good decisions.

I am a horrible decision maker.

Not so much in the sense that I frequently make bad choices, though I've certainly had my share of those. In fact, some of my worst decision making has played out on this blog for everyone to read. Eating beets . . .driving a stick shift through the ghetto . . .kissing a guy with a mustache, just to name a few.

What I really mean by "horrible decision maker," is that I have a difficult time making decisions. Always. About anything.

I blame it on being a Libra - we're indecisive by nature - but I'm starting to suspect that this could just be a Stephanie thing.

Writer Richard Bach said, "Some choices we live not only once but a thousand times over, remembering them for the rest of our lives."

Statements like these haunt me; that fear that every choice I make, regardless of how seemingly insignificant, could somehow come back to bite me in a negative way is debilitating. So much so, that even the simplest choices like what I'm going to order at a restaurant or what kind of car I should buy become a very big deal.

The few times I have allowed myself to go with the flow long enough to make decisions quickly and without a lot of thought, the outcome usually ends up costing me a lot of money and/or heartache.

I prefer to weigh my options, analyze the pros and cons, and really stew it over.

No surprise, then, that choosing a college to attend became an ordeal of epic proportions full of all the drama, tearful conversations and sleepless nights of an ABC after-school special. I treated this decision as if my selection might also cure cancer or bring about an end to world hunger.

When I finally did commit to the University of Georgia, the first school I'd really ever wanted to go to before I had ever even visited, I was instantly plagued with fear. Add typical freshman homesickness into the mix, and I spent the first semester of my college experience convinced that the challenges of being away from home for the first time were only happening to me because I'd made the wrong choice.

I was 18. I was an idiot.

Once I allowed myself to have fun and enjoy the awesomeness that is Athens, Georgia, I quickly realized that choosing to go to school there was one of the best decisions I ever made.

Not because I got a great education that prepared me for an exciting job and not because Athens is a beautifully charming town, though both of those things played a role. But mostly because it is here, surrounded by these beautiful, intelligent, hilarious women I call my friends that I became the person, the woman, that I wanted to be.

We had the college experience that I thought only happened in the movies - complete with ridiculous antics, bonding moments, and embarrassing stories that we will be telling for many years to come.

Like Bach said, there are some choices we make that we'll have to live with over and over throughout our lives. If that is true, then this is one choice I can I very much live with.

In May, I celebrated (read: agonized) the ten year anniversary of my graduation from the University of Georgia. My girlfriends and I decided to go back to Athens for the weekend for a reunion of sorts. Really, though, it was a celebration of all the questionable decisions we made after we made the very good decision to befriend one another.

On an otherwise quiet weekend, we blew into town like a hurricane, proving to ourselves and everyone else that in addition to holding down successful careers, maintaining healthy marriages and raising happy children, that we are also still very much capable of a good time.

And sure enough, there were more very important decisions we had to face.



When a couple of over-served college girls told us we were "soooo cute," and that they hoped to look as good as us when they were "our age," we decided as a group to be flattered by their remarks, even though I really wanted to say, "You could be so lucky to look this good in ten years."



Chocolate martinis at East West followed by dancing in (and on) the bar - both excellent decisions. The bartender may not think so -- making that martini is a huge pain-in-the-ass, but smile sweetly at him, tell him he's cute and he'll get over it.





Walking right into our sorority house and making ourselves at home when the back door opened on its own might not have been the best decision. But we didn't get arrested for trespassing, and it's a great story, so I'm glad we did.




Renting our own private room at Shokitini to sing karaoke was, for anyone listening to us shouting lyrics into the microphones, a bad decision. But Trish and I achieved the evening's high score with Tom Jones' "Sex Bomb," even though we're both tone def, so maybe it was a good decision after all.

A Bloody Mary brunch, dinner at Last Resort and a late night snack at The Grill - yes, yes, yesssssss.




I realize choosing UGA and loving my college experience is not necessarily indicative of sound decision making skills.

I mean, doesn't everyone love college and think their college town is better than everyone else's?

Probably, but unless they also went to Georgia, they would be horribly misguided and wrong.



Ten years removed, I don't suspect my days of making bad choices are completely behind me - I still cringe about outfits I wore last year and I still cry over stupid boys.

And much to the dismay and frustration of everyone who knows me, I'll probably always stew over the tiniest decisions, from what clothes to pack for a weekend trip to what flavor coffee creamer to buy.

