Day 270: Wal-Mart Shake Down

I can't figure out a way to say this without offending my mother who hates when I talk about drinking, so I'm just going to come right out and say it: I drank too much on Day 269. On Day 270, like every "day after," I paid for my sins of the night before with an enormous headache and complete worthlessness.

Just getting through the day was my main focus. Doing something new was the furthest thing from my mind.

Only I refused to let hitting a golf ball on Bobby Jones' grave be the reason I let this entire project go up in flames. I couldn't give up on Day 270 just because I don't feel well. So I called on the two men who got me into the previous night's shenanigans in the first place and demanded that they help me out.

"Let's go to Wal-Mart with Justin and buy him his birthday present," Mo said.

I had absolutely no idea how this was going to get me to the thing that I'd never done before. Hell, I didn't even know there was a Wal-Mart in Atlanta, but I figured with these two guys and a discount superstore, something new is bound to happen, right?

Right.

The Wal-Mart in Atlanta is tucked in the back of a large shopping center north of the city. I noticed when we pulled in front that just like every other Wal-Mart I've ever been to, this one was bustling with activity. Only I couldn't help but be surprised to see men, women, and children of all ages coming and going as if it was the most natural thing in the world to be buying cheap crap on a Thursday night at 9:30pm.

Shouldn't most of these people (especially the children) be in bed?

I do not have children of my own so I'm in no position to judge (wait, yes I am, it's my blog), but could someone please explain this to me? Again, these judgments are brought to you by the same girl who putted on a famous man's grave the night before, but still. What was so important that it warranted bringing entire families to a Wal-Mart Supercenter so late in the evening? I remember being angered at seeing young kids in line at Brandsmart USA on Black Friday and that happens once a year and the discounts really are substantial. This was Wal-Mart. I'm pretty sure that any deals these families were getting at this hour would still be available at 9am the next morning.

A lot of the families were dressed in pajamas, which tells me two things, 1. they are aware that it's late and they should be in bed and 2. they have horrible taste.

Along with providing an ample supply of characters for people watching, Wal-Mart really is a playground for someone like me, who is on a quest to do new things.

Within the first five minutes, we found Justin's birthday gift and I did the first thing of the night that I'd never done before, and that was to give the "As Seen on TV," Shake Weight a try. A Shake Weight is a weight you hold with two hands and shake back and forth like a maraca to tone your arms. You've probably seen the weight on late-night infomercials.

The Shake Weight couldn't have weighed more than 15 pounds, which I found humorous for Justin's sake because he works out a lot. In fact, he's stacked and likely wouldn't reap the benefits of an exercise bar intended for women. Oh well, Mo and I assumed, this present could simply be a conversation piece.

We mosied through the aisles, heading to the toy department where possibilities for fun would be endless. I hoped I might find the bouncy balls that you sit on so that I could recreate the scene from, Don't Tell Mom the Babysitter's Dead, when Christina Applegate's character and her boyfriend go to a toystore and bounce through the aisles. I'm not sure if they make them anymore, though, because I couln't find any. At least not at this Wal-Mart.

I did, however, stumble upon an entire shelf of hula-hoops. Jackpot.

Day 270's thing I've never done before was to hula-hoop in a Wal-Mart.

I did not hesitate throwing my purse down and reaching for hula-hoop, and I couldn't help but think while I repeatedly flung the hoop around me trying to keep it waist high, that this is what this blog, and this experience, is all about for me. Less about checking off a list of things I have to get done before I turn 30, more about seizing opportunities when they present themselves and living spontaneously.

Instead of saying, "No way! I can't hula-hoop in the aisle! What if someone sees me and thinks I'm ridiculous?," now I'm saying, "Yes, I'll hula-hoop right here, right now. Because it's awesome."

