Day 249: Playing My Girl Card

On Day 249, Emily and I hosted a martini party, something she'd been suggesting we do as a fun activity for the blog.

"Perfect," I thought, because while being a vodka martini drinker for several years now, I had never actually made the cocktail myself.

When Sex and the City 2 hit the theaters, this party we'd only just talked about started to make sense, and began to take shape. What if we had martinis and appetizers ahead of going to see the movie? How completely unoriginal and girly!

Let it be known that I make no apologies for liking this show, and the films, as much as every other woman. Interesting characters, superb writing, fabulous shoes . . .what's not to like? Hosting a party in honor of a movie, though, was completely out of character for Emily and me.

But what the hell? Who cares? I needed to learn how to mix a martini, I needed away to get people over to Emily's to taste it and I did want to see the film, so Day 249's thing I've never done before was to make blue cheese stuffed olives and mix a dirty martini.

And host a Sex and the City 2 party. Barf.

I prepared the blue cheese stuffed olives before going over to Emily's the night of the party.

They're not hard to make, they're simply time consuming. The challenge for me was figuring out how to get the cheese in the little hole inside the olive without kitchen tools like piping bags and toothpicks.

Before that, though, I had to get the pimentos out. I searched wildly for a tool that would've done the trick, but came up short. I wondered, after briefly considering grabbing my bathroom set to get this job done, if there is such a thing as kitchen tweezers for scenarios like this. If not, perhaps I will invent them and become rich and famous.

I washed my hands thoroughly and used my fingers and a fork to remove the pimentos. Then I filled a plastic sandwich bag (the single girl's piping bag) with the blue cheese mixture (blue cheese, garlic and black pepper), snipped the end off of it and squeezed the mixture into the now-vacant hole in each of the olives.

The process wasn't pretty, and my method, along with the mess, served as further proof that I will never have my own cooking show, but the finished product was delicious. I repacked the pimento-free, blue cheese stuffed olives into the olive juice, as the recipe told me to, packed my other hors d’ourves and raced over to Emily's house.

"I got all dressed up for my partay," Emily said when she opened the door to her place wearing a fancy new shirt.

In the spirit of girliness, I told her she looked, “Soooooo cute,” and that her tan from her long weekend at the beach looked, “Soooooo good.”

We began racing around to set up the food and drinks, forgetting for a moment that our friends are usually late and likely wouldn't arrive on time. Our window for food and drinks was short, though, since we were headed to the movie at 9pm, so we wanted everything ready by the time guests began to arrive.

As we started filling platters with the food we'd prepared, I had to laugh.

"Where were we going with this menu?," I asked Emily, as I looked at the spread that included baked brie, guacamole, wontons and frosted cookies with the characters from Sex and the City's names painted on them.

"I have no idea," she said.

Scott, Emily's husband, agreed. The theme we were apparently going for was, “Emily and Stephanie’s favorite finger foods.”

He motioned towards the brie.

"Did you guys make that because of Bree in the movie?," he asked, smiling, proud that he had drawn this conclusion.

Emily and I stared at him, and then we looked at each other. Then Emily looked back at Scott.

"Are you talking about Brie from Desperate Housewives?," Emily asked.

Scott laughed.

"Whoops, my bad."

And then he grabbed a wonton and left the condo immediately for Donald’s, where he would stay, banished from his own place for the rest of the girls' night.

After Scott left, it was time to mix my first martini.

And then Lisa called.

“Where are you?” I said, “I made blue cheese stuffed olives.”

"Well why don't you stuff one with a ruffie and I'll be right there.”

"What? Nice, Lisa. That just made the blog."

She hung up, and arrived a few minutes later.

While we waited for her to get there, I went back to mixing my very first martini. Though I wasn't thinking this at the time, I'm extremely grateful that learning how to make a martini was on my list of things to do that I'd never done before. I just feel like that's something every 30-year old should know how to do.