Yet somewhere between Friday's impromptu Happy Hour, Saturday's shopping trip, and a Sunday visit with our team's newest addition and her mommy who unfortunately had to miss the weekend fun, it occurred to me that when it comes to the decisions that really matter -- the where, how and with whom I spend my time, my choices have been right on the money.



After all, these are my beautiful friends.





This is my glorious college town.





And that was one wild, super fun weekend.





All very good decisions, indeed.

Day 357: V-I-C-T-O-R-Y

When it comes to celebrating milestones, wins, or any good news, I'm extremely superstitious, and I never count my chickens before they've hatched. Maybe I'm a pessimist, or maybe I've just been pulling for sports teams all of my life who always managed to blow sizable leads with hardly any time left on the clock. Regardless of how obvious and attainable a victory may be, I know how quickly things can change and not until the clock reads 00:00, do I ever raise my hands in triumph.

Declaring victory on Project 29 to 30, then, could only come if and when I turned 30 and had successfully done 365 things I'd never done before.

Maybe victory shouldn't have been declared until I actually wrote about them (who knew it would take me this long?), but with just a week to go, and a new thing already planned for each of the seven days headed into my birthday weekend, I knew success was mine. And on Day 357, I let all of Athens, Georgia know when I rang the Chapel Bell on North Campus and declared “victory” over my 29th year as the thing I've never done before.

Not that it matters, but I didn't set out to ring the victory bell on Day 357. Georgia lost to Arkansas the day before, and to South Carolina the week before that, so as a Bulldog, I didn't have much to celebrate.

In fact, I drove over to Athens to see Rebecca, my friend, former college roommate, and recipient of the diaper cake I made on Day 209 with no other plans than to meet her new baby daughter, Edie. No surprise, Edie was adorable and perfect, and had the cutest fat rolls I'd ever seen.

Because Athens is like a playground for young adults, I knew the possibilities for new things were endless and I'd have no problem finding something to check off the list. Yet, after Edie went down for a nap, Rebecca and I didn't set our sights on something new; instead, we set out on an all-too-familiar journey.

When Rebecca and I lived together and found ourselves bogged down with schoolwork and all of the drama associated with being 20-years old in college with literally no responsibility, we walked. We walked for hours through campus, talking about everything and nothing, solving each other's problems, and the problems of the world, that at the time, seemed monumental. We talked about the real world post-college like it was so far away, and we talked about the men that we would marry like we weren't sure that they even existed.

When Rebecca got married, she woke on her wedding day full of nervous energy and excitement. So we did what felt natural to us, and we walked. We walked and we laughed about the angst we shared years ago over thinking this day would never come, and mostly laughed that she was marrying Brian -- THE Brian we'd known since college, followed around at band parties and stalked on spring break. He was that obscure guy she thought she'd never find! We walked with a spring in our steps, and as we did, we cried tears of happiness.

And on that September Sunday, with 356 new experiences under my belt and one week before my 30th birthday, we walked again. We walked in front of fraternity houses where we once partied, and next to buildings we'd taken most of our classes in, and through some that didn't even exist when we were in school. We wondered, as we walked, if we could still pass for college girls and we laughed as a cute, shaggy haired fraternity guy walked by and we both checked him out. I tried to think if there was anything better than walking through Athens on a Sunday in the fall.

Somehow, in reminiscing about our pasts and daydreaming about our hypothetical futures, we found ourselves completely present in a beautiful moment, on a beautiful day, in one of my most favorite cities on earth.

A victory indeed.

Suddenly, what I needed to do that day as the thing I've never done before became quite clear.

We apprehensively approached the Chapel Bell, and pretending to be civilized, read about its history. Rebecca took my camera and took over, equal parts photo director and blog supporter/friend.

I stood next to the rope and looked up at the bell, having no idea how difficult ringing the bell would be. I gave it a little pull, just to check it out, and much to our surprise, it rang. Not as loudly as we knew it could, but enough to startle us both.

Once I knew what I was dealing with, I had nothing else to do but go for it. Completely sober, in the light of day, with no football victories to speak of, I rang the Chapel Bell at UGA.

The sound echoed throughout campus, and in a strange way, embarrassed me. Even though I know I'm not the first person to ring the bell in the middle of the day for no reason, I was happy, at first, that it was just Rebecca and me. But once the bell started to slow down, I stopped caring, and I rang it again, this time getting lifted up by the rope and taking it for a ride.

