kids are funny. and mean.

I went to Charleston for Memorial Day weekend. I ate seafood by the water, drank cold beer, and succeeded at being the laziest person in America, moving only when I needed to get to a pool or the beach.

The first pool I went to was the one in Danielle's neighborhood. She took the kids there after they got out of school on Friday. A few minutes after I arrived to meet them, Danielle's four-year old son Greyson emerged from the pool with one of his friends, wearing a rash guard and a circular raft around his waist. As the two made their way towards us, I heard Greyson yell to his friend, “That’s not my Grandma! That’s my Aunt Steph!”



Ouch.

Admittedly I was not looking my very best (I was at the pool!), but I refuse to believe that I look old enough to be someone's grandma. Right? I don't, do I?

Half an hour later, after I'd recovered from the grandma nonsense, I was standing next to Karson in the pool. She rubbed her hand on my leg under the water and then rubbed her mother's leg. She looked at me, as earnest as ever, and said, “How come your leg is so smooth and my mom’s is all rough?”

Without skipping a beat, I said, "Well, your mother is married. And pregnant. Her priorities are different."

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 325: Guilty by Association

On Day 325, I went to Northside Hospital to visit new mom Trish, new dad Mark and Baby Will (aka Willie J). I planned on juggling for him, but since that didn’t really work out on Day 324, I brought flowers and magazines for his mommy instead and showed him my new blue toenails.

Despite having a lot of friends with kids, this was the first time I'd ever been to the hospital to visit a newborn. I was at the hospital when my friend Danielle’s first child, Karson, was born, but I had to leave immediately following her birth to drive back to school. I never got to hold Karson at the hospital, or bring flowers and be a part of the baby celebration and fanfare.

So Day 325’s thing I’ve never done before was to meet Baby Will, and visit his new family in the hospital. Unfortunately for Will, though, the day presented another first that neither of us was too thrilled about.

Seeing Trish as a new mom wasn't at all as shocking as I thought it might be. Trish is happily married and she's a natural caretaker; of course having a baby is an expected next step. Motherhood had instantly come very easy to her. What did surprise me was how laid back she was about it all; she handed Will over, offering to let me hold him right away.

I declined at first. Not because I didn't want to, but because I always feel so terribly awkward holding newborns. They seem so fragile to me in my inexperience, and it makes me feel stupid that I'm not better at it. Aren't women naturally supposed to know how to hold babies?

Trish, Mark, and I instead chatted about the birth, and about how the woman across the hall from her had refused an epidural and screamed bloody murder the entire time, scaring everyone in the vicinity. Trish showed me a video of Will peeing on his daddy for the first time and pictures of all who had been to visit so far. She sang the praises of the hospital for their warm hospitality and helpful nurses.

When I finally relaxed enough to take Trish up on her offer to hold Will, I fell in love. He was so small and perfect and rolled up into a little ball. And for the first time I can remember, I didn't feel awkward at all holding a newborn.

That is, of course, until a female nurse rolled a crib on wheels until a female nurse wheeled in with a crib and sweetly said, to Trish and Mark, "If you're ready, we can go ahead and take Will for his circumcision."

I looked up when I heard the word, "circumcision."

Trish looked at the nurse, and then she looked at Mark and then she looked at me.

"Like now?," she asked the nurse.

"Yes. Now. If you're ready?"

Is anyone ever ready to bring such trauma to their child? I don't know, I don't have kids; I can't imagine leading them to suffer, even if it's for their own good, is a pleasant experience.

But seeing Will's circumcision as a necessary evil that he'd never remember, Trish's concern was for me, since I would miss out on spending quality hospital time with the baby.

Mark was understandably concerned for his son for very different, very "dad-like" reasons. "Sorry buddy," he said kindly, "I'm so, so sorry."

I was concerned, of course, for myself. I looked at the nurse, who had motioned for me to put him in the crib she'd brought.

"So you mean you're going to do this now? And I'm the one who has to hand him over? So now he's going to associate this experience me?"

She ignored my antics and asked Trish to sign some form saying she approved the surgery.

I suddenly felt awkward again holding Will, reluctantly trying to lower him into the crib on wheels.

"I'm so sorry, Will. This was not my idea," I told him quietly.

I sought consolation in what Trish told me. She said that just like shots and other unpleasant injuries he may suffer as a baby and toddler, he will, forget any pain suffered during the circumcision. He's only a day old, after all.

I believe her, but what about subconscious association? What if when Will is a teenager he hates me for reasons he can't even explain that all stem from this day?

In that case, I hoped that the big blonde nurse was the last person he saw before the snip.

Day 295: Warm Fruit, Not Bad

I spent my last day in Charleston on the beach with Danielle, Karson, and Greyson before heading back to Atlanta.

Day 295's thing I'd never done before was to meet a friend in Augusta for dinner and eat a feta and pineapple pizza. I'm normally not a fan of warm fruit, but this was actually pretty good. The sweetness of the pineapple paired well with the savory flavor of the feta. Delicious.

Is it just me, or are a lot of these posts recently all about food? I'm going to try and get that under control.

No promises, though. I really like to eat.

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 286: Take Me to the Drive-In

When I think of the drive-in, I always think about the scene from the movie Grease when Sandy and Danny get into a fight after he tries to cop a feel after giving him her class ring in the front seat of his car. When I think about Grease, I think about my best childhood friend Danielle and I watching the movie on repeat one summer and memorizing every sexually overt lyric and every suggestive dance move to all the songs in the film.

