Day 365: The Bittersweet End

On Day 365, I woke up as a 30-year old.

As suspected, I didn't look or feel any different than I did the day before, except for the fact that I hardly slept and was so nervous I wanted to throw up.

I might've assumed I was having a physical reaction to my thirties, but I knew why I couldn't sleep and why my insides were turning over and it didn't have anything to do with getting older. The tossing and turning and nerves were because of Day 365's thing that I've never done before: to join a popular radio show to talk about Project 29 to 30.

Sometime around January of 2010 (about 100 days in), I sent Jenn Hobby, co-host of the Bert Show, an email telling her about Project 29 to 30. She and I share a mutual friend (John) and I thought she might think the idea was cool. What exactly I wanted from her and the show I wasn't sure, and I didn't exactly say it in the email. They had an intern at the time who was aspiring to dance 100 days in a row and I thought maybe I could join her. But obviously I was up for anything at that point, and with the help of their listeners I knew they could come up with some great ideas.

Best case scenario, I thought, she would love the idea, love me and I'd become a regular, "girl trying new things," segment on the show. A win-win for us both. Worst case scenario, they'd never respond and I'd be no worse off than I was when I started. I'd never know if I didn't ask, though, so I did.

Within a day, Jenn responded and told me that she loved the idea. She said she'd share it with the others and see if she could make something work out. I was elated. A few days after that, the show's producer, Tracey, emailed me and asked me for my phone number. I emailed her back and checked my phone like a psycho waiting for a guy to call me.

I waited and waited, but just like the guys who have taken my number and never called, I never heard from Tracey.

My friend Emily, a big Bert Show fan, followed up with an email on my behalf, but still nothing. I know that many times in situations like this, persistence is the way to go, but I also find there is a fine line between being persistent and being annoying. And I didn't want to cross that line. Plus, I had a blog to write and new things to do, so I just let it go.

I forgot about the show until I was listening to them one morning do a segment that was so terrible, I htought, "My idea is way better than this!" Clearly they were at one time interested in it, so I emailed Tracey one more time, told her that my birthday was a month away and that I'd love their help thinking of new things to do.

And just like that, she called. We played phone tag a few times, but when we finally connected, she suggested that I come in studio on the morning of my birthday at around 9am.

Perfect.

Emily, who had already taken the day off from school to recover from the weekend, offered to come with me and to drive us to the station, which is in an office building north of Atlanta. But since I was a ball of nervous energy, I told her I'd prefer driving so that I would at least have something else to focus on.

I was a complete spaz, though, and we passed the building a few times before pulling in. I'd already put my phone on silent, but Tracey had been calling me wanting to know if I was still coming. We finally arrived and after sitting silent in the waiting room, Producer Tracey came out to get us.

The co-hosts of the show are local celebrities in Atlanta, so I knew what they looked like, so there wasn't the, "Oh, YOU'RE Bert?! I thought you'd look different!" What was odd, was shaking their hands as if we were strangers; I was definitely a stranger to them, but since the show can get quite personal, I knew quite a few details about each of them. I'm sure they're quite used to this, but I felt creepy asking Jenn about her wedding or Tracey about her infant daughter.

While Emily and I were standing outside the studio waiting to go in, the host of the show, Bert, teased my segment saying something to the effect of, "Stephanie just did 364 things and one of the last things on her bucket list was to meet the cast of the Bert Show. We'll talk to her next."

I work in media, and I understand the art of a good tease, but I was a little confused as to how they got "bucket list," and, "wanting to meet the cast of the Bert Show," from the correspondence we'd had. Now everyone thinks I'm some obsessed radio show fan. Let's be clear, if I did have a bucket list, the only "must meet" people on it would be Paula Deen or Kelly Ripa.

As much as I wanted to clarify, I decided to let it go. I refused to get caught up in the details. I was about to be on the radio.

