All Dogs Go to Heaven

So this year at school, we got a nun. As a child, nuns in the Catholic school system were pretty commonplace. We always had a couple in plain clothes - rapping knuckles and sniffing out gum {Sr. Teresa) or making notes about pencil marks on art work while singing songs about "Happy Cats" {Sr. Charlene}. However, as time passed, a nun - especially one in full habit, no less - has become similar to the mythical unicorn. We imagine the possibility of them without actually seeing them in "real life". When I was young, it should also be noted that I wanted to BE a nun {for a minuscule stint while learning about the rosary and its importance to prayer}. Therefore, my fixation with wimples, and "penguin suits" is long standing. I started out highly enthusiastic about her presence - until the day she revealed herself to be {almost} soulless...

Each week, I'd prepare my class for the nun's arrival. We'd discuss the appropriate way to address her {Yes, Sister... No Sister} and questions not to ask {Don't you ever change your clothes?}. I'd carefully remind them not to correct her grammar or word choice {She is European, and English is very much NOT her first language}. To the class' credit, they'd adapted well to having her in and out each week. Most of her lessons closely mirrored our textbook and they were in awe of her clothing and lilting speech. In their innocent minds, she could have been the Virgin Mary - until the day she discussed All Souls Day.

Most Catholics know that All Souls Day and All Saints Day are inexplicably linked in Catholic school lessons. Though overshadowed by Halloween, they are important feast days and can occasionally get you out of school for at least an hour for mass. But Sister was adamant that all students {regardless of age, class, color, or creed} should know the importance of All Saints Day - and that ALL humanity could strive to sainthood and the glories of heaven. She painted a beautiful picture of angels, light, and love. It could have all ended blissfully and we could have gone right back to making construction paper witches. But then, she opened the floor for questions.

All teachers are aware of the dangers of allowing students to ask ANY questions - particularly if the topic is Religion at a school where many students are non-Catholic and think the crucifix is a "plus sign". Sister is the epitome of Julie Andrews/Maria naiveté though, and feels that honesty in all cases {especially those where immortal souls are involved} is imperative. So when one of my students earnestly mentioned how he was eager to get to heaven with the saints and his recently deceased dog, I knew that the bucolic picture being portrayed on my Calendar Carpet was about to come to a screeching halt that not even St. Michael the Archangel could stop.

Upon hearing the wee tot's comment, I abruptly stopped typing homework reminders and tried to catch the eye of the young nun. But it was too late, she was already talking - and what she said was the shot heard round the world to a group of seven year olds {and their fur baby loving teacher}.

"But your pet will not be there," her broken English explained. "Animals don't have souls."

The slow motion montage in my head began - me launching myself away from the computer and towards the Calendar Carpet. Going airborne to tackle Sister to the ground and shove a whiteboard eraser into her mouth. Clapping my hands over the ears of each child {impossibly} to block those words that were devastating to all of us. I was snapped out of my nightmare by the sound of uncontrollable, hysterical sobbing - a chorus of  turmoiled children whose dogs, cats, and gerbils were now burning in the pits of Hell or languishing in Purgatory {the theme of last week's nun lesson}. 

Sister looked at me with anxious eyes and scrambled to cover her ass. But it was too late. The damage had been done and the children were having none of her backtracking. As I hurried her into the corner she looked at me and asked innocently - "but what I should have done? Lie to them?"

YES! Unequivocally, irrevocably, unabashedly YES. You should have lied. Or better yet you should have DIVERTED. The top tool of teachers everywhere who come upon a question that is not appropriate or that will open the proverbial Pandora's Box. You point out the amazingly shiny rosary beads in your pocket or that it is snack time. But you DO NOT {under any circumstances} open your mouth to insert your foot. And this is why teaching our youth should not be left to amateurs. 

After ushering our guest out, I swept back to the sea of tears to do damage control. One of my faves {we all have them - don't lie} looked up at me with tear-streaked cheeks and blubbered, "But my M-m-mom said he was in HEAVEN!" before falling into a fresh deluge of waterworks. And those tears, paired with my own steadfast belief propelled me into a sermon for the ages...

"Well what do Y'ALL think?!" I postured vehemently. "Because I think that if God gave us such amazing friends with four legs that we love so much that He would NOT take them from us forever. God made them each special and unique - just like us. And none of us have even BEEN to Heaven. Not even her." And with that I folded my arms with a "that's that" air of finality and led the way back to construction paper witches. 

