Day 329: Book It, Baby!

When I started Project 29 to 30, I did so with a single goal, and that was to write. Writing was something that I had all but stopped doing since landing a full time job and real-life adult responsibilities; but there was a time when I used to do it a lot, and it was one of the few things I feel like I'm good at. Writing is one of the few things that I can lose track of time while doing, a feeling that is strangely satisfying, even if it has made me late for dinner dates and even work a handful of times.

Soaking up each day of my 29th year by trying 365 new things -- well, that was just a gimmick for me to have something to write about. I wasn't necessarily passionate about changing my routine or looking to cross things off a "Before 30" bucket-list; all of that was secondary to the challenge I set forth to sit at my computer everyday and write about my life.

I expected that the blog would be humorous and entertaining to the people who know me well. I knew that my friends and family would enjoy checking in on me from time to time to see what kinds of wacky adventures I could get myself into. I didn't expect for people, many of whom I don't know, to respond so positively to my writing, and my take on being 29. Months after the project began, I was completely floored, and truly flattered when people other than my mother would come up to me and say things like, "You could turn this into a book," and, more aggressively, "Who is going to play you in the movie?"

The remarks were sincerely touching and at times, overwhelming, and though I'm terrible at accepting compliments, after months of consistent, positive reaction, I'd started to consider that maybe Project 29 to 30 could be something more than just a silly blog for my friends and family.

The same was true for my friend Julie of Julie vs. Vegetables. Her personal decision to tackle her fear of cooking and eating foods she thought she hated became hilarious entertainment for me. And like my blog, Julie's had resonated with far more people than just her circle of friends. Thanks to endless flattering comments, Julie had started to consider, as I had, about turning Julie vs. Vegetables into a book.

She had done more than just think about it, though. And in her usual bubbly way, she could not contain her excitement after taking a book development class offered in Atlanta by local columnist and author, Hollis Gillespie.

"OhmygodyouhavetotakethisclassHollisisamazingIalreadyhaveanagent!!!!!!!!!," she said to me at the end of her blog party I had recently attended.

"You have an agent?," I asked her.

"Yes."

"Julie! That's amazing!"

Julie's blog is a riot and a great idea, so I wasn't surprised. I was incredibly impressed. And I'm not proud of it, but I was insanely jealous.

I wasted no time in signing up for the class and immediately started imagining all of the wonderful, and probably unlikely, possibilities. Getting a publisher, accepting a book advance, autographing my first copy, reading entries at book stores across the country, accepting an Academy Award for Best Adapted Screenplay and last, but certainly not least, taking over the world.

First things first, though, I had to take this class that Julie had raved about.

Day 329's thing I've never done before was to take Hollis Gillespie's class about pitching a book idea. I also started really imagining that I could be an author.

I arrived at the class, which was in the Castleberry Hill part of Atlanta. Between this class, and glassblowing the day before, I'd covered a lot of ground in Atlanta. I'd also dropped some serious cash, all in the name of the blog.

I walked through the glass door, clutching an old English notebook from my Alma mater UGA, and looked around at several people already sitting at the square table in the center of the room.

I deducted that with the possible exception of one very attractive woman, I was likely the youngest person in the class, a reality that both intimidated me and made me feel confident all at the same time. I recognized Hollis by her dark rimmed glasses and cool sense of style, before she ever said a word. She instructed me to have a seat wherever, so I did, and was welcomed by my classmates with friendly smiles. I don't know why I thought there might be some competitiveness within the class, but if there was any, I didn't feel it. In fact, my nerves were instantly calmed by the general and unspoken feeling of support I was getting in the room. Like we all had taken this ballsy, dramatic first step and now we were going on a journey together.

After inviting us numerous times to partake in the snacks that she brought us Hollis began the class at 11am with a general introduction to the class. She gives presentations a lot like I do, with a fair share of anecdotes and personal tales of her own experiences, which were both humorous and informative.

One of the first things Hollis did, presumably to boast her success rate with the class, was to talk about one of her most recent student's successes in landing an agent. I was delighted to see that Julie was the student she was talking about and she'd pulled up Julie vs. Vegetables on her LCD projector. Throughout the class, Hollis would reference all of the things that Julie did really right with her blog and the letter to potential agents, but within the first 10 minutes, I was already beaming with pride, as if I had something to do with Julie's success.

After the general overview, Hollis said we were going to go around the table and explain what our book was about, and how much of it we'd already written. She started with the gentleman seated to her left, and since I was sitting directly to her right, I knew this meant that I'd probably go last. I was quite pleased about that, prepared to quietly judge all of the other ideas while preparing to pitch my own.

The first man's novel was a war/crime/spy novel. Naturally, my eyes glazed over and I was completely bored. Not because the guy's idea wasn't good, but because that genre is simply not my cup of tea. Hollis stayed with this guy and his book for what felt like an eternity. Luckily she threw a lot of information out that had nothing to do with this guy's idea specifically (thank God), so I remained engaged in the class. This man hadn't yet written anything; all of his ideas existed in his head. Hollis said that was perhaps his biggest hurdle: he needed to get whatever was in his head out on the page and see what was really there.

Next to the war/crime/spy guy was a woman who claimed she grew up in the same Bronx neighborhood as several celebrities, none of which I can recall right now. Her book was about how growing up in the projects had shaped her life and theirs. She was concerned about upsetting someone with her real-life accounts. Hollis said she once called her brother-in-law a nasty name in one of her books and it caused some family tension for a while, but that it's all a part of being a writer and telling it like it is. I thought about all of the times I've glossed over situations in my life for my blog and wondered if writing the book version meant that I'd have to be brutally honest, even if it meant hurting some feelings.

The next person to talk was the super attractive young woman who had, I learned, in the last few years, been diagnosed with a rare form of cancer; she was wearing a wig and talked about her unimaginable experiences in treatment, and about finding out she'd never be able to have children. I think she had enough stories and information for five books. Hollis said her book needed focus to do well. Did she want the book to be a self-help book for people receiving treatment? Or did she want to talk about her spiritual journey battling a life-threatening disease? Or a funny tell-all about how much cancer sucks? She had written a lot, and had been featured on several cancer websites; her biggest obstacle was narrowing down her ideas, an exercise that would no doubt be difficult.

Next to her was a woman who happened to be married to the possible author of the war/crime/spy book. I was fascinated that these two writers were married to each other, though I'm not sure why. I'd dated a writer before, but for some reason the two of them taking the class together was interesting to me. I wondered if they worked on their books together at their house, and if they proofread each other's work. If one of them got a book deal and the other didn't, would there be tension in the house?

Anyway, she had two ideas for two books, both of which I thought were hysterically funny. One was about going through menopause and all of the not-so-appealing things that happen to your body when you do. The other, was all about being a southern belle married to an Italian man, with an Italian mother. She told hilarious stories about her mother-in-law, and she had the class roaring with laughter. She confessed she had anxiety about an upcoming trip through the Italian countryside with her mother-in-law. Hollis thought, and the rest of the class agreed, that her book could be about the trip, peppered with other anecdotes about her wacky mother-in-law from over the years. I can't wait to read it.

