she's funny.

I used my most recent trip to Charleston as an opportunity to surprise my childhood best friend Danielle's daughter Karson at school. Her third grade class' study of South Carolina history concluded with "South Carolina Day" which included a singing performance of some of the state's biggest hits.


Karson is one of the few people I have known for her entire life. I was at the hospital when she was born and have had the privilege of watching her grow up to be a pretty cool kid. I wasn't physically present when she started walking and talking or on her first day of school, but her mom keeps me in the know of her latest milestones and I'm always amazed.

I feel blessed to know her so well.

Cliche though it may be, watching Karson and her classmates performing, "Nothing Could be Finer Than to Be in Carolina," was just a reminder of how old she's getting. Not that I needed reminding. The baby that I once knew is now a little person and it completely freaks me out. I can't imagine how her mother feels.

After her performance was over, we decided to go for ice cream. Karson requested to ride in my car - a request that evoked equal parts delight and fear - I love that she thinks I'm as cool as Lady Gaga, but since no one ever rides in my car, I was worried about what she might find in my backseat.

As I pulled out of the parking lot, Karson took a look around at all of the other students leaving and said, "Looks like everybody's busting out of here early. I don't blame them! Let's move."

I laughed at her remarks. She laughed at me.

Karson promised to give me directions to the ice cream parlor and when I arrived at a stop sign I said, "Ok, which way?"

"Left," she said, and I started to lift my foot off the brake.

"No. Right!," she shouted, giggling.

"I mean, straight!"

I pressed the brake and turned around, to find Karson in the back seat, hands over mouth trying to contain her laughter.

"Kidding . . .kidding," she said sarcastically, lifting her hand and waving like an old lady denying a compliment.

Another milestone. My favorite so far.

The girl is funny. Really funny.

Later that day, Danielle told me she's ready for me to, "Get married, settle down and move back to Charleston." Her demands are nothing new - she has been saying this to me for a while. Never to be outdone, Karson overheard our conversation and said, while hula-hooping, "Stay single! Enjoy your life!"

Did I mention she's NINE years old?

I suppose Karson's ability to make me laugh shouldn't come as a surprise - her mother has been making me laugh for years.

But for some reason, her affinity for sarcasm and practical jokes has surprised me more than any of her other milestones. I knew she'd walk and talk - but funny? Funny wasn't guaranteed. But she is. My heart is full.

Thanks to our strawberry blonde hair and freckled skin, when people see us together they assume that she's mine. I couldn't be prouder if she was.

Day 364: Happy Freaking Birthday to Me

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

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

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 with my 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 311: Blog Love

On Day 311, I fell in love.

It's just at the beginning stages, but her name is Olivia and she is perfection.

Whoa, Whoa, Whoa, take it easy, pervs. Not like that. Sorry to disappoint, but that's not that kind of love I'm talking about here.

And to be honest, I'm not even sure it's love at all, but probably more like adoration, admiration and maybe even a little infatuation.

After 311 days of pouring myself into my very own, Day 311's thing I've never done before was to fall in love with someone else's blog.

Olivia Rae, or, http://www.olivia-rae.com/.

I know, lame post, and maybe you're right. I set out on Day 311 to turn Project 29 to 30, averaging at the time around 100 hits a day, into a money-making venture, by setting up AdSense for Blogspot.

Not surprising, just like when I try to install Google Analytics on Day 120, I was unsuccessful installing the application and when I realized I didn't know how to "disable the cookies," (WTF does that mean?), I instead spent time acquainting myself with the handful of people who had elected to "follow," Project 29 to 30.

My followers. My people.

That is how I found Olivia, who by my stroke of good luck, had decided to join the Project 29 to 30 crazy train weeks before. When I clicked on her profile, and then onto her blog, I was immediately mesmerized by an endless supply of beautiful photographs of everything from travel book-worthy landscapes to 5-Star restaurant-quality foods.

Olivia's blog, "everyday musings," is all about the things that she loves: cooking, traveling, living in Charleston, and being with her family and friends. She is effortlessly cool, naturally beautiful and appears to be a great cook; though seemingly far more elegant than I, she enjoys the same things that I do: warm sea breezes, Charleston sunsets and brownies of all varieties.

Oh yeah, and did I mention she makes cake stands, is the Food & Travel Editor for Southern Flourish magazine?

And she's a student at College of Charleston?

