Day 358: Pop Rocks Rumor Control

I don't remember how old I was when I first started hearing rumors about, "Paul, Kevin's friend from the Wonder Years," but once I heard the first, all of the rest quickly followed.

When the show was still on the air, I heard that he and Winnie Cooper were a couple off screen, and it was actually Kevin (played by Fred Savage) who was really a nerd.

Years after the show went into syndication, someone told me, with such conviction I couldn't help but at least consider it, that Paul had grown up to become Marilyn Manson.

I'm not sure who comes up with these rumors, or why Paul from the Wonder Years was always the main character in them (what did he ever do to anyone?), but by far the most tragic of all was that he was dead, and the seemingly innocent activity that killed him?

Eating Pop Rocks and drinking Coca-Cola at the same time.

I hadn't thought of the Paul rumor and this apparently lethal concoction until my friend Anne suggested that I test the urban legend for myself for the blog. In her email she included the sinister, "dun dun dun . . .")

She was kidding, of course, and all research (i.e. Internet searches) led me to believe that no one had ever died by drinking Coca Cola and eating Pop Rocks. If Paul from the Wonder Years had ever even tried it (and there was absolutely no evidence that he did), his questionable choice didn't kill him. He was alive and well.

But rumors usually have some basis in fact, don't they? What if someone did die trying this? Was I playing with fire? There were just seven days to go until my birthday; should I risk it?

Of course I should! If I'm going down, I'm going down in a blaze of candy and soda! Day 358's thing I've never done before was to mix Pop Rocks and Coca-Cola and hopefully live to tell the tale.

Before work, I drove to Richards Variety Store to buy the Pop Rocks, something that I'd looked for at the grocery store and other discount stores, but couldn't find. Richards is a completely random store full of anything from hilarious greeting cards to hand crank egg beaters to Pez dispensers. I could spend many hours and several hundred dollars there.

Emily happily joined me for this challenge when I told her what I was up to, and I asked Justin to film it.

The video is long, and includes Emily and I willing our personal possessions to members of our families in case the urban legend was true, and this candy soda experiment did make us explode.

I willed everything to my brother, Jeff, and sister-in-law, Katie. Everything except for my car, which I said Justin could have, in light of Day 353.

Emily willed her stuff to her parents, since, "they are responsible for me having most of it anyway," and because her Mom, Joan, is an active Project 29 to 30 blog reader.

I felt badly for having left out my parents completely, so I went on to explain why I left it all to Jeff and Katie. I was actually thinking about my dad complaining, when he can't find anything in his closet or in the attic, "There's too much crap in this house! When I die, it's going to take you kids years to sort through all of it!" (As I've said before, my father talks about his death as if it is happening any minute.) But, understanding his detest of all the clutter that he blames all on my mother, I figured forcing my brother and Katie to acquire all of my things would at least make my dad happy.

So after we willed our personal belongings away, Emily and I opened up our Pop Rocks' packages, tilted our heads back, and dumped the contents into our mouth.

Pop Rocks is a carbonated candy, and the gimmick is that the "rocks" will fizz once eaten. I know that I ate Pop Rocks when I was a little kid, but I didn't remember them tasting so terrible. They're extremely sugary and I felt like my teeth could rot right then and there.

I took a sip of coke, which was difficult because there was so much going on with the Pop Rocks. Even after I swallowed, the fizzing continued down my esophagus. It was all very weird. I could have expected some negative life-threatening reaction and there wasn't one. I survived!

Emily said she thinks the bubbles of the soda negate the bubbles of the Pop Rocks, but I couldn't disagree more. I couldn't even taste anything, all I could taste were bubbles and sugar.

But we lived. Like it or not, I thought, I would make it to 30.

I had to laugh at this ridiculous rumor and how it got started in the first place. I imagine someone retells a story so many times that words and tenses get omitted or mixed up. After having tried this combo myself, I have to believe that if Paul from the Wonder Years tried it, be probably said afterward that he wanted to die.

Which makes perfect sense, because it's weird. And disgusting.

Day 353: Driving School Dropout

My driving skills are, at best, questionable.

I don't think I'm that bad, and when it comes to road trips with my girlfriends, I'm usually one of the drivers (though that may have something to do with the size of my vehicle and not my skills). But my parents' insurance agent Jerry (who has a nice house on the lake because of me), my former boss Lucia (who couldn't hire me at Country Music Television at first because I had so many tickets), and a plethora of small town police officers in Georgia and South Carolina would definitely tell you otherwise. I like to get wherever I'm going in a hurry, and as a teenager was quite distracted behind the wheel. I've definitely improved over the years (accident free since 2003!), but my less than stellar driving record has been the source of many uncomfortable conversations with my parents over the years.

I'm learning that in life, when it comes to learning new things, mastering the easier version of an activity before moving on to the more challenging one is usually the best way to go. For the 15 years that I've been driving, I've managed to prove that I'm definitely not an expert on automatic transmission. Moving onto a manual transmission might not be the best plan.

But who said I did anything according to natural order? On Day 353, I attempted to knock one of the top 3 items off my Project 29 to 30 list and learn how to drive a stick shift. Because why wouldn't I put everyone's lives and vehicles in danger as the thing I've never done before?

My very good friend Justin offered himself and his Jetta for this challenge, a move I'm sure he's still regretting all these months later. I hate to blow the surprise, but this innocent little driving lesson did not go well.

Perhaps I should've put Justin in touch with my ex-boyfriend Mark, who also tried to teach me how to drive a stick shift once. The lesson (which hardly lasted an hour), ended with both of us screaming at each other and almost breaking up. I was frustrated for many reasons, mostly because I could not get it, but also because Mark taught via the Art Teacher Molly method and instead of explaining to me what to do, he simply gave me a lot of, "justs."

"Just ease off the clutch while applying the gas."

"Just put it in neutral."

"Just apply pressure to the clutch, while shifting into second. You'll know when to shift because you'll just feel it."

To me, it all sounded like, "Just do these things that you've never done before in your life but are terribly easy for me." Uh, what? Thanks for nothing.

In Mark's defense, he wasn't a bad teacher, I was just frustrated that I couldn't do any of the easy things that he was telling me to do. Plus teaching someone how to drive period is challenging, especially if you've been doing it yourself for a long time. Trying to break down something that feels like second nature, is not easy.

I have to hand it to Justin (and to Mark) for even wanting to try. Had I known it was going to turn out the way it did, I wouldn't have even asked. But I honestly thought a little more maturity, several more years driving experience, and a heightened level of patience and I'd be ready.

Justin and I met after work in an open parking lot next to our building for the lesson. Learning in the dark wasn't an ideal scenario, but it was all we had. Luckily the lot was partially lit and wide open, a perfect place to learn how to drive.