When I walked into the studio, I noticed first how small the room is. The show was in a commercial break, so everyone was sort of chilling out and doing their own thing. I was in the next segment, so they showed me my seat, gave me a headset and showed me the microphone that I was supposed to talk into.

I sat to the right of Jenn, and she and I started talking about her guest spot on Live with Regis and Kelly (amazing, so jealous). She started asking me about the blog and then she stopped herself, and "Wait, I'm sorry. Let me hear about it with everyone else."

I've heard that on radio shows and television shows that they refrain from a lot of pre-interviews so as not to ruin the conversation on air. If Jenn and I had this conversation now, then having it again minutes later might sound a little forced.

Coming out of the break, Bert welcomed me to the show and he asked me to talk about the blog and I went for it. Emily said she tried to take pictures of me, but I was talking with my hands so much that it was hard to get a good one.

I hesitate to say, "radio is easy," because I was there for less than ten minutes, but the whole segment went by so fast. The co-hosts were friendly and engaging and since they're all right there in the room, it felt like I was just having a conversation with them. After my initial nerves calmed down, I forgot that I was talking on the radio.

Though I don't think my blog is terribly controversial, or worthy of further discussion, part of me hoped they would take calls from listeners. I really wanted someone to call in and say something hateful like, "You've got a lot of nerve, Stephanie."

But they didn't, and before I knew it, someone brought in a beautiful birthday cake and the segment was over.

I can't even tell you all that we talked about, because it all went by so fast. Even as I walked out of the show, I looked at Emily and said, "Did that just happen? What did I say?"

The whole segment is still on their website and you can listen here.

After we left the Bert Show and headed back to Emily's, I felt so jacked up, like I could've lifted my car or run a marathon. It was so much fun and such a perfect way to end the year of doing things I'd never done before. It sure didn't hurt that my cell phone immediately started blowing up with sweet phone calls and emails from my parents, friends and colleagues all telling me that I did a great job. And, no surprise, my blog was never more popular. The Bert Show bump is for real.

Since Trish (just one month into motherhood) couldn't make it to the birthday weekend, she offered to take me to lunch on my birthday. Emily and Kyle were off work too, so we all met at Henri's for two of my favorite things: sandwiches and gossip.

Emily offered to let me leave my car at her house so she could drive us, and we stayed well over an hour just catching up. Little did I know that when everyone abruptly said we had to go was because there was another surprise in store for me back at Emily's.

Her offer to drive to lunch was not simply a nice gesture, but actually premeditated move, orchestrated by our friend Lisa, who on my birthday, avenged the Valentine's Day prank Elizabeth and I played on her with a little prank of her own.

When we turned the corner down to Emily's house, all I could see were balloons tied to the top of my car, which was covered in paint, fake mustaches, and even a cougar tail. I know I overuse this word a lot when I'm speaking, but it was hilarious. She did such a good job and pulled off the greatest prank. Nine months later, after several washes, there are still flecks of paint on my windows.

We stood around laughing and taking pictures for a while and Lisa declared a truce. I'm not so sure either of us is going to stick to that but I agreed for the time being.

Not quite ready to head home, and unable to convince anyone to come out with me for another night of celebrating, I spent the rest of the night at Trish's house, drinking wine and talking. Not exactly a raucous birthday celebration, but exactly what I needed.

I could end this with a lot of sappy reflection about age and say all of the right things about how age is just a number and you're only as old as you feel. I do believe all of those things, and from where I sit, it's difficult even at age 30, to look at my life and feel anything but great.

But to be honest, I still freak about getting older. Less so because I feel old and am worried that I'm not where I should be at this age; more because I know how much the world has to offer. How will I ever find enough time (and money) to do it all?

I still struggle with the unknown and I worry, despite truly believing, "All who wander are not lost," that the only true obstacle holding me back from getting what I want is my inability to identify what that is. But with each day and each new experience, I think I'm getting closer to defining what success and happiness is for me.

This blog hasgiven me an outlet for which to share my joy and my sorrow, something that strangely, does bring me much happiness. What that means for the future, I'm not really sure.