There were a few more ideas, one about a first generation Indian growing up in American culture with old-school Indian parents, and a woman who wanted to write a non-fiction collection of short stories about starting a small businesses.

I was genuinely impressed by everyone in the class. Obviously some books sounded more interesting to me than others, but overall, there were a lot of promising pitches.

By the time she made it around to me, we were running extremely short on time. Obviously I wanted loads of feedback from Hollis and from the others, but she had already shared so while talking to the others, I wasn't expecting we'd have a lot of time to talk discuss Project 29 to 30. I wasn't too concerned; I'd already learned so much. Plus, I felt confident about how much I'd written compared to all of the others. I'd already jumped into the deep end of the writing pool, and most of them were just hanging out in the kiddie pool.

When it was my turn, I felt a lot like I did when I had tried out for my own show on the Oprah network. I looked around at everyone and smile, quickly spitting out, "My name is Stephanie and my book is based on my blog, Project 29 to 30, which is about my quest to do one new thing every single day of my 29th year."

Hollis' eyebrows raised and she laughed, "No way! Cool. I love it." My classmates smiled at me, and nodded approvingly.

I continued, dropping Julie's name for effect.

"Julie, your former student . . . well, she and I are friends. She and I actually started our blogs at around the same time, and she recommended this class."

Hollis pulled up Project 29 to 30 on her computer which was flashing on the screen in front of us. She scrolled down.

"So," she said, matter-of-factly, "What are some of the things you've done?"

I started rattling off a list of the entries that usually impress people: polar bear plunge, sky-diving, taking a trip with someone I didn't really know that well.

Hollis continued to give me positive feedback both with her words, and her body language, as I asked her questions about a title, how to arrange chapters, and how best to incorporate the blog into the pitch, if at all.

She shared her opinions on each point. I knew she was on board with my idea and I was relieved. I was elated.

"Publishers love 'project books,'" she said, "You set a goal. You achieve it. You write about it. It's relatable. It's good."

Plus, she said, a blog shows them that you already have an invested audience, and that's good for business, plain and simple.

I was thrilled. This could really happen.

We talked briefly about the length of the blog and I told her I was averaging 1000 words per entry, setting myself up to have 365,000 at the end of the year-long blog. Since an average book is between 70-80,000 words, editing was going to be my biggest challenge. She nodded, but said that's the easy part. I refrained from telling her that I managed to come up with 500 words about making spaghetti sauce from scratch. Clearly editing and conciseness are not my strong suits.

Our class' guest speaker had arrived by then, so I expected Hollis would soon wrap it up with me. I felt like I had a clear handle on how to proceed, and I had the confidence that a publisher would respond well to my idea.

And then she hit me with a question I wasn't expecting.

"Did you fall in love this year?," she asked me casually and directly; it was as if she was asking if I'd taken out the trash.

Her question completely caught me off guard. I was ready to tell her about seeing a psychic or rock-climbing. Falling in love? Wow.

I instantly felt tears welling up in my eyes, and I looked up at the ceiling, begging them not to fall as I considered her simple question. For several awkward seconds, I couldn't find the words to answer her; and then I looked at her and began slowly shaking my head while I squeaked out, "Yes. Yes, I did."

Suddenly, scenes of the two men who had come in and out of my life throughout this past year played in my head like a mellow dramatic montage in a bad Lifetime movie.

Both had been the source of extremely strong feelings, a lot of laughs and so much fun; the time I spent with both provided a lot of adventure, and a great narrative to my story. But I'm not sure if I was in love with Mountain Man or FF.

I was in love with the story of Mountain Man. The innocent and special nature of our friendship that led to the amazing, romantic trip that we took together; despite the seemingly insurmountable geographic distance between us, and nearly everyone's belief that we could never work as a legit couple, I truly believed that we could and would be more than just a cool trip and an unforgettable story. With FF, I was in love with the opposite: he lived in the same town as me and seemed more realistic, more tangible; plus, our relationship was comfortable, practical, and drama-free. I liked that FF seemed to like me exactly the way that I was, and I fell in love with that for sure.

Neither relationship had turned out the way I wanted them to, and when they ended, there were varying levels of heartache, but I'm still not sure I could call it "love" in either case. Maybe it was their potential that I was in love with. Regardless, it had been months since I'd stopped thinking about them, and even longer since I'd shed any tears over them.

So why were there tears now? And why did I say "yes," when the real answer to Hollis' question was, "Nope. But I came really close?"

I think when I shook my head, "yes," I did so for fear that if I said "no," the whole room, that I was so far holding in the palm of my hand with my tales of adventure and excitement over the last year would've completely deflated. They were rooting for me, and I could feel it. I’ve got a great story, and it's funny and it's reflective; it's going to be a great book. As long as, of course, there's a love story.

I said "yes," because I was afraid that if I said, "no," then the 328 other things that I had already done wouldn't matter. And if that's true, I just wasn't ready to face it.

I used to joke with my mom that if I ever won a Nobel Peace Prize or became President, I'd better lock down a husband first, because all anyone ever wants to know about me is if I'm dating someone and if he's the "one" (whatever that means.) Where I come from, professional accomplishments pale in comparison to finding a suitable mate.

But it's not just other people putting that kind of pressure on me. I'm perhaps harder on myself about my failures in the relationship department than anyone else is. Love was supposed to come easy, and it was definitely supposed to arrive before I turned 30. With just six weeks to go until my birthday, I had to face reality that "falling in love," was probably not going to get crossed off the list. It was disappointing, but I had come to place of peace about it. I was not at peace with love, or my lack thereof, jeopardizing the possibility of my turning Project 29 to 30 into a book, however.

I don't know much about publishing, but I know enough to know that any book that makes it to a bookstore shelf has gone through numerous, and sometimes massive, edits; Hollis said that by the time it's all said and done, a final version of any novel is usually a 100 percent collaboration between the writer and the publisher. And as an author, I have every right to exercise creative liberties and stray away from the truth as it absolutely happened. I'm willing to do just that, but thinking that my story wouldn't be as interesting to other people or a publisher without a proper love story just bums me out.

And if it's true, then what does it mean for my life? Will all of my personal success and triumphs be considered less than if there isn't a man? Or romance?

I crave companionship and human touch and all of the things romantic love provides. And I've been fortunate to have experienced it with wonderful people who've been in my life for a time. I just haven't happened upon "the one." Not yet, anyway.

But make no mistake, my 29th year wasn't without love. There was lots of it. I know it sounds cheesy, but go ahead and cue the sappiness, because I'm serious. I fell in love with a lot this year: red nail polish and snow-skiing, my blog bff Olivia, Woot.com, Boston, New York, San Francisco. I fell in love with my friends, and my life. I fell in love with me. Crazy, unpredictable, high-maintenance, demanding me.

