Day 335: Group Dates

The morning of Day 335, Mark, Jen and I woke up at 7am to meet their running group for a three-mile run to the beach.

I'll admit, getting up early on a Saturday to jog is something that I wasn't all that thrilled about. It's also something that I never do in my regular life. I took it in stride (pun intended) and went along with this outing, adding, "exercising before noon on a weekend," to the list of things I'd never done before.

Plus Jen and Mark's running group is more than just a group of people to exercise with; the group consists of many of their friends they hang out with socially. And that was another reason I wanted to go.

The morning run was good, and perfect for the summertime since any later and it would've been too hot. Can't get much better than running through a golf course neighborhood to get to the beach. Plus, by 8am, the run was over, and we had the rest of the day to enjoy ourselves.

I wondered if I could start a running group in Atlanta with my friends. I'll bet I'd be much more likely to actually run if it meant I could use the time to catch up with them and hear about what's going on in their lives. Currently, my friends and I catch up at bars, drinking beer and eating fatty foods.

After our run we stopped for coffee before heading back to the house. Mark drove me through some of the nicest neighborhoods in Ponte Vedra Beach, showed me where he and Jen go to church and the Ponte Vedra Inn, a hot spot for tourists in the area.

We returned home and lounged for a bit, ate some bacon and eggs, and then decided to go to the beach despite the less-than-sunny temperatures. I couldn't come all this way and not hang out on the beach at least for a little bit.

Mark, Jen and I set up our chairs and enjoyed people watching and chatting about nothing in particular. We observed a middle-aged couple walking in front of us past our chairs. As they first approached on the left, they seemed to just be taking an innocent, slow stroll down the beach engaged in a deep conversation. Once they got closer, however, I couldn't help but notice that the woman was the only one talking. The man kept the same walking pace, but he looked straight ahead and never spoke a word that I could tell. I'm not even sure he was even nodding, or that he could hear what she was saying.

I wasn't the only one who noticed this couple. Mark and Jen and I laughed amongst ourselves, assuming the couple was in a fight and the wife was really letting him have it. But she wasn't really yelling, just speaking intently; neither of them appeared to be unhappy, the conversation just seemed unbalanced.

A short time later, the couple walked in front of us again, and it was the same thing. The man stared straight ahead, the woman barely came up for air chatting his ears off.

"Oh man," I thought to myself, "Please don't ever let me be in a relationship like that."

I am a talker for sure, but I think that I would at least recognize (and stop) if I ever noticed I was having a conversation with someone who wasn't listening or responding at all. Mark, Jen and I started brainstorming what could possibly be going on with them.

"Maybe they're having problems in their marriage," someone threw out. Clearly. And the problem is the wife talks to much.

"Maybe he's deaf," someone else said. For his sake, I hoped that he was. She would not shut the hell up.

Whatever it us, we were amused. We were further amused when we packed up our belongings to head back to the car and saw the couple again, this time sitting in beach chairs under an umbrella. He had his chair tilted back. Hers was upright. She was still talking.

We stopped for frozen yogurt on the way home, at a place similar to Yoforia, because I was on vacation and that's what I do when I'm out of town: I eat.

The plan for Saturday night was for us to meet back up with Sean and Julie and our friend Scott (who was in town for work) and go to St. Augustine, the nation's oldest city, and popular tourist destination north of Jacksonville. I'll save you a history lesson because truly I don't know it. I'll also save you too many details about how we almost didn't leave Mark and Jen's house after discovering that Footloose was on television.

But St. Augustine is where the Fountain of Youth is, and since I was already starting to notice my almost-30 skin looking a little tired and wrinkled, what better place to go? Only on our way into town, Mark and Jen drove right past it. They didn't even slow down.

"What about the Fountain of Youth?," I asked, surprised that the sign leading to the fountain was right across the street from a Pizza Hut and looked every bit as cheesy as something I might find in Myrtle Beach.

Mark and Jen said the Fountain is less than impressive, and not worth the stop. Still, I was looking forward to taking a dip and stopping time, keeping my face looking 29 forever. But I took their word for it, and decided it push came to shove, I'd just have to resort to plastic surgery.

Just kidding.

Kind of.

We parked our cars and hopped out with and started what Jen had already decided would be a St. Augustine pub crawl. That was the big thing that I did on Day 335 that I'd never done before.

On our walk to the first bar, I looked around and noticed how truly lovely St. Augustine is. The cobblestone streets, old buildings and palm trees made me feel like I was in Charleston, only with Spanish-influenced architecture.

We started our crawl at J.P. Henley's, a bar that claims to have the most beers on draft than any other place in St. Augustine. I believe it; I had a very hard time deciding what to order.

After a couple of beers there, we took off for our next destination. The walk during the pub crawl was one of my favorite parts of the evening. There were lots of people walking around and beautiful buildings and historical markers along the way. Our next stop was Taberna del Gallo (Tavern of the Rooster).

Taberna del Gallo is a 1740's Spanish Tavern. The waiters and bartenders dress in period costumes. We sat at a table outside and ordered drinks while Jen went on a search for a game that she said I must play while I was there. One of the waiters, dressed in knickers and a vest, located the game and brought it to our table.

The game, "Shut the Box," (I'm serious, that's what it's called) requires a pair of dice and a box with numbered tiles. The tiles, numbered 1 through 12, start standing up. She told me to roll the dice, so I did. I rolled an, "8," meaning that I then had to flip tiles over that equal the number, "8." Jen said I could flip a the "7" and the "1" or a "5" and the "3." The goal of the game, is to, "Shut the Box," and end with all of the tiles turned down, or come as close And my turn ended when I rolled the dice and could no longer flip down any tiles. The game was fun, and moved fast, and who doesn't love yelling, "Shut the Box," loudly in a restaurant full of tourists?

After we left Taberna del Gallo, we headed to dinner at Columbia, a restaurant specializing in Spanish cuisine and, according to Mark and Jen, very tasty sangria.

The restaurant was bustling with people and noise; dinner lasted several hours. I'm sure it was the pub crawl that made us think we were so hilarious, but we laughed a lot at that dinner. If I had been at any other table, I probably would've found our group obnoxious. We laughed at nothing, and everything.

The highlight of dinner, besides the food and drinks was definitely our peculiar waiter who unabashedly attempted to "up sell" us bottled waters and appetizers on in hopes to win a contest between the servers at all of the Columbia restaurants in Florida. I've been a waitress and I've participated in these ridiculous contests, so I felt for the guy. He just laid it out there. I've never seen someone work so hard for what I'm sure was nothing more than a $50 gift card to Best Buy and to be so shameless about it. He wanted to win this contest, and he didn't care if he put us on the spot and made us feel uncomfortable. We must've not cared all that much either, though, because we happily satisfied him and ordered bottled waters and appetizers, just like he'd asked us too.

I left full. And happy. But mostly full.

We stopped in Cellar 6, another bar/dance club for one more drink. I showcased some of my moves on the dance floor until I realized that the guy that I was dancing with was videotaping the whole thing and live streaming it on the web. I asked several times what the web cam was for, and when he refused to give me a good answer, I left the dance floor.

Shortly thereafter, we left St. Augustine and headed back to Ponte Vedra to Mark and Jen's. I was done. We were tired. It probably wasn't even midnight.