Guess what? People did watch me hula-hoop and they probably did think I was ridiculous. But who cares? I don't know any of those people and I wasn't hurting anyone. Plus, hula-hooping, even when you're bad at it (as I am), is so much fun. Seriously, try to frown while hula-hooping. It's impossible.

I was a little disappointed in my performance on the hoop, considering we all know what a good dancer I am. And I like Phish and those concerts are full of hippies with hula-hoops. But for some reason, I just couldn't keep the hoop circling around my waist, and had to pick it up off of the floor often. I had a couple of good runs, though, and Justin took some turns as well, before stacking the hoops back and moving on.

We wandered through sporting goods and tested baseball bats and tennis rackets. I decided that in my post-blog life, in addition to improving my golf game, I really want to play tennis again, after an 18-year hiatus.

In the camping equipment section, I announced to everyone that I'm not really a camper. I've been before, and I'd go again, but I likely wouldn't ever organize a camping trip. I picked up bags full of dehydrated camping meals that reminded me of space food I ate in a science class once. Mo suggested I buy one to try as something I'd never done before. He pointed out that camping food is something I could do when I didn't feel like doing anything else. This was a good idea, and I bought lasagna for two in a plastic bag.

When we made it to the pharmacy section, we each picked up some personal items that we needed (toothpaste for me), and I sat down at the blood pressure machine to get my blood pressure checked for free.

I'm not sure if I did it right, but 106/82 was the reading, which I think is pretty normal.

Never was the circus of people that hang out in Wal-Mart late on Thursday more apparent than when we were waiting in line to pay for the items we picked up along our Wal-Mart journey. The inefficiency of this Wal-Mart was also apparent, and we were forced to stand in disorganized lines behind the only three registers that were open for a while.

Families dressed in their pj's, a man wearing a t-shirt that said, "When I drink I get horny and you get beautiful," and women in shorts so tight I wondered how they could stand, much less walk from one side of the store to the other. Many of them were yelling at their husbands and boyfriends. Probably because they were uncomfortable.

Ahead of us in line was a guy with six gallons of milk, ten cartons of eggs, and a watering hose in his cart.

He seemed a little shifty and I wondered if he was headed to play a fraternity prank, or if these seemingly unrelated items had anything to do with some insane terrorist attack. Sad, I thought that because of the times that we live in, these were the only two possible scenarios. Couldn't have been scrambled eggs and gardening, must be terrorism.

We finally made it to the front of the line to pay for our items and then all headed home to get the sleep we so desperately needed.

I left with a smile on my face, though. Happy that this was likely my last Thursday night trip to Wal-Mart, that my blood pressure is ok, and that when a hula-hoop beckons me from the aisles again, I'll know exactly what to do.

Day 231: Yo Yo Yo Foria

I considered calling this entry, "Sunday Funday," but that would imply that I haven't had a Sunday Funday before and that would be a lie. Sunday Fundays are my favorite, and Day 231 was of the unexpected variety.

The day started at Treehouse, where I met some of my closest girlfriends for brunch. Despite living in the same city as them, I'm ashamed at how rarely we all get together, and how much advanced notice was required to make this brunch happen, especially considering that when we met, our single most important priority was hanging out. I know that adding jobs, boyfriends, husbands and (soon) children to the mix will only continue adding to the challenge, and though it's certainly not worth fretting over, I marvel at how my friendships with these women continues to evolve.

Regardless of the notice required, I was happy that we were able to nail down a time that worked for all of us. I knew this was going to be a good afternoon when I showed up and was the first one there. I could tell my friends, especially Trish, were impressed, as this never happens. Never.

"Let's all get together and have brunch," quickly turned into, "Let's eat some food (raw for Steph), drink mimosas (pretty sure not raw, but really who cares at this point?), and talk about what's been happening in our lives over the last couple of months. And if it takes us almost five hours and two venues to do it, we're going to catch up if it kills us."

Four a half hours later, we succeeded at our plans to catch up. When the epic brunch started to wind down, we looked at our watches, realized how long we'd been there and some determined it was time to go.