But I have enjoyed this ride so very much.

To Mo and to Lauren, who tirelessly edited versions of these entries that were all over the place and filled with typos, it's OVER! WE did it. Thank you. Seriously. What a shitty job. Thank you times a million.

To my parents, I'm pretty sure "blogger" wasn't exactly what you meant when you said I could be anything I wanted to be, but thanks for always supporting my adventurous spirit. I am who I am because of you, and I'm sorry for the times when that's not a positive thing.

To everyone who participated in this blog, read it, commented on it, stuck with it despite it taking me so long to finish, there will never be the appropriate words for me to thank you enough for making me what I always wanted to be. A writer.

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 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 303: Googie-Spiked Fountain Fun

Day 303 had been in the works for a while, and the idea came courtesy of my friend Amanda (of walk the mall, workplace romance, and online dating fame).

"Have you ever run through the rings at Centennial Olympic Park?"

"No," I said, and I'm sure I made a face too. She asked me this question in the middle of winter and the idea sounded terrible.

"Well when the weather warms up, we should do it."

I agreed. It's cheap, it's fun, it's something every Atlantan must do.

And on Day 303, the weather was plenty warm enough. It was downright hot. Time to put Amanda's idea to the test. Only thanks to her work schedule and a mid-summer sinus infection, she couldn't actually join in the fun.

Emily and Mo could, though. Day 303's thing I've never done before was to eat at Googie Burger, drink a spiked milkshake, and run through the rings at Centennial Olympic Park.

After some discussion at work ahead of the trip, we decided that we'd eat first and then run through the fountain. Emily and I met Mo at Googie Burger, a new walk-up burger joint inside the park. We stood back from the ordering counter and eyed the menu, which was short and sweet: Classic Googie Burger (Cheeseburger), Beefy Pig Burger (Bacon Cheeseburger), Flying South Sandwich (Fried Chicken Sandwich), Veg-Out Burger (Black Bean Burger). They offered a Kids Meal and fresh-cut French Fries.

Emily got a kids meal, Mo went for the Classic, and I opted for the Veg-Out.

I paid for my meal and the attendant slid me my receipt.

"You're Googie number 69," she said with a smile. I turned and looked at Emily and Mo and we all burst out laughing, proving that though our birth certificates say we're adults, our sense of humors still rival teen aged boys.

My Googie number was the number that they shouted down at the loud speaker when my order was ready, so we got to hear them say, "69," several other times. And we laughed every time.

"69, your drink is up."

"Googie 69, we've got your food ready."

"69! 69! 69!"

I swear the teenagers in the back were making up excuses to say it on the intercom, I felt like they said it so many times. The almost-30 year old in me wanted to march up to the counter and tell them to stop, reminding them that there are kids in this park.

When I did my retrieve my food and walked it to our table, I was completely overwhelmed. The portions were huge. Not too huge that I didn't wolf it all down, but I probably would've been equally satisfied with Emily's Kids Meal portion. And her meal was served in a frisbee!

I honestly cannot say enough wonderful things about Googie Burger; their black bean burger is one of the best I've ever had. Their fries are perfection. The flies were all over us and our food while we ate (there are only outside tables at Googie Burger) and that was annoying, but a small price to pay for the delicious meal.

Plus, after dinner, we went back to the counter to order dessert: a spiked milkshake. "Spiked," as in alcoholic. "Spiked,"as in awesome. "Spiked," as in I love you.

Admittedly, a milkshake with alcohol was a definitely the reason we went to Googie Burger in the first place, and had the food been terrible I would've still said good things about it for having come up with a concoction so ingenious. But the food really is good. And the milkshakes are so good.

There are just two flavors: Twinkie (Vanilla Vodka and Creme de Banana) and Red Devil (Vanilla Vodka, Creme de Cocoa, Maraschino Cherry Juice.)

Emily and I went for the Twinkie and Mo got the Red Devil.