Again, another full day (and night) of activity in Jacksonville. That's what happens when you get up at 7am on a Saturday, I guess. I should try it more often.

Day 314: Celebrity Sighting, Sort of

One of the questions I'm commonly asked about the blog and the rules that I set forth for myself to do 365 new things in one year has to do with what happens when I do multiple things in one night. Could I transfer those new things to another day? If the thing I've never done before happens after midnight on a particular night, would it count as the next day's new activity?

My answer has always been, "No." If I go to Fernbank to drink martinis and see an IMAX movie as the things I've never done before, and then something else happens to me that's new then I'll just consider that new thing a bonus, but not necessarily something for the blog.

That is, until Day 314.

Because what happened after midnight was so exciting, it deserves its own entry. After being ignored by Kelly Ripa, Paula Deen, and Delilah, Day 314's thing I've never done before was to finally make a connection with a celebrity.

After leaving Fernbank, the crew went to East Atlanta Village to grab some dinner and a couple of drinks. We also went to 529, a bar nearby, to see Otis Redding in concert. And by Otis Redding, I of course mean Otis Redding III, the son of "Sitting on the Dock of the Bay" Otis Redding. That Otis Redding has been dead since 1967.

Only when we arrived to hear him play, the only person at the venue was a DJ spinning records on the stage where we assumed Otis Redding would take the the stage. We opted to start our own dance party and wait for him to arrive. If only "start my own dance party" was something I'd never done before. But let's be serious, I'm a dancing machine; that wasn't new at all.

Thirty minutes into our dance party, we were getting dangerously close to quitting time and had to assume Otis Redding (the third) wasn't coming.

So we asked the creepy DJ on stage, who had been enjoying our antics all night. His response, "Um, he played here hours ago."

Whoops. Our pre-concert dance party, was actually happening post-concert.

We decided to leave the venue upon hearing this news, defeated that our trip to Midway had caused us to miss the main event.

But all was not lost, because as we made our way out of 529, the Otis Redding III walked right in front of us.

"OTIS!," my friend Scott called after him, as if we'd all been friends for years.

Otis turned around and smiled, very gracious and nice. We walked over to him, and told him, all at once, shouting in his face, "We tried to come see you! You were already gone! We started a dance party!"

He seemed overwhelmed, but couldn't have been nicer. And then Emily asked if we could have our pictures made with him. He agreed.

Some might argue that Otis Redding III, the son of a musician who has been dead for more than 30 years, was hardly a celebrity encounter at all, and they might be right. But after striking out three times this year to meet/shake hands/cook with/work out with a celebrity, meeting a famous person's son felt pretty great.

So did the dance party.

Editor's Note: I'm completely aware that there appears to be a gaping whole in the front of my shirt, but I assure you it's an optical illusion, and nothing more.

Day 313: World of Rhythm

Day 313's thing I've never done before was to attend Martinis & IMAX at the Fernbank museum in Atlanta with a group of friends wanting to do something different on a Friday night.

This activity was something that I'd wanted to do for a while, on the list of, "things to do in Atlanta." Martinis & IMAX is, just as it sounds, a martini party at an IMAX movie at Fernbank, Atlanta's science museum (think the Museum of Natural History in New York).

The evening presented several opportunities for new things (first IMAX movie, first trip to Fernbank, first time playing in a percussion drum circle made up of my own friends), all while doing something I knew I already loved to do: drink martinis.

I assumed ahead of going that like most things in Atlanta, this activity was pretty laid back and casual; so I suited up in normal summertime attire: jeans and a sleeveless shirt and headed over to Fernbank. When I got inside the museum, however, I was surprised to find it was a lot nicer than I was expecting. There were cocktail tables filling the lobby where there was an enormous dinosaur skeleton on display, a lounge singer performing with a band, and fancy cocktails being poured at bars around the perimeter of the room. I thought perhaps I should've dressed up a bit.

Emily, Scott and I met in the parking lot and hurried inside in the rain to meet Amy, Jeff and David. Fernbank offered a variety of different drinks, but Emily and I went with the old faithful, always delicious, dirty vodka martini, extra olives. We grabbed a seat and enjoyed the band for a while. And by "enjoy" I of course mean judging the lounge singer for her ill-fitting tight green dress.

We finished our drink and grabbed another before heading into the theater to watch the IMAX film, Pulse: A Stomp Odyssey. The film was made by the creators of Stomp, the stage show that, more or less, made banging on buckets entertaining. I saw Stomp years ago and was impressed at their ability to turn the super ordinary into something extraordinary.

When I took my seat to watch Pulse, the only difference I could see between an IMAX film and any other film I've seen is that the screen is enormous. Like floor to ceiling huge. I'm sure there are probably many other ways IMAX films are different, and I look forward to someone explaining them to me, but regardless, the mere size of the screen was enough to make this movie-viewing experience completely different from anything I'd ever seen before. I felt like I was in the movie with them. It was awesome.

Pulse is like a journey across the world, showcasing the sites and sounds of different countries. The film's description says it's a celebration of the global beat. The film stars dancers and musicians who I suspect were those kids in elementary school that couldn't sit still and were constantly tapping their feet or their pencil on their desks or twirling across the classroom. Much like myself actually.

There are drummers in Sado Island, Japan, a couple of high school marching bands who march across the Brooklyn Bridge in New York, a flamenco dancer in Granada, Spain, Native American dancers in the deserts of New Mexico, drummers in West Africa. The list goes on and on.

There is no dialogue in the film, only music (made by the stars themselves) and movement. I didn't think I could be entertained by a movie without any words, but Pulse proved me wrong. I was mesmerized by the beautiful scenery and began adding to my mental list of new places I want to visit and new dance moves I want to try, new instruments I want to play.

The night began in a very entertaining fashion, which turned out to be only the beginning of much bigger and better things to come on Day 314.

Check out the trailer for Pulse right here.

Pulse moved us so much (pun intended), we started our own impromptu drum circle in the parking lot of Fernbank. You can check that out here.

Day 286: Take Me to the Drive-In

When I think of the drive-in, I always think about the scene from the movie Grease when Sandy and Danny get into a fight after he tries to cop a feel after giving him her class ring in the front seat of his car. When I think about Grease, I think about my best childhood friend Danielle and I watching the movie on repeat one summer and memorizing every sexually overt lyric and every suggestive dance move to all the songs in the film.

Our parents never seemed to be bothered by the fact that we performed Grease concerts daily that summer, mimicking the characters in the film. I guess something about it taking place in the 1950's when everyone wore poodle skirts made inappropriate songs seem more okay?

Anyway, that scene with Sandy and Danny is always what I thought of when I thought of a drive-in--teenaged boys in letterman jackets and girls in bobby socks "necking" in the back of '57 Chevys. I assumed that the drive-in was something that like sock-hops, had gone away over time. But thanks to Starlight Six Drive-In on Moreland Avenue, I learned that the drive-in is still very much alive and well.

Day 286's thing I've never done before was to channel my inner-Pink Lady, and go to a movie at the drive-in.