Emily gave me instructions, and said a martini isn't scientific. It's just vodka, a couple of splashes of vermouth, and as much olive juice as I wanted in the cocktail shaker with ice. That's it.

Then shake, (but not too much so that it spills all over Emily's countertops as I learned the hard way) pour, and serve.

Done. Easy. Delicious.

After a couple of tries, I discovered the key to a good martini is to make it super cold, and super salty with the olive juice.

Our guests agreed. Those who tried the dirty martini seemed to like it. Well, more like they didn't hate it; I'm going to take that as a success. No one seemed completely turned off my the drinks and the olives were a hit.

We spent a lot of time out on Emily and Scott's back porch that night, discussing everything and nothing. Lisa was surprised to find out, despite me already telling her, that I'd made the olives myself.

"Oh," Lisa said, "You made them?"

I reminded her about our conversation earlier about the ruffie, and I told her I'd already planned to write about it in the blog. Then she said she hated when I write about her, because I misrepresent her.

Her words stung.

"Like misquote you?" I asked.

"No," she said, "You just always make me sound stupid."

Maribeth chimed in and agreed with Lisa that I've painted her in an unflattering way.

Though this conversation was light-hearted (I think), I made it clear that the only person I aim to disbarage in this blog is myself. And I truly mean that. My friends are the characters in my life and they're way more interesting than any characters I could've created, but in no way did I ever mean to put them out there in ways that are unfavorable.

But seeing as how I'm several months behind in writing, I must admit that, "My blog is the truth, as I remember it," so I might not get everything exactly right. I'm getting up there in years, after all.

I told both of them this and then encouraged Maribeth and Lisa to start their own blogs to set the record straight.

At 8:30pm, we needed to make a move to the theater for the movie, but no one could really get the motivation to get out the door. The martinis were simply too tasty, and the conversation (read: gossip) was just too good, so after a great deal of dicussion, we opted to skip the movie and enjoy each other's company (and my martinis) instead.

The change of plans kind of screwed Kyle who had already bought her ticket to the movie, but the decision was the right one, and Kyle met us at Emily's.

So the Sex and the City 2 party turned out to be the martini party that we'd intended it to be all along.

So fun, so girly, and so fabulous. Just like us.

Ok, enough with the cliches. Can someone bring me a beer?

Day 242: Birthday Girl's Choice

On Day 242, Emily was next on the list of my friends to turn the dreaded 3-0.

Her husband Scott organized a surprise dinner for her at Rosebud, a restaurant in the Highlands.

I had a little surprise of my own, deciding to give Emily, as her birthday present, the opportunity to decide what Day 242's thing I've never done before would be.

I know you're probably thinking, "That sounds like the crappiest birthday present ever." And it is. It was all I had, though, and the idea had the potential to be a win-win for both of us. Emily could completely embarrass me, and I wouldn't have to come up with anything on my own.

Besides, Emily is a Project 29 to 30 fan. When I told her my plan she actually seemed excited about the opportunity, which made me feel relieved, and less like a shitty friend.

When we took our seats for dinner, she revealed what she had come up with.

She motioned towards the trio that was providing the background music at the restaurant.

"You have a choice," she said, "You can either ask one of the band members out on a date, or you can get them to play 'Happy Birthday' and you have to sing it."

"Ok," I said, taking a breath. "Ok."

Two tasks, completely doable for the average person.

Only I'm me.

And thanks to my brother Jeff, I never make the first move when it comes to dating and boys; and thanks to a horrible singing voice, I never sing in public. Never.

Alright, with the exception of Spring Break 1999 in Key West, Florida, when my friend Lauren McKinnon taught me every word to "Let's Get it On," I never sing in public.

I love music, and I love to sing, I'm just so bad at it, that I keep my out-loud singing limited to my car and my shower. I really blame feeling so self-conscious about my singing voice on my dad, since he was the one who leaned over to me while I was singing a hymn at church and whispered, "Are you trying to sound that bad?"