Justin threw out some preliminary instructions, gave me a pep talk and then we traded seats. There was nothing left to do but drive.

Since I understood the basics of what to do, and had attempted them before, I wasn't completely clueless. In my head, the instructions made perfect sense. The trouble with me, in driving a manual transmission, is the mind-body connection. Making my feet and hands do what my mind is telling them to is most difficult.

The first few trips up and back in the parking lot were rough, no question about it. Justin gave step-by-step instructions on what I was supposed to be doing, but I was nervous, and unsure of myself. I stalled a few times and jerked the car around. We had some good laughs.

As a teacher, Justin was pretty good; very laid back and very detailed with his suggestions. But there is only so much that he can tell me before I'd just have to feel it on my own. And that, he said, just takes time, something we didn't really have on our side. But the more times I did it, I started to notice, without him telling me, when it was time to switch gears; and soon I started doing it on my own.

Back and forth we went in the parking lot, switching gears and getting faster. I was actually driving a stick shift. I wasn't confident at all, but I was doing it.



There was some frustration, on both of our parts, that though the parking lot was big, it wasn't quite big enough to ever get going very fast. And I really wanted to get to fourth gear.

And apparently the only way to get there, was to take it outside the confines of this parking lot. I call it, "Justin's Bad Idea."



Famous last words: "I don't know if I do . . .I'm scared."

I was really scared. It was dark and late. I was doing alright in the parking lot, but out on the street, I had other drivers and other people to contend with, and that just sounded like a recipe for disaster. But how could I claim to have learned how to drive a stick shift if all I did was take some laps around a parking lot?

Obviously I silenced all parts of my brain that said taking it to the streets would be a bad idea. Not until I got out onto the road did I realize how much I didn't know.

Like, where I was going to take us . . .or how to come to a pleasant stop at a stoplight and successfully make a left turn . . .or how to turn off the windshield wipers.


That left turn was disastrous in many ways, most of all because it led us directly into one of the scariest neighborhoods in Atlanta that I have ever seen. I knew as we started to approach the area that I should probably turn around, but how could I? I was just learning how to drive this car forward, there was no way I was attempting a U-Turn. Instead, I drove us to a red light right in between two rundown convenient stores where dozens of people had gathered, on a Wednesday night, to smoke cigarettes, drink liquor wrapped in brown paper bags, and deal what I can only imagine was crack cocaine. If I wanted to make a movie that had a scene with a scary ghetto neighborhood, this is exactly what it would look like. Justin and I were nervously chattering to each other under our breath, both willing the light to change to green, but feeling like we were sitting there for an eternity. Just when I thought I couldn't be any more anxious than I already was, a handful of people who had been standing on the sidewalk, had walked into the street and to our car to ask us if we had any money or cigarettes.

Justin cracked the window and told them that we didn't, and they fortunately accepted our answer and walked away, not before staring us both up and down in a sinister way. I kept looking straight ahead, still praying for the light to change and then added another prayer that I wouldn't stall in the middle of the intersection, prolonging this terrifying moment of my life.

We made it through the ghetto without stalling and immediately decided we needed to get back to the side of town that we knew and were more comfortable with. And somehow in the midst of my nervous energy, I was actually driving a stick shift through Atlanta. I guess it's true what they say about adrenaline -- it can make a person do crazy things.

It wasn't pretty, and I was never confident in my abilities, but I was doing it. And a handful of times, after a million questions and instructions from Justin, I actually pulled off some pretty smooth transitions.


Just when I thought it would never happen, I found fourth gear.


With all of the stalling and mishaps during our lesson, I was well aware what the car would do when I did something wrong. But as we made our way back to the parking lot we started in, the Jetta, presumably fed up with the torture I'd put it through, started to make a clicking noise. The thermostat in the car was spiking into the red, indicating that the car was overheating.

I whined to Justin, "I don't know what's happening here;" I wasn't quite sure if what the car was doing was normal, and I was just driving it incorrectly, or if something was wrong. Without driving it, Justin couldn't really tell either. Right at that time, I noticed a police car with his flashing was approaching. I had to assume he was coming for me, and was obviously relieved when he kept going. The whole experience was too much, though, and I immediately pulled over and made Justin take us the rest of the way in.

We picked up my car and I followed Justin home to make sure the Jetta didn't completely die. Like I had done with the stoplight in the ghetto, I prayed that the car was just acting temperamental due to the stress that I'd put it under in the last couple of hours. Give it a night of rest, I thought, and the car will be fine.

The car was not fine the next day. The clicking noise was still there and it was still running hot. Justin dropped it off at a mechanic near our office and we waited patiently for the news.

Actually Justin waited patiently. I was a bundle of nervous energy, unable to eat or think about anything but the wrecked Jetta and the amount of damage I caused during our lesson. I emailed Justin every hour to find out if he'd heard anything. When he checked in on the mechanic and got an idea of what the damage might be, I immediately started Googling it to see how much it would cost and how long it would take to fix.

When the estimate finally came in, the final damage was $1200 for a broken water pump and timing belt. Justin generously only asked me for half of the amount, since he said he was in on the adventure just as much as I was. I don't think he fully comprehended how terrible I could be. I know I didn't.

Destroying a friend's car while he was doing me a favor was bar none the worst part of this experience. Justin was without wheels for roughly a week, and no amount of rides or money I offered him would ever make me feel at ease about it. Even months later, I still feel sick about the whole thing.

Having my dreams of ever learning how to drive a stick shift (I mean, who is going to want to teach me now?) dashed and therefore ruining my chances of ever winning the Amazing Race was just the shitty icing on the already shitty cake.

Justin owed me no more favors, but after the car was fixed, and I had paid him for the repairs, I came to him in a fit of desperation and asked him for one.

"Will you please not bring this in front of my dad?"

He laughed. "Sure," he said. "I won't mention it."

And just like that, it was like I was 16 again. Driving, and acting, like an idiot.

Day 341: Sometimes Losing is Really Winning

On Day 341, a group of work friends decided to blow off some steam over a couple of beers at the Bookhouse Pub.

I begged Amanda and her husband Stephen to come because I was not motivated to think of anything to do that I'd never done before and I knew she'd come up with something that would be highly entertaining to write and read about.

I think Amanda was upset that I'd yet to actually go out with anyone that I'd met online at Plenty of Fish.com, because she was using this "blog-fan's choice," as an opportunity to force me out of my dating shell. Her goal from the start was to find someone that I could buy a drink for or give my number to or use a cheesy pickup line on.

