Wedding Confidential

Here's a confession. I'm getting married. On Friday. And I feel slightly guilty or anxious - or both, because I don't necessarily feel excited… or ready… or anything, really. Except this exhaustion that feels shockingly similar to mile 19 of my first half marathon last May. That soulless plodding towards a golden goal that looms just out of sight. At first, I was worried that I was a horrific person, or a Stepford wife of some sort. Then, I spoke with a couple experts in the field {read - friends who were dealing with this milestone in their life recently} and realized that I'm not alone. I may just be one of the only ones open to admitting it… or to blog about it.

Don't get me wrong - I'm looking forward to marrying Coach John. I don't have cold feet or feel like a runaway bride, or any of the other cliches society heaps on women who aren't necessarily the perfect portrait of the blushing bride. I just want it to GET HERE {and be OVER}. Despite my predilection for the stage, I'm not one to enjoy large groups of people. My vision for my wedding was something small and intimate. Where I could look across the room of 75 people {MAX} and know exactly what that person meant to me or my almost-spouse. The reception would be something simple - just a nice family-style dinner with a delicious cake, and maybe {just maybe} the younger crowd could go out to some favorite nightspots to finish off the perfectly simple evening.

Those dreams came careening to a halt when I got the family section of the guest list and realized that there were more names to come. Then my hopes for a "donations to favorite charity in lieu of gifts" request also bit the dust. Too many people looked at me in confusion when I suggested this and asked about my china pattern. Here's the issue: Coach John and I don't live in a world where china is anything but a type of takeout you can get after practice gets out or PTO is over. I'll admit - I loved registering for every kitchen accoutrement under the sun, but when they started pouring into our one bedroom apartment, I started wondering where one can stash that fourth piece of Caphalon. Something tells me the top of Jolene's crate isn't hygienic or going to win us any awards from HGTV. Jolene does thank everyone {profusely} for the tissue paper and cardboard boxes that are constantly left outside our door. They have provided hours of entertainment…

Then came a band, and a full bar, and a score of other insane accessories that get tied to weddings. Cakes covered in the same lace pattern as my dress {why?}, the push for corsages, and the intricacies of a seating chart. And finally, the Mount Everest of our wedding - children at the event. The thought that plays on a repeat track in my head says over and over "I am with children all day. Why would I want them all at my wedding?" I'm sure I'm not the first or last bride to memorize that mantra, but good night Sweet Jesus - it's my day!

My solicitous psychologist {Lindsey Sheckles-Prather} says my feelings of swaying between ultra focus and angry crime of passion crazy are totally normal and warranted, and I know that she's right. But I wish there was a better way to have gone about this. I wish that I'd stood my ground a little better and listened to the tiny, simple, much better person voice in my head that said this was about a MARRIAGE not about a WEDDING. So from now until Friday, I'm adopting a new mantra:

"It's my day" - I get to spend the next few days with my loves… the girls who shaped my adulthood, the man I want to spend my life with, the Ring Man who melts my heart at every turn {and his amazing role model of a mother}. I get to see my "Family" - and they don't have the same last name as me, but they're MINE. My kids from St. Sign of the Cross, their parents, my adopted brothers, my J. Crew cousins. And it's going to be EPIC. Because they are spectacular, snappy, sassy, and special, and {most importantly} SIMPLY mine.

So bring on that sequined cake confection and the 2 entrees per plate, the string quartet and the 7 piece funk band. A little party never killed nobody… and we'll just keep the rest {wedding} confidential.

XO,

Snow- Way Out of This One

Many years ago, I remember a funny print out {this was pre-social media mecca sites} that my mother received from a colleague. It described a Southerner's experience with winter after moving north of the Mason Dixon. At the onset of cold weather, the Southerner celebrated the first white dusting to grace his home {as blankets of snowy wonder didn't happen to often "back home"}. However, as the cold months progressed and the snow continued to fall {nay, dump} from the skies - the Southern transplant's attitude plummeted. He bought a snow blower, a mini plow, de-icing material, and a 4 wheel drive SUV with snow tires. Eventually, the poor fellow gave up and moved back to Dixie and gave thanks for the occasional spit of five flakes that shut down the town and sent everyone running to Piggly Wiggly for bread & milk.

I laughed at this cautionary tale and found it quaint and {mildly} hilarious. At that time, I had "big city dreams" of moving to New York City and wearing fashionable coat/boot combos on my way to Radio City to perform in the Christmas extravaganzas I'd only seen on CBS Holiday Specials. I would {proverbially} "weather the storm" with style and aplomb. Then, I moved to Ohio.