When I went to retrieve my shake, (again, after they called "69" loud and proud over the intercom), I saw two regular cups full of milkshake, and two smaller cups half full of milkshake. I was confused. The guy behind the counter could tell, so he explained.

"That's the leftover," he said, "I just wanted to make sure you got all your vodka."

I love you, 16-year old kid behind the counter. I love you, Googie Burger.

Benjamin Franklin said, "Beer is living proof that God loves us and wants us to be happy." Spiked milkshakes are also proof of God's love, and could serve as evidence that God is probably a woman.

We walked our shakes over to the fountain and surveyed the very large, very lively, very young crowd. That's pretty standard for summertime. Centennial Olympic Park is a popular tourist attraction as it is, but the Fountain of Rings, a water exhibit in the shape of the Olympic rings, draws a crowd of locals all summer long.

After watching the pure joy on the faces of the children frolicking in the fountain, there was nothing left to do but get out there and do it ourselves. But I knew the "run through the fountain" I had imagined and that Amanda had suggested was not going to happen. There was just too much going on, too many people to do so without seriously injuring ourselves or the little kids.

We took our shoes and socks off and set some ground rules. We'd go in pairs, each of us had to go twice, and each pair had to walk (not run) through each of the five rings. The person not walking through the fountain would take pictures with my horrible camera that had a five second delay and took terrible pictures, few of which turned out.

Who makes up rules for running through a fountain? We're lame.


I should've guessed by the children wearing just bathing suits who had come there seeking relief from the dog days of summer that the potential for getting soaked was high. It's why Emily and I didn't change out of our workout clothes and why Mo was wearing a t-shirt and shorts. I didn't quite understand, however, just how completely drenched we would get.


Granted, we could've avoided it, by timing the bursts of water and only running to the next ring afer they went off. But what's the fun in that?

On our last run, Mo even ordered me to stand over one of the water jets until it went off and I was completely drenched. This decision helped turn, "running through the Fountain of Rings," into a Tuesday afternoon wet t-shirt contest for all of downtown Atlanta. Seriously. It was embarrassing. And no, I do not have pictures of that, dirtbags.

Before we left the park (to get towels at Mo's house), we took one last look at the group of kids still playing and saw some funny stuff. Lots of pushing, lots of standing over the water and getting sprayed directly in the face, and one girl who was doing some pretty provacative dance moves that she probably saw in a rap video.

I hate to be a downer, but watching the little kids splash though the fountain was way more entertaining than doing it myself. I think this might be one of the few activities not suitable for adults.

But alcoholic milkshakes, on the other hand, I'm definitely young enough (and old enough) for that.

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 248: Silly, Silly, Silly Bandz

On Day 248 I walked over to my friend Emily's desk and saw a plethora of new toys on her desk.

"What are those?," I asked Emily, pointing at the oddly shaped figures on top of her computer.

"Silly Bandz," she replied, as if I should've already known.

"Oh, that's a Silly Band?," I asked, picking one up. It reminded me of the jelly bracelets I used to wear in elementary school, only sitting on Emily's desk, the bracelets looked like a football, a helmet, an elephant. Emily's Silly Bandz were Alabama football themed.

I first heard of Silly Bandz from my most favorite celebrity Kelly Ripa, who thanks to her own kids, sometimes wears and talks about them on her show.

Mo gets the credit for the bringing the plastic bracelets in animal shapes into my life, however. I'm still not sure why Mo knows so much about the most popular accessory in middle schools, but he outfitted some of our co-workers with their very own.

"Do you want one?," Emily asked me, almost childlike, proving that we're never too old to participate in trends meant for pre-teens.

"Sure," I said, happy to take part in the craze.

Day 248's thing I've never done before was to wear Silly Bandz.

I wore the two Silly Bandz Emily gave me off and on for about a week. In that time, I'd often forget that they were on my wrist, but when I did glance down I couldn't help but be reminded that Mo actually paid for these colorful rubberbands.