Our parents never seemed to be bothered by the fact that we performed Grease concerts daily that summer, mimicking the characters in the film. I guess something about it taking place in the 1950's when everyone wore poodle skirts made inappropriate songs seem more okay?

Anyway, that scene with Sandy and Danny is always what I thought of when I thought of a drive-in--teenaged boys in letterman jackets and girls in bobby socks "necking" in the back of '57 Chevys. I assumed that the drive-in was something that like sock-hops, had gone away over time. But thanks to Starlight Six Drive-In on Moreland Avenue, I learned that the drive-in is still very much alive and well.

Day 286's thing I've never done before was to channel my inner-Pink Lady, and go to a movie at the drive-in.

I knew ahead of time that my drive-in experience was not going to be like the scene in Grease. First of all, this was a group outing, so nobody was trying to get "fresh" with each other, at least not as far as I could tell. I mean, there were married couples there, so I suppose it's possible, but my friends Amy and Jeff had just completed a three-week cross country tour in a camper, so I think they were looking for some outside conversation, and since Emily and Scott had asked me to ride with them, I'm pretty sure they weren't looking to score either. At least I don't think.

Not to mention, unlike the drive-in movies that I'd imagined, at this drive-in, we actually got out of the car to enjoy the movie. Most people around us did too.

And for this group, the drive-in was more like a cook out, in an enormous parking lot, with dozens of strangers, where there just so happened to be movie playing on a big screen.

So, yeah, not very Grease-like at all. But I was pumped, excited to be doing something different on a Saturday night, and very much looking forward to making my own drive-in experience.

We went to the grocery store ahead of time in search of our bounty, which included chicken breasts, bagged salad, and ingredients to make cream cheese stuffed jalapeno peppers wrapped in bacon.

Yes, you read that correctly. We (well, not me, but others) decided to cook chicken and bacon wrapped stuffed peppers on a homemade grill. In the parking lot. Of the drive-in. I marveled at my movie team's enthusiasm and decided that I, once again, have picked the right people to hang out with. I still can't decide if I am a lazy person, or if I have the most ambitious friends ever, but regardless, once again, the company I chose worked strongly in my favor.

Had it been left up to me, we would've simply picked up sandwiches from a deli, and 40 oz. beers from a gas station, and been on our way. But if my super ambitious friends want to make a hot meal (appetizers included) on the grill and drink summer specialty brews, I have no choice but to support them.

I assumed, incorrectly again, that the drive-in would show one film and we were at the mercy of whatever they were playing. But on the way there, I found out that not only do they have six screens to choose from (get it, Starlight Six?), they also show two movies on each screen back to back. So for $7 a piece, we could drive our own cars, park directly in front, grill our own food, drink our own drinks (alcohol included) and see two movies in a row. Starlight Six Drive-in, then, has to be one of the best entertainment values in town.

We pulled our cars in when it was still light outside and immediately the boys started getting to work assembling the grill (a disposable aluminum lasagna plate and a brought-from-home grill grate). Jeff began marinating the chicken, while Scott stuffed the peppers and wrapped them with bacon, securing them with a toothpick. Amy and Emily and I took a step back and let them do their thing. We looked at pictures from Amy and Jeff's cross-country adventure and sipped on brews.

The crowd at the drive-in was extremely diverse. All ages, races, socio-economic statuses were represented. What seemed clear, and would remain pretty clear throughout both movie viewings, was that the tailgating and fellowship aspect of the drive-in was far more important than watching the film. This is probably why people talked throughout the movie and were constantly driving in and driving out while the films were in progress, sometimes driving right underneath the screen. We even had friends show up midway through the first movie, casually walking up to our cars with a cooler. When you're outside, under the stars, with your own food on the grill, the drive-in becomes more about that, and less about the cinematic experience.

Not a problem for me, especially when the films we opted to see were the animated film Despicable Me and The A-Team. In our defense, there weren't a lot of great options out there at the time. But these were great for the drive-in. They were both entertaining, and not in need of serious attention.

When the sun had started to set, Scott and Jeff fired up the grill, and began to cook our feast, starting first with the stuffed peppers. I was impressed that he attempted such an aggressive hordeourve, not so impressed with the peppers taking so long. I don't think that any of us really knew how much time grilling on a homemade grill would take. And before we knew it, before our meal was entirely cooked, the sun had set.

One thing that is funny (or scary depending on how you look at it) about grilling our own food at the drive-in is that once the sun went down, despite the glow of the movie on the screen, we were unable to really see what we were eating, and therefore couldn't really tell whether or not it was fully cooked. We basically threw caution to the wind and went for it, convincing ourselves that as long as it looked, and tasted done, we were fine. And we were, though I'm not sure cooking and eating this way is the safest way to go.

We all settled in with our plates full of delicious food and settled in for our first film, Pixar's Despicable Me, about a supervillian (Steve Carrell) who changes his ways after becoming an unlikely dad to three young girls. I loved it. So funny, so cute and sweet. I may have cried. No, I definitely cried.

I honestly thought (and secretly hoped) that after the first movie, we would do what a lot of other cars were doing around us, and leave. But it became pretty clear that no one was going anywhere; they were all excited about watching the A-Team. So I sat back down in my chair and got ready for another feature film.

I'm not sure if it was the hearty meal, or if I was tired from the icing the night before, or The A-Team is just a really bad movie, but I had a hard time staying awake to tell you what it's really about. I may have dozed off in my beach chair several times. Again, not very Grease-like and the farthest thing from cool that I can think of-falling asleep at the drive-in?

But don't let my inability to stay awake fool you. The drive-in is a blast, and such a different, fun way to go to the movies. I will be back.

