The BUCK Stops Here...

Let me start with - I absolutely love our apartment. Could this one bedroom/one-and-one-half bath be  slightly more spacious? For sure. Does the lack of a grill or outdoor "patio space" sometimes sadden me? Definitely. But I adore it - I love our neighborhood of dog-walking, stroller-pushing young professionals, the hipsters who write tomorrow' best-selling novel at the gazebo in the park two feet away, the friendly construction overseer in charge of the neighboring building of apartments who always compliments Miss Jolene on her growth and (occasional) manners, and especially the beautifully kept gardens and homes of the gay men on the next block.

It makes me feel (sappily and ironically) a little like Carrie Bradshaw - minus the sex, the booze, and the column. (I would lie to myself and say that the fashion is there... and it is, on the days I put on "cute" clothes instead of the t-shirt and cheer short combo that gets Jolene outside the quickest...) But as much as I love our neighborhood and our little (make that TINY) slice of heaven on the Short North, there are some things this Southern girl who is long past college would equally love to see vanish.

Unbeknownst to me, our neighborhood (apparently like all neighborhoods in Columbus?!) backs up to THE Ohio State University. Pet peeve number one is having people always throw that emphatic THE in when I've simply said "Ohio State University". I so far have been too well-mannered to say "If it's not in THE SEC, then it doesn't matter to ME." But I do clutch my pearls and purse my perfectly glossed lips together in mock chagrin!

Something else that has me raising an eyebrow - and I know I'll catch hell from many of my friends (Hello, Golden Coast - I'm looking at you!) for this one - are the number of rules that are clearly stated in our leasing contracts that are being broken on a regular basis. I am a school teacher. I like rules. And more importantly, I like rules that are followed. To the nines. EXPLICITLY. So when it says "No Alcohol or Glass at the pool", and I look up from my library book on a chaise in the sun and see your (not merely single bottle - but - ) 12 PACK of bottled Shock Top... I'm going to get a teensy bit perturbed. Because it's clearly stated on the wall of the pool house that you're doing something "illegal" in this little corner of paradise. At least have some decency and put it in a Red Solo cup - even Toby Keith has a little decorum and propriety!

Next- the weekend raucous parties that are going down routinely in the apartment above us. Now, I don't mind if you don't share my monkish hours. After all, not everyone has a precious pet who loves 5:00 am bathroom breaks. But a couple weeks ago, when dear Jolene was on the three-hour rotation, that meant a 2:00am excursion as well. Wasn't THAT a trip down college memory lane?! As I sleepily slung Jolene into the stairwell to stumble out into the dark, the pup and I came upon a couple in a "compromising" position.... in the STAIRWELL. Needless to say, she was no Southern Lady and he was no Rhett Butler.

I could have let the expose go with an eye roll and snort, but this insouciant "Long Island Princesses" wannabe reached out towards my preciously innocent fur baby and slurred "What a pretty puppy!" Before I could stop myself, my mother's lifelong example stepped in... mixed with a bit of my own tough streak.

"If you touch this dog... ever... I will punch you in the face," I threatened in a low, calculated voice that teachers, parents, and dog trainers everywhere know. With that, we proudly (if quickly) departed to "piddle" and I prayed profusely that the drunken duo would have found a room (nowhere NEAR mine) before we returned. I know - I was tacky, but in my defense - my dog's health and safety could have been at stake...

The circus continued at the 5:00 am bathroom outing. This time, Coach John took the lead and returned looking spooked. He was babbling about a man on the lawn, sleeping. I immediately awoke and asked if there were many homeless in the area. To which he responded "I think it's a drunk kid". Welcome (back) to the frat house, ma'am... I thought....

For the rest of the early Sunday morning, the anonymous drunkard became our hobby. We would lift the blinds, hoping to be inconspicuous, and note his minimal movements - especially when it began to rain. Finally, around 8:00 am, he roused himself and blundered down the sidewalks on his cellphone. It should be mentioned that he'd kicked off his shoes (perhaps in a fit of joy or drunken merriment?) and was in his sock feet as he disappeared down the block.

By the afternoon, all that was left of our induction into Buckeye nightlife were a gigantic pair of Nike sneakers and a Cincinnati Reds cap, left in the shrubbery where our vagrant friend had slept. We did, unabashedly, take photos to commemorate our first weekend in Columbus - but because we are classy, genteel people, they will only be shown in private... because the BUCK stops here...