And that's all they really are. Rubberbands.


Rubberbands that have been banned from some schools because they cause such a distraction. They are, according to Time Magazine, 2010's version of Beanie Babies and Pokemon cards.


True, they form into the shape of animals, and I suppose that is the draw for children, but why so much hysteria over a plastic arm band? I'm not trying to be a downer, and crap all over Silly Bandz, I'm just trying to express my frustration over the fact that I didn't think of this idea. My brother used to wear a rubber band on his wrist all of the time, and my friend Greg still does. Why didn't it ever occur to me when looking at either of their wrists, "Now if I made that rubber band mold into the shape of a monkey and then painted it red, I could make kids go crazy and be a millionaire."

Later that month, I also wished I'd held onto my Silly Bandz for my family's annual trip to the beach in North Carolina. Those bracelets could've earned me the street cred I so desparately needed around my cousins' kids, who spend half of the short time we are together unsure of who I am and therefore scared to talk to me. Had I come to the beach with an arm full of Silly Bandz, I may have made some progress on these relationships.

Silly bands are just as their name suggests. They're silly. They're downright ridiculous. But damn I wish I would've thought of them.

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.

Day 213: A Panama Triathlon

Day 213 was Maribeth's 30th birthday, so I told her to choose what we did on that day. Really, like I said before, that had nothing to do with her birthday. I hate making decisions, so I was happy to leave all of the plans (all of them) up to her. And as it usually goes with travel blogs, Day 213 was a day full of things I'd never done before.

I did ask Maribeth to consider choosing something that required some sort of physical activity. It was only the start of our second full day, but I already felt gross from all of the eating and (sorry, Mom) drinking we did the day before. Maribeth was in agreement with that plan, so we opted to hike Parque Natural Metropolitano, a park in Panama City.

On the map we stole from the front desk, the park didn't appear to be very far from our hotel, so in the spirit of fitness, we decided we would walk to get there. The walk, while getting us to our desired destination, would've given us an opportunity to see the city and get the exercise that I so desperately needed. Plus, I've been lost enough times in foreign cities to know that the best way to get to know a place is to get lost in it. If that really is true, then Maribeth and I were getting to know Panama City really well.

We took off from the hotel, map in hand and after making a couple of wrong turns, ended up on the exact street we needed to be on. We looked like complete losers, cargo pants, running tank tops and running shoes for me, Chaco sandals for Maribeth. I am embarrassed to admit I had anxiety about my outfit that day. I always try to dress cool on vacation because I know that there will be pictures taken, but because of the nature of the day's activities, there was no way that was possible on Day 213. So one of the things I'd never done before was to purposely dress like a dork.

For a while on our walk we were fine, walking by businesses and restaurants and bars. After taking a right at a busy intersection, the road widened significantly and soon we were walking down what is probably like the Panamanian equivalent of Peachtree Street in Atlanta. Heavy traffic, several stop lights, noisy, and full of smog. Not an ideal place to be walking, but we were fine because there was still a sidewalk.

I realize I've been somewhat coy about the numerous cat calls we had already received during the less than 48 hours we'd been in Panama, but I'm sure you can imagine that once we voluntarily put ourselves on this street, the sight of two American girls in workout gear was almost too much. I may have felt like a dork, but it was hard to feel too bad about my outfit considering all of the honks, yells and stares we illicited during our walk. Maribeth and I were a hit in Panama. There, I said it.

At some point, perhaps after darting across the street to walk under an interstate overpass, we wondered aloud if maybe we should've taken a cab. I shrugged my shoulders and admitted that yeah, this isn't the best street to pound the pavement on, but we're doing it, and we're closing in our destination. Plus, when I make a mistake, I like to commit to it. "Go big or go home," I always say. "I'm getting to this park on foot dammit, I refuse to take a cab." But there was no denying that while this map may have been accurate in showing us how to get where we wanted to go, it wasn't exactly forthcoming with the fact that these streets are not pedestrian friendly.

