Mmm, tastes like chicken...wait. No. It tastes like chocolate!

I learned a new trick last week. My friend, Austin, taught me a little game he plays and I’m working to implement it.

It’s like this: if you have an idea, but you’re not sure if it’s actually a good idea, you should say it out loud before you take action.

I was skeptical, though, so we took it for a test drive after he explained the rule.

Here is a scenario we made up to practice: There is a couple, Max and Molly (it’s important to name them so you feel more attached and are more likely to pursue the course of action that benefits them the most. It’s also important that they have matching first letters of their names, because that’s fun…). So Max and Molly date for a few years, but really, the relationship is kind of messy. Max doesn’t treat Molly well, but she still has a lot of fun with him and they really are best friends. Sadly, though, Max tends to philander.So, one day, Max decides that he wants out of the relationship because he has been cheating on Molly with another girl, Stacey (you see how S doesn’t go with M? It’s an obviously poor decision by Max). So Stacey and Max start dating. Some time passes, and they’re still together. Molly has moved on, but still has a weak spot for old Max. One lovely Saturday night, Max asks Molly to hang out.

This is where Molly has to make an important decision. So she practices…

“I think I am going to hang out with my ex-boyfriend, who treated me terribly, cheated on me with Stacey, and is still dating her. We’d have to keep it a secret, because I know that it would make Stacey upset.”

Well, that’s one way to put it.

Or, Molly could say…

“I think I am going to hang out with Max, who used to be my best friend, I once loved dearly, and who can always make me laugh.”

Now you can see my skepticism with Austin’s little game.

I told him I was still not convinced, because it is simply a matter of phrasing.

Another, less specific, example:

“I think I am going to jump out of an airplane all by myself at 12,500 feet above ground level.”

Or…

“I think I am going to skydive.”

You see the difference? The first person sounded crazy and the second person sounded completely normal (maybe a little on the adventurous side for those of us who are afraid of heights).

What about this…

“I think I am going to eat an unusual fruit that makes everything taste good. It’s so strange that even vinegar tastes like apple juice. I could probably drink straight kerosene and enjoy it because it’s so magical. Even though I do not know the person serving it to me and found him on the Internet, I am going to eat an abundance of this fruit. It makes me feel like I am tripping on drugs. Furthermore, I am going to pay him to let me do it.”

Or…

“I am going to try this exciting new fruit that makes everything taste like candy!”

Maybe guests at Franz Aliquo’s party in Long Island City, Queens, said that very phrase last Friday night.

This miracle fruit, Synsepalum dulcificum, really does make everything taste good. It seems to be rather magical, and I might even try it myself.

But you see, if you played the scenario game, and were truly honest with yourself about the absurdity of the situation, you might not be so inclined to run over to Mr. Aliquo’s house and chow down.

Especially due to the fact that bartenders have been putting it in alcoholic drinks in order to make them taste good. The fruit masks the unwanted flavors. Essentially, people will drink an abundance of alcohol that they could not usually handle because of the potency of the liquor, and it will taste good. It sounds too close to getting roofied to me.

Maybe it’s just the college girl in me that knows better than to ingest a questionable substance (especially at a party…).

If this trend continues into the Midwest this fall, or even Georgia this summer, I might consider attending a “Flavor Tripping” party. Heck, maybe I’d even host one.

I’m going to be honest, though, I am not so sure I’d trust a college boy with that fruit.

The (very merry) twelve days of May

I’m addicted to holidays.

That’s the first step, right? Admitting you have an addiction…

I think, though, that in order to overcome an addiction, you have to want to change, and I don’t want to. I am at peace with my addiction.

I love everything about holidays. I love the insta-happiness I feel when I wake up on those magical mornings. I’m not just talking about Christmas, here, either. When I wake up on Halloween and the Fourth of July and St. Patrick’s Day, I am giddy.

Who doesn’t love candy (especially the cinnamon hearts at Valentine’s day)? And fireworks? And wearing green?

On Earth Day, my sister even paid a tribute to me on her blog. I felt so honored. It was like a little Earth Day present. Which rhymes with Birthday, the very fabulous day on which you also get presents (!!)…that brings me to my next point.

This year, my family missed my half birthday. Last year, my brother Duke remembered to get me a present, and this year, no one even noticed the day had come. Freshman year of college, my mom sent me a half birthday care package. This year? Not even a call.

But I am ok. I definitely survived. I think part of the reason I pulled through was because I knew that St. Patrick’s Day was so close. It gave me something to live for. I also think that maybe some people might have forgotten it because I might have forgotten theirs too. I’m definitely sending gifts next year; the mistake won’t happen again.

Another not so official holiday, but one that I think is definitely in the making, is what I like to call the Twelve Days of May.

The twelve days of May was kick-started when my brothers received their tax-refund check in the mail. It had begun.