But while falling in love with myself makes for a great Whitney Houston song, that's not the kind of love other people want to read about. They want romance and a happy ending. I've had both this year, as well as a lot of other adventures, just not in the package I was expecting.

And to that I can only say, "Fine publisher. If you say I must fall in love by age 30 with a beautiful, bearded man who lives by the water and loves to travel and is smart and charming and perfect, then who am I to argue with that?"

I'll do whatever it takes to make my dream of being an author a reality, even if it means peppering the real version of my story with some saucier details. Thanks to Hollis and her class, I feel like I really have something on my hands. I'm a writer.

And Project 29 to 30 will be a book. Even if I have to publish it myself.

Day 283: It's Not You, It's Me

"I just feel like this is starting to move in a serious direction and I'm not sure I'm ready for that."

Though I had been preparing myself for this conversation after communication had changed significantly starting the night of July 4th, his words still stung. The usually responsive FF had suddenly, and rather abruptly, become difficult to reach. I did my best to blame it on the long weekend, and a tough time getting back into the swing of things. But when we finally connected on Day 283, I could tell instantly that something had changed. And after talking for half an hour while I was driving to the grocery store, he confirmed that indeed it had.

He cited bad timing as the reason, and I couldn't argue with that. So we said our good-byes, good lucks, and even extended some well wishes to one another that were uncharacterstic of most conversations of this nature. At one point I actually had to stop myself from saying, "Have a nice life," because that sounds sarcastic, but I really did, and do, want him to have a nice life. I instead said something to the effect of, "I know that the last few years have really sucked for you, and I think you are a nice person and I hope that you do find happiness. Because I think that you deserve it."

My voice cracked at some point during that last part and my eyes welled up with tears. I so did not want to cry about this, or about him, but I just couldn't seem to stop myself. Upon realizing that I was crying in the Kroger parking lot, I ended the conversation as quickly as I could. And then I got myself together and went inside to retrieve items for the black bean burgers I had planned to make for Day 283's thing I've never done before.

I grabbed a cart and immediately took off to the produce aisle, replaying the conversation in my head.

Personally, I felt somewhat vindicated that there was a reason for my initial concern that I hadn't heard from him in a few days. The few people I'd told had tried to convince me that I was crazy for thinking anything of it, but in my gut I just knew something was up. Something was different. Our final conversation that night was disappointing, but was also proof that my instincts were right, and maybe I should learn to trust my gut.

I also marveled at his directness. I've told this story so many times now (since FF started appearing in the blog everyone wanted to hear about him), and I've described it as the "most adult break-off I've ever had." (We weren't ever boyfriend/girlfriend so break-up feels a little strong. I prefer break-off.) I am so used to a passive-aggressive and gradual ending where phone calls and text messages just become less frequent over time. I'll be sleep-deprived from worry and 15 pounds lighter from not-eating before finally facing the inevitable, "He's just not that into me." But in this case, after less than 72 hours of wondering what happened to him, FF cut to the chase and let me know where he stood. And though I was bummed, I had to appreciate his honesty.

When I rolled my cart towards the strawberries, I decided that I would trust that what he said was true, and this was, simply, a case of bad timing. I challenged him on the phone, "Are you not ready for a serious relationship, or are you not ready for a serious relationship with me?" I'm not sure I was ready for the answer either way, but in that moment, parked under the bright Kroger lights, I wanted the truth. Even if it hurt.

"I promise this has nothing to do with you, Stephanie," he said. "I'm just not ready for this right now."

I stopped the cart, replaying that last line several times. He threw some other words in there, perhaps to confuse me, but right there in the produce section, it all became crystal clear. FF had said the equivalent of, "It's not you, it's me."

UGH.

The line that has been used and abused by men and women taking the path of least resistance in hopes to spare the other person's feelings so many times that it has become a punchline in sitcoms and romantic comedies had just been used on me. (George Castanza, anyone?) Part of me wanted to laugh at the absurdity. Most of me felt sick, though. Like I wanted to throw up.

Of all of the hurtful things that have been said to me over the years, I think this one stung the most, because everyone knows that when someone says, "It's not you, it's me," it usually means that it's you. Or in this case, me.

My brain immediately went into a tailspin of possible things that I could've said or done over the last five days that would've sealed this fate.

I shuddered to think that maybe my mom was right, and my leaving town for four days to see Phish put the nail in my relationship with FF.

"I mean, don't you think he might've thought that was a little weird?," she asked me.

It's definitely possible. But those plans had been made long before I ever even met FF and I don't really think this had anything to do with Phish.

I did wonder if maybe it was something I said, or did, during my four days away. I went back to my phone to make sure I hadn't placed any drunk dials or insane text messages. From what I could tell, I did not.

When I read the very last text I sent before communication from him went dark and in the midst of my pain, I had to laugh. The text said, "Well, at least you're not taking your shirt off like a meat head, which is more than I can say for some of the people that I am with. Yikes!"

Maybe he was turned off that some of the people I was with take their shirts off, or maybe he takes his shirt off when he's had to much to drink and feels like I called him out, or maybe in the four hours between our text messages, he met someone else and realized she would never see some band four nights in a row or send messages about shirtless people?

I forced myself to stop agonizing over the stupid text messages (which might be my least favorite form of communication) and face the reality that at this point in our relationship, there wasn't a text message that could've caused him to walk away from whatever it was that we once were both walking towards. I mean, he knew me and my shenanigans (including performing dance moves at nearly every location we'd ever been together), both in person, and electronically. I don't think a text about meatheads taking their shirts on would've turned him off that much.

No, I fear this "thing," about me, if it is a "thing," may not be so specific, and therefore harder to identify, and even more difficult to change.

But at 29-years old, after being let down in this way before, I couldn't help but consider, "Well maybe it is me. I remain the common denominator in all of these scenarios. Who else could it be?"

That realization was far too upsetting to deal with at Kroger and when I looked down at my cart, I could feel tears starting to well in my eyes again. Not just because I'd arrived at the all-too-familiar lonely place, albeit in a healthier, more adult way, but also because I'd been mindlessly filling my cart with random things as I wandered up and down the aisles and when I looked down at all of it, I didn't know what any of it was or what or how I was planning to make anything with it.

I had to get out of there right away. So I left my semi-full cart of random items right where it was, bought a bottle of wine and a Gatorade, and left the store quickly.

Day 283's thing I've never done before was to be told, with a whole lot of words, "It's not you, it's me," realize that it probably is me, and subsequently abandon a cart full of groceries in Kroger.

This is my heartfelt apology to the stockboy that had to restock all of the items in my cart, and who probably wondered, "What happened here?"

I am the one who left the cart behind. It was me. Isn't it always?

