts of our conversation came with the hypothetical scenarios he created about my life. There was a lot of, "Say you have two children, retire when you're 65-years old, and you live until your 80 . . ."

Choosing a life insurance policy forced me to consider the value of my life in monetary terms, which I discovered, is difficult to do without a husband or any children. As a single person no longer dependent on my parents and without any dependents of my own, the financial value of my life is non-existent. If I died right now, any debts that I've incurred would more or less go away, because the collector would have no one to go after for the money.

The thought could've depressed me, but I was actually amused by the whole thing, thinking about debt collectors rummaging through the financial statements of single girls everywhere.

"So what if she racked up $10,000 in credit card debt buying things she cannot afford? She died alone. Just let her rest in peace."

Only in death will singles finally catch a break.

I don't need a husband or a child to prove the value of my existence, even if the financial world didn't see it that way. But I smiled thinking that even as a child, my dad saw my potential (and Jeff's) and that's why he set up the policies in the first place.

But without having tied myself to anyone financially and not owning anything of real value, my agent was having a hard time making a case for me to buy more life insurance. He refused to give up, and like one of my girlfriends talking me through a tough time, he looked at me sympathetically and said, "Well of course you're going to get married, Stephanie!"

I was dying. This guy was out of control. "Indeed, I might," I said.

But, I thought to myself, I might not. I also might walk out of this meeting and get hit by a car.

As I continue to grow personally more comfortable with my life exactly where it is, I also refuse to believe that it will ever be without value, even if no one comes to collect my debts after I'm gone. A year ago, this conversation may have sent me into a tailspin. (What? I'm alone? And nobody cares?) But not anymore. The only thing this guy had made me question was whether or not I should make my brother the beneficiary of my existing policy, since he would probably be around longer than my parents.

I was becoming increasingly restless during the meeting and I was itching to leave. So I said what I've heard my parents say when someone is trying to sell them something they have no intention of buying, "You've given me a lot to think about, so let me do that and we can talk in a couple of weeks."

From what I could tell, the timing of the meeting was purely coincidental and had absolutely nothing to do with me turning 30. But I had to laugh that a mere two weeks before my momentous birthday I was forced to evaluate my life on these financial terms.

I politely thanked them, got up from the table, and almost broke into a run, away from this unpleasant conversation and towards my unconventional, albeit sometimes irresponsible life, that I value in my own terms -- by the good people, the good times, and the good tunes that are in it.

And by that measure, it's truly an invaluable life.

Day 347: 100 Percent Weirdo

2011-04-15T17:40:00.002-04:00

When my new friend and fellow blogger Julie announced, right around the time of her end-of- blog party, that she was leaving Atlanta to move to Los Angeles, my emotions were mixed. On one hand, I was so excited for her and for her new adventure. On the other, I was sad for myself, because we had just started to get to know each other and see each other on a semi-regular basis, and now she was leaving.

We decided to have one last supper before she departed for the west coast. She suggested we come full circle and go back to Watershed in Decatur. That, of course, was where it all began for our friendship, where we had first met to sample beets for the first time. There we decided that even when prepared and served in a nice restaurant, beets are gross.

We sipped on wine, talked about her upcoming move and my upcoming birthday, and turned the entire night into a love-fest. I wanted to tell her, in person, how she had been the star of Hollis' book writing class and also thank her for encouraging me to take it.

We talked about how much our blogs had coincided with major changes in our lives. Julie ordered the vegetable plate just to prove to me, and herself, how truly far she'd come in her quest to enjoy produce. I ordered one too. I had to smile, thinking about how a year ago we were spitting out beets on our plates, and now we were eating vegetables like civilized adults, talking about how we'd become writers (!), with fans (!), and how maybe one day, we'd come together as authors.

What a difference a year makes.

When we finished eating, Julie excused herself to the restroom and I asked the waiter to bring the bill so that I could pay it. My plan all along was to treat Julie, since she was embarking on a cross-country journey to a very expensive city.

I knew she'd protest, and she did, insisting that she should pay her portion of the check. I changed the subject, telling her what I had planned for Day 347's thing I've never done before.

"I'm going to tip this waiter 100 percent," I said, with a sly smile.

"Are you serious?"

"Yes," I replied.

When I used to waitress years ago, I used to dream of someone tipping me 100 percent. It never happened, but an occasional good tip was so much more than just money. I used to feel validated in what often felt like a thankless job. Giving that feeling to someone else was on the Project 29 to 30 list of things I needed to do before I turned 30.

So, even though Watershed is a nice restaurant, and there is a good chance our server was a career waiter and not necessarily someone who really needed the extra help, I had to make it happen.

I couldn't help but be reminded of the first days of the blog when I bought someone I didn't know coffee at Starbucks and nearly killed myself trying to drive out of there without the person seeing me. In many ways, giving this waiter a 100 percent tip was just like that, only on a bigger, grander scale.

I thought that maybe I'd act a little more normal about doing something nice for someone than I did at the beginning of the project. But even more so than the coffee run, the moment I wrote $74 into the tip line and then signed the bill, I told Julie we had to go. Immediately.

As much as I would've enjoyed seeing the pleased look on his face realizing that instead of a typical 20 percent, $14 tip, he actually made $74 on these two chatty young women, I was too afraid to stay. Afraid that if he didn't react the way I expected, then I'd be annoyed and want to take the tip back. And more afraid that if he was thankful and gracious, then he'd feel like he had to come over and say something to me about how generous the tip was.

Better to leave it anonymous and get the hell out of there.

No doubt we'd come quite far in our blog journeys together, but as Julie and I rushed out of Watershed like two girls on the run to finish our conversation in the parking lot, I had to think, maybe we hadn't really come as far as I thought.

I can't even be generous without acting like a freak.

Day 346: What's the Point?

2011-04-14T16:57:00.000-04:00

Back on Day 305, the thing I'd never done before was supposed to be order and drink a non-alcoholic beer in an effort to relate, in a small way, to a pregnant woman's plight. Only the restaurant Trish and Mark and I went to didn't serve non-alcoholic beers, so I installed their unborn child's car seat instead.

Since (or maybe even before) that failed attempt, my friend Amanda has suggested trying O'Douls as something I've never done before. When a day was winding down and I hadn't done anything that I'd never done before, she offered herself and her apartment for the perfect place to drink a six-pack.

I never took her up on the offer, and truthfully I thought I'd make it to 365 without needing to, because with just weeks to go, activities were lining up left and right.

On Day 346, Amanda and I set out to run the stadium stairs at Grady High School like hard core athletes, but when we arrived at the school, there were only two football players on the field and they said the stadium was closed.

So as a backup, we had no choice but to drink an O'Douls non-alcoholic beer as Day 346's thing I've never done before.

If you've been reading for a while, you likely already know that there is very little rhyme or reason to this blog. I went from attempting to do something very good and very healthy for myself to sitting around Amanda's apartment drinking beers. As long as I hadn't done it, everything was fair game.

After getting turned away at Grady High School, and decided that O'Douls was the way to go, we walked for a little bit to Amanda's neighborhood bodega to pick up our booty. But there was no booty at this market. At least not the kind we were looking for.

Amanda had to start getting ready for work (she had been temporarily moved to an overnight shift), so I drove to Trader Joe's, certain that they would have some tasty non-alcoholic beers we could sip on, maybe even fancier ones than O'Douls. But the only thing I could find was yuppie dorks and fresh from the gym people looking for trendy snack food and cheap wine.

I was starting to take all of these hurdles as a sign that the beer gods didn't want me to try brews without alcohol. Why else would they be making it so difficult?

I finally went to Publix instead, where I was finally successful in locating the O'Douls. I took my purchase to the express checkout lane and threw the six-pack on the conveyor belt, weirdly proud about making this purchase. I considered asking the clerk for a pack of cigarettes, just to raise some eyebrows, but decided against it.

When the sales clerk asked me for my ID, I was elated like I always am when I get carded, but I was also a bit confused. If the beer doesn't have any alcohol in it, then why do I have to be 21-years old to buy it?

I got back to Amanda's and presented the six-pack like we were teenagers and just bought beer with a fake ID.

I told her that the clerk asked me for my license and Amanda agreed that was strange. I think she congratulated me on not looking well above 21-years old. I presented her with a celebratory bottle of non-alcoholic brew and then opened one for myself.

"Cheers," I said, as we clinked bottles. We both took a sip and then looked at each other.

"Not bad," I said. Amanda nodded.

We were having beers while she got ready in her bedroom. It felt like college a little bit, drinking while getting ready to go out. Only we were drinking non-alcoholic beer and she was getting ready for work. Such a strange way to spend a Wednesday.

When Amanda's husband Stephen got home from work, I think he was a little confused to find his wife and I kicked back on the couch drinking O'Douls. If he was trying to read between the lines, his heart might've even stopped.

Amanda texted me from work later that evening, "The O'Douls makes me have to pee," she said.

She was right. O'Douls came with all of the negative side effects (burping, peeing a lot, calories), but there was no buzz. No warm and fuzzy feeling.

So while it tasted fine, I think I'm going to have to pass.

At least not until I'm pregnant and in desperate need for the taste of beer. Otherwise, what's the point?

Day 345: You Can Recycle That?

2011-04-14T09:45:00.012-04:00

Day 345's thing I've never done before was to recycle my old cell phone and all of its accessories.

