the ranch, part two.

This should be a Thanksgiving post.

I mean, I'm posting it on Thanksgiving, but it will not contain all of the warm and fuzziness that it probably should.  I mean, it is every Blogger/Facebooker/Twitterer's duty to post things that they're thankful for each day of November, declare how blessed they are, or at the very least post pictures from a pumpkin patch or an apple orchard, right?

This is not a typical Thanksgiving post, but not because I am not thankful or because I don't realize how completely blessed my life is.  There were challenges, but I can say for certain that expressing gratitude feels much easier to do this year than it did last year and for that I am immensely thankful.

So while this isn't a typical holiday post, it is inspired by something for which I am grateful - my trip to California and my time at the Los Laureles Lodge, aka the ranch.  In the spirit of Thanksgiving and with the hope of finishing writing about Elizabeth's August wedding before the new year, it's back to the ranch we go.

I'm sure I don't need to tell you that we woke up after the beach bonfire with a whole slew of stories from the night before.  Some things - like the cab driver's roll call - I didn't even know happened until the next morning. I must've really been into the sing-along because I also missed guests over-pouring their wine glasses in the dark, or guests (ahem, my friends) falling in the sand and flopping around like seals.

Wedding stories - just another reason to be thankful.

While our rooms at the Ranch were stocked full of Sun Chips and muffins from our late-night grocery run, a proper lunch that allowed us to maximize our time in the beautiful scenery as well as rehash all of the evening's transgressions was a definite priority.  We opted to drive south to Nepenthe Restaurant in Big Sur to enjoy magnificent Pacific Ocean views from their treehouse-esque deck.




Only, once again, visibility was non-existent.  We sat outside and crossed our fingers that the fog would eventually lift, but it never did. The place was cool and happening, though ,and our waiter was friendly (until we asked him if we could pay the bill with more than one credit card.  I honestly thought his head might explode.), so we were happy.    




We shared a lot of laughs about the previous night's debauchery, ate some good food, and most importantly, drank some tasty drinks (read: hair of the dog) of the Bloody Mary and Moscow Mule variety. 

After lunch and our drive back to Carmel that included stops for scenic photos and an errand run to CVS (where there was booze for sale. At a CVS!  Right next to the disposable razors!  Again, THANKFUL.), there wasn't a lot of time to do much more than welcome new friends (aka new campers) who had just arrived and get ready for the rehearsal party.





Despite the fact that her wedding was a destination variety for many of her guests, her wedding still had many guests.  Most everyone who was invited to the wedding was also invited to the rehearsal, so family, childhood friends, college friends, San Francisco friends were all on hand to toast the happy couple.



The stories were plentiful and varied from humorous to extremely heartfelt.

Greg even wrote a poem.
I went into my remarks with a, "Make them laugh, make them cry, try not to embarrass yourself or anyone else," mentality. I thought my toast hit on all the appropriate emotions. I even had a woman I did not know come up to me and tell me later that she loved what I had to say.

I'm worried she might've been the only one, though, because just last week one of my girlfriends asked me, "Wasn't it you who brought up all of Elizabeth's ex-boyfriends during your speech at the rehearsal dinner?"

"Um, no," I told her defensively, "I did not."

It was just one.  And I never named him.  And I only used this story to make a point.

Elizabeth and I really didn't know each other that well when we decided to be roommates our last semester at Georgia, which was fine, except for the fact that Elizabeth and her boyfriend broke up days before I moved in.  So while I was pumped to get to know a new, fun girl and make her my friend, she was not really in that mindset. She was in a bad, emotionally low place. 

We laugh about that time now and how we healed her broken heart with Ben & Jerry's, American Idol and the Anna Nicole Smith show.

After she moved away to California, it seemed our visits always occurred during really low lows in my life or really high highs.  The way we met seemed to follow our friendship.  The first time I went to visit her in San Francisco, I'd just ended a four year relationship. Then I whisked into town giddy on romance with Mountain Man.  When that went nowhere, I returned to the west coast for reality television and Elizabeth-time.  