But my experience with meeting cool guys worthy of such tactics is that those kinds of meetings rarely happens when I (or in this case, Amanda), is looking for it. I usually encounter interesting, attractive people that I'd like to get to know better when I haven't showered, my hair is slicked back into a ponytail and my shirt has holes in it. I was coming to this bar from work, looking relatively presentable, so I knew my chances of meeting anyone worthwhile were slim to none.

And sure enough, I was right.

I would've done any of those things Amanda was suggesting, but but neither of us could really find anyone worthy of sending a drink or giving my number to. Despite her persistence with a guy that looked like former CNN television anchor Rick Sanchez, we abandoned this mission and moved on to something else. (Later I saw that he had a wedding ring on, so it obviously wasn't meant to be.)

What else can be achieved in a bar that I hadn't done before? In my almost-30 years had I done all of the inappropriate, regret-the-next day bar activities? Certainly not.

The night was starting to wind down and there were friends at my table ready to pay their checks.

"I still haven't played credit card roulette," I said out loud to the table to no one specific.

Credit card roulette involves handing the waitress a group of credit cards to choose from. Whatever card she chooses has to pay the whole tab. If I was going to make this Day 341's "thing," the rest of the group had to be on board and willing to play.

Luckily, I'd suggested we play on payday, so all of our checking accounts were in good shape for this kind of game. Timing, I continue to realize, is everything. With everyone then feeling generous (and perhaps a little tipsy), they said, "Sure!" Day 341's thing I've never done before was to play credit card roulette.

If you play the odds, which I don't because I'm not entirely sure I know what that means, then credit card roulette is really a safe bet. With eight cards in the pile, I had only a one in eight chance that my card would be chosen. Even when we decided to choose two cards to split the check (the bill was significantly higher thanks to some fancy, expensive tiki drinks, commemorative glasses included), the odds were still in my favor.

That's the thing about credit card roulette: if your card is the one chosen, you must pay for everyone's purchases, regardless of how ridiculous they seem (Tiki glasses? In a beer bar?).

I digress.

By splitting the check between two people, the odds moved to one in four. There was a 75 percent chance that I would not have to pay for my (or anyone else's) drinks. I like those odds.

But with any gamble, there is always a chance you could lose. Or win. Here's something I'm still not clear on--if my card got pulled and I had to pay, does that mean I "won" credit card roulette, or did I "lose?" Being chosen makes it feel like I'm a winner, but paying for everyone makes me feel like a loser.

Everyone laid their cards face down on the table. When the waitress returned, we explained to her what we were doing and she returned with the bill and two pint glasses. She gathered the cards and put them in one of the glasses, turned the other glass upside down to cover them and then shook wildly, mixing up the cards.

She reached her hand into the glass and pulled her first card.

"Devon Sayers," she said, unsure of how to pronounce his last name.

The whole table, except for Devon, erupted into thunderous applause and shouting.

I love credit card roulette!

She covered the remaining seven cards with the glass and shook again, drawing another card from the pile.

"Carolyn Cremen," she announced.

Again, more applause and shouting, at least from the six of us whose cards weren't picked.

Carolyn and Devon took their loss (or win) in stride, and happily posed for pictures while signing their checks. I posed for a picture with Katy, happy that my beers were paid for and my checking account remained untouched for another night.

I'm not quite sure how I would've felt if it was me who had to pay, but from where I was sitting, credit card roulette is a great game.

Losing never felt so good.

Day 316: My Big Fat Greek Summer Vacation

In addition to having jet black gorgeous hair, and beautiful olive skin, one of the other reasons that it’s hard being friends with my friend Katy is that she spends her summers in Greece with her grandparents.

That’s right. Greece.

While my family is toting beach chairs out to the shores of Oak Island and most of you are sitting poolside at Myrtle Beach, Katy is doing her summer relaxing in the Greek Islands.

Life is so unfair.

When my Grandmas were still alive and I would go and visit them, I went to one of two places: Celina, Ohio or Wellston, Ohio. I love both of my Grandmas very much and enjoyed these visits, but I don't need to tell you: Ohio ain't Greece.

Not surprising then, that I’ve been begging Katy to take me to Greece since we became friends. My begging is usually in jest—I never actually expected her to extend an invitation for me to accompany her on her yearly visit because the trip, for her, is all about family. She saves up all of her days off from work so that she can devote an extended period of time to being there with them.

When I started writing Project 29 to 30, my persuading finally had an angle. "Greece is a place I’ve never been before," I would tell her.

But deep down, just as I never expected Katy to invite me, I never suspected that if she did that I would actually go. This time with her family is sacred and I'd really feel bad about imposing. Not to mention, I’d already been to Palm Springs and San Francisco and New York and Lake Tahoe and Panama this year alone. I needed to table the traveling for a little bit, and my checkbook needed its rest. Plus I'm an average 29-year old working girl, not some cosmopolitan jet-setter, no matter how many times I play one in my dreams.

Shockingly, though, on the night Katy, Justin, Mo, John, Ana and I ate steaks and played dirty Jenga, Katy did the unexpected and extended, to me, an invitation to go with her, to Greece. I figured she was "over-served," and probably wouldn’t remember it the next day, or if she did, realize she shouldn’t have and never bring it up again.

A few days later, though, she did bring up Greece again. Katy was serious! Serious about my coming to Greece with her, and after a conversation with Mo and Justin, most serious about getting tagged in the blog more times than them.

“I spoke to my mom and she talked to my Yaya and they said you could come," Katy said to me, smiling widely. "So you have to. Greece is amazing. Book your trip. Please come. Steph, you have to!"

She followed up her demands with the beautiful pictures in this post showing me her grandparents' house, and how much fun she has when she goes. The photos weren't necessary, but they definitely made an already sweet deal even sweeter.

Her offer was still a lot to consider. Not because going to Greece with a Greek person wasn’t the opportunity of a lifetime. But there was a lot that was holding me back from saying “yes” right away:

1. Imposing on Katy’s family time. This was the reason I got over the fastest, considering Katy had asked me to come along. Plus she would be there for several weeks, and if I went I would only go for part of that time. She would have plenty of solo time with her fam.

2. Taking days off from work. Also an easy problem to fix, considering I’d already randomly taken off the very week in August that Katy had planned to go to Greece. What are the chances? It was like it was meant to be!

3. Paying to go. This was a big one. Though Katy assured me everything would be paid for once we arrived, I had to get there. And airline tickets to Europe were not cheap.

Just when I started really wanting to go was the very moment that I realized I couldn’t. But as I have done before when I want something I cannot afford, I began figuring out ways to make it work, some of which made sense (pick up some freelance gigs for extra money) and others that were just ridiculous (selling stuff on eBay).