I've burned through quite a few phones and work Blackberries (and cameras, but that's a whole other story). I have racked up a plethora of phones and accessories that have been cluttering my house, and my life. I don't know why I've held on to them, as if some day they would just start working again, and that I would need all 8 chargers to give them power.

Donating my phone and accessories was easy for me because my bank has a cell phone donation drop box, so I didn't have to go out my way to find a place to do this. But there are plenty of organizations who accept old cell phones, even broken ones.

What happens to them during the "recycling" process, I truly can't tell you, but I think the organization either restores the broken phones and sells them, or breaks them down and uses the parts that still function. I felt good that these parts that could've ended up in the trash won't be littering a landfill.

And before you make comments on my last cell phone and how it looks like it's from 1989, please understand that my current cell phone isn't much better. Just like my television, I enjoy the classics.

I realize now, after completing this last challenge, that I really should've tagged all of the environmentally friendly activities I did for the year because there really have been a lot.

I walked to work, I planted azalea plants in Grant Park, I tried to compost. I had really made a small difference while trying new things, and it felt good.

Day 344: Blondies Do Have More Fun

2011-04-13T09:17:00.001-04:00

I know what you're thinking after reading Days 341, 342, and 343, assuming you did, which you should and if you haven't, do it now.

You're probably wondering how is Stephanie going top winning credit card roulette, hanging out with the geeks of freaks of DragonCon and spending the day at a NASCAR race with a celebrity and friend with Day 344's new activity?

And the answer is: She doesn't. She doesn't even try. She basks in the Monday-after glow of an amazing weekend.

And she bakes brownies.

Actually, these were Blondies, and I'd never made them before. Day 344's thing I've never done before was to bake Blondies, the white chocolate version of the brownie.

I know, not terribly inventive or groundbreaking, but I never promised big things everyday.

Thankfully, when I'm all tapped out on blog ideas, I have my friends to lean on. Like, for example, Olivia. In addition to making me want to drink wine, go on beautiful trips and high tail it back to Charleston and never look back, my cyber-friend Olivia's blog everyday musings most makes me want to bake beautiful creations and take lovely pictures of them.

One of her favorite things to bake is brownies, which is one of the reasons I liked her right away. There really isn't a better dessert than a brownie, in my opinion. Olivia loves them too, and is always experimenting with different flavors. I consulted her blog for the recipe and went to work.

Again, completing this task wasn't all that awesome, because while I may lack creativity in decorating, arranging flowers and taking pictures, I can bake my ass off. In fact, a guy that I work with was surprised to find out that I was just 29. He said, "Really? You're not even 30? You bake like you're 60." I decided to take that as a compliment.

I mean, baking is just following directions, but I happen to follow directions VERY well. These blondies were (sorry, I have to use this word) moist and delicious. White chocolate, butter, sugar, what could go wrong?

Well, for me, the only thing that was wrong with mine, was the presentation. I brought them to work to share and I had to chuckle when I put them on display. I knew they were good, but they just looked so sad.

Yeah, those beautiful blondies placed perfectly in the le cruset dish? Those are Olivia's blondies. And these redneck blondies, looking as if they were haphazardly thrown into some tinfoil, are mine.

Hey, I can't be good at everything.

Day 343: Off to the Races

2011-04-11T17:15:00.002-04:00

A friend and former colleague of mine now works for the Speed channel and when I started Project 29 to 30, he contacted me to congratulate me on such a lofty endeavor; he wished me much luck on the journey, and proposed that I come to a NASCAR race with him as one of the things I've never done before.

Several emails and trips down memory lane later, he and the organizers of the event said that they would leave me two tickets and pit passes for me for Sunday's race. I didn't know what all of that meant, but it sounded good, and I was excited.

Day 343, I was off to the races, making attending the Emory Healthcare 500, my first NASCAR race, the thing that I'd never done before.

I knew this event was going to be fun, and I couldn't wait to share it with a friend. But when it came time to choosing that friend, I didn't really have any one person in mind that I wanted to bring. Not one friend was standing out in my head as the perfect person to take. Perhaps that's why, in the weeks leading up to the race, I couldn't find anyone to come with me.

Most had good reasons why they couldn't make it - either they were out of town, or they had already made other plans. Some never returned my invitation message leading to me to believe that they were either not interested or weirded out by it, or possibly both.

And then one of my guy friends responded to the invitation with a text that said, "I don't know . . .I don't think so . . .that sounds like a bit of a commitment," it almost sent me into a tailspin.

I've certainly been on the receiving end of "Let me see if something better comes along before I commit to that," before, and I've been on the giving end as well, but this particular response hurt because it just made me feel like a loser. And crazy. Like what kind of vibe am I giving out if an invitation to a NASCAR race is somehow being misconstrued as a "commitment?"

Or worse, is NASCAR actually a commitment? Was I ready?

I almost responded with, "Hey man, not a marriage proposal. Just a NASCAR race. I swear." But I didn't. I did think long and hard about it though, and the whole thing just made me feel bad about myself.

This racing experience so far, paired with how I was already feeling about the 30th birthday party I had started planning that wasn't exactly panning out the way I had envisioned, was the perfect storm for my very own pity party.

Several friends, after the fact, pointed out, "Well you never asked me!" And they're right. Admittedly, I didn't ask every single person that I know, but after 10 "no's," (including one from my own dad), I just couldn't bear asking an 11th person who I was certain would give me the same response.

I almost called my Speed channel friend who had set aside the tickets to tell him that I couldn't go, too embarrassed to drive down to Atlanta Motor Speedway by myself. But then I thought about my friend's vibrant personality, his up-for-anything attitude and the fact that he had gone out of his way to get me these tickets and genuinely seemed excited to see me and be a part of my blog. And I just couldn't stomach making that phone call. Plus, I really wanted to go and see what NASCAR was all about.

So I went.

By myself.

And I called my brother Jeff on the way there to ask him if going to NASCAR race alone could qualify as "rock bottom."

My Speed channel friend called me as I was making my way towards the race. I started to lie and say that the person that was supposed to come with me had to back out at the last minute, but I just didn't have the energy. And my friend, because he's awesome, interrupted me before I had to even go down that road and said, "No big deal! We're going to have a great day!"

He told me to let him know when I arrived. He had a few things to do before he could meet me but he told me to enjoy myself and he'd come and get me as soon as he was done.

I drove into Atlanta Motor Speedway and soaked up the atmosphere. Even stuck in traffic headed into the lot, there were plenty of things to look at: a lot of big trucks, a lot of denim, and a lot of tattoos, as expected. I wasn't surprised to see so many people there (and there were a lot). I knew that there is a huge subculture of people following this sport. I was surprised, right from the start, that the stereotypical race fan may exist, but there were plenty of non-stereotypical race fans as well. All ages, races and classes were represented. Everyone, it seemed, likes fast cars.

I parked my own non-fast car and got out to walk towards the track, never so aware that I was completely by myself. I wondered if the tailgaters wondered why anyone would come to a race by herself, and then I remembered from previous solo missions, that probably no one was really all that concerned. Still, I've done a lot of things on my own before, especially during my 29th year, but attending a sporting event solo was definitely new, and it actually felt quite sad.

As I approached the track, I could see a great deal of typical pre-sporting event fanfare. There were radio stations blasting music, merchandise tables with t-shirts donning pictures of the racers' faces on them for sale. I considered buying one, just because I find them to be hilariously tacky, and definitely good for a laugh, but I decided against it.

I saw quite a few race fans purchasing headsets that look like they belong in a recording studio. I assumed it was to block out the loud noise from the engines, but my friend later told me that the headsets allow spectators to listen to the pit crews communicating with the driver. My head just about exploded trying to figure out how that is technically possible, but I had to acknowledge it's pretty cool.

I stood watching dirt bike racers do flips off a ramp for quite a while, waiting for my friend to get in touch so that we could hang out. He said he managed to wrangle a golf cart away from his network and he was on his way to get me. When he showed up, driving like a crazy person with a big friendly smile on his face, I knew that in spite of it all, I was going to have fun.

Oh, and my friend? My super-awesome-would-give-you-the-shirt-off-his-back friend is Speed channel personality Rutledge Wood. And unbeknownst to me until that day, he's a celebrity in the race world.

In a matter of seconds, I went from being sad girl at a NASCAR race by herself to being the guest of the most popular guy at the race. Deciding to come alone was the best decision I ever made.

I hopped on the golf cart with Rutledge, who was going to take me to pick up my tickets and passes. As we took off towards our destination, I watched as tailgaters did double takes in our direction, trying to figure out if that actually was the goofball from the Speed channel, or if their eyes were playing tricks on them.

We tried to catch up on life, and I told him how it felt to be narrowing in on the end of the project and my 29th year. He told me about his wife Rachel, who he says is the love of his life and his daughter Elsie, who was soon going to become a big sister. He was so endearing talking about his family and I could tell that even though he loved what he was doing, the women in his life were his first loves.

Having a conversation under these circumstances was difficult. There was so much to see, plus people were shouting at Rutledge from the sidewalks.

"That's Rutledge Wood from TV. I love him!"

"OH MY GAWD! IT'S RUTLEDGE WOOD!!"

"Hey Rutledge come back here, I wanna tell you something!"

Many of them would run after the golf cart we were on with drinks in their hands, trying desperately not to spill whatever was in their cups. Rutledge managed to acknowledge all of them with a smile and a wave and still stay locked in our conversation. I, on the other hand, was having a hard time focusing.

