Lock, Stock {Crate} & Barrel

With football season fast approaching, Coach John and I are trying to push through as many wedding details as possible. {Two guesses on who is doing most of the leg work here.} The summer months have seen us check off a multitude of pre-nuptial "must-do's" from the trusty master list I found on Pinterest. {In true Type A fashion, I also created a Wedding Binder - with picture collaged front - that houses sections for ceremony, reception, personnel, budget, guests, registry, and timeline... but I digress}

Perhaps our favorite {second only to cake tasting} component of wedding preparation has been registering. Though it sounds like a recipe for disaster, this shopping extravaganza that seemingly no man would enjoy has been an event that Coach John and I turned into the ultimate team sport. If we'd thought on it earlier, we'd have made a playbook- detailing the Crate & Barrel sales floor and how to navigate it faster and more smoothly than the other engaged couples zapping bar codes that afternoon. A thought to all you almost-engagers out there...

Our foray into wedding registries started out innocently enough. Because John and I have lived on our for some time {I in random, sporadic intervals when not happily ensconced in my parents' house with the pool and five furry friends}, we have acquired a collection of home goods that - while not top of the line - are in great shape and entirely useable. I frequently lectured John on not being greedy when we registered, suggesting we make lists of things we didn't have - but REALLY needed. Like a drying rack. Or a new ironing board. Or a nice knife set without plastic grippies. {You get the idea}. It was with this semi-monastic attitude that I arrived with Coach John at Columbus' outdoor shopping mega-metropolis, Easton Town Center.

Little did I know what would be lurking behind the doors of Crate & Barrel when friendly associate and wedding specialist Joshua {an absolute doll with a penchant for brightly colored napkins and modern flatware} took us in hand. He gave us the tour, along with asides on what "everyone else" was doing with their registries and what he, himself, recommended. Joshua and I instantly hit it off {he wants to be a teacher and LOVES J. Crew} and Coach John was ecstatic that all of this registering was done with a combo of iPhone apps and "guns". As Joshua left us to our own devices at the corner of china and bar paraphernalia, I could swear I heard a starting gun somewhere in the distance.

AND THEY'RE OFF....

If our registry experience had been a sporting event, I'm sure the play-by-play announcing would have been sheer genius. A real treat to viewers and listeners alike. As Coach John vainly tried to develop a system for moving around the store in quadrants {defensive coverage, anyone?}, I surged like a tidal wave across the kitchen offerings. My fiance quickly realized that there was no stopping this train. So he soon joined the fray with reckless abandon. I zapped everything from a pancake batter pourer {saw it on Pinterest} to a juicer {I'm blaming Joshua for this one}. Coach John aimed for professional grade knives and a set of technologically perfect beer mugs. I must have really been caught in a madness of almost-marital bliss; because at one point, I even suggested Coach John include a mini-keg that specialized in Heineken.

After two hours of tagging {and a 30 minute heated discussion on burnished vs. shiny silverware}, it was over. A barrage of electronic sounds reverberated in our heads - collateral from the melee. Staring at each other in disbelief {and a small dose of buyers' - or would that be bridal - remorse}, we left quietly and refueled at the Starbucks on the corner. Later that night, as we sat in our apartment with Jolene, we pulled up the list on the laptop.

"A juicer?!" Coach John questioned skeptically...

"Who needs that many types of glasses? We're not running a bar!" I exclaimed.

"So pumped about the knives..."

"So pumped...."

It was then that I realized that my initial plan had gone seriously haywire. Did we need to ask for a few things? Of course. Did we need a JUICER? Of course...Not. So after a little more "bridal remorse", I did what any self-respecting bride would do. I started editing. But that brew-on-the-go tea mug is staying, dammit!

XO, 

No Excuses, Play Like a Champion

For several weeks, Jolene has been attending Sunday play group at a local Columbus training facility. Coach John and I love our instructor and his sunny disposition and we love watching Jolene cavort with other puppies. Only rarely do we feel that twinge of embarrassment that all parents feel when their child is a weenie or the surge of anger that comes when a bully picks on our baby. We smile radiantly when she makes eye contact or plows some other pup into the wall. It's been a real treat watching her grow up, but the party's over.