 Our visits are less dramatic than they used to be - and I couldn't be more thankful.

And though I'm embarrassed it took me 32 years to figure it out - watching Elizabeth and Kristof work so easily together, and exists so happily as a couple without the drama that so many of us (me) had confused for true romantic love, it occurred to me that real love isn't cobbled together by a string of highs and lows.



The day-to-day comfort of knowing someone who wants the same out of life that you do, who has your back and will make you laugh and builds you up - that's what solid relationships are all about. It might not make for a Hollywood film or a good romance novel, but off the emotional roller coaster seems to be where all the good stuff happens.

Right in the middle. 

Then again, good stuff also happens at an out of town rehearsal dinner where the wine flows easily.

Considering the groom split his pants before the party even started - (I love you, Kristof!) - I shouldn't have been too surprised that after several (se-ver-al) glasses of wine, and a couple dozen toasts, guests started falling again. Into fountains. And bushes.

There may or may not have been some indecent exposure, and I'm not talking about Kristof.

I'm sure all of the California crowd was looking at us, shaking their heads and thinking, "Who are these Georgia rednecks?"

Country had certainly come to town. And everyone (well, most everyone) was grateful.  

the ranch, part one.

Without necessarily doing new things everyday, which is what I used to blog about before I turned 30 and how this blog got started in the first place, sometimes I wonder where it's going.  What's its purpose?

I mean, I think I'm quite clever sometimes, but my biggest fear is that someone will get to the end of one of these blogs and say, "Yeah?  So what?" 

Perhaps that's why I've tried to look for the larger meaning in just about everything - how can I make this road trip a metaphor for life kind of stuff, which even I recognize can get a little hokey and annoying.  I mean, sometimes a road trip is just a road trip, you know? 

I myself love to read blogs that really have nothing more to say than, "This is my life, these are my crafts, those are my kids."

I do not have crafts or kids, but I do have a pretty good life and I believe it's worth writing about.   I understand that doesn't mean anyone is going to want to read about it, but that's a chance all of us bloggers must take.
     
So full disclosure here (I don't want anyone getting to the end and saying, "Yeah, so what?"), the next leg of my summertime journey that started at my friend Kelly's has absolutely no deeper meaning than, "wild wedding weekend."  So if you came looking for inspiration or profound words about the meaning of life, you may want to move it along.

Please don't leave without at least perusing the pictures of my hot friends and the gorgeous scenery that we partied in for three days.  This was the kind of weekend that was so much fun, I felt sad when it ended because I knew the anticipation of it was over, and even if I did my best to recreate it, I'd never succeed.



But there is a good chance that these stories I'm about to tell, many of which have been watered down for the parents and children who may visit, are all of the "You had to be there," variety.  

I'm going to tell them anyway.  Besides, I know that there at least 20 people (the cast of characters I call my friends) who will think these stories are worth telling.  I dedicate all of Elizabeth's wedding blogs to them.

Elizabeth's California wedding was in her "backyard," since she lives in San Francisco.  To many of her east coast friends, it was a destination wedding that involved a great deal of planning beforehand, most about where we were going to stay.  

Leave it to the crew from Georgia to decide to take over the cheapest hotel on the list - the Los Laureles Lodge.  Elizabeth's tastes have refined significantly since she moved to California, so I had to believe this place met her standards.  Based on the pictures on the website, though, I couldn't help but think the Lodge reminded me quite a bit of the sublet apartment she and I lived in at Milledge Place in Athens, Georgia.  

I was the first to arrive and I texted Trish, since it was she who had been instrumental in convincing us all to stay there.  

"How is it?" she asked. 

"It's fine," I texted her.  "It's cute.  It kind of reminds me of summer camp."

From the gravel parking lot and the outdated, country decor to the wood paneling and screen doors, it really did remind me of camp.  But not in a negative way.  I mean, it certainly wasn't the Ritz Carlton, but it was affordable, it was clean, it was centrally located, and most importantly - it was a perfect place for my friends and I to completely take over.

And that's exactly what we did.