All I could think to myself was, "Holy crap, Rutledge is a celebrity. My friend is a celebrity."

Half of me couldn't believe it. The other half of me could absolutely believe it. All of me was loving it.

Rutledge pointed out different areas of the track while explaining to me where we were headed. I was still trying to get over the fact that in the midst of our conversation, we stopped a handful of times while fans asked to take pictures. Everyone was so nice to him and to me; Rutledge was so nice and attentive back, listening to their stories and making them feel important. When it came time to take the picture, I usually offered to take it, but there were a few overly excited (or perhaps drunk) fans who demanded that I also get in the picture. I smile when I think about these people looking back on their photos years from now, wondering who the hell is this redhead?

We arrived at our destination to pick up my ticket and pit pass. Rutledge proved he was just as much of a hit here as is anywhere else. Men wanted to shake his hand, ladies wanted to give him a hug, everyone wanted to talk to him. When I was all squared away, we headed back out the same way we came, on the golf cart again, this time to the Speed stage in front of the track.

Just like ESPN's Gameday production, the Speed channel broadcasts from the site of the race each week. NASCAR live is an interactive show hosted by John Roberts and other reporters, and it caters to both the television audience at home while entertaining race fans before they go inside the track. Rutledge and I hung out backstage watching the show and were eventually joined by some of his college and high school friends who were all dressed to the NASCAR nines, complete with racing shirts and in at least one case, quite the pair of short shorts. They were all very nice guys who seemed as delighted, and somewhat taken aback, by Rutledge's success as I was.

But I don't think any of us were surprised that he had so many fans. I always knew Rutledge would do something cool with his life and I always knew he'd be successful. I don't think any of us could've imagined it would happen at this level. And Rutledge is just so nice. Goodness oozes out of him. He deserves this big life he's having and his success made me smile from ear to ear.

Rutledge's friends invited us to their tailgate happening in the parking lot, so we headed out there for a little while. They had really done this race in style, hiring a driver and a party bus (complete with a stripper pole, on which I may or may not have taken a turn) to bring them to and from the race. Everyone had come to party, and everyone was so nice to me, offering me food and beer. I happily indulged in one can of Budweiser (it felt like the right thing to do); that would be my first and only beer of the day.

At this tailgate I learned that at NASCAR races, or at this one anyway, coolers are acceptable and can be brought into the race. Certainly a recipe for disaster for those who had already been partaking in beverages all day, but overall another great reason to love NASCAR.

We had to return the golf cart to where Rutledge "borrowed" it from, so we left my new friends at the tailgate and headed next to the infield of the race. As we were driving away, a guy walking through the parking lot called out to Rutledge, "Hey! You! Rutledge! Bring yo ass on back here." He was brilliant, and with remarks like that, I hoped he had packed a cooler full of tall boys.

Rutledge made driving into the infield sound like it was no big deal, but getting to the infield is actually an experience all its own because it requires driving underneath the racetrack to get to the field in the center. The infield is full of hardcore race fans who camp out all weekend for the race. There are deluxe RVs and judging by the number of solo cups I saw on the ground and in people's hands, the party in the infield is like the biggest, rowdiest fraternity party of all time.

Once in the infield, I understood why Rutledge had advised me to wear closed-toe shoes and bring something to wear over my shoulders. With so much debris in the air and on the ground, covering as much skin as possible was definitely for the best. Later that evening when I got home and washed my face, I could actually see the dirt in my sink.

Rutledge had to do a short radio interview with Atlanta's Sports Station 680 The Fan, so we walked over to their broadcast tent. Rutledge sat down next to the host, and I stayed standing outside watching the interview. I'm not sure how, maybe because I was awkwardly staring at them, and taking pictures, but Rutledge mentioned to the host that I was his guest for the day, and that I was attempting to do 365 things that I'd never done before. The next thing I know the host of the show is motioning for me to pick up the headphones in front of me so that I could talk to them too.

Just a few hours into this day, and so far I'd realized that my old friend is a celebrity, taken pictures with people I don't know, and then appeared on the radio? I'd say it was all too much, but it wasn't. It was just right.

After our radio appearance, Rutledge and I walked to the winner's circle and around the pit, where all of the pre-race hoopla was in full swing. Engines were starting to rev in the distance, and there was a parade of sorts bringing all of the drivers into the track. We walked up and down the pit and watched the pit crews preparing themselves for the big event.

I was thankful I had earplugs. I don't think anyone can fully comprehend how loud a race is until you're standing there at the track. One of the many very nice people we'd met along the way had given me some and Rutledge had plenty more if I needed them. One of the few things that I did know about NASCAR was that the races are insanely loud; my dad always tells this story about him taking my mom to a race back when they first got together (I know, he's such a romantic). Someone told them that if they didn't have ear plugs, they could break the ends off cigarettes and just use the filters.

When it was time for the national anthem, we rushed over to the stage, which faced away from the infield, towards the grandstand. I, now luckiest person at the race, watched the national anthem standing on the track. When I looked down and saw the black and white checkered line painted on the ground, I looked at Rutledge.

"The finish line," Rutledge said, answering the question I never asked.

Right. So let me then clarify exactly where I was. I was standing on the track, on the finish line to watch the national anthem at Atlanta Motor Speedway. And then fighter jets did a fly-over. My heart was racing. In the best way.

They moved us off the track pretty quickly after that, not wanting to take any chances for stragglers as the race was starting.

"Gentleman, start your engines," the announcer said, prompting everyone to get on their feet. I chuckled as if I didn't think they actually said that. They do.

All at once, the drivers rev their engines and the entire grandstand erupts in shouting and applause and there is a feeling of unexplainable excitement. Even if you could care less about racing and about NASCAR, I challenge anyone to stand where I was standing that day and not feel excited.

When the cars took off, the track got even louder and though because I was still standing in the pit and couldn't completely see the cars well, I could feel it every time a group of them whizzed by. I confess I was also still soaking up the atmosphere and not completely paying attention to the race. Rutledge and I also went in search of billionaire Warren Buffett who we heard was sitting with one of the pit crews. I still don't know if it was actually him, but it sure looked like him.

Watching a pit stop in person was quite possibly one of the most impressive things I've ever seen. Crew members refuel, change the tires and send the car on its way in a matter of seconds. Speed is crucial, but so is accuracy and there is very little room for error. The drivers get all of the money and the glory, but without an intelligent, effective pit crew, they could never be successful. And one bad crew member could spoil the entire process.

I thought about the driver/pit crew relationship as a metaphor for my life and any of the successes that I've had. I credit myself, sure, for maximizing opportunities as they've been presented, but only up to a certain point. I've also been lucky, showing up at the right place at the right time and most importantly, I've surrounded myself with some pretty outstanding people. My pit crew is encouraging, smart, funny, supportive, challenging and looking back on all of the pictures I've taken this year, pretty damn good looking too. I have them to thank for my seemingly charmed life. Recent birthday party and race day disappointments excluded, I am so very fortunate. Just like a pit crew can have an off day, maybe that's all that was happening here, and with my crew's help, I'd be back on track before long.

We stayed in the pit for a while before heading up to the fancy sky box at Atlanta Motor Speedway (are you lost yet? We covered a lot of ground that day.) Since he's a personality for Speed channel, Rutledge is often asked to show up at events and mingle with racing fans and Speed viewers. I had to laugh, though, that while his employer may ask him to do it, something tells me he would do it anyway. He really is friendly, he really is funny, and he really does enjoy meeting his fans. I know being on the road and away from his family is tough some times, but I can't think of a more perfect job for him.

The clientele in the sky box proved, once again, that racing is not a sport just for lowbrow rednecks. There are plenty of those, but there were some pretty fancy people in this box who seemed to enjoy racing just as much as the rest of us. And from up high, I could really see the race and more fully grasp how fast these cars were actually going and watch the pit crews in action.

I also saw several caution laps, which I loved. A pace car enters the track during a caution period (after a wreck or when debris falls on the track) and forces all of the drivers, who are obviously amped up and ready to go super fast, to table their speed for a bit. Once the pace car exits the track, the race cars increase their speed to more appropriate racing levels, an action that had all the excitement of the start of the race. It brought a whole new meaning to one of my favorite phrases, "Going zero to 60 in seconds." They really did.

We stayed in the box for an hour or so, meeting guests and eating ice cream. At some point it had occurred to me that I hadn't eaten all day, so ice cream sounded like the right thing to do. Some more photo ops, handshakes and hugs later and we headed back to the pit.

There, Rutledge introduced me to one of the crew members who looked all of about 17-years old. There were so many things that I wanted to ask him, but I refrained, knowing that he was probably very busy. While standing over a racing tire, he explained to me that one of his jobs was to check how the traction on the tires was wearing down and adjust A super important job for someone who, to me, looked so young.

Before the race was over, Rutledge told me he was going to dip out a little early; he hadn't seen his wife or daughter in several days and was anxious to get home. He encouraged me to stay if I wanted to, and even offered to call his friends that I had met earlier in the day so that I could sit with them.

I considered staying, and shockingly by then, the idea didn't bum me out nearly as much as it had just hours before. But I decided to leave when Rutledge did. After such a gloriously full day I was ready to go. Also I think a part of me didn't want to test my luck.