I just couldn’t seem to make it work out, so I came to my senses and called my parents, sure that they would be able to nip these crazy thoughts about me whisking off to Europe in the bud immediately.

Who did I think I was? I could not afford to go to Greece.

I called my Dad first.

“Dad, you’re never going to believe it but my friend Katy invited me to go to Greece with her. Isn’t that so nice? Airline tickets are crazy expensive, though, and I just can’t seem to make it work financially, so I’m going to tell her ‘no.’”

His response was not what I was expecting.

“Wow! That sounds awesome! Wow, Steph, Greece? With someone from Greece?! That’s awesome, dear!”

I shouted back into the phone at him because it was loud in the background, “Dad?! Did you hear what I said?! I can’t afford to go. I would have to charge my ticket. On. My. Credit. Card.”

He ignored the credit card completely and just kept talking about how awesome it was that I had a friend whose grandparents lived in Greece. He was asking me detailed questions about how long they'd lived there, and what they did for a living, none of which I could answer. He went on and on about how much fun it would be for me to go, money or not.

I blamed his uncharacteristically irresponsible suggestion on the fact that he was in a crowded restaurant and he didn’t completely understand what I was saying. I called my mom next.

Her answer, like my dad’s, was unexpected.

“Oh Stephanie! That sounds wonderful! A once in a lifetime opportunity! I wish I could go!”

My mom was not in a crowded restaurant. She heard every word I said, but the fact that I would have to charge this ticket on a credit card and work like a dog to pay it off seemed completely irrelevant to her. She was romanticizing, on my behalf, about all the fun a Greek vacation would bring. I think she even referenced my trip to Psychic Rose, “Maybe that’s where your water man is!” I thought that was a stretch, but couldn’t help but feel her excitement too.

Wow. My financially-sensible, pay-cash-for-everything parents had both advised me to go on this trip that I can’t pay for.

I was confused.

I thought about everything that they said and their advice to take the opportunity that was presented to me. They didn’t say so, but I suspected that had I called them and told them that I really wanted to buy an expensive sweater or a car I couldn’t afford, I doubt they’d be so encouraging. But a trip to a beautiful place? They were on board in a big way.

"Live your life, Stephanie!," they were telling me. "Deal with the consequences (which are minor in the scheme of things) later."

I’m so lucky to have them as my parents, who know that the most important things in life aren't things, but people and experiences. I'm also so lucky to have a friend whose grandparents live in Greece.

I had to wonder how I got to be so lucky all of the time. I mean, Golf course houses in Palm Springs? Mountain houses in Lake Tahoe? Tree Houses in Panama? And now beach houses in Greece? I’m a traveling wizard thanks to all the people I continually surround myself with.

Still, there was a part of me that felt guilty and mildly embarrassed about going and telling people, that for the second time in five months, I was leaving the country for an exotic, beautiful destination. But my parents were right, this was a special opportunity. Saying “no” would be completely out of character for me in my 29th year.

So I booked a flight, making Day 316’s (which because of the time change led into Day 317) thing I’ve never done before to go to Greece (with a Greek.)

Writing a blog about doing 365 new things in one year has forced me to take life one day at a time. So much so, in fact, there is rarely much anticipation for things with me. I don’t have time to get excited about things that are about to happen, because I have to focus on the here and now. The same was true of this trip. I booked the flights and then didn’t think about it again, thinking, “I will be excited about Greece when I’m on the plane headed there.”

I think Katy mistook my lack of enthusiasm as me not looking forward to the trip, which was not at all the case. I was excited, I just couldn’t stop the momentum of doing other new things ahead of leaving. I also sensed that I had started the very thing I hoped this blog would help me avoid and that’s the spiral into depression over my upcoming 30th birthday. I’m not sure what brought it on, but I was determined that it was nothing seven days in the Greek sun couldn’t fix.

When I finally let myself relax enough to get into trip mode, I sent Katy an email asking her about riding to the airport, and, of course, what to pack.

Her packing list was funny, not in her suggestions, but in her commentary about each of them:

1. Bathing suits and cover ups. We'll need them every day including 1 bathing suit you can do water sports in--very important.
2. We have lots of suntan lotion but not much over 30 so you may want to load up on some 50 shit. Or we can buy it there.
3. 1 nice dress or outfit for going out to nice dinner. We may not even use it but just in case.
4. Sneakers for hiking up to the church up a mountain near the house. And running clothes because I may want to jog and make you come with me.
5. A semi-slutty going out outfit. We are in the Greek islands, after all.
6. Bunch of like, 'lounge wear' - like shorts/tank tops for hanging out in the afternoon, taking a break from the heat.
7. Books for reading on the beach, or you can borrow from me, I'm bringing a bunch. (bttw - I'm bringing hair dryer so don't worry about that.)
8. At least 1 pair of heels, maybe 2 for fun. Lots of flip-flops/sandals

I was comfortable with every item on the list, except for #5, because I don’t really own anything that is “slutty,” or “semi-slutty,” even. Except for maybe my Strawberry Halloween costume and I didn’t feel comfortable rocking that in Greece, or anywhere outside of Team Temecula. I more or less packed the exact same clothes that I'd packed for Panama.

When it came to getting to airport, Katy said she’d like to be at the airport at 1:30pm, and wanted to know if I wanted to ride with her.

I read her email again.

1:30pm?

Our flight was at 4:30pm. I realize I’m the last person to look to for success at the airport, having missed my fair share of flights over the years, but 1:30pm? I also realize we were flying internationally but three hours felt like entirely too much time for a nervous flier (yours truly) to just hang out at the gate. Katy explained that her family has terrible luck at the airport and she likes to get there as early as she can.

Luckily, Katy’s diligence (or anal retentiveness) was not something that she forced upon friends she invites to Greece because she agreed to let me meet her at our gate.

Not to mention, I scheduled a lunch date with a client at work, who has become over the past year, a good friend. I don’t know what kind of person schedules lunch dates on the day that they’re flying out of the country for a week; the plan sounded doable when we made plans weeks in advance, considering I had the entire weekend to prepare to leave for the trip.

Once Day 316 arrived, however, after I wasted a whole lot of time feeding animals at the weirdest place ever, the idea to go to lunch felt downright stupid. I couldn’t back out, and though the morning was stressful, I left for my lunch date already packed, I arrived on time to pick up my friend, I had lunch at Zoe’s Kitchen (a place I’d never eaten) and got on the train to the airport ahead of schedule.

In fact, I arrived just minutes at the gate after Katy did. Greece had already made me fabulous. And responsible, apparently. My parents would be so proud.