Day 280: Lot Food Denial > Ice, Ice, Baby

Day 280 was the last day of the Magical Mystery Tour.

The last day for me to achieve what I'd hoped to achieve during my four-day Phish run. My friend Liz, who had come to town for a show with her husband Nick, had proposed the idea via text message, "Why don't you make and sell lot food?"

What a damn fine idea, Liz.

"Lot food" simply refers to food (anything from burritos, quesadillas, hot dogs, peanut butter and jelly sandwiches) that hippies sell in the parking lot ahead of, and following, a Phish concert. Many people who sell lot food are "on tour," and the money they make is how they afford to move from one show to the next. The thought of eating concoctions made by strangers might weird people out, but I think "lot food" is one of the greatest elements of the Phish experience.

When Liz proposed the idea, I think she imagined me buying the ingredients and selling my own lot food. But I was not at all interested in doing that. I had been travelling for several days and didn't have the time to get it together. Plus, my plans were so up in the air at that point, I didn't even know if I'd have my own car, or who I'd be going to the concert with.

In my mind, I would simply introduce myself to someone already selling food in the lot and offer to help them. I'm extremely charming when I want to be, plus I'm a good cook. I would be a valuable asset to any lot food operation.

Or at least I thought so. As I was leaving the concert on Day 279, Emily and I went in search of someone I could assist. I didn't have to look very hard. Immediately I saw a guy standing behind a charcoal grill in the middle of the pathway. He was surrounded by hungry concert-goers and was telling them that what he was selling was, "Vegan sausage dogs." So Phish-friendly!

Immediately I noticed that this grill had clearly been fired up for a while. Some of the hot dogs were already cooked, meaning this guy must've left the concert long before it was over. He certainly didn't wander back to his car after the show like we had. This operation had long been underway.

I felt awkward approaching him, but I had to. I was running out of days, out of opportunities. But he was clearly in the zone, if there is such a thing as it pertains to selling lot food.

"Hey," I said, timidly, "Can I ask you something?"

He didn't look at me, but instead eyed the crowd for his next potential buyer.

"Yeah, but make it fast, I've got work to do," he snapped, using tongs to turn the vegan sausage dogs on the grill.

Emily and I looked at each other, surprised by his reaction. What happened to the fun-loving, laid-back, friendly hippies that used to sell food in lots? This guy was mean. For him, this was it, survival of the fittest. Like he was a challenger on an episode of the Apprentice.

In case anyone was concerned about the state of capitalism in America, there is no need to. It is alive and well in Phish lots.

There was a part of me that thought maybe this guy thought I was just being ridiculous, or mocking him, or that I might slow down his operation.

Regardless, he made it very clear that he wasn't interested in my help. Or in talking to me. Or in breathing the same air as me.

I walked away, in the direction of the Zingo driver, feeling defeated. Who knew finding a hippie that would let me make lot food with him would be such a challenge?

On my walk, I found another guy selling food. He seemed much more relaxed, and friendly; he happily gave me the information I was seeking.

Yes, this food (veggie burritos) was his livelihood. He'd been on tour all summer long.

Yes, he wakes up early to prepare the ingredients and leaves the concerts early to get his station set up and ready for business.

Yes, he'd let me come help him the next day. He even gave me his phone number.

So on Day 280, I called him, thinking that could be thing things I'd never done before. He didn't answer, sending Liz's idea up in flames. But not because I didn't try.

Have no fear, though, something I've never seen before happened before the day really even got started. Day 280's thing I've never done before was to see someone get iced.

The phrase, "getting iced," was, until late in the summer, foreign to me. But once I heard about it from FF, who heard about it from his summer interns, I couldn't stop hearing about it. On television, on Facebook, on the radio.

I overheard my drunk summer intern discussing it, and eventually Mountain Man revealed he had been icing his friends and had been getting iced all summer.


I was eternally grateful to everyone who shared what they knew about icing since I was so late to the game. But I couldn't help but think how sad it is to get older. I'm no longer doing the "cool things that kids are doing," I'm hearing about them months after the fact from all of the young, cool interns.

For the final Phish day, I met Paul and Bronson at Bronson's house so that we could catch a cab up to Alpharetta together. As we were trying to pack up all of our stuff, one of Bronson's sister's friends, who was staying behind, offered him her backpack cooler to take to the concert.

"There might be stuff in it," she said, "But you can just take it out and fill it with whatever."

Bronson unzipped the backpack cooler to reveal one lonely Smirnoff Ice.

The girl who had tricked him into finding it raised her arms in victory and started laughing. Once we all saw the Smirnoff and understood what had just happened, everyone erupted into laughter and applause. Bronson got down on one knee and chugged an entire bottle of Smirnoff Ice.

This is the game that is sweeping the nation. It's what all the cool kids are doing. Icing.

Confused? The rules (according to Wikipedia) to this most fabulous, completely juvenile, greatest marketing ploy for Smirnoff are simple:

One of the players "Ices" another by either presenting him with a Smirnoff Ice or hiding a Smirnoff Ice and having the other player find it. The other player can perform an "Ice Block" by grabbing a Smirnoff Ice within arms reach (e.g. on his person, on a table). Once he presents this "Ice Block" to the original player, the original player must drink both the Smirnoff Ice he presented in the first place and the "Ice Block". If an "Ice Block" is not performed, the player who was "Iced" must get on one knee and chug the entire bottle. However you can not "Ice Block" and "Ice Block". Refusal to do so results in excommunication, meaning that that player can no longer "Ice" anyone or get "Iced."


There is no exception to the rule. If you refuse to consume the ICE on the spot you are banned for life unless the territory allows you back in the game (usually a form of initiation will be involved).

Bronson took it like a man, and he drank that Smirnoff Ice like he'd been doing it his whole life. I both delighted in seeing this mysterious activity happen in my presence (maybe I'm not as old as I thought) and feared that now that Pandora's Box had been opened, I might be icing all summer.

Day 277: Phish Explainer

On Day 277 I began what FF had started referring to as the, "Magical Mystery Tour."

Four Phish shows in four days in three different cities.

Day 277's thing I've never done before was to go to Walnut Creek Amphitheatre in Raleigh, North Carolina for Day #1 of the southeast tour.

This was also the first time I'd gone to a Phish concert with someone who had seen the band less times than I had.

Her name was Patty, and she had recently married a Phish fan, so while she had heard their music before, this was her first time ever seeing them live. Her husband, my friend Andrew, has been seeing the band since he was in high school. I'm pretty sure anything she wanted to know about Phish, he had already told her.

Yet my excitement at not being the newbie or the first time ever took over and I decided to take it upon myself to drop as much Phish knowledge on her as I could.

Patty, because she's a nice person, smiled while she listened to what I had to say.

"When they play 'Harry Hood,' everyone launches glowsticks into the air. They call it a glowstick war."

"During 'You Enjoy Myself,' (lead guitarist) Trey and (bassist) Mike will jump all around on mini-trampolines while playing their instruments."