I'm not sure if it makes sense or was just a coincidence that the only two left with nowhere to go were the two unmarried girls of the group, but so it was, Maribeth and I were left with nothing but each other.

"I need a pedicure," I told her. "You?"

"Ok," she agreed.

The pedicure that I got was at first seemingly no different from any other that I'd ever had. I chose this particular nail salon, Buckhead Nail and Toe, because during the pedicure, a woman will come over to massage your shoulders while you're sitting in the spa chair. Of the many simple pleasures in life, this is one of my favorites.

At one point during the massage, she asked if I wanted her to continue.

What kind of a question is that?

"Of course I do," I said.

"For how long?"

Is "forever" an appropriate response?

"Um . . .," I found this line of questioning strange. "Ten minutes?," I finally asked.

"Ten minute. O-kee," the woman said in broken English.

When the pedicure was over and I went to pay, I made the shocking discovery that these nail ladies are running the nail salon's version of a telephone hotline! First five minutes, free, with purchase; one dollar for each additional minute, meaning I owed them, in addition to the pedicure, $10 extra dollars.

My neighbor growing up learned about these scams the hard way when he spent an entire day calling the Alyssa Milano hotline for a chance to speak with her, only to rack up $23 on his parents' phone bill, a cost that at the time completely devestated him, as it wiped out his entire life's savings.

I, like Michael's parents, had to suck it up and pay for the services rendered, but I wasn't happy about it. And for the record, I'm not sure who told the masseuse her services were worth $1 per minute, but I think that's a gross exaggeration.

I tell you all of these other stories for no other reason than I wanted to and it's my blog so I can. But they all bring me to Day 231's thing that I've never done before and that was to try a new kind of frozen yogurt on the scene in Atlanta, Yoforia.

Seriously, could this Sunday get any girlier? Brunch, mimosas, idle gossip, pedicures . . . and now, frozen yogurt.

Only this isn't your run-of-the mill TCBY frozen yogurt. Yoforia is different, better, it will make you skinny and give you wings to fly. According to Yoforia, anyway.

Maribeth described it as less sweet than regular frozen yogurt.

"It's more tart," she said. "Like plain yogurt from the grocery store, only frozen. Like Greek yogurt!" ll of this explanation, I think she was trying to describe the taste to herself, not just to me.

When I walked into Yoforia, I was reminded of my first trip to the Apple store so many months ago. The super modern, almost futuristic decor gave off an heir of superiority much like Apple does, so you think you're at some super hip nightclub that only the cool kids know about. Only it's not a nightclub, it's frozen yogurt, and you're with your only other single friend while all of your other friends are at home with their boyfriends and husbands doing "Sunday" things.

I fully suspect that also like Apple, Yoforia likely thinks they are a lot cooler than they actually are. It's probably just a matter of time before they're handing out numbers and taking reservations for people to eat there.

Another reason for me to hate Yoforia: because everyone else loves it and can't stop talking about it. I mean, this is me we're talking about. The one who still has a Dell computer and a flip phone.

So we walked in, I'm faking excitement for the sake of Maribeth's feelings, but I'm fully prepared to be annoyed that like the Twilight series, this yogurt couldn't possibly live up to the hype.

I wanted to hate it, but I could not.

That's because Yoforia is as delicious as advertised. I didn't hate it at all. In fact, I loved it. I love it. At the risk of giving you Maribeth's confusing and vague description, it's really light, refreshing, and has a mere 25 calories per serving.

And I hate to admit it, I'm convinced that it actually could make us fly. Or maybe that was just the mimosas.

Day 211: Water Boys in Panama, the Country

In addition to baby showers, 2009-2010 has been the year of the 30th birthday for my friends and me. Everyone has celebrated their milestone birthday differently, some with big weekend long beach blowouts, others with low key dinners.