Lately, Jolene has hit what can only be described as the first phase of "terrible twos". She has become {horror upon horrors} a BITER. This may not seem like a concern to those of you without puppies or those who only have hazy, golden-laced memories of your fur baby's puppyhood. But I assure you - when "Needleteeth" starts on a rampage, no patch of skin is safe. Just check out the track marks up my arm that have the Kroger checkout ladies eyeing me suspiciously when I buy OTC allergy meds or the gash across my knee reminiscent of an ACL surgery scar.

To borrow from Miley Cyrus' musical genius, she "can't be tamed". I've tried everything. Spray bottles, cans of rocks, jaw-popping, leash pulling, scruff holding, the dominance lay down... None of these tricks and techniques produced results. I love my pup; however, my wedding dress has short sleeves and this isn't the dewy, blemish-free skin I'd envisioned. So I took to the Internet and started looking for "real" obedience programs. I know positive reinforcement is all the rage in the classroom, and I utilize it - but desperate times call for desperate measures, and while I've been stabbed with a pencil, no kid in my classroom has bitten me {yet?!}.

After a week of reviewing suggestions and Google search results, I find what can only be called a canine equivalent to basic training. This place churns out champions in all fields of dog competition - agility, scenting, etc. They even train TRAINERS here. And best of all - every single person on their payroll owns a GSD {German Shepherd Dog}. These people would be my guides through the terrible twos and turn my baby into a BEAST. Without hesitation, I called for an evaluation and our adventure in intense training began.

Jolene attended her first Puppy Preparatory class a week later. Coach John and I arrived promptly to assess the other participants. It should be noted that both of us are lifelong athletes. Perhaps more importantly, it should be explained that we are both lifelong COMPETITORS. And that drive kicked in mere moments after class officially began. While other puppies howled and tried to play or peed on the floor {how gauche}, we not-so-silently shared smug looks and comments. Jolene sat quietly, absorbed in the two hulking GSD demo dogs lounging behind our trainer. It was then that I knew what type of parent I would be... the one who pushes, the Tiger Mom... and I'm totally at peace with that. Because their dad will be crazy too!

Perhaps it was the lackadaisical attitudes or just plain ignorance of the other puppy parents that put us at such an advantage. We scoffed with the trainer when a woman asked why they didn't use treats here. In the epic words of our trainer {which I've turned into a battle cry} - YOU are the treat! When a child {who was the actual owner of the puppy} started playing his DS instead of handling his dog, we crowed in disbelief. And when a woman said {under her breath} that this all seemed a bit aggressive, I actually snorted. Obviously, she and her Papillon can go back to the feel-good granola commune they came from - this place is for WARRIORS!

Coach John and I relentlessly critiqued each fur baby as they balanced on the tippy table {Jolene was a PRO with a 20 second stay time}, were introduced to a skateboard {Jolene was first to put her paws on it. Unfortunately, she disappointed us slightly when she wouldn't ride}, and were passed to different owners {I hated this part. See previous paragraph for why.}. Jolene was a NATURAL, earning several positive asides from the handlers and earning a meet-n-greet with the two big boys in the back. She stood in awe, tail wagging gently, as they deigned to give her a sniff or two. As they showed their stuff {solid leash skills, unwavering focus, bark on command, etc} - Jolene, Coach John, and I all shared a collective desire - to reach this caliber of competition. The gauntlet had been thrown yet again.

As Jolene and I train diligently each morning and afternoon, she sometimes loses focus of the prize. It's in these crucial moments that I hit her with some "coach talk" a la "Wedding Crashers". Jolene - it's no guts, no glory. No excuses - play like a CHAMPION!

XO,

That's Not Rin Tin Tin

Jolene and I have had a phenomenal summer. We've visited the farm, taken naps in the bed (unless you're talking to Coach John - then, we napped on the floor), gone to various Farmer's Markets (with Coach John and some $30 chicken...another story!), and hit the Petco at least once a week - inevitably leaving with some kind of swag for Jolene. (If this is any indicator of how I'll fare in a Target or Toys R' Us with my human children, we could be buying stock in Mattel and Hasbro).