The innkeepers made a take over easy - putting several of our rooms in a row. 

Despite it having the most occupants in the least amount of space, my room - Room 23 - was a popular meeting place.  Sort of like the front stoop on the television show 227, people were always popping in for a visit. 

The instant camraderie and summer camp feeling often led to unsolicited singing of the theme song from the Nickelodeon show, Salute Your Shorts - "Camp Anawanna, we hold you in our hearts . . ." 

We also started calling the Los Laureles Lodge, the "Ranch."

We referred to the staff of the lodge as the "ranch hands," which in my room full of unmarried women, led to endless teasing about someone making a move on one of the ranch hands, and of course, even more singing.

"I wanna man with a ranch hand . . .," (to the tune of "I wanna man with a slow hand . . .") My friend and trip roommate Lisa made up her own version, "A ranch hand's handssssss . . . ," which I think was a take on the country song, "Daddy's Hands," but I'm honestly not sure.

We talked about "ranch hands" so much during that weekend, that when Rick Santorum delivered his speech at the Republican National Convention and made countless references to hands, my phone immediately started blowing up with friends saying, "Did you hear Santorum talking about hands?  Reminds me of the Ranch!"

The first event of the Elizabeth and Kristof's wedding weekend was on Thursday night - a beach bonfire for all out of town guests. 



I'd noticed on my ride north on the PCH that the temperature is quite different in the Northern California along the coast.  Elizabeth's instructions for us to "wear a light jacket," were appropriate, however for us thin-skinned humidity loving southerners, we might've been better off had she instead advised, "Pack mittens and a warm coat.  And a hat. And cuddle duds. And brown liquor."

It was freezing.

Certainly nothing a glass (or several glasses) of red wine couldn't fix, so my friends and I enjoyed the festivities, toasting the happy couple and getting to know Kristof's family, many of whom had flown in from Belgium.

I got caught up in caught up in the excitement (and the red wine) of meeting everyone, I brilliantly opted to wait until the sun went down to find myself something to eat which meant I was blindly grabbing at Mexican food in aluminum containers.

Thankfully, the summer camp similiarities were endless.  There were S'mores.  And a sing-along.

Trish embraced the sing-a-long - and brought a little bit of the ranch to the beach, spiritedly leading the group in favorites such as Green Day's "Good Riddance" and Don McClean's "American Pie."



When the party ended and it was time to go home, we called our cab driver that we'd appropriately named "Captain" earlier in the evening when he picked us up for the party.  

He arrived to take us home wearing the same tie-dyed shirt, leather vest and Captain's hat he was wearing when he picked us up.  We forced him to take pictures with us before piling into his cab. He offered us some of his moonshine (which he may or may not have been sipping on himself), let Lisa borrow his leather driving gloves, and then took us to the grocery store so we could pick up some rations that every summer camp full of immature 30-somethings' needs -- breakfast muffins . . . a variety pack of Sun Chips . . .and beer.



Then, in what is now my favorite cab ride story of all time that Lisa shared with us later, the Captain turned around to make sure all his human passengers were accounted for and then looked down at his center console and counted off his collection of stuffed animals, one by one.

"Squirrel, check!"

"Bear, check!"

"Dog, check!"

"Ok," he said to Lisa, who was riding shotgun, still wearing the gloves, "Everyone's here, we can go."

And we went.  Back to the ranch.

slo happy.

When I decided to combine a visit with Kelly in Southern California with Elizabeth's wedding weekend in Northern California into a one very big vacation, I thought for sure that by the time August rolled around, I'd have met someone (a fella, perhaps?) who would want to accompany me on a drive up the scenic (and romantic) Pacific Coast Highway.

If not a guy, maybe a friend would want to join me for a west coast adventure?  It could be just like Thelma & Louise, minus the whole murder thing.

At the very least, maybe someone also heading to Elizabeth's wedding might need a lift from Los Angeles to San Francisco and I could give them a ride?

Anyone?  Please?  