We even had time to grab a beer at the airport before boarding the plane, which turned out to be a mistake; the beers were stale and not very tasty. Small setback, I figured, because soon after, we boarded our plane and were headed to Greece!

The flight was, in a word, long. I think it lasted 10 or 11 hours, but it felt like 15 thanks to the guy next to me asking me every 15 minutes who I voted for in the last presidential election and asking me what I thought about Sarah Palin. When I refused to tell him who I voted for, and expressed my indifference about Palin, he pressed further.

“Like what do you really think about her?” he said.

I tried to fall asleep quickly to avoid his super intense questions. I hoped that when I woke up, we’d be in Greece, and my Big Fat Greek Summer Vacation could begin.

Day 312: Honk and Wave

Before I left work on Day 312, I saw a friend's Facebook status that read: "Sometimes I like randomly honking at people for no reason."

I hate it when people use text language to express themselves, but if ever there was an appropriate time for an "LOL," it was then. I literally laughed out loud at my desk. What a positively hilarious and awesome idea. And definitely something I've never done.

Don't get me wrong, I've thrown some honks out there in my day, but always with purpose: to alert a friend I was outside their house to pick them up, or more commonly and demonstrative of Atlanta driving conditions, at the idiots trying to merge into my lane on top of me or those driving 55 miles per hour in the left lane.

But honk for no reason? That's new. That's fun. That's what blogs like mine are all about.

I turned to Justin who was sitting beside me and told him about my friend's Facebook status; he agreed that the idea was, in fact, awesome. But unlike me, I think Justin (who is from New Jersey so it kinda makes sense) intended for my fake honks to be mean-spirited ones. His idea: honk at someone, then raise my fist at them, or my middle finger, and pretend to angrily yell.

That's not exactly what I had in mind, though. Road rage is a real thing, especially in my fair city, and I didn't want to get myself killed. Plus, I had a feeling a mean-spirited honk wouldn't feel nearly as good as a friendly one. My plan: to honk and wave wildly as if the person was my long lost best friend from middle school.

So I hopped in my car after work and took off towards my house, my eyes darting back and forth to either sidewalk for someone to wave to, anxiously aiming to make Day 312's thing I've never done before to honk and wave at unsuspecting strangers.

An easy task, I figured. But there was no one.

Five o'clock on a weekday afternoon in downtown Atlanta and not one person was on the street. I was shocked. I'm pretty used to things not completely panning out the way I plan for them to, but all I needed to pull this off was people. Scratch that. All I needed was one person to honk at and wave to.

Not to mention, traffic was moving considerably well, so I wasn't even stopped long enough to attempt a honk and wave at someone in another car. On any other day, I would've been extremely happy about this. But not today! I want to wave!

Finally when I turned the corner onto Spring Street, I spotted my first victim (or lucky recipient) walking down the street. He was so unassuming, I almost felt badly that I was probably about to annoy the hell out of him or scare the daylights out of him, possibly do both. I moved over into the right lane (carefully, of course), hit my horn, "Beep, Beep," while leaning slightly into my passenger seat to wave wildly at the guy through the window. I was smiling and laughing (to myself); I think I may have even said out loud, "Hey there!," even though I knew he couldn't hear me.

I will never forget the look on his face as long as I live. He looked stunned, and then he stared at me, understandably confused. He started to smile, (it's hard not to smile at someone smiling directly at you), but when he realized he didn't know me, he turned around to see if I was waving to someone behind him. I laughed out loud (again, LOL!) as I drove by and when I glanced at him in my rear view mirror, I saw that he had completely turned around to try and figure out who this crazy girl was waving in his direction. Before I drove out of sight, I saw him raise his hand to reluctantly wave in my direction.

I. Felt. Awesome.

I was already halfway home, and I'd only "gotten" one person, but I absolutely loved this task. I love it so much in fact, that I had to hold myself back when I started to encounter lots of homeless people on the side of the road trying to beat the Atlanta summer heat. I just felt like honking and waving at them would be terribly insensitive, as if I was saying, "I'm in an air-conditioned car and YOU'RE not, sucker!" I decided I'd be selective with my victims.

Like the second guy, for example. He was a skateboarder, using the stairs of an office building as his playground. I honked and waved just as I had to the first guy. This time, my antics nearly caused him to fall off his skateboard into the busy road. Whoops. Maybe I should've avoided honking and waving at him?

But every other stranger on the way home (and in the Target parking lot that I hit because I couldn't get enough) was fair game. I was hoping for some different reactions, but almost everyone reacted the same way the first guy did: stunned confusion, then a smile, then a delayed wave right back. Pure joy.

This day, this "thing I've never done before," ranks up there as one of the greatest things I've done in my 29th year. Like Day 100 when I slapped a hundred strangers high-five, this activity was cheap, it was easy, and it was so much fun. In fact, honking and waving may rank higher than Day 100, because I did it from the comfort of my own car and no germs were spread.

My only regret is that I didn't have a car full of friends there to wave with me, and therefore there are no authentic pictures of me actually honking and waving. (I included pictures of me waving, however, since that seems to be the move I choose if there is a video camera within a five mile radius.) I was by myself, smiling, waving and laughing hysterically all the way home. I've lived in Atlanta for six years and it was probably one of the best drives home I've ever had.

Do this. Do it today. On your way home. You will love it. Unless you're a generally un-fun, sucky person and then you probably won't.

But the rest of you, honk and wave! Honk and wave!

Day 307: Quick! Do Something Young and Awesome!

Day 307 was a Saturday, and the same day as my friend Katy's birthday celebration, so after spending the day at my landlord's pool reading (no TV for me), I planned to make the thing I've never done before another "birthday girl's choice."

Katy said I had to swim in the fountain in front of her house.

"No, I'm not doing that," I said. "I'm wearing a nice shirt."

But I will celebrate your birthday as if it was my own. Because that's what good friends do.

Starting, of course, at the Nook, where I shared my first fish bowl beverage with at least eight other people, six of whom I really didn't know.

One of whom is now my worst enemy. She was blonde and cute and young, three traits I despise in other women. My friend Jeff introduced me to her and said, "This is Awesome Girl! She went to Georgia! She was in your sorority!"

"Oh yeah?," I said.

She was super sweet, and told me that she had just graduated in May. She was adorable. I was happy that she seemed normal and cool; clearly she was representing my Alma mater and my sorority well.

Then she told me she was absolutely "freaking" because she was just about to turn 24. Twenty-freaking-four.

Then I decided that I hated her.

How do I remember college so well when it was so long ago? Was I ever as cute as this girl? Am I still now?

"Quick, Stephanie! Do something that makes you feel young and awesome," I must've told myself later when I remembered my conversation with the younger version of myself.