Day 251: You Can Wear it Again

I have been a bridesmaid 12 times.

That means that in my adult life, I've thrown at least 12 showers, walked down 12 aisles, and yes, I own 11 bridesmaid's dresses (11 because Danielle told me to wear whatever I wanted.)

I get teased relentlessly at work for having participated in, and attended, so many nuptials, and I am often the go-to girl for any wedding related questions.

"Don't you get sick of going to weddings?," I am often asked. Nope. I really don't. I still genuinely love them, and am actually quite sad that since most of my really close friends have already gotten hitched, my days of "bridesmaiding" are numbered.

"How much money have you spent over the years on all of these weddings?," they all want to know. Truthfully, I have no idea, and I'd really rather not think about it. I'm sure it's obscene, but I'm also confident that it was money well spent.

My favorite question, though, "Where do you keep all of the dresses from the weddings you've been in?" Most are hanging in my coat closet. Some are at my parents' house and a couple have been misplaced (probably during a really fun wedding weekend) and were never spoken of again.

For the most part, the bridesmaids dress routine is the same five-step process every time: buy dress, alter dress, wear dress, dry clean dress, never look at dress again.

Since most of the brides I've walked down the aisle for have also been in their fair share of weddings, I have fortunately been spared the promise that their bridesmaid's dress choice will be the one that I can, and will, "totally wear again." My friends know that the likelihood of that ever happening is slim, because they have a closet full of never-to-be-worn-again bridesmaids dresses as well. So our conversations about the chosen wedding attire is much more direct, almost business like.

"Here is what I chose. No, you'll never wear it again. This is how much you owe."

Luckily my friends have excellent taste, and while the back of my closet compares slightly to Katherine Heigl's in the film, 27 Dresses, it does so in volume only, not in the ridiculous get ups her character was forced to wear. I've never truly hated anything that I was asked to wear, and even the dresses I questioned at first looked pretty good in pictures.

In two of the more recent weddings I'd been in, the dresses came directly from the pages of J.Crew magazine, making them perfectly acceptable frocks for something other than their initial purpose. But for whatever reason, I'd yet to overcome the fact that while it may look like a simple cocktail dress to everyone else, to me, it would always be Emily's bridesmaid's dress, or the dress I wore in my brother's wedding.

Until Dan and Karen's big day, I'd never worn any of these dresses again, but that's exactly what I intended to do as Day 251's thing I'd never done before.

The time had come for a bridesmaids dress redo.

I immediately narrowed down the choice to two possibilities, Emily's or Katie's. Both J. Crew, both brown (and therefore easy to accessorize), both had pockets (the greatest addition to a dress ever). Emily's dress was strapless and more of a satin material. Katie's was a halter-style, and a heavy linen.

Katie and I spoke on Friday over the phone and I told her my plan. She said she thought it was a great idea and was flattered that the dress I wore in her wedding was in the running for the dress I might wear to pull the challenge off. Then we discussed why re-wearing a perfectly normal looking bridesmaids dress is such a difficult thing to do.

"I feel about it the same way I think about turning 30," I told her. "I don't mind doing it, I just don't want anyone else to know."

The trick then to pulling off the redo was to change the look of the dress completely to make it more evening friendly and less "bridesmaidy."

On Saturday I went to a jewelry boutique in search of bold colors or big gemstones (or both) to achieve this tall order.

I told the ladies at Just the Thing what I was trying to achieve and they went to work immediately in search of something to turn an old bridesmaids dress into something special. I left an hour later with an enormous necklace, a cuff bracelet and a pair of earrings. I had no idea which of the three I'd wear, but they all matched each other, and I knew they'd match either Emily's dress or Katie's dress.

When I got home, I spent at least half an hour pairing different shoes and different accessories with each of the dresses. In the end, Emily's dress was the one I chose to wear a second time, with the necklace, bracelet, and a pair of bright orange shoes.

The outfit may have been a little loud, but there was no denying it did not look like a bridesmaids dress anymore.

"Wow," my friend Billy said as we were taking our seats for the wedding, "That is quite a necklace."

"Thanks," I said, touching the new purchase on my neck, ignoring the fact that what he said was likely not a compliment.

Another man commented on my outfit while I was standing in line for food.

"I just love what you're doing here," he said motioning with his hand at my ensemble. I smiled and thanked him. And then I looked at his wife and considered asking her if she was aware that her husband might be gay.

I received several other compliments and I could not help but feel that this was a great idea--a fiscally responsible decision and a creative masterpiece, if I do say so myself. Not one person asked if I was wearing a recycled bridesmaids dress, which makes me think that maybe it's time I cleaned out my closet and to give these dresses I've bought and worn only once a chance at a second life.

Probably what would best accompany a blog about an outfit that I wore would be a picture of me wearing the outfit, right? Well, yes, except genius over here completely forgot to take one, so I was forced to rip the only pictures I do have from my friend Billy, and also the wedding photographer.

Kudos to me for staying out of the photographer's line of fire, something that in the 60+ weddings I've attended, I've never been able to do. But stupid of me to not illustrate how a bridesmaids dress redo is completely doable. Hopefully you'll get the point by the pictures I do have. If not, you'll just have to take my word for it.

Day 186: Unwelcome House Guest

Before my brother and sister-in-law came to visit on Day 174, I went to great lengths to prepare for their stay, ensuring that my house was clean, and that there was food and beer in the fridge. I forgot, however, to tell them about my new roommate.