I had a lot of prospects ranging from the bags-are-packed-but-I-have-no-vacation-time to the mildly-interested-that-sounds-cool-but-probably-not, but none who could actually commit.

I decided to embrace the hand I was dealt and execute my plan anyway.  So I rented a car and took off on a solo excursion.

Though not in exactly the way I'd pictured, I said hello to my celebrity friends as I drove through Malibu and took a stroll through Santa Barbara and a Mexican culture festival before stopping for the evening in San Luis Obispo.


Because of its pleasant climate, walkable streets and friendly people, San Luis Obispo has been called the happiest city in America.  Perhaps I was still basking in the glow of my new little friends or maybe it was the fact that the economy car I bid on through Priceline turned into brand new Nissan Altima at the rental car counter, but I was feeling quite happy.     

In fact, I was happy before I even left Kelly's house, as she and I shared a lot of laughs over my failed attempts to pronounce "San Luis Obispo."

SAINT-LOUIE-O-BEES-PO?

SAND-LUIS-O-BLISS-PO?

Eventually I started calling it "SLO" like all of the locals do, but with a slight southern accent, I sounded like a complete loser. 

While I cannot comment on everyone's happiness level, I can tell you San Luis Obispo is a cool town full of eclectic stores and super hip (but nice) people.  The town reminded me a lot of my college town - Athens, Georgia (and we all know how I feel about that.)

One of the city's must-sees, according to the Lonely Planet travel book I read like it was the Bible, is "Bubblegum Alley," an alleyway covered with decades of chewing gum.

I'm not a germaphobe (at all) but when I stepped into the alley I felt like all the mouths that had once chewed this gum were now breathing on me.  I kept getting whiffs of Watermelon mixed with Spearmint, Grape mixed with Winterfresh and it made my stomach turn.  For the first time all day, I did not feel happy, so I stayed long enough to take pictures, and then moved on.




All day I noticed that whenever I heard a good song, saw a beautiful landscape, or encountered a funny person, I wished that I'd been able to convince someone to come along for the ride.  I'd have to stop myself from reaching for my phone to text or email someone, even if just to say, "I almost threw up in Bubblegum Alley!"  I know there is joy to be had on my own - and I've been lucky to have experienced it - but I also know me; and I like company.

With a great deal of work, I have found peace and contentment within myself - but finding peace and contentment by myself is a completely different thing; I'm still working on it. 

I cannot deny, though, that there is something satisfying about being on my own in a strange city - free to explore (or not explore) at my own pace, on my own timeline.  I've been known to make travel companions crazy with my inability to keep up with the group and my tendency to "wander" slowly with my head tilted back so I can take in all of the sights and all of the sounds.

By myself, I had no one to answer to.

So, I went to Big Sky and drank Anchor Steams, ate fish tacos, and talked to the bartender.  And then went to my hotel and watched the Olympics.



Not exactly the raucous or adventurous night I would've spent in the happiest city in America had I been with companions, but it was SLO according to me and that made me very happy.

day drinking.

My friend Elizabeth flew east from California a couple of weeks ago so that we could celebrate her upcoming nuptials, shower her with gifts, and force her to wear a tiara.


I used the shower as the opportunity to validate my extravagant food processor purchase and prove to myself (and to my mother) that I was capable of making more than just pesto.

So when my friend Trish suggested we create a Bloody Mary bar for the party, I first said, out loud to myself, "Booooyaaaaaah." (Seriously, the best idea ever.)

Then I typed an email back to her, "I want to make a Bloody Mary mix. From scratch."



I imagine my super supportive friend Trish was probably on the other end of that email shaking her head at my need to always make things more difficult than they need to be. But she indulged my crazy and simply responded, "Sounds great."

Zing Zang makes a damn near perfect mix already, so my desire to mess with perfection was, and is, troubling. I recognize my own insanity in wanting to spend my entire day in the kitchen coming up with the most perfect recipe for Bloody Marys that also involved hand stuffing olives with blue cheese.

That Friday, I let Trish know, via text, that I had started to make the mix. She texted me back, kinda-jokingly-but-not-really, "Don't screw it up."