I felt joyful. And silly. And amazing.

In so many ways, ringing the bell before my birthday was much like spiking the football before getting to the end zone and therefore completely out of character for me. But then again, so was the whole year.

Then I hoped that someone might walk by and ask me who won, because I had the best answer.

It was me.

I won.

Day 251: You Can Wear it Again

I have been a bridesmaid 12 times.

That means that in my adult life, I've thrown at least 12 showers, walked down 12 aisles, and yes, I own 11 bridesmaid's dresses (11 because Danielle told me to wear whatever I wanted.)

I get teased relentlessly at work for having participated in, and attended, so many nuptials, and I am often the go-to girl for any wedding related questions.

"Don't you get sick of going to weddings?," I am often asked. Nope. I really don't. I still genuinely love them, and am actually quite sad that since most of my really close friends have already gotten hitched, my days of "bridesmaiding" are numbered.

"How much money have you spent over the years on all of these weddings?," they all want to know. Truthfully, I have no idea, and I'd really rather not think about it. I'm sure it's obscene, but I'm also confident that it was money well spent.

My favorite question, though, "Where do you keep all of the dresses from the weddings you've been in?" Most are hanging in my coat closet. Some are at my parents' house and a couple have been misplaced (probably during a really fun wedding weekend) and were never spoken of again.

For the most part, the bridesmaids dress routine is the same five-step process every time: buy dress, alter dress, wear dress, dry clean dress, never look at dress again.

Since most of the brides I've walked down the aisle for have also been in their fair share of weddings, I have fortunately been spared the promise that their bridesmaid's dress choice will be the one that I can, and will, "totally wear again." My friends know that the likelihood of that ever happening is slim, because they have a closet full of never-to-be-worn-again bridesmaids dresses as well. So our conversations about the chosen wedding attire is much more direct, almost business like.

"Here is what I chose. No, you'll never wear it again. This is how much you owe."

Luckily my friends have excellent taste, and while the back of my closet compares slightly to Katherine Heigl's in the film, 27 Dresses, it does so in volume only, not in the ridiculous get ups her character was forced to wear. I've never truly hated anything that I was asked to wear, and even the dresses I questioned at first looked pretty good in pictures.

In two of the more recent weddings I'd been in, the dresses came directly from the pages of J.Crew magazine, making them perfectly acceptable frocks for something other than their initial purpose. But for whatever reason, I'd yet to overcome the fact that while it may look like a simple cocktail dress to everyone else, to me, it would always be Emily's bridesmaid's dress, or the dress I wore in my brother's wedding.

Until Dan and Karen's big day, I'd never worn any of these dresses again, but that's exactly what I intended to do as Day 251's thing I'd never done before.

The time had come for a bridesmaids dress redo.

I immediately narrowed down the choice to two possibilities, Emily's or Katie's. Both J. Crew, both brown (and therefore easy to accessorize), both had pockets (the greatest addition to a dress ever). Emily's dress was strapless and more of a satin material. Katie's was a halter-style, and a heavy linen.

Katie and I spoke on Friday over the phone and I told her my plan. She said she thought it was a great idea and was flattered that the dress I wore in her wedding was in the running for the dress I might wear to pull the challenge off. Then we discussed why re-wearing a perfectly normal looking bridesmaids dress is such a difficult thing to do.

"I feel about it the same way I think about turning 30," I told her. "I don't mind doing it, I just don't want anyone else to know."

The trick then to pulling off the redo was to change the look of the dress completely to make it more evening friendly and less "bridesmaidy."

On Saturday I went to a jewelry boutique in search of bold colors or big gemstones (or both) to achieve this tall order.

I told the ladies at Just the Thing what I was trying to achieve and they went to work immediately in search of something to turn an old bridesmaids dress into something special. I left an hour later with an enormous necklace, a cuff bracelet and a pair of earrings. I had no idea which of the three I'd wear, but they all matched each other, and I knew they'd match either Emily's dress or Katie's dress.

When I got home, I spent at least half an hour pairing different shoes and different accessories with each of the dresses. In the end, Emily's dress was the one I chose to wear a second time, with the necklace, bracelet, and a pair of bright orange shoes.

The outfit may have been a little loud, but there was no denying it did not look like a bridesmaids dress anymore.