I know, I know. "Quit while you're ahead," is certainly not a slogan to race by and it's not one that I live my life by either. But I got what I came for and a whole lot more. So by those calculations, I didn't really need to see much else. Plus the only thing that anyone told me about Atlanta Motor Speedway was that traffic is a bitch, and I'm no fool.

Tony Stewart went on to win the Atlanta Motor Speedway Labor Day Classic (I listened to it on the radio leaving the track), but it was I who really felt like a winner that day. Thanks to one particularly awesome member of my very own pit crew, who just so happens to be famous.

Day 342: Freak Flags Flying

2011-04-08T10:05:00.001-04:00

Though my friend David hasn't really made a whole lot of blog appearances, I'll have to say what he's lacking in quantity he's definitely making up for in quality: drive-in movies, glassblowing, and his idea for Day 342's thing I've never done before: DragonCon.

According to the event's website, DragonCon is, "The world's largest fantasy/Science-Fiction convention held annually in Atlanta every Labor Day weekend."

Now having attended the festivities, I think I'd like to rewrite a more appropriate description. I'd call DragonCon (sorry, Mom), "The weirdest fucking thing I've ever seen. So fucking weird."

I'm not sure when he came to love DragonCon, but David and his brother (who flew in from New York City exclusively for the event) are big fans. They've attended in years past and had already hit downtown for Friday night's festivities. His brother opted to sleep in on Day 342, but David picked me up nice and early Saturday morning so we could catch the parade.

"It's the best people watching ever," he said to me as we made our way downtown.

"Better than the airport?," I asked.

"Oh yes. Way better."

But when I pressed David for more details about what exactly happens at DragonCon, he couldn't really elaborate.

"But what's it for?" I asked.

"What do you mean?" he said.

"I mean, what's the point of the costumes? Is there some sort of contest? Is it a convention? Are there classes that people take?"

David paused and stared at me, like I had backed him into a corner with my line of questioning.

"I really don't know," he said calmly. "To me, it's just a bunch of freaks dressed in costume."

That sounded good enough for me, though since I'm not really a Halloween person to begin with, it was hard for me to imagine why anyone would enjoy dressing up in costume for seemingly no reason at all.

Traffic was terrible on our way downtown thanks to DragonCon and plethora of other events going on downtown. We got stuck at a red light for several minutes and had to watch part of the parade from the car. From what I could tell, it looked like a normal parade with floats and bands, lots of little kids watching. And then I looked out my window and saw people on either side of the street wearing animal ear headbands and angel wings, holding wands walking towards the parade, and I had to consider that this parade was actually very different from anything I'd ever seen before .

We parked the car and rushed over to the parade. What surprised me the most right away was the amount of people that this event had drawn. I was there simply as a spectator, and I had to assume that others were also, but mostly these people had come out, in costume, to fully engage and embrace DragonCon.

Because we arrived late, it was difficult for me to see a lot of the parade, but based on what I had seen so far, there was no doubt Atlanta had been overrun by people with extremely vivid imaginations, and their creativity had manifested in costumes and dragon floats.

The highlights of the parade for me were the "cast" of Shrek including an over-sized Gingy, and the "cast" of Back to the Future and the Delorean. The parade ended with the "cast" of Star Wars and a George Lucas lookalike that left everyone in the crowd asking each other, "Is that him?!" "There's no way that's him!"

David and I laughed about how many of these parade participants were leading double lives.

"What if you saw your straight-laced boss, or your physician out there, dressed up like a Gladiator?," I asked him.

And I tried to imagine what I would say if I saw mine.

David explained that four downtown hotels are where all of the DragonCon action happens. The Sheraton, the Hilton, the Hyatt Regency, and the Marriott Marquis all happily play host to the event, so after the parade was over, we walked over to one.

And here's when things really got weird.

To say that walking into the lobby of a DragonCon hotel was scary might be going a little far, because there was absolutely nothing to be scared of. But I was beyond overwhelmed. As far as the eye could see there were people dressed in costumes, walking around like it was no big deal.

There was a part of me that was frightened by the horror-themed costumes; I felt a little bit like I was back at the Netherworld Haunted House, and worried that someone might get in my face and try to scare me. But these costumed creatures were jovial and friendly and for the most part, kept to themselves. Except when asked to pose for a picture, which they all happily and often did.

After spending a day there, I know now that I could write a book entitled, Things Overheard at DragonCon, but I burst out laughing when I passed by a guy dressed like Harry Potter tell his friend wearing a cape, "Buy a rocket, the end is near."

The nerdiness of DragonCon was completely living up to its potential. And most participants own it. One woman wearing a "Nerd Convention" t-shirt holding a plastic sword said, "I feel so powerful with this thing!"

The women were absolutely rocking this event, wearing platform shoes and tight outfits posing for pictures with men whose tongues might as well have been dangling out of their mouths. In a world that might not accept their quirkiness and unconventional beauty, they are accepted and appreciated here and it made me smile.

We took a break from the hotel hopping to eat lunch outside, where we could thankfully continue the people watching.

It occurred to us while eating that ESPN's Gameday show was taping downtown for the UNC-LSU game, so in addition to the DragonCon crowd, football fans were starting to fill the streets. For us, it meant we got to see the merging of two very different kinds of people. Seeing the oxford shirt preppy fraternity guys walking down the sidewalk with guys dressed like superheroes was comedy all its own.

All nerd jokes and judgments aside, I had to wonder at what point in our lives to some of us go in one direction and others go in the direction of DragonCon. If instead of taking me to the beach or to South Carolina football games on weekends, my parents brought me to science fiction/fantasy conventions, would I be among these women dressed up like wenches? And at what point does someone cross the line from liking the movie Shrek and wanting to dress up like Shrek to march in a parade? Why do some of us play poker and some play Dungeons and Dragons? When it comes to our interests and our freakiness, is it nature or nurture?

And is there ever a chance that someone can be a member of both teams? I spotted a big guy in an Auburn hat, who I assumed was like David and me, and just around to observe. But when he accidentally bumped into me and said, "Excuse me mi lady," as if he was from another century, I had to then assume that he was one of us and one of them.

David saved the best for last for after lunch. He'd been building it up since he picked me up, telling me about this room he and his brother had accidentally stumbled upon the night before. The basement where the ultimate DragonCon weird goes down and the weirdos come out to play. Literally.

On the way there, there was more people watching, more posing with wizards and superheroes. I overheard a young kid speaking very seriously to another.

"Well, no, because there are no living people on that planet."

Are these people serious? Who talks about this stuff?

We took an escalator downstairs to the basement where there were rows and rows of long banquet tables and stacks of games on each of them. There were games that I recognized, like Monopoly and Apples to Apples, but they were abandoned. From what I could tell no one was playing with them.

David seemed a little bit disappointed, explaining that the night before the "game room" was filled with people all playing different games. I hope he didn't think that I wasn't absolutely impressed with what I was seeing, because I definitely was. Freaked out, but definitely impressed.

In fact, I had to remind myself to not let my mouth gape open in amazement/shock/horror of the nerdiest people I've ever seen sitting at tables playing Dungeons and Dragons, Risk and a whole slew of other games that I'd never seen before and probably wouldn't understand.

We walked around the perimeter of the room, and then snaked in and out of the tables observing. I planned on smiling at anyone that I made eye contact, but that would've required anyone looking in our direction, which did not happen. The people playing these games were completely oblivious to us. They were so wrapped up in what they were doing, they didn't even notice that I was staring and trying to stifle laughter at what I was seeing. It was as if they were acting like dorks; like they should've taped their glasses and wore pocket protectors.

But they weren't acting. They were serious. Very serious, in fact. After an eternity of staring at a large sheet of paper with coordinates and ships on it (almost like Battleship, but not), someone spoke.

"Bring your speed down to 2. And see the major for your next assignment."

My eyes widened and I stared at David, and I couldn't hold my laughter. I quickly walked away from the table and headed towards the escalator, making that last quote the last of my DragonCon experience.

I still have absolutely no idea what DragonCon is for. I can't get anyone to verify if anything other than dressing up and gaming goes down there, so I've had to assume that maybe it's just an opportunity for the freaks of the world to come together to wave their freak flag.

And as someone who has been waving her own freak flag all year, I say, "Wave On, DragonCon!"

Day 341: Sometimes Losing is Really Winning

2011-04-05T10:40:00.003-04:00

On Day 341, a group of work friends decided to blow off some steam over a couple of beers at the Bookhouse Pub.

I begged Amanda and her husband Stephen to come because I was not motivated to think of anything to do that I'd never done before and I knew she'd come up with something that would be highly entertaining to write and read about.

I think Amanda was upset that I'd yet to actually go out with anyone that I'd met online at Plenty of Fish .com, because she was using this "blog-fan's choice," as an opportunity to force me out of my dating shell. Her goal from the start was to find someone that I could buy a drink for or give my number to or use a cheesy pickup line on.

But my experience with meeting cool guys worthy of such tactics is that those kinds of meetings rarely happens when I (or in this case, Amanda), is looking for it. I usually encounter interesting, attractive people that I'd like to get to know better when I haven't showered, my hair is slicked back into a ponytail and my shirt has holes in it. I was coming to this bar from work, looking relatively presentable, so I knew my chances of meeting anyone worthwhile were slim to none.

And sure enough, I was right.

I would've done any of those things Amanda was suggesting, but but neither of us could really find anyone worthy of sending a drink or giving my number to. Despite her persistence with a guy that looked like former CNN television anchor Rick Sanchez, we abandoned this mission and moved on to something else. (Later I saw that he had a wedding ring on, so it obviously wasn't meant to be.)