As we picked up the pieces and rewrote Catholic doctrine, another small voiced piped up amid the hum of happy work. "Mrs. Perin is right... Someone should show Sister that movie we watched in first grade... "All Dogs Go to Heaven". Damn straight, Kid - I thought as I returned to my homework reminders. Because if Heaven doesn't have four-legged greeters, I'd just as soon stay home. 

XO,  

Up in the Air

I've never been what you'd call a jet setter. Flying to various destinations wasn't something that thrilled me - rather it was the obvious way to travel to far-flung locales to engage in adventures with a revolving cast of characters. During my college days, I was quite the traveller - getting briefly detained in a Russian airport for additional passport check... meeting a Spring Break fling for an ill-fated weekend in Colorado Springs... serving as an additional {literal} crutch for my childhood best friend as we navigated La Guardia and Grand Central Station... dragging my younger brother into his window seat when a turbaned man entered the cabin on a post 9/11 flight to Philly... My college dorm room cork board displayed each ticket stub as a badge of honor - I was going to be a worldly woman!

As time went on, the opportunities and flight destinations gradually trickled to a stop. Until this weekend it had been two YEARS since I'd set foot on a metal bird. {Though not for lack of trying - I've planned several unsuccessful trips to San Francisco and even turned up at the airport for a weekend trip to Huntsville. I left the Columbus Airport in a blaze of righteous anger after my flight was pushed back three times in an hour.} So it was with mounting trepidation and a minimal amount of excitement that I arrived {an hour and a half early} to the Southwest terminal to head to Spartanburg, SC for a Pure Barre training.

My boarding passes pre-printed and my carry on bag packed with travel-safe toiletries and lululemon attire, I flashed my ID at the disinterested TSA officer and joined the throng searching for departure gates... immediately finding my plane to be delayed. My already jangled nerves took another hit {I'd already been close to tears while dropping off Jolene at the kennel and had strong armed my mother into confirming that "whatever happened to me, she would get to Jolene immediately in case of emergency"}. This wasn't the great return to the friendly skies that I'd imagined...

Several hours, two boardings, three packs of peanuts, one bumpy landing, and 10 chapters of a library book later, I made it to Spartanburg's airport. Or at least, that's what the sign said. I quizzically checked out the extensive renovations occurring throughout the large rectangular room that boasted an "international airport". Chalking up my bad attitude to fatigue and mild motion sickness, I quickly found my town car and set up an internal tally - two take-off/landings down, two more to go! Little did I know that my desire to "fly away home" was about to hit major turbulence.

Post training, I returned to the "little airport that could" and posted up next to the "healthy foods" kiosk {which coincidentally boasted a meager smattering of KIND bars, dried fruit, and diet drinks}. My flight was already delayed and I'd already called my mother to rail on the lack of civilized dining options at the airport. Upon leaving, I was elated and thought that my time in "holding patterns" was over. Then I landed in Baltimore and the real fun began. {I really can't make this stuff up}.

Upon my arrival to Baltimore {crab cakes and football - that's what Maryland does! - sorry, random movie quote}, the death blow was dealt. My flight, scheduled to leave in 2 hours at 10pm, had been pushed back to 1 in the morning. In record time, I experienced the 12 stages of grief... I shouldered my bag, now a little heavier, and made my way to the food court. From my past days as a frequent flyer, I vaguely remembered a Jamba Juice stationed in the center of a concourse. My spirits lifted at the thought of a frozen, fruity concoction.

And there was a Jamba Juice {cue "Chariots of Fire" as I slow motion run towards the register}... only the night got even better, as I noticed a line of disgruntled customers begin to harangue the cashier. Apparently, the less than stellar staff of Jamba Juice had either mishandled the computer system or couldn't work the super blenders. "Tirty minute wait", the cashier screeched in broken English as two young women with brightly colored talons and heavy gold hoops lounged against the counter in Jamba Juice visors. I may have had four hours, but I sure as hell wasn't spending them waiting for this Rihanna video to wrap!

My will was breaking and the idea to rent a car was starting to sound pretty appealing. I grudgingly bought another book, contemplated a Baltimore Ravens sweatshirt to stay warm {at least I am fascinated by Ray Lewis?}, and tried to stay reasonably healthy with a Chipotle burrito bowl. I hunkered down in the airport equivalent to a La-z-boy and {unsuccessfully} fought the urge to purchase an Auntie Anne's pretzel {survival mode and carb loading had set in}.