I really wasn't trying to sound bad at all. Apparently it just comes naturally.

So what to choose when there are only two horrible options?

I glanced over at the trio, who was already hard at work playing unrecognizable background music. At least one of them was hot, the other two were not ugly, and none appeared to be wearing wedding rings. Asking one of them out seemed like the logical choice under these circumstances, though it freaked me out way worse than singing for some reason that even I can't figure out (No, I can figure it out. It's a book called The Rules, and it haunts me.)

I really do want to gather up the courage to ask someone out, but I want it to be someone that I am sincerely interested in. And I didn't know these guys at all.

"So," I told Emily, "I'm going to sing you 'Happy Birthday,'" as Day 242's thing I've never done before.

She smiled wide and clapped her hands, and together we decided to ask the waiter if the idea we had in mind was something he could help us execute. We're cute and can be quite charming when we need to be, so I think we both assumed this would be a pretty easy request, and that the waiter would be on board.

But he wasn't. Not one little bit.

He clenched his teeth and sucked in air and leaned back from the table shaking his head slowly.

"I don't know . . .," his voiced trailed off. "I'm going to have to ask the guys. I'm not sure they'll be down with that, but I'll check to find out."

Emily turned to look at me as the waiter walked away.

"That was weird," I said to her. She agreed.

I considered his reluctance and immediately considered that maybe he thinks I've had a few too many cocktails and just want to get up there and make a mockery of the restaurant and the trio's musical talent. But I wasn't.

And Rosebud is a nice restaurant, but it's far from stuffy. The slogan on the place's website says, "We like comfortable food, loud music and a good drink." I hardly think they're against people having a little fun on the microphone, good singer or not.

The more Emily and I discussed the reasons why they might be against my joining them for one song, the more annoying I found this trio. I mean, the place hosts "Grateful Dead," nights once a month. The fact that this trio, "wasn't sure," if I could come sing with them was annoying. Who did they think they are?

"Pssst . . .hey nameless trio playing in a restaurant on a Thursday night," I felt like saying, "Don't take yourself so seriously!"

Moreover, by that time our table of 15+ was quickly becoming the only group in the place, so the majority of people who could've been bothered by my singing Emily "Happy Birthday," would be my friends. And they already know I'm a terrible singer.

We ordered our food and enjoyed our meal and in between asking for drinks, Emily and I kept checking in with the waiter to see if he'd had any luck with convincing the band to let me join them.

Most of the time he shrugged his shoulders and said he wasn't sure; I wasn't convinced that he'd actually ever asked them. Towards the end of the meal, he returned to the table and said almost in a conciliatory voice said, "Ok . . .they're going to be winding down soon, so if you want to do it, you're going to need to go now."

"Now?," I said.

He nodded.

"Yes."

Based on his reluctance to let me sing in the first place, I didn't waste any time in jumping up from the table and heading over there. I didn't want them to start packing up before I had my chance, or worse, change their minds completely.

I tried to casually walk over instead of breaking into a full on sprint to get there. I wanted to appear cool, not overeager, and definitely not nervous, which is exactly how I felt. Luckily the whole thing went down so quickly that I didn't have too much time and before I could even summon the birthday girl and everyone else to come watch, the trio started playing "Happy Birthday," and everyone missed the beginning.

They all made up for it by running to the front to cheer me on, and to shoot video, and as you will hear, singing along with me. Thanks, Trish.

I told you, I'm a bad singer.

Regardless, I thanked each of them profusely for allowing me to sing "Happy Birthday" to Emily. Not one of them would look me in the eye. They may have agreed to play along, they may have agreed to let me sing into the free microphone next to them, but they clearly weren't amused by this idea. At. All.

Maybe they'd never heard such a bad voice? Or maybe they feel as though their artistic integrity had been compromised by participating in such "sorority-girl" behavior?

Don't they know that either way, regardless of what I did, I could only make them look better?

Happy Birthday, Emily! Sorry your present was so crappy.