"Some people think of (lighting director) Chris Kuroda as the fifth member of the band because what he adds to the show."

"A lot of my favorite songs that Phish performs come from Trey's senior thesis at Goddard College. The songs are all about this guy Colonel Forbin who has a dog and he finds himself in a mythical place called Gamehendge . . ."

As these things were coming out of my mouth, I realized two things:

First, I had likely succeeded, with my unsolicited remarks, of stripping Patty of her will to live.

Secondly, this band, that I've dedicated a great deal of time and money to seeing for the last seven years, sounds both completely ridiculous and like the most fun band ever. For 6-year olds.

Maybe Phish, like the Internet, and sorority t-shirts with Dave Matthews Band quotes on them, isn't meant to be explained or understood. It's just meant to be fun. I decided I'm better off just enjoying the fellowship, enjoying the music, but flying under the radar as it comes to the this band.

And just like that, I heard, "Free," one of Phish favorite songs. I took it as a sign to free Patty from my insanity and leave it at Walnut Creek Amphitheatre as the thing I've never done before.

Day 273: New Location, Same Terrible People

I woke up at Kyle's on Day 273 to a call from FF.

"I'm going to Tom's lake house up on Lake Lanier. Come with me," he said.

"Absolutely not," were the first words that came to mind.

The first words that came out of my mouth, though, were, "That sounds fun . . .but I don't think so . . .I just woke up."

"Come on! The lake will make you feel better. You can sleep on the way," he said.

I could not argue with that point. Plus, I had no other plans that day than to lie on my couch and nap intermmitently (a favorite Sunday activity of mine), and I had a bathing suit and cover up in my car (a fact that both pleased and fascinated FF. I mean, really, who travels with swim wear all the time? Answer: those of us who still wish they lived at the beach.)

I had no more excuses left. I did not want to go, but in the spirit of this year, here's to saying, "yes" when I feel like saying, "no."

When we got to Tom's parents' lake house, I instantly remembered that I had been there before, years ago, when Tom and I were in college together. Visiting Lake Lanier was not going to suffice as the thing I've never done before.

"Do you want to set up T's (he and Taylor's son) Pack N Play?," Tom asked me.

"Tom, don't ask her to do that," Taylor exlaimed, before I could answer.

I'm pretty sure she said that because she didn't want me, the guest, to do any work, though it occurred to me later that maybe she was concerned that I'm a complete idiot and might do something during the set up that could unintentionally hurt her son.

"I don't mind. I'll do it," I said.

And so Tom walked me through, step by step on how to set up a Pack N Play. I didn't find it to be particularly hard, though now that it's months later, I couldn't tell you any of the steps. I follow directions well, though, all of you moms, so if you need me to baby-sit, I'm sure I could figure it out. I'm not as irresponsible as I look, or as some of my actions may reflect.

The next thing I did that I'd never done before, on the other hand, will stay with me for a long time, and it happened on a boat ride that Tom, FF and I took later that day.

Day 273's thing I've never done before was to visit Lake Lanier's Cocktail Cove.

The name, "Cocktail Cove," does a pretty good job of explaining what the place is all about--a cove on the lake where boats park and drink cocktails.

On second thought, if they really wanted to be clear perhaps they should've called it, "Cocktail Cove full of awful people with barbed wire tattoos and fake boobs wearing Confederate flag string bikinis dancing promiscuously while listening to Nickelback, smoking Menthol cigarettes and drinking Hunch Punch out of insulated cups donning their names in puff paint."

Tom prepared me for the outward cheesiness of Cocktail Cove, but I wasn't quite prepared to see a boat named "The G Spot," with the "G" in the style of the University of Georgia "G." Stay classy, fellow Bulldogs.

If forced to spend a day there, I would have, without a doubt, enjoyed myself. I've been told by others that I could have fun in a paper bag, and I believe it's true. I may have even joined in on some of the shenanigans that I experienced on my short trip, including, but not limited to, booty-dancing with strangers on other boats, screaming the lyrics to Bob Marley songs, and stumbling around wasted with my bathing suit barely covering my private parts.

But overall, Cocktail Cove for me is a lot like the Pavilion at Myrtle Beach. I'm glad I went to see what all the fuss was about, but if I never went back, I think I'd be okay with that.

According to Tom, this Cocktail Cove is different from the Cocktail Cove of a few years ago, but only in location. The people, he said, are more or less the same, and since I'd been to his lake house before there is a good chance I'd been to the old location. I'd like to think I'd remember a place so unforgettable, but apparently not.

If what Tom said is true, I think I have a way to market the new Cocktail Cove.

Cocktail Cove: New Location, Same Terrible People

Day 271: Let's Get To Know Each Other

Part of the fun in writing this blog is that I already know what's coming next, and you all reading it do not. Well, for Day 271, I'm going to have to blow the surprise and tell you what was coming on Day 272. The next two day's entries are related.

On Day 272 I auditioned for my own show on the Oprah Winfrey Network.

On Day 271, the thing I've never done before was to fill out the 16-page questionnaire for the audition.

I printed several copies of the application before heading to Wal-Mart on Day 270 and tossed them in the backseat of my car. When I finally took a look at them later, I felt overwhelmed. The application was 16 pages long.

Pages 1-3 were eligibility requirements, making sure all contestants were at least 21 years of age (yep), willing to travel to Los Angeles (sure thing), and not currently an elected official for public office (definitely not).

Pages 11-16 were release forms, which consisted of a lot of legal jargon I didn't understand. I just signed them, releasing my likeness, releasing the answers to the questions.

Pages 4-10 was the actual application, full of questions ranging from extremely easy and standard to extremely thought-provoking.

I didn't really do more than glance at the questions until the afternoon of Day 271, less than 24 hours before I was supposed to actually turn the application in to Oprah's producers. I realized pretty quickly that not all of these questions were going to be easy to answer. And I was running out of time.

There was a part of me that wondered if any of these questions even mattered. If I got there, and pitched the greatest show idea the casting director had ever heard, would how I described myself in one sentence make a difference in the long run? Probably not, but it didn't change the fact that the application had to be filled out. I knew I'd likely bomb the audition, but I didn't want to be eliminated on a technicality.

FF and I had plans to go to dinner that night. He suggested, after I told him I was stressed, that I should bring the application to the restaurant and he'd help me fill it out. I knew there was no way he would be able to help me, "describe my high school experience," (pretty fun, made lots of friends, learned a lot), but I took him up on his suggestion.

Maybe, I thought delusionally, this could be a good getting to know you game. Some of the questions were pretty interesting, and could be a good way for FF and me to get to know each other.

Name, Address, Phone Number, Email address, Schools Attended, Degrees Earned, Occupation.

So far, easy.

Interesting jobs. I'd say driving a truck and trailer across the country promoting Country Music Television qualifies as "interesting job."

