Day 272: Oprah! Pick Me! I'm a Party!

Day 272's thing I've never done before was to audition for my own show on the Oprah network.

I put myself to bed early on Day 271 so that I could wake up early on Day 272 and drive north of Atlanta to Roswell, Georgia where the auditions were taking place in the parking lot of Kohl's discount store.

According to Oprah's website, which I had consulted many times in the days leading up to Day 272, her staff would begin handing out wristbands at 7am and would stop handing them out at 12pm. The application needed to be filled out completely before auditioning. Any hopes of speaking to the media giant herself were quashed, as the site made it abundantly clear that OPRAH WILL NOT BE IN ATTENDANCE AT THE ATLANTA AUDITIONS. If there was specific detail about exactly what the audition would entail, I forgot to read it; I simply showed up with my application and hoped for the best.

I was not surprised to show up to find hundreds of people in the parking lot, all hoping to become the star of their own show. Some were dressed to the nines, others were more casual like me. The whole scene was circus-like: there were members of the local media on hand, folks hugging and greeting each other, and people selling bottled waters out of coolers helping contestants to beat the heat. It was 7:30am. It was weird.

Once out of my car and in the mix, though, that despite drawing was surprised to find that despite the mass quantities of people, the entire operation was extremely organized. The amount of people who had come out to audition was intimidating and gave the impression of complete chaos and disorganization.

Leave it to Oprah, the most successful woman in television to bring a sense of calm, and class to the audition process. None of this American-Idol-sleep-out-on-the-sidewalk-for-days-in-advance bullshit. Nope, Oprah's approach was far more civilized. Come, in an orderly fashion to retrieve a wrist band, and then come back at the your scheduled time. Don't waste your whole day out here.

While waiting in line, I met a middle-aged attractive woman and her husband who had driven up from Destin, Florida. She was clutching her audition material in one hand, and a microphone in the other; her husband was holding amateur video equipment. She told me that she has a blog, inspiring women to embrace getting older and live life to the fullest. She excused herself for a minute, turning briefly into a television reporter while her husband filmed her showing her blog audience the parking lot full of Oprah show hopefuls.

When she was done taping her little bit, we continued our conversation. I told her that I also had a blog and explained its premise. My show idea was an extension of my blog, encouraging regular people, just like me, to step outside their comfort zone and try new things.

Side note: if you told me a year ago that I'd be discussing blogs with complete strangers in the parking lot of Kohl's in Roswell, Georgia, I would've said you were crazy, but alas, there I was.

Complete stranger blogger friend said she loved the idea of Project 29 to 30 and asked if she could interview me for her blog. Duh, I told her, of course you can. So she asked me questions about my show idea while her husband taped it.

When I made it to the head of the line, I received a wrist band for and was told to come back at 5pm. That time would've been perfect, if I had nothing to do for the rest of the day. But my friend Melissa's wedding was scheduled to start at 6:30pm in the city, so even if this audition took just an hour, and I suspected it would last longer, there was no way I would be able to make it back in time. I considered asking if I could change my time with someone else, but when I looked at the wrist band, I noticed there wasn't a specific time listed on it.

So I went home and slept for several hours, woke up and got a pedicure, watched a little bit of the World Cup game. Then I packed all of my things for the wedding, and headed back to Roswell.

I parked my car and walked towards a large tent where lanes were roped off. Like a bouncer, a staff member checked my wrist band and checked to see that I had my application in hand before instructing me to stand in one of the lanes. As I walked forward in the lane, I could see ahead of me eight or ten tents with other contestants sitting in a semi-circle around a table. Behind the table was an Oprah staffer. Everyone seemed very laid back and relaxed; there was even laughter coming from the tents. I breathed a sigh of relief.

While in line, I met a woman named Carrie who had driven from from Chicago. She is a social worker who works with at-risk youth helping to prevent teenage pregnancy. She told me her show would draw from the real-life cases she deals with to focus on teen issues, and helping young people reach their full potential.

She was spunky, and had a great smile, and we chatted until the Oprah staff said it was now our turn to go. In each lane, they counted 20-25 people off and sent them to take a seat under one of the tents. The seats were in a semi-circle around a desk with a chair behind it. On the desk were stacks of applications. Judging by the stacks, these casting agents had already had quite a busy day.

After we were seated, a young, skinny guy sauntered over to the tent; he loudly and gruffly introduced himself to everyone.

"I'm Billy. I'm 26. I live in Los Angeles and I work in casting. We're going to go around in a circle. Tell us your name. Your age. Your show idea. We don't have a lot of time, so keep it brief. If you're taking too long, I'll tell you to wrap it up so we can move on."

And then he collapsed into a chair behind the table, leaned back and pointed at the woman directly to his left.
"You're up," he said to her. The woman

"Wait, wait," he stopped himself. "One more thing. Keep in mind that I'm the one making the decisions here, so while it's nice to engage the others, you should be directing your pitches to me."

Little 26-year old Billy was humorous, but he was also an ass.