After making one of the last turns that would take us into the park and get us off Panama's Peachtree, we ran out of sidewalk completely. We kept going, though, and soon, Maribeth and I were straddling a drainage ditch, walking like morons one behind the other, completely unable to hear each other speak because cars were whizzing past us going at least 50 mph. We had to cross over this busy four-lane highway to keep going, and then we came to another overpass. Here, not only was there not a sidewalk, but there was no more grass for us to walk on either. We would've had to walk on the narrow shoulder of the road. And that is where we realized that our dream of making it to the park on foot was over.

Sweaty, dirty, and defeated, we hailed a cab and arrived at our destination, the park entrance, within five minutes.

We stumbled out, already exhausted from the walk over there. This is before any hiking had actually taken place. Maribeth and I milled about the park's welcome center, which showed little to no signs of human life. We stared at the maps on the wall and a model designed to look like the park when a small young woman came out of the back room.

We (I mean, I) tried to tell her what we wanted to do and she pointed out several trails on the map. The park asks for a $1 donation, which we paid, and then we signed our names on a sign-in sheet. I couldn't resist filling out our information and reminding Maribeth, and anyone else who signed into the park after us that Maribeth is now 30, while I am still a young 29. And then I took a picture of it. So mature.

The woman walked us to the back of the building, showed us our options as far as where we could go, and then the hike began.

I've admitted before that I feel like hiking is merely walking with gear purchased at REI, but if I was ever going to make the distinction between just walking and hiking, I would definitely make it here. The terrain wasn't necessarily challenging, but under the Central American heat, back in the rain forest, I wouldn't be giving myself and Maribeth enough credit if I said we just walked. We hiked.

There wasn't anything of particular significance that occurred on the hike, except our repeated run-ins with some of the hardest-working ants I've ever seen. I alerted Maribeth to the ants while we were hiking because she had sandals on and what a way to ruin your birthday but with a foot full of ant bites. But when I told her to look out for the ants, I had no idea that I'd be talking about thousands of them, all in a line, carrying leaves to their farm. Panamanian ants are efficient.
The hike was uphill to a lookout area where we could see the canal from one direction and the city from another. We agreed that the scenery we got to enjoy from so high up made all the pain we endured to get there worth it.

We snapped a few pictures of the view, quickly realizing that scenery shots were probably our best bet, considering we both looked like we were melting and, as I mentioned before, the super dorky outfits we were wearing.

We walked back down the hill/mountain, stopping briefly in an area where monkeys are often spotted, hoping that in honor of Maribeth's birthday, one would make an appearance. We even shouted "Monos!" but no monkeys came out to play.

Despite having already exercised more than we normally do, after reaching the base of the park, we opted to continue Maribeth's fitness birthday by renting bikes and riding them down the Panama City causeway.

The decision was a great one, with more great views of the ocean and the Panama City skyline. There isn't much to do along the causeway, so we just rode our bikes and enjoyed the nice breeze and another beautiful day. I'm not sure where the desire to get some exercise turned into "workout day," but we pushed ourselves on the bike ride and pedaled to the very end of the causeway, until the pathway ran out and we couldn't go any further.

Towards the end of the ride, I was both horrified and amused to find that among the local waterfront Panamanian eating establishments, Panama also has a Bennigan's. Of all the restaurants the United States has to offer, I do not understand why this one decided to make a home for itself in Panama, but I hoped to myself that their presence there hadn't paved the way for Chili's and Applebee's to follow suit. I can't understand why anyone would, when given the choice, would choose Bennigan's over the local cuisine, but maybe that's me. Maybe I'm a food snob.

We stopped for lunch (more ceviche, which is fish cooked in lemon and/or lime juice. The acidity cooks it. Pretty cool, right?) and a couple of drinks at one of the local establishments before heading back to the hotel to take a dip in the pool.

