Happy weekend, kittens! Apologize for all the soppy posts lately, but I promise I’ve got something mind-numbingly idiotic to post for Monday. Prepare your most condescnding pity-moues, loves, ’cause I did something absolutely imbecilic. ’til then, though, two serious questions and a few silly answers.

1) As you may have noticed, after ten ad-free months, I’ve started sporting a BlogHer sidebar on the left. This is part of a meek attempt to monetize my site enough to pay for itself. But level with me, loves: do the ads bug you? You guys are the lifeblood for the project, and if you find the addition of advertising to the site offensive, let me know and I’ll do away with it at once.

Full disclosure: I first posted the ad code on Wednesday morning and, since then, have made approximately $7.50. By my extremely advanced calculations, this suggests I’ll be earning around $75.00 a month which, while indentured servitude wages for the amount of tie I spend writing this thing, is actually a pretty huge chunk of change to yours truly. That said, if it pains you, I’ll call off the code instantly. So let me know! (And, if there aren’t complaints, please don’t be alarmed or disheartened if you note some changes in my sidebars over the next few days: I want to play around with different ad systems to see how I can most efficiently earn a little $$$. But after experimenting, I promise to settle on no more than one sidebar ad situation, and a non-evil one, at that.)

2) As you really may have noticed: THE PROJECT IS ALMOST DONE! Currently I’ve got a double handful of NTKOGs left — just enough to fill up my blog ’til the deadline of August 23. That said, my parents happen to be in town the weekend before my deadline, and I was planning on having a little party with them to celebrate the best year of my life.

If I were to, theoretically, open the party up to my readers — nothing fancy, just drinks and apps at one of my favorite local bars — might you be interested in attending? Let us say the evening of Saturday, August 21. Somewhere in Boston or Brookline. I’m just looking to gauge interest to see what venue would be appropriate for this small but heartfelt affair.

Let me know your thoughts, guys! Yes, this is absolutely me giving you homework. Smooches!

Merry Christmas, kittens. Hope you’re having wonderful days with the families — or, depending on yo’ fam, drinking deeply of the eggnog and powering through.

Apparently I’m on hiatus ’til I’m back in Boston, because I am like a thirteenth century French peasant when it comes to time zones. But see you sporadically ’til the new year? Then definitely returning to five posts a week.

My apologies, guys, but I’m in the middle of a crazy move (why does Boston, as a city, think it a good idea that 90% of all leases start on September 1? If you ever want to see a mile-long traffic jam consisting entirely of U-Hauls, then dude, look no further.)

I’ve been being not-me all over town the past couple days, in whatever time isn’t taken up by designing custom light-switch plates and coffee tables for my new apartment, and will be posting up a storm as soon as I have internet. (And, while we’re at it, after I get my gas and electricity turned on…)

Starting tomorrow, it’s time to see just exactly what kind of girl I’m not.

I mean, you know, tomorr-ish, negotiating writing time around various flights, layovers, and time changes. Because while I don’t yet know what kind of girl I am not, I certainly can tell you I am the kind of girl who hasn’t gotten a full night’s sleep in a month and a half. Groan.

Also, unless I get to the ATM in time, I might just end up finding out whether I’m the kind of girl who’s ballsy enough to tip the skycap in two-dollar bills. So much to do; so little time to do it.

Not that I would ever be the kind of girl to shirk, but guys, let’s get down to brass tacks and make a few rules. (Maybe it’s the Martha Stewart fan in me, but gosh, I love rules!) After all, any joe shirtsleeves off the street could do 250 new things in a year — you’d have to be in a coma not to. But do I really want to look back on the written archive of my life when I was 23, living in a new city and had the world at my feet, and read pages of: “I used cruise control for the first time! Woo hoo!” and “This new conditioner makes me realize that this is the best of all possible universess!”?

I do not.

So, some basic guidelines:

1. In the next 365 days, I will do 250 things — crazy things, wonderful things, horrifying and appalling things — that I thought I was not the kind of person to do before.
2. These aren’t necessarily 250 things I’ve never done: after all, for example, I have fired a gun before (once), but just because I have doesn’t mean I am the kind of person who, as a matter of course, fires a gun.
3. Conversely, just because I haven’t done something before doesn’t make it fair game. (See also: cruise control example above. Seriously, does anyone know how the hell to use that thing?!)
4. Posts five times a week. No ifs, ands, or buts. (But extended hangovers? Wiggle room. Come on, guys, I’m a reasonable person.)
5. While I’m willing to significantly shake up my life, I cannot risk my livelihood. I will not do anything that jeopardizes my employment (um, when I get some), puts my employer in a bad light, or is really actually quite illegal. (ie: casual heroin addict? Not going to happen. Casual jaywalker? We’ll talk.)
6. NTKOGs must be at least somewhat premeditated. “Oooh, I just bumped into John Cusack on the street! I would hardly say I’m the kind of girl who routinely runs into John Cusack…”* won’t cut it. “Whoa, there is a fountain in which I am not swimming. Rectify!” totally will.
7. This is so “Truth or Dare” I can’t believe I even have to be stern with myself about it, but: no matter how vile or terrible what I do is, I cannot tell people I am doing it for a blog. Sounds like fun and games now, right? But just wait until I take a spin as the kind of person who makes phone calls from a public restrooms. I’m shuddering already.
8. That’s it. Here’s to a friggin’ wonderful year!

*Lies and propaganda. I stood in line behind John Cusack at a fro yo emporium a few years ago, and accidentally-on-purpose bumped into him TWICE. So John Cusack and I are basically best friends. Gosh, John, fall out of love with me already.

Welcome. In a few days I am preparing for an enormous life change: leaving Northern California, home of my halcyon recent undergraduate days, bastion of light and love and the slow-food movement, and my very happy recently ended four-year relationship — and for what? A cramped studio apartment in Boston, MA, and an attempt to live the starving artist dream.

If you’d asked me six months ago, I never would have conceived of trading year-round farmers’ markets and what I thought was a marriage-bound relationship for the cold, humid unknown. But my life felt stagnant, so one day nearly out of the blue I ate my last organic mango, hired a realtor, gave the boyf the boot. All very not-me. And maybe I’ll live to regret it.

But until that day, I’ve decided to capitalize on this crazy wave of acting like a completely different person. I’ve been happy enough all these years, but I’m starting to think that just happy enough isn’t friggin’ happy enough. After so many years of having friends, family, advisors and colleagues telling me what I am and am not, and being circumscribed by my own idea of What Kind Of Girl I Am, I decided: fuck it. I’m not doing everything totally wrong, that’s true, but maybe there are things that would make me happier.

Hence, the Not That Kind Of Girl project: over the next 365, starting from my move to Boston, I’m going to try being some kind of girl I always assumed I wasn’t. Some small things (trying sushi for the first time, despite my icthyophobia, or getting up and dancing on a bar), and some pretty major (raw food diet while reupholstering a couch, anyone?)

Over the next 365 days, from August 21, 2009 – August 21, 2010, I commit to doing 250 insane, macabre, gauche, selfless, whatever COMPLETELY NOT ME things and documenting how or even whether they change my idea of just what kind of girl I am, anyway.