I rotated reading and riffling through iPhone photos of my dog as the hours passed until mercifully, an angel named Chuck announced the arrival of flight 476, service to Columbus. While my fellow passengers emitted shouts of joy and a couple wolf whistles, I gritted my teeth for another take-off. As I called my mother and husband to announce the final leg of the journey from Hell, I hissed my intent to NEVER fly again unless heavily medicated. And yet, the story still wasn't over. I took my seat and {ashamedly} almost burst into tears when several questionable individuals boarded without carry-ons or reading material { I took this a sure sign of terroristic intent}. An hour later, passing in and out of a sleep stupor, I said a prayer of thanks as we FINALLY took off!

My way too eventful trip finished rather quietly. Aside from getting momentarily confused as to where I'd parked my car,  I made it home quickly and I gratefully crawled into bed at 3pm. For now, I can safely say that the only "flight" I want to see is one of wine samples. Cheers to keeping my feet on the ground for awhile.

XO,

Sacramental Shenanigans

I've only recently cooled down enough to capture this epic event for the blog. Every time I thought of it, my skin crawled and my blood boiled - definitely not physical changes that should be synonymous with the Catholic sacraments {but nevertheless}. At the beginning of May, my students received the sacrament of First Eucharist, one of {I believe} THE quintessential components of growing up Catholic {can I get an "Amen"?!}. Despite my best intentions and irrepressible excitement, I should have known it was a bad sign when the priest in charge chose Derby Day for the blessed event.

"But that's Derby Saturday!" I exclaimed, aghast. {I foolishly thought that this was also a high holy day nation-wide; however, Yankees from the barbaric Buckeye State apparently don't understand this tried and true tradition}. My cries went unheard and the date was marked in ink - on the morning of Derby 2014, ten {mildly} holy 2nd graders would receive Jesus in Body and Blood. I vowed to make it an event to remember and trusted in the Religious Education office to steer me in the right direction. {Little did I know, they couldn't steer a rotary bike - much less a sacramental mass of this magnitude}. I was, as they say, up a creek {without a priest or paddle}.

As the day approached, I jumped through a variety of ill-timed hoops set by the Church Office. I found Baptismal Certificates {twice}, filled out order forms for educational paraphernalia {three times}, and asked {a million bajillion times} if there was anything else I needed to do for the preparation. I organized a parent informational meeting for Father to instruct parents and students on requirements {he didn't come}, I emailed him questions {he didn't answer} and I finally cornered him after Mass to demand First Penance for my ragtag band of lambs. {That was a fiasco for another day}. Still, I asked what else I could do - what the Mass itself needed, and I was told that it was "taken care of". {Famous. Last. Words.}

Fast forward to the week of First Eucahrist {and the week AFTER Spring Break}. I open my email to find a missal from the Church Office full of questions concerning the Mass that is to occur in FIVE days. Who's doing the music, who's officiating, who's doing the readings, what are the readings, how many First Communicants, do you want fries with that??? {The last one was NOT included, but would not have shocked me anymore than the first fifteen}. I was flabbergasted and furious - for months I'd begged for these instructions, only to receive them in the eleventh hour. I would need to {forgive the football expression - Coach's Wife, y'know} THROW A HAIL MARY.

In true Southern style, I whipped together a pretty impressive presentation. A reception, decorations, exquisite music {complete with Southern melodies... "Let Us Break Bread Together", anyone?!}. I was patting myself on the back for a job well done, despite a wrench {or five} in the plans. I had even planned an outfit that spoke to my Southern roots {and the holy occasion I was missing at home}, wearing a turquoise fascinator with last year's Derby dress. {This elicited confused looks from many parents and an adoring "Yes Ma'am" from a "Church Lady" helping with the punch}.

Father First-in-Line had presided over a shoddy rehearsal the day before First Eucharist, and lucky for me, I'd planned for that. My students had been practicing the procession all week and had it down to a science. I wasn't at all worried when they began their slow crawl down the aisle, and I even remained relatively calm during the Liturgy of the Word. Then, Father left out the Creed. {Big deal, think the Protestants}. But it WAS a big deal, because I'd broken my BACK to have them memorize {or at least impressively fake} the Nicene Creed. It was a tradition - an expectation - a necessity. And. he. left. it. out. My irritation began to spread...