I knew ahead of time that my drive-in experience was not going to be like the scene in Grease. First of all, this was a group outing, so nobody was trying to get "fresh" with each other, at least not as far as I could tell. I mean, there were married couples there, so I suppose it's possible, but my friends Amy and Jeff had just completed a three-week cross country tour in a camper, so I think they were looking for some outside conversation, and since Emily and Scott had asked me to ride with them, I'm pretty sure they weren't looking to score either. At least I don't think.

Not to mention, unlike the drive-in movies that I'd imagined, at this drive-in, we actually got out of the car to enjoy the movie. Most people around us did too.

And for this group, the drive-in was more like a cook out, in an enormous parking lot, with dozens of strangers, where there just so happened to be movie playing on a big screen.

So, yeah, not very Grease-like at all. But I was pumped, excited to be doing something different on a Saturday night, and very much looking forward to making my own drive-in experience.

We went to the grocery store ahead of time in search of our bounty, which included chicken breasts, bagged salad, and ingredients to make cream cheese stuffed jalapeno peppers wrapped in bacon.

Yes, you read that correctly. We (well, not me, but others) decided to cook chicken and bacon wrapped stuffed peppers on a homemade grill. In the parking lot. Of the drive-in. I marveled at my movie team's enthusiasm and decided that I, once again, have picked the right people to hang out with. I still can't decide if I am a lazy person, or if I have the most ambitious friends ever, but regardless, once again, the company I chose worked strongly in my favor.

Had it been left up to me, we would've simply picked up sandwiches from a deli, and 40 oz. beers from a gas station, and been on our way. But if my super ambitious friends want to make a hot meal (appetizers included) on the grill and drink summer specialty brews, I have no choice but to support them.

I assumed, incorrectly again, that the drive-in would show one film and we were at the mercy of whatever they were playing. But on the way there, I found out that not only do they have six screens to choose from (get it, Starlight Six?), they also show two movies on each screen back to back. So for $7 a piece, we could drive our own cars, park directly in front, grill our own food, drink our own drinks (alcohol included) and see two movies in a row. Starlight Six Drive-in, then, has to be one of the best entertainment values in town.

We pulled our cars in when it was still light outside and immediately the boys started getting to work assembling the grill (a disposable aluminum lasagna plate and a brought-from-home grill grate). Jeff began marinating the chicken, while Scott stuffed the peppers and wrapped them with bacon, securing them with a toothpick. Amy and Emily and I took a step back and let them do their thing. We looked at pictures from Amy and Jeff's cross-country adventure and sipped on brews.

The crowd at the drive-in was extremely diverse. All ages, races, socio-economic statuses were represented. What seemed clear, and would remain pretty clear throughout both movie viewings, was that the tailgating and fellowship aspect of the drive-in was far more important than watching the film. This is probably why people talked throughout the movie and were constantly driving in and driving out while the films were in progress, sometimes driving right underneath the screen. We even had friends show up midway through the first movie, casually walking up to our cars with a cooler. When you're outside, under the stars, with your own food on the grill, the drive-in becomes more about that, and less about the cinematic experience.

Not a problem for me, especially when the films we opted to see were the animated film Despicable Me and The A-Team. In our defense, there weren't a lot of great options out there at the time. But these were great for the drive-in. They were both entertaining, and not in need of serious attention.

When the sun had started to set, Scott and Jeff fired up the grill, and began to cook our feast, starting first with the stuffed peppers. I was impressed that he attempted such an aggressive hordeourve, not so impressed with the peppers taking so long. I don't think that any of us really knew how much time grilling on a homemade grill would take. And before we knew it, before our meal was entirely cooked, the sun had set.

One thing that is funny (or scary depending on how you look at it) about grilling our own food at the drive-in is that once the sun went down, despite the glow of the movie on the screen, we were unable to really see what we were eating, and therefore couldn't really tell whether or not it was fully cooked. We basically threw caution to the wind and went for it, convincing ourselves that as long as it looked, and tasted done, we were fine. And we were, though I'm not sure cooking and eating this way is the safest way to go.

We all settled in with our plates full of delicious food and settled in for our first film, Pixar's Despicable Me, about a supervillian (Steve Carrell) who changes his ways after becoming an unlikely dad to three young girls. I loved it. So funny, so cute and sweet. I may have cried. No, I definitely cried.

I honestly thought (and secretly hoped) that after the first movie, we would do what a lot of other cars were doing around us, and leave. But it became pretty clear that no one was going anywhere; they were all excited about watching the A-Team. So I sat back down in my chair and got ready for another feature film.

I'm not sure if it was the hearty meal, or if I was tired from the icing the night before, or The A-Team is just a really bad movie, but I had a hard time staying awake to tell you what it's really about. I may have dozed off in my beach chair several times. Again, not very Grease-like and the farthest thing from cool that I can think of-falling asleep at the drive-in?

But don't let my inability to stay awake fool you. The drive-in is a blast, and such a different, fun way to go to the movies. I will be back.

Day 279: Zingo All the Way Home

For the third and fourth days of the southeast Phish tour, the band came to Alpharetta, Georgia, a suburb north of Atlanta. On one hand, their decision to play there made perfect sense because the venue is new and clean and nice. But I was also confused because this was Phish, and the amphitheatre felt almost too new, too clean, and too nice.

The venue choice also presented a dilemma to those of us who live inside the city because it was close enough to not necessarily warrant buying a hotel room, but far enough away to require safe, alternative transportation for anyone planning to consume adult beverages.

I opted to sleep in my own bed that weekend, so Day 279's thing I've never done before was to use Zingo Transportation.

Zingo was founded and exists on the understanding that one of the reasons that people drive after having too many drinks is because they don't want to wake up the next day without their car. A Zingo driver will actually drive your car home for you.

I give all the credit to my friends Philip and Scott for this idea. They use the service for a lot of Georgia games geting to and from Athens. For the Phish concert, we drove my car up to Alpharetta, tailgated for a little bit and then went into the show.

After the concert was over, the plan was to meet the Zingo driver back at my car. It occurred to me just before meeting him that I wasn't exactly sure how this service worked, or what was going to happen when we got back to our destination in Atlanta. Once I saw the driver in the parking lot, though, wearing a helmet, holding a clipboard, and sitting on a folding motorbike, it started to make sense.

That's right, I said, "folding motorbike."

I feel the need to repeat it over and over again because I did not know such a thing existed until this night. Once I did, and once I took a seat on it, I wanted everyone to know about it. I was so fascinated by this piece of machinery, and by this driver and his clipboard, I didn't know what to do with myself. I think I asked the driver a dozen questions about how it worked, how long he'd been a Zingo driver, what's the craziest thing that ever happened to him on a pickup, and of course, more about the folding motorbike.

I took so much time asking him questions about the service and the motorbike, that it didn't occur to me that my entire group was waiting for me at the car. Philip had called my cell phone repeatedly telling me to bring the driver to the car so we could go. If it was up to me, I would've ditched my car and everyone else to take the motorbike back to Atlanta, but I don't think the driver was up for it.

So we went through with the original plan to pile into my car. The Zingo driver put his folding motorbike in my trunk, and he drove us home. Like any cab driver, he had to endure us shouting at him and at each other about how awesome the show was and what our favorite part was.

When we arrived at our destination, we paid him, he took his super awesome motorbike out of the trunk and sped away. We were safe, nobody drove irresponsibly and in the morning, I woke up and my car was right there.