What else can be achieved in a bar that I hadn't done before? In my almost-30 years had I done all of the inappropriate, regret-the-next day bar activities? Certainly not.

The night was starting to wind down and there were friends at my table ready to pay their checks.

"I still haven't played credit card roulette," I said out loud to the table to no one specific.

Credit card roulette involves handing the waitress a group of credit cards to choose from. Whatever card she chooses has to pay the whole tab. If I was going to make this Day 341's "thing," the rest of the group had to be on board and willing to play.

Luckily, I'd suggested we play on payday, so all of our checking accounts were in good shape for this kind of game. Timing, I continue to realize, is everything. With everyone then feeling generous (and perhaps a little tipsy), they said, "Sure!" Day 341's thing I've never done before was to play credit card roulette.

If you play the odds, which I don't because I'm not entirely sure I know what that means, then credit card roulette is really a safe bet. With eight cards in the pile, I had only a one in eight chance that my card would be chosen. Even when we decided to choose two cards to split the check (the bill was significantly higher thanks to some fancy, expensive tiki drinks, commemorative glasses included), the odds were still in my favor.

That's the thing about credit card roulette: if your card is the one chosen, you must pay for everyone's purchases, regardless of how ridiculous they seem (Tiki glasses? In a beer bar?).

I digress.

By splitting the check between two people, the odds moved to one in four. There was a 75 percent chance that I would not have to pay for my (or anyone else's) drinks. I like those odds.

But with any gamble, there is always a chance you could lose. Or win. Here's something I'm still not clear on--if my card got pulled and I had to pay, does that mean I "won" credit card roulette, or did I "lose?" Being chosen makes it feel like I'm a winner, but paying for everyone makes me feel like a loser.

Everyone laid their cards face down on the table. When the waitress returned, we explained to her what we were doing and she returned with the bill and two pint glasses. She gathered the cards and put them in one of the glasses, turned the other glass upside down to cover them and then shook wildly, mixing up the cards.

She reached her hand into the glass and pulled her first card.

"Devon Sayers," she said, unsure of how to pronounce his last name.

The whole table, except for Devon, erupted into thunderous applause and shouting.

I love credit card roulette!

She covered the remaining seven cards with the glass and shook again, drawing another card from the pile.

"Carolyn Cremen," she announced.

Again, more applause and shouting, at least from the six of us whose cards weren't picked.

Carolyn and Devon took their loss (or win) in stride, and happily posed for pictures while signing their checks. I posed for a picture with Katy, happy that my beers were paid for and my checking account remained untouched for another night.

I'm not quite sure how I would've felt if it was me who had to pay, but from where I was sitting, credit card roulette is a great game.

Losing never felt so good.

Day 340: Filet of Gross

2011-04-04T11:30:00.004-04:00

At least once a month, my friend John sends me a picture text message around lunchtime with various captions.

"Mmmmm . . .wish you were here!"

"Delish!"

"About to dig in."

His written message is always different, but the picture, of a McDonald's Filet-O-Fish sandwich, is always the same.

Yes, that's what I wrote: A Filet-O-Fish sandwich. From McDonald's.

The first time he sent me this picture, which is now an inside joke between us that has been going on for years, I was confused. Why is John sending me a picture of his lunch? And, more importantly, why the hell is he eating a Filet-O-Fish?

Our friendship has evolved over the years, and so has my understanding, or at least acceptance of his feelings about the popular McDonald's menu item. He loves it. He craves it. Since he tries to abstain from eating meat during Lent, he may eat it upwards of once a week sometimes.

I'm a seafood snob as it is, refusing on occasion to eat fish at the nicest restaurants simply because I was in a landlocked state; eating seafood prepared in a deep fryer at McDonald's is almost too much for me to even think about.

I've turned up my nose at John's decision to eat the Filet-O-Fish so frequently and with such gusto, but my judgment was based on nothing. I'd never actually tried it, so how did I know if it was as disgusting as it appeared? John pointed out to me that for someone who claims she's open to trying new things, refusing to try the Filet-O-Fish is really not fair.

And he's right.

So on Day 340, I decided to table my judgment, if for only an hour, and try a Filet-O-Fish from McDonald's as the thing I've never done before.

I sent John an email that morning with the subject line, "Filet-O-fish?"

He responded, "Lunchy?"

And I said, "Yeppers. 12:30pm in the parking deck."

John never asked, but if he wondered why on this day I decided to put aside my strong adverse opinions about the Filet-O-Fish long enough to give it a try, I'd have to admit there really wasn't a good reason other than I had the time to go to lunch with him, and, thanks to Whynatte, I would've eaten anything so long as it was battered and deep fried.

The stars had really aligned in favor of the Filet-O-Fish.

I met John and our friend Kim in the parking deck and we walked to the downtown Atlanta McDonald's. I laughed as they weaved in and out of traffic, through parks and on sidewalks I'd never seen before; they walked with purpose as if we were headed to claim some grand prize, and the prize was a McDonald's value meal.

This was the first time I could remember ever being out in downtown Atlanta at lunchtime; I had no idea there were so many people out and about. Business people, elderly people, homeless people, kids and parents filled the streets.

The same people filled McDonald's too. The restaurant was packed and loud. There were adults shouting, kids crying, homeless people talking nonsense; perhaps everyone was interested in trying the Filet-O-Fish that day. The lines to the registers were long and didn't seem to be moving very quickly.

John, Kim and I got in what appeared to be the shortest line and observed the insanity going on around us for a little while. I told them about my regrettable encounter with Whynatte the night before, and Kim confirmed that she really is the busiest person in Atlanta. When the line we were in didn't really move after 15 minutes, we considered either changing McDonald's, or going somewhere else entirely. Thankfully, Kim and John knew I had a mission to accomplish and exercised patience, but none of us could ignore that we were witnessing truly some of the most inefficient employees we'd ever seen. A manager jumped in to help expedite the process, but the lines still just creeped forward.

The slow-moving lines allowed John to share the story about how the Filet-O-Fish was created. According to him, a franchise owner in Cincinnati came up with the idea for the fish sandwich after suffering low sales during Lenten season from the heavy Roman Catholic clientele who didn't eat meat on Fridays. His idea got entered into a contest against another man's idea for a grilled pineapple sandwich. The rules of the contest were that whoever sold the most sandwiches on a particular Friday would have their sandwich idea added permanently to the McDonald's menu. The Filet-O-Fish won in a landslide. I checked John's story to see if what he was telling me was factually correct, and short of a few details, it was. Here's the real Filet-O-Fish story.

I don't know how John knows this much information about all of the food that he eats, but his little anecdote helped kill time before it was time for me to order one of my very own. I both proudly and reluctantly ordered the Filet-O-Fish value meal.

The three of us sat down next to a window and out of the chaos. I unwrapped my sandwich and fries, and laughed that everything I was about to eat was golden brown, fried to perfection. Regardless of how it tasted, there was no denying that this meal was the exact opposite of the colorful food nutritionists encourage people to eat.

John picked up his sandwich and showed me that he went for the double fish filet, so he had two fish patties on his bun. The smile on his face could not be tamed, and he happily dug right in.

Kim opted for a Happy Meal, apparently as scared as I was by the idea of fried fish from McDonald's. I guess she'd prefer to be scared by the scary dolls that they are putting in Happy Meals these days. She gave me the doll and I've kept it at my desk since that day as a reminder of our little outing.

With nothing left to do or talk about, I picked up the sandwich and took a bite, under the close watchful eyes of John. I find eating in front of someone who is waiting for a response terribly awkward. They are waiting for you to react or say something.

I chewed slowly and smiled at him, trying to find the words to accurately capture how I felt. Nothing came to me. I wasn't utterly disgusted like I thought I would be. But my world didn't really change for the better either.

I can say that all of my negative commentary about the Filet-O-Fish was misguided and unfair. In facet, I don't know that it's worth so much attention, positive or negative. I mean, it's a fish stick on a bun for goodness sake, with tartar sauce and a slice of cheese. I'm not sure I understand the cheese, and tartar sauce in general kind of sicks me out if I think about it too much, but I ate the whole thing. I'm quite certain that had nothing to do with the Filet-O-Fish, though; I would've eaten just about anything deep fried on that day.

I support John and would be happy to accompany him to McDonald's anytime he needs a fried fish fix. But I think I'm going to have to keep any of my fish purchases grilled and not served in a cardboard box.

If that makes me a snob, then so be it.

Day 339: Why Natte?

2011-04-01T10:00:00.004-04:00

On Day 339, I met Maribeth for dinner at Corner Tavern in Little 5 Points. Our friend David met us as we were finishing dinner to have a few drinks.

The purpose of David joining us was so that he could deliver my items from our glassblowing class. They had to be left at the studio to cool and the instructor advised us to come back and get them in the next week or so. David picked up mine for me, and since I had been out of town the weekend before, I just told him to meet me after dinner.

That way we could follow through with our plan to make Day 339's thing we've never done before to ask the bartender to serve us drinks in our very own glasses.

The way I saw it all transpiring in my head was that we'd present the glasses, very nonchalantly, as if we were those quirky people who insist on drinking out of their own glasses. I wanted to appear natural, cool, laid back about the entire request.