What is your dream job? Travel writer. I actually do that job, I just don't get paid for it. Not yet, anyway.

Have you ever been fired from a job? No.

Where did you grow up and how did it influence you? I refrained from telling them that Growing up in Columbia, South Carolina helped me garner an appreciation for strip malls. Instead, I said, "Growing up in Columbia was great. I have a great, supportive family and lots of friends, many of whom still live there. Everyone defines, "normal," differently, but my childhood was pretty standard."

Wow, I thought, as I read back over my responses up to that point, I'm pretty vanilla. Nothing very interesting there.

What's the most important lesson you've ever learned? I'm not sure when I learned this lesson, but I've learned that I'm only in control of myself and what I do. I can't force someone to care or demand that they do things the way that I do them. People don't change because I want them too. It sounds cynical, but it's actually quite liberating.

What was your favorite game as a child? As an adult? My favorite games as a kid always involved me acting older than I really was. Only, instead of, "playing house," I liked to, "play college." My name was Mercedes, I lived in a dorm with a roommate, I always had a boyfriend, and I drove a white VW Rabbit convertible. (I was a huge License to Drive fan, apparently.)

Games as an adult? Does golf count? I think games are supposed to be fun. Golf is stressful. I'm going to have to come back to that one.

Provide an example that shows your level of competitiveness.

I started to write, "I'm really not that competitive at all," but then realized that in this instance, maybe complete honesty is not what they wanted to hear. I had to tailor my answer here to show them that if given the opportunity to try out for this job, I would fight for it in a way that would make for good TV. How can I convey who I really am, but let them know that I'm not opposed to making other contestants cry by clawing their eyes out to get ahead? This question was tricky too.

How do you react when you lose? The same way I act when I win.

How do you react when you win? The same way I act when I lose.

Describe the most important person in your life. My parents. They think I can do anything.

Describe your relationship status. Single and ready to mingle. (This question did not, thankfully, open things up for a "defining the relationship talk" with FF.)

Kids? None.

Describe your most embarrassing moment or experience. I can't remember the worst, but I'm sure it involved falling, either off of a bus or down some stairs.

Tell us your most disappointing moment (getting passed over for a promotion), your best qualities (spontaneous, fun-loving, kind, adaptable), your worst qualities (sensitive, procrastinator, wear my heart on my sleeve), and what does success mean to you (success for me is being happy with exactly what I have and not wanting what someone else has).

At about this point, I was over this application. Surprising, I know, since I've spent the last year talking about myself via this blog, but I was exhausted thinking and talking about myself this much. These questions were thought-provoking and made interesting for conversation for a while, but since I actually had to write my answers down for someone else to read, I couldn't really enjoy the discussion.

What types of people intimidate you?

I'd say off all the questions, this one stumped me the most, because it was one I hadn't really thought about before. I don't intimidated too often, but people who intimidate me are usually ones that are completely different from me. People who are reserved, careful with their words, effortlessly cool, and borderline aloof. Since I've never been like that, I find those who are, intimidating.

At the top of Page 9, the paper read, in all capital letters: PLEASE ANSWER EACH QUESTION HONESTLY.

Wait, what?

I had been honest on Pages 4, 5, 6, 7, and 8 (minus the question about being competitive), but maybe they were looking for some good storytelling? Whatever, I thought, it’s too late to go back. I’m letting my answers stand.

Have you ever hit anyone in anger or self-defense? No. I'm a chicken. Other than my brother when we were kids, I don't think I've ever even slapped someone. I hugely regret this, at age 29, because I can think of some people who deserved a little slap from me.

This is when the "getting to know you game," started to get interesting, and I thought about fabricating some story about a huge bar fight I got into once just to see what FF's reaction would be.

The fun and games stopped, however, when I arrived at the next question.

Are you now, or have you ever seen a therapist, psychologist or psychiatrist?

As soon as I spoke the word, "therapist," I put my pen down, looked up from the paper down and said to FF, "Well, this is awkward.”

“What?” he said.

I sat back in my chair. He gave me a puzzled look.

"I've seen a therapist before," I said, matter-of-factly, as if I was revealing that I used to be a man or that I had several illegitimate children.

He tilted his head towards me and smiled.

"Okay," he said.

I resisted the urge to keep talking but the urge to explain to him why I had seen a therapist prevailed.

"It was years ago and I had a lot of anxiety and I wasn't sleeping or eating and I just needed to get some stuff out," I said in one long sentence like a crazy person. If he was ever confused as to why I had seen a therapist, he probably wasn't now.

"Okay," he said again. He did not seem at all fazed by this information.

For the record, I'm not ashamed that I've gone to therapy. I think therapy is highly underrated. I'm just not sure this is the sort of information I was ready to share at this time, at this location. My tendency to "over share," had once again put me in an uncomfortable position. Regardless, he seemed to take it well.

In an effort to divert the conversation, I went on to the rest of the questionnaire, which was pretty easy. Why do you think you'll win? Because my idea is awesome, and so am I. What do you bring that is completely unique? My self-deprecating humor. And my hair.

It asked about allergies (none), medications (none), arrests (none, yet), felonies (none).

And then I signed off that all of my previous statements were the truth as I know it. Therapy and all.

Day 262: Queen of the Disco

After such a lame at-home dance class on Day 261, I decided I really did want to dance for real. I wanted to take a dance class. In a dance studio. Just to prove to myself that I could still do it, and not just in the context of the spontaneous, sometimes inappropriate dance parties I always throw.

So Day 262's thing I've never done before was to take a Disco Jazz class at Dance 101studios.

I have taken classes at Dance 101 before, but the studio offers so many different styles, I could've knocked out several blog entries in one day just there. I opted for Disco Jazz, Level One. Disco because it just sounded like fun, and who doesn't like disco? Level One because who am I kidding? Despite a class or two here and there, I haven't danced in a dance studio in probably ten years and I didn't want to make a fool of myself.

Plus, I've spent the last year being the worst participant in whatever I was doing (rock climbing, anyone?). I was hoping that if I aimed low with a Level One class, then maybe for one of first times this year, maybe I'd have a chance to be one of the best.

The first thing I did when I arrived at the class was secure a dance space in the back. The second thing I did was check out all of the other students in the class. Part of me, admittedly, was sizing them up, assessing their dance abilities based on their physique and attire.

But most of me was genuinely curious about what kinds of other people were attracted to a class called, "Disco Jazz." As you might imagine, it was a mixed bag. Lots of young people (I'm including myself in that category), some middle-aged moms, and at least one woman in her 60's or 70's wearing shiny leggings and a leotard. She looked like she hadn't eaten since Disco was popular, which made me sad. What made me happy was her over-processed, teased hair and full face of makeup complete with red lipstick. I appreciated that she was there, decades older than most of the others in the class, letting her hair down and helping to keep disco alive.