Because I had been hearing him for several weeks now, I was used to waking up to the sounds of little feet scurrying around in my ceiling and in the walls. But Jeff and Katie were disturbed by the noises they were hearing and urged me to get my landlord to evict my roommate sooner rather than later.

I told Katie and Jeff that I lived in constant fear of him falling through the ceiling and onto my bed while I was sleeping, but I assured them that the situation had been under investigation and would soon be under control.

Knowing that action was being taken to have him physically removed from the premises, I guess my roommate decided he wasn't leaving until he met me face to face. So one morning recently he made an appearance in my apartment while I was making a bowl of cereal.

And it was grand appearance indeed.

On Day 186, April Fool's Day, my roommate, a squirrel that had found its way into the walls and ceiling of my apartment, jumped through the chimney in my living room. Chasing the little rodent out of my house became Day 186's thing I've never done before.

I've told this story so many times in person and every time I tell it, people want to know, "Oh my God, what did you do?"

The best way I can describe this horrific experience is by contrasting it to other experiences often over-dramatized by the movies. For example, when a woman goes into labor. In the movies, this scenario is always depicted by a hysterical pregnant woman screaming wildly, breathing heavily, cursing everyone in her path. I was with my friend Danielle when she went into labor and her experience was far from dramatic race to the hospital always portrayed in films and on television shows. She was in pain, but she was calm. There was no yelling, no racing.

I assumed, then, that if ever a rodent was let loose in my house, the scene would not be like that scene from National Lampoon's Christmas Vacation when all of the Griswolds ran screaming from room to room from the squirrel dramatically. But in fact, it is. That's EXACTLY what it's like.

When the squirrel tumbled down the chimney and to my living room, I threw my cereal bowl on the counter and I let out a moan that I didn't think I was capable of making. I truly don't even know what part of my body the sound came from, because it was one I'd never heard before. My heart was beating so fast, but I was paralyzed with fear, and I stood frozen, staring at the squirrel.

But if you've ever seen a squirrel, you know that they really don't stand still. They dart. In and out of the road, up and down trees. The same is true when squirrels are indoors. Before I could look at him for very long, he took off running through my apartment. And then I ran too. Towards him or away from him, I'm really not sure. I suppose it was a combination of both.

I knew that I'd never catch the squirrel, nor did I want to. I had just two goals: to open a door and let the squirrel run out and most importantly, to never let him touch me.

My apartment is designed "shotgun style," so all the rooms are in one long row, in this order: the foyer, my bedroom, the living room, kitchen, and bathroom in the back. There are two doors, one in the front in the foyer and one in the bathroom that leads to the deck out back.

So in my attempt to open both doors so that squirrel could run out, the rodent and I basically chased each other up and down the house, through all four rooms, lots of weird noises still coming from my completely terrified self.

At some point in the insanity, I texted my landlord "Uh, the squirrel is in my apartment!"

Landlord Scott came over immediately and I prefaced my tirade with, "I just want you to know that I'm hyper-aware that it's April Fool's Day. I swear this isn't a joke!"

He shook his head, and I could tell he believed me because I was more or less shouting at him.

And then he said, "I'm telling you, I've looked everywhere and I just don't understand how the squirrel is getting in the ceiling."

Now, I had acknowledged already the humor in this entire situation and had faced the likely possibility that this might be the most hilarious thing that will ever happen to me in life. In fact, there were times when I found myself half-laughing while also screaming running through my house.

But when Landlord Scott wanted to dive into how the squirrel was able to get into my house, I was not amused. I nodded that I understood, but what I really wanted to do was grab him by the shoulders, shake him and say, "Can we talk about how he got here later?!?!?! He's still in the house!" That's like asking someone, while their house is burning, how they think the flames ignited.

I mean, let's deal with the squirrel!

I should tell you that my landlords Scott and David are extremely conscientious about the upkeep of their home, they take good care of me and of the house and I think the not being able to crack the squirrel case was really weighing on both of them.

But like other unpleasurable things, squirrels happen.

And unfortunately, on this April Fool's Day, they were happening to us.

Landlord Scott eventually stopped with the explaining and the two of us faced the situation at hand. We both tiptoed around my apartment and tried to find the squirrel but finally we heard no more scurrying. I assumed that my genius idea to open the doors had worked and squirrel ran out during our conversation.

Scott left, but not before telling me that he'd go up in the attic and between the walls again and try and figure out how the squirrel had made our home his own.

I tried to go back to my cereal, which was now soggy, but I realized quickly that I didn't have much of an appetite. My heart was still racing, and I felt like I had run a marathon.

I tried to go about my morning as usual, so I sat on my couch and tried to write, which is what I do in the morning. I shared with a few friends what had happened and reacted to every noise as if it was the squirrel ready to rumble again, jumping up several times from the couch.

At some point I started to feel uneasy with the fact that I never actually saw the squirrel exit my apartment. So before I got in the shower, I did one last look through the house for the squirrel. Under the bed, under my couch, behind my book shelf. My stomach flipped when I looked behind my magazine basket and saw a little ball of fur sleeping soundly.

First of all, who knew squirrels slept? I had to assume that they did at some point during the day, I had just never seen it until now.

Second of all, DAMMIT. THE SQUIRREL IS STILL IN MY F-ING HOUSE!

My heart, which had calmed down somewhat since I thought the squirrel had left, started racing again. I text messaged Scott to tell him that the squirrel was still in the house.

His response, "I'm on a conference call. I will come over when I'm done."

Freaking great.