When we loaded the truck in June and hauled furniture up to the second story, sweating profusely in the summer heat, I laughed at the Northerners who asked me how I'd fair in December. "It's not that far north of home, mo-ron!" I thought in my Southern girl twang. And for awhile, I was right - the weather was just like home... only better. Autumn was slightly cooler and the leaves actually turned gorgeous shades - like the pictures you see of Vermont or some other maple tree-laden oasis. Even summer brought more rain and just a few days of frying heat... and much less humidity, to my hot-roller hair day's delight! I couldn't imagine not having an idyllic experience once the snow hit. Surely, there'd be snow days galore in which Jolene and I could frolic free and happy?

Here's the reality of the situation. It's November - not even Thanksgiving, and I've seen snow hit twice. Not enough for a snow day in this god-forsaken Siberia... just enough to make my commute miserable {not to mention death defying}. The natives have mocked my long insulated coats and homemade ski mask for dog walking before dawn. They've laughed at my frantic confusion at no 2 hour delays or snow days. "For this?" they scoff. And I desperately search my prior knowledge for a visual of what type of arctic Armageddon it would take to get a snow day... the only thing that's surfaced is a scene from "March of the Penguins". {Though I'm pretty sure a sea lion attack shouldn't be a concern on First Ave at this time of year}.

Here's the thing - as much as I despise the bone-chilling cold that sends me running for electric blankets and heating pads to combat the "hard wind hunchback" from which I'm suffering, I love Columbus. I love the friends I've made and the scads of sweet restaurants at every turn. I love the UPS man {who regrettably was snatched from our route for the holiday rush, but has to return because he is Jolene's favorite playmate and a witty conversationalist}, and the numerous athletes {who inexplicably RUN OUTSIDE even now}, and the diversity of the city. I don't really want to leave... {although an offer to coach for Saban at Bama would never be ignored}. I guess that, for now, the only thing I can do is crank the heat and buy a new pair of Sorel boots. Because there's snow-way out of this one...

XO,

Man's Best Friend - No, Man's Best Family

I'm hugging my Jolene just a little bit tighter today. It's been a rough month for us, but special as well. Here's a look at what has led me to take a {momentary} break from my usual glib musings, and wax poetic on the concept of "puppy love".

Jolene underwent {routine} surgery for her spay, as well as a gastropexy to ensure that her stomach doesn't flip in her chest cavity as she grows. Those of you who have read or seen "Marley & Me" will remember that the title character suffers from flipped stomach - and while the chances are 50/50 that Jolene would inherit this medical problem, I elected to be safe rather than sorry. Though I hear my {late} Gramps' voice ringing in my ear chiding, I know that secretly he would do the same for a dog of her caliber.

While healing, Jolene managed to contract an oral virus that sent me running to our {saintly} veterinarian after foolishly looking up images on Google... not a good pastime for pet parents as cautious and protective as myself. Thankfully, our world-class caregiver {no sarcasm here - he is fabulous, as is the entire staff} merely plucked the offensive wart from her gumline and sent us on our way with some information on how some pet owners are scummy and don't take their dogs' hygiene seriously. {Moral of the story - sanitize EVERYTHING and don't drink out of public dog dishes}.

The latest in Jolene's line of maladies occurred when I returned from a particularly harried day at school yesterday to the smell of dog waste in the hallway. My panic and guilt surged as I realized it was coming from my apartment. After 24 hours of this discomfort and a frantic call to the 24 Hour Vet {insensitive morons}, I took a sick day to take my baby to the vet. Jolene was diagnosed with her {second} bout of Giardia, a bacteria from {you guessed it} other dogs' waste. Yet another opportunity presented itself to not-so-silently curse those pet owners who don't have the time or attention to clean up after their pet and safe guard all of our animals against illness. Then again, I guess you'd have to put down your cellphone or take out your earbuds and spend time with your pet...

In the midst of this medical melodrama, we celebrated Jolene's six month birthday on October 16th. When I look at her puppy pictures, I can't believe that the painfully shy, floppy eared furball that I could easily cradle in one arm has morphed so quickly into a strong, confident and outgoing young adult DOG. We truly learned a new city together on countless walks through our neighborhood and a myriad of car trips to places like the Three Dog Barkery, Cherbourg, and Capital {to visit Dad during the summer for lunch or dinner}. We've logged hours on the road from Columbus to Kentucky, stopping in Cincinnati to meet tons of family and friends {furry and otherwise}. She is an integral part of my life and so much more than a companion. She is my FAMILY.