Although I'd tried to beg off, it had been decided that I would serve as the extra Eucharistic Minister. This always makes me nervous, even more so due to Father First-in-Line's ultra-conservative, pre-Vatican II, put women in the back of the Church way of thinking. He had insisted on using a communion rail, and I'd had to look up the protocol in the original Gutenberg Bible {a slight joke. but only SLIGHT}. I was genuinely worried about my 10 lambs on the rail, but figured they'd be fine for the short time it took to minister the sacrament. So, relatively unconcerned {but moderately incensed}, I approached the altar  prior to communion and was met with a look from Father that would take paint off a fence {a Southern euphemism}.

He kept glaring at me, and muttering something incoherent. My anxiety level was hurtling skyward as I sidestepped to the right and left, trying {in vain} to deduce where he wanted me. He kept throwing his head towards the front of the altar and so I quick-stepped {in sky high heels and a sheath dress, with full flowered fascinator} as subtly as possible {in said outfit} to gingerly kneel beside the servers. {My perky Pure Barre "ledge" to the congregation}. Father was still grimacing and finally gnashed "THE CHILDREN" - meaning, they should be at the rail.

It was at this point that the full vitriolic weight of my fury unleashed and I shot him a look that would not only remove paint, but burn the fence to ashes as well. I turned with as much pride as I could muster and beckoned frantically for the lambs to hit the wood. Not only had Father made me look like a moron, with my backside on full display, but he'd now placed ten 7-8 year olds on a wooden rail in front of {literally} God and everybody for roughly ten more minutes of ritualistic preparation. We were {to use another well-known saying} "dead in the water".

My delusions of eucharistic grandeur died slowly as one well-dressed lad picked his nose; one little lamb picked at her stocking, and one indigent picked his butt. I cringed as they sagged out of prayer position into puddles of navy blazers and white veils. My own traditions and beliefs came crashing to a halt when I was also {strongly} encouraged to take communion on the tongue - something I'd NEVER done in my life. Finally {blessedly} it ended and I valiantly stuck it out through the reception that followed. Mercifully {although horribly for the kids}, Father didn't attend.

Later, I saw Father First-in-Line and before I could turn in the opposite direction, he approached me to tell me he wasn't "angry with me" for how First Eucharist "turned out." I bit my tongue immediately and tensed every fiber of my being. I thought about my Catholic upbringing - of my own First Eucharist experience. Of the special music piece {If I Were a Butterfly}, my mother's insistence that I couldn't wear a veil or white shoes {you're not a bride and it's not Memorial Day yet}, and how important I'd felt when Father Clarence Howard had come {briefly} to my First Communion reception and drank some of my Granny's sherbet punch. I thought of the priests who celebrated with me at Confirmation, at weekly Mass, the nuns who schooled me on the saints and the sacraments. I remembered the nun who gave me my first teaching job and the priest who married me and Coach John, and all the ones whom I'd loved and wished could have co-celebrated. And I did what {I hope and pray} would make them proud.

I turned around and stood erect, gave a piercing stare, and said in my most regal and no-nonsense nun tone {Thank you, Sisters Teresa, Charlene, and Michael Marie} - "You don't have anything to be mad about." And that's the Gospel truth.

XO,

The MedVet Miracle

On Sunday, Coach John and I loaded up the SUV with pizza and the pup. We headed out to the 'burbs to do what all young families do - play outdoor games, watch ESPN, and let "the kids" run amok for hours in a fenced in backyard. I absolutely adore these afternoons because it means that Sunday nights are quiet and uneventful. The fur diva, Jolene, takes to her bed early and without the usual antics. {Her bedtime hissy fits rival that of the most obnoxious toddler - but with more acrobatics and broken household goods}.

While Mrs. Coach and I traded school stories and the coaches compared war wounds and stud recruits, Jolene and her puppy friend Bane played a violent version of bumper cars in the backyard. We had just started our second game of {unsportsmanlike} Lawn Golf when the idyllic afternoon quiet was broken by Jolene's shrill screams. Immediately, the "Mom" gene engaged and I {unconcernedly} trampled Coach John and a Lawn Golf ladder to get to my fur-baby. She had fallen over in a panic, unable to put weight on a front paw.

After what seemed like an hour of pressing and patting, I couldn't discern any obvious injury; however Jolene was still howling to beat the band. She struggled to run after her friend, who'd been dragged from the scene of the crime and chastised severely. {It should be noted that he was NOT the cause of her outburst - but his parents are good people and were mortified}. We {note, I} made the decision to head to OSU's {uber-expensive} emergency 24 hour clinic. I knew it could be a passing pain, but didn't want to risk Jolene's mobility on the desire to eat another piece of pizza.