Day 131: Just Dance

I got back from Mansfield late Friday night, just in time for an enormous snow storm that dumped a foot of snow over most of Ohio. Most of my friends back in Georgia had already made plans and I was sort of down upon my arrival. Airports bum me out for some reason.

I talked to my friends Emily and Lauren. They, along with their husbands, invited me to dinner and then to play with one of Emily's Valentine's Day presents from Scott. Wha? First of all, while I appreciated Emily's wanting to include me in her weekend plans, playing with her Valentine's Day present from her husband had creepy written all over it. And secondly, Valentine's Day wasn't for another week. I was confused.

I resisted my urge to go home and sit on my couch and went to Emily and Scott's instead where I learned about this present. Scott was apparently so excited about one of his presents to Emily that he didn't want to wait until Valentine's Day for her to open it. He wanted her to have it right then. That’s how strongly he felt about this gift. His present turned out to be a gift for us all, so I'm glad he jumped the gun. It also became Day 131's thing I’ve never done before: Play “Just Dance” on Wii.

If you think “Just Dance” sounds familiar, it’s probably because you’ve seen their commercials featuring home videos of different families all shaking their money makers for the camera. The ads are hysterical.

I have accidentally been caught on camera dancing at weddings and I’m always mortified. Watching myself in these scenarios always gives me huge amounts of anxiety. The thought that someone would willingly set up a video camera to record themselves dancing is both foreign and hilarious to me.

On the other hand, I love to dance. I was a trained and competitive dancer for years, so I should have no problem with this game. Maybe the world is ready to see my moves. So for the sake of the blog I allowed Scott to film us playing it, also something I’ve never done before.

The game is a lot of fun. There is a digital figure on the screen that does a dance and your job is to mirror what the digital figure is doing. The movements aren’t difficult, and they repeat a lot, so by the end there is potential for knowing the entire routine.


Because you’re holding the Wii “controller” in your hand, the game scores you based on your ability to closely mirror the digital figure’s moves.

Piece of cake, right? Only it’s not. I was winded, embarrassingly so, while dancing and some of the moves didn’t come naturally to me.

Not to mention, I've watched these videos that I'm about to post and I'm not as good of a dancer as I thought I was. True, I had never played this game before and new things are always a challenge, but the overall performance is lacking. I was, and am, a little concerned about my dance abilities after watching these videos. I need to get back in the studio in a big way.

Scott started by shooting the videos from the back. My dancing doesn't look attractive from any angle, but especially not from a rear view. Emily and I demanded him to reposition himself in front of us if the videos were going to be blog-worthy. I think you'll agree the videos tell the story far better than I ever could, complete with Scott's commentary and Donald's toe-tapping.

Watch the confusion on our faces and witness the hilarity. And Just Dance everybody!

Day 105: Hae WOO HOO Dae

Sometimes friends approach me, anxious to help me pull off an adventure for the blog.

Other times, like Day 105, I track friends down at the mall and demand that they come to dinner with me to eat food we've never tried.

Day 105's thing I've never done before is eat Korean barbecue.

My friends Lauren and Donald were the victims of this ploy and I actually did run into them at the mall on Sunday afternoon. I revealed to them that my blog plan for the day had fallen through and I was in need of an idea. Korean barbecue was an idea we'd talked about before that we all wanted to try. I cornered them, and they agreed to make this the day.

After taking care of our errands at the mall, we met back at Bloomingdales to discuss where we would carry out this plan. We used Lauren's iPhone to scope the Atlanta Korean barbecue scene. Which of these is not like the other: Bloomingdales, iPhone, Korean barbecue?

Surprising to me, there were many of these restaurants to choose from. Donald asked his sister for advice and she said Hae Woo Dae had the best Korean barbecue in Atlanta. We'd have to cook the meat ourselves, however, and she added, the restaurant is pretty gross.

I did not feel good about that. I love dives, but if a restaurant is dirty or unkempt, I tend to lose my appetite. We kept looking.