Jolene's half-birthday took on a whole new meaning as we watched two couples who are most definitely our family say good-bye to their pups this past week. I have always been an animal lover, and a strong advocate for the dignity and well-being of canines especially - so this news came especially hard. Wes & Justin, Anne & Peter are in our prayers because I know {and Jolene knows too} that making that choice is the highest form of sacrifice; therefore, it is the highest form of love.

So I ask you - pet owners - to pay a little more attention. It's cliche to invoke the sappy memes that overload Facebook and Pinterest that talk about how "shelter pets save you, not the other way around" or "your status doesn't matter to your dog" - but it's also true. The happiest part of my day is coming home to Jolene after a ridiculous episode at work. I wouldn't trade anything for the nights we spend as a family curled on the bed, falling in and out of sleep. And I would keep every pee-stained piece of carpet, every chewed up pair of {expensive} undies until my dying day if it meant that I can give Jolene one ounce of the love and joy that she's given me.

Put down your cellphones, stay in one night instead of heading out with "friends" - because your best friend is sitting by the couch or in a crate, waiting for their world to come back. And there's only so many episodes of "Koala Hospital" on Animal Planet that will make up for a mom or dad who's only got a pet to be an "accessory". Get connected. Get a clue. It's not Man's Best Friend. Just ask anyone who's said farewell to a faithful fur baby lately... It's Man's Best Family.

XO,

Dirty Little "Secrets"

A Southern girl never airs her dirty laundry. That said, prepare to delve into our proverbial laundry basket in this post - I'm revealing a deep, dark secret that has lurked in our home for a few months now.  The embarrassing moment is {essentially} Jolene's; however, she agrees that admission is a critical step in rehabilitation. She has {apparently} been watching a large amount of E!News while I'm working each day, and has learned a lot about honesty and open communication from the on-going Lamar Odom debacle.

It started innocently enough. Jolene would occasionally snag a sweaty sock and secret it away in her crate. I'd notice it was missing and admonish her, and life would go on as normal. However, her obsession with footwear slowly developed into a fetish for more "intimate" apparel. Jolene became an underwear stealer. Though {now} ashamed, Jolene reveals that she soon grew tired of sock stealing and wanted to try her hand at Victoria Secret PINK cotton bikini panties.

Not lululemon workout undies, not PINK yoga hipster briefs. But the old-school, no longer made, best fitting from college through my 20s pairs. The bumblebee print that were deemed {superstitiously} lucky - worn at vocal boards and recitals galore... a favorite print of polka dots... even the mod circle pattern that looked great with a tan... Each of these {and countless others} fell prey to Jolene's crocodile smile. She would skulk around the dirty clothes basket, streak to grab a pair from the bathroom floor, and even {on occasion} grab them RIGHT OUT OF THE DRYER. It was a downward spiral with no end in sight.

Thankfully, Jolene's bender came to {what I thought was} an end. Her obedience school start date arrived, and she was shipped off to boarding school. I sighed in relief, thankful for the reprieve, and thought about a trip to Easton to restock during her absence. But before I could sift through the colorful underpinnings at Vicky Secrets, Jolene's poor choices had one more repercussion...

While Jolene was away, I took the opportunity to indulge in long morning workouts at the neighborhood gym. Sometimes, I'd lose track of time and have to rush through my morning preparation in order to hit the road before traffic reared its head in downtown Columbus. On the day in question, the morning was a whirlwind of havoc-filled restroom breaks and attempts to teach addition with regrouping {carrying, to all of you without an extensive Math vocabulary}. Throughout the morning, I'd noticed a slight issue with my undergarments. They seemed... small. Way too small. Immediately jumping to the conclusion that I'd been enjoying too much Jeni's Icecream {bane of my existence in Columbus, OH} - I shrugged it off and kept striving to be Teacher of the Year. But, the feeling couldn't be vanquished.

It was only during a frantic lunchtime restroom break that I discovered the truth. Though she'd been gone for days {in which I had missed her terribly}, Jolene had managed to put her paw print on my morning. Where my fingers should have found chevron striped material, there was a gaping hole. {More precisely - four gaping holes that left the entire right side of the undie hanging by a LITERAL thread}. I gasped, cursed impulsively, and then had to stop and laugh. The mishaps of the morning {and my clever canine} had definitely left my panties "in a wad". I spent the rest of the day praying that the last shred of elastic would hold until 3PM. {It did}.