With much panting and groaning {on Coach John's part}, we hauled the frantic 65 lb. toddler to the car. Her consternation grew rapidly when she realized her playdate was over and tears sprang to my eyes when she couldn't hold herself upright to say goodbye. I expected the worst, driving like a maniac behind Coach John and my fur baby. {I may or may not have mildly cursed him when he made the wrong turn on campus, resulting in five more minutes of aimless driving while my baby needed critical medical care}. We came into the parking lot like a NASCAR Sprint Team and began the extraction of the patient from the back seat of the car.

It was at this point that I became slightly suspect of the severity of Jolene's injuries. Instead of waiting docilely for her father to lift her from the car, she began wriggling into smaller, faraway spaces - SNAPPING at him with her wicked jaws and laughing at our angst-ridden efforts. She would {for effect} throw out the occasional high-pitched wail to keep up what was starting to seem like an Oscar worthy charade. Nevertheless, I continued the pilgrimage to save my "child" and heaved her from the vehicle in a moment of CrossFit inspired strength.

She PRANCED into the waiting room. There's really no other word to describe it. This dog-wolf in sheep's clothing had made a miraculous recovery in the parking lot of the MedVet and was now practically tap-dancing to the desk to sign in. The secretary gave us a confused, then disdainful look as I explained that this was in fact the dog I'd called about in a state of panic earlier. At that point, I embarrassedly pushed Coach John to the receptionist desk to explain while I dragged Jolene and her shit-eating grin into a far corner.

We were surrounded by owners whose animals were in the center of real emergencies, people in TEARS and others waiting stoically with older, infirm animals. My mortification took a leap up when Jolene began crouching and baiting a geriatric retriever with a diaper to play with her. It was pushed to epic heights when a Triage 3 team came OUT with their tools so that, if in fact Jolene was the world's greatest method actor, we wouldn't be charged the astronomical fee of just walking into a patient room.

Fifteen minutes later, the sweetest veterinary student ever had poked, prodded, and dodged Jolene's advances with no diagnosis of doom. She even gamely suggested a heart listen. {Sometimes, she lied to help us save face, animals will outwardly be okay when they're internally in distress}. Jolene's heartbeat was a picture of perfect health, much like her gait and swagger as she {unperturbedly} left the building. Her parents {in contrast} hastily scampered out behind her, tails between their legs with shame.

What we'd witnessed could only be described as something of Biblical proportions. A {MedVet} miracle - where the blind shall see, the deaf shall hear, and the lame will fake an $130 injury and walk {unassisted} again...

XO,  

Adventures at the {Anti} Social {In} Security Office

After the marriage bells' toll was only an echo, I knew it was finally time to stop living as two people and officially change my name. It wasn't necessarily the feeling of nostalgia of carrying my name for {ahem} quite some time, nor the feminist fueled desire to keep my own surname. The primary reason I'd avoided formally altering my identity was my intense detestation for the DMV and the Social Security Office. Both of this institutions are a vortex of time, where no one escapes in under an hour. I was loathe to go - until I realized I'd have to take a sick day to do it. {Fortunately or unfortunately - depending on your perspective, these government strongholds tout the same schedules as schools and make it pretty tricky for honest, hard-working teachers to drop in without an absence. Since I often handily leave my honesty and work ethic by the wayside for mental health days, this didn't affect me per se....}

I did thorough research and chose to visit offices out of metro Columbus. I'd learned my lesson when pursuing background checks last year {see earlier post on Manners in the North} and knew that wandering lost through the annals of the federal building of downtown wouldn't leave me any time for a leisurely lunch or an afternoon sesh at PB. After mapping out my routes and paying close attention to the difference in hours {DMV opened 2 hours prior to Social Security - obvious starting point was the DMV}, I made sure to pack all necessary information and started my misadventure. I should have known that the federal government would never make things easy... or efficient.