When I was in college, if I wasn't in class or sleeping, I wasn't doing terribly productive, wildly creative things. I was probably hanging out, or drinking keg beer, or thinking about what costume I was going to wear to my sorority's next social function.

Not Olivia. When she's not in class, probably studying something romantic and lovely, she's planning gorgeous vacations, baking scrumptious cakes, posing for the cover of magazines, or is just being awesome.

Creepy, right? All this talk about a girl I don't know?

Maybe, but I couldn't help but think, as I was brainstorming ways Olivia and I could hang out the next time I'm in Charleston (Does that make me a stalker?), that I had, in starting my own blog, joined a little subculture of people who like me, are sharing their lives with their friends, families, and in this case, perfect strangers. I liked the idea, as I became engaged with her life, that she had also been engaged by mine; and I wondered what I had said that amused or touched her enough to want to follow my journey. Completely obsessed I opted to "follow" her blog right back.

I strongly recommend you do the same.

Her photographs of the greatest city on earth are enough to warrant taking a look. But everyday musings also showcases Olivia's funny videos and all the brownie recipes you could ever need. She's wonderfully artistic and I get the sense she is wise beyond her 21 years. Plus, she's far more selective in her story-telling, and I mean that in the best way. She blogs the way that it's supposed to be done: in real time, with quick stories, and plenty of visual aides. No senseless rambling like mine.

I can't even blog correctly. Damn.

But Olivia can. And does.

Day 294: Shem Creek Sunday

The plan, laid out days in advance, for Day 294, was for my friend and lover of the outdoors, Adam, to take me shrimping. On a real-deal shrimp boat.

Only we both over slept and missed the boat.

I was so upset about my irresponsibility, and sincerely had anxiety about oversleeping for two reasons:

1. I really wanted to go.

2. Adam's friend who set it up was counting on us to be there and we completely blew him off. I'd never even met the guy, but I'm sure he was not happy that we were so flaky.

After stressing most of the morning about literally, "missing the boat," we decided to do the next best thing to shrimping on a summer Sunday.

We went brunching.

Not only did we go Sunday brunching, we brunched at the very same restaurant we ate dinner at the night before, Red Drum on Mt. Pleasant. The same restaurant, twice in 12 hours? I have stayed at a restaurant long enough to eat two meals there, but I don't think I've ever eaten dinner and brunch at the same place on two separate days, in a row. That could've been Day 294's thing I've never done before. I think the hostess did a double take when we came and we had to remind her that yes, she'd seen us before (the very night before.)

We sat at the bar, where we randomly ran into an old college friend, Jacqui, and her boyfriend, Andy. I drank my first bellini (sparkling wine and peach puree), as another thing I'd never done before. And then we took our Sunday Funday outdoors to Shem Creek Bar & Grill, where we enjoyed the sun, the boats passing by, and eventually, the sunset, all at a place I'd never been to before.

Ok, so I didn't go shrimping like I wanted to, but I did manage to achieve several new things with old friends, and I call that success. Actually, I call it a most perfect Sunday.

If you live in the Charleston area and have not enjoyed Red Drum on a Sunday, then YOU are missing the boat.

Day 293: Training Day

When I told her I was in town on Day 293 and wanted to see her, my best childhood friend Danielle said, "Well come on over. [Husband] George and [daughter] Karson are both out of town. I'm potty-training [2-year old son] Greyson this weekend, so I'll be here. I'm not going anywhere."

I probably don't need to tell you that I don't know anything about potty-training, despite successfully making a diaper cake and changing my first newborn diaper this year. But I've heard enough horror stories from my own mother and seen other friends begging for advice on Facebook to understand that teaching a toddler how to use the bathroom is not always the easiest thing to do.

But still, not leaving the house? For an entire weekend? That seemed a little extreme.

I went over to Danielle’s to find her and Greyson in the front yard playing. The three of us stood out there for a while, until it got too hot, and then we went indoors. Danielle and I didn't waste any time catching up on each other's lives while also trying to entertain Greyson.

While standing in her kitchen, I noticed a stash of salty, unhealthy foods on Danielle's table. I looked the bags of cheese puffs and Little Debbie cakes and was confused.

“What’s with all of this?” I asked. Owning this much junk food was out of character for Danielle. Food of any kind strewn across her kitchen table was very out of character for her.

"The junk food makes him thirsty . . . which makes him drink water . . . ,” her voice trailed off as if these two pieces of information should all make sense to me, but I was confused. I shook my head slowly, a vacant look on my face.

