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,

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,