I was third in line at the DMV, which greatly improved my mood. With my cheery Southern hospitality at the forefront, I smiled at the {frumpy, toad-like, totally unprofessionally pajama clad} attendant behind the desk. I clearly stated my intent to obtain an Ohio State Driver's License {only six mere months after entering the state as a resident and worker... but we'll keep that on the hush}. "Dawn" {why, why did she have to have a mullet and a redneck woman moniker?!} wasn't impressed by my manners or my pearly whites, but she was put out by the fact that I hadn't been next door to get an eye test. Undeterred by her impatience and lack of work place hygiene, I skipped next door and presented myself for inspection {20/20 - of course} then high-tailed it back over to wait for "Barb"{"Dawn"'s younger, even less helpful co-worker}.

After jumping through a few more hoops and hearing "Barb" huff loudly when I reapplied my lipstick prior to being photographed {which was totally acceptable back in the civility of the South}, I emerged with license in hand and sped off jubilantly to the Social Security office {thirty minutes away}. I would make it before the doors opened! And my joy continued... Until I arrived to a line of 20 disgruntled citizens searching for retirement pensions, ID cards, or replacement cards. {One young woman - notice I don't say "lady" - spent forty minutes speak-screaming at a facilitator because she'd lost her Social Security card with her purse at the bar in Florida. She also lost her driver's license, and needed her SS card to obtain a new license, but without a license.... you get the idea. Like I mentioned - vortex of time.}

Armed with a book and a keen eye for "observation", I watched a multitude of "foreigners" {to use my Gramps' words} comically punch buttons on the ticket window screen with looks of befuddlement. I watched the ticker tape news scroll across in 10 languages and {alternating between shame and irritation} wondered why "Merica" was the only country that catered to non-English speakers. No one in my overseas travels has ever cared if I knew what the news of the day was... Other than an hour wait {virtually a prize}, those were the highlights of the Social Security Office. I was mildly disappointed when I sat down in front of my worker and began the simple process of changing my name.

And then, it hit. The misadventure. This isn't the address you wrote on your form, the man informed me kindly/inquisitively. He indicated my newly minted driver's license and my fill out portion. And I almost abandoned my sweet Southern sensibilities. Because right there in black and red was a MISPRINT on my license. I was spitting fire by the time I left good ole SS and drove at warp speed back across town to the DMV.

Back in front of "Dawn", I calmly explained {putting some fault on myself as well} the predicament. And I would have been genteel about accepting partial responsibility for not "double checking" before I left. {I just incorrectly assume that others do their job with the same level of conscientiousness as I do... eye roll, snort...} But then "Dawn" did the unthinkable. She wrinkled her non-made up face and pointed at me with her acrylic and said.... Well you must have written it down wrong.

Let's be frank. I don't write things down wrong. I don't make letters that look like other letters. I don't make my 1's look like 7's or my 0's look like O's. Because I am a teacher of small children and I have impeccable penmanship. {And I double check my work - because I am no hypocrite!} So at that point, I lost my perky attitude and lowered my voice to a more "business-like" level. I explained to "Dawn" that I'd like to see my paperwork before she charged me to process another license. Because I didn't think I'd made a mistake. I thought she and her {Croc-wearing} co-worker had. "Dawn" started to back off of her bravado then and mumbled something about taking it in the back. I told her I'd wait - and see it BEFORE she took it to her manager. I narrowed my eyes and dug in my ballet flats {great on-the-go errand running shoes}.

Turns out, it was on "Dawn" and her illiterate ally "Barb". My address was there in "black ink only" beautifully sturdy print - and it was CORRECT. My eyes flashed in triumph as my license was reprinted and I DID NOT apologize for stopping "Barb" to reapply my lipstick AND fluff my hair. Because this Southern girl is neither anti-social, nor insecure when she's right... And let's face it, the only thing pretty about a license from "Up North" is the Southern girl smiling in it!

XO,

Lines from a "Low Talker"

Many who follow my {mis}adventures in education are familiar with one of this year's class personalities whom I've deemed "Low Talker". I've fallen behind on the antics of Low Talker and his classmates lately - what with getting married, freezing to death on the regular, and being an excellent puppy mom... So I've decided to dedicate a few minutes to a compilation of the "Best of Low Talker". If you need a laugh or a moment of insight, this is your opportunity. Despite the oft-exclaimed "this can't be true!" of my regular readers, I assure you - this is the absolute truth. Couldn't make it up if I tried...

{Not So} Nuts about "The Nutcracker"

Before Christmas, I collaborated with fellow teachers to take our classes to the Ohio Theater for a performance of "The Nutcracker". This was a partially selfish endeavor, as I {personally and unabashedly} LOVE this ballet. I couldn't have asked for a more gorgeous location either - painted ceilings, ridiculously elaborate chandeliers, and luxe curtains... if you tuned out the hundreds of {poorly behaved} students. Finally, the lights lowered and the entire theater {thankfully} quieted to enjoy the show. 