XO,

Puppy Love

Let me set the scene... June has been an unbelievably busy month for Coach John and I. We attended our Catholic Engaged Encounter (which was, admittedly, much more meaningful and worthwhile than I originally intended it to be), signed the lease on our fab new apartment in the "with-it" Short North area, moved into said apartment (without a couch, a dresser, or a dining table - but with wall hangings), continued planning our winter wedding... And got a puppy... Because really, if you're going to upend your entire lives, why not go for it in a completely wholehearted and unabashed way?!

When you see her, you'll understand that there was really no question. I'm an avid dog lover - provided the dog is more protector than pocket-size. No offense to all my darlings toting pets of the toy variety; however, I like my dogs with paws like saucers and bodies like full-size bed pillows. And while she is small now, there is no doubt that the little lady sharing our new home will soon take up a bit more space and make me feel great about my weight and workout endeavors! Poor Coach John didn't really have a say - I've been campaigning for a German Shepherd since I knew he was "the One". My enthusiasm became contagious and before long, JP was searching Want Ads in the local paper to find us a canine companion. Despite the naysaying fathers that challenged our vision, we found the perfect puppy... in the hills and hollers of Breckenridge County. As my brother said upon hearing of her background, "Could you have gone further back in the sticks?!"

So it was only fitting that this lady from the backwoods of Kentucky should have a name that spoke of the South. We were after all holding tightly to the last strings of our belle heritage as we made the move to the "Yankee North". While walking alfalfa field laps with Big Pat before "pulling the trigger" on the purchase, we threw out strong female names for the new addition...

Thatcher (after Margaret)

Lilly P (after Pulitzer's preppy prints)

Dixie (the South will rise again?!)

Rowdy Girl (Designing Women episode, anyone)

Dolly? Reba? Minnie Pearl? June?.... 

And then, it came like a bolt out of the blue. So obvious - a name that spoke of sweet Southern summer nights and classic country music. So let me introduce you to the lovely lady....

Jolene (Berry-Perin... she's a modern gal after all)

Admit it, you fell just a little bit in love. It's been totes exciting spending time with Jolene exploring our new home north of the Mason Dixon. Here are just a few highlights of our 'getting to know you' experiences...

* Jolene has her mother's distaste for small dogs. She is already attempting to obliterate them with polite play. 

* Jolene is not much for the great outdoors - probably because there is too much concrete. Can't say that I totally blame her. 

* On our first weekend in the apartment, Jolene (playfully) bit an Ohio State football player. Let me assure you, he could have stood to lose the half pound she might have removed. You mess with the bull, you get the horns. Or puppy needle teeth, as was the case here. 

* Jolene is finding her bark, playing hard, and working to be released from her crate at night for late playdates. Her "dad" falls for this. Her "mom" does not. 

So, the fun continues. It's not easy - but it's perfect. It's always nice to have a buddy in a new place... even if she's got four feet and a tendency to dress in hipster black. And no, guy on the bike (another item that Jolene and I both abhor) - she's not a black Lab.

Southernly Speaking

As I mark my last month as an official resident of the South, I have to share these fabulous video clips! These are frequently viewed favorites at my Mama's house. We watch them consecutively and make a tally of how many sayings we actually say. So far, we're in the hundreds. You should make a checklist yourself. See how Southern you really are, y'all...

And it gets better....

And because good things come in threes.... Brush up on your Southern Speak one more time!

Lost in Translation

A few weeks ago, I made a trek deep into Yankee territory - a place that will (for better or worse) become home in a few mere months. Many of you know that JP has signed on the dotted line to serve as the DC (that's Defensive Coordinator for you non-girdiron speakers) at Capital University. A DIII gem, the school is located on the outskirts of Columbus, OH in a delightful little town called Bexley. While Bexley is undoubtedly the "Stars Hollow" (attention Gilmore Girls aficionados) of the Midwest, the more urban jungle of Columbus didn't bowl me over with hospitality upon our first meeting. Here are a few highlights from the trip...

