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,

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, 

The Big BIG Bang

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

XO, 

The POWERS That Be

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I'm just getting my powers."

 

 

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

 

XO,

It's Not Dirt - I'm Catholic

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

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

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

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

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

* "Oh my Gosh! What happened?"

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

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

My responses included, but weren't limited to:

* "It's ash."

* "I'm Catholic."

* "It's not dirt."

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

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

XO, 

The Pictionary Champ

Things have gotten a little hectic (once again). Between the upheaval of my personal life (in semi-good ways) and trying to get the Bug Tussle kids on track for Spring Testing (a feat of EPIC proportions), I have been lax in my blogging. I guess people who do this regularly have way more time or a propensity for later nights. Let's be honest - the only reason I'm writing this morning is the late announcement of a snow day. I was already up and ready to get going.... it was 5:30am, after all.

So since the time is right and the first month of the year is drawing to a close, I'll give you this small snippet of January at BTE...

Picture it - we're learning about even & odd numbers. Surely by now - they would understand the concept, but you'd be surprised (or maybe not - if you've read any of my other posts). I've painstakingly drawn arrays, showed video clips, taught jingles to get the point across. Foolishly, I truly thought we were ready to complete the all-important ERQ (extended response question, for all you civilians). The question seemed simple enough - see if you can A: figure out the answer and B: explain how you got that answer.

Breanna and Amy are playing with some numbered cards. Amy says there are 5 odd numbers between 8 and 15. Breanna says there are 4. Who is correct? 

Seems fairly straightforward, I hope! However, knowing my clientele - I made sure to hold a round table type discussion to determine how one should correctly & completely answer the question. Everyone seemed to be fairly certain of how this should play out. Everyone except "Mitzy". Mitzy is a classic example of why it's dangerous to homeschool your child with no other age appropriate social contact and then throw them in a classroom halfway through first semester. So parents - take heed - don't be a Mitzy Mom. 

Mitzy is studiously bent over her paper, busily scribbling what I hoped were eloquent explanations for Breanna and Amy's childhood choices. I quickly dropped that delusion and clamped my lips together before emitting a guffaw. Yes- that is a strong word choice. Yes - it is needed. Here is why. While discussing how best to answer the problem, the class had talked about drawing pictures, making number lines and using words to show their strategies. Poor Mitzy had taken that first part to heart. Instead of a structured array or boring number line, she had drawn a PICTURE. 

If I had thought to save it, I would have. And I would have uploaded it right HERE. Then, you could appreciate a full page picture (covering the lines that were meant for a written explanation) that depicted two pony-tailed smiling girls sitting at a table with numbered cards and WORD BUBBLES showing their respective answers to the posed question. After my subdued laughing spell, I composed myself enough to ask her (in my best teacher voice) to "tell me about her answer". 

Without batting an eye and with a genuine belief in the legitimacy of her actions, Mitzy said "You said draw a picture." Now, granted, I had said draw a picture... followed by the terms number line, array, and labels. And out of all that - the only thing Mitzy had honed in on was that one word PICTURE. Classic Bug Tussle. Classic Mitzy. So after explaining the correct method of answering a question post-Kindergarten, I walked away. But I couldn't help but ask as I sauntered to the next student, "Mitzy, how are you at Pictionary?"

XO,