Jolene returned a week later - a real Southern lady with impeccable on-leash manners. But once in awhile, she relapses {as most addicts do}. She lunges toward a graffiti decorated pair of bikini briefs or eyes a tanga longingly. But she's taking it one step at a time {bless her heart}.

So now you know - we Southern Belles aren't perfect. We have our shameful pasts. But remember - don't judge. We're sure you have a few dirty little secrets of your own...

XO,

WWJS - Where Would Jesus Sleep?

This week marked my 4th First Day of School as an elementary teacher - and, thank God - my third year in a Catholic school. Don't get me wrong - public schooling has its perks {I'll get back to you on what they are... someday?!}, but for me it's cool to be Catholic. Maybe it's the occasional nun in the office, or the fabulous use of plaid in a school uniform, or just the insistence on uniforms in general... Regardless of the reason, I'm happy to be back "in the fold" - even if it IS 200 some odd miles away from the Catholic school I'll always call "home"!

All of my Catholic school parents know that the first week of school always entails a brush up on Mass etiquette. And all of my Catholic school parents also know that I go WAY overboard on Mass etiquette because I'm ultra competitive and so {inevitably} are my students {ahem, 21 Blessings of 2010}... Being in Ohio hasn't dampened my desire to be "the best"; if anything, it has fanned the flames of fabulosity! So of course, before handing out all their textbooks or knowing a fire drill plan, we headed to church.

I always introduce this visit in the same manner. I say that we're going to "God's House" - a place that is not unlike your affluent neighbors' or your {more formal} grandmother's abode. We talk about using manners just as you would on a dinner visit or some other short stay. Perhaps most importantly, we discuss dress. As I often say, "you don't want to go up in God's house looking a hot mess." This usually elicits some giggles, some sage nods, and some distressed looks from students who either A. are in church every weekend in their traditional "Sunday Best" or B. have never seen the inside of a church on Sunday, much less a school day. But we take it all in stride and make the trip together as a learning experience.

The church trip is always amusing - some of my followers remember the "Holy Ghost Aisle Fall Out of 2010 or the "Continuous Genuflector of 2011". But this year takes the cake. One of my students  - we'll   call him Low Talker {I've never heard a child with a voice this deep in elementary school! It reminds me of Barry White.} - was particularly enthralled by the church walk-through. After "touring" the baptismal font, pews, and altar area, we sat down for prayer and questions. I knew when his hand shot up that I should ignore him, but he was adamant about being heard. The exchange went something like this:

Low Talker: Where's God at?

Charming Teacher: He's everywhere! Especially in your heart.

Low Talker: But you said this was His House. So where is he?

Charming Teacher: {to self} OH SNAP!    {to student} Ummm... it is His house.... but...

Low Talker: Never mind. I know where His bed is anyway. I saw it.

Charming Teacher: You saw His bed? In here?!

Low Talker: Yes {snorts at not-so-smart teacher}. It's up there in that box.

At this point the Charming Teacher and her Trust Assistant has to step back and bite their tongues to stop from giggling hysterically. Because Low Talker had just pointed to the choir loft - specifically to the organ. We laughed because earlier, our new priest - who dresses in full regalia, complete with long cassock, had mentioned going upstairs at the church to play the organ and look down on the students. {I think he was going for a kind of Santa Claus, see you when you're sleeping type idea}.

Later, when Father visited us again, I asked Low Talker if he knew who that was. Again, he was suavely confident in his answers...

Low Talker: Yes. That's God.

Charming Teacher: THAT's God? That man there?

Low Talker: Yup.

Charming Teacher: How do you know?

Low Talker: Because yesterday, you gave us that book - for church           {It was their Religion text}
                     And the picture of White Jesus looks a lot like him. And God is Jesus' Dad. So....

His voice faded and his shoulders shrugged, indicating that I should be able to piece together the obvious. As I packed up at the end of the day, I took a quick peek at the picture of "White Jesus" in the front of our Religion books. And I was more than a little shocked to note... he does bear a striking resemblance to the new parish priest. Next time I'm in the choir loft, I'm checking for pillows. Who knows? Maybe the kid knows something I don't. Wouldn't be the first time I got schooled by a student...

XO,

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,