Half the fun of this challenge was the names of these places.

So Dong Kong, Chung Dam, Bud Namu.

Awesome, right? We considered choosing based solely on the name of the place. I mean, let's be honest, Seoul Garden isn't as fun to write about as So Dong Kong. But that idea backfired because some of the ones with the best names had bad reviews, and some didn't serve alcohol. It was Sunday, and we weren't looking to tie one on, but we all agreed that if the food was a complete disaster, it'sd be nice to have a drink to wash it down with.

Hae Woo Dae kept coming up on each list we looked at, touting the most authentic Korean barbecue. And most of the comments about the place were positive. So eventually we decided to go there, crossing our fingers that it wouldn't be too gross and we'd be able to stomach the environment and the food.

To get to Hae Woo Dae, we drove up Buford Highway, which is like the restaurant United Nations in Atlanta. I could give up on doing anything else for the blog and simply eat at a new restaurant on this street everyday for the rest of the year and still not try them all.

Hae Woo Dae is in a strip mall right behind Shooter Alley, a Gentleman's Club. I wondered if going to a strip club was standard practice following eating Korean barbecue.

When we walked in, I was surprised to see that there were quite a few people at the restaurant. Everyone looked like they were normal and like they were enjoying themselves, and the food. I felt relieved. The place was so busy, there weren't even any tables to sit at, so we opted to get the full experience by taking off our shoes and sitting on floor.

Very authentic. Very Korean.

The table where we sat was very low to the ground underneath an enormous vent. All the tables in the place had charcoal grills in the center of them. In the corner of the room was a stack of thin mats covered in loud 1970's fabric. The mats reminded me of a kindergartner's nap time mat, only square.

Sitting on the floor was a much easier thing for Lauren and me to do than it was for Donald. He laughed at himself, proclaiming that the reason he was having difficulty is because he's fat. But he's not fat! Not even close. He's just a grown man. Interesting, and something I'd never considered before, but I don't think I'd ever seen an adult male sit "Indian-style." At what age does it become difficult for them to sit this way?

The first thing I noticed on the menu was that Korean barbecue isn't cheap. Each entrée was in the $20-range. I felt badly for suckering the Stewarts into coming with me. Forcing them to subject themselves to blog fodder and pay big bucks for the food, when we weren't even sure we were going to like it.

Ever the good sports, they reassured me that they were excited about it. This was certainly going to be an adventure.

We ordered three Hites, a Korean beer that had a label that looked more like a toothpaste label than one for beer. When she came back with our drinks, we asked for some guidance on the menu. When we were figuring out where we were going to eat, we read several reviews that advised two entree portions would be plenty for three people. With the prices of the entrees, we decided to take that advice.

But when we asked the waitress, she shook her head, “No,” and held up three fingers and then pointed to each of us, as if she was counting. She disagreed with our math, or more likely, she was going for the up sale. Even though I didn’t understand a word she was saying, I was on to her.

Donald nodded his head, "Yes," that we understood that two orders were not enough for three people. Three orders were necessary. And then the waitress left, presumably to give us time to decide what we wanted.

When she returned with our spring rolls, we were a little annoyed that she didn’t ask us what we wanted to eat. But we enjoyed our appetizer as we still considered what items we were going order. The menu was confusing. Everything was in English, but we couldn't tell the difference between marinated beef tips or boneless ribs. We still thought we’d get away with two entrees, one chicken and one beef, we just weren't sure which ones.

The waitress then returned and started placing small dishes on our table each full of various condiments. Some of which we recognized, others we didn’t. She also put a plate full of raw beef tips on the table next to us. We all looked at each other, confused, but were pretty sure it wasn't for us, since we hadn't ordered yet.

Only we had actually ordered. By shaking his head, "yes," Donald actually ordered for all three of us, three orders of beef tips.