Time was starting to become an issue because I had to get ready for work. I have an understanding boss, but calling to say, "I am going to be late today because there is a squirrel taking me hostage inside my house," is just not something that I wanted to do. I decided to get in the shower and hope that Scott's conference call was over by the time I was out.

Positive that the only thing worse than a squirrel in my house is a squirrel walking in on me talking a shower, I closed and locked the bathroom door.

Part of me expected to open the door after the shower to the squirrel running wildly all over the place. But he remained behind the magazine basket, still sleeping. I shared the latest with the squirrel with Lauren, Elizabeth, and Emily and asked for their advice.

"Holy crap. The squirrel is still here. Sleeping behind a basket."

Their responses were vastly different.

"HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA," Lauren laughed. And then she said squirrels are gross. No real idea on how to get it out, but she appreciated the story.

Elizabeth's response was my favorite: "Get the f*ck out of your house. Call the fire department."

I can't call the fire department over a squirrel. Or wait, can I?

Emily was concerned, especially when I told her I was out of ideas on how to get him out and that I was contemplating leaving the squirrel behind when I came into work. "No," she wrote, "Put on a hat and shoo it out with a broom. If you let it stay in your house while you're at work, it'll destroy everything."

When I told her that the squirrel was sleeping, she asked me if it was possible that the squirrel was dead. I said I wasn't sure, but it was certainly possible with all the trauma he and I had suffered together just hours earlier, there was a chance he could have died. Then I felt bad for the squirrel who possibly took his last breath in my sad little apartment.

When I turned my hair dryer on, I saw the little fur ball twitch, so I knew that the squirrel was still alive. And just like that, I wanted him dead.

At around that time, Scott had finished his conference call and come over to my apartment with a towel. His plan was to scoop the squirrel up with the towel and calmly release him in the yard. I was not confident in this approach, but without any ideas of my own, I was willing to go along with it.

Going along with it meant that I was going to stand in my bedroom and watch the action go down as far away from the squirrel as possible.

Scott walked over to where the squirrel was sleeping and surveyed the situation. He is an animal lover and I could tell he had empathy for the little rodent who obviously was more scared of us than we were of him.

He gently pulled the basket back and spoke to the squirrel in a gentle tone of voice, "It's ok . . .it's alright."

No surprise, Scott's plan to scoop the squirrel up in the towel did not work. Sweet sleeping squirrel went immediately back to being schizo squirrel running wildly all over my house. Only this time, instead of just me running behind him screaming and making other weird noises, Scott joined in. Only he had the towel as a prop that he was using to guide the squirrel towards the door.

Thankfully, it worked. And after a few laps in the living room, the squirrel ran out the front door.

He ran onto the front deck and then he climbed up the screen of the porch. Scott kept telling him, "Run, run into the yard," and he used the towel to point him in the right direction. Only the towel waving in his face seemed to scare him more and from about ten feet up on the screen, the squirrel leapt onto the porch, missing jumping on Scott's face by just inches. The squirrel hit the porch with a thud and scurried away, his back legs seemingly injured.

I felt badly that the ordeal had to end this way, but I was happy to see the squirrel go, bum legs and all. If that makes me a bad person, then maybe I am. The next morning I woke up to the same scurrying feet in my ceiling, so the little squirrel obviously wasn't that bad off.

I went to work exhausted, happy that the thing I've never done before was already taken care of, but disappointed that I had no energy to play any pranks on anyone for April Fool's Day.

Elizabeth said it would've been funny if the squirrel had jumped through the chimney holding a sign that said, "April Fool's!" and I agreed. For a moment I thought maybe the squirrel was a joke carried out by Lisa as pay back for her Valentine's Day present.

Someone asked me if I was going to write about this in the blog and I said, "Yes, of course I am. I've never chased a squirrel out of my house."

Then the same person asked me, "Did you take a picture of it?"

What? Whoever asked me this (and I truly don't remember) deserves a little shake of their own.

No, while chasing the squirrel through my house, I didn't think to grab a camera and say, "Hey little rat with the bushy tail, smile for the blog!"

But admittedly, I was sad I didn't think of it. Because that would've been awesome.

Day 182: Happy Half-Birthday to Me!

We're half-way there, blog readers. Actually, I am way past half-way there, just behind on writing about it.

Day 182 was my half-birthday.

Facing the downside of my 29th year freaked me out a little bit. I can't believe this project is half-over. I can't believe my twenties are almost over. I can't believe I'm almost 30.

I had to keep myself busy, and find a way to acknowledge this day in a positive way.

Day 182's thing I've never done before was to celebrate my half-birthday.

I started the day having lunch with my best friend from high school, Danielle, and her family.

The meal was good, the company was better and I laughed out loud when Danielle's daughter Karson dropped her fork while eating, turned to me and said, "Aunt Steph, have you ever had lice?"

Though that was a question I've never been asked before, this conversation really had nothing to do with my half-birthday celebration. With only six months left of my twenties, though, I loved that in her ever-hilarious way, Karson was able to take me back to my childhood by bringing up a word I hadn't heard in probably 20 years.

I laughed as I responded, "Lice? Yes, I had lice a looooooong time ago. Have you?"

"No," she replied, going back to eating her meal.

I looked at Danielle as if to say, "Why is she asking me about lice?"

Danielle said, matter of factly, "Big lice outbreak at school."

As humorous as this little exchange was to me, and as joyful as all of my visits with Karson are, I couldn't help but be reminded of how fast time is flying. She's seven-years old. She starting to lose teeth. She knows words like, "lice."

I'm almost 30. Ugh.