In the weeks ahead of Day 211, I asked my friend Maribeth, the next to turn the dreaded 3-0, how she planned to spend her birthday.

She said, in very dramatic fashion, "I cannot be in this country on my 30th birthday!"

While I found her insistence on being away from the USA on her 30th strange (I mean, what's the big deal? 30 is 30 regardless of where you celebrate it), with plenty of vacation to burn, I agreed to tag along with her wherever she chose to go.

"Alright," I told her, "Let's go somewhere."

This conversation, no kidding, happened the weekend before I left for Lake Tahoe, and a mere 48 hours before Psychic Rose told me she predicted that I would be taking a big trip, by the water, in April.

Maribeth's birthday is April 28th.

Weird, right?

Even weirder, Maribeth and I decided almost immediately to go somewhere in Central or South America. We wanted some place warm, and a place on the beach, or on the water. We kicked around several ideas, first considering Ecuador and the Galapagos Islands.

In the midst of planning to go to Ecuador, I came to yet another realization about myself: I’m not a planner. And trips like this don't just happen. They have to be thought out in advance. At least a little bit anyway.

I knew Ecuador would be amazing and unforgettable. I really did want to go there, I just wanted someone else to plan it. I poked around on the Internet at possible places for us to stay and routes we could've taken through the country, but I quickly became overwhelmed and soon, Maribeth and I realized Ecuador would require a lot of work to plan, not to mention a whole lot of cash.

Our second choice, thanks to my friend John and Maribeth's friend Chris, was Panama. The destination was a winner on all fronts: warm weather, beach activities, reasonably priced, and, above all, easy to plan. At least I think it was. Maribeth did most of the work.

Plus, every time I told someone I was going to Panama, I got to hear their version of Van Halen’s song, “Panama.” And then I had to break the news to them that I was going to the country of Panama, and not the Spring Break hot spot Panama City Beach, where that song was probably hugely popular in 1984.

Just as Psychic Rose predicted, on Day 211, one of the last days in April, the thing that I'd never done before was to fly to Panama, the country.

Before we left, Chris and John, passed along a wealth of useful Panama information. Where to say, places to avoid, cool things to do.

Of all the advice John gave me, what he stressed the most was cab fare.

"Here's what you need to do," he said, almost as if he was letting me in on some huge secret that no one else knew about. "You need to take out $100 in one dollar bills before you go."

I let him know, that unless Maribeth had big plans for her 30th birthday she had not yet filled me in on, I was not planning on going to any strip clubs in Panama. What gives with the one dollar bills?

He explained that every place in Panama takes American money, and cabs will take you wherever you want to go for very little cash.

"So have small bills and negotiate with the cab driver before you get in the car."

His advice made sense, so on Day 211, before getting on an afternoon flight to Panama, I went to the bank and asked for $100 in ones.

I used to be a waitress, so I know what a lot of cash looks like, but it had been a while, and I don't think I could have anticipated what 100 singles looks like. It looks like a lot of freaking money. I felt like a stripper having that much cash on me at one time. John was right, though, it made getting around the city extremely easy, minus the whole language barrier thing of course.

Maribeth and I arrived at the airport and grabbed our first drink of vacation at the airport bar. I revealed to Maribeth that taking off for two weeks was nerve racking for me, but that I was really going to try and relax. I didn’t promise to go off the grid or disconnect completely, but I promised to behave in a very un-Stephanie-like fashion.

While sitting at the bar, I reminded Maribeth about how Psychic Rose had predicted that I'd take a big trip to a place by the water and here we were taking the big trip! I also told her to be on the look out for dudes because Rose also mentioned that my significant man may or may not have something to do with my big trip, but he definitely has something to do with the water. Again, I'm not sure if Rose wasn't simply referring to someone who drinks water or is a plumber, but here I was, on the trip, and I wanted to be on alert, just in case.