The first woman stood up and said her name was Annie. She lives in Nashville where she is an advocate for victims of physical and sexual abuse. She wanted her show to offer a lending ear for victims and serve as a platform for those issues.

Another woman that looked like soap opera star Susan Lucci stood up wearing a form-fitting red dress. She said she wanted to host a show about woman over their fifties, and call it "50 and Fabulous." I thought about my reluctance to turn 30 and smiled. This woman is definitely aging gracefully and though I've got a long way to go until 50, I think I could learn a lot from her.

One woman stood up and smiled at the group before dropping an enormous bomb on all of us: my husband is Georgia's version of Bernard Madoff. In 2006 he scammed all of his employees for millions of their retirement money. And then he left me for this secretary. I'm raising our 12-year old daughter on my own. I confess I have no idea what her show idea was because I was too shocked and too sad that chose to share this very private, very devastating information with all of us.

One by one, each member of our tent circle rose to pitch their story idea. The environment was friendly and even though we were all "competing," against each other for our own show, there was a sense of camaraderie among our group. Maybe because we all knew how nerve-racking an experience like this is or maybe it was because we were all nearly melting under the hot Roswell sun. Regardless, I found myself smiling at each one of them, proud that we'd all been so courageous.

One man wanted to host a show about money matters after having worked at a bank for years. Another extremely worked up man paced back and forth shouting like an evangelical preacher about kids refusing to wear their pants on their waists and ending up in prison. Apparently after a child "low rides" their trousers, prison is the next step. I tried not to laugh as I pictured Chris Farley's motivational speaker character from Saturday Night Live. One woman who called herself a "performance artist" got up and read a poem that she had written.

I meant it when I said everyone was putting out good vibes for each other, but I admit, as each participant stood up to pitch their show idea, I couldn't help but think, "My idea is so much better than that."

Despite my confidence though, when it was finally my turn to pitch, I was nervous. Really nervous.

"Hello, my name is Stephanie and I'm on a year-long quest to do 365 things I've never done before. Today, Day 272's thing I've never done before is to audition for my very own show on the Oprah Network!"

I tried to sound as upbeat as I possibly could, but I think my nerves got the better of me. My voice was shaking and my knees were too. But when I went on to explain that for every one of the last 272 days I'd done something that I'd never done before, Annie looked me right in the eye and smiled, nodding her head at me. I could tell she was interested in the project and her reaction gave me energy to get through the rest of my pitch.

"I have had such an amazing year, thanks to the people who have offered to help me try new things. I want my show to encourage people to step out of their comfort zone to try the things they've never done before. I can take someone sky-diving for the first time, or take them to the spa to get their hair dyed a different color."

I think Billy had fallen asleep at this point, and I noticed he never wrote anything down while any of us were talking. He barely even glanced at the 16-page application that everyone had filled out. Either he was not interested in any of our ideas, or, I considered when I left, maybe the decision for this contest had already been made.

As I was walking away from the tent to my car, a woman and her daughter, who had both auditioned under my tent, came up to me.

"Did anyone ever tell you that you look exactly like Uma Thurman?," one of them asked me.

"What?," I said, smiling coyly. I heard what she said, I just wanted to hear it again.

"You," she repeated, "You look exactly like Uma Thurman."

She leaned back and looked me over again.

"Yep, you sure do. Just like her."

"That's so nice," I said, "Thank you!"

I think I grew several inches taller on my way to my car. I drove to Kyle's house knowing, for certain, that I wasn't getting my own show on he Oprah network. In fact, I found out later that before the audition in Atlanta ever happened, a hilarious man with cerebral palsy had won the web submission contest and would likely be Oprah's choice.

When Kyle and some of our other friends asked me how it went, I told them I had fun, but they shouldn't hold their breath on my becoming a star. The casting agent was less than impressed with me, but what an experience.

"But," I went on to tell them, "Someone told me that I look like Uma Thurman, so I'm going to call the day a success anyway."

I think perhaps I might've been a little too excited, because while getting ready for the wedding at Kyle's house, I fell down an entire flight of stairs, bruising the entire backside of my body. I hit every single step individually, injuring both my back and my ego enough that warranted everyone at the house to the stairs to make sure I was okay.

First the audition, then the stairs? I was striking out.

I should've been exhausted, but I wasn't. Neither incident could keep me down, and neither kept me, or my friend Trish, who was 8-months pregnant, from hitting the dance floor, taking the dance party of two to an all-out throw down.

Oprah show or not, I remain a one-woman party.

Day 259: Runaway Fan

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Brunch was over. Time for gifts.

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

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

Day 82: Dad, Please Don't Read This

In case the title isn't clear enough, Dad, I'm going to have to ask that you not read this blog.

The 30th birthday parties are underway among my girlfriends. Actually since I have friends of all ages, the parties have been going on for several years now, but for some reason the latest to turn the big 3-0 is making me painfully aware of how quickly my big birthday is approaching.

Day 82's thing I've never done before was to attend a "Dirty 30" birthday party for two of my friends, Trish and Kyle.

My friend Momo (real name: Maureen) had attended this type of party, also known as a XXX Christmas gift exchange, and decided she wanted to host one of her own, in honor of our friends' birthdays and for the holidays.