Ahh, language barriers. We went around in circles with the waitress trying to explain that we didn't want three orders of beef, we were just saying, "yes, we understand what you're saying." But it was a lost cause, and we eventually just accepted that this is what we were going to eat.

The grill set up on the table was hot and the waitress put a third of the marinated beef on it to begin cooking. The delicious smell wofted through the restaurant.

Maybe this little misunderstanding worked out in our favor, because the food was delicious. Included with the condiments was a head of bib lettuce to make wraps with the beef after it was cooked. The condiments were a variety of different flavors, sweet, savory and spicy, to pair with the beef.

We polished off all three orders with n problem. Maybe that waitress knew what she was talking about. Or maybe we're all overeaters?

She apparently felt badly about messing up our order, though, so she brought us three more beers. We thanked her, but declined her offer. We were full and sleepy and it was time to wrap up this meal.

The price tag was a little hefty, but the experience was awesome. And the food and company were too.

I'll be back. And Donald, next time, we can sit at a table.

Day 24: This Blog is Rated "E" for Epic

I learned to snow ski when I was in high school, and since then, I've been skiing a total of three times. Twice to ski resorts in West Virginia (which my hardcore skier friends say doesn't even count) and once to Park City, Utah.

Despite a lack of natural athleticism, I'm not that bad of a skier. Or I don't remember being bad (it has been nine years). But the little skiing that I have done is far from "extreme." In fact, while the guys in our spring break group were challenging each other on black diamond slopes and moguls, my college roommate and I opted for less intimidating runs called "Easy Street" and "Serenity."

I genuinely enjoy skiing, though. I just haven't lived in a place where I had access to do it very often. I'm more of a beach girl.

But a couple of weeks ago, I got an email, titled "Ski Porn," from my friend Donald and I was intrigued:

Any of you jibbers down for Huckfest 2000 & Gnar? Lauren and I just purchased our tickets. Join us!

Come again?

I read further down to see that this email had been forwarded from another friend. His read:

Sick grindage snuff-film screening @ Sweetwater Brewery next Tues. Anyone want to join? Drink some beers, watch a flick and plan a winter excursion?

Besides "Sweetwater Brewery," I seriously had no idea what any of this means. But Donald taught me how to play the banjo, so I knew he wouldn't steer me wrong. Day 24's thing I haven't done before: go to a Action Sports Movie Premiere at Sweetwater Brewery.

The film, re:Session, put on by Teton Gravity Research, features some of the most extreme jibbers and huckers shredding the gnar at wicked awesome ski resorts all over the world. That, my friends, is apparently ski speak for insane skiers and snowboarders hurling themselves off of cliffs and down steep mountains in several locations including, but not limited to, Wyoming, Algana, Italy, Poland, Slovakia, Colorado. www.tetongravity.com/re_session

Intense. Extreme. Honestly, some of the craziest footage I've ever seen.

I've always been bummed that I didn't learn to ski when I was little and fearless. Unfortunately, I waited until I was fully aware that if I lose control and plummet down the mountain into a tree, I will probably die. The athletes in this film never grew up, apparently, or they lack the gene that the rest of us have that says, "don't jump off of that or you'll probably get hurt." How wicked awesome for them.

Sweetwater Brewery (http://www.sweetwaterbrew.com/) hosted the event in the courtyard of their brewery. They set up a big screen to show the film and then set up chairs, gave everyone a pint glass and said, "Drink up!" Very outdoorsy and very fun. It was crowded, too. Apparently there are a lot of extreme sports enthusiasts in Atlanta, or perhaps other bloggers trying to do something they've never done before. I even ran into some trouble trying to get my hands on a pint glass. Luckily, the crisis was adverted and no one was injured trying to keep me from the Sweetwater Blue on draft.

I went to the event straight from work, which was a shame, because, well, walking into this event was like walking into a room full of "my types." You know, the 30-something that looks like he's still in a fraternity that's getting ready to go camping? I'm sure they were not impressed with my suit and pearls.