The Halls of Justice Have No Signs

This visit was not purely for pleasure. While in Columbus, I took time to be fingerprinted by the Sheriff's Office and FBI (and felt like a felon - despite only being there to become a God-fearing, law-abiding teacher of young minds!). At home, this particular activity is a veritable cakewalk. You walk in, hand them your crisp $10 bill and exchange pleasantries with a fake-nailed, leather-tanned Mammaw who works twice a week doing paperwork for the deputy, who is her nephew or first cousin or best friend's boy. They ink you up, wish you well, and send you on your way in 20 minutes or less. Now, I was not such a country bumpkin to think that Shirley or Thelma or Louise would hand me a peppermint and ask about my Mama here in the Yankee North. But, I didn't expect the adventure that ensued after navigating the narrow catacombs of an underground parking garage. 

After walking several blocks and following several safe looking lawyers with Starbucks and briefcases, I finally found the Hall of Justice located in beautiful downtown Columbus. I patiently waited in line without using my cellphone as requested before stepping up to the metal detectors and light body pat-down that allowed me access to a marble festooned corridor... with not a labelled door or office directory in sight. Undeterred, I cheerfully stopped a security guard and asked about fingerprinting, to be rudely stopped and hustled on without any answers. 

I continued to wander past pajama pant clad truancy offenders headed to family court and court reporters with clicking heels. Finally, a sign that read - SHERIFF'S OFFICE. But to no avail. I was directed to ANOTHER building by ANOTHER non-smiling justice worker. Three doors later and still no smiles, no fingerprints, and no clue of where to go next. Finally, I entered one more revolving glass door and to my relief, saw a sign proclaiming "Fingerprints" and "Conceal/Carry Sign-Ups". Note to self upon my return to the concrete jungle...

An hour and a half later, I made it back to my car. The only kind words or positive expressions noted during this time came from a homeless man lounging on the steps of the Hall of Justice with a shopping cart and a smile. JESUS LOVES YOU! - he called out, waving frenziedly. He must have been a transplant from below the Mason-Dixon....

Don't Bring a Gun on a House Hunt

Despite my lackluster welcome to the Yankee North, JP convinced me to do some house scouting on a beautiful Saturday morning during my visit. He pulled out all the stops, showcasing Short North and the German Village - both quaint, yet reminiscent of the Bardstown Road area (for my Louisville peeps). I was gradually swaying towards deeming Columbus a "livable city" for a Southern lady like myself. And then - it happened. 

As we paused for a stop sign, an aging motorcyclist slowed to turn down the same street. He didn't take the turn well and (slowly) skidded. The bike overturned and he fell to the pavement. Ever the hero, JP threw the car in park, and rolled down the window to inquire as to the Hell's Angel wannabe's well-being following the crash. The man grunted and howled about his knee. As JP opened the door of the cab to provide assistance, the man staggered to his feet and an object clattered to the ground from his pocket. At first, we didn't notice - JP and another bystander slowly ventured towards the biker and then stopped abruptly when he reached to pick up HIS GUN that had fallen from its hidden holster. 

JP immediately high-tailed it to the truck. The innocent bystander also began taking measured steps away from the scene in the street. I suppose all parties ready to assist figured that if the man was packing heat, he could protect himself during this vulnerable time. And frankly, none of us were going to hang around to find out if he felt blame belonged on his lack of cycling skill or our idling auto. We sped from the scene and rode in silence for several minutes... and then began laughing hysterically, calling and tweeting the scenario for all to enjoy. Although in the South we ride with our shotguns and bows (especially during season) and are vocal about our Second Amendment rights, I would feel confident saying that none of us would pack heat on a Harley. 

And so, when Sunday rolled around and it was time to back to the land of sweet tea and country music- I did breathe a sigh of relief. But I'll look forward to returning to the wilds of the Yankee North. Next time, I'll bring my map, my Daddy's gun, and book of Yankee phrases. Because no Southern belle wants to be unprepared or have her words lost in translation while visiting the concrete jungle, y'all...

XO, 

The Big BIG Bang

Who would have thought that when I made the (admittedly) ridiculous leap from parochial schooling to the public school arena that I would encounter my first evolution vs. creation debate? Please keep in mind that - aside from the fact that a public school separates itself from religion (little thing we call separation of church and state) - I teach elementary school. I know what you're thinking - these kids all must be "G&T" (or Gifted & Talented for those not fluent in teacher-ese). Let me explain...