Katy suggested dancing on a bar.

"Yes!" I said. I've always wanted to do it. I dance everywhere I go. I can't believe I haven't done this yet.

Katy grabbed my arm, and we marched up to the bar. Before I could muster the nerve to crawl up on the bar, Katy was asking the bartender if we could.

The bartender didn't waste anytime with her answer.

"No. Absolutely not."

Katy turned to me, and shrugged her shoulders. "I'm sorry," she said. She really felt badly, but I wasn't really that surprised.

"You can't ask a bartender if you can dance on their bar," I said. "You just have to do it."

Not to be defeated, when we went to Smith's Olde Bar, Katy modified her desire to dance on a bar, and instead climbed up on a booth to dance. I joined her without hesitation. We laughed and danced, but I couldn't help but remember thinking that dancing on a bar always looked like fun. And the people doing it looked young and carefree.

Only I didn't feel young or carefree. I felt like an idiot.

I climbed down and snapped back into reality.

Later, Justin suggested that I play a round of Buck Hunter as Day 307's thing I've never done before. And before long, he shoved a gun into my hands, and I did.

And I played a mean round of Buck Hunter, a game much like Duck Hunt on Nintendo, only with a larger gun and cartoon deer instead of ducks. I wasn't very good, but I had a good time shooting all over the screen. If memory serves, and it was very late that night so it probably doesn't, I don't think I killed a single deer. But I made a mental note to tell my hunter friend John, who had taken me hunting back in December that this was the kind of hunting I could get into. Loud, fast, no loss of life and no blood.

So Katy's birthday party turned into a mini-celebration for me. A celebration that I'm not 24. I can't play video games and I have no business dancing on bars. Sometimes celebrating hurts.

Day 291: One-Arm Failure

On Day 291 I attempted to do a one-armed push-up as the thing I've never done before.

I failed.

I really thought that this would be something I could do. I'm in shape, and I consider myself fairly strong for a woman; plus anyone that I've ever seen successfully do this before makes it look easy.

So down I went, in the middle of my living room floor, with only one worry: how I would effectively capture my completion of this task on film.

I panted, I grunted, I gasped for air as I desparately tried to lower myself on one arm. I don't care how it looks on television. One-armed push-ups are not easy.

Justin, who works out a lot and who has probably done a few one-armed push-ups in his day tells me that I must be doing it wrong because according to him, I "can definitely do it." I'm not convinced. I've tried it several times since Day 291 and I still can't do it. Not even girl-style.

I'm not sure if I'm not doing it correctly, or if I need to log some more hours in the gym.

Probably both.

Day 289: My Work Family Dinner

When people ask me if I like my job, my answer is usually the same:

"Yeah, I like my job. And I really love the people that I work with."

My co-workers have, over the years, become like a second family to me. They've appeared countless times in my blog, fully supportive of me completing 365 things I've never done before. They also see me everyday, so sometimes they know more about me than my real family and my closest friends. And following recent disappointing events, I was relying on them more than ever.

On Day 289, Deer Hunting John invited me over to his house, along with two of my other work brothers (Black Friday Mo and Kick Boxing Justin) and my work sister (Pillow Fight Katy) for dinner. It was my first work dinner party, so technically that was the thing I'd never done before. And as usual, one new thing led to several others that evening.

Ahead of the party, John emailed some of us to let us know what time we needed to come over. He also mentioned what was on the menu.

"I'm making steaks," he said. "I hope that's okay with everyone."

When someone invites me over to their house for dinner, I generally accept that I'm going to eat whatever the host is serving. An easy task for me most of the time, since I don't have any food allergies or diet restrictions. I'm more of a go-with-the-flow, eat-what-is-put-in-front-of-me kind of girl. Only I hadn't, by choice, eaten a full steak since I was in the 9th grade. I'm not a strict white-meat only eater, but I just choose not to eat red meat. There was a part of me, then, that was nervous about the meal. I knew I'd probably like the taste of it (since beets are now the only food that I do not like.) I was concerned, however, about how my body would respond to it. I had eaten a hamburger a few years ago and it didn't go well. But in the spirit of Project 29 to 30, I made the decision to eat the steak.

The fact that I don't eat red meat came up in a conversation John and I had at work ahead of the dinner party. John, ever the gracious host, offered to make alternate plans for me, and throw a chicken breast on the grill.

"Don't do that," I said.

"Steph," he pressed, "I don't mind. It's not a big deal."

"No. I'm gonna eat the steak," I said, emphatically. "I want to. It'll be the thing I've never done before, or haven't done in 17 years."

"Are you sure?," he said.

"I'm sure."

First of all, I find it terribly depressing that it was 17 years ago that I was in 8th grade. Secondly, and I'm getting ahead of myself here only because I hate to leave you in suspense, I ate John's steak. Under the watchful eyes of everyone at the table wanting to see my reaction to my first bite in almost two decades, I ate it up. And I completely understand what all the fuss is about. Steak is tasty.

Like the hamburger, the steak unfortunately made me terribly sick the next day, but I'm not sure if I can blame that on the steak or the several bottles of delicious red wine we consumed. I think, at least for me, that red meat is a lot like alcohol and serious exercise, and something I need to develop a tolerance to. Maybe eating all of the steak was a mistake.

A grown-up dinner party and my decision to eat whatever John and Ana were serving may sound mature, but have no fear, blog fans, the rest of the night was on the opposite end of mature.

Starting first in John's man room, where Katy and I picked through nearly every single record that John owns (and there were a lot), disrupting the alphabetic order to select just the right play list for the evening. The Beatles White album was first, followed by The Rolling Stones and Michael Jackson.

There is just something about the crackle and pop of vinyl that is so amazingly cool to me and it made me want to own a turn table and a vintage record collection immediately.

I thoroughly researched dinner party games that the group could play as a post-dinner activity that I'd never done before. The results on the Internet were somewhat disappointing and I only had a couple of suggestions. Charades was a possibility and a personal questions game ala "Never Have I Ever," was also on the table. In the end, we opted for a board game, John's first edition game of Clue gaining support of nearly everyone.

I point out "first edition" because I seriously think John's version of Clue was one of the first one's ever made. Everything about it screamed, "classic," from the old game pieces to the yellowed board. Despite its age, I was impressed with the condition the game was in and thought about how all of the games my brother and I owned as kids were all missing some game piece. Not John's Clue game. It may have been from 1942, but all the pieces were accounted for.

After a rousing game of Clue, that Mo won, of course, because he always wins stuff, we moved onto another familiar game with an unfamiliar twist.

Jenga. Dirty Jenga.