So when an attractive, fratty looking young guy with a Georgia Bulldogs hat boarded our plane to Panama City in Atlanta, I immediately turned my head to look at Maribeth.

"Holy crap, that guy's really good looking," I said with wide eyes. Could this be the water boy?

Maribeth agreed and for a solid five minutes we stared frat boy down as he put his luggage in the overhead compartment and took his seat ten rows ahead of us.

At some point during the stare down, Maribeth announced to me that she thought she knew frat boy.

"He looks exactly like this guy that lived with one of my friends in Jacksonville," she said.

She seemed stumped, though, not recalling the guy's name and not sure why the guy would be wearing a Georgia hat.

I wasn't convinced that it was the same guy, but decided that her thinking he was could provide the perfect reason for us to talk to him. And obviously we needed to talk to him, because he was good looking and what if he was the guy Psychic Rose was talking about? Even if he wasn't the same guy Maribeth thought it was, we could still make him our new friend and someone to hang out with on the trip.

And maybe the love of my life.

We landed in Panama, staying in hot pursuit of frat boy and giddy with excitement that we had arrived at our destination after a super short, relatively easy flight.

On our walk to customs and baggage claim, Maribeth started chickening out on our original plan, after deciding that frat boy was not the guy from Jacksonville that she knew. She also assumed that he was on his way to be reunited with his girlfriend who is in the Peace Corps or volunteering with "Doctors without Borders," and would want nothing to do with us. I assumed he was on his way to a deep-sea fishing bachelor party, and would love the company of two almost-30 year olds.

I liked my assumption better.

We never talked to frat boy, unfortunately, but decided that if we ran into him again on our trip then that would be a sign that he was the water boy Psychic Rose was talking about and girlfriend or not, I would have to talk to him.

Maribeth and I hailed a cab to our hotel in Panama City and I impressed her and the cab driver with my Spanish-speaking skills. I really did. I don’t know where it came from because I rarely ever have the opportunity to ever speak Spanish in my regular life. But I was belting out all sorts of phrases to the cabbie, telling him my name (Me llamo Stephanie), where I was from (soy de Georgia en los Estados Unidos), that I was there to celebrate my friend’s birthday (el cumpleanos de mi amiga). Not exactly advanced conversations, but I was still pleased.

We got to the hotel and stepped out of the cab, to the delight of every bell hop at the hotel. I’ve traveled enough to know that two light-haired, wide-eyed American girls are bound to get some attention, and sure enough, we did. The hotel staff fumbled over each other to help us with our bags and it was sweet. Chivalry may be dead in a lot of places, but it’s alive and well at the Hotel Riande Granada. We checked into our room, which was nothing to write home about, but it was clean and it was cheap, so we decided to stay.

Exhausted from the trip, Maribeth and I laid on our beds and went back and forth about how to spend the evening. There was a lot of, “Do you want to go out? I don’t care, do you want to?” going on. Here, I thought, is where my age is starting to show, because 21-year old Stephanie would’ve dropped her bag in the room and hit the pavement immediately, ready to explore the city. 29-year old Stephanie, however, was tired, hungry and ready to go to bed.

After a good half-hour of trying to figure out what to do, we decided to take advantage of our free drink coupone at the hotel bar, which was nothing more than a shelf with three bottles of cheap liquor and a cooler full of beer in a dark room next to the lobby.

We both ordered a Panama beer, and a grilled cheese sandwich.

About midway through our meal, an older gentleman came over to where we were sitting at the bar. He was very tall, and kind of awkward. He asked us if he could sit down and we said yes. When he took a seat, I noticed he nearly fell off the bar stool, and when he spoke he slurred his words.

“Those women over there said I wouldn’t come over here to talk to you,” he said, motioning to two women sitting on a couch nearby, laughing.

We introduced ourselves and found out his name was Roy. He was from Trinidad, but was in Panama on business. We told him our names and that we were on vacation to celebrate Maribeth’s birthday.

