antiquing.

Last weekend, Trish, Momo and I went to Scott's Antique Market. This was the second time I'd ever been to Scott's, which comes to town the first weekend of every month.  

According to their website, Scott's is, "America's Favorite Treasure Hunt."  They couldn't be more accurate with that description.
 

Walking through the rows of beautiful furniture and collectibles made me want to buy five houses just so I could decorate them.

I settled for a Christmas present for someone else (picture not included).

If you live in Atlanta, or close to Atlanta, if you own a home, are thinking about buying a home, or renting an apartment or simply laying your head somewhere, or just want to take pretty pictures of gorgeous things, I highly suggest you run, don't walk to Scott's.

Call me.  I'll take you. 

the ranch, part two.

This should be a Thanksgiving post.

I mean, I'm posting it on Thanksgiving, but it will not contain all of the warm and fuzziness that it probably should.  I mean, it is every Blogger/Facebooker/Twitterer's duty to post things that they're thankful for each day of November, declare how blessed they are, or at the very least post pictures from a pumpkin patch or an apple orchard, right?

This is not a typical Thanksgiving post, but not because I am not thankful or because I don't realize how completely blessed my life is.  There were challenges, but I can say for certain that expressing gratitude feels much easier to do this year than it did last year and for that I am immensely thankful.

So while this isn't a typical holiday post, it is inspired by something for which I am grateful - my trip to California and my time at the Los Laureles Lodge, aka the ranch.  In the spirit of Thanksgiving and with the hope of finishing writing about Elizabeth's August wedding before the new year, it's back to the ranch we go.

I'm sure I don't need to tell you that we woke up after the beach bonfire with a whole slew of stories from the night before.  Some things - like the cab driver's roll call - I didn't even know happened until the next morning. I must've really been into the sing-along because I also missed guests over-pouring their wine glasses in the dark, or guests (ahem, my friends) falling in the sand and flopping around like seals.

Wedding stories - just another reason to be thankful.

While our rooms at the Ranch were stocked full of Sun Chips and muffins from our late-night grocery run, a proper lunch that allowed us to maximize our time in the beautiful scenery as well as rehash all of the evening's transgressions was a definite priority.  We opted to drive south to Nepenthe Restaurant in Big Sur to enjoy magnificent Pacific Ocean views from their treehouse-esque deck.




Only, once again, visibility was non-existent.  We sat outside and crossed our fingers that the fog would eventually lift, but it never did. The place was cool and happening, though ,and our waiter was friendly (until we asked him if we could pay the bill with more than one credit card.  I honestly thought his head might explode.), so we were happy.    




We shared a lot of laughs about the previous night's debauchery, ate some good food, and most importantly, drank some tasty drinks (read: hair of the dog) of the Bloody Mary and Moscow Mule variety. 

After lunch and our drive back to Carmel that included stops for scenic photos and an errand run to CVS (where there was booze for sale. At a CVS!  Right next to the disposable razors!  Again, THANKFUL.), there wasn't a lot of time to do much more than welcome new friends (aka new campers) who had just arrived and get ready for the rehearsal party.





Despite the fact that her wedding was a destination variety for many of her guests, her wedding still had many guests.  Most everyone who was invited to the wedding was also invited to the rehearsal, so family, childhood friends, college friends, San Francisco friends were all on hand to toast the happy couple.



The stories were plentiful and varied from humorous to extremely heartfelt.

Greg even wrote a poem.
I went into my remarks with a, "Make them laugh, make them cry, try not to embarrass yourself or anyone else," mentality. I thought my toast hit on all the appropriate emotions. I even had a woman I did not know come up to me and tell me later that she loved what I had to say.

I'm worried she might've been the only one, though, because just last week one of my girlfriends asked me, "Wasn't it you who brought up all of Elizabeth's ex-boyfriends during your speech at the rehearsal dinner?"

"Um, no," I told her defensively, "I did not."

It was just one.  And I never named him.  And I only used this story to make a point.