I find that the best thing to do when I'm feeling down about my age is to hang out with someone older than me. The obvious choice was my friend Adam, who is exactly two years older than I am. Exactly.

Adam and I met in college and I remember when I found out that we were born on the same day, I was floored. At that time he was the only person I'd ever met that had the same birthday as me. Like it was inconceivable to me that someone else could've also been born on September 27th.

I was even more shocked when I went to Adam's house and noticed that he, like me, set his clock 14 minutes fast.

Freaky, right?

I called him when I was done with lunch.

"What are you doing?" I asked.

"Nothing," he said.

I told him I was coming over to his house and that he was making his blog debut on Day 182 and we were celebrating our half birthdays.

I walked to Cupcake in Mt. Pleasant and bought four cupcakes, all different flavors.

"Happy Half-Birthday!" I shouted when Adam answered the door. It's a good thing we're such good friends, because he probably would've thought I was insane otherwise.

He happily supports my crazy ideas and though he's never said so, I know he would do anything to support the blog, even if it meant celebrating a non-holiday and eating cupcakes on Sunday afternoon.

We blew out the candles and made a wish. I wished that the next six months would go slowly and that when they were finally over that I would be level-headed about it. And that I would become more interesting and more beautiful when my real birthday did arrive.

I'm a greedy wisher, what can I say?

We ate our cupcakes, which were amazing, and then I had to return to Atlanta to get started on the second half of this challenge.

Happy Half-Birthday to me! And to Adam! And to Project 29 to 30!

Day 127: Lucky Star

Day 127 had arrived and like many Mondays, I had no idea what the blog activity was going to be. I cut it close. Truthfully, I was in full-on planning mode for Day 128’s thing I’ve never done before, that I forgot about Day 127.

Just before 7pm, Justin came through with the winning suggestion. “Why don’t you name a star?”

I like the idea of owning a piece of the constellations, but I can’t really name a star after myself.

The only star that I want named after me will be the one on the Hollywood Walk of Fame after I star in the Lifetime original movie, Project 29 to 30, (co-starring Meredith Baxter Birney, who will dye her hair brown and play my mother).

So, I decided to buy this star for someone else. But who was worthy of such an "out-of-this-world" gift?

My friends would appreciate it, but likely just for five minutes and only as a joke. My parents would chastise me spending my money on something so ridiculous.

And then it became clear. My 7-year old "niece," Karson. Karson is my childhood best friend Danielle's daughter. She's not really my niece, but I love her as if she was and she's the only person I can think of that would appreciate it this as much as I did.

Karson will always be special to me because I was in and out of the hospital room when she was born and she's a redhead despite her parents both being brunettes (like me). And she's hilarious. And she adores me. Because I'm her aunt and not her mom, I let her do whatever she wants, but since she has the same hair color as me, when the three of us are together, people assume she's mine and that I'm a bad mother.

I logged on to the site http://www.nameastarlive.com/, where I quickly realized there are several levels to star naming. For $19.95, you can name the star, register the star’s name, and launch the star’s name and message into orbit. For $39.95 you can do all of that and get a cuddly teddy bear. What? Karson has plenty of teddy bears and I found these two things to be completely unrelated and just another way to charge me more money. I think $19.95 is plenty.

The fact that I was even on this site was a big step, because I really hate everything that has to do with space. I realize this is completely un-American of me, but I feel better just getting it out in the open. I know that there is value to NASA, I just don't know what it is and when anything involving shuttle launches, landings, the International Space Station comes on the news, my eyes glaze over and I check out.

I named the star Karson, and said, "I'm so proud of the sweet, funny, smart girl you are. You're a star!"

And she is.

I texted her mom, and said, "You're never going to believe what I just did. I bought Karson a star!"

Danielle loved it and thought it was sweet. I hope she doesn't think it's less sweet because now I'm writing about it on the blog. She called me when Karson opened it and said she's not sure if she really gets it. But she said Karson collapsed on her bed in surprise when Danielle told her what it was. I'll take that as a success. A success that was captured on video, but for reasons far beyond our comprehension (like space), unfortunately cannot be sent from Danielle's phone.

If I had an unlimited amount of money and didn't have to go to work, I would make this blog about doing nice things and buying unexpected gifts for people, because there is truly no better feeling than surprising others with random acts of kindness. It's somewhat selfish, actually, because I'm sure that $20 star probably gave me more joy than it gave Karson. And I hate space!

Day 126: Couples Skate

Once again, my friend Lisa took one for the blog team on Day 126 when I begged her to go ice skating with me. I begged a lot of people. She was the only one who agreed.

For that, I felt badly.

I felt extra badly since she had just returned from a week in St. Maarten. She went from sipping fruity cocktails on a white sandy beach to dodging snotty nose kids on an ice-skating rink.

Actually, that’s exactly the reason why I don’t feel sorry for her. She went to a tropical island and I didn’t get to go. She should suffer.

When I told Lisa I wanted to go to Centennial Olympic Park to skate, she said, “You’ve never ice-skated?”

And again, the answer is, “No.” Not that I can remember anyway.

I’m from South Carolina. The only skating we ever did was at roller skating birthday parties at Carolina Skateland. I tagged along for a couple of Friday night skating outings with my friend Danielle, who was a regular, but I must confess, there was little skating going on and a lot more other questionable behavior.

My brother and I vaguely remember driving to Charlotte, North Carolina with our neighbors to ice skate once, but I don’t remember much about it. So we’ll make Day 126’s thing I’ve never done before to ice skate as an adult.

