wedding tour, part two.

The second stop on Wedding Tour 2012 happened just one week after my trip to Santa Rosa for Emily's pre-wedding festivities. Maribeth and Scott's celebration at the Solarium in Decatur was a great time - it has also provided me another opportunity to bestow upon you more unsolicited advice about how to hit the wedding circuit in style.

So here we are, Wedding DO's and DON'Ts from a self-proclaimed professional, Volume II.

DO get married at the beach with just your immediate family and then have a party one month later to celebrate the nuptials, a la Maribeth and Scott.



Two parties means two opportunities to wear your beautiful dress. DO it.

DO take advantage of what professional photographer's call the "Golden Hour" -- the last hour of sunlight that provides optimum lighting conditions for pictures.





DON'T expect anyone else to care about the "Golden Hour."



DON'T underestimate the power of a spray tan.



DO admire the band's singer's sequined cityscape vest. DO NOT touch it without his permission.



DO make sure the bride has her own tambourine.



DO make a dance circle with your girlfriends when the band plays Journey. It's super cliche and dorky, but I'm pretty sure it's un-American not to.



DO Roll on the River. Trish can show you how.



DO make new friends.



But definitely DO keep the old.






When you fear the wedding might be winding down, DO make plans to go somewhere afterwards. Once you arrive there, DON'T let anyone but your friends use the jukebox.



DO cheer loudly when a new person arrives to the after-party. And if the spirit moves you, welcome him with hugs.




And whatever you do, DON'T stop taking pictures until the very end.









I am so happy for you, Maribeth and Scott! Congratulations!

Day 347: 100 Percent Weirdo

When my new friend and fellow blogger Julie announced, right around the time of her end-of- blog party, that she was leaving Atlanta to move to Los Angeles, my emotions were mixed. On one hand, I was so excited for her and for her new adventure. On the other, I was sad for myself, because we had just started to get to know each other and see each other on a semi-regular basis, and now she was leaving.

We decided to have one last supper before she departed for the west coast. She suggested we come full circle and go back to Watershed in Decatur. That, of course, was where it all began for our friendship, where we had first met to sample beets for the first time. There we decided that even when prepared and served in a nice restaurant, beets are gross.

We sipped on wine, talked about her upcoming move and my upcoming birthday, and turned the entire night into a love-fest. I wanted to tell her, in person, how she had been the star of Hollis' book writing class and also thank her for encouraging me to take it.

We talked about how much our blogs had coincided with major changes in our lives. Julie ordered the vegetable plate just to prove to me, and herself, how truly far she'd come in her quest to enjoy produce. I ordered one too. I had to smile, thinking about how a year ago we were spitting out beets on our plates, and now we were eating vegetables like civilized adults, talking about how we'd become writers (!), with fans (!), and how maybe one day, we'd come together as authors.

What a difference a year makes.

When we finished eating, Julie excused herself to the restroom and I asked the waiter to bring the bill so that I could pay it. My plan all along was to treat Julie, since she was embarking on a cross-country journey to a very expensive city.

I knew she'd protest, and she did, insisting that she should pay her portion of the check. I changed the subject, telling her what I had planned for Day 347's thing I've never done before.

"I'm going to tip this waiter 100 percent," I said, with a sly smile.

"Are you serious?"

"Yes," I replied.

When I used to waitress years ago, I used to dream of someone tipping me 100 percent. It never happened, but an occasional good tip was so much more than just money. I used to feel validated in what often felt like a thankless job. Giving that feeling to someone else was on the Project 29 to 30 list of things I needed to do before I turned 30.

So, even though Watershed is a nice restaurant, and there is a good chance our server was a career waiter and not necessarily someone who really needed the extra help, I had to make it happen.

I couldn't help but be reminded of the first days of the blog when I bought someone I didn't know coffee at Starbucks and nearly killed myself trying to drive out of there without the person seeing me. In many ways, giving this waiter a 100 percent tip was just like that, only on a bigger, grander scale.

I thought that maybe I'd act a little more normal about doing something nice for someone than I did at the beginning of the project. But even more so than the coffee run, the moment I wrote $74 into the tip line and then signed the bill, I told Julie we had to go. Immediately.

As much as I would've enjoyed seeing the pleased look on his face realizing that instead of a typical 20 percent, $14 tip, he actually made $74 on these two chatty young women, I was too afraid to stay. Afraid that if he didn't react the way I expected, then I'd be annoyed and want to take the tip back. And more afraid that if he was thankful and gracious, then he'd feel like he had to come over and say something to me about how generous the tip was.

Better to leave it anonymous and get the hell out of there.

No doubt we'd come quite far in our blog journeys together, but as Julie and I rushed out of Watershed like two girls on the run to finish our conversation in the parking lot, I had to think, maybe we hadn't really come as far as I thought.