But of course, I was neither cool or laid back. I instead, unwrapped the glass from the paper it was wrapped in and handed it to the waiter. He knew this was my first time making such a ridiculous request and if he didn't, I think I probably told him, in an obnoxious I'm-trying-to-be-charming way that, "I MADE THE GLASS MYSELF! IN A GLASSBLOWING CLASS! CAN YOU BELIEVE IT?"

Yeah, that sounds more like what happened.

The waiter smiled, seemingly willing to comply with my request. He asked me what I wanted to put in the glass, and I fell silent. I hadn't really thought about what I wanted to drink, only that I wanted to drink out of my new glass that I made.

I fumbled for a second and I think he saw my uncertainty as an opportunity to pitch their featured drink of the day, one that incorporated the coffee energy drink "Whynatte Latte."

He said it tastes a lot like an Irish coffee and I didn't ask any more questions. I said, "Sure!" adding another first to Day 339.

He returned with my glass, which miraculously does hold liquids without leaks. I really made a glass! And it's functional! I took a look at the Whynatte concoction, which looked like a latte on ice and then I took a sip. The waiter was right, the drink tasted like a minty Irish coffee.

Good, if I was snuggled up on a couch in front of a fire place in someone's mountain home in December.

Not good if I was playing trivia in a loud bar in Atlanta where temperatures had yet to dip below 90 degrees despite it being September, which is exactly where I was.

The drink turned warm quickly and then it was like drinking super sweet, thick coffee. I don't want to make any sweeping judgments here, but I think there is something wrong with pre-blended coffee drink in a can. And even more wrong when the drink is served with alcohol in a bar.

I had no choice but to finish it because it was in my glass that I intended to take home with me. I should've followed David's lead and simply ordered a liquor drink.

Until trying this terrible concoction, I'd lived my life with a "Why not?" kind of attitude. But now, I have to associate my once-favorite phrase with this horrible excuse for a coffee beverage.

The next time someone asks me, "Whynatte?," I'm afraid I'm going to have to say, "Because it tastes terrible and makes you feel like shit the next day."

Day 338: Walk It Out

2011-03-30T10:10:00.003-04:00

One of the many reasons (along with my friends, my job, and the weather) that I am so positive about living in Atlanta is because I live close to my office, so I rarely suffer through the intolerable traffic that the city is known for. Door to door, I live a mere 4.4 miles from work and I get to drive through quaint neighborhoods to get there, avoiding the interstate altogether. My company offers free parking across the street from my office, so I drive to work every single day.

On Day 338 I vowed to change my mode of transportation to work, by weighing three options: take MARTA (Atlanta's transit system), ride my bike, or walk.

I'd looked into taking MARTA to work many times. I like living green, I like riding (good head-clearing, read a book time) and I love not spending money on gas.

But when I researched routes, I quickly realized that while possible, taking MARTA from where I live is counter intuitive; the closest MARTA station isn't within walking distance to my house, and riding a bus to get there would take an hour to do what takes me, at most, 15 minutes to do in my car. I'm not against it, but it just seemed like a colossal waste of time. And driving away from the direction I am headed just to ride the train is simply ridiculous.

Riding my bike to work was another option, but I'm not at all confident about my bike-riding skills, especially on the busy downtown streets. I'm willing to look like an idiot for the blog, but since escaping death on Day 195 , I promised I'd do less daredevil-ish challenges. I was so close to hitting the 30-year milestone. To risk ending it all while merely trying to pedal to work just seemed like a mistake.

So straight off enjoying some of the food that Atlanta is famous for at the Varsity, the time had come to tackle another Atlanta-based challenge. A blog activity I'd thought about since I started Project 29 to 30. On Day 338 I took to the streets and walked to work as the thing I've never done before.

To those of you big city dwellers, this probably doesn't sound very impressive. But for me, this was a big deal because Atlanta is not a "walking city." At least that's what people tell me, and almost everyone has a different opinion as to why.

"The city just grew up way too fast!"

"MARTA doesn't go anywhere."

"Everything is so spread out."

Regardless of the reasons why, most of the people I know drive to get where they are going. Neighborhoods are spread out and having a vehicle is almost necessary to get anywhere. I know but a few people who have chosen to live here without wheels and most of them eventually folded and eventually bought a car. It's not ideal; in fact it is one of my least favorite things about Atlanta, but it's reality.

On Day 338, though, I was on a mission to walk my non-walking city. And with a little preparation, I knew I could make it happen. I had a convenient work schedule on my side (I didn't have to be at work until 11am, so I wouldn't have to walk in the dark), the weather was hot (but not raining), and I am a member of the gym at my office, so I could shower and change my clothes before heading to work.

I woke and packed the items that I would need for the walk. An outfit, shoes, toiletries, my wallet, and my Blackberry were all I really had room for in my Jansport (circa 1999) backpack. I dressed in workout clothes, laced up my sneakers, strapped on my iPod and took off for work.

I'm not sure why (all I was doing was walking), but this challenge made me a little nervous. A ridiculous emotion, considering I knew the terrain. Half of the journey to my office was on a route that I run two or three times a week anyway.

Plus, the walk was nice. Relaxing, really. By not driving, I had time to be alone with my thoughts, without the distractions of the radio or traffic. I confess I reached for my Blackberry several times and caught up on work emails, which sort of killed the mind-clearing aspect of the journey, but I eventually forced myself to put it away and just walk. I even made it a point to stop and smell the roses (literally) and even enjoyed the company of a butterfly for one leg of the journey. I discovered about 10 houses that I wanted to buy and confirmed that my yard is significantly more awesome than every other yard in my neighborhood.

The looks I got from neighbors and passersby were sometimes comical; the workout attire I was wearing said, "Girl on morning exercise trip," the book bag screamed, "Student on her way to class." But as much as I'd like to believe that I still do, my days of looking like a college student have long since passed, so I'm sure the look was overall quite confusing.

At the edge of Grant Park, I passed my friend Mark's old house, took a picture of it and emailed it to him in New York.

"Hello from Atlanta! Your house is doing well, just like you left it," I wrote. He loved it.

I stopped for coffee at Ria's Bluebird, a diner on the edge of Grant Park. While waiting for my drink, I caught a glimpse of a man who looked like he could be my friend Trey's dad.

I texted our other friend Philip to tell him. Within a few minutes, Philip called me back.

"I think I just saw a guy that looks exactly like Trey's dad," I yelled into the phone as a car whizzed by.

"What? Where the hell are you?!," he yelled back.

"I'm walking to work," I yelled cheerfully.

"Are you nuts?" he asked.

Indeed I am.

But I don't care. This was a great idea; one that I questioned only once when I had to cross over Interstate 75/85. The sidewalk was wide and I was not at all in danger, but there were some sketchy construction workers who were a little "mouthy," and it killed the relaxation for a bit. Plus the smell of fumes coming from the highway could've done some permanent lung damage.

Once I made it across, I really started to think about Atlanta and its "non-walking city" status. I live in a neighborhood outside of downtown, and I never had to venture from a sidewalk. I don't think I'm on a plight to single handedly make Atlanta a walking city, but when my work schedule allows for it, I'd definitely like to do this again. And since, I've considered all of the other places I used to drive to that I could walk to instead and I've done it.

I arrived at work (an hour and twenty minutes later) both relaxed and energized. Sweaty, and in need of a shower, but feeling great. I had already exercised for the day and had already done my blog activity. I'm sure there were a lot of factors in play there, but I credit the walk for making Day 338 a really good day.

When it was time to go home, however, my co-worker Alta was none too pleased that I was attempted to brave the tough Atlanta streets on my own. I was fighting daylight, so the walk home was much faster than the morning. I think I might've even jogged a few times. And while I encountered a few crazies, I definitely hit more on my way there in the morning than I did on the way home.

Who said Atlanta isn't a walking city? I walked it out.

Day 337: What'll Ya Have?

2011-03-28T17:45:00.000-04:00

Like the Coca-Cola museum and the Georgia Aquarium, eating at the Varsity is just something that tourists do (or should do) when they come to Atlanta. The world's largest drive-in is undoubtedly an institution in the city, and in Athens, Georgia, where I went to college. I was introduced to food from the Varsity when I was a student at UGA; a friend of mine's parents brought chili dogs and onion rings to a tailgate and I happily ate them both right up before a game.

Certain that the grease and calories from that one meal would put me at the risk of gaining the "Freshman 15" and then some, that one experience with the Varsity would be my last. I never actually visited the restaurant in Athens, except once to use the bathroom. When I moved to Atlanta, the home of the original Varsity, I thought for sure I'd get there eventually. But six years later, I'd never made it.

I vowed to change all of that in my 29th year, so after work on Day 337, I jumped in my car and headed to the real-deal Atlanta Varsity to drink a Frosted Orange.

I figured this would be an easy task to complete; my office is downtown not very far from the Varsity. Plus I've passed the restaurant multiple times each week for six years. And the restaurant is hard to miss. There is a large sign and big neon red lights. Everyone knows where it is, and can figure out how to get there.

Everyone, of course, except for me.

I'm on my way, certain that I know exactly where I am going. I drove up and down streets assuming that the Varsity would be exactly where it was all of the other times I passed it and never stopped. But after driving for a while, I knew that I had to have driven too far, so I turned around. I drove up and down streets, turned around twice, and nearly made it all the way to Buckhead before I decided to stop the car, pull over, and look up the exact address on my Blackberry.

My sense of direction or lack thereof, is truly remarkable.