Over the next few days (approximately twelve) everyone in my family began to receive their checks too. The little Post Office elves would sneak onto our porch and slip the gifts into the mailbox, pausing only for a second to make sure we hadn’t left them any treats.

We can get online and track our checks just like we can track Santa.

First, I got a very small one (about $1.54); I like to call that my stocking. It made me happy to know that the government was thinking of me, but it was merely a preview of the next gift to come, wrapped in a beautiful envelope and decorated with a perfectly placed stamp.

Soon, another check came in the mail, luckily a little more substantial. When I opened it, I had an idea as to what it might be, but I didn’t know exactly what the government gave me. As the numbers danced before my eyes, I saw a year of fun with this money. A CD? The stock market? The mall? Where would this gift take me?

Finally, the last check came in the mail, and as I opened it, I was happy to see the numbers, but sad that the season was over so soon. It would be another year before it came around again.

I knew that this year I’d been a good girl. I had worked hard and stayed off the naughty list. So, just as we’d shout, “Thank you, Santa!” when we were young, I thanked the government. I knew I had earned the gifts, but I still wanted them to know that I was grateful. I don’t want any coal in my envelope next May!

You're not seriously wearing those patent -leather, white shoes in April, are you?

There were a few steadfast rules I swore by in middle school: If you wear a shirt, you cannot wear it again for at least two weeks. You never ever mix black with brown or black with navy. And, most importantly, white can be worn only from Memorial Day to Labor day and not even for a minute outside of this time frame.

Even in eighth grade, when I got my first pair of white pants from Express for my birthday, on September 5, just one day after Labor Day, I held out until the spring. I looked at those pants hanging in my closet, the perfectly cuffed bottoms (cute, I know), the large belt loops, in case you wanted to wear an extra-thick belt (cute, again. Really, I know). I thought about how I would wear a black belt and black shirt and black shoes, or maybe a navy shirt and tan belt and (I hate to say it) but Birkenstocks with those pants. This was one year when Memorial Day would be a highly celebrated holiday.

Who knew, just a few years later, I would sometimes wear winter white? And, better yet, I own two purses with black and brown on them.

140 years ago, Memorial Day began, known as Decoration Day. It was started in Waterloo, NY, in order to honor those that fought in the Civil War.

It's amazing that, as someone who has quite a past with celebrating Memorial Day, I didn't even know where the roots of it began.

I always knew that Memorial Day wasn't observed around the nation solely for those afraid to wear white in the winter...

However, a small part of me really thought, for quite some time, that Memorial Day was observed in order to rest after a long long day at the Indianapolis 500. I may be living in Atlanta this summer, but I really am a Hoosier. It seems logical, really. You spend all day in the sun, enjoying the standard IndyCar festivities...you would be tired from such an event.

This year, I'll try to do it all on Memorial Day. I will wear white. I will think of those who have fought (and are fighting) in wars.

And on the Sunday before, I will even cheer for Marco Andretti. I will wave my black and white checkered flag and maybe even eat a bratwurst. Then, of course, on Memorial Day, I will rest.

There is something to be said for Baby Einstein...

I think my sister's baby is actually a genius. Am I allowed to say that? Is it bragging even if she is not my baby?

Well, I might even be willing to brag about this- it's that impressive. You might want to brag about her, too, after you read this story. You can even pretend she is your sister's baby if it makes the storytelling better.

You see, Lily is just over one year old and she is ready to potty train. Impressive, right? The other night, at bedtime, Courtney (my sister) called me to explain that when Lily knew she had to go number two, she asked to go on the toilet.

That's pretty amazing for a baby that just turned one.

Courtney has also taught her sign language, all of her body parts, the sound nearly any animal makes and downward facing dog (Courtney really is into yoga). Most babies her age are just learning to talk and Lily is practically competing in oratory contests.

I will take a moment to admit one of Lily's weaker areas (this might make up for my bragging). She did have a hard time growing teeth. It took them a while to start. They're coming in now, though. Sometimes slow and steady wins the race, you know? We're not sharks; she has to be careful with those baby teeth!

I'm going home for Memorial Day and I expect big things from Lily. She and Courtney are picking me up from the airport and I won't be shocked if Lily is sipping Starbucks and driving.

Unfortunately, the idea of Lily-the-prodigy driving at age one might be a far-off dream in Indianapolis if people really start to pursue this idea of raising the driving age.

I wouldn't have wanted my mom and dad driving me to high school senior year (and don't even act like the bus is a real option, here). And I certainly wouldn't have wanted my mom and dad to have to drive me to college for the first two years.

I can see how 18 might be an option (though I remain steadfast in the 16 boat). However, 21 is a little far-fetched. We'll have to see if this really escalates into a debate, as predicted. All I know is that if it does turn into a real debate, I want Miss Lily the orator on my side.