I can't even be generous without acting like a freak.

Day 336: A Salty, Peachy Life

Mark, Jen and I slept late on Day 336 and enjoyed a very relaxing morning at their house before I had to head back to Atlanta.

We ate bacon and eggs, and watched Away We Go, a beautiful film starring Maya Rudolph and John Krasinski about a quirky couple trying to find a place they can call home to raise their baby. The movie was sweet and it made me feel all warm and fuzzy inside.

Before I got on the road, we met Sean and Julie once again for a late lunch/early dinner at Salt Life. When we walked in, I recognized the logo on the wall. I'd seen the same one on bumper stickers all over town. I assumed this restaurant must be a Jacksonville favorite, until Mark explained to me that "Salt Life," was a campaign for beach enthusiasts that was later turned into a restaurant. The bumper stickers came first, then the restaurant. Weird.

After another round of frozen yogurt, I said my good-byes and began the trek back to Atlanta. On the way home, I realized I hadn't done anything for real that I'd never done before. I mean, the movie and the restaurant technically could've counted, but both seemed a little lame, so when I got to south Georgia on I-75, I decided to do something else that I'd always wanted to do.

Day 336's thing I've never done before was to stop at one of those neon-sign covered peach stands on the interstate and buy something.

I assumed, based on the tacky decor covering these monstrosities lining the highway, that they'd be full of chintzy souvenirs and crappy produce. But I found the exact opposite. There were rows and rows of fresh produce, homemade jams and salsas. None of it was particularly cheap, in quality or in price.

The man tried to sell me pralines and peanut brittle, and some peach gummy candy that looked a little suspect. I thanked him, but politely declined.

I opted, instead, for a $10 enormous bag of delicious Georgia peaches; far too many for a single person to consume in a reasonable amount of time, but overall a great purchase and an enlightening experience. This stop was worth it, and will not be my last.

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 282: Blog Celebration, with Fanta

One of the first people that I met after I started Project 29 to 30 was Julie.

I liked her immediately. She was fun, cool, and so tiny I wanted to put her in my pocket. Plus she also recently started a blog; a hilarious blog called Julie Versus Vegetables where she set out to tackle her fear of produce, one vegetable at a time. She and I ate beets for the first time together way back on Day 5 (Oh my, that feels like a long time ago). Though I have a feeling she and I would've been friends with or without our blogs, our love of writing and doing cool shit has bonded us in an extra special way. And as far as I’m concerned, Julie’s been with me on my journey since the beginning.

Sad for me, and the entire city of Atlanta, Julie decided over the summer that she was ready for a change, and she has now relocated her fabulous self to Los Angeles. Her move coincided with a lot of big changes in her life, including the end of Julie Versus Vegetables.

On Day 282, as the thing I've never done, I helped Julie celebrate the end of her blog in a big way at a dinner party at her house.

Time out for another story. While I was getting ready to leave for Julie's, I heard a great deal of commotion out on my front porch. I heard children's voices yelling and laughing; I could hear the scampering of their feet on the hard wood. I also heard my landlords' dogs barking hysterically. Not surprising, since I've lived here for five years and the dogs still bark at me, but regardless, I knew something was going on outside before I even opened the door.

I gathered my things to leave and opened my front door to find eight children ranging in age from four to 11. My landlords do not have kids; I'm not even convinced they like kids, so imagine my confusion over these wild children using our porch as a playground.

My sudden presence startled some of them who stopped rough-housing to stare at me. As I pulled my door shut behind me, staring right back at them, a few began to approach me, carrying bowls full of cheap candy. Two others were carrying bowls with two cans of grape Fanta.

"WTF?" I thought to myself.

I looked around to see if there might've been an adult standing on the sidewalk that could explain this little charade. There was none. I was beyond confused.

"You wanna buy some candy?" one of them said to me as I tried to walk through their madness to get to my car.

"What?" I asked, confused. "No, I don't want to buy any candy."

"How about a soda?," another one shouted, showing me the Fantas in the bowl.

"Nope," I replied, "I'm all good."

By this time my landlord Scott had opened his door to face the children. He looked both horrified and disgusted.

"Please stop pestering the dogs," he said to the kids.

I'm confident that I've never been asked to buy Fanta on my front porch, so I could count that as the thing I've never done before. It was so weird, and such a metaphor for my neighborhood and the stuff that goes down here. Not unsafe, just strange.

Back to Julie and her party though.

I arrived at Julie's excited for the evening; excited about celebrating Julie, exciting about meeting the other characters in her blog, and most excited about eating a meal that I didn't have to buy or cook myself.

The party kicked off oooh-ing and ahhhh-ing about Julie and her new found skills in the kitchen. If you read Julie Versus Vegetables from the beginning, you know that Julie cannot cook, so in addition to tackling vegetables, her blog was also about her overcoming her fears of becoming domesticated.