The pressure was palpable, but I went for it, juicing lemons and limes, chopping garlic and adding spices, blending away in my food processor. I let the mix incorporate overnight, as suggested, and was excited about how it had turned out. It was certainly different and far more fresh tasting than any other Bloody Mary I'd ever had, but there was a chance it might not go over with a crowd who was used to a pre-made mix.

When it came time to set up the bar, I retrieved the containers holding the Bloody Marys from my bag and nervously put them on the counter. Several of the other hosts looked at me inquisitively.

"It's the mix. I made it from scratch," I said.

I heard how crazy it sounded coming out of my mouth and I flushed with embarrassment when they looked at me and then looked at each other as if to say, "Seriously? Who does this girl think she is?"

But not until my friend Lisa, truly a Bloody Mary connoisseur, arrived and began surveying the scene did I really start to freak. If I did screw it up, I knew she'd be the first one to inform me (and likely everyone else) of her disappointment.

Why, oh why my need to be experimental?



The shower started and though we had other drink options, nearly everyone wanted to get in on the Bloody Mary bar. I held my breath as they all filled their glasses and smiled big when every single person came to tell me, "These. Are. Awesome."

Since I have unabashedly shared my kitchen mishaps on this blog (pumpkin pie, anyone?), nothing pleases me more than to be able to tell you these Bloody Marys were at hit. People could not get enough.

We did end up having to go into our stash of backup Zing Zang, but only because the fresh Bloody Mary mix (MY mix) ran out so quickly. Even the 50 and over crowd (ahem, Trish's mom Claire, who doesn't even drink) was clamoring for it. We were day drinking. Aggressively.


I considered keeping the recipe to myself in hopes of achieving worldwide cocktail fame, a la Bethenny Frankel, but seeing as how I mostly stuck to Emeril's Bloody Mary Mix Recipe (below), I guess that's probably out of the question. I did increase the amount of garlic and hot sauce and added celery salt for extra flavor. The mix was rather thick, even after we added the vodka, so we added in a cup of water as well.

• 3 cups tomato juice
• 3 tablespoons lemon juice
• 3 tablespoons lime juice
• 1 tablespoon prepared horseradish
• 1 tablespoon Worcestershire sauce or to taste
• 1 teaspoon minced garlic
• 3/4 teaspoon hot sauce, or to taste (recommended: Tabasco)
• 3/4 teaspoon salt
• 1/2 teaspoon freshly ground black pepper

I'm all about shortcuts when it comes to throwing parties, but if you have the time to make Bloody Mary mix from scratch, I highly recommend it.


I also recommend throwing a shower that begins at 11am, takes a time out for an afternoon nap and then goes well into the next morning. There truly is no other way to party.

Cheers!

Day 349: Not that Kind of Transfusion

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

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

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

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

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

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

Day 324: Juggling Blue Toenails

On Day 324, my friend Trish's first child, William James Irby made his debut, weighing 8 pounds, 8 ounces and 20 inches long.

I, along with Elizabeth, really wanted to start Will (aka Willie, aka Will.I.Am, aka Big Willy style) his very own blog entitled, "The Adventures of Willie J," as the thing I've never done before, but his Mommy said, "Um, I don't think so." Instead, I painted my toenails blue as Day 324's thing I've never done before. I did so in honor of Will's entrance to the world, and in celebration that he waited, against his mother's wishes, until I returned from Greece before arriving.

Elated by the baby news, I also tried to teach myself to juggle with instructions I found on the Internet. The lesson didn’t go so well, and I’m pretty sure I'm going to need to seek outside help on that one.

Maybe before Will turns one-year old, I will learn and then show up as a clown at his birthday party.

Fingers crossed.

As for the blue toenail polish, it was fine. A little juvenile, but fine. Definitely more suited for preteens who still hang out at the skating rink. Fun for a while, but I probably wouldn't choose it again. I'm a woman, after all. Or at least that's what people keep telling me.