“Then he has to use the bathroom . . . it helps him to understand the difference between being wet and dry,” she kept explaining.

“Oh.”

That technique seemed a little strange to me, but Danielle is an excellent mother, so I trusted she knew what she was doing (at least better than I did).

But I noticed, after she interrupted the conversation with her third or fourth, "Greyson, are you wet? Do you need to sit on the potty?," that he didn't seem to be "getting" what she was saying.

"So what's the deal?," I had to ask her, "He's not into it?"

"Um, no," she said, "He doesn't care if he’s wet or dry. He'd cruise around with poop in his pants for days if I let him."

I looked down at Greyson's sweet little face as he ran through Danielle's kitchen without any shorts on. He squealed and laughed while doing a little dance.

"See?," Danielle asked me.

She was right. Greyson didn't seem at all concerned with using the potty.

Even when we'd run him into the bathroom multiple times during one hour and force him to sit on it, he did so willingly, but seemed completely uninterested. We'd clap wildly and make a big deal about throwing the pee-pee from the little potty into the big potty, and he looked at us like we were nuts.

This went on for several hours; ample time for Danielle and I to catch up, but not much time to do anything else. Day 293’s thing I’ve never done before was to help potty-train a two-year old.

Frequent trips to the bathroom are the reason why going out into public is simply not feasible while potty-training. Potty-training takes commitment, stamina, and as Danielle and I were realizing, a child that wants to learn how.

Greyson, at least not at that time, was not.

There were several moments when I was borderline harassing Greyson to tell me if he needed to go to the bathroom, chasing him from room to room to ensure that he hadn't already gone, and sitting with him in the bathroom for long periods of time both of us staring at each other.

As far as all of my friends’ children are concerned, I am interested in one thing: being the absolute coolest aunt I can possibly be, gaining their adoration and unconditional love. I felt myself quickly moving from “Cool Aunt,” to “Mommy’s Sidekick.”

I was only a few hours invested into the project, and I cared more than he did. Selfishly, I wanted to make it happen (as if potty-training can happen in one afternoon), so that I could leave Danielle’s house confident that I would be able to say to Greyson later in life, “I was there when you were potty-trained.”

Weird? Maybe.

But considering I’ve been with Danielle for so many of these milestones in her life, in my life, and in her kids’ lives, it really wasn’t. In fact, I had to laugh, when at one point during the day, I took over for Danielle and took Greyson to the bathroom by myself. He sat on his little potty and I sat across from him, and we both looked at each other. It was like staring into Danielle’s elementary school face when we used to “play house,” on the playground at Harbison West. Only now we’re playing house for real! With her kids!

This version of “house” we were playing out in real life was far less glamorous, and not nearly like the one we had concocted all those years ago. But somehow the real thing felt a lot better, and I smiled to think about how far we’ve come.

After a stressful day of semi-parenting, I left Danielle at her house and went to the beach to meet my friend Adam. When his friends asked me where I'd been most of the day, I told them I'd been with my best friend, helping potty-train her son.

"That sounds terrible," one of them said.

But it wasn't terrible at all. It was pretty hilarious. And awesome.

***I'm happy to report that Greyson has, since Day 293, been potty-trained, without junk food, which Danielle tossed the next day. And no surprise, I had nothing to do with it.***

Day 292: Doggie Daycare

If the last few days of blog entries have felt lame, uninspired and lacking motivation, it's because that's how I was feeling mid-July. The heat was stifling my excitement for trying new things.

I chalked it up to the dog days of summer and feeling landlocked; and I knew whatever was ailing me was nothing that a trip to the beach couldn't cure. So I took a couple of days off from work and planned a long weekend getaway to Charleston, my most favorite place to go to escape my real life. In my mind, I would lie by the ocean, sip cold drinks at beach bars, catch up with family and friends with the salt on my skin and everything would be summertime awesome once again.

Only, I forgot to tell anyone about these plans that I had so carefully planned in my head. And when I called my brother Jeff to tell him to get his guest room ready, he surprised me with, "Katie and I are going to the mountains this weekend."

Whoops. That's not really what I was expecting him to say, but he and Katie not being in Charleston was a slight disappointment, not a trip-ending crisis. There are plenty of other people in town to warrant a visit.

My conversation with Jeff continued for a little while before he made me a very generous offer, "Do you need to stay at our house? Do you want me to leave you a key?"