Because she did such a fabulous job of telling the story of the last supper herself, I won't try and reinvent the wheel and do it again. Instead you can go to Julie's blog and read Cage Match Fight to the Death (Parts 1, 2, 3 & 4) for yourself.

I will tell you that in addition to a super gourmet menu that included homemade hummus, soy-glazed salmon on an orange, watercress, and Swiss chard salad, Julie had to tackle another vegetable, her last vegetable, which she had kept secret from those of us coming to her party.

The "surprise" vegetable she'd planned to prepare was onion rings, which wasn't really a surprise at all because the only thing standing in the way of Julie claiming victory over vegetables was onions. And the only way to win a vegetable that you hate (and Julie hates onions) is to deep fry it.

The entire process of her heating the oil, staring at the onion and eventually trying to slice the onion (a task that was eventually delegated to Mark P.) was quite humorous to watch, and I felt for her, having to conquer her fear right in front of everyone. I'm lucky in that I do a lot of my blog challenges on my own, so for all you know, I could be making up all of these stories. (I’m really not, I promise.)

Once she dropped the battered onions, we waited. And then we waited some more. And then we talked about how awesome Julie is. And then we kept waiting. But apparently we didn’t wait long enough the first time around. The onion rings got stuck in the pool of oil.

The second time around was better, but when Julie pulled the fried onions from the fry-daddy she still looked at them with a great deal of uncertainty. I've truly never seen quite a physical reaction like the one she displayed to a vegetable before. Julie held the onion ring in her petite, trembling fingers like it was causing her serious pain. Her friends, who weren't acting very friendly at that moment, had more or less backed her into a corner and were shouting words of “encouragement” that sounded more like military orders to me.

“You can do it!”

“It’s just an onion!”

“What’s the big deal?”

Julie put her lips on the onion and nibbled the smallest "bite" I've ever seen and then she spit it right back out.

I would like to point out, in case it's not clear, that Julie is 31-years old. She's not a child, but an adult. With a freakishly strong aversion to onions.

The entire kitchen yelled at her as if she was a child, though, and without wasting a lot of time, she went back for another bite, this time chewing it completely and swallowing it.

Success!

From her perspective, which you should’ve already read by now on her blog, the reason Julie was able to overcome her fear of onions is because onions coated in beer batter and then deep fried in oil actually don’t taste anything like onions at all. But who cares? A win is a win.

Upon winning, Julie's sister presented her with a trophy, a material symbol of all that she accomplished over the course of the year: learning to like (or at least tolerate) vegetables and so openly sharing her challenge through her blog. I wondered where Julie planned to display her trophy. And then I wondered if my brother will present me with a trophy at the end of Project 29 to 30.

After enjoying Julie's handiwork on the onion rings and toasted pound cake chocolate and peanut butter sandwiches (I'm not kidding. We are so fat.), I headed home.

As I was driving back to my house, I thought a lot about Julie and the end of her adventure. I also thought about what a difference a year makes. Last year, she only ate meat and potatoes, and now she's not only eating onions, she's frying them herself.

I don't think Julie or I really understood how much we could change, or that we would change at all simply by choosing to take on year-long adventures and writing about them. But we did. A lot.

To my dearest Julie, my blogging partner in crime, oh how you are already missed and you've only been gone for short time. Congrats on winning (though no one ever had any doubt that you wouldn't) and best of luck in Los Angeles. You really do have great hair.

Day 204: Three Out of Four Ain't Bad

So on Day 197 I said I'd give vegetarianism a try for one week, and by Day 204, I had succeeded.
But since I spent $186 to become a temporary vegetarian, I still had quite a bit of food left over that needed to be eaten. So maybe, I thought, I'd try to be a vegetarian for two weeks. Just because I love a challenge, so bring it on. I can do it.

What better way to celebrate not eating meat than by eating the holiest of holy foods for vegetarians, tofu? Only having ordered tofu and eating it several times, there was no way to make it the thing that I’ve never done before.

Day 204’s thing I’ve never done before was to cook it. Cook tofu.

Tofu seems to garner the same reaction as peeps did on Day 193. People fall into two very distinct categories. They either hate tofu with every fiber of their being, or they tolerate it.

The tofu audience isn’t so split, however, and there are quite a few more members of “Team Hate Tofu” than are in “Team Tofu is Alright.”

There is no” Team Love Tofu” because it is my belief that no one actually loves tofu, regardless of what they say. I’ve heard vegetarians who are so committed to their lifestyle they cannot accept reality tell me that they love tofu. But I have then, and will now, call bullshit on that. I know it's impossible to love the taste of tofu, because I've tasted it many times. There is very little to love about a wet, soggy, tasteless square of soybean curd except, of course, whatever curry, sauce, hummus, goat cheese concoction that has been prepared to mask the taste, or non-taste, of the tofu.