The field trip went off without a hitch - all of my students came back in one piece and looked pretty sharp while doing it - especially Low Talker, who'd sported both a sweater vest AND sweater to the event. I asked if he wanted to remove the top layer to show off the bottom and was met with a resounding NO. Apparently, this was the image he'd envisioned while dressing for the theater. We spend quite a bit of time explaining the story and discussing elements like setting, plot and characters. Finally, students were assigned to write about their favorite character. 

We listed some characters and some details about them to prove why they could be considered a favorite, and I didn't think anything was going to be too insightful {or comical} when Low Talker raised his hand. I was, however, VERY wrong. Low Talker cited the Mouse King as his favorite part of the story and unapologetically held his opinion despite the outcry from his peers. I was curious {aren't you?!} and asked him to explain his choice to the class. Without missing a beat, Low Talker said he thought he was cool, scary, etc. I pointed out that he was the villain of the show. Shaking his head dismissively and looking me straight in the eye, Low Talker made his final arguments. 

"Ms. Berry," he crooned in his delightful baritone, "have you ever thought that all he wanted was a little cheese?!" With that, I was put in my place and Low Talker got to work in his Writer's Journal. I was instantly chastened. Because after all, don't we all feel happier after a cube or two of Gouda?

The "Mrs." Claus{e} 

Later in the last week before break, we took a breather from our flurry of academics and activities to watch a Christmas classic - "The Year Without a Santa Claus". It was a safe bet, as most students couldn't whine that they'd "seen this one before" and it lasted longer than 30 minutes. {Until you've tamed 25 second graders in the days leading up to Christmas break with countless whiffs of snow and sugary sweet treats, don't judge me}. Dubbed an awesome look at a Santa-less world, the class loved discussing the various ways Christmas could be saved. 

Suddenly, Low Talker raised his hand - coming out of some fog or parallel plain of the universe. I could tell something was on his mind and that it was bound to be blog-worthy, so I called on him. He didn't disappoint. 

"Mrs. Claus is a 'Mrs' because she has children." he bellowed, proud of this deduction... "but they weren't in the movie." With this proclamation, he looked at me accusatorially. I snuffed out a smirk and nodded sagely. 

"Low Talker," I said calmly, "Ms. Berry is getting married and then she'll be a 'Mrs.' - but I don't have any children."

He blinked, taking in this uncontested fact and pursed his lips. Placing a hand on his forehead in thought, he muttered to himself...

"Back to the drawing board...." I'm still waiting for the rebuttal. It will come, no doubt. 

The Holy Child {Support}

Last week, we returned to school and began talking about the Holy Family. I thought I was throwing out some amazing and thought-provoking religious education, especially when I presented a small group discussion about the similarities between Joseph and our own father figures. 

"What makes a good father?" I asked the class of bright-eyed cherubs. {I can say this because it was our first day back from a two week and two day break and they were already shell shocked from being back in routine}. The answers ran the gamut from "buying us pizza" to "taking me to the doctor" and were all pretty traditional, run-of-the-mill 'Dad' activities. Once again, Low Talker raised his hand; this time, with a very pleased look on his face. This usually indicated a high level of thought on his part and a very high possibility of suppressed laughter on my part. I decided I needed the shot of endorphins {back to school was hard on me too, after all}. I repeated the question and called his name...

"Good dads pay their child support on time!" he bellowed, eyes wide and chest puffed out with pride. I clamped my mouth shut as a high pitched sigh escaped and nodded vigorously. Before I could take the situation in hand, several other children began bobbing their heads up and down and giving short assents. Apparently, Low Talker was right on this one. Later, I was reviewing the day and prepping tomorrow's Religion lesson, I meditated on Low Talker's criteria for a good dad. I looked down at St. Joseph, standing next to Mary and the baby in the stable, and thought about him from Low Talker's point of view. 

Joseph was a stepdad. A good one - the kind who didn't ignore you {or worse} and who took really good care of your mom. He disciplined Jesus, and supported him, and even participated in an early world version of "take your kid to work day". He raised someone else's son {even if that someone was God}. I smiled and shook my head. Once again, I'd been schooled on something I thought I'd known more about than my students. 