We met downtown and walked over to the rink on a cold, but sunny Sunday afternoon. I don’t know if my socks weren’t thick enough, or if I have bad circulation in general, but my feet were numb before we even put our skates on. The skates were rentals, obviously, and not in the best condition, as demonstrated by this photograph. Think Fisher-Price, "My First Ice-Skates."

The place was a disaster, full of kids of all ages; some clutching their parents’ hands or pants’ legs, others whizzing by me turning quickly and sharply. Shocking to me, and Lisa too, I’m sure, I managed to stay on my feet and didn’t fall once. Unfortunately, though, I never was able to get going either. I just sort of shuffled my feet along the rink and through the ice shavings.

“Life is a highway,” by Tom Cochrane was blasting on the stereo and I was getting lapped by Lisa and all of the other kiddos. So much for a triple salchow or other fancy tricks, I just needed speed.

Lisa said the rink was in terrible condition (again, first she’s an expert on goats at the Christmas Tree farm, now ice-skating rinks). She said it needed the attention of a Zamboni. Her suggestion made us both think that we need to find someone with connections to a Zamboni that would let me go for a ride as something I’ve never done before.

I considered asking Lisa to give me a little push so that I could get going, Olympic Couples Skate style, but that was a line that neither she nor I wanted to cross. So she skated and I shuffled. The entire experience from start to finish lasted about an hour.

Once “Barbie Girl,” started playing...that was our cue to get the hell out of there. From the music, to the kids, to the multiple wipeouts going on all around me, I couldn’t help but be taken back to the old days of Carolina Skateland, minus the social awkwardness, questionable behavior and feeling unsure of myself. Wait, all of those things were present this time around as well.

Good times.

Day 97: Facial Awesomeness

I'm constantly grateful for my friends who have stepped up to the plate with fun ideas for the blog and especially those who have participated in the not-so-fun ones that I've come up with on my own.

Day 97's thing I've never done before was to get my very first facial (at Natural Body in Brookhaven here), so you can imagine that my friends showed up in large numbers and with roaring enthusiasm for this "challenge" (I'm not sure I can even call it that, there was nothing challenging about it). Only one could come, however, as the spa only had two openings for facials that day. That lucky one was Trish.

Going to get a facial with someone is kind of silly, though, since the only time that you actually spend with them is the time it takes to walk into the spa, give the receptionist your name and the walk to your cars afterwards to recap how awesome it was. I was running late, so I didn't even see Trish on the front end of the facial. We didn't see each other until after our treatments were over.

When my esthetetician Sally greeted me, her voice set me on a path to relaxation immediately. She was so sweet and soft-spoken, just like all the estheticians I know. My best friend from home Danielle is an esthetician and though I know her as my hilarious, silly friend, when I've been to see her at work, shetakes on another personality entirely. Still sweet and friendly, she speaks softly and there is just a calmness about her that is different. I wondered if this persona is a requirement to work in a place so calm and relaxing. I don't know if I could do it. I'd probably get fired for speaking too loudly if I worked there.

Sally led me to the back and asked me a few questions.

"Are you pregnant?"

Um, no. Definitely not.

"Do you have sensitive skin?"

"No," I said definitively. And then I backtracked.

"Well, I don't think I do. I mean, I'm really not sure. I guess sensitive to the sun. I mean I obviously have fair-skin."

I'm 29, and a female whose been obsessing about my face since I was 12. I'm guessing I should probably know at this point in my life whether or not my skin is sensitive. But I didn't know.

She told me to take off my clothes and lie on the table under a sheet. Come again? This is a facial, right?

"Sorry to ask this," I said, embarrassed. "Do you mean get undressed?"

I think I assumed that since she'd just be dealing with my face, I'd just lie down on her table fully clothed. But she told me to get comfortable, so I did.

Now I consider professional massages some of the best money I've ever spent, but then again, I enjoy someone, anyone, playing with my hair, scratching my back, or accidentally brushing my arm on an elevator. So there was never a question as to whether or not I would enjoy my first facial. The question was how much.

The answer is a LOT.

She started the facial, rubbing an assortment of products on my face. I didn't know what any of them were, and I was thankful that Sally didn't give me the play by play, ruining my ability to check out from reality for a while. She could have been rubbing dog poo and olive oil on my face and I would't have known the difference. I was so unbelievably relaxed by her massaging my face, I didn't care. It felt amazing.

That is, until she started the extraction part of the facial. My friend Kyle warned me about this part. "Extraction" is a fancy spa word for "popping zits." Sally shined an enormous light on my face so she could see and then she went to town extracting in places that I didn't even think were broken out. That light must have magical powers. I'm thankful I do not own this light, or I would probably never leave my house. I'd be extracting all day.

She finished up with a mask that felt like super cold, super thick pudding going onto my face. While she let it set, she gave me an arm and hand massage. I didn't want it to end.

I anticipated coming away from the experience happy with the facial, but still keeping massages number one on my list of favorite spa treatments. I may be rethinking that. During a facial, at least this one, I got both the benefit of the face care as well as a mini-massage. It was marvelous. Trish took a picture of me, post-treatment and you can tell, though terribly uncomfortable with the fact that I'm going to be posting this picture of myself without any makeup on, I am a happy girl.

My only concern, having knocked this off the list of things I have now done, is that I want to make "getting facials" a hobby. I'm not sure my salary can support this hobby. So, if anyone wants to help support me in developing my skills on the spa table, I would be most grateful.

Because according to Sally, my skin is, in fact, sensitive. So I think I'm going to need it.

Day 82: Dad, Please Don't Read This

In case the title isn't clear enough, Dad, I'm going to have to ask that you not read this blog.