The concept was simple: bring a lingerie/sex toy gift for a White Elephant/Yankee Swap game.

Dad, seriously, stop reading this. It's going to make the next time we see each other super awkward. Mom, Jeff, boss Paul, you can all stop reading too.

I picked up my gift at Victoria's Secret, just like I have for the countless bachelorette parties I have thrown and attended over the years. Not a big deal, I'm an old pro at this. If I'd had time I would've gone to Inserection, a completely creepy but hilarious "Adult Store" to pick up something else.

When I arrived, everyone was chatting and laughing. I could tell right away that Momo had outdone herself. There was an elaborate food display, a cranberry champagne punch bowl, beautiful decorations. I didn't know it then, but I would soon learn that her effort was far too classy for what was about to go down. But at that point, I wasn't thinking anything was terribly out of the ordinary. Just an all-girls holiday get-together. No biggie. Momo passed around a bowl full of Christmas jingle bells that were numbered. I drew #2, which meant I would only have one gift to possibly steal. Not a good number.

Kristen drew #1. I'm not sure if this was her strategy or if she wasn't wanting to take any chances because she chose her own gift, a modest pair of pajamas.

Then it was my turn to either steal Kristen's gift or open another one. The pajamas were nice, but I wanted to see what else was out there, so I chose a nicely wrapped square box from under Momo's Christmas tree and took it back to my seat. All eyes were on me as I tore the paper and lifted the lid and removed the items inside, nervous laughter spilling out from me like a faucet.

Inside the pretty little package was a red see-through teddy, crotchless underwear (yes, I just typed "crotchless") and my favorite, a pair of fingerless gloves with ribbons on the wrists, presumably for tying the wearer's hands together or to piece of furniture? The tag said, "One size fits most."

My friend Trish, who purchased this raunchy gift began apologizing immediately and profusely, reading the expression on my face for disappointment that I didn't get something better. She apparently couldn't tell that I wasn't disappointed. I was just mortified.

Everyone was laughing. I started to sweat. I think I actually said at one point, "Is it hot in here?"

Lots of questions began running through my mind at this point, including, 1. Where the hell did Trish find it? 2. What possessed her to buy it? 3. Do people actually wear this kind of stuff?

While I'm trying to reconcile the answers to all of these questions, birthday girl Kyle shouts out, "Since it's my birthday, I'd like to make a rule that everyone has to wear whatever item they get on the outside of their clothes!"

Oh well that's a fun idea, Kyle! Sike.

So as if it wasn't bad enough that I had to open this outfit and hold it up in front of everyone, but then I had to put it on. My face was bright red and my hands were sweating.

I don't know why I was so embarrassed. I'm 29-years-old, for heaven's sake. I have dedicated myself to writing a year-long blog revealing every personal thing about myself. Why the sudden desire to play innocent? Plus, these women are my best friends and this was a game, this was all in good fun. Why the nerves?

I don't know. My own reaction surprised me too. I'm not bothered by sex toys or lingerie. Except, apparently, when they are given to me.

Luckily, I sitting next to Shelley who provided just the amount of comic relief that I needed to relax. She opened several awesome gifts, all of which were stolen from her. My favorite was definitely the 'Mrs. Santa Claus' number. I'm still not sure what she ended up with.

The game moved forward and I watched with sincere interest to see the items that were most commonly stolen. My plum nightie was popular, as were all of the holiday inspired items. I also loved seeing the pleasant but annoyed looks on some of the women's faces when their gift was taken from them. For the sake of the blog not getting moved to an "unsuitable" corner of the Internet, I'll just say there were some pretty suggestive movies, toys and devices that are now occupying my friends' homes.

I had pretty much resigned myself to the fact that my bright red ensemble and matching cuffs was going to be mine forever, when late in the game, to my surprise, my newly engaged friend Melissa piped up from the couch, "Gallman, hand over the cuffs."

"Say wha?"

Wowza, Thomas is in for a big surprise. Trish, happy that her gift was stolen said to me recently, "I need to ask Melissa how that's working out for her."

Her stealing my gift meant that I had to open another one. This time I chose Maribeth's, which was full of several goodies, my favorite being an Exotica Mask ala Eyes Wide Shut. So weird. Again, with the questions, 1. Where did she find it? 2. Are people really turned on by feathered masks? 3. Will the guys that read my blog be more interested in me now that they know I have it, and some other fun toys?

The mask did come in handy in that it let me hide from the rest of the gift-giving. It made for some awkward moments the next day, however, when I was in Charleston with my high school friend Danielle. As I was taking my luggage out of my car, her 7-year old daughter caught a glimpse of the mask in the backseat.

"Aunt Steph, what's that?" she asked, pointing at it.

Danielle and I looked at each other, trying not to laugh and Danielle said, "Karson, sometimes Aunt Steph likes to dress up in costumes."

Thanks, friends, for forcing me to face my fears and for forcing me to explain to a 7-year old the weird twisted activites I participate in on the weekends.

I live in fear of my own bachelorette party.