"Wow," my friend Billy said as we were taking our seats for the wedding, "That is quite a necklace."

"Thanks," I said, touching the new purchase on my neck, ignoring the fact that what he said was likely not a compliment.

Another man commented on my outfit while I was standing in line for food.

"I just love what you're doing here," he said motioning with his hand at my ensemble. I smiled and thanked him. And then I looked at his wife and considered asking her if she was aware that her husband might be gay.

I received several other compliments and I could not help but feel that this was a great idea--a fiscally responsible decision and a creative masterpiece, if I do say so myself. Not one person asked if I was wearing a recycled bridesmaids dress, which makes me think that maybe it's time I cleaned out my closet and to give these dresses I've bought and worn only once a chance at a second life.

Probably what would best accompany a blog about an outfit that I wore would be a picture of me wearing the outfit, right? Well, yes, except genius over here completely forgot to take one, so I was forced to rip the only pictures I do have from my friend Billy, and also the wedding photographer.

Kudos to me for staying out of the photographer's line of fire, something that in the 60+ weddings I've attended, I've never been able to do. But stupid of me to not illustrate how a bridesmaids dress redo is completely doable. Hopefully you'll get the point by the pictures I do have. If not, you'll just have to take my word for it.

Day 210: The Tree that Owns Itself

My friend Rebecca's baby shower on Day 210 was in Athens, Georgia, the city where we met and went to college. She is one of the fortunate ones who made a home in our college town after we graduated.

The shower was fun, as it brought together a group of girls who I rarely get to see together all at once. Plus, it was the topper on an action-packed weekend and I still had a two week vacation waiting me. I was feeling pretty great.

Hearing my friends "Ooooh" and "Aaaah" over the diaper cake that I made on Day 209 felt good too and I was happy that my drama-filled attempt at craftiness had paid off.

"So is the diaper cake the thing you've never done before today, or yesterday?" someone in the crowd who reads the blog asked me.

"Yesterday."

"Well, then what's your thing for today?"

I thought long and hard about what I could do in Athens that I hadn't done before. But having had the privilege of living there for four and a half years (I double majored, give me a break), there wasn't a lot of ground that I hadn’t already covered.

We joked at Rebecca's brunch that I should ring the doorbell at our old sorority house and either run away or ask whoever answered the door for a tour so I could take a picture by my old composite picture. I would’ve done it, but no one would come with me, and I wasn’t about to do that by myself.

I had already thought of something else that I wanted to do, something that would be easy.

There is an Athens landmark that I had actually never seen before, so I dragged my friend Doris, 8 months pregnant, to see The Tree that Owns Itself as Day 210's thing I've never done before.

"Does anyone know the story about the tree?," I asked at lunch.

The question was met with blank stares and lots of shoulder shrugs.

Interesting that these women, who remember every embarrassing thing we ever did the four and a half years we were in school together, and not one of them recalls what this local landmark is all about.

"Where is it?," I followed up.

More blank stares.

Doris pointed out that she thought she'd been to a party on Finley Street in college and therefore had seen the tree, but that's all she could tell me about it.

She suggested that there might be a sign or something marking the tree that would tell us what it's all about.

So with a little help from Rebecca's husband with directions, we drove there. I missed the turn the first time, but I eventually took a left onto Finley from Broad Street and drove up a steep hill.

At the top of the hill was the tree, surrounded by a fence, and just as Doris suggested, a sign naming it "The Tree that Owns Itself."

We parked the car in front of a house and got out.

"Don't all trees own themselves?," I wondered aloud. "I mean, they're trees, who else owns them?"

Reading the sign in front of the tree, Doris said, "I think you're going to need to look this one up," Doris said, "This sign doesn't say anything."

We walked around the tree, took a few pictures and that was about it. It was indeed a nice tree, but there wasn't a lot to do there.

I did look it up when I got home.

The story goes that between the years 1820 and 1832, in a desire to protect the tree, the owner of the land, William H. Jackson, deeded to the tree ownership of itself and the surrounding land. Though unclear whether such a deed ever actually existed, or still exists, the current actual plot map for the property near the tree does not include the tree’s oddly shaped corner.

In 1942, the tree fell and another one was planted in its place. That tree, the one that we visited, is referred to as "The Son of the Tree that Owns Itself."