My own Charleston house for the weekend and no worry over about which friend to stay with? Yes, please. I'd be on neutral ground without getting in other people's personal space. Again, I was sad Jeff and Katie wouldn't be around, but everything was start to take shape up for a great weekend.

I took Jeff up on his offer (before he could change his mind) and thanked him. Then I thought about my second favorite thing about Jeff's house (besides hanging out with him and Katie).

"What are you doing with Ron and Penny?," I asked.

Ron and Penny are Jeff and Katie's dogs. And I love them dearly (remember when I put them on my list of things I'm most thankful for back in November?). This is going to sound nuts, but I love them the way that I imagine I will love my nieces and nephews one day. I want to make them happy and keep them safe and ensure that their needs are met above mine. Weird, I know, but I love them a lot and I can't really explain why. I just do.

Jeff said they were taking the dogs an out of their way to my parents's house on their way to the mountains.

"Why are you taking them to mom and dad's house?," I asked. "Let me take care of them!" I was almost shouting into the phone, this possibility excited me so much.

Jeff was silent on the other end, and I knew he was now contemplating my generous offer.

"Are you sure you want to do it? I mean, these dogs are crazy."

I was sure. But his reluctance to take me up on it immediately gave me pause. But I was so excited about the possibility of playing, "house plus dogs," my hesitance only lasted a moment.

"Yes! I'm defnitely sure! Let me dog-sit!," my enthusiasm was pouring out of me.

The rest of our conversation went back and forth for a few minutes, sort of like this:

Jeff: Are you sure?

Me: Yes.

Jeff: Positive?

Me: Positive.

Jeff: You're sure?

Me: I'm SURE.

Jeff's concern didn't seem to stem from him not trusting me. The very last thing my brother ever wants in life is to become a burden for anyone else. But when he considered how my taking care of the dogs would save him some trouble on both legs of the trip, he was grateful for my offer and agreed I could dog sit for Ron and Penny as Day 292's (and 293, 294 and 295) thing I've never done before.

I arrived at Jeff and Katie's on Day 292 so that Katie could give me the instructions on the ins and outs of dog care.

She showed me their food and water bowls and explained how I needed to shut the doors to all of the rooms before leaving. The dogs stay outside during the day, but sleep inside at night.

"Do you want me to take them on a walk?" I asked, "Where are their leashes?"

"Um, yeah . . .," she sound enthusiastic at first, but then her voice trailed off. She turned to show me where the leashes are and then stopped herself.

"You know, maybe you should just hang out with them in the backyard? They're a little . . .much. They're just not good on a leash. They're just too much."

I shrugged my shoulders, taking her word for it. I still wasn't particularly nervous, but so far Ron and Penny's owners had described them as, "crazy," and "a little much, "so maybe I should've been? I had to face the fact that I'd signed on to take care of two rambunctious dogs for the weekend for the first time ever and I might've been in over my head.

Once I felt like I had a handle on what I was supposed to do to keep the animals alive, Katie and I went to grab lunch on her way out of town. When we were done, I headed back to the house to start my dog-sitting.

When I got back to the house, I started to understand what Jeff and Katie had been warning me about. As soon as I walked towards the fence in the backyard, Ron and Penny were barking and jumping up and down like they were on a trampoline. I knew they were spirited dogs but I'd never seen them freak out this much.

I figured I'd go into the backyard, throw them a tennis ball for a little bit, and tire them out. Only when I opened the back gate ever so slightly, they almost knocked me over, breaking free and running wildly through the fence into the front yard.

Penny went straight for one of the big trees in the front yard; she put her front legs on the tree, and looked up as if she was going to climb it, all while barking at nothing in particular. I've seen her do this before at my parents' house, so I wasn't overly concerned. Ron was even more insane, running full speed into the street, like he was chasing something; once he realized there was nothing to chase, he paused, looked around, and then began trotting down the road with no clear destination. I ran after them, yelling both of their names trying to feel, and give anyone passing by the impression, that I knew what I was doing.

The dogs were not listening to me at all, and they acted as if they'd been cooped up in a pen that was too small for them for months. Though I was nervous to leave them out there, I gave up quickly on trying to wrangle them in through the fence they broke out of. They weren't even turning their heads when I called after them. I opted insted to get them in through the front door.

Thank goodness, it worked. I'm assuming the only reason is because they knew I was the keeper of the food, the water, and the air conditioning, but I didn't care. They were finally inside where I could keep an eye on them.