When I did find it, I parked and walked through the doors to find dozens of people behind a long counter bustling with activity. All of them paused briefly to acknowledge my entrance and almost in unison, they all yelled, "What'll ya have?!" That slogan is what the Varsity is famous for, and it's not just a gimmick. All of the cashiers actually did yell it the moment I walked in.

Granted, some say it with more passion and gusto than others. There were several who muttered the words under the breath, terribly uninspired. I had to figure some of them had a bad day.

Regardless, the yelling was a bit shocking, especially all at once, especially when I was by myself, especially since I didn’t know what I wanted.

I wasn't super hungry, so eating a chili dog and onion rings like I did when I was at UGA seemed excessive. Even though I’ve been out of college for years, I guess there will always be a part of me nervous about gaining the “Freshman 15,” at the hands of Varsity cuisine. Plus, there were so many menu items that I hadn’t yet tried, why not use this opportunity to try something new?

I went for a Frosted Orange. Or an, “F.O.,” as it is referred to by the Varsity staff. They have nicknames for all of their menu items (for example, a “naked dog” is a hot dog without anything on it and “bag-o-rags,” is a bag of chips.

I’m told that an F.O. is the frozen version of the Varsity’s Big Orange (which I’ve never had so I don’t really know). It tastes like a Dreamsicle in milkshake form, which means that it was everything a milkshake should be: Cold. Refreshing. Delicious.

I enjoyed my Frosted Orange while perusing the memorabilia wall full of pictures from when the Varsity first opened and of former Presidents enjoying chili dogs wearing Varsity hats.

And I crossed another Atlanta must-see destination off the list. Freshman 15 or not, I think I might have to head back for a chili dog really soon.

Day 336: A Salty, Peachy Life

2011-03-26T14:40:00.000-04:00

Mark, Jen and I slept late on Day 336 and enjoyed a very relaxing morning at their house before I had to head back to Atlanta.

We ate bacon and eggs, and watched Away We Go, a beautiful film starring Maya Rudolph and John Krasinski about a quirky couple trying to find a place they can call home to raise their baby. The movie was sweet and it made me feel all warm and fuzzy inside.

Before I got on the road, we met Sean and Julie once again for a late lunch/early dinner at Salt Life. When we walked in, I recognized the logo on the wall. I'd seen the same one on bumper stickers all over town. I assumed this restaurant must be a Jacksonville favorite, until Mark explained to me that "Salt Life," was a campaign for beach enthusiasts that was later turned into a restaurant. The bumper stickers came first, then the restaurant. Weird.

After another round of frozen yogurt, I said my good-byes and began the trek back to Atlanta. On the way home, I realized I hadn't done anything for real that I'd never done before. I mean, the movie and the restaurant technically could've counted, but both seemed a little lame, so when I got to south Georgia on I-75, I decided to do something else that I'd always wanted to do.

Day 336's thing I've never done before was to stop at one of those neon-sign covered peach stands on the interstate and buy something.

I assumed, based on the tacky decor covering these monstrosities lining the highway, that they'd be full of chintzy souvenirs and crappy produce. But I found the exact opposite. There were rows and rows of fresh produce, homemade jams and salsas. None of it was particularly cheap, in quality or in price.

The man tried to sell me pralines and peanut brittle, and some peach gummy candy that looked a little suspect. I thanked him, but politely declined.

I opted, instead, for a $10 enormous bag of delicious Georgia peaches; far too many for a single person to consume in a reasonable amount of time, but overall a great purchase and an enlightening experience. This stop was worth it, and will not be my last.

Day 335: Group Dates

2011-03-25T16:55:00.008-04:00

The morning of Day 335, Mark, Jen and I woke up at 7am to meet their running group for a three-mile run to the beach.

I'll admit, getting up early on a Saturday to jog is something that I wasn't all that thrilled about. It's also something that I never do in my regular life. I took it in stride (pun intended) and went along with this outing, adding, "exercising before noon on a weekend," to the list of things I'd never done before.

Plus Jen and Mark's running group is more than just a group of people to exercise with; the group consists of many of their friends they hang out with socially. And that was another reason I wanted to go.

The morning run was good, and perfect for the summertime since any later and it would've been too hot. Can't get much better than running through a golf course neighborhood to get to the beach. Plus, by 8am, the run was over, and we had the rest of the day to enjoy ourselves.

I wondered if I could start a running group in Atlanta with my friends. I'll bet I'd be much more likely to actually run if it meant I could use the time to catch up with them and hear about what's going on in their lives. Currently, my friends and I catch up at bars, drinking beer and eating fatty foods.

After our run we stopped for coffee before heading back to the house. Mark drove me through some of the nicest neighborhoods in Ponte Vedra Beach, showed me where he and Jen go to church and the Ponte Vedra Inn, a hot spot for tourists in the area.

We returned home and lounged for a bit, ate some bacon and eggs, and then decided to go to the beach despite the less-than-sunny temperatures. I couldn't come all this way and not hang out on the beach at least for a little bit.

Mark, Jen and I set up our chairs and enjoyed people watching and chatting about nothing in particular. We observed a middle-aged couple walking in front of us past our chairs. As they first approached on the left, they seemed to just be taking an innocent, slow stroll down the beach engaged in a deep conversation. Once they got closer, however, I couldn't help but notice that the woman was the only one talking. The man kept the same walking pace, but he looked straight ahead and never spoke a word that I could tell. I'm not even sure he was even nodding, or that he could hear what she was saying.

I wasn't the only one who noticed this couple. Mark and Jen and I laughed amongst ourselves, assuming the couple was in a fight and the wife was really letting him have it. But she wasn't really yelling, just speaking intently; neither of them appeared to be unhappy, the conversation just seemed unbalanced.

A short time later, the couple walked in front of us again, and it was the same thing. The man stared straight ahead, the woman barely came up for air chatting his ears off.

"Oh man," I thought to myself, "Please don't ever let me be in a relationship like that."

I am a talker for sure, but I think that I would at least recognize (and stop) if I ever noticed I was having a conversation with someone who wasn't listening or responding at all. Mark, Jen and I started brainstorming what could possibly be going on with them.

"Maybe they're having problems in their marriage," someone threw out. Clearly. And the problem is the wife talks to much.

"Maybe he's deaf," someone else said. For his sake, I hoped that he was. She would not shut the hell up.

Whatever it us, we were amused. We were further amused when we packed up our belongings to head back to the car and saw the couple again, this time sitting in beach chairs under an umbrella. He had his chair tilted back. Hers was upright. She was still talking.

We stopped for frozen yogurt on the way home, at a place similar to Yoforia, because I was on vacation and that's what I do when I'm out of town: I eat.

The plan for Saturday night was for us to meet back up with Sean and Julie and our friend Scott (who was in town for work) and go to St. Augustine, the nation's oldest city, and popular tourist destination north of Jacksonville. I'll save you a history lesson because truly I don't know it. I'll also save you too many details about how we almost didn't leave Mark and Jen's house after discovering that Footloose was on television.

But St. Augustine is where the Fountain of Youth is, and since I was already starting to notice my almost-30 skin looking a little tired and wrinkled, what better place to go? Only on our way into town, Mark and Jen drove right past it. They didn't even slow down.

"What about the Fountain of Youth?," I asked, surprised that the sign leading to the fountain was right across the street from a Pizza Hut and looked every bit as cheesy as something I might find in Myrtle Beach.

Mark and Jen said the Fountain is less than impressive, and not worth the stop. Still, I was looking forward to taking a dip and stopping time, keeping my face looking 29 forever. But I took their word for it, and decided it push came to shove, I'd just have to resort to plastic surgery.

Just kidding.

Kind of.

We parked our cars and hopped out with and started what Jen had already decided would be a St. Augustine pub crawl. That was the big thing that I did on Day 335 that I'd never done before.

On our walk to the first bar, I looked around and noticed how truly lovely St. Augustine is. The cobblestone streets, old buildings and palm trees made me feel like I was in Charleston, only with Spanish-influenced architecture.

We started our crawl at J.P. Henley's, a bar that claims to have the most beers on draft than any other place in St. Augustine. I believe it; I had a very hard time deciding what to order.

After a couple of beers there, we took off for our next destination. The walk during the pub crawl was one of my favorite parts of the evening. There were lots of people walking around and beautiful buildings and historical markers along the way. Our next stop was Taberna del Gallo (Tavern of the Rooster).

Taberna del Gallo is a 1740's Spanish Tavern. The waiters and bartenders dress in period costumes. We sat at a table outside and ordered drinks while Jen went on a search for a game that she said I must play while I was there. One of the waiters, dressed in knickers and a vest, located the game and brought it to our table.

The game, "Shut the Box," (I'm serious, that's what it's called) requires a pair of dice and a box with numbered tiles. The tiles, numbered 1 through 12, start standing up. She told me to roll the dice, so I did. I rolled an, "8," meaning that I then had to flip tiles over that equal the number, "8." Jen said I could flip a the "7" and the "1" or a "5" and the "3." The goal of the game, is to, "Shut the Box," and end with all of the tiles turned down, or come as close And my turn ended when I rolled the dice and could no longer flip down any tiles. The game was fun, and moved fast, and who doesn't love yelling, "Shut the Box," loudly in a restaurant full of tourists?

After we left Taberna del Gallo, we headed to dinner at Columbia, a restaurant specializing in Spanish cuisine and, according to Mark and Jen, very tasty sangria.