Everyone wins with Zingo. Especially the driver with the folding motorbike.

Day 249: Playing My Girl Card

On Day 249, Emily and I hosted a martini party, something she'd been suggesting we do as a fun activity for the blog.

"Perfect," I thought, because while being a vodka martini drinker for several years now, I had never actually made the cocktail myself.

When Sex and the City 2 hit the theaters, this party we'd only just talked about started to make sense, and began to take shape. What if we had martinis and appetizers ahead of going to see the movie? How completely unoriginal and girly!

Let it be known that I make no apologies for liking this show, and the films, as much as every other woman. Interesting characters, superb writing, fabulous shoes . . .what's not to like? Hosting a party in honor of a movie, though, was completely out of character for Emily and me.

But what the hell? Who cares? I needed to learn how to mix a martini, I needed away to get people over to Emily's to taste it and I did want to see the film, so Day 249's thing I've never done before was to make blue cheese stuffed olives and mix a dirty martini.

And host a Sex and the City 2 party. Barf.

I prepared the blue cheese stuffed olives before going over to Emily's the night of the party.

They're not hard to make, they're simply time consuming. The challenge for me was figuring out how to get the cheese in the little hole inside the olive without kitchen tools like piping bags and toothpicks.

Before that, though, I had to get the pimentos out. I searched wildly for a tool that would've done the trick, but came up short. I wondered, after briefly considering grabbing my bathroom set to get this job done, if there is such a thing as kitchen tweezers for scenarios like this. If not, perhaps I will invent them and become rich and famous.

I washed my hands thoroughly and used my fingers and a fork to remove the pimentos. Then I filled a plastic sandwich bag (the single girl's piping bag) with the blue cheese mixture (blue cheese, garlic and black pepper), snipped the end off of it and squeezed the mixture into the now-vacant hole in each of the olives.

The process wasn't pretty, and my method, along with the mess, served as further proof that I will never have my own cooking show, but the finished product was delicious. I repacked the pimento-free, blue cheese stuffed olives into the olive juice, as the recipe told me to, packed my other hors d’ourves and raced over to Emily's house.

"I got all dressed up for my partay," Emily said when she opened the door to her place wearing a fancy new shirt.

In the spirit of girliness, I told her she looked, “Soooooo cute,” and that her tan from her long weekend at the beach looked, “Soooooo good.”

We began racing around to set up the food and drinks, forgetting for a moment that our friends are usually late and likely wouldn't arrive on time. Our window for food and drinks was short, though, since we were headed to the movie at 9pm, so we wanted everything ready by the time guests began to arrive.

As we started filling platters with the food we'd prepared, I had to laugh.

"Where were we going with this menu?," I asked Emily, as I looked at the spread that included baked brie, guacamole, wontons and frosted cookies with the characters from Sex and the City's names painted on them.

"I have no idea," she said.

Scott, Emily's husband, agreed. The theme we were apparently going for was, “Emily and Stephanie’s favorite finger foods.”

He motioned towards the brie.

"Did you guys make that because of Bree in the movie?," he asked, smiling, proud that he had drawn this conclusion.

Emily and I stared at him, and then we looked at each other. Then Emily looked back at Scott.

"Are you talking about Brie from Desperate Housewives?," Emily asked.

Scott laughed.

"Whoops, my bad."

And then he grabbed a wonton and left the condo immediately for Donald’s, where he would stay, banished from his own place for the rest of the girls' night.

After Scott left, it was time to mix my first martini.

And then Lisa called.

“Where are you?” I said, “I made blue cheese stuffed olives.”

"Well why don't you stuff one with a ruffie and I'll be right there.”

"What? Nice, Lisa. That just made the blog."

She hung up, and arrived a few minutes later.

While we waited for her to get there, I went back to mixing my very first martini. Though I wasn't thinking this at the time, I'm extremely grateful that learning how to make a martini was on my list of things to do that I'd never done before. I just feel like that's something every 30-year old should know how to do.

Emily gave me instructions, and said a martini isn't scientific. It's just vodka, a couple of splashes of vermouth, and as much olive juice as I wanted in the cocktail shaker with ice. That's it.

Then shake, (but not too much so that it spills all over Emily's countertops as I learned the hard way) pour, and serve.

Done. Easy. Delicious.

After a couple of tries, I discovered the key to a good martini is to make it super cold, and super salty with the olive juice.

Our guests agreed. Those who tried the dirty martini seemed to like it. Well, more like they didn't hate it; I'm going to take that as a success. No one seemed completely turned off my the drinks and the olives were a hit.

We spent a lot of time out on Emily and Scott's back porch that night, discussing everything and nothing. Lisa was surprised to find out, despite me already telling her, that I'd made the olives myself.

"Oh," Lisa said, "You made them?"

I reminded her about our conversation earlier about the ruffie, and I told her I'd already planned to write about it in the blog. Then she said she hated when I write about her, because I misrepresent her.

Her words stung.

"Like misquote you?" I asked.

"No," she said, "You just always make me sound stupid."

Maribeth chimed in and agreed with Lisa that I've painted her in an unflattering way.

Though this conversation was light-hearted (I think), I made it clear that the only person I aim to disbarage in this blog is myself. And I truly mean that. My friends are the characters in my life and they're way more interesting than any characters I could've created, but in no way did I ever mean to put them out there in ways that are unfavorable.

But seeing as how I'm several months behind in writing, I must admit that, "My blog is the truth, as I remember it," so I might not get everything exactly right. I'm getting up there in years, after all.

I told both of them this and then encouraged Maribeth and Lisa to start their own blogs to set the record straight.

At 8:30pm, we needed to make a move to the theater for the movie, but no one could really get the motivation to get out the door. The martinis were simply too tasty, and the conversation (read: gossip) was just too good, so after a great deal of dicussion, we opted to skip the movie and enjoy each other's company (and my martinis) instead.

The change of plans kind of screwed Kyle who had already bought her ticket to the movie, but the decision was the right one, and Kyle met us at Emily's.

So the Sex and the City 2 party turned out to be the martini party that we'd intended it to be all along.

So fun, so girly, and so fabulous. Just like us.

Ok, enough with the cliches. Can someone bring me a beer?

Day 242: Birthday Girl's Choice

On Day 242, Emily was next on the list of my friends to turn the dreaded 3-0.

Her husband Scott organized a surprise dinner for her at Rosebud, a restaurant in the Highlands.

I had a little surprise of my own, deciding to give Emily, as her birthday present, the opportunity to decide what Day 242's thing I've never done before would be.

I know you're probably thinking, "That sounds like the crappiest birthday present ever." And it is. It was all I had, though, and the idea had the potential to be a win-win for both of us. Emily could completely embarrass me, and I wouldn't have to come up with anything on my own.

Besides, Emily is a Project 29 to 30 fan. When I told her my plan she actually seemed excited about the opportunity, which made me feel relieved, and less like a shitty friend.

When we took our seats for dinner, she revealed what she had come up with.

She motioned towards the trio that was providing the background music at the restaurant.

"You have a choice," she said, "You can either ask one of the band members out on a date, or you can get them to play 'Happy Birthday' and you have to sing it."

"Ok," I said, taking a breath. "Ok."