I didn't think of it then, but since I've been back I realized that we literally participated in our own Panamanian triathlon that day. We hiked, we biked, we swam. Maribeth was going to be participating in the Iron Girl mini triathalon, so this was good practice for her, I suppose. I had no doubt she would be fine in her event, because she treaded water for what seemed to be an eternity to me. I was impressed.

In the midst of our primping for dinner, the Panamanian sky fell out and it started to monsoon. Hard, sideways style rain that showed no signs of letting up. Hopeful that the rain wasn't an omen for Maribeth's thirties, we hailed a cab and headed to another restaurant recommended by Lonely Planet, Limoncillo's Pony Club. I don't know why this is the name of the place and every time I think about it, I think about the popular Atlanta strip club the Pink Pony. Regardless, the place garnered great reviews, so we went.

And once again, we got into the cab and got lost. Not because the place didn't exist, though. And not because Lonely Planet put the address from 2007 (I'd already made sure I got the right address from their website). More because the restaurant is situated on a small, less populated street in between two busier roads.

After almost giving up and trying to find something else, we found it. The restaurant was lovely and the food was delicious, but once again, we were the only ones in there for most of the time we were there. I don't necessarily need lots of people or a super happening place, but some more patrons for the staff to attend to would have been nice. I felt as though every sip of wine I took they were right there to fill me back up. Not their fault, and I'm sure they were just trying to be attentive, but I wished they had others to wait on.

After dinner, and singing Maribeth Happy Birthday and eating her surprise birthday dessert, we were full. But we were also ready to hit the town and show Panama that we (I mean, Maribeth) may be old, but we can still have a good time. Unfortunately, the rain was still coming down pretty hard, which put a slight damper on things. We pushed through, though. The restaurant called us a cab and we asked the cab driver to take us to a dance club Luis recommended.

When we arrived in the area of town, we saw that several clubs were open, but not the one that Luis told us about. I love that Latin American business owners choose when and if they will open based on the weather, or if they feel like it. I suspect the rain, or the fact that it was Wednesday, made this club owner decide to stay at home.

We asked the cab driver for a suggestion, and he drove us to a nearby Hookah lounge. Despite knowing that what happened next will completely disappoint my parents, what does a girl attempting 365 things she's never done before do in a Hookah lounge? She smokes hookah.

I've seen hookah bars before, but hadn't ever been in one. They're definitely not in high supply in Atlanta, and I haven't had any real desire to go to one.

We told the waiter that we were first-timers and had no idea what to do. He told us the pipe is pretty easy to use, just suck in like you're inhaling a cigarette and blow out.

Then he told us to choose a flavor. We chose grape.

Grape?

How completely redneck of us.

"We'll take the grape-flavored hookah."

Oh, and by the way, what is hookah? I didn't ask that, but I should have.

I truly don’t know what I was smoking, which is not something I should be proud of, I realize. What exactly does it say about me that I was so willing to smoke whatever was put in front of me? But this stuff is legal, I'll have you know, so though I'm sure the fact that I was smoking at all will raise quite a few eyebrows, mostly from my own parents, I wasn't breaking any Panamanian or American laws.

Though fun to watch them carry what is essentially an enormous bong over to our table and set what looked like pieces of charcoal on top, I don't understand what the fuss is about hookah. It's fun to say (hoooooookah), but that's about it. Am I missing something? Should we not have chosen the grape?

After we left the Hookah lounge, we went in search of a dance club, which is completely uncharacteristic of both us despite both Maribeth and I both loving to dance. We're not exactly "club" type people. At all. I mean, I've lived in Atlanta for five years and I can count on one hand how many times I've been to a dance club and most of those times I went for a bachelorette party. Maribeth would likely say the same. She and I are more music venue, hole in the wall types of people. But still, we felt like a Latin dance club is something we had to see. Here was our chance to experience this culture. Plus it was Maribeth's birthday, so we refused to let one club being closed keep us from stepping out of our comfort zone. We walked down the street to an area that seemed a little bit more populated and walked into a club.