Doing research on what the tree means, I also read that the stone tablet near the tree, the one that Doris and I couldn't read, apparently says, "FOR AND IN CONSIDERATION OF THE GREAT LOVE I BEAR THIS TREE AND THE GREAT DESIRE I HAVE FOR ITS PROTECTION FOR ALL TIME, I CONVEY ENTIRE POSSESSION OF ITSELF AND ALL LAND WITHIN EIGHT FEET OF THE TREE ON ALL SIDES." WILLIAM H. JACKSON

So another Athens landmark checked off the list.

A tree. That belongs to no one but itself.

Day 209: Diaper Cakes and Frat Parties

On Day 210, I was hosting a baby shower for my friend and former college roommate, Rebecca. Sound familiar?

Well that’s because 2010 has been the year of the baby shower, so I've already included my other roommate Ashley and her baby shower and her baby Robert in the blog.

This is my other roommate, though. This is Rebecca.

All of my former roommates are having babies.

I'm writing a blog.

Whatever.

Besides not knowing much about babies myself, I've eagerly signed up to host baby showers for my friends. And for this one, I was looking to stretch my creative arm and try to make something crafty that I’ve seen at nearly all of the baby showers that I’ve gone to this year.

On Day 209, I attempted to make a diaper cake.

For my male audience, I’m sure you’ve checked out by now, having already read the words “baby” and “diaper.” If you stick with me, though, we’ll get to the end of the day where I attend an adult fraternity party as another thing I’ve never done before.

But for now, it's back to the diaper cake.

I said I "attempted" this diaper cake, because I wouldn’t call the effort that I put into completing this craft anything more than an attempt. And I’m going to have to blame that on Day 208. Because after experiencing the trauma and humiliation that is a bikini wax, I celebrated the experience with a My Morning Jacket concert and a very late night.

So when Day 209 rolled around and it was time to construct the diaper cake, I was feeling less than enthused about it, and far less confident that I could pull it off.

I consulted some websites, all of which had different instructions on how to do it, some using just diapers, others filling the diapers with rolled up clothes and trinkets. I needed some hands on training, though, so I pulled myself off my couch and drove to Kyle's store to seek her assistance.

Since making her first diaper cake that our friend Maribeth actually thought was a real cake, Kyle has been the resident diaper cake officiando, making them for several of our friends and several of her colleagues' friends. I joke that diaper cakes are her side job.

Ahead of going to Kyle's, I bought a jumbo box of Pampers swaddlers, small diapers made for newborns. Buying diapers is not something that I have ever done, and now having attempted that too, I'm convinced no single people should ever do. Or maybe it's just me. I found the experience to be confusing, and unnecessarily frustrating, like the baby product people are trying to screw with you.

There are far too many categories, all labeled by some weird system, that unless you have a baby yourself, you're probably not going to understand. Would it be so hard for diapers to be sized small, medium, and large? I don't understand why you can't see what the diaper looks like unless you open the entire package. And I don't understand why diapers have cheesy designs on them and why some of them are tinted blue. Why can't they all be white?

When I arrived, Kyle looked at the box of diapers that I bought. There were 64 in the package.

"Are those all the diapers you have?" Kyle said.

"Yes," I told her. "Do you think I need more?"

She nodded her head, indicating that I would. She also said that she thought I should buy generic diapers. It's cheaper, she said.

Makes sense. We went ahead and she started showing me how to roll the diapers with rubberbands. When we reached a stopping point, she made me a list, telling me what was on it and then she instructed me to go to Michael's craft store.

I soon found out that not buying enough diapers and not buying generic ones would be the least of my worries that day.

I went to Michael's, Kyle's list in hand. Actually, not in hand. I tossed it into the abyss that my purse has become and never saw it again.

I remembered what she told me I would need: rubberbands, thick decorative ribbon, a cardboard circular disc (usually used for a real cake) to set the cake on, and, if I wanted, wooden figurines for the front of the cake.

Before even attempting 365 things that I've never done before, I had a pretty good idea at the things that I'm good at and ones that I'm not. I'm not really crafty at all. So I knew that making a diaper cake wasn't going be the easiest thing for me, despite Kyle's ability to make it look easy. But with all of the things I've managed to accomplish this year (sky-diving, a polar bear plunge, speed blind dating), I didn't think that shopping at Michael's Craft Store would be the experience that would bring me to my knees.

But sure enough, I had a Category 5 meltdown.