Part of the KDE (Kentucky Department of Education) curriculum standards for my grade level requires instruction on the solar system. To give you a brief overview - there are planets, constellations, and a sun in our solar system. They orbit the Sun (bet that was news to a couple of kiddos at BTE. Thanks, Renaissance scientists) and rotate on an invisible axis. Some have moons, some have rings, some have... you get the idea. I took the material and ran with it (responsibly). Made up songs, made Oreo representations of the moon phases, and made a fool of myself with a hula hoop and a flashlight (long story, short blog). After the lackluster test, I decided to give the class a little breather. Wait, let's be real - I took a sick day and knew my sub could potentially destroy my lesson plans and my room, so I left an "educational" video.

I'd (responsibly) perused the video - which, by the way came from the SCHOOL LIBRARY - and deemed it appropriate and even supplementary to the concepts studied in the solar system unit. As I went to my doctor's appointment and ate Cinnabons with Mom, I wasn't the least bit worried about the goings-on at Bug Tussle Elementary. Then, Monday came...

Within moments of the morning assembly, before I could even post my attendance - I was in the principal's office. It should be noted that this year, I've seen the inside of an administrator's quarters more frequently than the rest of my academic career (K-12 and beyond). Par for the course for the outsider and her wild classroom ways, I suppose? But I digress. This time, BTE's fearless leader was concerned over several phone calls that had poured in over the weekend and spilled into Monday morning's answering machine messages.

"Are you teaching the Big Bang Theory?! That's not in the curriculum."

I almost spit out my Blueberry Detox Green Tea. Apparently, for one time in their classroom tenure, some of my students actually listened. My amazement and momentary pride was quickly decimated as the principal continued is inquiry that felt strangely like the Spanish Inquisition. One of my students had gone home and gone CRAZY about ONE sentence in a children's solar system video that mentioned the Big Bang Theory. And the family had whipped into a frenzy. Sermons at small country churches raged on bringing God back to school and the dangers of the big bad world. The devout had gotten on the phones to call the local school and voice their righteous anger. 

Now, I am a practicing Catholic who went to a Baptist university and taught at a Catholic school for the formative years of my teaching career. All this flew through my head as the weekend's events were related to me. In big bold letters in the depths of my brain was smeared the BIG BIG BANG. I almost chortled in crazed desperation. I thought of all the extremely intelligent arguments I could pose: it's a public school and Science is taught, it was one sentence in a child-friendly/school-approved video, my sub must have been a moron not to discuss the word "theory" (I would have!), it's a THEORY, no one was teaching evolution or creationism - because it's elementary school, St. Sign-of-the-Cross teaches about Big Bang, don't these people have anything better to do?, is Westboro Baptist picketing in the parking lot tomorrow? Are they boiling oil and plucking chickens in Bug Tussle this afternoon? If so, I'm taking another sick day...

The onslaught of questions, concerns, and rebuttals kept rolling through my mind, but I couldn't speak. I responded appropriately, answered factual questions about the video and the lessons I'd taught with Oreos and hula hoops and flashlights. And inside, I laughed at the ridiculousness of the situation. It was ludicrous, horrifying, and FUNNY. God help me, it was funny. And I wanted to laugh. And I still want to laugh. And at the risk of being preachy - here is why... Because to me, whether there was a BANG or a BOOM or a TA-DA or some other sound effect to announce the beginning of an amazingly intricate galaxy - can't it all just be a miracle? Call it Science or call it God - you're entitled to your belief. Me personally - I think God likes a BIG BIG BANG. And after the smoke cleared and the dust settled, he said "it is good."

XO, 

The POWERS That Be

Some of you may think that my blog posts are written at the expense of innocent children. I assure you - most are not. I am simply relating tales from my teaching experience (and sometimes, my real life). I can't help it if the material is downright ridiculous. It just follows me - like a three ring circus. And I am - apparently - the Ring Master. So as you read today's post about "Mr. Wiggles", please keep in mind: the story you're about to hear is true. Names have been changed to protect the identities of the innocent... or slightly depraved...