So when I get on my educational high horse, I take a line or two from Low Talker's book. And most of the time, I get schooled at school. And I LOVE it! 

XO, 

Fro-Yo{ga}

Several years ago, I had my first brush with Bikram Hot Yoga. I was visiting my best friend, Lindsey, in Alabama and gamely agreed to attend a session at her local studio. Lindsey is known for her fanatical attitude towards fitness {juicing, CrossFit-like small group sessions, long distance running, etc} and I knew that there was a chance that this may result in pain or heart palpitations on my part. However, I'm slightly maniacal when it comes to exercise myself, and felt I was up for the challenge. I grabbed her extra mat, a specialized yoga towel, and a {too small} bottle of water and bravely saddled up for an early Saturday morning workout.

I {foolishly} thought that Hot Yoga would be a comfortable way to spend a chilly February morning. Most of the images I had of yoga contained a lot of Birkenstocks, granola, and meditation. I figured I was more than prepared, calculating my uber-athleticism to be a heavy pro in this situation. In fact, I secretly thought this wasn't going to be much of a workout, but more of a nap. With a small amount of cockiness, I filled out a waiver, half-heartedly listened to the spiel from the instructor, and rolled my eyes at the plethora of Buddhas and incense holders featured throughout the studio. Bunch of hippies, I snorted, and snapped the waistband of my Lululemon {full-length... this will matter in a minute} Wunder Unders. Bring it, Bikram!

An excruciating ninety minutes later {Lindsey neglected to impart this tiny bit of information until midway through Dante's Inferno}, I emerged five to ten pounds lighter with a keen longing to plunge my simmering skin into a melting snowdrift outside the studio doors. The hour and a half that had preceded this haze of endorphins and heat stroke was a blurry montage of images, sounds, and an internal mental commentary that doubled as a thermometer.

Before my initiation into the world of yoga, I envisioned toned, tanned hard bodies of both sexes demonstrating amazing flexibility and drinking delicious juice concoctions while they basked in a state of post-yoga bliss. Instead, I spent the standing series watching King Kong's third cousin stumble through Triangle and Tree in a dangerously small piece of blue spandex. Between his back hair and the copious amount of sweat rolling down his shoulders, I was pretty sure that my prior knowledge on yogis came from E! News and other Hollywood lies. I furtively tried to catch Lindsey's eyes each time the instructor mentioned the amount of time left or passed; however, she conveniently became absorbed by her mat/towel or the mirrors that were steaming over in this wheatgrass version of Hell. And those full-length yoga pants soon felt like a 10 pound wet blanket, creating a miserable sensation of humidity from heel to hip. It was an experience I wouldn't soon forget - and that scarred me for quite some time when it came to yoga {hot or otherwise}.

Fast forward to 2013 and my first winter north of the Mason-Dixon. Surrounded by snow drifts and frigid winds, I was desperate to be warm. No matter how high the thermostat was cranked or how many layers I sported while walking Jolene, I could never shake that icy feeling in my core {not to mention my fingers and toes}. When I inadvertently passed the Bikram studio on the way to somewhere else, it hit me like a white hot bolt of lightning - my frozen fingers and toes would undoubtedly thaw out if I could just push aside my strong aversion to all things yoga. Two days later, I was locked into a new member month unlimited opportunity {to ensure that I HAD to go more than once}.

I {admittedly} wised up on the wardrobe and sported a pair of yoga shorts with a tank. With a small fish tank's volume of water and a brightly colored beach towel/yoga mat combo - I was ready to better the Bikram beast. Once again, there were no six-packed sex symbols in sight; however, there was the welcome and immediate thawing of my body that resulted in my shoulders falling away from my ears for the first time since late October! With each pose, my attitude became a little more flexible {along with my hamstrings!}. I purposefully put the focus on me and started setting up mini-mental competitions for how far I could push myself. By the end of the 90 minutes, I'd sweat out my preconceived notions {and last night's two glasses of wine} and felt warmer than I had in weeks.

Now, I'm a {semi} regular in the studio and even garnered a compliment from my favorite instructor about how much he enjoyed watching my practice improve. I still occasionally get a little irritated at the green-eating hippies who take the experience to the max, but I'm getting over it. Maybe it's my new Zen attitude or maybe it's the warm feeling I get from head to to after a sweat sesh. Regardless, I have a new frigid weather fitness passion - I call it "Fro-Yo{ga}.

XO,