Two tasks, completely doable for the average person.

Only I'm me.

And thanks to my brother Jeff, I never make the first move when it comes to dating and boys; and thanks to a horrible singing voice, I never sing in public. Never.

Alright, with the exception of Spring Break 1999 in Key West, Florida, when my friend Lauren McKinnon taught me every word to "Let's Get it On," I never sing in public.

I love music, and I love to sing, I'm just so bad at it, that I keep my out-loud singing limited to my car and my shower. I really blame feeling so self-conscious about my singing voice on my dad, since he was the one who leaned over to me while I was singing a hymn at church and whispered, "Are you trying to sound that bad?"

I really wasn't trying to sound bad at all. Apparently it just comes naturally.

So what to choose when there are only two horrible options?

I glanced over at the trio, who was already hard at work playing unrecognizable background music. At least one of them was hot, the other two were not ugly, and none appeared to be wearing wedding rings. Asking one of them out seemed like the logical choice under these circumstances, though it freaked me out way worse than singing for some reason that even I can't figure out (No, I can figure it out. It's a book called The Rules, and it haunts me.)

I really do want to gather up the courage to ask someone out, but I want it to be someone that I am sincerely interested in. And I didn't know these guys at all.

"So," I told Emily, "I'm going to sing you 'Happy Birthday,'" as Day 242's thing I've never done before.

She smiled wide and clapped her hands, and together we decided to ask the waiter if the idea we had in mind was something he could help us execute. We're cute and can be quite charming when we need to be, so I think we both assumed this would be a pretty easy request, and that the waiter would be on board.

But he wasn't. Not one little bit.

He clenched his teeth and sucked in air and leaned back from the table shaking his head slowly.

"I don't know . . .," his voiced trailed off. "I'm going to have to ask the guys. I'm not sure they'll be down with that, but I'll check to find out."

Emily turned to look at me as the waiter walked away.

"That was weird," I said to her. She agreed.

I considered his reluctance and immediately considered that maybe he thinks I've had a few too many cocktails and just want to get up there and make a mockery of the restaurant and the trio's musical talent. But I wasn't.

And Rosebud is a nice restaurant, but it's far from stuffy. The slogan on the place's website says, "We like comfortable food, loud music and a good drink." I hardly think they're against people having a little fun on the microphone, good singer or not.

The more Emily and I discussed the reasons why they might be against my joining them for one song, the more annoying I found this trio. I mean, the place hosts "Grateful Dead," nights once a month. The fact that this trio, "wasn't sure," if I could come sing with them was annoying. Who did they think they are?

"Pssst . . .hey nameless trio playing in a restaurant on a Thursday night," I felt like saying, "Don't take yourself so seriously!"

Moreover, by that time our table of 15+ was quickly becoming the only group in the place, so the majority of people who could've been bothered by my singing Emily "Happy Birthday," would be my friends. And they already know I'm a terrible singer.

We ordered our food and enjoyed our meal and in between asking for drinks, Emily and I kept checking in with the waiter to see if he'd had any luck with convincing the band to let me join them.

Most of the time he shrugged his shoulders and said he wasn't sure; I wasn't convinced that he'd actually ever asked them. Towards the end of the meal, he returned to the table and said almost in a conciliatory voice said, "Ok . . .they're going to be winding down soon, so if you want to do it, you're going to need to go now."

"Now?," I said.

He nodded.

"Yes."

Based on his reluctance to let me sing in the first place, I didn't waste any time in jumping up from the table and heading over there. I didn't want them to start packing up before I had my chance, or worse, change their minds completely.

I tried to casually walk over instead of breaking into a full on sprint to get there. I wanted to appear cool, not overeager, and definitely not nervous, which is exactly how I felt. Luckily the whole thing went down so quickly that I didn't have too much time and before I could even summon the birthday girl and everyone else to come watch, the trio started playing "Happy Birthday," and everyone missed the beginning.

They all made up for it by running to the front to cheer me on, and to shoot video, and as you will hear, singing along with me. Thanks, Trish.

I told you, I'm a bad singer.

Regardless, I thanked each of them profusely for allowing me to sing "Happy Birthday" to Emily. Not one of them would look me in the eye. They may have agreed to play along, they may have agreed to let me sing into the free microphone next to them, but they clearly weren't amused by this idea. At. All.

Maybe they'd never heard such a bad voice? Or maybe they feel as though their artistic integrity had been compromised by participating in such "sorority-girl" behavior?

Don't they know that either way, regardless of what I did, I could only make them look better?

Happy Birthday, Emily! Sorry your present was so crappy.

Day 164: The Bank of Moses

I think I'm in love with my hairdresser.

Actually, I know I am. And I know it’s not particularly newsworthy. Aren’t all women in love with their hairdressers?

Not to mention, I’ve been singing Moses, my beloved’s praises since he came into my life in January of 2007, thanks oddly enough, to my then-boyfriend Mark who introduced us.

“Who highlights your hair? It’s beautiful," he asked me when I sat in his chair and rubbed his hands through my grossly long, strawberry blonde mane.

"Well, I guess God does," I joked. With the exception of one crazy Saturday in college when my dorm mates and I, along with a box of Clairol, turned me into a frosted blonde, I have never had my hair professionally colored.

Flattery gets you everywhere with me, so his compliment sealed our friendship; the haircut he gave me sealed a more important relationship and since that day, no one else has ever cut my hair.

Like any great boyfriend, Moses is nice, cool, good-looking, and straight (I know you were wondering). He's a great listener and he's fun to be around. I only see him 4-5 times a year, but our relationship is solid. It's healthy. We don't play games. When I call him, he answers, or he calls me back immediately.

He's dependable, and he's been there through the highs and lows of my life, and my hair, over the last three years. When we first met I was in the process of growing my hair out so that I could cut it off and donate it during a charity event. Losing nine inches of hair at once was a shock, but Moses eased the pain for me, and for my friend Emily, who cut her hair too.

Emily was the first of my friends to meet Moses, and now she and her husband Scott are clients. I've never shared any of my other boyfriends, but I trust Moses completely and I want him to succeed, so in addition to Emily and Scott, I've also shared him with my friends Lauren, Karen and Amanda.

Moses is supportive of me too. He told me to go for it when I told him about going on a trip with someone I hardly know. And he offered, when I told him about the blog, to take me to a strip club so that I could, "make it rain." Not exactly blog-appropriate activity, but his heart was in the right place.

The love that I have for him transcends the tales he tells me about all of his other girlfriends, and though I don't always agree with his choices, he knows he can talk to me about it and I won't judge.

All of this, and he gives an affordable, kick-ass haircut? I told you, I am in love.

I’ve never had this kind of relationship with a hairdresser. I was more of a stylist whore, skipping around to different people, different salons, trying to find the right person at the right price. But I guess it’s true what they say, and when you meet the right one and want to settle down, you do whatever it takes to make it happen.

Even if it means getting my haircut at an unconventional place.

Day 164's thing I've never done before was prove to my hairdresser boyfriend that I will follow him wherever he goes, and get my haircut at a bank.

Technically it wasn't at the bank, but a questionable room behind the bank, but when Moses called me, I was in California trying to write down the directions and he just kept saying, "Go to the bank, park at the bank, the room is behind the bank."