On a beautiful winter's day in Bug Tussle, I was enjoying the gravel walking track at recess. Four times around is a mile and I make it a personal goal to complete one mile during the twenty minute recess. This isn't just for my health, but my mental well-being as well. Students know this and therefore, unless someone is bleeding or broken, they leave me to my own devices. Sometimes, however, they venture onto the walking track for their own reasons. Some to walk, some to skip, some to talk about each other in catty voices and pledge allegiance to some hateful Queen Bee of the moment. Whatever their reasons, we stay out of eachother's way. Until today.

Today, I casually glance ahead of me and see Mr. Wiggles standing in front of a large walnut tree on the Bug Tussle Elementary perimeter. Upon further observation, he seems to be consulting the tree on some issue. Intrigued, I quicken my pace and stop (gasp) a few feet behind him. Mr. Wiggles raises his hands in rigid claws, leans back and shakes his outstretched palms at the tree. I stifle the snort welling inside me so as not to disturb this wack-a-doo ritual taking place in the great outdoors.

Mr. Wiggles rests for a few moments and then resumes his pose and chanting - calling to mind the heathen high priests from Indiana Jones' Temple of Doom. That movie has always chilled me to the bone - what with all the heart-ripping and whatnot. (Just an aside). I shook off the fear of weird voodoo spirits and moved forward, bursting to know what had brought on this production.

Hearing my footsteps, Mr. Wiggles drops his arms and turns to stare at me innocently. I smile my best teacher smile, which in this case also includes "please don't hex me" in its sweetness.

"Mr. Wiggles," I say in the voice you reserve for sociopaths, tantrum throwing toddler, and significant others who keep leaving coffee rings on the cutting board (again, an aside), "what are you up to, Buddy?"

With a seriousness reserved for elderly veterans and Catholic priests, he spoke:

"I'm just getting my powers."

 

 

And with that, he returned to his hell-raising arms and jibberish. I nodded to myself, and continued my mile walk around the gravel track, checking from time to time to see if Mr. Wiggles had indeed received any type of supernatural assistance. Because, let me tell you - if it works on that kid, the first thing I'm gonna do on the next bright, beautiful wintry day here in Bug Tussle is work up some powers of my own. In the words of Forrest Gump and Jenny.... "{Powers}, make me a bird. So I can fly far. Far away from here." Amen.

 

XO,

It's Not Dirt - I'm Catholic

When I was a little girl, I vividly remember a Friday during Lent. My mother - a Protestant, it should be noted - made bologna sandwiches for lunch. And I ate it. It was only after the breadcrumbs were scattered across my plate and my juice box was empty that I realized my mother's faux pas. Bologna was a meat. It was a Friday during Lent. And I was a Catholic schoolgirl. In my mind, I was headed straight for Hell...

Later that afternoon I was outside playing on the swing set with my brother. We cavorted around the teeter-totter, performed daredevil feats on the swings, and finally set ourselves the task of a tandem ride down the sliding board. I prepared to go first and coasted towards the ground below when I saw it - a huge black snake with the jaws of an anaconda coiled at the slide's base. I was heading straight toward it before jamming my heels and hands in the sides of metal chute. At that moment, I knew for sure that God was letting me know that bologna on a Friday in Lent was a no-go. I was just lucky it wasn't a hamburger. 

Since that time, and perhaps even before, I have been adamant about Lent. From Ash Wednesday to Good Friday - I'm "in it to win it" with a plan for fasting, church attendance, and (most importantly) meat abstinence. So it's no surprise that I rose early for church on Wednesday morning in Bug Tussle. I hit the "word and communion" service and set out for BTE. After my two years at St. Sign-of-the-Cross, I took having a black streaked forehead for granted as the norm. However, in Bug Tussle, this could be mistaken for the sign of the Beast. 

Amid looks of shock, awe, and terror I took the hallways by storm. Leaving bewildered children and adults in my wake, I endured a barrage of idiotic and misguided comments... including, but not limited to:

* "Did you know there's something on your forehead?"

* "Oh my Gosh! What happened?"

* "It's for your religion?" [pregnant pause] "Which one?"

* "Oh yeah. Lent is where y'all abstain from fish and stuff."

My responses included, but weren't limited to:

* "It's ash."

* "I'm Catholic."

* "It's not dirt."

* "I know. It's there. On purpose."

And these were just from/for the adults! It was then that I had another epiphany - There's no place like a Catholic school in Lent. So bust out the fish sticks and grilled cheese on Fridays. This little Catholic girl has seen the light.

XO,