Day 310: Matters of the Heart

When I lived with my friend Elizabeth during my last semester of college in Athens, she supplied our apartment with a kitchen table, a couch, a television, and a book that stayed in our living room entitled, Delilah, Love Someone Today.

The hardback book, written by the popular syndicated radio host Delilah, contained stories that the host had heard over the years from listeners of her show; stories about falling in love, breaking up, terminal illnesses, tearful reunions. The book, given to Elizabeth as a joke by one of her other roommates, was used by us as a door stop, a wobbly furniture stabilizer and a source of late night entertainment.

Elizabeth was not, at age 21, nor was I, a huge fan of the radio show; I’m not sure what I thought was worse—the sappy stories or the easy-listening medleys of artists like the Eagles, Jason Mraz, and Dan Fogelberg that serve as musical dedications to loved ones. Every time I'd accidentally tune in on Delilah's show back then, I'd gag a little before quickly changing the station.

But admittedly, now, at age 29, I've found myself stumbling across Delilah's show and despite being an avid rock and roll enthusiast and concert go-er, I've been more inclined to stop and listen once in a while. I know, I know, judge all you want. She's a positive person, and though her musical selections still consist of sissy (read: sucky) light rock, when I'm in the mood to chill on my long trips to and from Charleston, I'll let Delilah guide my way home.

What if, I thought, Delilah could end my 0 for 2 streak when it comes to me talking to/hanging out with celebrities? On Day 310, I would attempt, again, to pimp Project 29 to 30 in the most hilarious of ways, by reaching out to the very woman who had given me so many laughs in the past.

Day 310's thing I've never done before, in honor of Elizabeth, and all the time we spent on our back porch at Milledge Place, was to write to Delilah.

Here is what I said:

Dear Delilah,

Last September 27th, I turned 29, and started a year-long journey to do one new thing every single day for an entire year. The project was my gift to myself, and a vow to not let the last year of my twenties pass me by without enjoying, or challenging myself daily.

An aspiring writer, the challenge has also given me something to write about in a blog: http://www.project29to30.blogspot.com/.

The experiences have ranged from the silly, like wearing red fingernail polish for the first time to the crazy, like jumping into a freezing cold lake in the middle of winter, to the emotional, like having an abnormal spot on my back cut out and checked for skin cancer. The project hasn't always been easy, but I consider it my labor of love, and I'm so glad that I did it.

As my 30th birthday looms ahead, I find myself reflecting on the year and the project and all of the experiences that I have had because of it. Besides being emotional that I'm going to be 30, I've realized that what started as a blog about 365 new experiences has instead turned out to be about the cast of characters who star in my life every single day. They've supported me, encouraged me, loved me, and never once doubted that I wouldn't succeeded at my project.

My life hasn't exactly panned out the way I'd planned it in my head, and I will turn 30 as a single woman still terribly unsure of herself. But I feel immensely blessed by the people who have agreed to be a part of my blog, and more importantly, be a part of my life.

On September 27, 2010 when I close the chapter of my twenties and open the door to my thirties, I will do so celebrating them and how lucky I am to have them in my life. My 30-year old crazy, wonderful life.

And then I said something about dedicating a song to all of the people that have helped me make this blog, this project what it is.

The letter tugs at your heart strings, doesn't it?

Well apparently it didn't tug at Delilah's, because she is now the 3rd celebrity that I've reached out to who has denied me and Project 29 to 30.

Even though I wrote to her purely for laughs and for a prank I knew Elizabeth would get a kick out of, I am still hugely disappointed that even Delilah, the queen of tributes and shout-outs has also ignored me. But the letter wasn't for nothing. Despite not hearing from Delilah, or any of her producers, writing her helped me articulate exactly what I was feeling about the project and the fast approaching end of my 20s.

To my surprise, when I read back over my remarks to Delilah, I couldn’t deny that my attempts to be cheesy actually reflected how I sincerely felt about the people in my life who had so selflessly committed themselves to helping me achieve my 365 new things in 365 days goal. So while I may have revved up the melodrama a bit, I was sincere in my heartfelt gratitude. And somehow, turning 30 started to feel a little less scary.