“And how old are you?,” he asked Maribeth.

“Well,” she said, “I’m turning 30 on Wednesday," she said with a smile.

“Ahhh nice,” he said.

“And you’re not married?”

“No, not married.”

“Dating anyone?”

“Yes.”

He asked me the same questions. Then he turned to Maribeth again.

“And you’re how old?”

She looked at me and we laughed.

“I’m 29. I’m turning 30 on Wednesday.”

"And you're not married?"

"No."

After a few minutes, we were joined by Roy’s friend and colleague, Luis, who was from Panama and in far better shape than his wasted friend. He was nice too, welcomed us to his country and wrote down names of popular restaurants and clubs to go to in the area. He also gave us his number and said if we needed anything, we could call him anytime.

Roy asked us both if we would be his girlfriend, and we both declined. And then he told us he was happily married and had five children ranging in age from 21 down to five years old.

My head was spinning. Roy was like a tornado.

“How old are you?” he asked Maribeth.

This has to be a joke, but she kept on answering.

“Roy, I’m 29.”

“Now do either of you have children?”

“Nope,” I replied.

“How old are you?”

Is this guy serious?

“29.”

“Are you barren?”

Come again?

First of all, I don’t think I’ve ever heard anyone actually use the word “barren” in a sentence until that moment. But if I was unable to conceive children, I’m not sure I’d want to talk about it with a drunken stranger in a sad Panama bar.

I chalked it up to too much booze and simply answered his question.

“No,” I replied, “I’m not barren, at least not to my knowledge. The reason we don’t have kids is because we’re not ready for them. We’re not even married yet.”

Telling him we weren’t married confused him greatly. I think he thought there was something wrong with us.

“I know, Roy, we’re awesome. It confuses me too,” I told him.

We talked for a little while longer while trying to pay our tab, which the bartender told us Luis had already taken care of.

After he asked Maribeth a 15th time how old she was, Luis said it was time for Roy to go to bed, and he walked us all to the elevator.

We laughed later in our room that as single girls living in Atlanta, we have both gone months without having anyone we don’t know approach us in bars. And here we'd been in Panama for less than two hours, and already we had two gentlemen buy our drinks and dinner.

Likely not the men by the water that Psychic Rose was talking about, but the trip was off to a pretty good start.

I think I love Panama.

Day 174: Sisters in the Highlands

My brother Jeff and his wife Katie came to Atlanta for an engagement party on Saturday night. So, we had the entire day to hang out together. A whole day of blog possibilities.

I begged Jeff to let me set up a Facebook account for him as the thing I'd never done before, but despite understanding the obvious networking possibilities Facebook provides, he can't bring himself to join. So I'd have to find something else to do.

Unfortunately, what I quickly learned is that one of the problems with having loved ones in town in town on a beautiful day when there is basketball on television is that all I wanted to do was stuff I'd already done before, like daytime drinking and watching sports.

Plus, hanging out with my brother married was something that I'd already done before on Day 62. But this is the first time Jeff and Katie had been to Atlanta to hang out since getting married. So Day 174 was a day of a few firsts, none of them particularly significant.

We headed to Virginia-Highland to grab some lunch and stopped by the neighborhood's farmer's market, something I'd never done before. Maybe, I thought, Jeff and Katie could find something for their house. I love farmer's markets and I love Virginia-Highland, so how could we go wrong?

Maybe we hit this farmer's market on the wrong day, or at the wrong time of day, because I found it all to be a little sad, a little lame. Instead of eclectic, creative crafts for sale, it felt like a bunch of random people gathered up miscellaneous crap from around their houses, displayed said crap on a card table, fully expecting innocent shoppers to buy it right up.

I would've been offended, had I not also tried this technique when I was six-years old. After several successful lemonade stands, I decided to up the ante and just start selling my personal belongings from my parents' driveway. My dreams of becoming an entrepreneur were shattered when some neighborhood kid picked up one of my used coloring books for sale and said, "No one is going to buy this!"