They came in the house and went straight for their water bowl that I had already filled with fresh water and ice cubes (best dog-sitter ever, right?). I left them for a bit while I moved my suitcase into the guest room and then to check my email.

When I returned to the living room, I noticed both dogs were lying down, but that Ron was furiously licking both of his front paws. I went over to see what he was licking at and when I looked closely, I saw that he had cuts on both of his legs, and they were bleeding slightly. He didn't seem to be in distress at all, but I immediately panicked. I laid down beside him to comfort him, and to inspect the cuts, which were strange, almost like a shaving cut on a human. I felt terrible. I was also completely in shock that he managed to cut himself while in the front yard for a maximum of 20 minutes.

I texted my brother right away to tell him. He was only 30 minutes outside of town at that point. He didn't seem too concerned, and told me to keep an eye on it.

I let the dogs chill out, and returned to my room to get ready to go to the beach. When I came back out to the I started getting ready to go to the beach, there was a huge disgusting mess of puke or poo (I honestly couldn't tell) in the middle of the floor.

Shit! Literally.

I looked around to see which one of these dogs made the carpet their dumping ground, but as Katie has explained to me before, when there are two pets, sometimes it's hard to tell who is responsible for bad behavior. And this mess didn't look like a punishable offense, it looked like one of the dogs was sick. I tried my best to clean up the mess and put carpet cleaner on it, but I could still see a stain. Again, another text to Jeff. This one went unanswered.

I realize that none of these things were completely my fault, but I had been dog-sitting for less than an hour, and so far both dogs had escaped, one had cuts on his paws and one made a mess on the carpet, and I wasn't sure which one. So far, not so good. Thank God these were just dogs we were dealing with and not children.

In addition to these three mishaps, the dogs were moping around the house with sad eyes and they looked at me like their parents had abandoned them for the weekend with their irresponsible aunt who doesn't know much about taking care of dogs. I texted both Jeff and Katie at various points during the weekend saying, "Your dogs miss you," and, "I think the dogs are depressed." Jeff was not really helpful responding once with, "Yeah, they probably are." I tried to spend as much time with Ron and Penny as I could, but they seemed uninterested in me.

Luckily, all of the messes and injuries, and their subsequent sadness only lasted the first few hours I was there. The dogs perked up, and rest of the weekend was fun, full of hilarious moments with me and my favorite pooches. I chased them through the backyard and let them sleep in the bed with me. I even introduced them to my friend Will's brand new puppy. The puppy will never be the same, but Ron and Penny had a blast.

Friends who feel sorry for me that I live alone have been advising me to just, "Get a dog," for years. I've always put them off, explaining that I love animals, dogs especially, but at this point in my life, I'm not sure I'd be a good dog owner. No poor, unfortunate animal should be subjected to my long days at work, tendency to be forgetful, and constant need for spontanaeity.

But based on my weekend with my two favorite four-legged pals, the first half-hour excluded, I know that I will make a great mommy to a dog one day. I liked being depended on and liked having a reason to return to my brother's house and having two excited pets there to greet me when I arrived. Just like the movie Marley and Me, (that that I have a difficult time even typing without crying), dogs don't care how pretty you are or how much money you make. They love you just they way you are.

And though I have a feeling they'll never feel about me the way they feel about their parents, there is nothing like feeling the love of a pet.

Day 223: Classing Up the Place

Back on the day that I ended up eating Krispy Kreme donuts hot off the line, my friend Tray invited me to a steak restaurant, Hal's, to smoke cigars with him and some of his buddies as the thing I’ve never done before.

I declined his offer for several reasons, but mainly because I wanted my Hal's experience to be just that--an experience. I wanted Filet Mignon, red wine, dessert, coffee, and, of course my very own cigar to enjoy following dinner. We’d sit in a candle lit, smoke-filled room with a big dark, wooden table and talk about our lives while puffing on stogies. Like a scene out of the Godfather, minus the Italian food.

Yes, that's exactly how I envisioned my first time smoking a cigar.

But if there is one thing that I've learned since starting this little project, it's that nothing ever happens quite as I planned it in my mind.

Weeks later, I found myself enjoying my last weekend of a two week vacation at my friend Lindsay’s 30th birthday bash on Folly Beach. She had managed to corral a large, spirited group willing to celebrate her milestone birthday with a weekend full of fun, debauchery and dance parties.

Among those who made the trip to Charleston was my brother’s old friend Ben. I’ve known Ben for a long time, but it had been a while since he and I'd seen him. He hadn’t changed a bit, though; he is still one of the nicest, most optimistic people I’ve ever met. He and his wife Mary Ann are such great people and so much fun.