I’m not sure I really needed to dedicate soft rock to my friends and supporters to let them know how truly appreciative I was, and am, but this day’s thing I’ve never done before sure helped get the ball rolling.

Day 259: Runaway Fan

I didn’t have the heart to mention in with Day 258, but the super cool, totally Euro World Cup party eventually turned into Kyle's Craft Hour late night after we (she, Elizabeth, Momo and I) realized there was still a great deal that needed to be done ahead of the baby shower we were hosting for Trish the next day.

See how this blog sometimes builds on itself? I worked on crafts at Day 258’s World Cup party for Trish’s baby shower on Day 259. That shower was for Baby Will, who I just saw in 3D at Trish’s sonogram on Day 257. Get it?

Kyle set up an assembly line on her dining room table and we went to work on these beautiful crafts that she had envisioned for the shower. Menu cards tied with ribbon, mason jars full of cookie ingredients, a wish book. There was a lot of cutting, a lot of tying, a lot of me trying to make exact replicas of Kyle's prototypes and failing miserably.

True, I had never gone to such great lengths for a shower before, but that's not what Day 259's thing I've never done was. I'm simply telling you about the crafts to make the point that this baby shower was No. Joke. Southern Living would have been impressed.

And though I technically was a "host," of this party, I am ashamed that because I lack the creative prowess of others, my responsibilities for the shower were limited to cut-outs of the name, “W-I-L-L,” that hung from a clothes line full of other baby clothes.

Kyle, Momo, Elizabeth, Chrissy, Heather, on the other hand, they pulled out all of the stops. This shower was top notch.

But all of the creative touches and hard work could've been for nothing as we all watched the shower come to an abrupt, potentially fatal, halt.

What happened was not what I could've predicted when I arrived at Basil's, a quaint Buckhead bistro where the shower was held, an hour before the party was supposed to start. I was the first one there, a fact I'd like to shout loud and proud because seldom am I the first one to arrive anywhere.

Guests trickled in, all impressed with how gorgeous everything looked. Trish was blown away, touched at the outpouring of love from her friends and probably still in disbelief that in a few short hours, she would become the owner of items with names like binkies and booties.

Day 259 was a hot day. By the time everyone arrived, we were all sweating, nearly melting. Thankfully, the staff at Basil's set up our table in the shade and right under an overhead ceiling fan. We took our seats and brunch was served.

Eating at Basil's was a first for me, and I was not disappointed. I thought the food was great, and the service was friendly. Despite the heat, everyone seemed to be having a great time.



Everything was going along as planned, when out of nowhere . . . BANG! Everyone at our table, and likely other tables, gasped and screamed. It sounded like a gunshot went off.

Only it wasn't a gun that we heard, but instead, one of the blades of the ceiling fan we had been so thankful for had broken loose and propelled through the air to land mere feet from our mother-to-be.

Maybe I'm reaching here, but this little experience was Day 259's thing I'd never done before. My first meal at Basil's, followed by almost getting killed by an active ceiling fan.

The manager frantically ran over to the table where we were sitting.

"Did any of the pregnant women get hurt?!," the owner said.

An understandable question, as I'm sure beheading any pregnant woman is not the best way to get chosen as Basil's "Employee of the Month." But is it wrong that in addition to the pregnant women, I was also concerned about myself and the women who weren't pregnant at all?

Not to mention, he's standing over us asking us if we're okay and the fan is still turned on, ready to shed another blade at any moment while we looked on with horror as it dipped and swayed in the stagnant air.

For the next minute and a half, all of the servers fumbled over themselves, trying to make sure we were okay, making sure the fan was turned off. And then turning it back on. And then off. It was a scene. I tried to just keep my head down and go back to eating but the little episode killed my appetite.

Brunch was over. Time for gifts.

The rest of the party went on without any more drama. I had to chuckle that all of this work for this beautiful shower, and it all could've ended tragically with one faulty fan.

Thankfully, though, it seemed the Crafty Gods were looking out for us.