The bank, the bank, the bank.

When I was 8, my mom permed my hair in our kitchen. (Everything about that sentence is wrong. Accurate, but so very, very wrong). But when that disaster went down, I was too young to know any better. Plus, I was the one asking for a perm, so clearly I had questionable judgment.

Now I'm an adult. I should know that if a strange man asks me to come to his one-room shack behind a bank in the dark when it's raining I should say, "no."

But this wasn't some strange man. This was Moses. And I loooooooooooooooooove him.

Isn’t that what people in love do? They blindly follow their beloved wherever he goes?

I followed Moses from the salon where we first met to his second, which was in the basement level of Macy's Department store. That was mildly sketchy because while the place was a legit salon, no one had ever heard of it, and until I went there for the first time, I didn't even know it existed. When he called me to tell me about the third move, he said he was in the process of going out on his own, and in the interim, would be cutting hair at the bank.

I think this is also a sign that I'm in love, because that sounded completely normal and acceptable to me. I booked an appointment immediately for when I returned, making Moses the first person that I saw when I got back from my trip.

The Bank of Moses is nothing fancy. Just a room, in a bank building, that he's sharing with a massage therapist/nail technician/aestician. But it's temporary, and he still cuts great hair. What do I care if there is fluorescent lighting that washes me out and a light up clock with a picture of a rainforest on the wall?

I could hear myself convincing my family and friends that my hairdresser boyfriend really is going to go out on his own and open his own salon. This bank-space nonsense is just to save money. He's still a great guy! Who cuts great hair! If you knew him, you'd understand!

Emily used to let me know when she was getting her haircut by telling me she was going to see our boyfriend, but since Moses' location change, she and Lauren have both texted me recently saying, "I'm off to the bank!"

The Bank of Moses. That is banking you can really count on.

Day 133: Getting My Praise On

Some of the first ideas I had when I started the blog involved trying different religious experiences. Go to a synagogue, go to a Buddhist temple, attend a predominantly African-American church, they're all on the list.

Day 133's thing I've never done before was to attend services at a Pentecostal church. Atlanta West Pentecostal church, specifically. I credit Scott for this idea, since it was he who sent me an email saying, "Who knew we had the 'Best Church Choir in America' right in our backyard?" He included a link of one of the choir's performances. I definitely didn't know there was a competition for Best Church Choir other than in the movie, Sister Act, but I watched the link and I was impressed. They were good.

Plus, a spirited church service like this one is definitely something I’ve never done before, so such an experience would be perfect for the blog. I didn't realize I would have such a difficult time writing about it, however. Not because there wasn't anything to write about. Quite the contrary. We were there a total of two hours and I witnessed enough to fill multiple blog entries.

But religion is extremely personal. And while there were a lot of things that I experienced at this Pentecostal church that I don’t necessarily understand, but I don’t want this project to be my judgments on anyone’s religion or the way they worship. I'm still very much a work in progress when it comes to my spiritual life and I'm still searching for the right fit when it comes to church and religion. So I’m going to try (emphasis on try) to just focus on my personal experience and not make judgments on how people choose to praise God.

On our way to the service, Emily (Scott’s wife and my friend) said matter of factly, "Now, I just want you to know that my attention span for church is about an hour, so..."

She didn't complete her thought, but I laughed, because I'd say my attention span for church is about the same. Like it does in yoga, my mind tends to wander during church and I'll end up making lists on the back of offering envelopes of the things that I need to get done during the next week instead of focusing on the sermon. Emily, Scott and I never reconciled what we were going to do if the service lasted longer than an hour, but I was glad Emily threw that out there, because I felt the same way.

"Time to get our praise on," Scott said as we walked into the service. He also googled “Pentecostal” on his Blackberry and read to us, “Pentecostalism is a charismatic renewal movement within Christianity that places special emphasis on a direct personal experience of God through the baptism in the Holy Spirit."

Having now experienced this Pentecostal church service, I would argue that "charismatic" is an understatement.

When we arrived and took our seats in a pew, I noticed immediately how large and diverse the congregation was. I had never seen so many different races and ages all together worshipping together. I liked it.

We attended services on Boy Scout Sunday, so there was a presentation going on when we arrived demonstrating the benefits of scouting. Their presentation included props like a fake camp fire, tepee, and my personal favorite, a canoe with a younger Boy Scout inside, that was carried out down the church aisle by two larger Boy Scouts.

After the Boy Scout presentation was over, the choir stood up to sing. They were a fair representation of the diversity in the congregation. They were also very soulful and very entertaining. I have no idea what their competition was like, I can say with confidence that they deserved to win. They were amazing.

I did not appreciate, however, that every time they would stand to sing a song, seconds into them singing a song, half of the congregation would stand up and join in. Perhaps it was the Holy Spirit moving them to stand up and participate or maybe it is a testament to how good this choir is. Regardless, I did not like it. I wanted to hear them, and watch them. I wanted to shout to the people standing up and joining in, "Please sit down! You're blocking my view. If you wanted to be in the choir, you should join."

The congregation's involvement with the choir was just the tip of the iceberg. They were pretty much involved in every part of the service. Very involved. Dancing in the aisles, waving their hands to the sky, shouting "Praise God" out loud kind of involved.

I grew up in a Lutheran church, which is more formal, and rooted in ritual (think Catholic). Lutherans only speak when spoken to in the church context, so there is a lot of talk back, but it's guided by the pastor. Pastor says something that he says every week, and you repeat what he said or answer with the same words spoken every week. And when it's time to pray, silence befalls the sanctuary. At Atlanta West Pentecostal, when it was time to pray, everyone prays out loud, so there is a hum throughout the congregation of everyone's individual prayers.

Though I was raised in a more traditional church setting, as I've grown up, I have experienced and enjoyed other worship styles. The church I attend most in Atlanta is definitely more progressive and teaches a modern-day application of the Bible to regular life. I still have a hard time with the service's rock 'n roll take on hymns, but I think it's more of a world's colliding thing. Let me have rock 'n roll and let me have Jesus, but let them be separate. It’s also a case of whatever is familiar is comfortable; not a case of one way is right and the other is wrong.

Still, though I've given many churches a try, this one put me so far out of my comfort zone I had a difficult time relaxing. I fidgeted a lot and continually thought about how I was going to honestly, but politely, write about it. Trying new things is always difficult, but I couldn't tell if it was just the fact that the church was different or if I was turned off by what I feel is a fundamentally different approach to God that is taught at this church.

I tried to picture my own family at this church. My mom, who is pretty open-minded and loves a good choir, would probably have had an easier time. My dad and brother would have lasted five minutes, tops, before they would've been looking for an exit. They are both pretty laid back guys, but any showy church behavior like people talking out of turn or clapping with the choir would have made their palms sweat. I resided somewhere in the middle. I was feeling weird about the fact that it felt like a lot of what was happening was more of an advertisement for the Pentecostal movement and this church specifically, and less about worshiping and praising God. So I tried hard to focus on the positive and what I did like.

The excitement and the energy of the church was palpable and I noticed quite a few children sprinkled throughout the room. At most of the churches I've attended, parents drop their children off at the nursery, not wanting the playful tendencies of a toddler to disrupt anyone's worship time. At Atlanta West Pentecostal, there is so much interaction that children are able to sit among the adults and engage in the worship as well, or at least be exposed to it and not have to worry about being shushed. If a baby was crying or a toddler was throwing a tantrum, I would've never heard it over all the praising of God.