I wouldn't have ever shattered anyone's dreams like that guy did to me, but I did make a mental note that the farmer's market in Virginia-Highland is not all it's cracked up to be.

We spent the rest of the afternoon walking to several places around the Highlands and enjoying the afternoon.

I love hanging out with my brother and Katie, and I enjoyed introducing them to some of my friends in Atlanta that they'd never met.

Despite having only known her for three years, I really think of Katie as the sister that I never had. In fact, at their rehearsal dinner I joked she's the sister that I never knew I wanted. She fits so easily into our family, I can't remember her not being around. We joke around and have a relationship that feels much longer than the time we've spent together.

When we got back to my house to get ready for the party, it was fun having someone to get ready with. We helped each other pick out clothes and I even attempted to play hairdresser, taking a curling iron to Katie's hair. An attempt that was less than stellar, but my heart was in the right place.

Katie jokingly asked me, "Stephie, is the thing you've never done before to do your sissy's hair?"

Indeed it is.

Not necessarily life changing, but still new to me.

Day 171: Black Velvets

Day 171 was St. Patrick's Day (I know, admitting that gives me anxiety. I'm behind, but I'm trying.) and I came into work feeling like a million bucks, having slept a full 12 hours the night before. Thanks Ambien!

My alertness was in sharp contrast to others in my life who celebrated St. Patrick's Day on Tuesday.

The first was my mother, who during her Ambien-email tirade revealed to me that she had - in her words- "gotten a little silly," with her girlfriends drinking sour apple martinis at Bunco the night before. Interesting that she was so free with this information, I thought, because she is constantly telling me how much she hates it when I talk about drinking in the blog, which according to her, is a lot.

My drinking habits are no different from most people that I know, I've told her. The only difference is that I'm writing about it.

Still, at my mom's request, I'm marking this entry and everyone that follows with the the tag, "Drinks," so she (and you) can track all of the times I talk about drinking. Mom, consider this your warning, I'm about to talk about a new cocktail I tried on St. Patrick's Day.

Elizabeth was the second person who celebrated St. Patrick's Day a day early. I asked her how her day was going and she told me she wasn't feeling well.

"What's wrong," I said.

"Too many black velvets," she replied.

"Black velvets?" I asked.

A black velvet is a cocktail that she and Cynthia drank at their cooking club the night before. The drink is simple: Guinness and Champagne mixed together.

"Yikes," I said, "That sounds disgusting."

"Suprisingly, it's not," she told me "The bubbly really cuts the heaviness of the beer."

Who gives a shit, I thought? I drank a Guinness on Day 124 and the beer's heaviness is not worth mixing it with champagne to make a new drink that I can only imagine tastes completely dreadful. But still, I considered, if she has a headache, she may have enjoyed more than one. So maybe I should give them a try.

Day 171's thing I've never done before was to drink a black velvet.

Maribeth and I had already made plans to celebrate St. Patrick's Day at one of the best bars in the Atlanta area, the Brick Store Pub in Decatur. I am not Irish, though my hair and complexion would indicate otherwise. I get the crazy looking hair, without the free pass to drink like a moron. Still, I always like a reason to celebrate and go out during the week, so, "Erin Go Bragh! Let's drink black velvets!"

The Brick Store, like every bar everywhere, was packed on Wednesday night. Maribeth and I stood behind the people sitting at the bar and shouted over them to the bartenders. Which was tough because I wasn't completely confident about what I was ordering.

"Can I get a black velvet?" I asked, timidly. I hoped someone behind the bar would know.

The bartender, a short, leprachaun looking fellow kind of paced back and forth behind the bar like he knew what I was talking about, but not really.

He disappeared for a moment and then returned, stood in front of me and loudly spoke over the people sitting at the bar.

"See, I can't make that because I don't have cider on draught," he said.