I blame this on a lot of factors, starting first with my own state of mind. Plus I was strapped for time. Plus it's Michael's. Not exactly the kind of place for first-timers. I sincerely think, now having had this experience, that they should ban amateur crafters like myself from entering. They should have a bouncer outside that checks your craft abilities before you walk in the place.

I wandered up and down the aisles, locating the ribbon first. My indecisiveness made choosing ribbon one of the most difficult tasks ever. I chose a light pink ribbon with hot pink polka dots.

And then I wandered some more, locating some sort of wooden trinkets, all of which seemed tacky to me and not good enough for my diaper cake. I was off to try and find the cardboard cake stand when Andrew called me to talk about plans for later that night. I saw his name pop up on caller ID and I should've ignored it, but picked up the call, causing me to lose my train of thought in a store where I already felt out of place. We rehashed the previous night for several minutes when I realized I had wasted far too much time.

"Andrew, I have to go," I finally muttered hastily. I hung up quickly and tried to refocus.

I found the cardboard cake disc, but only in a package of eight. Perhaps I'd have an opportunity to make seven additional diaper cakes, but at this point, I just wanted one. I bought the 8-pack. I had no choice.

I continued looking for the wooden figurines, not ready to give up on that idea. I started sweating though, holding a pink dragonfly in the palm of my hand and then putting it back. And then picking it up. And then putting it back.

I finally took the ribbon and the cardboard cake discs to the checkout counter and left.

When I returned to Kyle, she admitted she was a little concerned about my whereabouts. I told her I'm not cut out for places like Michael's and then showed her what I'd purchased: one spool of ribbon, two bags of rubberbands and an 8-pack of the cardboard cake discs.

She looked confused. When I asked her if I'd forgotten something, she laughed and said, "Well, I said I needed two spools of ribbon, one bag of rubberbands, and one cake disc."

Seriously, Stephanie. This is not that hard.

"And more diapers," she said.

Gah!

In my defense, the cardboard cake thing was only available in the 8-pack. At least as far as I could tell. Plus, I knew Michael's wouldn't have diapers, so I walked next door to CVS and bought more, this time bigger ones, and of the generic variety.

Once again, collossal failure. When I got them back to Kyle, we opened them and found them to be a completely different style, color, and design than the first ones that I bought. These had a blue tint.

Why is this diaper cake the worst decision ever?

I took the half-opened diapers back to CVS and tried again, this time buying the exact same name brand, small diapers I bought from the beginning. The teenaged cashier wanted to talk to me about diapers, assuming having been in there to buy them twice, that I would've too. I did not, obviously, and tried to leave in a hurry.

I returned to Kyle's store, stressed and exhausted. The stress caused me to blow my 12-days of vegetarianism on a microwaveable White Castle cheeseburger, courtesy Kyle's co-worker and friend, Mendy. Unfortunately, even red meat couldn't help me in this situation.

Once we had a random assortment of supplies, all that we had left to do was to construct the cake. Kyle, not used to working under such conditions with such crappy materials, did the best she could to get me started and to show me how it needed to be done.

In fact, she constructed two of the three layers with little to no help from me at all. I promised her I'd go to Michael's on my way home and pick up another spool of ribbon to complete the project. If she could just get me started, I could pick it up where she left off.

"And," I told her, "I got this oversized Rubber Duck to go on top of it," I said excitedly, certain she would be thrilled with this innovative idea.

She was not. She looked at me like I was both crazy and a redneck with absolutely no class whatsoever.

"It's supposed to be a floppy, stuffed animal," she said. "The animal's legs are supposed to hang over the sides."

"Oh yeah," I said, nodding, "I know. But I decided to go with a beach theme. And the duck is really cute."

She did not look impressed and though she never said so, she gave me a look like, "I'd rethink that plan if I were you."

I stuck with my theme and finished my multi-colored and multi-textured, ghetto style diaper cake. It took one more trip to another Michael's, a completely different ribbon choice, and when it was done, it had a giant rubber duck sitting on the top of it. Since I ran out of diapers (just like Kyle said I would), I was forced to roll up the outfit I'd bought baby Edie and make it a part of the cake.

Despite my failure at nearly every turn, the cake was a huge hit on Day 210. Rebecca loved it. I think I'm going to continue to outsource my craft projects to Kyle, but at least I know when push comes to shove, I can make a diaper cake.