Church can be so stuffy, but these worshippers really seem to be enjoying themselves. For them, going to worship isn't about checking "God" off a list of things to do. They were really being lifted up and they were into it.

The service started at 10:15am, but the sermon didn't start until 11:15am, a fact Emily pointed out to me by holding up her watch with wide-eyes. I didn't know what to say, but I felt like what we came for was about to go down and I didn't want to leave. Sure enough, when he did start the sermon, I felt like I had just been put turned on television to one of the Evangelical pastors on Sunday morning television.

He used the phrase "Why Not?" quite often to make a point about the power that God has over our lives. "If," he shouted, "he can turn a small choir from Atlanta to the best church choir in the country to appear on Good Morning America and Fox News, then why can't he raise the dead?! WHY NOT?!"

There were people repeating back to the pastor as he spoke, "Amen!" and "Praise God!" I was impressed at their ability to so quickly comprehend his sentences of words strung together. He talked so fast, that there was a 15 second delay on him completing a thought and me actually understanding what he was saying.

"I feel like I need to shout an, 'Amen,' just to get the full experience," I whispered to Emily during the sermon.

She nodded enthusiastically. And when the preacher said something I believed in, I did it. It felt good!

At the end of the sermon, we bowed our heads to pray and the three of us were eyeing each other as to how we could wrap up this experience as quickly as possible. That's when what I had been both dreading and expecting the entire time happened. Over the hum of everyone's personal prayers, someone shouted out what sounded like stream of consciousness babbling, a language I didn't understand.

According to the preacher, this man was speaking in tongues, and he called on someone else to interpret what the man had just said. I've talked to Christians that I know since then who tell me the Bible does say that speaking in tongues is a real thing. Perhaps it is, but I'd be lying if I said it didn't freak me out a little. A lot. It freaked me out a lot.

I wish this wasn’t the case, as I think I could've used some direct talk from up above.

After the last prayer, we shook hands with all of the nice people around us (one of whom works in my building and I see at least once a day) and headed out. Before we made it to the door, Scott was stopped by one of the members and offered a visitor’s packet. He talked to us about returning and possibly joining the church. We all politely nodded and listened to what he had to say, but I felt badly because I was pretty certain we weren’t planning on ever returning.

We went to have lunch and ordered Bloody Marys to decompress. See, I told you I need some spiritual guidance. Who needs a drink after church?

Scott, quoting the preacher said, “Why not?”

We were all unsure of our experience, but fairly sure this type of worship is not for us. I am glad, though, that I got to see the Best Church Choir in America.

Day 131: Just Dance

I got back from Mansfield late Friday night, just in time for an enormous snow storm that dumped a foot of snow over most of Ohio. Most of my friends back in Georgia had already made plans and I was sort of down upon my arrival. Airports bum me out for some reason.

I talked to my friends Emily and Lauren. They, along with their husbands, invited me to dinner and then to play with one of Emily's Valentine's Day presents from Scott. Wha? First of all, while I appreciated Emily's wanting to include me in her weekend plans, playing with her Valentine's Day present from her husband had creepy written all over it. And secondly, Valentine's Day wasn't for another week. I was confused.

I resisted my urge to go home and sit on my couch and went to Emily and Scott's instead where I learned about this present. Scott was apparently so excited about one of his presents to Emily that he didn't want to wait until Valentine's Day for her to open it. He wanted her to have it right then. That’s how strongly he felt about this gift. His present turned out to be a gift for us all, so I'm glad he jumped the gun. It also became Day 131's thing I’ve never done before: Play “Just Dance” on Wii.

If you think “Just Dance” sounds familiar, it’s probably because you’ve seen their commercials featuring home videos of different families all shaking their money makers for the camera. The ads are hysterical.

I have accidentally been caught on camera dancing at weddings and I’m always mortified. Watching myself in these scenarios always gives me huge amounts of anxiety. The thought that someone would willingly set up a video camera to record themselves dancing is both foreign and hilarious to me.

On the other hand, I love to dance. I was a trained and competitive dancer for years, so I should have no problem with this game. Maybe the world is ready to see my moves. So for the sake of the blog I allowed Scott to film us playing it, also something I’ve never done before.

The game is a lot of fun. There is a digital figure on the screen that does a dance and your job is to mirror what the digital figure is doing. The movements aren’t difficult, and they repeat a lot, so by the end there is potential for knowing the entire routine.


Because you’re holding the Wii “controller” in your hand, the game scores you based on your ability to closely mirror the digital figure’s moves.

Piece of cake, right? Only it’s not. I was winded, embarrassingly so, while dancing and some of the moves didn’t come naturally to me.

Not to mention, I've watched these videos that I'm about to post and I'm not as good of a dancer as I thought I was. True, I had never played this game before and new things are always a challenge, but the overall performance is lacking. I was, and am, a little concerned about my dance abilities after watching these videos. I need to get back in the studio in a big way.

Scott started by shooting the videos from the back. My dancing doesn't look attractive from any angle, but especially not from a rear view. Emily and I demanded him to reposition himself in front of us if the videos were going to be blog-worthy. I think you'll agree the videos tell the story far better than I ever could, complete with Scott's commentary and Donald's toe-tapping.

Watch the confusion on our faces and witness the hilarity. And Just Dance everybody!

Day 113: Participant in a Dream

When I was in grade school, I always loved that I'd return to class after the two-week holiday break for a few full weeks, only to get another long weekend the third week of January. Never mind what the day off was for, an extra holiday simply meant an opportunity to go skiing with friends or a chance to sleep in a Monday.

The third Monday in January was Martin Luther King Jr. Day and what better way to celebrate Day 113 then to recognize this day for the first time in my 29 years. Day 113's thing I've never done before was to attend the MLK festivities at the King Center in downtown Atlanta.

I shared my plans with friends that Monday morning.

"That celebration is a really big deal. I think Clinton is supposed to be there," my friend's husband Scott said to me.

"Like, Bill?"

"No, George," Scott replied, joking. Of course he meant Former President Bill Clinton.

I did understand that the Martin Luther King, Jr. celebration in Atlanta would be a big deal. I had forgotten, though, about the big names, like Bill Clinton, that such a celebration would attract.

I hustled downtown anticipating heavy traffic and lots of people if, indeed, a former president was going to be in attendance. When I got close to Auburn Avenue, where the King Center historic site is, I noticed it and other streets surrounding it, were closed and barricaded. I parked as closely as I could and started walking.

The weather was beautiful that day. Brisk, but sunny. Everyone that I walked by seemed to be in a great mood. I was greeted with several, "Good mornings!" I walked through street vendors that had lined the roads. They were setting up tents and booths, which suprised me. I thought the commemoration of such an instrumental Civil Rights leader would've been more regal. More serious. This was like a street fair. More of a celebration of his life, less about his untimely and tragic death.

The historic Ebenezer Baptist Church is undergoing renovations, so the day's service and festivities moved to the larger Ebenezer sanctuary. Regardless, I did not make it in time to get a seat. I was in good company, however. There were several people milling around the historic site.