I furrowed my brow, confused.

"Cider? Isn't a black velvet Guinness and champagne?"

Two older gentleman turned around and stared at me like I had horns and a tail.

"That sounds terrible," one of them said to me.

"I know! Doesn't it?" I said, thinking that our agreement over how disgusting this drink sounded would solidify our friendship.

It did not. The guy rolled his eyes at me shook his head, and turned back around in his chair, ignoring the back and forth between the bartender and me.

"Ok . . .hold on . . .," I stammered to the bartender.

I immediately text messaged Elizabeth, "Are you serious about the black velvets? I'm at this bar and just tried to order it and they don't know anything about it."

While waiting for her to text me back, I went to my Blackberry to consult the Internet. Certainly if this drink exists, Google will know. I'd been at the bar for a total of 15 minutes, and so far I'd ordered a fancy drink that no one has every heard about and now I'm texting and surfing the web on my phone. I wasn't exactly the "bar favorite" at that point, I don't think.

Sure enough, Google knew all about it. According to several web sites, a "Black Velvet" is a beer cocktail made from stout beer and sparkling wine or champagne.

By this time, Maribeth had ordered a beer and another bartender came out from behind the bar to hand deliver it to her. He looked at me, confused, assuming he forgot to also get my drink.

"Did you...?"

"No," I replied, "I had asked the guy about making a black velvet . . .and he said you didn't have any cider . . . but I didn't think the drink needed cider . . .do you know what that is?"

"A black velvet?" he said assuredly, "With Guinness . . .?"

"Yes!" I shouted, louder than I should have and before he could finish his thought. I don't know what I was more excited about: the fact that black velvets really do exist or that I was finally going to get a drink.

"Do you want sparkling wine or champagne?"

I gave him a look like "Does it look like I care? I didn't even believe that this drink existed five minutes ago. You can make it with whatever you want."

"Whatever you think is best."

Five minutes later, my now favorite bartender slid a champagne flute across the bar in my direction.

So if everyone in the bar didn't already hate me for ordering a drink that no one except for this one bartender had ever even heard of, now I'm drinking what looks like a Guinness out of a champagne flute at a place that usually serves up microbrews in pint glasses.

Pretentious, party of one.

I cautiously took a sip of the black velvet, still not believing that a concoction of these ingredients could ever taste good. But Elizabeth was right, black velvets are delicious. I can't tell you what it tastes like because it doesn't taste like anything I've ever tasted before. But I understand what she meant by the champagne or sparkling wine cutting the Guinness' heaviness. I can only really drink one Guinness, but I could drink black velvets all night.

The drink did attract a lot of attention, or maybe it was our charming personalities and insane good looks.

Nah, it was probably the drink.

Those that dared to ask about the black velvet were rewarded with a variety of answers. Sometimes I told them it was just Guinness, but that I like drinking out of a champagne flute so I carry one with me at all times.

Most of the time, Maribeth and I took turns telling people what it really was, which led to telling them about the blog.

One of the guys that we met was completely unimpressed with Project 29 to 30. Not only was he not impressed, he was angry that I would waste his time telling him about some of the less adventurous activities I'd done as a part of the project.

He seemed mildly intrigued by the the whirlwind vacation I took with Mountain Man, but overall, my attempt at doing things I've never done before really seemed to piss him off.

I kept trying to defend myself, tried to explain to him that I don't have the money or the time to travel the world and do adventurous things every single day. I'm simply attempting to do new things in the context of my regular life.

I later found out from someone who knew angry guy that he had recently married a girl from another country so that she could get her green card, so clearly his sense of adventure is much greater than mine.

Whereas wearing red nail polish or learning to play the banjo present two challenges for me, tricking the Federal Government is more his speed.

To each his own, I guess.

A few black velvets later and we called St. Patrick's Day an enormous success. New friends, we pimped the blog, and a new favorite cocktail that I will definitely be enjoying again.