Instantly, I noticed that the place felt like a meat locker it was so cold. Plus the bouncer wanted to charge us $10 to stay. And everyone in the place was staring at us. The entire trip so far had been a playing out of the song, "Which one of these is not like the other?" for Maribeth and me, so I expected the stares. The temperature and the cover charge made this place less than appealing, though.

We moved on to another club, much like the last one, without the charge and without the freezing temperatures.

Maribeth and I walked in and again, endured more stares for several minutes. Following the stares, though, we were ignored for a good 20 minutes, so we stood talking to each other and taking turns going to the bathroom.

Finally, once we had returned from the bathroom, a short guy, whose name
I cannot remember, came up to talk to us. He admitted right away that his English wasn't that good, to which I responded, "Neither is our Spanish." I told him my name, and where we were from and what we were doing in Panama.

In this time, another guy, Carlos, had approached Maribeth and I could hear her tell him that it was her birthday and that tomorrow we were leaving for five days on the beach in Bocas del Toro.

The next thing we know, Carlos leaves to go to the bar and returns with an unopened bottle of Grey Goose vodka that he hands to Maribeth.

The next few minutes were a blur of Maribeth refusing the gift, then accepting the gift, then thanking Carlos profusely for the gift, then looking at me and then raising her eyebrows as if to say, "Score!"

I love Grey Goose, but was immediately concerned about the gift for several reasons: I was probably a little jealous that he gave it to her, and not me, but it was her birthday, so that's stupid. But I also wondered if there was something that Carlos was looking for in exchange for this generous gift.

I was right. Carlos wanted to dance.

I'm pretty sure he wanted to dance with Maribeth, and I think she obliged for a little bit.

And then she turned him over to me so he could take me for a spin out on the floor. Now, admittedly, and I realize this completely makes me a 29-year old woman, one of the first things that I noticed about Carlos was that he was wearing a wedding band.

I pointed at it and asked him, "Estas casado?" Are you married?

The next 10 minutes consisted of me trying to overcome our language barrier so that I could get to the bottom of Carlos' marital status. I had been impressed with my ability to communicate in Spanish up to that point, but understanding divorce, separation, and custody of two small girls in a language that is not my own is tricky and definitely not something that I was going to comprehend in a Panama City nightclub. I have trouble sorting through my own friends' divorce/custody troubles, So I tried to ignore the mental image of Carlos' possible wife that he claims to be separated from storming into the place and dragging me out by my hair to kick my ass and just live out the "Dancing with the Stars" fantasy.

I admit, dancing with Carlos was fun, at first. Carlos knew what he was doing and he was a good leader, so I felt comfortable. I felt like a good dancer too. But because of the nature of the dancing, and Carlos' strangely tight pants, it soon became very apparent how excited Carlos was to be dancing with me. Very apparent.

He kept spinning me around and every time I had an opportunity to look, I'd scan the crowd for Maribeth, despearate for her to come save me. I know that I had started the dance with a smile on my face, so she probably assumed I was having a good time, and for a while, I was. But I was ready for the dance to be over, and Maribeth was now nowhere to be found.

Is this what friends do for each other? I mean, it was her birthday, so I'm happy to take one for the team (as long as it's just dancing). But how, I wonder, did she get the bottle of liquor and I'm stuck dancing with this guy who may or may not be married, divorced, separated or a combination of all three, but seemed pretty willing to drag me into his Panamanian Soap Opera of a life the minute I said the word.

I escaped from Carlos' dance grip long enough to head to the bathroom, and eventually found Maribeth. We thanked Carlos for the Grey Goose and walked out to find a cab.

I emailed Mo and Justin the next day from Panama and said, "I danced the merengue with some dude named Carlos last night and he gave Maribeth and me a bottle of Grey Goose. Does that make me a hooker?"

"No," Mo said, "But it does qualify you for another entry in the 'Work Quotebook.'"

Awesome. I'm sure my mother will be proud.

Hiking, biking, swimming, and dancing. Quite an active Day 213.