Bubba, our teacher, sauntered out to the middle of the dance floor and explained how the class was going to go. I was surprised that his name was Bubba, as nothing about him, except for his thick Alabama accent, fit that name. He was fabulously flamboyant and hysterically funny without meaning to be. Bubba, I later learned, is the Artistic Director of Dance 101, and has an impressive dance resume which includes choreography and performing gigs with Cher and Prince, just to name a couple. I loved him.

Bubba started us off with a warm-up and then instructed us to move to one side of the room so that we could, "go across he floor." I had to laugh, as, "going across the floor," has been, at different times in my life, my least favorite and my most favorite about the dance classes I've taken over the years. When I was younger, I hated going across the floor and hated people watching what I was doing for fear that I looked ridiculous and that they would make fun of me. Once I got better and more confident with myself and the other girls I danced with, "going across the floor," was the most fun exercise ever, the source of much laughter and immense joy. This time, I felt a little apprehensive, but definitely enjoyed myself, only wishing that my old dance buddies were there with me.

After we moved across the floor, Bubba moved us back to the center where he began teaching a combination, or a mini-dance routine. The moves were simple, but a lot of fun.

He was moving along with his instruction, and then he paused. He sort of stood there with a mischievous look on his face and then he turned around to face the class.

"I'm hesitating on this next move because it's just so . . . so gay," he said. And then he paused, grinned, looked at all of us in the mirror and said, "Eh, who cares? This is disco!"

And then smiling all the way, Bubba taught us a move straight out of Saturday Night Fever. It's hard for me to describe it, but the move is heavy on the arm movement. Left arm out, right arm does this kind of swing around pumping thing. Like I said, I can't really describe it, but I loved the move so much, I have now incorporated into my dance repertoire, and I cannot perform the move without smiling. I've since showed several of my friends, including Katy, who asks to see it often. I even showed it to FF, who seemed more amused than weirded out, which was a relief, as I'm sure it so easily could have gone another way. If you'd like to see the move, just ask me. I'll gladly show it to you.

The class went by really quickly. Bubba taught fast, much faster than I would've thought for a beginner class. I suspect this was because he wanted to give us plenty of time to do the routine with the music. Once he turned it on, I understood why. The song was so much fun, and the class made It was so much fun. There was such a sense of camaraderie among the other dancers and me. None of us were trying to secure a spot on the front row, or battling for a solo; we weren't even rehearsing for a performance or a recital. This class was all about the childhood fun of dance that I remember, minus the stress of getting it perfect every single time.

But make no mistake, I came to prove that I've still got it. And I did just that. I mean, I wasn't busting out switch leaps or triple pirouettes or anything, but I nailed these moves just like I did in the 1990's.

Oh, and who said disco died? In Atlanta, thanks to Bubba, disco is alive and well!

Day 255: Everyone Deserves Music

Day 255's thing I'd never done before was to see Blitzen Trapper and the Moondoggies at the Variety Playhouse.

That FF invited me to the concert was a relief on many levels. I said, "Yes," immediately, pleased that seeing live music was on his list of "likes."

We hadn't yet had the inevitable, "Defining your relationship with Nickelback," conversation either, and so I still wasn't sure if I was willing to take this relationship any further. His invitation to a concert gave me a perfect segue to talk about music.

Plus, I'd tapped into the fact that he was willing to leave his own neighborhood for the wilder side that is Little 5 Points, a trait that some of the other guys I've dated haven't always been so willing to do.

Before we went to the concert, I did some investigating on the band, and discovered that they're really cool.

So cool, in fact, that I wasn't the only person I knew with plans to see them that night. I ran into several friends, including my ex-boyfriend, that I hadn't expected to see. My complete shock and subsequent anxiety about these sightings was, now that I think about it, ridiculous. My friends like live music; of course they would be there! But still, I usually wait until much later for my world's collide, but here they were colliding, without my control, right at the Variety Playhouse.

I handled this unexpected run-in with all the grace and class of a bull in a china shop, vigorously drinking canned Pabst Blue Ribbons to quell my nerves and making hasty introductions and even hastier conversations with wild hand motions for the next couple of hours.

I later apologized to FF and explained why I was acting weirdly. He shrugged it off, and added, "Oh I wondered why it looked like you ran full speed into a screen door when we approached the stage."

Like I said, graceful.

But at least the bands were great. They really were. I think.

Day 246: Good Vibrations, sans Stamos

Day 246 was Memorial Day.

And after a spirited and borderline combative conversation with my mother about how my generation isn't patriotic, and doesn't understand the true meaning of the day, it was clear it was time to leave my parents' house and head back to Atlanta.

FF had invited me to the Braves game, which sounded like fun, and a completely patriotic way to honor Memorial Day. But the selling point on this game for me was that the Beach Boys were playing a free concert after the game.

Question: What is more American than a baseball game and the Beach Boys?

Answer: Nothing.

See Mom, I told you I was patriotic!

Day 246's thing I've never done before was to see the Beach Boys at Turner Field.

When I told people my plan for Memorial Day, my news was met with several smiles and raised eyebrows, I’m sure in part because this was Day #3 with FF, and also because they were jealous that I was going to see the Beach Boys and they were not.

My brother's reaction surprised me, though. He wanted to know about FF, but that was secondary to what he was really curious about.

"The game will be fun," my brother said, "Is Stamos going to be there?"

"Stamos?"

"Yeah," he replied, "John Stamos."

"John Stamos? Like Uncle Jesse from Full House John Stamos?"

"Yes."

"Since when does he play with the Beach Boys?," I asked.

Jeff looked at me like I was an idiot, and for good reason.

I assumed that the “Uncle Jesse plays with the Beach Boys” subplot on Full House was just a ratings ploy to help the already absurd scenario of three men raising three little girls in the same house in San Francisco. When in fact, John Stamos has been playing drums with the Beach Boys for 25 years.

Since I was completely unaware of this already existing relationship, when Jeff, and later my friend Elizabeth asked me about Stamos' attendance at the game, I had to confess I did not know if he would be there.

I asked FF, since he had sold the game to me with the promise of a performance by Beach Boys.

"Is John Stamos gonna be with them?"

He laughed, but like me, was not aware of the 25-year long Stamos/Beach Boys relationship. I suspect he might’ve also been somewhat alarmed that I even asked a question about John Stamos.

Though not clear on whether or not Stamos is actually a “Beach Boy,” he makes regular appearances with the band as a drummer. When he wants to drum, he shows up at the concert, and he drums. I am not sure who fills in for Stamos when he's not there, or how that backup drummer feels about playing second string to Uncle Jesse.

Much to our dismay (especially my brother's), the Atlanta Braves Memorial Day concert was not one of the shows John Stamos signed on to play.