Today was the turning point. Let's hope it was just a pothole in a long road of ridiculous sunshiny days. Ones that don't boast 100 degree heat indexes and humidity that slaps you on your sweaty forehead whenever you go outside to "hurry" with a four-legged friend. Unfortunately, Jolene has been a tad under the weather and is suffering from an irritable stomach. Read between the lines, as this Southern Belle refuses to air her pup's dirty laundry (literally) on the World Wide Web.

Our day started well enough with a session of pseudo-fetch interrupted by sparrow chasing before the sun got too high in the sky. Despite her stomach issues, Jolene was her rambunctious self. She was immensely enjoying her foray into the role of predator or "Sparrow Stalker" - her alter ego. All seemed well - until our lunchtime "hurry". I'd decided we should hit the Petco with our Rewards Bucks; so, we harnessed up (literally) and headed to car. That's when the day took a turn for the worse...

Jolene took off for the grassy area at a rapid pace just as I opened the door leading to the parking lot. Frantically clutching PetCo coupons, keys, purse, etc - I staggered after her and watched anxiously as her stomach issues continued. My mind spun circles around the different diagnoses you can find on VETinfo.com (don't judge - I do the same thing for myself, having called my mother several times insisting I have had bird flu, swine flu, skin cancer, IBS.... the list goes on and on). As I struggled to keep Jolene in check, I cleaned the offensive area as best I could. Then, I heard the judgment-laden exhalation of a passing stroller brigade.

I swiveled around swiftly and was dismayed to see Jolene relieving herself in a rather unladylike manner on the sidewalk... not the designated grassy area. The women's faces shone with sweat and disapproval, shaming me and my four-legged baby. Jerking my pup to me and giving the Cesar Millan quintessential "ah ah", we bolted. I dragged her towards the car, shrieking a promise to rinse the offending square of cement as the stroller rolled into the distance.

As I threw Jolene into the passenger seat and cranked the AC, I realized I was still holding a bag of... well, y'know. I didn't know what to do - Jolene was obviously hot and out of sorts, so she needed to stay in the cooling car. But - what type of pet owner leaves their dog in a car (albeit one that felt like a meat freezer at this point). Finally, I rolled down the windows so that hot air could waft out and ran like hell towards the trash can (approximately 25 ft. away and in the line of sight from the vehicle). I was just about to pitch bag when I heard a loud Shepherd shriek behind me.

Turning towards the car, I saw what can only be described as a stunt clip from Rin Tin Tin: K9 Cop. Jolene was hurtling out of the open passenger window and her leash was swinging free behind her. Miraculously, she hit the ground running - only to be momentarily deterred when her leash's bag container lodged behind the side mirror. But my loyal canine companion didn't let that stop her. She muscled forward and the container burst open, spewing plastic bags across the parking lot.

I'm sure that this was quite an entertaining sight for anyone crazy enough to brave the heat waves emanating from the black top. It reached a whole new level when, while I scrambled to grab Jolene, the bags, the container pieces, etc. - and a punk in a Lexus SUV HONKED at us in his quest to cross the parking lot. My eyes jerked to his front bumper and lifted to his beady eyes staring holes through us over the steering wheel. I threw up my hands sheepishly, expecting patience or mercy - all the Biblical responses that passerbys SHOULD show in this event. I was met with another angry, perfunctory HONK. And then, I had another Pat Berry moment.

While I'm quite certain my mother might have calmly strode over to the window, run her hands through her pixie hair a couple times to release tension, and then let the rude driver have it - I am not yet my mother in her full glory. So I did an abridged "Juniors" version.... I calmly stood, eyed the driver, and proceeded to wind the bags back onto their spool and fix the bag container in the middle of the parking lot. Then, I smiled at the driver and ordered Jolene back to the car - as if our entire misadventure had been my full-fledged desire. I am the consummate actress, as so many of you know!

Because I'm a great puppy parent, it should be noted that Jolene racked up again at the Petco. Knowing that her day had been trying and her loyalty tested, she is now the happy owner of a "Catch It" and two new Bully Sticks. Perhaps I should start my stock portfolio with a few shares of Purina...?!

XO,

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,