The 30th birthday parties are underway among my girlfriends. Actually since I have friends of all ages, the parties have been going on for several years now, but for some reason the latest to turn the big 3-0 is making me painfully aware of how quickly my big birthday is approaching.

Day 82's thing I've never done before was to attend a "Dirty 30" birthday party for two of my friends, Trish and Kyle.

My friend Momo (real name: Maureen) had attended this type of party, also known as a XXX Christmas gift exchange, and decided she wanted to host one of her own, in honor of our friends' birthdays and for the holidays.

The concept was simple: bring a lingerie/sex toy gift for a White Elephant/Yankee Swap game.

Dad, seriously, stop reading this. It's going to make the next time we see each other super awkward. Mom, Jeff, boss Paul, you can all stop reading too.

I picked up my gift at Victoria's Secret, just like I have for the countless bachelorette parties I have thrown and attended over the years. Not a big deal, I'm an old pro at this. If I'd had time I would've gone to Inserection, a completely creepy but hilarious "Adult Store" to pick up something else.

When I arrived, everyone was chatting and laughing. I could tell right away that Momo had outdone herself. There was an elaborate food display, a cranberry champagne punch bowl, beautiful decorations. I didn't know it then, but I would soon learn that her effort was far too classy for what was about to go down. But at that point, I wasn't thinking anything was terribly out of the ordinary. Just an all-girls holiday get-together. No biggie. Momo passed around a bowl full of Christmas jingle bells that were numbered. I drew #2, which meant I would only have one gift to possibly steal. Not a good number.

Kristen drew #1. I'm not sure if this was her strategy or if she wasn't wanting to take any chances because she chose her own gift, a modest pair of pajamas.

Then it was my turn to either steal Kristen's gift or open another one. The pajamas were nice, but I wanted to see what else was out there, so I chose a nicely wrapped square box from under Momo's Christmas tree and took it back to my seat. All eyes were on me as I tore the paper and lifted the lid and removed the items inside, nervous laughter spilling out from me like a faucet.

Inside the pretty little package was a red see-through teddy, crotchless underwear (yes, I just typed "crotchless") and my favorite, a pair of fingerless gloves with ribbons on the wrists, presumably for tying the wearer's hands together or to piece of furniture? The tag said, "One size fits most."

My friend Trish, who purchased this raunchy gift began apologizing immediately and profusely, reading the expression on my face for disappointment that I didn't get something better. She apparently couldn't tell that I wasn't disappointed. I was just mortified.

Everyone was laughing. I started to sweat. I think I actually said at one point, "Is it hot in here?"

Lots of questions began running through my mind at this point, including, 1. Where the hell did Trish find it? 2. What possessed her to buy it? 3. Do people actually wear this kind of stuff?

While I'm trying to reconcile the answers to all of these questions, birthday girl Kyle shouts out, "Since it's my birthday, I'd like to make a rule that everyone has to wear whatever item they get on the outside of their clothes!"

Oh well that's a fun idea, Kyle! Sike.

So as if it wasn't bad enough that I had to open this outfit and hold it up in front of everyone, but then I had to put it on. My face was bright red and my hands were sweating.

I don't know why I was so embarrassed. I'm 29-years-old, for heaven's sake. I have dedicated myself to writing a year-long blog revealing every personal thing about myself. Why the sudden desire to play innocent? Plus, these women are my best friends and this was a game, this was all in good fun. Why the nerves?

I don't know. My own reaction surprised me too. I'm not bothered by sex toys or lingerie. Except, apparently, when they are given to me.

Luckily, I sitting next to Shelley who provided just the amount of comic relief that I needed to relax. She opened several awesome gifts, all of which were stolen from her. My favorite was definitely the 'Mrs. Santa Claus' number. I'm still not sure what she ended up with.

The game moved forward and I watched with sincere interest to see the items that were most commonly stolen. My plum nightie was popular, as were all of the holiday inspired items. I also loved seeing the pleasant but annoyed looks on some of the women's faces when their gift was taken from them. For the sake of the blog not getting moved to an "unsuitable" corner of the Internet, I'll just say there were some pretty suggestive movies, toys and devices that are now occupying my friends' homes.

I had pretty much resigned myself to the fact that my bright red ensemble and matching cuffs was going to be mine forever, when late in the game, to my surprise, my newly engaged friend Melissa piped up from the couch, "Gallman, hand over the cuffs."

"Say wha?"

Wowza, Thomas is in for a big surprise. Trish, happy that her gift was stolen said to me recently, "I need to ask Melissa how that's working out for her."

Her stealing my gift meant that I had to open another one. This time I chose Maribeth's, which was full of several goodies, my favorite being an Exotica Mask ala Eyes Wide Shut. So weird. Again, with the questions, 1. Where did she find it? 2. Are people really turned on by feathered masks? 3. Will the guys that read my blog be more interested in me now that they know I have it, and some other fun toys?

The mask did come in handy in that it let me hide from the rest of the gift-giving. It made for some awkward moments the next day, however, when I was in Charleston with my high school friend Danielle. As I was taking my luggage out of my car, her 7-year old daughter caught a glimpse of the mask in the backseat.

"Aunt Steph, what's that?" she asked, pointing at it.

Danielle and I looked at each other, trying not to laugh and Danielle said, "Karson, sometimes Aunt Steph likes to dress up in costumes."

Thanks, friends, for forcing me to face my fears and for forcing me to explain to a 7-year old the weird twisted activites I participate in on the weekends.

I live in fear of my own bachelorette party.