What a gnarly way to spend a Tuesday night. Good brews, good company, good film and good publicity at the hands of my friend Lauren who told nearly every person she met about the blog (now all of the "my types" know that suit girl is also a loser blogger. Damn!) The movie may have even planted a seed for some sort of group winter excursion after the holidays. None of us won the raffle for the free trip to Jackson Hole (bummer), but an extreme trip in search of some fresh pow pow might just be worth paying for. And I've never been to Jackson Hole, so it would be blog-friendly.

I really hope I don't biff.

Day 14: Dueling Banjos

I enjoy music the same way I enjoy sports: as a spectator. There's nothing better than watching my favorite team pull out a win with a last second touchdown, or watching a good band play an exciting show.

Friday night, my friend Lisa scored free tickets to see Kings of Leon at Phillips arena in a suite (which was also something I have never done before). On Saturday, I stopped by my friends' house in hopes that my favorite team could pull out a win on the road, and therefore help me to achieve a well-balanced, perfect weekend.

Kings of Leon held up their part of the bargain. Georgia's football team, however, for the second weekend in a row, did not. The game was embarrassing.

Towards the end of the game, we tried to busy ourselves with other things so we wouldn't have to watch the train wreck. My friend Lauren and I looked through all of my brother and sister-in-law's 1200+ wedding photos. She showed me her farm in Facebook's Farmville (whoa, this deserves more attention at another time, but what a bizarre new way for Facebookers to waste even more time). Eventually, Lauren's husband Donald, emerged with a guitar and strummed a few songs. He mentioned Scott, his neighbor and our friend, just bought a banjo.

"Do you know how to play it?" I asked Donald.

"Yeah, I know a few songs," he replied, modestly.

"Can you teach me one? I've never played the banjo," I said, thinking this day was starting to turn around.

Nothing like a little pickin' and grinnin' after your football team gets slaughtered to pick you up and make you feel good. That's right, music fans, the Day #14 thing I've never done before is learn a song on the banjo.

Donald and I walked down to Scott's place to pick up the banjo, which he had kindly agreed to let us borrow for the afternoon. He also supplied us with an instruction book and finger picks, items that were appreciated, but obviously not needed for this ultra-beginner lesson. When we returned to Donald's, Lauren said sweetly, "I think I'm going to go take some Advil."

Smart girl.

Let the lesson begin.

The song he decided to teach me was "Dueling Banjos," a song he has known how to play on the guitar and banjo for years. Suddenly my challenge became a challenge for Donald, who had to slow it way down and teach it to me note by note. Knowing how to do something yourself and teaching it to someone else are two completely different things.

What's funny about our lesson is that I don't know if the vocabulary he used to teach me this song is actually standard banjo-speak, or if it was just the easiest way to make me understand. If I ever take another lesson, is the way that he taught me the notes the same way everyone knows them? I honestly have no idea, but it's funny to think about, especially if it's not. I can't wait to pick up a banjo again in front of others and refer to the notes as open, 1, 3, open, 2 and have everyone look at me like I'm a complete idiot.

Not that I was terribly surprised, but playing the banjo is hard. Really hard. Thinking about moving my fingers to hold a string down and strumming at the same time is difficult enough, but actually making my fingers bend and stretch to do it is even more challenging. Within 30 minutes, my back hurt. Really? 29-years old and I can't play a banjo without back pain? Yikes!

Donald was a great teacher. He was very patient, even though I'm sure there were times he wanted to stick a knife in his eardrum. He even pulled up the scene from Deliverance to let me hear what the song was supposed to sound and look like. I was inspired!

When Donald (aka Teach) said I was ready, we invited Scott, his wife and my friend Emily, and her sister Amy, all down for my Saturday recital. The showed their support and clapped enthusiastically, proving once again, that friendship is a beautiful thing.

Alright, save the comments about my musical skills, or lack thereof. But if this is what I can learn in a couple of hours on a Saturday afternoon, think of what Donald's Banjo School can do for you!