Elizabeth and I really didn't know each other that well when we decided to be roommates our last semester at Georgia, which was fine, except for the fact that Elizabeth and her boyfriend broke up days before I moved in.  So while I was pumped to get to know a new, fun girl and make her my friend, she was not really in that mindset. She was in a bad, emotionally low place. 

We laugh about that time now and how we healed her broken heart with Ben & Jerry's, American Idol and the Anna Nicole Smith show.

After she moved away to California, it seemed our visits always occurred during really low lows in my life or really high highs.  The way we met seemed to follow our friendship.  The first time I went to visit her in San Francisco, I'd just ended a four year relationship. Then I whisked into town giddy on romance with Mountain Man.  When that went nowhere, I returned to the west coast for reality television and Elizabeth-time.  

 Our visits are less dramatic than they used to be - and I couldn't be more thankful.

And though I'm embarrassed it took me 32 years to figure it out - watching Elizabeth and Kristof work so easily together, and exists so happily as a couple without the drama that so many of us (me) had confused for true romantic love, it occurred to me that real love isn't cobbled together by a string of highs and lows.



The day-to-day comfort of knowing someone who wants the same out of life that you do, who has your back and will make you laugh and builds you up - that's what solid relationships are all about. It might not make for a Hollywood film or a good romance novel, but off the emotional roller coaster seems to be where all the good stuff happens.

Right in the middle. 

Then again, good stuff also happens at an out of town rehearsal dinner where the wine flows easily.

Considering the groom split his pants before the party even started - (I love you, Kristof!) - I shouldn't have been too surprised that after several (se-ver-al) glasses of wine, and a couple dozen toasts, guests started falling again. Into fountains. And bushes.

There may or may not have been some indecent exposure, and I'm not talking about Kristof.

I'm sure all of the California crowd was looking at us, shaking their heads and thinking, "Who are these Georgia rednecks?"

Country had certainly come to town. And everyone (well, most everyone) was grateful.  

the ranch, part one.

Without necessarily doing new things everyday, which is what I used to blog about before I turned 30 and how this blog got started in the first place, sometimes I wonder where it's going.  What's its purpose?

I mean, I think I'm quite clever sometimes, but my biggest fear is that someone will get to the end of one of these blogs and say, "Yeah?  So what?" 

Perhaps that's why I've tried to look for the larger meaning in just about everything - how can I make this road trip a metaphor for life kind of stuff, which even I recognize can get a little hokey and annoying.  I mean, sometimes a road trip is just a road trip, you know? 

I myself love to read blogs that really have nothing more to say than, "This is my life, these are my crafts, those are my kids."

I do not have crafts or kids, but I do have a pretty good life and I believe it's worth writing about.   I understand that doesn't mean anyone is going to want to read about it, but that's a chance all of us bloggers must take.
     
So full disclosure here (I don't want anyone getting to the end and saying, "Yeah, so what?"), the next leg of my summertime journey that started at my friend Kelly's has absolutely no deeper meaning than, "wild wedding weekend."  So if you came looking for inspiration or profound words about the meaning of life, you may want to move it along.

Please don't leave without at least perusing the pictures of my hot friends and the gorgeous scenery that we partied in for three days.  This was the kind of weekend that was so much fun, I felt sad when it ended because I knew the anticipation of it was over, and even if I did my best to recreate it, I'd never succeed.



But there is a good chance that these stories I'm about to tell, many of which have been watered down for the parents and children who may visit, are all of the "You had to be there," variety.  

I'm going to tell them anyway.  Besides, I know that there at least 20 people (the cast of characters I call my friends) who will think these stories are worth telling.  I dedicate all of Elizabeth's wedding blogs to them.

Elizabeth's California wedding was in her "backyard," since she lives in San Francisco.  To many of her east coast friends, it was a destination wedding that involved a great deal of planning beforehand, most about where we were going to stay.  

Leave it to the crew from Georgia to decide to take over the cheapest hotel on the list - the Los Laureles Lodge.  Elizabeth's tastes have refined significantly since she moved to California, so I had to believe this place met her standards.  Based on the pictures on the website, though, I couldn't help but think the Lodge reminded me quite a bit of the sublet apartment she and I lived in at Milledge Place in Athens, Georgia.  