At one point during our beach day, Ben announced he was headed back to the house and wanted to know if anyone needed anything. I had been contemplating how I was going to manage my need to use the bathroom, since I refused to reveal my sunburn for all to see by disrobing in front of the masses on the beach to use the world’s largest toilet, the ocean. So I hitched a ride with Ben back to the house to use the facilities.

That was all entirely too much information just to tell you that on our ride, Ben was, no surprise, a wave of positivity, talking about how much fun he was having, how there was still more fun ahead that evening, and how he’d hoped he and Trey, our other friend, would be cracking into some Cubans later.

Come again?

"Cubans," he said, seeing that I was confused about what he was talking about, "Cigars?"

"Oh, right, of course," I replied. Apparently the sun had fried my legs and my brain.

Ben went on as he opened the door to the beach house, "There's just something about a cigar that really classes a place up, you know?"

I laughed.

First of all, what a hilarious thing to say, and Ben said it with such conviction, I knew he believed what he was saying was the truth.

Secondly, we’d spent all day pounding domestic beers on the beach and the entire night before playing flip cup (did I mention this was a 30th birthday party?), so if ever there was a party in need of “classing up,” it was this one. I’m just not sure there were enough cigars in the world to pull it off.

But, if he’s got cigars and I’m in need of doing something that I’ve never done before (I know you’re not surprised that I’ve spent many a domestic beer drinking days on the beach and I’ve played quite a bit of flip cup before.), then maybe I should abandon my whole steak dinner, red wine, cigar fantasy and ask Ben if he would let me try one.

So I told him about the blog and he was happy to help, making Day 223’s thing I’ve never done before to smoke a cigar.

Later that night, after a positively glorious day on the beach, we continued Lindsay’s party back at the house with a cookout. And soon I was being summoned to the grill to partake in the cigar that Ben had promised me. He'd already lit it, and by the looks of the stubby thing, he'd already been smoking it for several hours.

He handed it to me, and I kind of held it awkwardly, staring at him for direction as to what to do next, as if I hadn’t ever seen anyone smoke a cigar before. Ben didn’t give me the instructions I was seeking, he just reminded me, as several people already had, not to inhale it.

I did as I was told, and took a couple of puffs, careful not to inhale the smoke. The end of the cigar was soggy, because apparently, as Ben and Trey demonstrated, smoking a cigar is really just chewing on the end of it, puffing it occasionally for effect and hooking it dramatically with your pointer finger to remove it from your mouth.

I expected to be disgusted by the taste, but I wasn’t at all. Because cigars, at least this one, didn’t really have much taste at all.

And as far as “classying up the place” goes, I didn’t feel classy at all. In fact, I felt kind of dirty. Maybe it’s that whole Monica Lewinsky thing?

After taking a few puffs on the cigar, I shared with the group, who all wanted to know what I thought, that I was underwhelmed. I handed the stogy back to Ben and went about the evening enjoying the birthday celebration well into the early morning.

The next morning, we had to clean the party house before packing up and heading home. I thanked Ben for being a part of the blog and as I took a load of trash to the dumpster, I heard Trey's husky voice calling out to me from the master bedroom.

"Hey Steph, did I make the blog?" he yelled.

Indeed, Trey, you did. You classy thing.

Day 83: Summerall Chapel

Day 83's thing I've never done before was to go to the Summerall Chapel on the campus of the Citadel Military College in Charleston, South Carolina. My friend Mitch and his beautiful bride Marisa got married there the weekend before Christmas.

The Summerall Chapel was built in 1936 and is a shrine of religion, of patriotism, and of remembrance. From an aerial view, the red clay tile on the roof forms a cross. The Chapel is beautiful and so was the wedding.

I went into the wedding timidly, not really knowing who was going to be there. Mitch and I were friends in high school, so I kind of had an idea, but I cruised in solo praying that I would find at least one person to hang out with. Fortunately, there were several old friends there and it was fun to catch up. It was especially great to see Mitch and meet Marisa. They are a great couple and I'm so happy for them!

I also got the fastest speeding ticket in the history of my driving career on the way to Charleston. I didn't even have time to flash the officer a pretty smile or give him a reason for why I was going 85 in a 70.

He pulled me over and wrote me a ticket and I was on my way in ten minutes.

Efficiency. That's what I like in a police department when they're writing me tickets.