Yes, we are all tax-paying, contributing members of society who played Dirty Jenga on a Tuesday as Day 289's other thing I'd never done before. Jenga, of course, is the game where players remove wooden bricks one at a time from a tall stack, placing them on top until a player (usually me) removes a block that upsets the structure and causes it to crash. Dirty Jenga is the same thing, only every wooden block has a personal question or task that the player has to complete. I didn't know, until this night, that a party game that already gives me copious amounts of anxiety was capable of bringing more anxiety and possible embarrassment, but it can.

Hooray.

There was a lot of sharing after that. Most embarrassing moment (when I fainted at Bath and Body Works and had to be wheeled through the mall on a stretcher), and the last time I cried (at Kroger on Day 283). Because we all feel like we're related, we skipped over the blocks that told us to kiss the person next to us, but when it was my turn and I pulled the block said, "Perform a dance for the group;" that just so happened to also be the time that the record player started playing, "Working Day and Night," by Michael Jackson.

So what else could I do then but get up and perform a dance, circa 1999, for my work brothers and sister? A dance that thankfully was not caught on film. I think everyone was so surprised at my willingness to perform such a routine, they wouldn't have been able to take pictures if they wanted to. What can I say? Sometimes the music moves me.

And sometimes family, I learned, this cobbled together work family that knows me better than I thought, is there for me, right when I need them the most.

Day 270: Wal-Mart Shake Down

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

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

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

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

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

Right.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Day 269: Sneaky and Debaucherous Wednesdays

There is a sign taped to my computer at work that says, "29 to 30 Jackass." This is the story of how it got there.

Day 269 was a normal Wednesday. The fact that it was a Wednesday is significant, I think, to the story. So I'll say it again: It was Wednesday. A normal Wednesday. I went to work, I worked out, I blogged. Typical behavior for me in my 29th year.

Mo had, during his last hours of work, recruited some of our colleagues to get together for dinner at Six Feet Under, a restaurant near my house. He tried to sweeten the deal by telling everyone on the email that my blog activity was to be determined, and that anyone who came along would most certainly be tagged.

That Mo used this tactic to get people to come to dinner was not surprising, because he and Justin love getting tagged in the blog. But considering the only other people to show up that night were Katy and Nick, I'm pretty sure they are the only ones who really care about winning the, "Let's see who can get the most tags in Stephanie's blog," game that they invented.

So there were just five people total in our party. Don't be fooled, though, where we lacked in numbers, we made up for in complete dedication to fun, and to the blog.

We sat on the deck at Six Feet Under overlooking Oakland Cemetery. After talking about work for the first few hours (which we always do), the conversation shifted to the blog, and what I would do, with their help, as the thing I've never done before.

Moon someone, play credit card roulette were some of the suggestions that were thrown out.

Or, Mo asked me, glancing over my right shoulder, "Have you ever been to Oakland Cemetery?"

"Yes," I said, "Remember on that cold, rainy day in January? That place is depressing."

"Have you ever snuck into Oakland Cemetery after dark? You should putt a golf ball on Bobby Jones' grave."

I don't remember who spoke these words, or how the entire group decided that this was the right thing to do, but the next think I knew, I had retrieved my putter from my golf bag in the trunk of my car, and with a boost from Mo, I was climbing over the brick wall that surrounds it.

Day 269's thing I've never done before was to sneak into a graveyard and putt on Bobby Jones' grave.

Before you stop reading, disgusted with the fact that I could've defaced someone's grave at night, especially a member of Atlanta royalty like Bobby Jones, please understand that there is actually a cup on the grave and a pile of golf balls left by those paying their respects. I brought my own golf ball and club, but had I forgotten them, there were plenty of balls and clubs to choose from. We may committed some disrespect having snuck into the cemetery, but putting on this grave apparently isn't frowned upon it's encouraged.

Now, I haven't been shy throughout this project about the fact that my golf game needs a little work. When I sunk a putt on a PGA golf course, it took me four (err, maybe five) tries to get it in, and when I played a full round with my dad, I did a better job at swearing than I did at playing.

Not surprising then, that my golf game did not improve in the dark, after a few cocktails. in a graveyard we weren't supposed to be in. My game was downright terrible, as a matter of fact.

After several tries, too many to count, I finally got the ball in the cup and hit a couple more for good measure. And then it was time to go. Only making a clean getaway over the brick wall was completely impossible. There was absolutely no way to get out of here with any sort of finesse or grace. I heaved, clawed, grunted my way over, right onto Memorial Drive, a popular road, where cars are constantly whizzing by. I was bruised and sweaty.

After finally sinking the putt and making it over the brick wall, two monumental tasks at that hour of the night, we probably should've called it a day and headed home. But we didn't. No, we were pretty proud of ourselves and our sneaky ways, so we continued the fun in East Atlanta (to the Graveyard Pub, no less).

When we arrived, eager to play some of our favorite hits on the jukebox, we were disappointed to find that the machine was "broke." Not "broken," but, according to whoever wrote the sign that was taped to the music box, "broke."

I stole the "broke" sign and taped it to my forehead, because Project 29 to 30 has made me just that: broke. Lucky for us, Katy came prepared with her iPod, hoping she could convince the bartender to play the oldies she was dying to hear. Whatever she said, worked, and we all got down to raging songs like, "Jimmy Mack," by Martha and the Vandellas.

After wearing out our welcome there, we took the party (read: the debauchery) to Mo's house for late-night, "Club Mo."

Did I mention that this was Wednesday? And that I'm 29?

When I got into work on Day 270, twenty minutes after I woke up, Mo had a sign on his computer that read, "35 Jackass," Justin's read, "30 Jackass," and when I got to mine, it said, "29 to 30 Jackass."

Yep, I'd say that about sums it up.

Day 247: Spicing Things Up

"Today's the day," I announced to my friends at work. "I've got my reservation for Spicy Chicken."

In the weeks leading up to the unveiling of its newest menu item, the Spicy Chicken sandwich, fast food restaurant Chik-fil-a began a marketing campaign encouraging customers to make a reservation to try the sandwich for free.

Since there is a store in the food court of my office, it seemed fitting that I would sign up for one of these free sandwiches and try one as Day 247's thing I've never done before.

"This is history in the making," Mo said, when I told him it was time.

I don't know if I would go that far. True, this was the Spicy Chicken sandwich debut, but I'm not sure anyone will write about it in history books. I don't see myself ever turning to my children and saying in my most earnest voice, "Kids, you know what today is, don't you? The 25th anniversary of Chik-fil-a's release of the Spicy Chicken Sandwich. Let's all pause for a moment of silence in remembrance of this day."

On the other hand, the day the Spicy Chicken was made available to Chik-fil-a customers is exactly the kind of useless information I always seem to remember, so maybe I will.