But the rest of the Beach Boys proved that they all may be pushing 70-years old and singing songs that haven't been hits since the 1960s, but they’ve still got it. The classics, like "Wouldn't It Be Nice," "Kokomo," and "Little Deuce Coupe," clearly never die. There were people of all ages both on the field and in the stands dancing, clapping, and singing along. I held off on showing FF all of my moves (this was only Date #3), but I think he became aware that day that I'll pretty much dance to anything.

The day wasn't drama free, thanks to the sound system that crapped several times during the show; there was also a scare when the ballpark staff stopped serving beer in the 7th inning before the end of the game. I worried that I have to deal with the third date jitters without the help of Bud Light. But thankfully, the concession stands reopened once the concert started, or things could've gotten really awkward.

I mean, the Beach Boys are good. But they're not that good.

Day 235: The Price of Progress

Any time a house or building goes through construction, there are growing pains. My office is currently undergoing a massive renovation that when completed, will bring our facility into the 21st century. I think I speak for all of my coworkers when I say we are excited about the finished product. We're less excited, however, at sharing our workspace with a construction team that works around the clock.

Day 235's thing I've never done before was to go to work in a construction zone; I was forced to wear winter attire in the middle of the summer, I wore a hardhat, and did business over the phone with chainsaws and drills in the background.

My co-worker Jackie comes into work before I do, and keeps me abreast of the temperature, especially when it reaches an abnormally chilly level, which it tends to do. Nobody's really sure why, in the dead of a hot Atlanta summer, our office can get so cold, that we need Snuggies and fleeces, but on Day 235, the subzero temperatures forced me to raid my friend Emily's drawer for the fleece she keeps inside.

My work environment wasn't ever "quiet" to begin with, but now we're forced to contend not just with each other, but also with the sound of drilling, sawing, and hammering on the other side of the wall the construction team erected to separate us from them. On Day 235, I realized just how bad the noise could get when I picked up the phone to call one of my clients.

"Hey, Lawrence? It's Stephan-"

(Drrrrriiiillllllll, Ssssssssssaaaaaaaawwwwwwwwwww)

"LAWWWWWRRRRRRRRENCE," I yelled into the phone, "It's STEPHANIE!!!! CAN YOU HEAR . . . me?"

Right as I was yelling, "HEAR," the drilling abruptly stopped, causing everyone to turn and look at what the shouting was about.

"Whoa," Lawrence said, on the other end of the phone, reacting to the fact that I was suddenly shouting at him.

"Sorry!" I said, embarrassed. "It's the drilling. The construction. Nevermind."

Luckily Lawrence and I are friends so I didn't have to go into too depth of an explanation. This scenario has played out with others I'm not as friendly with and it's not always as easy to explain.

To their credit, my company has done an excellent job at alerting us about days and nights when the drilling might be especially loud. They've even bought us food to compensate for our troubles.

Still, when the noise had reached headache level, I jokingly cried out, "I can't work under these conditions!" I was kidding, but I'm honestly not sure I can. By day's end, my ears were ringing and my heart racing, and I fear that Day 235 was just the beginning of a long road ahead.

Of course, there is a good possibility that part of my tenseness came from the fact that after work, I was going on another first, my first second date with FF (remember him?), which also turned out to be my first trip to Hob Nob, a restaurant specializing in high gravity beers and pub food. We had one of those second dates that I thought only happened on Match.com commercials. We closed the restaurant down, then we closed the bar down, and then we sat in my car until 5am and talked about nothing until we realized Thursday night had turned into Friday morning and we both had to be at work in a few hours.

This still isn't a dating blog, but I thought it was worth mentioning, especially since the day started with me wearing a hard hat.

The price of progress, then?

For my future state of the art office space the cost seems to be predictable room temperatures, a relatively peaceful work environment, and consistent, normal phone conversations.

Getting to know an interesting guy and pretending like I'm still in high school for a night cost me $8 (the price of two beers) and a productive Friday.

Not a bad deal, I don't think. On either front.

Day 194: Blind Blog Date

Several weeks ago I got an email from an old friend of mine, Tom. Tom and I knew each other in college, but had lost touch over the years. He found me on Facebook, and told me he had been reading Project 29 to 30.

I was happy to hear from him, and flattered that he is such a fan of the blog.

"I think I know who this guy by the water is that Psychic Rose is talking about," Tom's email said, "Minus the arrogance."

"Oh really?" I thought, intrigued.

"Yep," his email went on, “His name is (A), he's from (B), He works with my wife at (C), he used to (D) and has been in Atlanta for (E) years. He is (F), and I'm not sure if that is a problem for you or not, but he's a great guy and I really think you two would hit it off.

I kept reading, "Oh, and he was once on Family Feud. I've seen the video."

Hold. The. Phone.

I had to read it again, several times actually, to make sure I was reading what Tom wrote correctly. I emailed him immediately back.

"Tom," I wrote, "Great to hear from you. Thanks for reading the blog. Obviously, I do not care about A, B, C, D, E, or F. In fact, this guy could be addicted to crack and I probably wouldn't care. If he was on Family Feud I have to meet him."

Day 194's thing I've never done before was to go out on a date that came about thanks to the blog with someone I'd never met or talked to. But really it was about going out on a date with someone who was once on Family Feud.

My date, "FF," and I met for dinner at Top Flr, a great place I had been to before, but never for dinner. I was as nervous as I always am for any blind date, but also excited to find out about the Family Feud. Like weirdly excited.

We talked about a lot of things, most of it usual date stuff: our jobs, our families, PT Cruisers. He was interesting, smart, all of the things that Tom said he would be.

All of this conversation, which was flowing quite naturally and nicely, was all building to what I was dying to know.

And when I could wait no longer, finally I said, as lame as ever, "So, Tom tells me you were on Family Feud."

He laughed. Clearly this wasn’t the first time he had to answer questions about his game show experience. If he was annoyed about talking about it, he didn't let me know. I was thankful for that, and thankful that while pleasant when recounting the experience, he wasn’t over the top proud of it either. That would’ve been weird, I think.

He explained that his little sister was the one who got his family on the show. I immediately wanted to meet her too, certain that she was awesome for having such a great idea and executing it.

Before he knew it, he said, FF and his entire family were flying to Burbank, California, to meet Louie Anderson (who is extremely unattractive, he confirmed) and play the Feud. Being on a game show was as cheesy as one might imagine, he said, and just like all of television, not as spontaneous as it appears on the screen. There were a lot of “redo’s” when the teams didn’t react like the director wanted. Unfortunately FF’s family did not win and never got to play for fast money, but enjoyed the all expense paid trip to California.

I am a little sister myself and I wondered if I ever wanted to put my family on a game show if they would play along as willingly as FF's family had. I know my mom would, and my sister-in-law Katie would probably too. My dad and brother, on the other hand, would likely not go for it.

I’ve said repeatedly this isn’t a dating blog, and it’s not, so I’ll have to leave you all in suspense about how it turned out with FF. Plus, the first wasn’t really about the date, it was about the Feud. The Family freaking awesome Feud.