Organizers planned ahead for those of us who wouldn't be able to get in, and set up a screen outside so that we could watch what was going on during the service.

While standing outside, I ran into a colleague, who had stopped by to take pictures on his way into work. We walked around the grounds of the King Center together. I had never been there, but he had, and knew where to go.

Inside the King Center, there is a representation of the Civil Rights movement that I found particularly moving. Statues of figures on a road marked with all of the cities that Dr. King took his message. At the other side of the road was the actual wagon that carried Dr. King's body through the streets of downtown Atlanta after he died.

After my friend left, I took a seat on and listened to all of the speakers. United States Senator Johnny Isaacson and Atlanta Mayor Kasim Reed were among them. Civil Rights activist and Princeton professor Cornel West delivered the key note address.

I looked around and found it it odd that in 2010, I was in a small minority of white people that attended this celebration. I paused for a moment to consider that there are probably many people out there who don't view the advancements of Dr. King worthy of celebrating at all.

There were several families that braved the chilly temperatures to participate in the festivities. I found myself distracted by one frazzled dad with two young sons who were not at all interested in the speakers and what was really going on. They were laughing and running around, enjoying the park, too young to really understand the legacy of Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. But I was proud of this dad for bringing them and hoped this would become a family tradition at least until they were old enough to understand what it was all about.

Many of the speakers involved in the ceremony spoke about how happy Dr. King would've been to see an African-American be elected to the highest office in the country. But all seemed to agree that electing a black president was just one part of the fulfillment of Dr. King's dream.

I eventually had to leave to get to work, but I walked back to my car with a spring in my step, feeling good about having made myself a part of this day, and sure that I would never let another third Monday in January go by without recognizing what the holiday is all about.

Neither George nor Bill Clinton were at Monday's MLK festivities in Atlanta, but I was there. And I'm so glad.

Day 28: High School Get Down

When I started this project, my friend Emily, a high school English teacher, was so excited to help me come up with ideas for the blog. She and her husband Scott immediately started brainstorming and sharing their ideas with me via text message, email, and one night, via drunk dial from a bar.

Shooting range.
Yes.

Wear your bra on the outside of your shirt.
Weird (and most likely all Scott).

Chaperone prom.
Hell. YESSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS.

I could hardly contain my excitement. Is it strange that I was this pumped about returning to high school to chaperone a dance? Probably. No, definitely.

I shared this blog possibility with some colleagues and they all erupted in laughter. "Do we think it's a good idea for Stephanie to chaperone a high school prom?" they all asked each other in front of me.

Without pausing, one of bosses replied, "Well I guess it depends on whether you're a parent or a student."

Admittedly, I'm a little wacky, and I like to have a good time, but I'm still responsible. I dare some high school kid to drink alcohol or smoke pot before coming to a dance that I'm chaperoning. I dare them.

A couple of weeks ago, I got an email from Emily, "Interested in chaperoning the Homecoming Dance at my school this weekend?"

Prom isn't until the spring, so it was like Christmas came early. "I'm in," I replied.

That's right, friends, this former Homecoming Queen (yep, still living in the past) went back to high school and made Day 28's thing I've never done before: chaperone a Homecoming Dance.

Leading up to the dance, Emily and I exchanged text messages and emails about what we should wear, what time she wanted me to pick her up and what color corsages we would buy each other. While the conversations were all in jest, I truly wasn't sure what the attire for such an event was, especially for a chaperone. Emily assured me that whatever I wore would be far better looking than anything that I'd find at this dance.

We also confessed to each other on the way to the dance how hard it was not to have a drink while getting ready for the event. How sad. Out of habit, I actually went to my refrigerator to pull out a beer and then remembered I was going to a high school dance. Adults navigate through social anxiety with alcohol. High schoolers don't have that option, at least not out in public. No wonder high school sucks so bad!

When we arrived, I was immediately shocked at some of the outfits the girls were wearing. Shocked that their parents let them leave the house wearing such short, tight clothing, but more shocked that they felt comfortable enough to leave the house wearing dresses that barely covered their backsides with stripper shoes. By the time I got to high school, I was deep into a hate/hate relationship with my body and spent most of my time figuring out clever ways to cover it up. Not these girls. They were letting it all hang out.

The event was held in the school's cafeteria, which was huge and extremely dark, with the exception of two portable colorful strobe lights. There were a lot of kids there, and they could've spread out on the floor, but most of them huddled around the DJ table. And by DJ table, I mean a cafeteria table with a sound system on it. I followed Emily's lead and we stayed on the periphery, observing the dancing and daring each other to leave the outskirts to go into the dance mob to check things out.

For the most part, the kids were well behaved. There were some questionable moves on the dance floor, but that was to be expected. And there were a few groups who thought it would be a good idea to climb on each other's shoulders (Why? Why would they do this?). I even ventured through the crowd at one point just to get the full experience and the worst thing that happened to me was that I had to smell sweaty teenagers, which reminded me of my own prom date my senior year. He and I are still friends and I know he would agree that he was probably the sweatiest guy at our prom. Teenagers are stinky. But as far as I could tell, these students were following the rules.

Sadly, in the two hours we were there, Emily and I only recognized about ten songs, including Usher's "Yeah," (major screams from the crowd), Michael Jackson's "Billie Jean," (we were pleasantly surprised and extremely pleased that they even knew this one), and the Cha Cha Slide (always a crowd favorite, even among my old friends).

Even though it has been more than ten years since I graduated, I still remember being in high school. Perhaps it's because I've remained friends with a lot of people that I went to high school with. I look at pictures of myself from that time and still think I could pass for being in high school, though I'm sure that ship has sailed. Whatever the reason, it doesn't feel like it was that long ago.

But this dance reminded me how long ago high school actually was for me. I felt old. A lot has changed since I was their age. This is the Internet, cell phone, Facebook generation(now I sound old too).

Periodically we'd see kids emerge from the crowd talking on cell phones, which I found odd. I wanted to run up to one of them and say, "You're 16. Everyone you know is out on that dance floor. Who could you possibly be calling?"

Still, despite all that is different about their high school experience and ours, Emily and I remarked about how much is still the same.

The same cliques of teens that existed when I was in high school still exist now. The smart kids, the jocks, the snobby girls all stuck together with their own group and it wasn't difficult to pick out who was who.

There are the awkward teens who couldn't dance, but really tried. My favorite part about these kids is that many of them came over to talk to Emily (Mrs. Russell), who in addition to being a great teacher is also a hottie. I imagine to them, the Van Halen song "Hot for Teacher" applies here.

There were the so-in-love-I-want-to-slow-dance-all-night-even-to-fast-songs couples that were holding on to one another as if it was their last night on earth.

There were the guys who were too cool to dance at all, who talked about how much the party sucked and how they couldn't wait to leave. I imagine a keg party at someone's house whose parents were out of town was in their future.

I didn't get to bust anyone making out, or break up any fights or even console a scorned teen-aged girl for getting burned by her two-timing boyfriend. But the night wasn't a complete loss...a teacher and one of my fellow chaperones walking through the crowd had her ass grabbed by a student.

It's still unclear whether or not the butt swipe was intentional or accidental, but it had us all laughing for a while.

High school can be fun, I guess. Even as an adult.