I love tofu curry = I love curry

I love this tofu goat cheese veggie wrap = I love this goat cheese veggie wrap

Pad Thai with Tofu is my favorite! = Pad Thai is my favorite!

You can love that tofu gives you the protein that you need, you can love that it makes you feel healthy and socially superior to carnivores, but if you, or anyone, tells me that you love the taste, I will tell you that you are a liar. And if you persist, I will tell you to come over to my house and eat an entire block of it without anything on it. And if you finish the entire thing and are still smiling, I will pat you on the back, congratulate you on proving me wrong, and then kick you out my house for being lame and weird.

And then my friend Julie, who almost lost her own challenge with snow peas because of tofu, will kick your ass.

Tofu merely takes on the taste of everything else around it, which is a good thing. It’s like the quiet wallflower in a party full of loud, drunk people.

Cooking with tofu is a challenge I decided to take on, not because I found it particularly interesting, or tasty, but because I had it in my refrigerator and I needed to do something with it. Though I'm not sure of the lifespan of tofu, I assumed because I found it in the refrigerated section of the grocery store, that it wouldn't last forever.

When I bought it, I noticed there were several varieties from which to choose from.

I chose "firm” tofu. Not because I knew that's what I should do, but because I imagined "soft" tofu would likely have the consistency of cottage cheese and though I like cottage cheese, I wouldn’t really know what to do with that. Also, writing "firm," even if it's pertaining to tofu, is humorous.

If what I bought was indeed the "firm" variety of tofu, I would hate to imagine what the "soft" version looks like. The firm tofu was like a wet, white sponge.

I removed the sponge from its packaging and cut it into squares, threw them into a frying pan with some olive oil and garlic. For the most part, the tofu browned evenly and stayed firm, its composition intact. Some of the squares did fall apart, making for little tofu bits swimming around in the curry after I poured that in. I tossed in some steamed broccoli, and served it, to myself, over jasmine rice.

And that is how I successfully cooked with tofu.

My Tofu Curry plus broccoli over jasmine rice was awesome.

And that of course means: I love curry. I love jasmine rice. I love broccoli. I still don't love tofu, even when I made it myself.

But three out of four ain't bad.

Day 166: Healthy Living

This fitness challenge I signed up for so that I could get my body fat checked has seemingly had an opposite effect on me that it has on everyone else. Instead of making me want to workout more and eat less, I have almost stopped working out completely and have been eating nearly everything (baratta, anyone?) I can get my hands on.

Competition of this kind does not inspire me, apparently. It instead makes me lazy. Or maybe it was coming back from vacation and working the overnight shift? Maybe it was a combination of all of these things.

I have been reading a lot about living a healthy lifestyle, though, so even though I'm not making the healthiest choices I know what I should be doing. Since I was striking out on the exercise front, but my appetite was still in overdrive, I decided, on Day 165 to try and add some things to my diet that are a little more healthy.

Things like granola. Only, in an unexpected, completely confusing, turn of events, I soon realized that all not granola is necessary healthy. Some granolas are loaded with sugar and fat.

Seriously, what kind of crap is that?

Fortunately, I found a healthy granola recipe and made Day 165’s thing I have never done before was to make homemade granola.

The ingredients included, among other things, oats, almonds, walnuts and flax seed. I was happy to see flax seed was listed as one of the ingredients, because to all of the fitness magazines I'd been reading, flax seed is all the rage. I think it might have super powers and I was convinced that once I ate it, I would drop 20 pounds. The only problem is that I had no idea what flax seed was, or where to go in the store to find it.

I felt like my friend Julie of Julie versus Vegetables and her nightmare trips to the farmer's market to find produce she's never heard of.

Also, I was in my neighborhood grocery store and apparently the organic, whole wheat, super food craze has not made it to my "transitional" (read: ghetto) East Atlanta Kroger (and I'm not talking about the Edgewood Kroger, that place looks like Whole Foods compared to South Moreland Kroger). Our health food section has been banished to one small corner of the grocery store like it's in timeout for imposing itself on all of the processed foods.

I scanned the small section, already having resolved to go elsewhere if they didn't have it, when much to my surprise (and delight), I found both whole flax seed and ground flax seed. I picked up a bag and headed home.

The recipe was easy. Mix the dry ingredients, melt the liquid ones. Cover the dry ingredients with the liquid ones and bake them. Making my own granola was a lot like making Chex Mix, minus the butter and the constant stirring. I only had to stir the granola once.

The results were delicious. Seriously, this stuff is good. And I didn’t feel badly about eating it. I did feel badly about eating most of it in the same day, though.

My portion control needs a little work I guess.