And then it was time to party.

Admittedly, part of the stress in finishing the cake was that I was also doing something at night on Day 209 that I had never done before that I had to get ready for.

My friend Paul had asked me that morning if I would be his date to the 9 o'clocks spring party later that evening at Piedmont Driving Club.

The 9 o'clocks is an all-male social club that several of my friends are members of. The group has two parties every year, one in the spring and one on New Year's Eve. Those who are members are not shy about the fact that the organization's entire existence is for the parties.

I'd like to say that this was the first time I'd ever been asked out for a date on the same day as the date, but it is not (I'm not sure what this says about me, but I'm sure it isn't good). I know the southern lady in me should have said no, and demanded that he ask me days in advance, but the reputation of these parties made me curious and I wanted to go, so I said, "yes."

Paul had to go to a wedding, so we arrived after dinner, just in time for the first of two bands and a DJ that would fill the evening's entertainment line-up. In that regard, I'd say we arrived right on time.

I was a little intimidated, and somewhat turned off, by the exclusivity of this group. I wondered if I'd feel out of place. I mean, I did go to public school, after all. But when I got there, I saw that this party was nothing more than an adult fraternity band party with tuxedos and fancy dresses. It was less like some exclusive party and more like the greatest wedding I'd ever been to where no one got married.

I suppose upon further investigation we could talk about the social injustices and potential snobbery associated with such a group, but I'd rather not. Plus, I can't, and wouldn't, because the party was freaking fun. I had a blast and everyone that I met was super nice.

Plus, I got to watch my friend Philip accidentally dump a woman's purse out onto the floor and middle aged white men get their groove on to Yacht Rock. Not a bad way to spend a Saturday night.

This day was like a giant metaphor for my life. One hand in diaper cakes, and the responsibility of babies and adulthood, the other hand still holding on to fraternity parties, not wanting to let my spontaneous, fun side ever go.

Part of me wonders if that feeling of being trapped between two sides of myself will ever change. Part of me hopes it never does.

Day 63: A Non-Alcoholic Good Time

The running joke between my friends and me has always been that keeping any pregnancies in the group would be nearly impossible during the unpredictable first trimester. We'd recognize the one odd ball not drinking alcohol and know immediately: she must be pregnant.

Some have gone to great lengths to pretend they were drinking by pouring water into beer bottles or ordering cranberry vodkas, without the vodka. Other have given up on trying to be sneaky and have just come right out with it.

"Listen up, everyone. I'm not drinking because I'm pregnant. I'm not very far along, but I knew you all would wonder or think that I was lame. So there it is."

My friend Doris broke the news about her first pregnancy when I brought her a bottle of Firefly Sweet Tea flavored vodka and she sadly had to turn it down.

My friend Rebecca hadn't even been to the doctor or talked to her parents yet, but when I saw her drinking a bottled water at a tailgate instead of a beer, I knew she was pregnant. I blurted out, "What's with the water? Are you pregnant?" Her eyes widened and she whispered, "Yes, I think I am. But I haven't told anyone so don't say anything!"

We're not alcoholics, but it just so happens that most of our social functions involve alcohol. Is that bad?

Doris' 30th birthday was in November, and since she is pregnant with her second baby, a typical celebration was not really an option. So Day 63's thing I've never done before was to throw a non-alcoholic adult birthday party.

The execution of the celebration was a joint-effort with Doris' husband Jeff, and the stars really aligned for us. Everyone quickly came on board and made the effort to get to Milledgeville the Sunday after Thanksgiving. Trish and I were going to be driving back to Georgia from South Carolina and our other friends were either in Atlanta or Athens.

The plan was for Jeff to get Doris to the Brick, one of her favorite hangouts in Milledgeville where we would all be waiting to pull of the surprise. Jeff said she was a little suspicious when he requested that she come inside with him to pick up takeout, but she came anyway and when she walked in, she ran towards us.

We brought balloons, cake and flowers; it was like a little kid's birthday party, for a 30-year old. We even had a special guest appearance by Doris and Jeff's daughter Izzy, who most of us had never met. It was a fun little Sunday. Surprising to all of us, we don't need alcohol to enjoy ourselves. All we need is each other.

When we imagined our 30th birthday celebrations, I'm not sure that this was the rowdy time Doris expected, but I know she was happy to see all of us and we did have fun. No alcohol needed.