I was the first to arrive and I texted Trish, since it was she who had been instrumental in convincing us all to stay there.  

"How is it?" she asked. 

"It's fine," I texted her.  "It's cute.  It kind of reminds me of summer camp."

From the gravel parking lot and the outdated, country decor to the wood paneling and screen doors, it really did remind me of camp.  But not in a negative way.  I mean, it certainly wasn't the Ritz Carlton, but it was affordable, it was clean, it was centrally located, and most importantly - it was a perfect place for my friends and I to completely take over.

And that's exactly what we did.

The innkeepers made a take over easy - putting several of our rooms in a row. 

Despite it having the most occupants in the least amount of space, my room - Room 23 - was a popular meeting place.  Sort of like the front stoop on the television show 227, people were always popping in for a visit. 

The instant camraderie and summer camp feeling often led to unsolicited singing of the theme song from the Nickelodeon show, Salute Your Shorts - "Camp Anawanna, we hold you in our hearts . . ." 

We also started calling the Los Laureles Lodge, the "Ranch."

We referred to the staff of the lodge as the "ranch hands," which in my room full of unmarried women, led to endless teasing about someone making a move on one of the ranch hands, and of course, even more singing.

"I wanna man with a ranch hand . . .," (to the tune of "I wanna man with a slow hand . . .") My friend and trip roommate Lisa made up her own version, "A ranch hand's handssssss . . . ," which I think was a take on the country song, "Daddy's Hands," but I'm honestly not sure.

We talked about "ranch hands" so much during that weekend, that when Rick Santorum delivered his speech at the Republican National Convention and made countless references to hands, my phone immediately started blowing up with friends saying, "Did you hear Santorum talking about hands?  Reminds me of the Ranch!"

The first event of the Elizabeth and Kristof's wedding weekend was on Thursday night - a beach bonfire for all out of town guests. 



I'd noticed on my ride north on the PCH that the temperature is quite different in the Northern California along the coast.  Elizabeth's instructions for us to "wear a light jacket," were appropriate, however for us thin-skinned humidity loving southerners, we might've been better off had she instead advised, "Pack mittens and a warm coat.  And a hat. And cuddle duds. And brown liquor."

It was freezing.

Certainly nothing a glass (or several glasses) of red wine couldn't fix, so my friends and I enjoyed the festivities, toasting the happy couple and getting to know Kristof's family, many of whom had flown in from Belgium.

I got caught up in caught up in the excitement (and the red wine) of meeting everyone, I brilliantly opted to wait until the sun went down to find myself something to eat which meant I was blindly grabbing at Mexican food in aluminum containers.

Thankfully, the summer camp similiarities were endless.  There were S'mores.  And a sing-along.

Trish embraced the sing-a-long - and brought a little bit of the ranch to the beach, spiritedly leading the group in favorites such as Green Day's "Good Riddance" and Don McClean's "American Pie."



When the party ended and it was time to go home, we called our cab driver that we'd appropriately named "Captain" earlier in the evening when he picked us up for the party.  

He arrived to take us home wearing the same tie-dyed shirt, leather vest and Captain's hat he was wearing when he picked us up.  We forced him to take pictures with us before piling into his cab. He offered us some of his moonshine (which he may or may not have been sipping on himself), let Lisa borrow his leather driving gloves, and then took us to the grocery store so we could pick up some rations that every summer camp full of immature 30-somethings' needs -- breakfast muffins . . . a variety pack of Sun Chips . . .and beer.



Then, in what is now my favorite cab ride story of all time that Lisa shared with us later, the Captain turned around to make sure all his human passengers were accounted for and then looked down at his center console and counted off his collection of stuffed animals, one by one.

"Squirrel, check!"

"Bear, check!"

"Dog, check!"

"Ok," he said to Lisa, who was riding shotgun, still wearing the gloves, "Everyone's here, we can go."

And we went.  Back to the ranch.

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.