The restaurant was bustling with people and noise; dinner lasted several hours. I'm sure it was the pub crawl that made us think we were so hilarious, but we laughed a lot at that dinner. If I had been at any other table, I probably would've found our group obnoxious. We laughed at nothing, and everything.

The highlight of dinner, besides the food and drinks was definitely our peculiar waiter who unabashedly attempted to "up sell" us bottled waters and appetizers on in hopes to win a contest between the servers at all of the Columbia restaurants in Florida. I've been a waitress and I've participated in these ridiculous contests, so I felt for the guy. He just laid it out there. I've never seen someone work so hard for what I'm sure was nothing more than a $50 gift card to Best Buy and to be so shameless about it. He wanted to win this contest, and he didn't care if he put us on the spot and made us feel uncomfortable. We must've not cared all that much either, though, because we happily satisfied him and ordered bottled waters and appetizers, just like he'd asked us too.

I left full. And happy. But mostly full.

We stopped in Cellar 6, another bar/dance club for one more drink. I showcased some of my moves on the dance floor until I realized that the guy that I was dancing with was videotaping the whole thing and live streaming it on the web. I asked several times what the web cam was for, and when he refused to give me a good answer, I left the dance floor.

Shortly thereafter, we left St. Augustine and headed back to Ponte Vedra to Mark and Jen's. I was done. We were tired. It probably wasn't even midnight.

Again, another full day (and night) of activity in Jacksonville. That's what happens when you get up at 7am on a Saturday, I guess. I should try it more often.

Day 334: Really Good Decisions

2011-03-17T18:45:00.012-04:00

Ahead of my highly anticipated trip to Jacksonville, I got an email from Mark, my childhood friend who is like a second brother to me. In it, he presented three options for my first day in Florida:

Option A: A friend offered me an opportunity to play golf at the TPC Sawgrass course for free (it usually costs $250)! It is an early tee time (7:30) and I would be the third person of the available four. There is one spot available for you if you want to play (Free).

A free round of golf on a course that the professionals play? Yes, please! My dad would be so proud and so jealous.

Option B: Jen was considering a spa outing. When you purchase any service (Mani, Pedi, Facial, massage, etc.) you can stay at the spa facility as long as you like and they have a really nice pool. Y'all could lounge at the pool after your treatment and then we could meet up for lunch. By the way this spa rocks we don't get to go very often but it is awesome. They also have a gym if you want to get up in there and work on your fitness!

I couldn't think of anything wrong with a day at the spa. Not one. Plus, I had been fairly stressed out at work, so a massage sounded perfect.

Option C – Do jack shit… wake up whenever and do whatever. Maybe ride some bikes to breakfast or just lounge on the couch.

Mmmm . . .bike rides . . .and breakfast . . .doing jack shit? I love them all equally.

Mark knows me. He knows me well. All of these options sounded like a perfect way to spend my first day in Jacksonville. There is no doubt that I'm a terrible decision maker, and with so many viable options, I actually had to ask Mark for more time to think about what I wanted to do.

I'll save you from the honest-to-God freak out that went on inside of my brain about which option to choose. My head is a dark, complicated place sometimes. Clearly a girl who stresses this much over such non-important decisions needs a trip to the spa. And just like that, my decision was made. I sent Mark and Jen an email; I told Mark to go play Sawgrass and told Jen to make me a massage appointment, preferably with a big, burly guy with strong hands.

I know all of you golfers out there are screaming at the computer, and there is a good chance my dad will never speak to me again after knowing I had the option to play golf for free and turned it down. But I think I made the right decision. I know I did. I mean, let's be serious -- I don't think my golf game is quite ready for Sawgrass. I don't think Sawgrass is ready for my golf game either.

Plus, Mark had to get up super early (he was already gone when I got up), and since I'd arrived so late, sleeping in was definitely a priority. Jen and I enjoyed a delicious breakfast (that included toast with cranberry lemon jelly which I instantly became obsessed with) and then we headed over to the Spa at Sawgrass.

One of my favorite things about spas is that moment when I first walk in and can feel the clam aura come over here. The lobby smelled like eucalyptus and mint; it was like stepping into a bear hug or a cozy blanket. After checking in at the front desk, we did as Mark suggested and "worked on our fitness" for a little bit before rinsing off in the luxurious locker room.

I don't want to go on and on about this locker room, because that's just mean to all of you who weren't there. Plus, I feel like if I tell you how incredibly awesome it was, I might portray myself as some redneck country bumpkin who hasn't ever seen a spa before, and that's not the case at all. I've been to many spas; several, in fact, for blog challenges (facial, Brazilian wax, reflexology). I love spas, and have for many years. But this was the first time I spent a significant part of my day at one. I mean, we packed bags, unloaded our belongings into a locker, wrapped ourselves up with the soft robes and slippers they'd provided and then helped ourselves to lemon lime water and trail mix.

All this, of course, right before we lounged dramatically onto a chaise lounge and waited for our big, burly massage man to beckon us for our hour long massages.

At one point, I asked myself, "Who the hell do you think you are?" And then I laughed as I added it to the list of other times I've asked that very question throughout the year. Thanks to some very good and generous friends, I've done some pretty amazing things.

The generosity continued when Jen let me have the only male masseuse on staff that day; he wasn't particularly burly, but he was talented and I was completely relaxed. I dreaded the hour ending, but I left feeling renewed, rejuvenated and confident that whatever the price, it was worth it.

And the massage just kicked off the day. We decided to make the most of our time, so next, Jen and I changed into our bathing suits and alternated between the steam room and the Jacuzzi tub before heading outside to the pool. The weather was overcast, but that didn't stop us from ordering a glass of champagne and toasting to our good fortune.

Sipping champagne in the middle of the day by the pool was another one of Day 334's things I've never done before. And it was splendid in every way.

I couldn't help but consider, as Jen and I sat there talking about life, that the atypical kind of day I was having was probably ordinary to some people. I felt so blessed and so lucky to be there, but there have to be people who enjoy such luxury all of the time. I paused, my champagne glass in hand, and tried to think of a plan so that my life could include more mornings at the spa, so that I could be more like those people. And then feeling my relaxation and my sanity slipping away, I stopped myself and said a small prayer instead. "Thank you God, for making this day possible. And thank you for allowing me the perspective to truly appreciate it."

We finished our champagne and enjoyed long, hot relaxing showers in the locker room before headed back to the lounge to get ready for the day. We met Mark back at the house; he was giddy because he’d birdied a hole on his golf outing. I briefly thought I might’ve made the wrong decision about going to the spa, and then I remembered how much I suck at golf, and remembered that I absolutely made the right decision. We headed to lunch Palm Valley Fish Camp, where good decisions continued. We sat at the bar, I ordered a delicious shrimp salad, we sat outside on the dock and looked at the river. I was truly at peace, and halfway into Day 334 (Day One of Jacksonville), already having so much fun.

After lunch, we drove over TPC Sawgrass to see the course that Mark had played earlier that day. Admittedly, I love golf as much for the landscaping of the courses, the outfits, and the clubhouse as I do for the game itself. Our afternoon visit allowed me to enjoy what I love without ever swinging a club. So I managed to achieve several of those things without actually playing.

TPC is every bit as lovely as I would've expected it to be, and it's a golf course I've seen in photographs and on television many times before, I just hadn't realized it until I saw it for myself. The Players Championship tournament is played there every May and the clubhouse is full of portraits from past tournaments and clubs of previous winners. I immediately started planning my return to Jacksonville for the TPC. I may not be ready to play the course myself, but walking around and watching the professionals do it would suit me just fine.

By the time we were done seeing the course, we headed back to Mark and Jen's house for a little pre-drink cocktail (Shark Bites, Jen's specialty) and obviously some more relaxing.

Before leaving for Jacksonville, I connected with my friends Julie and Sean, who also live in Jacksonville. We went to their house before dinner where I got to play "matchmaker" for two sets of friends (that's right, I allowed my worlds to collide). Turns out, the collision was a good thing, and we all enjoyed tasty tacos and plenty of tequila at Taco Lu and made plans for the next day.

When I look back on that day, I guess I don't really have much to show for it. No souvenirs, and no pictures even of the beautiful places I went and the beautiful food I ate. (This is my fault, of course. I took pictures, they are just lost in the snow in New York).

But it was a full day. A full day indeed.

I'm a good decision-maker.

Day 333: Destiny at the Pump

2011-03-14T14:32:00.002-04:00

Day 333's thing I've never before was to drive to Jacksonville to to visit my friends Mark and Jen for the weekend. Seeing their house and sleeping in their big guest room bed were both things I'd never done before.

But something else happened on my trip to Florida that was also a first, and so superbly awesome, I had to take a picture and share.

I stopped for gas somewhere in middle Georgia, and did what I always do, trying to maximize my time and be in and out as soon as possible. I have my dad to thank for teaching me how to make pit stops efficient. He's a master. I started the pump and while the tank was filling, I went inside to use the restroom.

When I got back to my car, my gas tank was full and I was ready to head on my way. When I returned the pump to its holder, I saw that it had stopped at 38 dollars exactly. $38.00. I was shocked, stoked, completely dumbfounded. I quickly retrieved my phone and snapped a picture, sure that no one would believe me.

I had to laugh about all of the times I'd tried, and failed, to get the pump to stop on an even number. I guess sometimes when you relinquish control and just let things happen naturally, they can still work out the way you want them to.