Regardless, with my reservation form in hand, Mo and I headed downstairs to the food court in our office to pick up my free trial sandwich.

"I'm here for the Spicy Chicken," I said triumphantly to the man behind the counter, handing him my form.

He was friendly, and he smiled when I said it. Meanwhile, Mo was behind me snapping pictures of the entire encounter behind me on his iPhone. For all this guy knew, this could've been my first ever trip to a fast food restaurant.

Just before he handed me my food and drink, the Chik-fil-a guy started looking a little shady, like he had to tell me a secret or something. I was not at all following what he was doing.

"For mi amigo," he said, nodding his head towards Mo as he slipped a second spicy chicken sandwich into my bag.

We're not sure if it was our friendly conversation with the guy, or the fact that Mo was wildly snapping pictures to the point that it made him appear mentally challenged and therefore deserving of a free sandwich too that made our new friend so generous, but we got out of there with two free sandwiches, a drink and a salad for $4.10.

We thanked him profusely, like he had done us an enormous favor, realizing on our way back upstairs that free Spicy Chicken sandwiches were fairly easy to come by that week, reservation or not.

When we got back to Mo's desk, we handed the camera to Justin to document our reaction.

Since everything Chik-fil-a makes (with the exception of the carrot raisin salad) is pretty much delicious, I knew that I would like it. I just didn't know how much I would like it. I did not know that they would knock a spicier version of their already kick-ass sandwich out of the fast food ball park. It's just like the regular Chik-fil-a sandwich, only it tastes like it's been dipped in wing sauce.

After discovering how much I loved the Spicy Chicken, I asked around to see what others thought about it. The reviews were mixed, which for some reason really offended me.


Justin shrugged his shoulders and said, "It's ok. I just think it tastes like their regular chicken sandwich covered in wing sauce."

"I know!," I said, excitedly.

The very reason I loved it is the same reason Justin wasn't at all impressed.

My friend Emily's boyfriend Jay works for Chick-fil-a and he said they've been working on the Spicy Chicken sandwich for ten years. At the time, I was 247 days into this year-long project and completely exhausted, I can't imagine working on the same sandwich for TEN years. I suspect Chik-fil-a takes this much time with all of their new menu items, meaning if I started working on something now, I'd be almost 40-years old before anyone in the general public ever got to try it.

Though I wouldn't want to devote all of that time into a spicier version of the original, I am so thankful that someone did. I'd say it was time well spent.

Day 241: Bacon What?

On Day 241, Mo and I went to eat at P'Cheen, a fabulous pub in Inman Park that offers All-You-Can-Eat Crab Legs on Wednesday nights.

"Sure," I said, when Mo suggested we go there. Because quite frankly, I hadn't been eating enough lately.

Except I had. If the previous five summers have been the Summers of Weddings, then I would have to call this summer, the Summer of Eating. My appetite has been out of control.

But eating crab legs wasn't the thing that I'd never done before. Eating crab legs All-You-Can-Eat style wasn't it either. My family has been going to Oak Island, North Carolina every summer since I was a baby, and there is a local restaurant there, Jones' Seafood House, that has been doing All-You-Can-Eat crab legs for years. No surprise, the Gallmans are huge fans.

True, I hadn't participated in P'Cheen's version of Crab Leg night, but that seemed a little lame as the thing I'd never done before.

I did run into two people from my hometown and almost fell out of my chair when I found out they not only lived in Atlanta now, but are dating each other. We reminisced about seeing Wayne's World six Friday nights in a row in 6th grade and starring in Mrs. Vogel's riveting productions of Beauty and the Beast and Newsies in middle school.

I think Mo checked out mentally during that trip down memory lane, and I can't say I blame him. I was annoyed with myself, taking my unusually deep voice to abnormally high levels, squealing over this couple that I hadn't seen in at least ten years. It was awkward for me, and I was a participant in the conversation.

After finishing our meal, Mo and I left P'Cheen in search of the thing I've never done before, and for some reason, we decided that two beers and two plates of crab legs was just simply not enough food.

Only it was plenty. That meal was more than enough. But I have an eating problem. And the problem is that I eat too much.

So we walked down to Irwin Street Market where Justin had earlier suggested we go to eat Jake's Ice cream. According to him, it's the best ice cream in Atlanta.

Irwin Street Market is on Irwin Street (crazy, right?) and it's a colorfully decorated space that houses several vendors, including a southern cooking diner type restaurant and some local artists displaying their work.

Mo asked the lady behind the ice cream counter if she could make me a banana split, since in all my 29 years, I've never eaten one. Thanks to the crab legs, I'd stretched my stomach enough so I had room to make it possible.

She shook her head and said, "No, I'm sorry, we don't have any bananas."

"What am I going to do?" I said to Mo nervously. Again, technically, eating Jake's ice cream at Irwin Street Market is something that I had never done, but enough with the food already.

We began to peruse the flavors, because regardless of what did or did not happen as Day 241's "thing," I was not leaving without eating ice cream.

Jake's, I noticed, had a lot of clever names for its ice cream (if you feel like you've read me write these very words before, it's because I did. I went to a place on Day 238 that also had clever names for its ice cream. I told you, I've dedicated Summer of 2010 to eating.)

"What's this one?," I asked, pointing at the sign labeled, "Happy as a Pig in Chocolate."

She smiled as she said, "That's vanilla ice cream with pieces of chocolate covered bacon in it."

I turned my head sharply at Mo and raised my eyebrows, a big smile grew on both of our faces.

"Well there you go," he said.

Indeed.

Day 241's thing I've never done before is to eat chocolate covered bacon ice cream.

I admit, there were about 15 other flavors in that case that I would've rather tried than this one, but trying new things is what this year is all about, so while I wanted to stomp my feet and spin around like a 3-year old throwing a temper tantrum, screaming, "I don't wannnna eat that, I wanna eat Rocky Road!!!!!," I resisted the urge and just went for it.

She fixed us both a cone and I took a bite. The flavors confused me and I have to assume that chocolate covered bacon (which exists far and wide beyond Jake's ice cream) was created as an accident, or by some optimistic chef thought two flavors that were good on their own must be good together.

I don't know that I would agree with that chef. I mean, the ice cream wasn't terrible. I didn't want to gag or anything. But I probably wouldn't choose it again.

Part of it was a texture thing. Just as I would start to enjoy the chocolate, my taste buds would get rocked with the salty bacon and it was all just too much. And it was chewy. If I'm going to have to chew ice cream I prefer it to be because of Oreos or Heath bars or some other candy bar.

So Pigs in Chocolate: not awesome. But the night was pretty great.